Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 1115: Different Measures

Lucavion walked without any particular destination.

His stomach, at least, had found purpose.

Warm bread, eggs, roasted vegetables, two portions of meat, and something Mireilla had insisted was far too sweet for breakfast had settled comfortably enough that the hunger tormenting him earlier felt like a problem belonging to another man entirely.

The Academy certainly knew how to feed its students.

Considering the amount of money flowing through the institution, anything less might have constituted theft.

He moved along one of the broader eastern paths, letting the morning decide where he went. Sunlight had climbed above the surrounding towers by now, cutting through the remaining mist and warming the pale stone beneath his boots. Examination traffic had grown heavier as well. Students crossed between buildings carrying weapons, books, spell foci and the increasingly familiar expressions of people mentally rearranging everything they had ever learned before somebody asked them to prove it.

Lucavion had nowhere he needed to be.

A strange privilege.

His gaze wandered toward a group gathered beside one of the practice lawns.

Four students stood around a fifth while a woman in dark Academy robes adjusted the position of his arm. The student held a narrow silver focus between two fingers, its length barely greater than his forearm. He shifted his feet when instructed, turned his shoulder, then extended the focus while mana gathered along its tip.

A short pulse of blue light struck the warded target ahead.

Lucavion slowed.

The spell itself was ordinary.

The body behind it was more interesting.

The young mage had placed one foot behind the other, yet his stance carried little resemblance to a swordsman’s guard. His hips remained free. His shoulders faced partly toward the target, partly toward the open ground beside him, giving him room to turn in either direction. Even the arm holding the focus stayed relaxed until the final instant of release.

Another mage farther across the lawn practiced while moving backward. Her weapon resembled a short staff, though she used it less like a quarterstaff and more like a moving anchor for the spell forming around her hand.

Lucavion’s eyes followed the transition.

Step.

Weight shift.

Mana gathered.

Staff moved.

Spell released.

Then the body was already preparing for the next position.

Breakfast returned to him through the motion.

Mireilla had been halfway through her second cup when he finally dragged the Weaponship explanation out of her.

”You’re thinking about it like a swordsman.”

Lucavion had looked across the table.

”I am a swordsman.”

”That’s your problem.”

From Mireilla, that had carried remarkably little sympathy.

Her fingers had rested around the cup while she searched for the simplest way to explain something she had apparently considered obvious.

”Your weapon decides most of your range. Your attacks begin from it, your defense depends on where it is, and if somebody takes it away, the way you fight changes completely.”

She had tapped the briarwood focus resting beside her tray.

”Mine doesn’t work like that.”

Lucavion watched the mage on the lawn recover from another cast.

That part had sounded simple at breakfast.

Watching it made the distinction cleaner.

For Mireilla, the weapon extended the magic rather than defining the entire fight.

Her roots could emerge several paces away. Vines could approach from angles her hands never physically crossed. The terrain itself might become part of the attack once she had enough growth established.

The focus gave those things direction.

It organized them.

Perhaps refined them.

But it did not need to travel the same path as the spell it produced.

”Weaponship for mages is mostly about whether you can still use the thing properly once casting becomes inconvenient.”

Mireilla had lifted one hand before he could interrupt.

”Moving. Turning. Someone rushing you. Having your arm knocked aside. Losing the angle you wanted. Changing the spell halfway through because your first line is gone.”

She had paused, then added:

”And whether the focus helps you or whether you’ve taught yourself to fall apart without it.”

That one Lucavion had liked.

His eyes shifted toward another pair of students passing nearby.

One carried a sword.

The other carried what looked like a polished wooden rod fitted with several mana-conductive rings.

Their bodies told the difference before either weapon moved.

The swordsman’s hand remained close to the hilt even while speaking, shoulders balanced around the possibility of drawing. His companion carried the rod loosely beside one leg, while the free hand moved more often, fingers tracing absent patterns as they discussed something Lucavion could not hear.

A weapon belonged to both of them.

The meaning changed.

’Makes sense.’

Lucavion slipped his hands into his pockets and continued walking.

He had spent enough years around fighters to judge weapon familiarity almost unconsciously. Grip. Foot placement. Reach. Recovery. Where someone’s eyes travelled when danger approached. An inexperienced swordsman could memorize a hundred forms and still reveal himself by standing half an inch too far forward when he expected contact.

Mages carried different weaknesses.

Their weapon could be perfectly positioned while their body remained vulnerable because attention had narrowed onto the spell.

A caster might possess exquisite control from a prepared stance and lose half of it when forced sideways.

Another might rely so heavily upon the familiar conductivity of one focus that changing weapons disrupted timings built through years of repetition.

Mireilla’s examination had apparently cared about those problems.

”They gave me three casting sequences first.”

She had counted them against the tabletop with one finger.

”Stationary. Moving. Interrupted.”

The third had involved an examiner disrupting her casting line at irregular intervals. Mireilla had been expected to preserve the spell where possible, abandon it cleanly when necessary, and recover her stance before beginning another.

After that came close pressure.

Not a duel.

She had been quite clear about that.

”If a swordsman gets close enough that I’m trying to beat him at swordsmanship, I’ve already made several mistakes.”

Lucavion had found that difficult to argue with.

The Academy seemed to agree.

Her close-range portion measured whether she could protect her focus, keep her feet beneath her, create enough distance to cast, and use the weapon physically when a strike or deflection bought her the half-second she needed.

That was where the body mattered.

Lucavion looked again at the students practicing across the lawn.

One mage pivoted as an instructor approached with a padded training blade. Her focus crossed low, catching the attack near the wrist rather than meeting it directly. She gave ground with the impact, her other hand already shaping mana while she moved.

The exchange lasted barely a breath.

She had never tried to win it.

She had purchased distance.

Lucavion’s eyes sharpened slightly.

’So that is what she meant.’

Weaponship was still Weaponship.

The Academy simply cared about the weapon someone actually needed rather than forcing every student beneath the same martial standard.

For Mireilla, competence meant preserving the conditions that allowed her magic to remain dangerous.

For him, the weapon usually was the danger.

A rather important difference.

And judging from how many mages were moving across the grounds with focuses resting against wrists, shoulders, belts and palms, Mireilla’s version was hardly some special accommodation.

Lucavion continued watching as he walked.

Perhaps examinations had some educational value after all.

A deeply troubling possibility.

’Let’s keep that from Elara.’

She already possessed enough reasons to feel vindicated.

The thought lingered for several steps before Lucavion slowed.

Education.

His eyes moved across the grounds.

For the first time that morning, he considered the Academy from a slightly different angle.

Until now, most of his experience with the institution had involved somebody telling him where to stand.

Go to this hall.

Enter that chamber.

Touch this crystal.

Answer these questions.

Fight this examiner.

Explain why his mana refused to behave like everyone else’s.

Then Elara had taken whatever remained of his dignity and assigned homework to it.

Lucavion had spent the week receiving the Academy in portions selected by other people. Even the places he had visited willingly usually possessed some immediate purpose attached to them.

Today had none.

His schedule remained gloriously empty until evening.

Around him, however, the Academy continued working.

A pair of students hurried past carrying spears wrapped in cloth. Several mages occupied the lawn behind him. A young alchemist crossed the next junction with three sealed containers floating beside her shoulder, each one marked by a different warning rune. Farther north, something metallic moved along an elevated bridge under its own power while two students followed it with writing boards in hand.

Lucavion stopped at the junction.

The Imperial Academy of Arcanis.

An institution built almost entirely around teaching people increasingly elaborate ways to become troublesome.

His mouth slowly curved.

’Well...’

He had free time.

Everyone he knew seemed determined to spend theirs being examined.

And he was currently standing inside what might have been the greatest concentration of martial, magical, scholarly and cultivation resources in the Empire.

Something warm stirred beneath the morning lethargy that had followed him from his room.

Curiosity.

A much more useful problem.

Lucavion looked toward the western path.

He had passed several of the martial facilities before. His Weaponship Evaluation had dragged him into the West Arena at three in the morning, which had perhaps colored his opinion of the entire district unfairly, but the western sector extended well beyond one arena and one veteran examiner with an unfortunate schedule.

There were specialized halls for different disciplines.

Spear.

Polearm.

Archery.

And, naturally—

Sword.

His hand settled lightly against the estoc at his side.

Lucavion’s pace changed.

A few moments earlier, he had been wandering because movement felt preferable to standing still. Now his strides carried direction, and by the time he crossed the next courtyard, the vague curiosity had already sharpened into anticipation.

What exactly did an Imperial Academy provide for swordsmen?

That was worth knowing.

He had trained in forests, military yards, abandoned clearings, roadside camps, private estates and more ruined pieces of ground than he cared to count. Gerald had rarely required anything more complicated than open space and something painful enough to expose mistakes.

The Academy presumably disagreed.

An institution that used artifacts merely to measure mana control was unlikely to build a sword-training facility containing wooden posts and call the matter complete.

Lucavion found himself walking faster.

’Now this could be interesting.’

The western sector grew louder as he approached.

Metallic impacts travelled between the buildings in uneven intervals. Some carried the clean ring of blade against blade, while others ended in the deeper vibration produced when reinforced weapons struck warded targets. Mana flashed occasionally above the lower rooftops, brief enough to suggest controlled training rather than combat.

Students here dressed differently as well.

Fewer robes.

More fitted training clothes.

Weapon belts, reinforced gloves, leather guards, partial armor.

One young man passed with a spear balanced horizontally across both shoulders, his breathing heavy enough to suggest he had already spent a productive morning regretting several decisions.

Lucavion followed the signs toward the Sword Hall.

The building eventually appeared beyond a wide paved court.

It lacked the ceremonial excess found around some of the Academy’s central structures. Its architecture emphasized breadth and space, with a long rectangular body of pale stone broken by tall reinforced windows. Several ward-lines ran around the exterior in neat horizontal bands, their surfaces catching the morning light whenever mana moved somewhere inside.

Above the entrance, a simple metal emblem depicted two crossed blades.

Lucavion approved.

After all, there was no ancient founder staring heroically into the distance, nor was there any inspirational inscription about discipline.

Swords.

....were all it was.

Someone within had priorities.

He crossed the court.

A group of three students exited ahead of him, speaking quietly about footwork while one rubbed the side of his wrist. Lucavion moved around them and glanced through the open entrance.

He caught only fragments of the interior.

Weapon racks.

A broad central passage.

Movement beyond several partitioned training areas.

A suspended formation displaying lines of pale light over one section of floor.

Enough to make his interest rise immediately.

Then a pulse of heat touched his senses.

Lucavion’s next step slowed.

It was faint.

Residual mana more than an active release, already sinking back beneath someone’s skin after sustained use.

Silvery-red.

His eyes shifted toward the doorway.

And right at that moment, a man stepped out.