Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

—FWWSSHHHHHH!

The pitch-black petals of [Balance of Destruction] curled inward, closing like a lotus sealing the last breath of a god.

Seran's blade cracked down the middle—runic core flickering, sputtering like a dying star. His aura collapsed in ribbons of light, unspooling from his frame in silent strands. And still, the black flame moved.

It touched his hands.

And did not burn.

It kissed his skin—tender, almost reverent. A brush of annihilation laced with restraint.

Seran's breath hitched.

His arms trembled, but not from pain.

From realization.

He had nothing left to give.

His techniques—unraveled.

His mana—devoured.

His sword—broken, in soul if not yet in steel.

The artifact—useless now, its seal faded and nullified by a technique that should not exist.

And then—

Lucavion stepped forward.

The spiral of nullfire around him slowed, condensed, and ceased. Twelve petals vanished in the air like they were never there. His estoc, glimmering with traces of that black entropy, pointed low—then slowly, deliberately—

Rose.

Seran tried to lift his blade.

It wouldn't move.

His arm wouldn't move.

Lucavion's estoc came to rest at the hollow of his throat—gentle. Deadly.

A single breath. A single tremor of pressure.

And it would pierce straight through.

Seran's pupils constricted.

He didn't feel fear.

He felt exposure.

He had spent his whole life behind veils—masks layered over identities, each one crafted with precision, purpose, and pride.

And this man…

This freak, this phantom in ragged clothes and ruined coat…

Had torn through all of them in a matter of minutes.

Now he stood there.

Silent.

Watching.

Flames still curled near Seran's fingers—enough to blister skin, to remind him how easily his hands could be taken from him.

And then—

Lucavion exhaled.

The fire stopped.

It didn't vanish.

It just… froze. Holding there, at the edge of destruction.

And with the blade still poised at his throat—

Lucavion tilted his head.

Smirked.

And spoke.

"Heh…"

Lucavion's smirk wasn't wide.

But it was sharp.

And it held no warmth.

Only recognition.

"You were trying to kill me," he said softly, the estoc still resting just beneath Seran's throat.

Not a question.

A statement.

The words sank in, slow and heavy.

Seran didn't speak.

He didn't have to.

Lucavion's eyes—those void-deep eyes, unblinking and unreadable—scanned him like glass under frost. And still, he didn't press the blade forward. Not yet.

Instead, he angled his head slightly. Curious. As if studying something pathetic clinging to a name it never deserved.

"I could feel it," Lucavion said, tone light, conversational even. "The interference."

He raised his free hand for a moment—just a flick of the fingers. Barely a gesture.

"But it wasn't yours, was it? Not entirely."

Seran's breath hitched again. His pulse jumped.

He knew.

Not just about the killing intent. The artifact. The override seal.

He'd felt the anomaly in the system—the artifact meant to guide the blade toward fatality, the mana that threaded through the arena's bindings like silent wire. He'd read the movement of the fight and the flow of the kill.

Seran's chest heaved.

His knees quivered.

His hands—once iron-bound by pride and purpose—hung limp at his sides, bloodied and useless.

Lucavion's estoc hovered at his throat, weightless in its stillness, as if daring the world to breathe wrong.

The golden blade in Seran's hand cracked again, a soft ping echoing in the silence. Another splinter through the core. Another fault line through everything he thought he knew.

He stared at Lucavion—not in anger.

In disbelief.

Not from the humiliation.

But from the impossibility.

This man—this nobody, with no house, no title, no history—

He had shattered it all.

The artifact. The technique. The decades of calculated, royal training.

Lucavion had danced through them.

Burned through them.

With flame that didn't even scream when it devoured him.

And Seran—

He didn't understand.

He couldn't understand.

'How…?'

How could someone like him—a commoner—possess such power?

How could someone outside the noble system, outside the bloodlines, the rituals, the sealed chambers, the Empire's blessed crucibles—

How could he—

'How could you stand there like that?'

Even now, Lucavion didn't speak. He didn't boast. Didn't look down on him like Seran had once looked down on others.

He just stood there.

Present.

Certain.

Unmoved.

A part of Seran wanted to scream. To call it unfair. To demand the truth. To insist this was a trick—that there must be someone behind this. A noble, a sponsor, a long-forgotten master pulling the strings from behind some veil.

But the truth…

Was staring at him.

There was no string.

No puppet.

Only him.

Lucavion.

And Seran—

He couldn't stop it.

His lips parted. The question slipped out—not as a challenge, not as defiance.

But as a whisper.

"…Why?"

Lucavion's brow raised slightly.

Seran's throat tightened.

"…Why are you doing this?"

The words felt too small. Too broken.

He didn't even know what he meant.

Why did you attack me?

Why did you crush me?

Why do you exist like this?

Why do you fight like you don't belong to anyone?

Because I do.

I was made to belong.

But Lucavion… didn't.

He just stood there, alone.

And strong.

And free.

Seran's voice faltered as he stared up at him.

"Why… someone like you…?"

Lucavion's estoc dipped slightly.

Lucavion's estoc dipped—just slightly—as he repeated the word.

"Why?"

His voice was quiet.

But then came the smile.

Not soft.

Not kind.

A grin stretched wide across his face—razor-sharp and utterly unhinged. A glint of something primal danced behind his black eyes, not madness born from chaos, but clarity sharpened to a vicious edge.

And he answered.

"Because I want to."

Seran barely had time to flinch.

—SHHNK.

The estoc moved a mere inch forward.

Not a stab.

A cut.

Clean, deliberate, just deep enough to slice a shallow line across Seran's cheek. Blood welled immediately, warm and red against the cold.

Lucavion's smile didn't fade.

"I'm not going to kill you here," he said, voice low, matter-of-fact. "Even though I could."

Seran froze.

Because it was true.

He could.

The artifact embedded in Seran's gear—the same artifact he'd relied on to push him into victory, to twist his blade into something fatal—was still active.

He could feel it humming, like a final breath waiting to be released.

And Lucavion could see it.

Could feel it.

Which meant—he could break it.

Breach the override.

Kill him, right here.

And no one would be able to stop him.

Seran's breath caught, heart hammering against his ribcage.

Lucavion leaned slightly closer.

"Do you know why?" he asked again, gently. The blade finally pulled away.

Then—step by step—he moved forward. Slow. Unhurried. Like the fight had never happened. Like this wasn't a battlefield soaked in mana and ruin.

He stopped directly in front of Seran.

And then, delicately, he placed one hand on his shoulder.

Seran twitched—body screaming to move, but muscles refusing to obey.

Lucavion leaned in.

Close.

Too close.

His mouth brushed the air beside Seran's ear.

And he whispered.

"Because you need to leave a message."

Then—

He pulled back.

Lucavion's free hand rose—his fingers outstretched.

And pressed against Seran's chest.

—FWSSSSSHHHHH.

The flame ignited instantly.

Not to destroy.

But to mark.

It burned not with heat alone—but with precision. Pain lanced through Seran's chest like a brand being driven into bone. He gritted his teeth, unable to scream, unable to collapse.

Lucavion held him there—held him still—his fingers glowing with the embers of something ancient, sharp, and deliberate.

And then he spoke.

"Your master."

His voice had no weight.

It didn't need any.

"I'm coming for him."

The pain seared deeper.

Then—Lucavion withdrew his hand.

Smoke curled upward from Seran's chest, his armor scorched open. Beneath the shredded fabric, etched in still-burning fire, was the mark.

A crown.

Not beautiful.

Not regal.

Cracked.

Warped.

A mockery of sovereignty.

Seran's gaze dropped—saw it—and the last illusion of distance between this fight and his world collapsed.

Lucavion stepped back one pace, still watching him.

And then—calmly, cruelly, quietly—

"I'll take his useless crown."