Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Draven walked beside Lucavion as they stepped out of the meeting room, the heavy doors shutting behind them with a dull thud. The noise lingered for a second before fading into the distant sounds of the city beyond.

The air outside was cool, carrying the distant scent of the sea mixed with the sharper, grittier notes of Varenthia itself—smoke, spice, damp stone. A city that was alive, unpredictable.

Draven glanced at Lucavion, hands tucked in his pockets. “So?” he asked, his voice light but edged with something knowing. “How’s this place treating you?”

Lucavion hummed, tilting his head slightly. “This place?” He exhaled, a small smirk curling his lips. “Not bad.”

Draven huffed a quiet chuckle. “Not bad,” he repeated. “That’s all?”

Lucavion’s dark eyes flicked toward him, amused. “Should I be more poetic?”

Draven rolled his eyes. “Tch. Don’t push it.”

The two walked in easy silence for a few more steps, the stone streets of Varenthia stretching ahead in winding, unpredictable paths.

Draven had been monitoring Lucavion these past few days, of course. Caius had made sure of that.

Lucavion, unsurprisingly, hadn’t seemed to mind the extra set of eyes on him. If anything, he had treated it like a minor curiosity—something amusing rather than intrusive.

And what had he done during those three days?

Nothing that screamed trouble.

He had wandered.

Through the markets, the trade streets, the back alleys where rare goods were exchanged under whispered deals.

He had eaten—Draven had heard from Caius that the bastard had gone out of his way to taste all sorts of Varenthian dishes. Exotic spiced meats from the southern isles, crispy fried rolls stuffed with minced fish and rare herbs, even the dense, honey-soaked pastries that most hardened mercenaries wouldn’t be caught dead eating in public.

And then there were the cultural stops.

Caius had reported seeing him at one of the old shrines in the western district, where people still lit incense for ancestors or prayed for fortune in their bloody line of work.

And then at the Bazaar of Echoes, where relics and artifacts—some real, most fake—were sold to those foolish or wealthy enough to care.

Lucavion hadn’t acted like a man preparing for a violent clash.

But Draven wasn’t stupid.

This wasn’t the behavior of a man who wasn’t preparing.

This was the behavior of a man who had already prepared.

Lucavion was simply waiting.

Draven exhaled through his nose. “You don’t seem like the type to care about food and culture.”

Lucavion chuckled. “Should I be swinging my sword in the streets instead?”

Draven smirked. “I’d prefer if you didn’t. This city’s got enough problems.”

Lucavion hummed in amusement, stretching his arms lazily as they walked. “You can tell a lot about a place by its food, its people, its stories,” he mused. “Varenthia is interesting. It’s always shifting, always changing hands… but the bones of it are old.”

Draven glanced at him, curious. “You get all that from tasting street food?”

Lucavion let out a short chuckle, tilting his head as if amused by his own words. “No, I just made them up.” His smirk widened slightly. “Did it sound poetic? Maybe you thought I was some wise old man with insight?”

Draven just shook his head, exhaling through his nose. “Tch. You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”

“A certain someone likes to talk about food. And I don’t like always being lectured.”

Draven raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Lucavion said smoothly.

Draven narrowed his eyes slightly but let it slide. There was no point digging into whatever nonsense the bastard was spouting. Instead, he turned the conversation back to business.

“Anyway,” Draven started, his tone shifting back to something more serious, “the others have agreed to the plan. You’ll get your fight.”

Lucavion’s smirk didn’t fade, but there was something sharper beneath it. “That was never in question.”

Draven scoffed. “Maybe not. But you’ll need this.”

From within his coat, Draven pulled out a small, metal case—old, but well-kept. He flipped it open, revealing a dark, polished artifact resting inside.

Lucavion’s gaze flicked toward the artifact the moment the case snapped open. His smirk faded just slightly—not out of concern, but out of curiosity.

It wasn’t a ring.

It wasn’t a weapon, either.

The object inside was strange, exotic. A small, crystalline fragment encased in a frame of dark metal, its edges jagged yet unnaturally smooth. At its core, faint, shifting lights pulsed—colors twisting in slow, hypnotic patterns, as if alive.

Lucavion narrowed his eyes. “What is this?”

Draven exhaled, his smirk still present but his tone far more serious. “An artifact.”

Lucavion shot him a flat look. “I can see that. I’m asking—what is its purpose?”

Draven rolled his shoulders. “Its purpose… is to find your target.”

Lucavion’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t speak, waiting for Draven to elaborate.

Draven tapped a finger lightly against the case. “When used, this thing will reveal the location of the person you’re searching for. But not in the usual way.”

Lucavion’s fingers stilled against the case. “…Go on.”

Draven smirked, watching his reaction. “It doesn’t work in real time. Instead, it shows you their location through your dreams.”

For the first time since stepping out of that meeting room—

Lucavion’s expression shifted.

His fingers stilled. His dark eyes, always half-lidded with lazy amusement, narrowed ever so slightly as he truly examined the artifact in front of him.

A pause.

Then—

His gaze flicked up. “What?”

Draven chuckled, leaning against the railing of the stone walkway they had stopped on. “Thought that would get your attention.”

Lucavion didn’t respond immediately. His fingers hovered just above the artifact, feeling the mana ripple from it.

Something like this—this kind of function—

It wasn’t just a simple tracking artifact. It wasn’t something a mercenary or even a noble would typically possess.

This was something far above that level.

His voice was quieter this time, but sharper. “This should be at least an Epic-rank artifact.”

Lucavion’s fingers hovered over the artifact, his dark eyes unreadable as he studied the shifting lights within its crystalline core. The slow, rhythmic pulses of color weren’t chaotic—they were deliberate, patterned.

This was not something one simply found.

“You can’t just access an Epic-rank artifact like this,” Lucavion murmured, his voice smooth but edged with suspicion. “Tell me—what’s the catch?”

Draven smirked, tilting his head slightly. “Sharp as ever.” He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, there’s a catch.”

Lucavion waited, his fingers still just above the artifact, close enough to feel the unstable flickers of mana radiating from it.

Draven gestured toward it with a slight nod. “It used to be an Epic-rank artifact.”

Lucavion’s eyes flickered slightly, narrowing.

Draven continued, “But it’s not anymore. It’s a defective product.”

Lucavion’s lips curled into something resembling amusement. “Defective?”

Draven let out a short chuckle. “Tch. You sound like you’re doubting me.”

Lucavion leaned back slightly, tilting his head. “Shouldn’t I?”

Draven smirked. “Fair.” He tapped the case lightly with his finger. “I got it off a smuggler who managed to get into the vault of the Valcroix Family.”

Lucavion’s expression didn’t change, but Draven caught the flicker of calculation behind his eyes.

“…Valcroix?”

Draven waved a hand dismissively. “A noble house from the south. You don’t need to concern yourself with them.”

Lucavion let the words settle in his mind. He had no ties to the southern noble families, nor did he care for their politics. But even so—an artifact stolen from a noble vault? That meant it wasn’t just rare. It was buried history.

“So, what’s broken?” Lucavion finally asked.

Draven clicked his tongue, watching Lucavion turn the artifact between his fingers. “That’s the tricky part.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. “Of course it is.”

Draven’s mouth twitched but didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he tapped the artifact case lightly. “It doesn’t work like it used to. I tried testing it before—it doesn’t just reveal anyone.”

Lucavion tilted his head slightly. “Then what does it reveal?”

Draven leaned against the railing, exhaling through his nose. “It only works on people you have a clear memory of.” His voice carried a certain weight now, something less casual than before. “And not just any memory. It has to be… deep. One tied to real emotions.”

Lucavion’s fingers stilled for a moment, then resumed turning the artifact. His expression didn’t change, but something flickered behind his dark eyes. “Hmph. That’s inconvenient.”

Draven chuckled. “For most people, yeah. Makes it almost useless for tracking down random targets. You can’t just think of someone you met once and expect this thing to show you their location.”

Lucavion exhaled softly, staring down at the artifact. The slow, rhythmic pulses of light continued to shift in its core, casting faint reflections across his gloves.

Memories. Not just any memory.

A moment, vivid and deep. Something carved into his mind, burned into his bones.

His grip tightened ever so slightly.

Draven watched him carefully. “That a problem?”

Lucavion let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “No. If anything, it makes things easier.”

Draven raised an eyebrow. “Easier?”

Lucavion’s smirk returned, but there was something different about it now—something quieter, something colder. “Because I don’t have to wonder if it’ll work.”