Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

"I refuse."

Reynald's brow furrowed, confusion finally cracking through the mask of composure.

"…Why?"

The word wasn't sharp or accusing—it was stunned. A genuine question. And around them, the chorus echoed.

"What?"

"He said no?"

"But why would he—?"

Lucavion's smirk widened. The confusion, the disbelief—it rolled over him like a breeze. Familiar. Predictable.

"Ah," he said, drawing out the sound like a connoisseur savoring fine wine. "That expression… I do love that one."

He tilted his head, locking eyes with Reynald, whose grip subtly shifted—still low, still defensive, but tighter now. Less relaxed.

"One of my absolute favorite things to do," Lucavion mused, his voice light, almost conversational, "is to look someone dead in the eye, right as they offer me what they think is a perfectly fair deal…"

A beat.

And then—

"…and say 'no.'"

The final word hit like a bell toll, its echo dancing across the broken terrain of the safe zone.

In the same breath, mana surged from Lucavion's body.

Brilliant, cold. Not the searing heat of fire, nor the booming crush of brute force—but precise, elegant, hungry. Starlight kissed shadow, weaving down his blade like the breath of the void itself.

His estoc gleamed.

Then—he vanished.

—FWOOOSH!

A streak of slate and dusk tore across the distance. He moved not like a man, but like an inevitability—grace wedded to violence, drawn toward truth like a blade to flesh.

Reynald's eyes widened, sword jerking upward—

CLANG!

The sound split the air as steel met steel once more, but this time it was no test. It was declaration.

****

Lucavion's cloak flared behind him as he twisted his body, shifting his weight like a dancer mid-lunge. The estoc gleamed, precise and narrow, aiming not for brute impact but for the spaces Reynald's armor couldn't guard.

He darted forward again, foot skimming the stone.

—FWOOOSH!

The tip of his estoc lunged for Reynald's shoulder joint—a small gap between plate and padding.

—CLANG!

Reynald deflected the thrust with the flat of his blade, sparks flying as metal met metal. He rotated his grip immediately, trying to follow with a sweeping counter-cut across Lucavion's midsection.

Lucavion dipped below the arc, his feet gliding across the ground.

—SWOOSH!

He spun low, estoc dragging with him, then snapped upward in a rising strike aimed for Reynald's jaw.

—SKRING!

The blow was checked again—but Reynald's posture was looser now, slightly off-balance from the relentless tempo. Lucavion could feel it. The subtle unraveling. The weight of too many defensive moves, too little ground gained.

'You're adjusting. But too slowly.'

Lucavion moved again, this time rotating into Reynald's guard. His elbow drove toward the knight's ribs.

—THUD!

The hit connected, knocking the breath from Reynald's lungs. His blade lifted slightly—reflex, instinct.

Lucavion's eyes narrowed.

'There it is.'

He went for the opening, estoc snapping forward again in a thrust too fast to track.

—CLANK!

Reynald brought his longsword down just in time. But now he was blocking from a poor angle—defensive, reactive. He knew it too.

Lucavion smiled, teeth flashing like a drawn dagger.

"Still hiding behind your reputation?"

He stepped in, close—too close for a longsword.

—THWACK!

Lucavion's shoulder struck Reynald's chest, jarring his stance. The estoc flicked again, this time dragging along Reynald's vambrace in a streak of mana-coated edge.

—SKRRRSH!

A line of red glimmered beneath torn cloth. Blood, drawn clean.

Reynald's eyes widened.

Lucavion's voice dropped, low and cold. "You'll have to stop posing eventually."

He vanished again.

—FWOOOSH!

And when he reappeared—it was already with his blade set for another strike.

Reynald stumbled back, the sting of the wound on his arm flaring white-hot beneath the clangor of battle. His lungs burned. His grip was tight—but no longer steady.

'He's faster… sharper… he's meant for this.'

The realization struck not like a blow but like a judgment.

He couldn't win this exchange with steel alone.

Without a word, he slammed his free hand against the ground, mana bursting outward in a compressed wave of force.

—BOOOOM!

The explosion of power cracked the air, sending dust and debris in all directions. Lucavion's figure was flung back, his boots skidding across the stone, cloak whipping violently around him.

The crowd gasped. Some backed away. Others stared in open awe.

Reynald stood tall amidst the settling dust, a slow exhale curling from his lips.

And then—his body began to glow.

Subtle at first, then radiant. His aura swelled outward, a steady pulse of power rolling through the field like the breath of a giant.

The air thickened with heat. His presence expanded—no longer the composed knight of elegant defense, but a proper threat.

Mid 4-star.

The strength he'd demonstrated throughout the Trial. Controlled. Contained.

Until now.

Mana coiled around his blade, dancing across the metal in thin arcs of golden energy.

"Stay down," Reynald said, voice firmer now. "I don't want to escalate this further."

Across from him, Lucavion slowly rose, brushing his coat down with a mock sigh. His eyes, black as the void between stars, gleamed.

Then he smiled.

Not in mirth. Not in mockery.

In anticipation.

His hand slid across his blade—

and flames ignited.

But not red.

Black.

Pitch-dark fire, crawling like ink over his estoc's edge. Silent, unnatural. It didn't radiate heat.

It devoured it.

The [Flame of Equinox] whispered through the steel, steady and lethal.

Lucavion tilted his head slightly. "Why? Why must we fight?" Reynald asked, sincerity flashing behind his voice. His grip had tightened, but not with pride. With purpose.

Lucavion's grin widened.

"Why? Is there supposed to be a reason?"

He raised his estoc, pointing it directly at Reynald's chest, eyes gleaming with quiet madness.

"I just enjoy fighting."

And then—

—FWOOOSH!

He vanished, again.

But this time, it wasn't flair. It wasn't for the crowd.

It was for the kill.

Reynald's eyes narrowed.

He moved.

His stance shifted instantly—low, grounded, precise. The longsword flared with golden light, its edge guided by instinct and experience.

—CLAAAANG!

Lucavion's estoc met it, sparks bursting as black flame clashed with golden steel.

They locked eyes.

The collision rang like a cathedral bell splitting the heavens. Black flame met gold-tinged steel, not in defiance, but in prophecy—two blades speaking in a language only warriors could understand.

Lucavion's weight shifted subtly, the estoc sliding off the edge of Reynald's blade as if dancing along tension.

His footwork whispered along the earth—

—FWOOOSH!

—and he was gone again.

But Reynald's eyes didn't flinch.

He stepped to the side—precise, anticipatory.

—CLANG!

Their blades met again, sparks bursting between them like twin comets striking.

Then Reynald moved.

His longsword pulsed with mana—not flamboyant or dramatic. No runes, no shouting, no divine pronouncement.

Just a whisper of pressure and stillness.

「Form III – The Stroke」

A single step. A single arc. The blade curved not toward Lucavion's neck, but across the air—cutting pressure itself.

—BOOM!

The very space ahead of Reynald cracked, a sharp, invisible arc of compressed mana racing outward.

Lucavion's eyes lit with hunger. His estoc rose—but not with the eerie grace of voidlight.

Not this time.

His core pulsed, not with cosmic hunger, but with fire.

Old fire.

Balanced. Controlled.

The stars within him—sealed. His [Devourer of Stars] core was dormant, its depth locked by his own hand… or perhaps by caution.

But the [Flame of Equinox] still breathed.

A pulse traveled down his arm, black flame unfurling in silence.

He whispered the invocation.

「Flame of Equinox: Twin Cinders」