Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 838: Girl that is left behind

Sometimes, we do things without ever knowing what they’ll mean to someone else.

Lucavion stood still in the aftermath of steel and silence, the faint hum of the crowd distant now, like an echo in another room. Jesse had returned to her side, her blade sheathed, her breathing steady despite the storm she’d just unleashed. The fight had ended—not with triumph or blood, but with something far quieter. Far heavier.

His hands were still open. Loose. Unarmed.

But his mind…

There are decisions we make because of the moment we’re in, he thought. We tell ourselves it’s logical. That it’s survival. That we had no other choice.

And at the time, it made sense.

He remembered the dusk when he’d walked away from the Lorian camp, alone. When he’d abandoned the chain of command, discarded the insignia, left behind everything that tethered him to that war. He hadn’t felt remorse. Not then. The world was shifting, bleeding at its seams, and he—armed with the knowledge from Shattered Innocence—knew the outcome before most even realized they were pawns.

Lorian Empire would lose.

And he?

He wasn’t about to drown with it.

He wasn’t a savior. Just a man who refused to be swallowed.

So I left.

One man couldn’t save an empire. One soldier couldn’t rewrite a campaign.

So he’d carved his own road through the chaos. And it had been the right choice. He’d changed lives. He’d learned truths hidden even from the Empire’s elite. He’d seen Aether, broken fate-lines, unseated futures. He wasn’t just a deserter. He was a variable. A spark that refused to die in the mud.

At least… it was right for me.

But that same decision—simple, clean, necessary—wasn’t simple for everyone.

He looked at Jesse again. Her posture still strong, but her fingers slightly curled at her side like she was holding something in.

She was one of them.

One of the silent costs.

Lucavion’s gaze lingered—not on the sheath at her hip, nor the sweat clinging to her brow, but on the silence around her blade.

It was loud.

Louder than any scream she could’ve given.

I was wrong about her.

When Jesse had stepped into the courtyard earlier, spine straight, movements clean, blade hanging without ceremony, he’d felt a strange flicker of pride. Almost amusement. So she made it. Huh. The girl he once guided through dusk-slick drills had found her way into these marble halls. Into the political maze of Arcanis. Into a fight beside him, not behind.

And he thought…

She must’ve had someone watching her back.

She must’ve landed on her feet, trained hard, fought smart, gotten picked up by one of the right families. A noble sponsor. A respected master. The right conditions.

Because the Jesse Burns he remembered—

She was sharp, but unrefined. Fire without a frame.

What stood before him now?

Refined. Balanced. Strategic.

When the duel began, he saw it in the first three exchanges—her stance had evolved, her step measured, her tempo matured. The same instincts he’d tried to nurture, now honed by brutal repetition.

And he’d smiled.

She got strong.

For a fleeting moment, he’d even thought… She remembered.

But then—

She made that move.

The one no instructor teaches.

The one that sacrifices the body to create an opening.

The one that says: Pain is nothing if it gets the message across.

And in that heartbeat, everything changed.

Her blade didn’t just swing—it spoke.

Lucavion didn’t need words. He didn’t need a confession.

The blade had told him everything.

That wasn’t the technique of someone who’d been nurtured.

It was a style forged in absence—

a rhythm shaped by nights where no one corrected her form,

no one tightened her grip,

no one caught her when she slipped.

He heard it in the edge of her feints.

In the unnatural grace of her footwork.

In the way her shoulder rolled into the pain—

not avoiding it, but welcoming it, like an old companion.

’This sword… it’s screaming.’

Not loud.

But in that quiet, it cried louder than any voice.

“Where were you?”

“I became this while you were gone.”

Lucavion’s eyes dropped—not out of shame, but something worse. Recognition.

The sword.

That damned sword.

It wasn’t just forged for battle. It was shaped in isolation. In the kind of quiet that made you question whether your breath was the only sound left in the world worth listening to.

He knew it too well.

That blade didn’t move like it belonged to someone trained in safety, or polished by structure.

It moved like it had survived.

Like it had kept its edge because no one else would.

Every strike was defensive and offensive.

Every motion left just enough room to escape.

Every shift in footing said, “Trust no one—not even your sparring partner.”

That blade had learned to dance alone.

And the more he watched Jesse, the more it felt like watching a mirror warped by time.

He remembered that same survival rhythm—how his own steps had tightened, how his own grip had shifted in those first months after being sent to the war.

At that time, he used a spear not a sword, but he still remembered those feelings.

He would never forget.

Back then, he’d fought like a cornered ghost.

No allies. No names. Just instinct. Just movement.

Just to survive.

And now?

Jesse’s blade carried the same cadence.

Always alert.

Never open.

Never trusting.

Her stance was beautiful. But it was lonely.

He looked at her again—and for the first time, really looked past the fight.

There was thrill in her eyes, yes. The gleam of a warrior facing the one who made her stand the first time.

But behind that—

Anger.

Bitter, righteous, personal.

It wasn’t just a duel.

It was a confrontation.

He’d left.

And he’d never once thought what would happen to her when he did.

“…Why?”

The word came unbidden, dry in the back of his mind.

Why had he never asked himself that?

Why had Jesse never crossed his thoughts in all these years?

The answer…

It wasn’t noble.

He had been too busy surviving.

Too caught up in escaping the noose that was the Lorian war machine.

Too consumed by the chaos of the Shadowed Thicket, the betrayals, the artifacts, the truths buried in the wreckage of false empires.

Then came Vitaliara.

And after that, it was just fight after fight.

Stronger. Smarter. Sharper.

Every step forward felt like it required blood.

He had been selfish.

And now, standing here—his fingers still tingling from the aftershock of that last clash—he saw the answer play out in her silence.

She had been the one to bleed.

Alone.

Jesse hadn’t just endured.

She’d been shaped—not by guidance, but by abandonment.

By the hollow left behind when someone you trusted vanished without a word.

And now…

Now her blade carried that legacy.

No teacher could take credit.

Not Lucavion. Not the academy. Not the Empire.

Only pain.

He exhaled slowly, and for the first time in a long time…

He felt small.

Not because he was weaker.

But because, somehow, she had carried the weight he’d helped put on her shoulders.

And she’d carried it beautifully.

But that didn’t make it right.