Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 657: Lucavion, not Luca
The projection magnified, centering on them—on the space that was no longer a clearing, but a crucible.
Aurelian leaned forward, practically vibrating in his chair. "Finally..."
Selphine said nothing, but her arms crossed tighter, her chin lifting slightly in that way she always did when something genuinely interested her.
Elara?
Elara couldn't look away if she tried.
The first movement was subtle. Barely a twitch of Luca's wrist as he adjusted his grip on the estoc, still held low, still deceptively idle. The white cat on his shoulder opened one lazy eye, gave a single unimpressed flick of its tail, and closed it again.
The illusion rippled.
Elayne came in—not with a reckless lunge, but with the precision of someone who had killed enough times to know better. She blurred into three images—one directly at him, one flanking left, one flanking right—each flickering just enough that even an experienced fighter would hesitate.
But Luca—
He didn't react.
Not in the way most would.
He waited.
Breathless tension coiled around his stillness, thick and almost unbearable—and when Elayne's real self struck from the right—
He moved.
Not backward. Not sideways.
Forward.
A half-step so small it barely counted, but it shattered the rhythm she'd built. Her first dagger whistled past his shoulder, catching nothing but air.
And his estoc, that thin glint of polished dusk, flicked upward—
CLANG.
Blade met dagger.
Not with a parry. Not with a block.
With a tap.
A deliberate, surgical deflection that threw her balance off by a hair's breadth—enough that her second strike faltered before it began.
"Elara..." Aurelian murmured, almost reverent. "He's..."
"A monster," Selphine finished for him, voice soft but sharp. "Not in power. In control."
Elayne spun, regathering momentum mid-air. Her illusions re-layered seamlessly—new flickers of movement, feints upon feints. She came again, faster this time. Twin crescent daggers carving impossible arcs, blades honed not just to cut flesh, but to sever focus.
Any ordinary duelist would have been shredded.
But Luca didn't seem to fight in the same world.
He didn't chase her feints. Didn't let his sight dictate his actions.
Instead, he felt.
Each step he took was economical. Clean. A quiet mastery that turned her furious offense into a shallow dance. His estoc moved less like a sword and more like a living thread, weaving through her strikes with devastating clarity.
Another lunge—Elayne's blade came low, aimed to hamstring.
Luca's foot slid back half a step, his free hand flicking two fingers against the flat of her dagger.
TINK.
The motion redirected it just enough that it missed his leg entirely.
No wasted movements. No wide parries. freewebnøvel.coɱ
Just precision.
Surgical, brutal precision.
Elayne's teeth flashed in a snarl, the first crack in her composed mask. She layered another illusion—this one within a previous one, a delayed false-image trick even most veterans would miss.
The left dagger struck high, right toward his throat.
For a breath, it seemed—seemed—that it would land.
And then—
Luca moved like water slipping past stone.
He ducked, not backward, but inside her guard. The estoc's tip angled upward at the last second, grazing the underside of her dagger hand and forcing it harmlessly wide.
And before she could reset—
TAP.
The estoc's hilt kissed the hollow of her throat with a force light enough not to bruise—but heavy enough to declare.
Checkmate.
The projection froze that frame.
The silence on the terrace was absolute.
Only the distant hum of festival drums and the low crackle of fireworks filled the background.
Selphine's eyes narrowed, her expression unreadable.
Aurelian whistled under his breath. "By the stars... he dismantled her."
Elara found herself smiling.
It was small, almost imperceptible—a faint curve of her lips as she watched him, this boy, this impossibility standing at the center of the storm as though he had been born to it.
Her Luca.
Alive.
Unbroken.
And yet—
'Why does it feel like I'm looking at a stranger's shadow?'
The thought coiled in her chest, cold and unwelcome. She pushed it down, tucking it away like a sliver of glass caught under skin—later, she told herself. Later.
Across the projection, Elayne Cors straightened slowly, her dual daggers lowering to her sides—not in defeat, but in recognition. A tilt of her head, sharp and short, like the nod between duelists who understood the line that had just been drawn.
Then, without a word, she blurred into nothingness.
Gone.
A retreat.
A surrender by any technical measure—but there was no shame in it.
Selphine leaned back in her chair, arms folding with a satisfied nod. "Smart," she said crisply. "She knew. Stay longer, and he would've broken more than just her rhythm."
Aurelian exhaled, slumping with a dramatic flop into his seat. "Anticlimactic, though," he grumbled, snatching his fallen napkin off the ground and flicking it back onto the table. "I was hoping for a little more chaos. Maybe a fireball or two."
Selphine gave him a look. "You don't duel Luca with chaos. You drown in it."
Elara said nothing.
Her gaze remained fixed on the projection, where Luca now stood alone once more under the relic tree. The clearing hummed around him, full of breathless mana, as if the very world itself bent slightly to his existence.
No cheers.
No grand proclamations.
Just a young man with a sword and a smile so easy it carved open old wounds in her chest.
Elara swallowed hard, forcing the smile on her lips to stay where it was. She wouldn't—couldn't—show them the way her heart hammered against her ribs. The way her instincts—those same instincts that had carried her through battles, betrayals, banishments—whispered warnings she couldn't name.
'Why do I feel like I should be afraid?'
But there was no answer.
Only the steady, unbearable pull in her chest.
Just then, the projection above the terrace flickered—subtle at first, then sharply, as a new layer of magic overlaid the image. The standard crimson border of the arena's broadcast changed, widening, reforming into a gilded frame.
A ripple of murmurs ran through the square.
"What's happening?" Aurelian asked, sitting up straighter.
Selphine's eyes narrowed. "Candidate identification."
Elara's stomach twisted.
The festival organizers had started adding the feature during this year's trials—a public registry flashing the names of any contender who made a notable claim. It was meant to draw attention. Fame. Opportunity.
But right now, the air around them felt too still. Too weighted.
A faint chime sounded, delicate as crystal—and the letters burned into existence over Luca's head.
---------
Candidate – Name: Lucavion
--------
Elara's teacup slipped from her fingers.
It didn't shatter. It merely tipped against the table, the sound of its fall muffled by the roar that erupted inside her mind.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat.
Selphine's head whipped toward her at the movement, but Elara barely registered it.
Her gaze was locked, chained to the name written across the screen.
Lucavion.
'No...'
The word shuddered out of her silently, her lips moving but no sound coming forth.
Lucavion.
It wasn't just a name.
It was the name.
The name that she had carved into her heart, the name that she couldn't possibly forget.
