Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 848: Three swordsman, one topic

Rowen didn’t speak again.

His breath was calm, his expression unreadable—but behind his eyes, thought clashed against thought, like steel against steel in a hall with no end.

Lucavion.

The man who had humiliated Lucien before the court without drawing a blade. The man who had mocked tradition, who had walked into the royal inheritance struggle not as a prince or knight or pawn—but as something else entirely. An anomaly.

A threat.

Rowen had despised him.

At first.

And not just because of politics.

Lucien was the one Rowen had sworn to support. Not out of blind loyalty, but because Lucien, for all his cold cruelty, had a vision. A shape to the world. And Rowen—Rowen was a blade that served shape.

Lucavion was chaos incarnate.

A mongrel of no name, no house, no crest. A creature who should have flailed and burned in the structured beauty of the Tower’s dueling grounds.

But hadn’t.

He’d stood there with that damn estoc and that casual smirk and danced with resonance like it was some tavern song he barely remembered the steps to.

And matched him.

Rowen.

The one who had trained under the Seven-Fold Temple. The one who could recite footwork stanzas backwards in his sleep. The one who didn’t make mistakes.

And still—

Lucavion had held him.

Not through deception. Not through trickery.

Through swordsmanship.

Rowen had called it a draw, back then.

Outwardly.

But something deeper had shifted. Something he hadn’t voiced. Not even to Lucien. Especially not to Lucien.

Because as much as he hated Lucavion’s politics—his irreverence, his disregard for rank—Rowen couldn’t deny it.

He was extraordinary.

And that movement—

That impossibility.

That thing that defied logic, calculation, and every clean edge Rowen had spent his life sharpening—

He remembered it.

The moment it happened during their duel, his mind had rejected it. Dismissed it as a fluke. A breath of madness caught in a clean form.

But then just now—

He saw it again.

In the ballroom.

In the slightest twitch of Lucavion’s hand as he responded to Varen’s question. A movement so small it wouldn’t have meant anything to a lesser warrior.

But to Rowen…

To Rowen, it was thunder in the shape of a whisper.

’That’s it,’ he thought. ’That was it.’

No mana.

No stance.

Just… will.

How?

He couldn’t understand it.

Not because it was beyond him.

But because it didn’t fit.

The mind couldn’t grasp what the soul hadn’t yet learned to see.

Rowen’s gaze lingered now—not in disdain. Not in wariness.

But in study.

Lucavion noticed, of course. He always noticed.

And he turned toward him—just slightly.

Eyes catching the light again, flickering that same silver-ember hue that had haunted Rowen since their match.

“You’re staring,” Lucavion said, light as air.

Rowen’s voice was quieter now. Not cold. Just… level.

“I’m trying to understand.”

Lucavion’s brow quirked. “What, me?”

“That movement,” Rowen said.

No flinch.

No buildup.

Just the truth.

Varen glanced toward him then. Curious.

But Rowen didn’t look away from Lucavion.

“That moment. During the duel.”

Lucavion’s expression didn’t change. Not really. But there was a stillness to him now. A silence that was less absence, and more readiness.

Rowen’s jaw tensed—not with anger. With thought.

“You blocked the Spiral. With form that shouldn’t work. And now… I just saw it again.”

He raised his hand, slowly, and mimicked the twitch—fingers curling just so. Not dramatic. Not pointed.

But enough.

Lucavion watched.

Rowen exhaled.

“It wasn’t a stance,” he said. “It wasn’t rhythm. It wasn’t luck.”

He hesitated.

Then:

“It was something else.”

Lucavion didn’t respond right away.

But his eyes flicked—between Rowen, and Varen, and then back.

And for the first time, something softened at the edge of his grin.

Not a smirk.

Not arrogance.

Just… acknowledgment.

Rowen didn’t know what he expected in return.

Maybe a quip. Maybe a riddle.

But instead, Lucavion just said:

“…And you saw it too.”

A pause.

Rowen nodded once.

A slow, honest motion.

“…Yeah.”

Lucavion’s gaze held his.

For a beat, two enemies weren’t enemies.

Just swordsmen.

Bound not by loyalty.

But by understanding.

Because Rowen didn’t respect easy power. He didn’t admire accidents.

But Lucavion—

He did earn the respect of a swordsman at least.

It felt strange, standing here like this. The ballroom murmured around them, velvet gowns brushing past, laughter clinking off wine glasses, whispers spiraling up into gold chandeliers.

But in this little corner of air between three swordsmen, everything else felt distant.

Detached.

Like the world was watching itself from behind glass.

And Rowen—gods help him—was… content?

Not driven by obligation. Not braced against politics. Just here.

Sharing breath with two men who understood what it meant to see the invisible lines inside a strike.

He could take a step back from pride, just for now.

Because for once—

It didn’t feel like weakness.

Lucavion, of course, ruined the quiet in his own way.

He laughed.

Not loudly. Not mockingly.

Just that easy, unbothered kind of laugh that somehow poked fun without ever turning cruel.

“Man…” he said, shaking his head slightly. “It’s quite strange how us guys can somehow be like this, isn’t it?”

Varen raised a brow, half-curious, half-wary.

Rowen just stared at him.

Lucavion grinned wider. “Swords pointed at each other one week, wine glasses in the same orbit the next.”

He looked between them. “I don’t know. Kinda poetic. Stupid. But poetic.”

Then—he turned to Rowen.

And this time, there was no grin.

Only interest.

Not the casual kind.

The sharp kind.

“Your Sword Resonance,” Lucavion said. “How did you awaken it?”

The question dropped like a coin in a well—direct, unfiltered.

Not cloaked in etiquette. Not even dressed up in curiosity.

Just asked.

To anyone else, it would’ve been insulting. Rude.

Varen tensed a little. Instinctive.

But Lucavion didn’t blink. He was looking into Rowen’s eyes like the question wasn’t a breach—but a bridge.

Such a weird man.

Rowen should’ve scoffed.

Should’ve reminded him that such knowledge wasn’t shared between enemies, let alone outsiders.

But…

He exhaled.

Because truthfully?

He’d been listening in just now. He had felt that moment. That weight.

Lucavion had offered something—intangible, but real.

So now…

He owed him something in return.

Rowen spoke, low and precise.

“The first time,” he said, “was on the eleventh floor of the Drayke Trial Vault.”

Lucavion blinked.

Then rolled his eyes.

“Oh come on, man,” he said, dragging the words out with theatrical exasperation. “Do you really think we know what that is?”

Varen’s brow rose, almost amused.

Rowen’s mouth twitched. The corner of it jerked, just barely—annoyance tempered by restraint. Then:

“…Didn’t expect you to.”

Lucavion tilted his head, waiting.

Rowen gave a long breath. Then continued.

“I was sent in alone. No mana. No exit key. Just my blade and a trial designed to break lineage warriors.”

He didn’t look at them while he spoke—eyes slightly downcast, voice calm, clipped.

“There’s something sealed in the heart of the vault. Something old. It’s not a person. Not a creature.”

He paused.

“A fragment of a sword.”

Lucavion squinted. “A… fragment?”

Rowen nodded once. “That’s all I’ll say.”

There was a finality to it. Not guarded. Just done.

Lucavion opened his mouth to prod again—but then caught the shift in Rowen’s expression. Not pain. Not trauma.

Just silence.

The kind born from something still echoing in the marrow.

Rowen could say more. Could explain the pulsing weight of a blade that didn’t swing, but still bled intention into the air. The way the sword spirit didn’t teach or challenge—it stripped. Carved down pride, assumptions, identity. Left only breath and blade and fear.

But he didn’t want to remember those days.

The darkness.

The cold, rusted steel beneath his nails.

The whispers that weren’t words, but pressure.

He remembered waking up on the stone floor, covered in sweat and his own blood, fingers curled around a handle that wasn’t there anymore. The voice in his head whispering rhythm without language.

Sword Resonance.

It hadn’t been bestowed.

It had been earned.

Cut into him.

And some part of him still wasn’t sure it had left.

Rowen looked up.

Lucavion was watching. Quiet now.

Even Varen had gone still.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Lucavion leaned back slightly, expression unreadable.

“…You know,” he muttered, “for all your precision and starch, that’s one hell of a metal origin story.”

Rowen arched an eyebrow.

Lucavion smiled again, soft this time. “Not bad, Drayke.”

Rowen didn’t return the smile.

But he didn’t look away either.

And that—between swordsmen—was enough.