Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 702: Talking with blades

Mireilla lay on the edge of the massive bed, not under the covers, but atop them—as if too much comfort might swallow her whole.

The mattress was too soft. The air too still. The silence too curated.

She had grown up learning that even quiet came with price tags. And this one felt… steep.

The suite around her was all pale opal and woven light—walls that pulsed with barely-contained enchantments, surfaces that didnʼt just gleam, but glowed, gently reflecting the aether that laced the air like perfume. It was all beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, it unsettled her more than a blade at her back.

This wasnʼt a place meant for someone like her.

And yet here she was.

ʼMaybe thatʼs why it feels like walking inside someone elseʼs skin.ʼ

Sheʼd used everything available. She wasnʼt above that—not after clawing her way through years of scarcity and silence. The message interface had been her first experiment: a brief communication with the attendant assigned to her, asking for a list of nearby library networks.

It had answered instantly, with a tone so politely efficient it made her teeth ache.

Meals came next. She ordered something basic—root-vegetable stew, grain porridge, a tea blend labeled ”focus enhancement”—and it had appeared on a gleaming tray without a single creak of a serving cart. Every item was perfectly balanced, perfectly hot, perfectly... impersonal.

Then came the real test: the cultivation chambers.

There was one embedded into the suite floor, but a secondary chamber had been listed—a room three floors down, accessible only by attuned glyphs, its walls laced with silver-threaded runes that heightened the ambient mana density by nearly forty percent. It wasnʼt just opulent—it was ideal.

Sheʼd stood inside it for almost an hour.

Breathing.

Feeling.

Letting the mana wash over her like it never had before—not in slums, not in rented guild bunkers, not even in field camps where ambient energy was a privilege you fought over.

And now?

Now she couldnʼt sleep.

Because resting here—truly resting—meant believing she belonged.

And she wasnʼt ready for that.

Not yet.

So she sat on the bed, cross-legged, back straight, fingers curling lightly over her knees as she drew a slow breath. Cultivation pattern: second spiral, variant five. A gentle rotation. Mana flowed into her limbs, uncoiling like roots from an old scar.

She let it move.

Let herself feel what it was like to not struggle for it.

To not bite her tongue and choke back nausea as magic resisted her.

The chamber responded with subtle pulses of reinforcement—mana encouraging her, bolstering her rhythm, syncing with her patterns.

ʼThis is how nobles train,ʼ she realized. ʼNo distractions. No hunger. No fear that if you falter, someone else will take your spot by force.ʼ

And that truth, more than the luxury, more than the shimmering walls or spellborn linens, made something bitter twist in her throat.

It wasnʼt just that theyʼd had more.

It was that they never had to fight just to begin.

She stayed like that until morning.

And when she opened her eyes, the chamber lights had already adjusted themselves to mimic the soft glow of sunrise—though no true sun shone here.

Still, it was enough.

She rose, quietly.

She bathed. Dressed. Tied her hair back with deliberate care.

There was no one to impress, not today.

But habit was another form of armor.

Mireilla stepped lightly into the corridor, her boots making almost no sound against the enchanted tiles. The air here still smelled faintly of lavender and mage-oil, as though the very walls exhaled refinement. She didnʼt rush—she didnʼt need to. Every step was deliberate, measured. Observing was second nature.

And there was so much to observe.

The hallway lit as she walked, panels blooming softly overhead with morning hues—an artificial sunrise designed to adjust with the circadian rhythm of each occupant. Enchantment woven so deeply into the structure it didnʼt hum, it breathed.

Attendants were already moving—some gliding silently along the silver inlaid tracks between quarters, others passing notes or floating trays through glyph-hinged doorways. None of them looked tired. None of them looked rushed. The hour was early, but this place did not wake.

It simply resumed.

One attendant offered her a nod, shallow and polite. She returned it, curt and silent, before continuing toward the outer arch. The pathways here twisted upward in spirals of translucent glass, revealing glimpses of the upper gardens, mana-laced flora blooming even at this hour. Somewhere far off, the low chime of a bell echoed—an announcement, perhaps, or just a shift in ward routines.

But then—

She paused.

Stopped mid-step as the faint ripple of combat brushed against the edge of her senses.

Mana. Contained—but fierce.

Her head turned automatically, eyes narrowing. It came from the eastern spire terrace—the open ring sheʼd seen listed in the map as a ”private sparring arena.”

She altered course without hesitation.

And when she stepped into the open archway, the breath caught sharp in her throat.

There—framed by the pale light of dawn and the drifting garden fog—were two silhouettes in motion.

Lucavion.

And Elayne Cors.

She recognized them instantly.

But she had never seen them like this.

Lucavionʼs estoc blurred through the air, silver arcs slicing as if the blade itself danced, not wielded but unleashed. His coat flared behind him with each step, his footwork so crisp it looked almost lazy—until you saw the speed. Until you felt the weight of his every move pressing into the ringʼs layered mana.

Elayne was quieter. Smaller. Her cloak flickered around her like mist given form. She didnʼt counter so much as redirect—knife glinting in precise, surgical jabs that almost found their mark. Her style wasnʼt flashy. It wasnʼt loud. It was sharp. Intent.

They werenʼt trying to kill each other.

But they werenʼt holding back, either.

Mireilla stayed perfectly still in the shadow of the arch.

Watching.

Lucavion—his pressure rolled like a storm cloud dragged low across the battlefield. His flame wasnʼt just mana—it was something darker, something older. It made the air shift, as if every exchange was brushing against something not meant to be seen in daylight.

And Elayne—she was water under ice. Cold precision. Quiet danger. There were no wasted movements. No heavy bursts of mana. Just the feeling that if you blinked, sheʼd already be behind you.

The wind shifted.

Elayne vanished.

No flicker, no shimmer. Just gone.

Lucavion didnʼt blink.

His blade snapped to the right—

—CLANG!

steel kissed steel as her crescent knife met his estoc mid-swing. She hadnʼt gone invisible—sheʼd folded space around herself, letting the eye see emptiness where she moved.

Lucavionʼs smirk curved upward, half-lidded eyes gleaming in the garden haze.

”Mm. Illusion weaving mid-motion,” he said lightly, stepping into a pivot and dragging the estoc upward in a slanted arc that forced her to hop back. ”Youʼve polished that trick.”

Elayne didnʼt answer.

She was already gone again.

He felt her behind his left shoulder, just a fraction of pressure before her blade slashed low. He dipped his weight and let the estoc flick back—

—SKRKT!

The parry rang like a whisper, clean, controlled.

Lucavion didnʼt need to flare his flames. He didnʼt even move fast—not compared to his usual velocity. His blade was an extension of his thought, not his arm.

And that thought was amused.

”Youʼre testing spacing more than speed today,” he murmured, sliding his estoc in a low curve that traced beneath her next approach. ”Thatʼs new.”

”Youʼre slower today,” Elayne replied.

He laughed—soft, breathless. ”Iʼm polite today.”

She struck again, this time from the side—blade feinting toward his ribs before dissolving into mist, reforming inches above and driving for his collarbone.

Lucavion twisted his blade sideways—

—CLINK!

He batted her weapon aside as if redirecting a curious hand, then stepped in with a flourish that dragged the black-flame-touched estoc just close enough to threaten, not land.

”Youʼre pressing closer,” he observed, voice low, ”but still not stepping into my range.”

”Smart people donʼt walk into fire,” she answered, already fading again.

The next illusion came with layers.

Three Elaynes.

Two decoys spun out from her central movement like echoes of mist given flesh, their strikes moving in mirrored timing. A cloak brushed air near his hip, a blade flicked toward his throat.

Lucavion let the illusions close.

He didnʼt dodge.

He stepped forward, inside the triangle of motion.

His estoc traced a spiral through the space, fire whispering along its edge—not bursting, not flaring, just there. Hungry and elegant.

—SWOOSH!

—CLANG!

—SKSH!

The illusions shattered like smoke against a gale.

Elayne reappeared behind him, eyes narrowed, breathing controlled. Her cloak still swayed with the residual movement—but her stance had shifted. Lower. Tighter.

Lucavion turned his head slightly, not facing her, but just enough to speak over his shoulder.

”No comment?”

Elayneʼs knife spun once in her fingers, then stilled.

”I thought you werenʼt going to use flame.”

Lucavion chuckled under his breath.

”Iʼm not.”

The flame shimmered along his blade, subtle—balanced. It didnʼt extend. Didnʼt burn. It simply existed.

”As long as it stays on the sword,” he said, ”weʼre just two people talking.”