Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 997: Failed again

He looked like he’d been here before.

Too many times.

Like this wasn’t the firs time he was fighting a battle where he was attacked at multiple fronts.

Lucavion’s blade flicked back up into guard, and the knight charged again.

He sidestepped the swing, slipped under its shield, and drove his blade up through its ribs.

CRACKT—CLANG!

The illusion shattered.

Another down.

Kaireth blinked.

’How?’

He wasn’t casting detection. Wasn’t using sight-based tracking. His mana hadn’t flared once. But he moved like he knew everything two seconds before it happened.

Another bolt of flame sparked off from Dain’s left, quick and careless—again aimed close. Too close.

Lucavion turned his shoulder to absorb the worst of it, hissed through clenched teeth, then hurled a broken piece of stone at the third knight, distracting it long enough to close in. His follow-up slash was brutal. No finesse.

Just speed and momentum and intent.

It dropped, armor crumpling into pixels of light.

Kaireth lowered his stance slightly. His grip tightened on his spear.

He wasn’t sure what he was watching anymore.

’What is that?’

He could understand talent. Could understand training. But this—this was something else. There was a rhythm in the way Lucavion stepped between attacks, the way his weight shifted just before impact. He reacted to things before they happened, not because he was faster—but because he’d seen them before.

’How can he sense it?’

Kaireth’s pulse ticked in his ears. Not from exertion. From something heavier—something he couldn’t quite name. He adjusted his grip on his spear again, half-aware of the light sweat collecting beneath his gloves.

Lucavion stood just ahead, the remnants of the last illusion evaporating in flickers of gold around him. His coat was a mess—torn at the shoulder, scorched along the hem, blood staining one side where the stone bolt had landed—but his posture hadn’t dropped an inch. That same blade rested loose in his hand, still angled slightly down, like he didn’t need to raise it to remind them it was ready.

Kaireth had seen talented fighters. He’d trained with the best his family could afford—Imperial swordsmen, retired wardens, dueling instructors from prestigious houses. He knew the difference between skill and instinct.

But this?

Lucavion wasn’t just reacting. He wasn’t even countering.

He was reading them.

And not just the enemies.

Them. The team.

Every movement. Every spell miscast. Every terrain shift a second too late or too sharp or too wide. He saw it all—and adjusted like it was routine. Like this wasn’t a test. Like it was Tuesday.

Kaireth didn’t have the experience to understand someone like that. Not yet. He’d never fought in a real war. Never bled from a wound he didn’t know was coming. Never had to survive in a place where the wrong breath meant death.

Lucavion had.

He could see it now. Not in scars or posture—but in the confidence. Not the showy kind nobles wore at events. This was the kind you earned crawling out of a dozen fights where you had no right to win.

What Kaireth didn’t know—and what none of them could have known—was the truth buried deep beneath Lucavion’s silence.

That his body had been reforged—twice.

Every other Awakened at his 4-star rank had undergone one body refinement at best, some none at all. Lucavion had survived two. And each time, the process tore down the body and rebuilt it stronger—denser bones, faster nerves.

Even without enchantments, his speed was what most students could only achieve while actively using mana reinforcement. That’s why he could move the way he did. Why his weight shifted at the perfect moments. Why no trap caught him more than once.

But that wasn’t even the deadliest part.

Lucavion’s all that battles made him so that he could feel intent.

Not read thoughts. Not mind tricks or divination. Just—intent.

He felt it in the way Dain’s spell came just a little too hot, too often. The way Saphielle’s earth spikes angled just slightly wrong. The way Kaireth’s stance shifted before a move that never landed. Their coordination was tight by academy standards, but Lucavion had fought people trying to kill him for real. When someone meant harm—even subtly—he felt it in his bones. In the air.

And top it off, the trio....None of them were good at hiding their intents. Not yet. Because none of them had ever had to.

So every ”mistake” they threw his way?

He saw through it.

And that was why he was still standing.

Kaireth took a slow breath. He was trying to understand it. His brain struggled to wrap around the gap in power—not just physical, but situational. Lucavion wasn’t better because he trained more. He was better because he’d already lived the kind of fights the academy only simulated.

Another pulse in the ward field hummed.

More enemies incoming.

Lucavion tilted his head, the faintest shimmer of motion catching in his dark hair as he turned just enough to face them. The air around him still buzzed faintly with the residual aether hum of shattered illusions, but he stood untouched now—despite the gash in his coat, despite the blood still trickling down his side.

And then, with a motion too casual for someone standing in the middle of a battlefield, he lifted his estoc and let the blade rest across his shoulder.

It wasn’t cocky.

It wasn’t showy.

It was dismissive.

Like he’d finished reading a dull page in a book he didn’t ask to open.

His gaze flicked across them—Dain, who had just finished redrawing another sigil but paused mid-stroke; Saphielle, frozen mid-channel, her hands tightening with a flicker of guilt that never reached her face; and finally, Kaireth, whose grip on his spear tightened almost involuntarily.

Lucavion’s lips parted.

Calm. Measured.

And completely unimpressed.

”Is that all?” he asked.

His voice wasn’t raised—but it echoed. Just right. Sharp, clear, and without a shred of respect left in it.

”You have disappointed me if that’s the case.”

The words fell like a hammer. Not loud—but weighty.

Kaireth felt it in his chest. Like being called out by a veteran in the middle of a drill, only this time, the drill was real, and the veteran wasn’t faking it.

Lucavion’s eyes didn’t narrow. He didn’t posture or sneer. He just looked at them, standing calmly with his blade resting lazily on his shoulder like he could carry the entire fight with one hand.

Because maybe—he could.

The silence that followed was long enough to sting. Not a word from Dain. Not a quip. Not even a sneer.

Then came the next ripple from the wardfield.

The next wave was coming.

And Lucavion turned back around before any of them could say a damn thing—like whatever answer they might have had wasn’t worth hearing.

*****

The final pulse from the illusion field rolled through the courtyard like a slow breath exhaled. The gold-threaded glyphs suspended in the air dimmed, flickered, and then dissolved in strands of fading light. The broken landscape—the jagged earth, the shattered stone, the ash left behind by every shattered enemy—wavered.

Then it all vanished.

Gone in a blink.

Replaced by the smooth marble floor of the Academy’s observation hall.

The sound of wind and battle was replaced by the soft echoes of students’ boots hitting stone, a few scattered sighs, and the start of quiet, self-congratulatory chatter.

Lucavion stood near the back of the group.

His coat was torn at the shoulder. One sleeve had been half-burned away. The cut along his ribs still wept a thin line of blood, and there were at least two other bruises beginning to bloom on his arms beneath the fabric. His black gloves were scuffed. Dirt and faint scorch marks clung to his trousers. His hair stuck slightly to the side of his temple, damp with sweat.

He looked like he’d actually been in a battle.

And he was the only one who did.

The rest of the students filing out from their respective zones looked untouched. Uniforms clean, armor barely scratched, not even a hair out of place for most of them. Some looked winded, sure—but none looked like they’d been chewed up by illusion constructs and half a squad of their own team.

That was the thing about the Arcanis Academy illusion zones. They were advanced. Realistic. Designed to test reflexes, combat awareness, even emotional composure. But they didn’t actually hurt you.

Lucavion?

He looked like he’d walked through war.