Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 703

Chapter 703: Talking with blades (2)
—CLANG!

Another clean deflection. Elayne twisted her wrist and slid back, not with urgency, but with control—every motion measured to the breath. The crescent blade spun once in her hand before settling.

Lucavion didn’t pursue.

He held position at the center of the ring, estoc lowered slightly, its black flame still whispering faintly along the edge like a cat curling against its master’s hand.

The morning had grown warmer, but neither of them sweated.

They weren’t dancing.

They were speaking.

Lucavion’s smirk widened just a touch.

“See?” he said, stepping lightly across the ring with no more noise than a breeze. “Isn’t this much better?”

He feinted left, then withdrew the motion before it could land—just enough to test her stance, to let her adjust, to see how she’d react.

She didn’t.

But he noticed the pause.

“All those questions you wanted to ask…” Lucavion continued, voice smooth, easy, “doesn’t this answer them?”

Elayne didn’t respond immediately.

She took one slow breath, her blade glinting in the filtered light as her stance shifted. And then—

“You…” she said quietly, eyes narrowing. “Did you learn the sword by yourself?”

Lucavion chuckled. Not at her—but at the phrasing.

“Saying I learned it by myself,” he said as he stepped forward again, this time guiding his estoc in a lazy arc toward her shoulder, “would be a lie.”

—CLINK!

Elayne parried, but didn’t counter.

Lucavion smiled. “And a bit disrespectful.”

He rolled his wrist, estoc dragging into a low curve beneath her elbow.

“But this,” he added, blade rising with a sudden upward thrust—

—FWIP!

Elayne snapped her knife up just in time, the force of the estoc’s thrust sliding across its edge, close enough to nick the cloak she wore—

“This is something I developed on my own.”

“…I see,” Elayne murmured.

There was no judgment in her tone.

Only understanding.

A kind of quiet respect. Not for the power, or even the result—

But for the shape of something built instead of given.

Lucavion didn’t give her space to retreat.

He shifted his weight and drove in again—faster this time, a true attack.

—THRUST!

The estoc darted straight for her core.

—CLANG!

Her blade met his in the last second, deflecting just enough to stagger his angle. She spun, distancing, but Lucavion’s grin only widened.

“Interesting,” he mused aloud.

Elayne’s posture tightened—guard still up, face unreadable.

“But it seems…” he said, circling, “you learned your dagger work on your own, too.”

Elayne’s eyes narrowed—but she didn’t speak.

Lucavion tapped the flat of his blade against the floor once, leisurely.

“What?” he teased. “Didn’t the inheritance you found come with any dagger arts?”

Her breath hitched—barely.

But it was enough.

He tilted his head, smiling wider now. Not cruel—just correct.

“…Ah. Thanks for clarifying it.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

But her silence was its own admission.

“You need to keep your expressions better in check,” Lucavion said softly, before settling back into stance. “The blade doesn’t lie, but the face can still play pretend.”

Elayne’s blade lowered by a hair.

Not from exhaustion.

But from something quieter—and sharper.

Her expression didn’t shift much. Barely a crease in her brow. Barely a twitch in the corner of her lips. But the air around her changed.

Tightened.

Lucavion felt it immediately.

The rhythm of her breathing altered. Her mana, normally so smooth and subtle it barely registered, pulsed once—like a lash flicking through water.

Her foot slid back, just slightly. Not to retreat.

To anchor.

Lucavion’s smirk lingered, but his eyes sharpened.

‘Ah. That struck something.’

She didn’t respond right away. Just stood there, jaw set, eyes locked on him with that sudden, simmering tension.

And for the first time in their spar, her emotions showed.

Not rage.

Not weakness.

Just… annoyance.

A flicker of real, restrained frustration behind her stillness. The kind of emotion you only feel when someone peels back something you’d rather keep buried.

Lucavion lowered his estoc slightly, one hand settling loosely at his hip.

He didn’t press in.

He didn’t gloat.

He just… watched.

Then, casually:

“Isn’t it an assassin’s motto,” he said, voice light as the morning wind, “to keep their emotions under control?”

He let that linger—just a breath.

“You sure are flary for one.”

Elayne’s eyes narrowed.

“I’m not an assassin.”

The words came fast. Too fast.

Lucavion’s brows lifted in mock-surprise.

“Oh?”

He gave a little shrug, gesturing toward her with the tip of his estoc.

“Your way of fighting begs to differ.”

That was it.

That did it.

Elayne’s blade snapped back up, not with wildness—but with bite.

She moved again, cloak flaring like a shadow being unwrapped from the morning light. No illusions this time. No echoing doubles.

Just speed.

Sharp. Direct. Personal.

Lucavion stepped back as the crescent blade lashed for his ribs.

—CLANG!

He caught it with the flat of his estoc, dragging it down and to the side, but her follow-up came instantly—another jab, lower this time.

He dodged, barely.

Then she was on him.

A low pivot into a rising slash. Not meant to kill.

Meant to prove something.

Lucavion laughed—quiet, delighted.

“Oh, there it is.”

Lucavion’s parry glided past her blade, a whisper-soft deflection that let her momentum slip by untouched. He didn’t counter. He didn’t punish the opening.

He just looked at her.

And in that instant, something shifted again.

His voice didn’t carry judgment. Just cool observation.

“There will be a lot of nobles in the academy,” he said, sliding a half-step back, his estoc lowering slightly—casual again. “Some will try to use you.”

A pause. Elayne stilled, barely breathing.

“Some will try to pressure you.”

The black flame flickered faintly along the edge of his blade, like a heartbeat pacing itself with words.

“And some…” Lucavion’s eyes narrowed, “will try to have you.”

The tone wasn’t crass. It wasn’t cruel.

But it was true.

Blunt and sharp, like a truth laid across a whetstone.

“They’ll try to find your weakness. Exploit it. Dig until you give them something to own.”

His gaze held hers. Not challenging. Not condescending.

Warning.

“And this,” he said softly, “this reaction of yours—”

He gestured with his chin toward her tightened grip, her flared stance, her boiling silence.

“You need to keep it in check.”

Elayne’s breath hitched.

Not from fear.

From something colder.

The world went dark.

Just for a second.

Everything dimmed—not like a room losing light, but like the sky folding inward. The wind stilled. The ring’s mana stopped pulsing.

And only a pair of eyes remained.

Floating in that blackness.

Piercing. Unblinking.

Watching her not as a sparring partner. Not as a noble. Not even as a woman.

But as a target.

‘Huh?’

Her vision snapped back into place. The ring. The gardens. The morning light.

Still there.

Lucavion, standing before her, estoc sheathed casually behind his back again.

As if nothing had happened.

But Elayne knew what that was.

Her lips parted, eyes flicking once to the edge of the ring as if confirming she hadn’t been moved—hadn’t been touched.

That was…

Killing intent.

Perfectly shaped. Perfectly placed.

And just as quickly as it appeared—it was gone.

Lucavion met her gaze, quiet now. His voice dropped a little more. No longer teasing.

“Don’t let your killing intent out because of your emotions,” he said calmly.

His eyes were unreadable. But his words carved clean.

“Not everyone will tolerate it.”

He stepped away, the moment passing like a blade slipping back into its sheath.