Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 939: You are not good at lying

”Oh... it was you...”

The voice.

That voice.

Soft. Measured. Light—not in weight, but in intent. The kind of voice that always seemed halfway between disinterest and amusement. The kind that never rose unless it meant to.

Elara turned her head slightly, not fully facing it. She didn’t need to.

She knew that voice.

Lucavion.

And there he was.

Stepping from the line of trees as if the night had carved a doorway just for him.

The flames had vanished—but their memory clung to his presence like a scent on silk.

He looked... unbothered.

Hair damp at the edges, as if he’d only recently doused sweat. Golden strands curled slightly near the nape of his neck, catching what little light the moonless sky allowed. His usual layers were gone—no cloak, no armor, not even the ornamental bands he sometimes wore at formal drills.

Just the slim-cut training attire of the Academy.

Black, tightly fitted, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Breathable, enchanted cloth—designed for heat resistance and movement. And move it did, like it clung to muscle and motion itself. But his frame wasn’t what Elara expected.

He wasn’t bulky. Not the kind of broad-shouldered, overbuilt warrior the other nobles tried so hard to sculpt themselves into.

Lucavion’s body was... refined.

Taut.

Like a blade meant more for precision than force.

Swordsman’s muscle. Not flashy. Not exaggerated. Just... efficient. Every line carved from use, not vanity.

His chest rose slowly, evenly. Calm. As if nearly striking her with a volatile black flame was nothing more than a whisper out of place.

But as Elara watched him now—really looked—a part of her mind, fractured as it was from lack of sleep and too much thought, couldn’t help but draw comparisons.

Lucavion was... smaller than the others.

Not in height. No, he still stood tall, with the kind of posture trained into nobility and carved by blade discipline. But his frame—his build—it was narrower. Less mass, more flow.

Unlike the awakened swordsmen who bulked up with relentless cultivation, or the court-trained duelists who built their bodies to impress before they struck, Lucavion had none of that flash.

There was no waste.

No flourish.

Just pure function.

Toned, but not towering. Fluid, but not delicate.

It reminded her of something else, some concept she couldn’t quite name. Not strength made of stone, but strength like wire. Tension and precision.

An estoc user...

That was it, wasn’t it?

She didn’t know any others. Not personally. The estoc was an unusual weapon—too elegant for brawling, too specialized for the grand displays many awakened preferred. A duelist’s blade. A fencer’s whisper.

And Lucavion wielded it like an extension of himself.

It made sense that he’d be built differently.

That didn’t stop it from throwing her off.

He wasn’t smaller in weakness.

Just... slim. Almost unassuming.

Until he moved.

Until his fire tore through the sky like poetry sharpened into violence.

”Elowyn?”

The sudden sound of her name made her blink. Hard.

Lucavion’s voice held a lilt now. Something dry. Something too amused.

”Captivated by my beauty?” he asked, that maddening little smile beginning to curve at the corner of his lips.

That did it.

She snapped out of it.

”Tch—no,” she muttered, eyes narrowing, fingers tightening slightly around the cooled cup in her hand.

She narrowed her eyes at him, the last of the warmth in her cup nearly gone now.

”I was just surprised,” she muttered, jaw tightening. ”I almost got hit just now.”

Lucavion had the audacity to blink, then lift a hand to his mouth with a light, clearly-for-show ahem.

”Yes... well. My apologies.” His voice dropped half a note, just enough to sound sincere. ”I sensed something... strange.”

”Something?” she echoed, gaze sharpening. ”What kind of—”

But Lucavion didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, his eyes—dark as wet ink, deeper than shadow, more still than they had any right to be—drifted.

To her hand.

Or more specifically... to the cup she still held.

The stare lingered. Just long enough.

Elara’s grip tightened. Subtle. Automatic.

But then—he blinked.

And just like that, the moment passed.

”So,” he said, with a breezy pivot that made her want to hurl the cup into his perfectly carved jaw, ”what were you doing out here at this hour?”

She gave him a look.

Flat. Dry. Thoroughly done.

”Don’t tell me,” he continued, eyes brightening just slightly, voice curling with a smirk, ”you missed me so much that you came looking this early?”

”....”

”Oh?” he tilted his head, grin deepening like he’d already caught her. ”That was the case?”

”No,” she said, flat as iron. ”I just couldn’t sleep.”

”Couldn’t sleep, huh...” he echoed, almost musing to himself now.

Then the tilt of his head changed.

Just a bit.

His tone followed—subtler now. Still casual, but quieter. Like he was prodding at something just beneath her skin.

”I see... our Elowyn must have quite a rough past, for you to be haunted by nightmares like that.”

Her eyes snapped to his.

”When,” she asked slowly, ”did I ever say they were nightmares?”

Lucavion didn’t hesitate.

”When your face showed up in front of me.”

The smirk was back.

And Elara wanted to punch it right off his face.

Lucavion took a slow step forward.

Not menacing. Not soft either. Just that easy, calculated grace he always carried—like every movement was made for an audience, even when there wasn’t one.

”If you’re so uneasy you can’t even sleep,” he said lightly, voice laced with that damnable amusement again, ”then as a friend”—he emphasized the word with a hand to his chest, mock-solemn—”it’s my duty to keep you company. Naturally.”

Elara raised an eyebrow.

”I didn’t ask for company.”

”Which,” he replied, now just a breath closer, ”makes this a noble sacrifice on my part. Selfless, really.”

She exhaled through her nose. ”Is your ego always this loud or just when I’m around?”

”Only when it works.”

Another step. Close enough now that she could see the faint sheen of dried sweat on his collarbone, the slight flicker of residual flame still curling at his knuckles before he snuffed it with a casual twitch of his hand.

His voice dropped just slightly. Less playful now. More curious.

”So...” he asked, tilting his head, studying her. ”What kind of nightmare does a girl like you have, hm?”

Her hand tightened around the cup again.

Elara didn’t answer.

Not immediately.

Not even after the silence had stretched long enough to feel personal.

Lucavion stood there, gaze still laced with that intrusive curiosity, like he believed—believed—that if he stared long enough, she might flinch. Might falter. Might tell him.

But she didn’t.

Instead, her eyes narrowed.

Not the kind of narrowing that comes from indignation. No. This was sharper. Slower. Like a blade being unsheathed behind the eyes.

She tilted her head—just slightly—until her gaze locked into his with deliberate weight.

’You want to know, don’t you?’

’You want to pick through the fractures. You want to dig into the ache like it belongs to you—like you have the right.’

’You always did this.’

Not directly. Never directly. But always poking. Always circling the edges of pain like a vulture waiting to see if it was meat or illusion.

Lucavion didn’t move.

Neither did she.

Not a twitch. Not a blink. Just her eyes—cool, unyielding, and dangerously clear.

And in her head?

Her thoughts spun.

’I won’t tell you.’

’I won’t give you that part of me. Not now. Not again.’

’You don’t get to ask about nightmares when you helped carve them.’

The memory of her mother’s broken scream curled against her spine again.

Elara inhaled. Not shaky. Not soft.

Controlled.

Measured.

And then, voice like polished iron—

”I don’t dream.”

Lucavion’s brow ticked up, just barely. His smirk faltered—not vanished, but paused. Like even he hadn’t expected that.

But Elara didn’t stop there.

She stepped forward.

One pace. Quiet. Clean. Deliberate. Just enough that they were close now—close enough for her next words to sting without needing volume.

”I don’t dream, Lucavion,” she repeated, gaze locked to his. ”Not of things. Not of people. And certainly not of the past.”

He tilted his head again, a glint of interest flaring behind his lashes—but this time, something in his expression shifted.

She didn’t give him time to twist it.

She leaned in, voice lower now. Not a whisper. Something heavier.

”So if you came here hoping I’d unravel at your feet, hoping I’d cry into my cup and confess all my little torments—” her smile was not a smile, not truly, ”—you’ll be disappointed.”

Lucavion said nothing.

Then, smiled.

”You are not that good at lying.”