SHATTERED INNOCENCE: TRANSMIGRATED INTO A NOVEL AS AN EXTRA

Lucavion’s smirk widened, his fingers adjusting around the hilt of his black estoc. The blade, sleek and deadly, glinted under the soft light of the rising sun, its dark surface drinking in the dawn’s glow like ink against gold.

“Well, now,” he mused, tilting his head, his voice smooth, laced with easy amusement. “There’s nothing I like better than talking with my sword.”

The Duke exhaled through his nose, a subtle acknowledgment. Then—

“Good,” he said simply. “Neither do I.”

Lucavion’s smirk curled further, but his eyes sharpened slightly.

The Duke’s weapon was different from his own—where Lucavion wielded the slender precision of his estoc, the Duke held a standard longsword, well-forged and balanced. Practical. Efficient. But the true weapon was the one on his hip.

Lucavion’s gaze flicked to it briefly.

A sword of status. The hilt, adorned with intricate engravings, was undoubtedly the work of a master craftsman. A weapon that was not just meant for battle, but for presence—for dominance.

But the Duke had chosen this blade instead.

Lucavion huffed out a soft laugh. “Hah. That fancy thing at your hip—is that just for show, Mister Duke?”

Anthony Thaddeus said nothing at first. Then, almost casually, he lifted his longsword, the edge gleaming under the morning light.

“For now,” he replied.

Lucavion’s fingers twitched slightly around his grip.

Interesting.

The air between them stilled, stretching thin, quiet.

Then—

Lucavion moved.

The moment stretched, a fragile thread of tension between them—then it snapped.

SWOOSH!

Lucavion blurred forward, his body vanishing from its spot as if the wind had simply carried him. A heartbeat later, he was right before the Duke, his black estoc already thrusting forward, a needle of death seeking an opening.

CLANK!

The Duke’s longsword snapped into place with inhuman reflexes, parrying the estoc just enough to deflect its lethal trajectory. But Lucavion did not stop. His movements, a dance of calculated fluidity, shifted seamlessly as he twisted his wrist, redirecting the estoc into another stab.

SWISH!

The blade whistled through the air, aimed directly at the Duke’s ribs.

THUNK!

The Duke pivoted, his coat fluttering as he shifted his weight just enough to avoid the thrust, his longsword already descending in a counter.

Lucavion’s eyes gleamed. Ah, quick.

Instead of retreating, he stepped in, collapsing the space between them in a heartbeat. His estoc snapped upward, forcing the Duke to withdraw his strike lest he impale himself in the process.

Their weapons sang against each other, the ringing clashes echoing through the morning air.

CLANK! CLANK! CLANK!

Each blow was measured, precise—Lucavion, relentless in his offense, the estoc darting like a viper, exploiting every opening in the Duke’s guard. But the Duke was no ordinary opponent. Even as Lucavion’s reach and speed kept him on the defensive, his blade never wavered, his footwork impeccable.

Then—

CLINK!

A subtle flick of the Duke’s wrist, and Lucavion’s estoc was momentarily pushed off-course, his balance shifting ever so slightly. A normal swordsman wouldn’t have noticed, but Lucavion felt it—his own momentum betrayed him for a fraction of a second.

Ah…

SWOOSH!

The Duke’s longsword slashed down, capitalizing on that minuscule imbalance.

Lucavion’s pupils constricted.

Instead of blocking—he leaned back.

The longsword missed by a hair’s breadth, slicing only the air before his chin. But before the Duke could recover—

SWISH!

Lucavion’s estoc lashed out from below, an upward stab aimed at the Duke’s exposed underarm.

A clean hit—

Or it would have been.

THUD!

The Duke’s free hand slammed against Lucavion’s blade arm, shoving it just wide enough that the estoc barely grazed his coat. His strength—overwhelming.

Well, that’s new.

Lucavion exhaled a quiet laugh even as he was forced back a step. He adjusted his grip, rolling his shoulder as the Duke lowered his longsword once more.

Their gazes met.

The Duke’s golden eyes bore into Lucavion, sharp and unyielding.

“Your blade is faltering.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Thaddeus didn’t blink. “I said, don’t limit your strength. Come at me with everything you have.” His voice dropped, cold and cutting. “Like in the battlefield.”

Lucavion remained still.

The battlefield.

The place where he fought without hesitation, where survival demanded nothing less than absolute intent. The place where he had carved his name into the annals of war, not through nobility or status, but through raw, unrelenting skill.

And yet—

His fingers curled slightly around the hilt of his estoc.

Thaddeus exhaled through his nose, his next words striking with the weight of a hammer.

“Just because my daughter confessed to you, did you lose your roots as a swordsman?”

Lucavion twitched.

His grip on his estoc tightened, the muscles in his jaw clenching for the briefest of moments.

Thaddeus had noticed.

Of course he had.

The man before him was no fool. Aeliana’s words, her presence—something had shifted in Lucavion tonight. Just enough for his blade to hesitate, just enough for the relentless instinct he prided himself on to waver.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, clicking his tongue. “Tch.”

Thaddeus, unfazed, continued, his voice smooth but edged with quiet steel.

“I have been watching you train for a while already.”

Lucavion remained silent, his smirk fading just slightly as he listened.

Thaddeus’ fingers flexed over the hilt of his sword, his stance unwavering. “Your movements are precise, your strikes measured. You fight with skill, with refinement—but not with instinct.”

Lucavion’s gaze flickered.

“You are thinking too much. Holding back. Restricting yourself, whether you realize it or not.” Thaddeus narrowed his eyes slightly. “The Lucavion I observed before never hesitated. His blade moved as if it had a will of its own, cutting down anything in its path. But now?”

A pause.

“You hesitate.”

Lucavion let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “And what, exactly, do you think changed?”

Thaddeus studied him for a long moment. Then—

“Aeliana.”

Lucavion went still.

Thaddeus tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “And that is why I am testing you now.”

Lucavion exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders, letting the tension sink into his bones.

Thaddeus’ voice cut through the air, steady and commanding.

“Remember your goals.”

Lucavion’s fingers flexed around the hilt of his estoc, but he said nothing.

“The Lucavion standing before me now is not the same man who appeared before me with confidence—requesting my guardianship as a noble,” Thaddeus continued. His golden gaze burned with quiet authority. “Where is that certainty? That arrogance?”

Lucavion exhaled sharply through his nose, tilting his head. “Hah.”

“You have been holding back,” Thaddeus said, his stance unwavering. “But I know—” He lifted his sword slightly, pointing it toward him. “You want to release it.”

Silence.

Then—

Something shifted.

Lucavion’s posture remained loose, but the air around him grew heavier. The stillness, the restraint—the mask—began to crack.

And then—

He smiled.

Not his usual smirk.

Not the teasing, insufferable grin he wore in casual conversation.

This smile—

It was different.

It was sharp. Unhinged.

It was a smile that belonged to someone who had spent too much time dancing between life and death. A smile that spoke of chaos, of carnage.

A predator’s smile.

For the first time, a flicker of something unfamiliar passed through Thaddeus’ golden eyes.

Lucavion’s voice came slow, smooth, but tinged with something wild beneath the surface.

“Sorry for the wait.”

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