Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 673: What is he doing ?

「Flame of Equinox: Twin Cinders」

The estoc ignited—not in flame, but in opposing currents. One edge shimmered with frigid darkness, the other with heatless white. The blade balanced between burn and freeze, entropy and stillness.

He didnʼt try to deflect Reynaldʼs mana arc.

He cut through it.

—SKRRRSH!

The dual flame edge met the compressed wave—

And devoured it.

Not with power. With equilibrium.

The arc unraveled in midair, dispersing in a hiss of golden motes that never reached Lucavionʼs coat.

Reynaldʼs eyes widened, just a fraction.

Lucavion stepped forward.

”Mm. That one had a name,” he mused, voice low, appreciative. ”Youʼre opening up.”

He dashed forward, a glimmer of mirth on his tongue.

—FWOOOSH!

The estoc snapped toward Reynaldʼs thigh—one of the few unarmored spots.

—CLANG!

Reynaldʼs longsword intercepted it, redirecting upward, and followed with a quick slash toward Lucavionʼs collar.

—SWOOSH!

Lucavion weaved aside.

But this time—Reynald didnʼt retreat.

He advanced.

Two steps. A sudden downward cut.

「Form II – Breaking Palm」

Not a strike meant to slice, but to break balance. His sword came down not toward Lucavionʼs head, but near his foot—the base of his pivot.

—THUD!

Stone shattered. Lucavionʼs foot skidded—

Just enough.

Reynald rotated mid-swing and raised his sword for a piercing strike—

But Lucavion was already in motion.

「Flame of Equinox: Death Bloom」

He spun. A low, blooming arc of black flame erupted from his bladeʼs edge.

—BOOOOM!

A flower of flame burst outward—twelve petals of pure combustion in a ring. Each petal rotated, an orbit of destruction expanding around him.

Reynald was forced to retreat.

One petal scraped across his armored shoulder—

—SKRING!

Even without breaking through, the flame sank in. Mana recoiled. His arm trembled.

Reynaldʼs stance reset, sharp but slower.

Lucavion exhaled through a grin, twirling his estoc once as the petals flickered and died behind him.

”Youʼre skilled,” he said.

Lucavionʼs grin lingered—languid, amused—but something beneath it shifted.

A flicker behind the eyes.

Not mockery. Not thrill.

Intent.

He raised his estoc slightly, as if testing the weight of what came next. Then, slowly, deliberately, he drew his foot back, grounding himself. The playful tilt in his posture vanished like dust on the wind.

”Youʼre skilled,” he repeated, quieter now.

Then—his smile curved wider.

”But itʼs time to get more serious now.”

A pulse trembled through the air. Subtle at first.

Then—

—THOOM!

A burst of pressure exploded from his body, like a heartbeat magnified into reality. The very ground shuddered beneath his feet.

”If you want to continue the exam, that is,” he added casually, voice echoing slightly beneath the weight of the surge.

His eyes, once shadowed in mischief, ignited.

Not literally—but they may as well have. Twin coals burning in starlit sockets, sharp and unflinching.

His aura flared.

—FWOOM!

The petals of the [Death Bloom] hadnʼt even fully faded before a new wave of power crashed over the battlefield.

It wasnʼt wild. It wasnʼt showy.

But it was undeniable.

Pressure rolled outward in concentric rings. Not just heat, not just force. The feeling of standing too close to a boundary that shouldnʼt be crossed.

An instinctive sense of danger.

A quiet, suffocating truth.

That he wasnʼt done.

Not even close.

The black flame that once traced only his blade now licked faintly across his shoulders, barely perceptible—like cracks in the air itself where heat and cold met, intertwined in unnatural balance.

A few of the watching candidates took a step back, involuntarily. Others stared, mouths open.

Reynald didnʼt speak.

But his hands gripped the hilt of his longsword just a little tighter.

Lucavion tilted his head, his aura pulsing again in rhythm with his breath.

”Come on then,” he said softly.

”Letʼs not disappoint them.”

****

Valeriaʼs gaze hadnʼt left the projection once. Her meal sat half-forgotten, cooling on the table beside her. The tea—untouched. The spoon in her hand trembled faintly, unnoticed.

On the screen, Lucavion moved like the breath between silence and catastrophe.

He was relentless. Elegant. Controlled.

And wholly, unmistakably, antagonistic.

ʼWhy…?ʼ

She narrowed her eyes, jaw tense.

Lucavion hadnʼt just struck Reynald. He had targeted him. Hunted his rhythm. Crushed his pauses. Pressed every advantage with clinical detachment and a smile that, to the untrained eye, looked almost gleeful.

ʼBut why him? Why like this?ʼ

Reynald had shown no aggression. Had offered peace. Had protected others—protected strangers, even—through blood and effort and conviction. Valeria had seen the respect in the eyes of the onlookers. The quiet awe. And now—

Now they were watching him bleed.

”Who is that guy?” someone muttered behind her.

”Heʼs just attacking for no reason?”

”He jumped the Trialʼs golden boy,” another scoffed. ”What, jealous of Reynaldʼs attention or something?”

A woman at the next table leaned forward, shaking her head in open disapproval. ”Itʼs disgraceful. Look at him. That smug smile, those moves—heʼs not trying to compete, heʼs just showing off.”

”Heʼs not even trying to win people over. Is this how he thinks heʼll earn support?”

”No honor at all. Attacking Reynald of all people.”

Voices were turning. Public opinion was bending—firm, instinctive, and harsh.

And Valeria sat among them, staring at the screen in silence.

She didnʼt join the chorus.

But she didnʼt defend him either.

Because she didnʼt understand.

Not this time.

Lucavion had always been a mystery. Calculated, unpredictable, almost theatrical in his chaos. But there had always been a thread—something under the mischief, under the smirks and riddles. He played at being careless, but he never struck without purpose.

Until now.

ʼWhatʼs the point of this?ʼ she thought, eyes narrowing at the flickering image of him, wreathed in black fire, aura radiating danger like a predator with nowhere left to hide.

ʼYouʼre provoking him. The entire Trial is watching. The city is watching. You know what this looks like…ʼ

And still, he smiled.

Lucavion, the shadow between stars.

Lucavion, with his blade drawn not for survival—but for something deeper.

ʼWhat are you trying to show us?ʼ

She clenched her fist.

Because if there was a reason, he hadnʼt revealed it.

The clash on the broadcast intensified.

Each time Lucavion vanished, he reappeared in another streak of motion—pressure curling around his strikes like a second skin. Each blow sharper than the last. Precise. Beautiful. Unforgiving.

And Reynald—The Bastion—met every one of them head-on.

Sparks danced across the screen like fireworks. Blade met blade. Strength met speed. Resolve met chaos.

But the room was no longer in awe.

It was tense. Stirred. Turning.

”Heʼs still attacking?”

”Why hasnʼt someone stopped this?”

”Reynald saved lives and this lunatic just waltzes in and—what, tries to ruin that?”

”He has to lose. He needs to lose.”

”Come on, Bastion—put him down already!”

The name stuck. Bastion. Voices began to lift now, not just in judgment, but in rallying.

”Go, Reynald!”

”Youʼve got this!”

”Teach him a lesson!”

It spread like fire, fed by the very thing Lucavion seemed to be courting—disapproval. Public wrath. Suspicion. They werenʼt just rooting for Reynald now. They were hoping Lucavion would fall.

Valeria could feel it like a shift in the wind.

And yet—

The duel remained locked in rhythm.

Lucavionʼs strikes came like whispers of disaster—always where they shouldnʼt be, always just one breath faster than expected. But Reynaldʼs guard held. He read the angles. Predicted the dance. Matched the pressure with poise.

It looked, from the outside, like a stalemate.

To most, it was a stalemate.

Even the broadcastʼs commentator had quieted for a beat—perhaps unsure which narrative to chase. Two elite candidates, locked in a flashfire duel amidst a safe zone already fraying at the seams.

But Valeriaʼs eyes narrowed.

It wasnʼt a stalemate.

Lucavion wasnʼt slowing down.

He was waiting.

And then, the shift came.

It wasnʼt grand. No explosion. No change in posture.

Just a flick of his wrist, a pulse of something beneath the surface, and the flame that clung to his estoc—until now little more than an ominous shimmer—flared.

Not red.

Not orange.

Not even the black petals of his earlier technique.

It was something else.

Cold fire. White at the edge. Black at the center. The kind of flame that didnʼt burn toward you—but pulled you in.

And she remembered it.

The kind that hungered.

For real.

Lucavionʼs blade didnʼt glow—it devoured light around it. The air curled, not from heat, but absence. Like reality itself was making room.

And still—he smiled.

He wasnʼt struggling.

He hadnʼt been pushing yet.

This had all been the warm-up.

”Oh gods…” someone whispered in the inn, their voice suddenly quiet. ”What… is that?”

”Is that even legal…?”

Reynaldʼs stance shifted—just slightly. His footing braced wider. His eyes locked tighter.

He knew.

Lucavion twirled his estoc once, slow, deliberate, like a violinist tightening his grip on the bow before the final crescendo.

Valeria inhaled, slow and cold.

ʼNow youʼre serious.ʼ