Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 718: You have grown (2)

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

It wasnʼt a question.

And Kaleran knew it.

He exhaled through his nose, clearly weighing whether reminding Lucavion that he was in possession of more exam points than half the region combined was wise or necessary.

He settled on clipped precision. ”Yes. Your score entitles you to… extensive material rights. And priority.” He paused, then added with faint resignation, ”Nearly unrestricted within the forgeʼs sanctioned inventory.”

Lucavion turned back to Harlan, voice low and easy.

”There you have it, old man. Empire says Iʼm rich in fire.”

Harlan gave a single nod at Kaleranʼs reluctant confirmation, the gesture curt but approving.

”Thatʼs good then,” he said, eyes narrowing just slightly. ”Because what Iʼm about to do… it wonʼt be cheap. Not in steel. Not in effort.”

Then his gaze shifted.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And locked onto Lucavion.

”Kid,” Harlan said, voice lower now—rougher. Not with annoyance, but with weight. ”Your condition is as unique as your flame.”

Lucavion tilted his head, his smirk gone, expression sharpening with curiosity. He didnʼt interrupt.

Harlan continued, stepping closer, his voice almost quiet enough to get lost in the flicker of forgelight.

”When I forged that first blade for you… you brought the materials. The Lesser Abyssal Wyrmʼs scale, tempered under your flame, fit with you. It wasnʼt just resonance. It was alignment. Symbiosis.” His eyes flickered down to the sword still resting at Lucavionʼs hip. ”But letʼs not pretend thatʼs what made it work.”

He tapped a knuckle lightly against the hilt, a hollow metallic thud echoing off the stone.

”It worked because I forged it right. Tempered it with your flame in mind. Held it at the edge of destruction until it stabilized. Anyone else wouldʼve cracked it in the first hour.”

Lucavion didnʼt argue.

He didnʼt need to.

They both knew it.

”But weʼre not gonna find something like that again,” Harlan said, straightening. ”No second miracle scale just waiting to fall into your hands. And frankly…”

He folded his arms again, tone shifting with quiet certainty.

”We donʼt need one.”

Lucavionʼs brow rose slightly. ”Oh?”

Harlan nodded toward the old blade.

”Weʼre not starting over. Weʼre building forward. That weapon of yours—itʼs taken more than most royal-armory prototypes could. Itʼs seasoned. Balanced. But itʼs strained.”

He turned and began pacing slowly, thoughtfully, as if outlining the blueprint aloud more for the forge than the boy.

”So hereʼs what Iʼm going to do: Iʼll reforged it—not replace it. The base stays. Abyssal scale stays. But Iʼm going to layer it.”

He glanced toward the vault doors at the side of the forge chamber.

”Thereʼs a cache of Umbracite alloy—strong enough to add structural reinforcement without fighting the wyrmʼs mana signature. Iʼll weave it through the inner core, bolster the edges where the resonance channels are thinning.”

Lucavionʼs eyes sharpened slightly. Not with skepticism—but with understanding.

”And the runes?” he asked.

Harlan smirked.

”Iʼm going to re-etch them. Properly this time. Conductive series from the old Aetherium school. Built for hybrid flame users, and crazy bastards with unstable circuits.”

”Iʼll take that as a compliment,” Lucavion muttered.

”You better,” Harlan shot back, then continued.

”The new runesʼll boost your control—less strain on your core when channeling through the blade. Theyʼll let you push farther, harder, and longer without snapping your resonance wide open.”

Lucavion nodded slowly, fingers brushing once more along the flat of the blade.

”Alright,” he said, voice quiet but resolute. ”Letʼs give her one more life.”

He unfastened the sheath from his hip and held it out—not like a weapon being returned, but like a memory entrusted.

Harlan took it without ceremony, but with a kind of reverence only smiths ever understood. He turned it once in his hands, ran a thumb along the aged spine, then gave a curt nod.

”Good,” he muttered. ”Iʼll start the prep now.”

Lucavion was already stepping back when Harlanʼs voice followed him, just a bit lower.

”…Also not done.”

Lucavion paused mid-turn. ”Not done?”

Harlan didnʼt look up. He was already walking toward the inner forge chamber, blade in hand.

”Iʼll be forging some other artifacts for you.”

Lucavionʼs brow rose. ”Some other artifacts?”

”Youʼll see them when the time comes.”

Lucavion crossed his arms, leaning slightly to one side. ”Come on, old man, you know I hate surprises.”

”No.”

”Thatʼs it? No elaboration? Not even a hint?”

”No.”

Harlan gestured vaguely without turning around, the motion half dismissive, half threatening. ”Youʼre already a pain just standing here. Go.”

Lucavion made an exaggerated show of sighing. ”Acting pretty cold for someone with all our shared history.”

Harlan finally stopped.

Turned his head just enough to show one eye beneath the shadow of his brow.

”Shared history?” he asked, voice deadpan. ”Kid, we spent two days in Rackenshore before you ran off with a blade and three cracked ribs.”

Lucavion shrugged. ”Memorable two days.”

”You slept in the corner of my forge and threatened a customer over tea.”

Lucavion grinned. ”Again. Memorable.”

Harlan pointed toward the exit with the handle of a smithing hammer.

”Out. Before I start forging your sense of drama into a horseshoe.”

Lucavion held up both hands in surrender, chuckling. ”Alright, alright. Iʼm going.”

As he stepped out of the forge chamber, the heat pulsing at his back like a familiar breath, he glanced over his shoulder once.

”Donʼt ruin her,” he said softly.

Harlan didnʼt turn around.

”She is my own creation.”

And with that, the forge roared to life behind him.

****

The heat of the forge faded behind Lucavion like the breath of an old dragon content to slumber once more. The corridor ahead pulsed with the quieter lights of polished stone and embedded runes, and just beyond it—distantly—the ringing of other blacksmithsʼ work.

It didnʼt take long for the others to finish.

One by one, they emerged from their designated forge stations—some with blades wrapped in enchantment cloth, others with reinforced gloves, gauntlets, or magical focusing pendants held tight to their chest.

Caeden was first. His weapon was a refined greatsword, elegantly minimal but layered with latent aether coils. It looked like it belonged on a battlefield carved from myth. He said nothing, only gave Lucavion a quiet nod that held far more than words.

Elayne followed, her artifact not a weapon in the traditional sense, but an intricate bracer-rig for spell acceleration. It shimmered faintly in the light—almost like it didnʼt want to be noticed. Typical.

Mireillaʼs was a vine-bound glaive, the shaft reinforced with metalroot and the edge carved from something too luminous to be iron. Her expression remained unreadable, but her knuckles never left the grip.

And then—Toven.

Dragging his feet. Grumbling like a child denied dessert.

”Iʼm just saying,” he muttered, holding up a mana-core stabilized wand lined with defensive runes, ”itʼs nice, but itʼs not a flaming sword that can split mountains.”

Mireilla gave him a sideways look. ”You can barely lift a sword.”

”I couldʼve trained.”

”You still wouldnʼt lift it.”

”I couldʼve asked for an enchanted—”

Lucavion patted Toven once on the back as they walked. ”Sword is every manʼs romance, right?”

Toven sighed theatrically. ”At least someone understands me.”

Together, the five exited the Emberhold, the fading hum of the forge at their backs, and made their way back through the crystalline pathways of the Imperial Borough. The floating lights above had dimmed into twilight colors—deep blue and pale gold—marking the capitalʼs transition into evening.

By the time they reached their accommodations again, dinner had already been prepared.

It wasnʼt opulent—not by noble standards—but it was refined. Elegance without waste. Spiced bread, steamed root blends, seared meat glazed in mana-brew, and wine that adjusted its notes to the drinkerʼs mana.

Lucavion took his seat at the circular dining table last, reclining just enough to give the impression of contentment while still keeping his posture guarded.

They ate together. Not boisterously, not like comrades. But like people who had bled in the same ring and now found themselves tethered, however reluctantly, by fate and circumstance.

Then—

Kaleran arrived again.

This time, he didnʼt lecture. He didnʼt sigh. He simply stood by the edge of the room like the herald of a new chapter.

”Your sponsor meetings will begin tomorrow,” he said, his tone formal. ”Youʼve received more interest than any entrant class in recent memory—particularly you, Lucavion.”

Lucavion didnʼt respond, just swirled the last of his wine in its cup.

”I suggest,” Kaleran continued, ”you review your provided dossiers tonight. All sponsors for the first wave of meetings will be finalized by sunrise. You will be expected to dress accordingly and be on time.”

Toven blinked. ”Wait—we have to meet them?”

”You donʼt have to accept anyone,” Kaleran replied. ”But you will be present. The Academy has its own pride to maintain. I suggest,” his eyes flicked toward Lucavion briefly, ”you do not greet any of them with fire.”

Lucavion raised his glass.

”No promises.”

Kaleran didnʼt even twitch. He just turned and left the room in silence.

Leaving only the soft chime of floating utensils and the quiet thought: