Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 749: This is.....

”Wait. That’s not all.”

Lucavion paused mid-turn, brow lifting.

Harlan didn’t elaborate. Just jerked his chin toward the far side of the forge, where a tall object sat shrouded under a heavy blanket of fire-resistant cloth. It stood upright, at an angle—deliberately placed, deliberately veiled.

Lucavion narrowed his eyes. ”What’s that?”

Harlan didn’t answer.

Just kept staring.

Lucavion tilted his head, the smirk returning with theatrical slowness. ”You planning to bury me under whatever’s hiding in that tarp, or should I be excited?”

”Go check it,” Harlan muttered, tone flat but loaded.

Lucavion blinked. ”...What is it?”

That did it.

The old man’s brow furrowed deep enough to collapse a cave system. ”Do what I say, you little bastard!”

Lucavion let out a sharp bark of laughter. ”Gods, old man—why are you already angry? The sun’s not even halfway up. What, the heat finally gotten into your skull?”

”Shut up and move.”

Lucavion held up both hands, feigning surrender. ”Fine, fine. Forge-master’s wrath and all.”

He strolled across the forge with a deliberate lack of urgency, clearly enjoying dragging out the moment. Vitaliara trailed behind with the air of someone equally amused but entirely unsurprised.

As he reached the covered shape, he paused for half a breath—then pulled.

The cloth came off with a soft whuff of ash-scented air.

And Lucavion stilled.

The thing beneath the cloth wasn’t gleaming metal or enchanted crystal, no weapon or relic as he’d expected. It was... fabric. Crumpled. Matte black. Dull in the forge light, folded in on itself like discarded rags. For a moment, he just stared.

A frown ghosted across his brow.

”Old man,” he called over his shoulder, voice edged with disbelief, ”what is this? Is this a prank?”

Harlan didn’t answer immediately.

When he did, the smirk in his voice was unmistakable. ”Guess.”

Lucavion slowly turned back to the black fabric, eyeing it like it might unfold into a snake.

”...A cloak?”

Silence.

He turned again—and saw Harlan narrowing his eyes, thick arms crossed over his chest like a disappointed god.

”Bastard,” Harlan muttered, ”do you think I wasted thirty hours and three haven-forged seals for a cloak?”

”Then what the hell is it, old man? What am I supposed to make out of this? A dramatic curtain reveal?”

Lucavion reached out, fingers brushing the edge of the strange cloth—and in that instant, the fabric surged like water.

Before he could react, it moved.

No—it flowed. Shot up his arm and wrapped around his torso, up beneath his tunic, slipping beneath his outer garments like smoke caught in a breeze.

”...Eh?”

Lucavion looked down.

The black fabric had vanished—but not entirely. It now clung to him, thin as a second skin, slick as oil, laced around the edges of his arms, chest, even his back. It didn’t sit on him.

It had fused.

He rolled a shoulder instinctively, and the movement felt smoother. Tighter. Lighter.

He pressed a palm against his side.

It wasn’t armor.

But it wasn’t nothing.

”Heh...” Harlan’s voice came again, dry and sharp as a hammer’s edge. ”Does that look like a cloak to you?”

Lucavion didn’t answer.

Because he was still staring.

Still feeling.

The strange... pressure. A low, thrumming density—beneath his skin, but not his own. The enchantment didn’t hum like external magic. It matched his breathing. Mirrored his core pulse.

A ghost-layer of defense.

A whisper-thin weave of mana-reactive cloth, anchored in runes.

It wasn’t meant to protect like plate.

It was meant to react.

Lucavion stared down at his torso, fingers brushing the fabric where it clung beneath his outer coat. It felt like silk had married steel—smooth, pliant, but dense with something that didn’t quite belong to this world.

”Old man...” he muttered, his voice caught somewhere between disbelief and a returning memory. ”This is...”

He trailed off, brow furrowed—not in confusion, but recognition.

It was familiar. Not from this life.

From the other one.

Compression suits. Bodyskins. Tactical flex armor. Earth had its own versions of these. Used by special ops, experimental squads, off-world divers... he’d seen them in warzones and simulations both.

After all, they were pretty popular in games, and as a highschooler, Bruce at least saw them. Though, this was the first time he was experiencing this.

Sleek and dark. Worn like second skin, layered with nanofiber composites that moved with the body and reacted faster than thought.

But here?

In this world?

He hadn’t seen anything even close.

Not until now.

”I forgot this was even possible...” he breathed.

Harlan grunted behind him. ”That’s ’cause it wasn’t.”

Lucavion looked over his shoulder.

The forge master was already pulling off his apron and tossing it aside, moving toward a rack lined with rune-etched schematics and alloy samples.

”I’ve been toying with this idea for years,” Harlan said, voice low and deliberate, ”but never had a reason to make it. Or the damn materials.”

He gestured toward the black threads still weaving themselves faintly tighter around Lucavion’s arms.

”That’s voidweave. Reactive mesh harvested from siphon-thread serpents. Only grows in high-density mana fields. Almost impossible to handle without corrupting it. But you?”

He pointed a thick finger.

”You came strolling in here with enough rare stock to buy a private forge on the third ring. And you didn’t need a new sword. You wanted yours upgraded. Which meant I had room to play.”

Lucavion arched a brow. ”So you got creative.”

”I got fair,” Harlan growled. ”Empire gave you enough points to bankrupt three noble houses. Would’ve been robbery not to give you more than a polished blade.”

He walked over and tapped the side of Lucavion’s arm, where the fabric shimmered faintly at the edge.

”That armor’s not like anything else in this damn continent. It won’t stop a mountain crashing down on you—but it’ll soften the blow. It’ll read your aura, respond to your intent, and keep your vitals warm even if you’re bleeding in the snow.”

Lucavion looked down again, testing the fit—twisting, shifting his weight.

It moved like it wasn’t even there.

No drag. No stiffness. No awkward seams.

Just alignment.

Harlan folded his arms, watching him with a gleam of something buried behind all the usual sarcasm.

”I built it to work with your sword’s resonance. It layers its defense based on your aether flow. Meaning: the more serious you get, the more it activates.”

Lucavion tilted his head.

”So if I fight seriously—”

”It’ll act serious,” Harlan cut in. ”But it won’t fight for you. You’re still the bastard holding the blade.”

Lucavion grinned.

”Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Harlan snorted. ”You’re welcome.”

The silence that followed hummed with subtle tension, like something just under the surface of the forge’s flames. Then Lucavion’s voice came, quieter.

”You really didn’t have to do all this.”

”I did,” Harlan replied simply. ”Not for you. For the craft. For the idea.”

Lucavion blinked.

”What?”

Harlan’s gaze went distant—just for a second.

”You’re the first person I’ve met who might actually push a blade past its edge and not let it break. The sword. The armor. You.”

He shrugged.

”I just want to see how far it’ll all go.”