Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 894: Damn

“Damn.”

Caeden blinked.

His head turned slowly. “Did you just…?”

Elayne didn’t look at him. She was still watching Lucavion—expression unreadable, arms folded, eyes sharp behind their usual glass calm.

“What did you say?” he asked again, brow slightly raised.

She turned to meet his gaze. “Damn.”

A pause.

“…Do you know what it means?” Caeden asked, half-skeptical, half amused.

Elayne blinked once. “Isn’t it something you use when you see something exceptional?”

Caeden huffed a quiet breath through his nose. “…Yes. But I didn’t think you used words like that.”

“Neither did I.” She said it without inflection. Just fact.

Then she lifted a hand. Not quickly. Just a small gesture, like pointing out a crack in the wall someone else hadn’t noticed.

Her finger aimed not at Lucavion—but the trees.

Or more precisely—what wasn’t happening to them.

Caeden frowned. “What?”

“The flames,” she said, quietly. “They’re not burning the trees.”

He turned his head.

Looked again.

Not at Lucavion this time—but at the edges of the clearing, where the black fire licked and rolled and should’ve left nothing but char.

And yet—

The bark was only lightly singed. The grass blackened in rings, but not dead. The air shimmered with heat, but the trees stood still.

Untouched.

Controlled.

His eyes widened.

’Wait…’

Lucavion stepped into another cut, blade slashing low, a twisting motion of the wrist that sent a spiral of black fire in a wide arc. It looked wild—chaotic. But it stopped exactly where the perimeter began. Like a dog trained to the edge of its leash.

And again.

And again.

Not a random blaze. Not brute force.

Training.

Not of the sword. Not just of the body.

But of the fire.

’He’s… not trying to master the sword alone,’ Caeden realized. ’He’s training the flames themselves. Directing them. Holding them back. Guiding them without letting them slip.’

There were scorch marks, yes.

But minimal.

Precise.

Deliberate.

Now that he saw it—

Really saw it—

Caeden realized he’d never once approached training from that perspective.

His focus had always been internal.

Form, weight, distance. The earth beneath his feet. The tension in his stance. The angle of a strike. How to brace. How to channel mana into the body, not just through it.

He trained his blade. He honed his body. He refined his technique.

But Lucavion—

Lucavion was training the impossible.

He wasn’t casting spells. He wasn’t refining a martial form. He was taming something that wasn’t meant to be tamed.

Black fire.

Caeden didn’t know what it was—whether it came from a bloodline, a curse, a pact, or something far more abstract—but whatever it was, it shouldn’t obey him.

And it didn’t.

Not fully.

That much was obvious now. Even as Lucavion moved with poise, the flames snapped sometimes. Lashed too far. One jet of fire flared just a few inches too wide, and the edge of the clearing hissed as it brushed a low-hanging branch.

Lucavion paused. Just a second.

Then resumed.

As if the fire’s disobedience was expected. Not feared. Not excused.

Just part of the process.

’He’s not polishing a technique,’ Caeden thought. ’He’s building a relationship with something that shouldn’t even listen.’

He exhaled slowly.

“…I guess that’s what makes him the strongest.”

Elayne didn’t answer.

Caeden’s gaze stayed locked on Lucavion—on the way the fire curved with him, around him, until it wasn’t clear where the blade ended and the flame began.

’Someone who can match the son of the Knight Commander…’

To be frank—

after watching the duel yesterday, Caeden had already felt it.

That spark. That quiet, uncomfortable pulse in the chest.

Inspiration.

Even though he wasn’t a swordsman. Even though his own weapon of choice was a war hammer built more for impact than elegance, there was something universal in that duel. In the clash of blades, in the precision, the pressure, the will behind each step.

He’d studied it.

Absorbed it.

Even tried to replicate some of that footwork during his drills—just to see.

But alongside that inspiration… there’d been something else.

Doubt.

Not about himself.

About chasing Lucavion.

’There’s no reason to try and beat someone like that,’ he’d thought, watching the tip of Lucavion’s sword stop exactly where it needed to, never an inch more. ’That kind of sword… it’s just built different.’

It was elegant.

Unreachable.

A different tier.

And so he’d told himself he didn’t need to catch up. Didn’t need to surpass.

Lucavion was Lucavion.

Caeden was Caeden.

Different paths.

Different weapons.

He could respect him without comparing.

But now—watching this—

That thought collapsed.

Because Lucavion wasn’t resting in that tier.

He wasn’t satisfied.

He had the sword. The victory. The reputation. The lineage.

And it still wasn’t enough.

He was reaching past his own talent.

Past his own comfort.

Pushing something unruly to bend. Not because he had to—but because he refused not to.

’That hunger…’

It didn’t look glamorous here.

It looked lonely.

Unrelenting.

And more than anything—

Honest.

Caeden’s jaw clenched lightly. A ripple of heat brushed his cheek as another lash of black fire curved, stopped just short of a tree, and dissipated like breath in winter.

He looked down at his own hands.

Calloused. Trained.

But… boxed.

There were limits he’d drawn for himself without even realizing.

Lines like this is what I’m good at or this is enough.

And maybe that’s what separated them.

Not talent.

Not birth.

But the refusal to accept a ceiling.

’I thought I was working hard…’

His throat tightened a little. Not shame. Not self-hate. Just—

Embarrassment.

Quiet.

Heavy.

The kind that didn’t make you break.

Just… shift.

’Maybe I’ll feel this again. And again. Every time I see someone like him.’

Then, softly—something from home rose up.

A saying his grandfather used to repeat every time Caeden thought he was done training.

Words worn smooth by years of use, but never dulled.

“Stone that rests too long thinks it’s the mountain.”

He breathed it in.

Felt the weight of it land squarely in his chest.

Then—

A prick.

Low in the gut.

Like a hook pulled taut behind the navel.

Caeden’s breath caught. His footing shifted half a pace without thought. A fighter’s instinct. One honed not by theory—but experience.

Heat.

But not warmth.

Not flame like before.

This one carried weight.

’Danger?’

He looked up—

And saw the black flame.

Surging.

No arc. No elegance. No warning.

It came low and fast—straight toward him and Elayne. Not in a wide, sweeping gesture like before, but in a thread—controlled, narrow, precise.

Caeden’s shoulders tightened. Mana braced along his arms. He stepped, arm raising instinctively.

But—

It stopped.

Dead.

A breath from his chest.

A shoulder’s width.

The fire hissed there—hovering. Crackling not with chaos, but restraint. It wanted to move forward. But it didn’t. Couldn’t.

Caeden blinked.

“…What the—?”

Then—

“Hmm… not good enough.”

A voice.

Cool. Dry. Threaded with that deliberate bite of self-measured arrogance.

The flames curled inward, like coals pulled back into a forge. And through the veil of dissipating heat—

Lucavion appeared.

Blade resting along one shoulder. Sweat along his collar. Smirk—unchanged.

“Liked the show?” he asked, tone casual, like he’d just stepped out of a bath instead of nearly scorching them both.

Caeden said nothing.

Elayne did worse—she glared.

Lucavion’s eyes slid between them, playful. Probing.

Then his smirk widened, just enough to needle.

“What?” he asked, arching a brow. “Too early for fan clubs?”

Caeden’s jaw twitched.

“Were you aiming at us?” he asked flatly.

Lucavion shrugged. “If I was, you’d know.”

He let the silence stretch.

“…But no. That one got away. Slightly.”

Caeden wasn’t sure if that made it better.

He exhaled slowly, tried not to glance at Elayne—but she was already watching Lucavion with that same unreadable stillness.

Then she said:

“You train like you’re at war.”

Lucavion tilted his head.

The smirk didn’t falter, but something settled behind it—like a shadow casting its own shadow. That flicker. The one that always hinted there was more behind his calm than anyone wanted to ask about.

Then—

“I am always at war.”