Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 717: You have grown

ʼThree years ago, he fought like a wildfire,ʼ Harlan thought, eyes narrowing slightly. ʼAs if nothing to lose, and as if only to fight.ʼ

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 hadnʼt disappeared yet. He swung not for victory, not even for survival.

He swung to burn.

But now…

Now the fire was different.

Harlan looked again—not at the movements, but at the stillness.

At the blade Lucavion hadnʼt drawn.

At the way he controlled each step like a man who knew exactly where he was going—not just in the spar, but in the world.

ʼThat sword of his… it has a direction now.ʼ

The realization struck deep.

ʼItʼs not just being swung anymore. Itʼs pointed at something. At someone.ʼ

Harlan didnʼt know what that was.

Didnʼt ask.

But he saw it—in the way Lucavion held his weight, in the way he breathed between clashes, in the eyes that didnʼt burn as wildly as before but cut sharper than ever.

Purpose.

That was the difference.

The blade hadnʼt dulled—but it had focused.

And for the first time in Harlanʼs long, soot-lined life, he felt something that wasnʼt irritation or pride or the urge to hurl a wrench at someoneʼs head.

It was concern.

Not for Lucavion.

For whoever would stand at the end of that sword.

ʼGods help them,ʼ he thought, ʼbecause I canʼt.ʼ

He took one step back and planted the test blade down into the floor with a firm clang, letting the echo ring once through the chamber.

Then he looked up—at the young man who had walked into his forge like a memory and now stood there like the weight of the future.

”Youʼve passed,” he said.

Lucavion arched an eyebrow, playful. ”Was this a test?”

Harlanʼs voice dropped.

”It always was.”

Harlan looked at him for a long time, the lines in his face cast deep by the forge-glow, his stance more relaxed but his eyes… older. Sharper.

Then he said it—not like a confession, but like the inevitable weight of a truth settling into place.

”I canʼt see through you anymore.”

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, but didnʼt interrupt.

Harlan continued, quieter. ”Back then, I could read your stance, your intent, your edge… like watching the grain in hot steel. I knew where youʼd crack. Where youʼd lash out. But now?” He shook his head. ”Youʼve grown above what I am. Iʼm good in a fight. I can still swing a hammer. But Iʼm a blacksmith, not a swordsman.”

Lucavion shrugged. ”If I wanted, I could become the Empireʼs greatest blacksmith too,” he said, deadpan.

Then he added, just a shade too quickly, ”Kidding.”

Harlan scoffed, sharp and immediate. ”Youʼd burn down your own forge before you figured out how to temper flux.”

Lucavion grinned. ”You say that like it hasnʼt almost happened.”

Harlan didnʼt dignify that with an answer. Instead, he leaned back slightly, glancing down at the now-stilled practice blade still planted in the stone.

”Still,” he muttered, ”going from a 2-star brat to a peak 4-star awakened in this short a time… You really are a kid no one can make sense of.”

Lucavion blinked once—just once—then looked over at him sidelong.

”You could see through that?”

Harlan shook his head. ”Nah.”

He gestured vaguely with his hand, as if brushing aside the question like ash.

”I was told the one coming today would be a peak 4-star awakened. Age: twenty. Blade-user. Quiet aura, strange flame.” His lips twisted. ”I scoffed. Thought it was another high-born brat with a puffed-up title and six guards carrying his coat.”

He looked back at Lucavion.

”And who the hell wouldʼve guessed it was you.”

Lucavionʼs expression stayed still for a moment longer. Then—

He gave a short, low chuckle.

”Well,” he said, stretching his arms behind his head, the edge of a grin curling into place again, ”I am very good at ruining expectations.”

Harlan grunted. ”Youʼre good at giving me a headache.”

Lucavion smirked. ”Same thing.”

And for a moment—just one brief, ember-quiet moment—there was no Empire, no war, no next battle waiting.

Just the master smith.

And the sword he had once tempered.

Harlan finally broke the silence with a long exhale, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to dislodge the weight of the past five minutes.

”Well,” he muttered, stepping back from the dais and giving Lucavion a last once-over, ”now that I know youʼre not going to snap like copper in the quench…”

Lucavion rolled his shoulders, the grin still sitting comfortably at the corner of his mouth. ”That your way of saying I passed?”

”No,” Harlan said flatly, already walking toward the hallʼs exit. ”Itʼs my way of saying I wonʼt feel bad when your new blade tries to kill you.”

Lucavion fell into step behind him, hands slipping into his coat pockets with that same casual swagger. ”Ah, so the usual then.”

They exited the armory chamber together, the great iron doors rumbling closed behind them with a heavy, resonant thunk—like the forge itself was sealing a verdict.

The hall outside was quieter, broader—a transition space where fire gave way to stone, and the true crafting rooms lay ahead.

Kaleran stood near one of the archways, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his expression just short of impatient. The attendant beside him perked up the moment they entered, shoulders stiffening like heʼd just remembered to breathe again.

”There you are!” the attendant blurted, half-panicked, half-relieved. ”We—uh—we heard sword clashing. Multiple strikes. A spar? A duel?”

Harlanʼs eyes slid toward him like a whetstone dragging along an old chip in the blade.

”No,” he growled. ”You heard me trying not to bury a boy in the wall.”

The attendant flinched slightly, then tried to laugh it off. ”Of course, Master Harlan, I didnʼt mean to imply—”

”Then donʼt,” Harlan cut in, already walking past him. ”Stop implying. Stop talking. In fact, stop being. Youʼre wasting perfectly good hallway space.”

Kaleran didnʼt flinch—but his eyes did twitch sideways. ”Heʼs been like this since you left,” he muttered to Lucavion.

Lucavion gave a mock-thoughtful hum. ”I think he likes me more when Iʼm not around.”

Behind them, the attendant mumbled something vaguely apologetic and disappeared down another hall with a stack of parchment like it was a shield.

Harlan stalked back toward the dais, the light of the forge crawling over his shoulders like it was familiar with the shape of his scowl. He paused at the center—boots grinding slightly against the scorched blackstone beneath him—then turned, arms crossing over his chest.

”Well then,” he said gruffly, eyes on Lucavion. ”Letʼs talk about your blade.”

Lucavion stepped into the light beside him, the air still thick with heat and awe.

”I was wondering when weʼd get to that part,” he said, voice light but clear. The usual smirk flickered at the corners of his mouth, but didnʼt fully form—not here. Not yet.

”This isnʼt just about design,” Harlan continued. ”We need to talk access. Material grade. Rune density. Alloy layering. I donʼt care what kind of miracle you want me to build if Iʼm stuck using bar scrap and borrowed cores.”

He shot a pointed look sideways—past Lucavion, toward the watching figure in slate gray.

Kaleran, ever dignified, folded his arms. ”All entrants were given a baseline allocation, with scaling determined by rank and—”

Lucavion cut in smoothly, gaze sliding toward him with the weight of inevitability.

”We have quite a lot to use, donʼt we?”