Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 747: Sword

The morning of the Entrance Banquet broke not with fanfare, but with tension—tight and expectant, like the breath held before a blade meets bone. Dawnlight spilled through the windows of the dining hall in gentle waves, brushing across fresh linen, silver cutlery, and untouched platters of fruit and spice-glazed bread. Everything had been set early. Immaculate. Waiting.

They came one by one.

Caeden first, as always. Crisp, upright, quiet. He moved with the kind of discipline bred from noble courts and dueling halls, though his gaze flicked once toward the high windows like even he wasn’t immune to the day’s weight.

Elayne arrived second, hair already half-tied, her presence composed but not cold. She nodded to Caeden silently, seating herself at the end of the table, eyes scanning the room as though checking for invisible threads that might have moved overnight.

Toven stumbled in next, still rubbing sleep from his eyes and muttering curses at the sun. “They could’ve let us rest. One more hour. Or half. Or five minutes.”

Mireilla followed with a smirk and a braid half-done, chewing a piece of jerky like it was breakfast for champions. “You’ll wake up when you see your outfit. Bet it’ll shine so bright you’ll mistake yourself for royalty.”

And then—

Lucavion.

He entered with the same casual grace as always, dressed in a loose black tunic with faint stitching around the collar, looking for all the world like he’d just strolled in from some private rehearsal for a duel that hadn’t yet been announced.

He said nothing as he poured himself tea. But there was something different in the air around him.

Stillness.

Not calm. Not peace.

A stillness like a storm waiting for the right stage.

“Good. You’re all here.”

Kaleran’s voice cut through the room just as the last of them settled into their seats. He stood at the far end of the table, hands behind his back, posture immaculate—again. He’d changed into formal robes, edged in navy and silver, with the Academy’s crest pinned at the collar like a warning.

“You’ve all made your sponsor selections. The official notices have been sealed and sent. Today… is about presentation.”

Toven let out a long, pained exhale. Mireilla kicked him under the table.

Kaleran continued unfazed. “First: your weapons. They are ready and waiting at the forge. You will proceed there immediately after breakfast. Harlan and the other smiths will present the final products and deliver the enchantment seals.”

Lucavion raised a brow faintly. ’So it’s time.’

“Afterwards,” Kaleran went on, “you will return here. Your formal wear has been delivered to your quarters. Tailored. Enchanted. And in some cases—reinforced.”

“Reinforced?” Mireilla echoed, suspicious.

Kaleran ignored her. “You’ll be given three hours to prepare. That includes hair, makeup, polish, and basic grooming. Stylists have been summoned from the outer courts, and you will cooperate.”

“I object to having anything sharp near my face,” Toven muttered.

“Then I suggest you sit very still,” Kaleran replied without a blink.

Elayne glanced at Lucavion. “You ready for this?”

He swirled the tea in his cup once, then sipped.

“Always.”

Kaleran gave a small nod. “Then eat. What comes next is not simply formality. It’s spectacle. The Banquet is not for your benefit—it is for them. The nobles. The commanders. The ones who want to know what kind of storm they’ve let in.”

Lucavion smiled faintly into his cup.

They ate in that quiet tension. Low conversation, a few dry jokes. Mireilla tried to guess what weapon Caeden had chosen. Toven nearly spilled his juice trying to steal a pastry. Elayne made a list of etiquette infractions in her head just by watching them all.

And then, as the sun rose higher through the crystal-lined dome, Kaleran stood again.

“It’s time.”

*****

–CRANK! CRANK!–

The sharp, rhythmic strikes rang through the forge hall like declarations. Not hurried. Not uncertain. Each one deliberate. Measured. A dialogue of weight and will.

The scent of scorched aetherglass still hung in the air, mingling with the deeper musk of iron and aged mana.

The old enchantments hummed faintly in the walls—layered wards and sigils tracing faint lines of gold and obsidian over stone—and then shimmered once.

A voice echoed through them, crisp and clipped. The attendant.

“Master Harlan. Sir Lucavion will be arriving shortly.”

Harlan didn’t respond at first.

He held the hammer raised mid-air, motion paused at the apex of its swing. The forge around him dimmed a fraction, as if waiting on his next breath.

Then, slowly, he lowered the hammer.

Not onto the anvil.

But onto the stone lip beside it.

The strike was gentle. Almost reverent.

He exhaled through his nose and leaned forward, gaze falling to the product beneath the veil of smoke and tempered magic on the anvil. His hand brushed aside the cloth covering it.

The metal beneath glinted like midnight water—blackened silver folded with abyssal shimmer, core-threaded with dark umbracite alloy. In the light of the forge, the runes shimmered faintly—re-etched, re-aligned, precise.

No longer the blade of a rising fighter.

This was the weapon of a man who had already survived far too much.

Harlan studied it, his thick fingers moving once over the flat of the blade like a final blessing.

The metal pulsed beneath his touch, faint and deep, like a heart wrapped in tempered steel. The layers of umbracite and Abyssal scale caught the forge light in conflicting reflections: silver-black shimmer over blood-deep etchings, the re-etched runes drinking the ambient mana instead of reflecting it. Silent. Waiting.

Beautiful didn’t quite cover it.

No—this thing was beyond beauty. It was art carved into violence. Grace forged into threat. It looked like it belonged on an altar or in a graveyard—never resting, always one heartbeat from drawing blood.

And anyone with sense would hesitate to touch it.

Because the sword didn’t just wait.

It warned.

Harlan’s lips tugged upward in a rare, crooked smile.

“You better be ready for this sword, Lucavion.”

His voice was low—more to the forge than to the room.

“This one isn’t just sharp. It’s watching. Waiting for something worth killing.”

He rested the hammer beside the cloth, wiped his palms against his apron, and exhaled.

“It’s not the peak of what I can make,” he muttered, stepping back slightly. “But gods know, it’s close. I poured my sweat into this one.”

He gestured vaguely toward the locked shelf—where the rare alloys had been pulled from, piece by piece. “And the materials… you’d be crucified in three courts for wasting even a grain of ’em.”

Then—something shifted.

A ripple.

Like the forge room inhaled.

Harlan stilled, head turning slightly—not toward the main entrance, but to the shadow before the flame. A presence, coiled just beyond the barrier of heat. Quiet, but not subdued. Like a storm that had learned the art of silence.

It wasn’t hostile.

It wasn’t humble.

It was… there. In a way nothing else was.

A pulse of feral pressure. Not mana. Not bloodlust.

Just… Lucavion.

Harlan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head once.

’Heh… that flame of his. Still refuses to bow to the heat in here.’

He turned toward the veil of enchantments just as the door mechanisms began to shift—gears unlocking with heavy clinks, the sigil-bound thresholds sensing who approached.

The sword on the anvil didn’t move.

But the air around it seemed to lean forward.

Just like the blade knew who it was waiting for.