Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

The old hall reemerged from the quiet corridor with all the heat of its purpose still alive—metal clashing, runes sparking, whispers of aether curling through the air like breath held between hammer strikes. But the moment Harlan stepped into view, the rhythm faltered.

Not because he demanded it.

Because presence carved space.

The blacksmiths paused.

Not all at once—but like dominos in silence. One stopped mid-swing, another lifted her head from a glowing blade, a third turned away from a cooled crystal mold. Eyes followed. Movements stilled.

Even among masters, Harlan was the line between fire and flame.

One of the oldest smiths—tattoos inked in liquid steel across his arms—straightened his back and gave a nod deeper than ritual. Another pressed a hand to her chest, a subtle mark of recognition. Even the apprentices, those who had only heard his name in murmurs and warnings, stiffened unconsciously like the forge itself was watching through him.

Harlan didn’t blink.

He just waved a hand dismissively.

“Don’t stop your work,” he muttered, voice low but carrying. “I didn’t die. Don’t need a damn funeral procession every time I walk through a door.”

And just like that, the sound of steel resumed.

Not fully.

But enough.

Lucavion stepped in after him, unhurried, hands still tucked in his coat. He scanned the hall once, letting the familiarity settle—not with nostalgia, but with a kind of internal clock ticking into place.

The others noticed him, of course.

Elayne’s gaze flicked up from the scroll she was reviewing with her assigned rune-crafter. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing—just returned to the task with that cool, clinical stillness of hers.

Caeden nodded once from across the room, a respectful acknowledgment, but didn’t break his stance.

Toven did a full double-take, halfway into arguing with a blacksmith over the structural viability of dual-element swords. “What the—?”

Mireilla didn’t look up.

She just muttered under her breath, “Of course he’s walking in with the forge master. Because why wouldn’t he.”

Lucavion grinned.

Didn’t say a word.

He just followed Harlan as the old man headed straight to the central working dais—the very spot Lucavion was supposed to have been escorted to. Except this time, it was Harlan who set the rhythm, not protocol.

They reached the central dais without ceremony, but not without notice. Even as the rhythm of work resumed, the undercurrent shifted—attention, curiosity, something on the edge of deference bleeding into the air like heat rising off steel.

This dais was the heart of the armory floor, where weapons both tested and sealed lay—each blade a story, a failure, or a triumph buried in runes and iron. Racks lined the wall behind it, blades of every shape and purpose locked into enchanted braces, their auras restrained but not dormant.

Harlan stopped. Said nothing. Just looked.

Then, without warning, he reached to the second tier of the rack, his callused fingers curling around the hilt of a straight, narrow blade—not ornate, not crowned with aether, but old. Balanced. Worn in the way only a weapon used in real war ever could be.

With a single twist, he yanked it free.

And threw it.

Lucavion caught it without looking.

His hand rose clean and fast, fingers closing around the leather-wrapped grip just as the blade finished its first revolution midair. Not even a ripple of surprise touched his face.

Harlan snorted.

“Still fast,” he muttered. “Good.”

Lucavion gave the sword a light test flick, feeling its weight shift with a familiarity he hadn’t known he missed. “Still predictable.”

“Oh, shut up,” Harlan growled, stepping up onto the dais and folding his arms. “If you hadn’t caught it, I’d have claimed you were a body-double sent to waste my time.”

Lucavion turned the blade once in his hand, wrist shifting into a high reverse stance, then letting it drop to low guard. He rotated, stepped, shifted.

It wasn’t the estoc. Wasn’t tailored.

But it listened.

Not enough to obey him. Just enough to test him.

Harlan watched, eyes narrowing.

“That one’s got history,” he said, voice rougher now, like stones grinding under memory. “Made it during the border siege, right after the Rackenshore fallback. Damn thing held back five awakeners when we didn’t have a name for them yet.”

Lucavion’s brow arched slightly, the blade still turning effortlessly between his fingers. “Didn’t know you kept your relics in the open.”

Harlan grunted. “They’re not relics. They’re reminders.”

Another beat.

Then the old man took a step closer.

“I want to see it,” he said flatly. “Not the flash. Not the Academy tricks. The you that walked through fire and didn’t come out crawling.”

Lucavion’s grip tightened.

And then, without warning, he moved.

The blade cut through the air with a sound like silk catching wind. His body shifted low, then burst forward with a single snap of motion—quick-step, pivot, strike. The weapon hummed in his grip, the momentum of his movement compensating for its unfamiliar balance. Two feints, one real attack—then he reversed his footing and caught the blade along the flat, spinning it around into a mirrored draw stance.

Harlan’s eyes didn’t widen. But they sharpened.

“…You used to lead with your shoulder,” he said. “Telegraphed everything. Sloppy as hell.”

“I stopped doing that,” Lucavion replied, not quite breathless.

“You stopped smiling when you did it,” Harlan muttered. “That’s what changed.”

Lucavion exhaled through his nose. “Nothing wrong with enjoying the fight.”

“There is,” Harlan said, and this time the weight dropped in his voice. “When it’s all you have left.”

The blade stilled.

Lucavion didn’t answer immediately.

Then—

“That’s not the case anymore.”

Harlan stared at him.

And for a long moment, nothing moved. Not the forge, not the other smiths, not the flames behind them.

Harlan’s gaze lingered on Lucavion for a beat longer, something unreadable swimming in the forge-glow of his eyes.

“I hope that’s the case,” he said quietly, not with softness—but with caution. Like he was setting the words down instead of throwing them.

Lucavion didn’t reply.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t scoff. Just held the silence, steady and unreadable.

That was answer enough.

Harlan clicked his tongue once, then turned toward the center of the dais. His fingers flexed at his sides. Not in anger—but in readiness. In ritual.

“Well,” he muttered, “if you’re serious about getting a new blade, I need to see if you still deserve one.”

Lucavion arched a brow, amusement flickering like cinder-light in his gaze.

Harlan didn’t wait. He walked past Lucavion, eyes scanning the rack again before plucking the same old blade from earlier, then gestured with it.

“Start simple,” he said, his tone businesslike. “Just movement. Flow. I want to see how far you’ve bent your spine to those academy types.”

Lucavion obliged. He stepped forward into the working ring, his body already loosening, his stance falling into place like a habit that never left. The blade turned once in his hand—then twice, its balance adjusting instantly to his control.

But before he moved, Harlan lifted a hand, frown deepening.

“Wait.”

He gestured sharply.

Lucavion paused, confused for a breath.

Harlan motioned toward the scabbard at Lucavion’s side. The real one.

“The sword,” he said. “The one I made for you in Rackenshore. Show it.”

Lucavion’s brow twitched just slightly.

He reached down and unbuckled the sheath with a slow, deliberate movement, then presented it forward.

Harlan took it without reverence—gripped it like a surgeon checking for fractures. He unsheathed it halfway, let the edge catch the light, ran his thumb along the spine, the hilt, the seam. Inspected the pattern of Abyssal scale fusion with a craftsman’s instinct.

His eye twitched.

“This….”