Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Harlan’s thumb paused midway along the blade.

A sound escaped him—not quite a grunt, not quite a breath. It was something heavier. Something strained. Like recognition pulled from deep iron memory.

“…This,” he muttered, his voice low and edged, “shouldn’t look like this.”

He turned the blade toward the light, the aetherlamps catching every ridge and hairline scar etched into the steel—not careless scratches, not jagged abuse. These were lines carved by survival. The metal bore them like old warriors bore scars: unapologetically.

Lucavion didn’t flinch.

“She and I,” he said calmly, “have seen our fair share of battles.”

Harlan said nothing.

But he looked again.

Closer.

The marks weren’t chaotic. They weren’t from missed parries or mishandled swings. They were focused—layered into precise angles of defense, the kind you only see when someone knows their weapon, trusts it to take the blow.

He examined the edges—still honed, still aligned. No fraying on the channel work, no core resonance flaws. The maintenance was immaculate.

This wasn’t neglect.

It was war.

Harlan’s brow furrowed, deeper now, his thumb tracing a deep groove near the mid-blade where scaled reinforcement met the alloy core.

These weren’t the kind of marks a blade should have. Not from beasts her tier.

Not from battles she was meant to survive.

“This sword,” he said under his breath, “was made from a peak 3-star monster. A Lesser Abyssal Wyrm. I remember the scale. I remember how long it took to forge it right.”

His gaze shifted—barely, but sharp.

“And yet—”

He turned the blade again. A long scratch ran diagonally across the fuller, almost invisible until seen from a certain angle. At its edge, the faintest shimmer of mana-stress ripple danced—frozen at the point of impact.

“There,” he murmured.

He didn’t look at Lucavion when he said it.

“There’s even one that exceeded that.”

Lucavion’s voice was quiet. “Yes.”

Harlan stared at the mark, eyes hard, old calculations running like furnace arithmetic behind his skull.

“Five-star rank… maybe more,” he muttered. “Not just aura suppression. Not just bursts. This blade clashed with force that would shatter most mid-tier aetherglass weapons outright.”

He looked up now. Not angry.

Just… different.

Like he was seeing the man before him—and the road behind him—for the first time at the same time.

“And it held?” Harlan asked.

Lucavion’s hand traced the sheath once more, almost fondly. Then, with that familiar tilt of his head and the irreverent ease only he could wear in the presence of a forge legend, he said—

“What can I say?”

A smirk edged his lips. “I’m a master swordsman.”

Harlan’s eyes narrowed, his face hardening with that weathered stone glare only decades of iron and idiocy could forge.

“Cocky little bastard.”

Lucavion grinned wider. “Takes one to recognize one.”

But beneath the banter, the old man didn’t look away from the sword.

He saw it now—not just the steel, not just the marks.

The truth.

That this blade, forged from the remains of a 3-star beast, had no business surviving the fights it had seen. Against monsters and men that should’ve shattered it. Broken it. Reduced it to shards and regrets.

But it hadn’t.

Because of him.

Because of the way Lucavion fought—not just with power, but with precision. Because he understood his weapon like it was breath and extension. Because he never overstepped the blade’s limits, never misaligned its strengths.

Any fool could swing a sword.

But it took rare talent—true sword mastery—to protect the blade itself through battle after battle.

Harlan’s expression didn’t soften.

But his stance did.

“…Tch,” he muttered. “You’re the kind of bastard every blacksmith dreams of and dreads.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I’m flattered.”

Harlan shot him a look. “Don’t be. It means we get excited making something for you, knowing full well you’re going to take it places it has no right surviving.”

He glanced again at the blade, then back to Lucavion.

“But the difference between you and most is—you bring it back.”

Lucavion’s smile eased then. Not smug. Just… quieter. Surer.

“I don’t lose things that matter.”

Harlan’s mouth twitched—barely.

Then he straightened, cracking his shoulders.

“Let’s see if that still includes your own hide.”

And once more, he raised the test blade. Not to judge the sword this time.

To judge the man.

The clang of boot against stone echoed as they circled—slowly at first. No crowd gathered; none dared interrupt. The heat of the forge had quieted, as if every flame, every rune, held its breath.

Lucavion shifted first, drawing no steel, simply lifting his stance. One hand open, the other resting near his hip—loose, fluid, relaxed.

The sword remained sheathed.

Harlan narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’re too good to draw now.”

Lucavion grinned. “I’d just hate to scratch that practice blade of yours.”

He stepped forward lightly, as if weight meant nothing, his coat trailing behind like a shadow waiting to strike. The air between them tensed, not hostile—but aware.

Harlan moved first.

A simple forward thrust, testing range and response. The kind of move meant to check reflexes, not cut through armor.

Lucavion tilted his shoulder, let the strike pass with a slip of breath, and pivoted. His hand never even touched the hilt.

‘His footwork,’ Harlan thought, adjusting with the next swing, this one sharper—angled. ‘Cleaner. Less waste. Before, he used to dance like the floor was showing off through him.’

Lucavion moved again, tapping Harlan’s blade gently with two fingers mid-air. A parry that was half statement, half provocation.

“Sure you want me at full speed, old man?” he asked, mischief threading the words.

“Tch.” Harlan rolled his shoulder and stepped in harder this time, blade sweeping low then high. “Don’t insult me. I’m not a museum piece yet.”

Lucavion caught the edge of the blade with his forearm bracer and leaned back just enough to let the force pass.

“Of course not,” he said smoothly, dodging with almost lazy grace. “But in the interest of preserving your pride…”

He grinned.

“…I’ll keep things light.”

The steel rang again—this time faster, sharper.

And Harlan felt it. Not strength. Restraint.

Lucavion wasn’t showing off.

He was pulling back.

‘So he knows how strong he is now,’ Harlan thought grimly. ‘And worse—he knows how to hide it.’

The old blacksmith stepped harder into his next attack, a wide arcing cut that would’ve thrown any younger opponent off balance. Lucavion met it with a half-turn and an open palm, redirecting the momentum with barely a shift in his stance.

‘This isn’t just technique anymore. He’s controlling the tempo. Like the blade isn’t the weapon—he is.’

They continued—cut, parry, step, sweep. Fluid motion that didn’t belong in a forge. It belonged on a battlefield or a stage reserved for champions.

And all the while, Harlan watched.

Not with pride.

Not yet.

With appraisal.

‘He used to lean into power. He used to smile when he got hit. Like pain was proof of life. Now… now it’s different. He’s reading me as much as I’m reading him. Playing the fight like a smith tests metal—tap, ring, bend, measure.’

Lucavion spun once, not flashy, just evasive. His coat snapped behind him like a flag caught in a gust. Harlan lunged to catch the moment—but Lucavion was already gone. His boot tapped the ground lightly behind Harlan’s stance, his voice low and near his ear.

“Slower than I remember.”

Harlan turned, blade raised.

Lucavion stepped back with a smile that barely tugged the corner of his mouth.

Harlan didn’t follow.

He stopped.

Lowered his weapon.

“…You bastard,” he muttered. “You really have grown.”

Lucavion gave a faint, theatrical bow. “I aim to exceed expectations.”

Harlan exhaled through his nose, staring at the boy—no, man—in front of him.

‘Three years ago, he fought like a wildfire,’ Harlan thought, eyes narrowing slightly. ‘As if nothing to lose, and as if only to fight.’

Back then, every swing Lucavion made carried a kind of beautiful recklessness—raw, untamed, dangerous in its refusal to care about the consequences. He had bled just to feel alive. Had smiled at the taste of pain because it meant he hadn’t disappeared yet. He swung not for victory, not even for survival.

He swung to burn.

But now…

Now the fire was different.