Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 750: Thanks, old man

Lucavion turned toward Harlan, brushing dust from his sleeves as the reactive weave beneath his clothes adjusted with subtle ease. He watched the old man for a second longer—long enough to really see past the gruff posture and the scowl he wore like armor.

“Old man,” he said casually, “between all that grumbling, you’re actually a pretty good guy.”

Harlan’s expression darkened instantly. “What the hell are you saying, you bastard?”

He stepped forward, hand already swinging up in the direction of Lucavion’s head.

But Lucavion was already two steps back, slipping just out of reach with practiced ease. “Tch. Still slow.”

“Next time I’m forging you a sword with a built-in shock rune,” Harlan muttered.

Lucavion gave a chuckle, then paused. Looked at him again.

And the smile that followed wasn’t his usual grin. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t hiding anything.

It was small.

Simple.

Real.

“Thank you,” he said, voice steady. “For everything, old man.”

For a moment, Harlan just stood there. Watching him.

That smile—the one on Lucavion’s face now—wasn’t worn like armor. It wasn’t a trick or a mask or a misdirection. It was one of the rare ones, from the part of him that didn’t speak much. The part that remembered being lost and alone, and finding something that held.

Harlan exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in understanding.

“You better use ’em well,” he muttered. “Or I’ll haunt your ass in the middle of a duel.”

Lucavion gave a two-fingered salute, turned on his heel, and headed for the forge door—his footsteps light, but not hurried. The blade at his back and the armor beneath his clothes seemed to carry him with a kind of quiet finality, as if the forge had given him not just tools, but something to walk forward with.

As the heavy doors closed behind him, the silence returned.

The forge crackled softly.

Harlan didn’t move at first. He just stood there in the heat, one hand resting on the anvil.

Then he sat.

And the weight settled behind his eyes.

’Let’s hope,’ he thought, rubbing his brow slowly, ’you don’t get caught in this too, kid.’

It was just a thought.

*****

Aether winds, trimmed and shaped by warding enchantments, kept the temperature perfect for ceremony but just cool enough to sting anyone walking without armor.

Lucavion stepped through the last set of arches alone, hands in his coat pockets, his usual pitch-black estoc resting quietly in its scabbard across his back.

He said nothing.

And no one asked.

Because the others were already gathered at the rendezvous point near the opal-trimmed fountain, each of them surrounded by the final shapes of who they were becoming.

Mireilla was the first to spot him. She spun on her heel, her usual cocky energy dialed down—but not erased. In her hands, she held something strange and beautiful: a double-pronged wand of interwoven briarwood and white iron. The top curved into a crescent bloom, blooming with a single living flower that shifted color with every blink. The base pulsed faintly—alive, not with magic alone, but something rooted.

“About time, blackbird,” she called, spinning it lazily between her fingers. “Try not to be late to your own parade.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. “You kiss your vines with that mouth?”

Mireilla smirked. “Only when they bloom right.”

Beside her, Caeden stood like a wall dressed in polished restraint. The weapon at his back looked more like a slab of war than a sword—a broad cleaver with no handguard, its edges shaped not for finesse but for finality. Inlays of darksteel lined the core, etched in anchor runes that stabilized his strength surges. A weapon forged not to move swiftly—but to end whatever it touched.

He glanced at Lucavion once, then nodded.

“Looks like they kept your spine intact,” he said simply.

Lucavion smiled faintly. “Tempting though it was to install a replacement.”

On the other side, Toven bounced lightly on his heels. His hands crackled faintly, not with magic yet—but anticipation. The twin rods hanging at either side of his hips were unlike the others’ weapons: forged of crystalized arclight and mana glass, their tips sleeved in tempered ebonite to channel and ground electrical overload. They pulsed with a low whine, barely audible.

Lucavion gave him a sidelong glance. “If you light yourself on fire before the banquet, I’m not claiming you.”

“I’m not gonna explode,” Toven muttered. “Probably.”

“Promising.”

Then came Elayne.

She stood near the shadowed edge of the fountain, almost part of it—her cloak so sheer it blurred the lines of her form when she moved. In her hand was no sword, no staff, but a blade-fan: thin panels of obsidian-tinted metal etched in illusion runes, each fold an arcane anchor. When opened, the fan expanded in a fractal of smoke and mirage—perfect for slicing, deflecting, or vanishing altogether. A ghost’s weapon. Meant for quiet war.

Lucavion gave her a look. “Assassins going formal now?”

“…..”

A shared silence followed. Just for a moment. The kind that settled not because there was nothing to say—but because they all knew what came next.

Weapons forged.

Alliances chosen.

The world watching.

Lucavion adjusted the estoc at his back slightly, the voidweave beneath his clothes responding with silent grace, easing the movement without resistance. He didn’t need to tell them about the armor. No need to explain what was beneath the surface. Let the world think he wore shadows.

Let them guess what they couldn’t see.

Kaleran’s voice broke the quiet, approaching from the steps beyond.

“There you are.”

Kaleran’s boots met the marble with measured weight, his figure descending the steps like he carried the burden of the entire day’s logistics on his spine—and no intention of letting it slip. His robes had shifted again, this time layered with ceremonial accents: a high collar marked with interlacing sigils of the central academy branch, and silver thread trim that caught the morning light like threads of lightning held still.

He stopped before them, gaze sweeping from weapon to student to weapon again, as if mentally checking off an inventory that extended well beyond steel and aether.

“You’ve received your armaments,” he said, tone clipped but not cold. “Good. Then it’s time.”

Lucavion exhaled slowly through his nose, brushing a gloved thumb along the edge of his scabbard.

[Now comes the real war,] Vitaliara whispered beside him, her voice dry with amusement. [Powder, perfume, and too much starch.]

’Sounds like you have been there.’

[Gerald has been invited to quite a lot of places like that.]

’I see….’

Kaleran’s voice continued, ignoring the barely stifled reactions from the rest. “Your tailored formalwear is waiting in your assigned changing chambers. You will each be escorted there directly. A team of court stylists has been brought from the Second Imperial Ward. You will not resist them. You will not insult them. And you will sit still.”

Mireilla groaned audibly. “Gods, this again?”

“Some of you look like you’ve lost a duel with your own laundry,” Kaleran said flatly. “Let’s not terrify the nobility with the illusion that you’re human.“

Toven muttered something under his breath about personal freedom and injustice. Caeden just adjusted his collar, ready for whatever ceremonial noose was coming next.

Kaleran’s hands clasped behind his back. “The Banquet begins in four hours. You’ll be presented not as students—but as selections. Chosen by sponsors, wielders of academy-forged weapons, representatives of the next imperial generation.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“The moment you step into that hall, you’re not yourself. You’re an image. Be careful to not cause a scene.”

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