Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra - Chapter 704

Chapter 704: Talking with blades (3)
From the archway’s shadow, Mireilla stood frozen.

Not from fear.

But from recognition.

That… wasn’t normal.

Killing intent wasn’t something she’d only read about. She’d felt it before—real, razor-sharp intent from mercenaries, from cutthroats, from the assassins that stalked border towns when coin got tight and disappearances were explained with shrugs.

But this?

This wasn’t intent.

This was weight.

The pressure Lucavion had let slip into the ring… it hadn’t merely startled her. It had settled in her gut, like a predator’s shadow curling along her ribs. Her fingers were still curled against the stone edge beside her, knuckles white, breath shallow.

He wasn’t aiming it at me.

And I still felt it.

Not as a pulse.

Not as a wave.

But as a certainty.

That if he had wanted Elayne dead… she would’ve stopped breathing before she even realized it.

And he’d done it casually. Like someone flexing a muscle in passing.

Her eyes flicked back to the ring.

Lucavion had already stepped away, like the moment hadn’t meant anything. Elayne stood perfectly still, her expression unreadable—but something in her posture had shifted. Less tight. Less reactive.

Not relaxed.

Just… wary. In a way she hadn’t been before.

Mireilla’s heart pounded once. Then again. Not from fear. But from something else.

So this… this is the First.

That’s how he earned those points.

She had wondered—like many others—if the number had been inflated. If maybe he’d gamed the system. Tricked the arrays. Exploited a loophole the examiners hadn’t caught.

But no.

Now she understood.

Lucavion hadn’t cheated.

He had earned it.

With blood.

And whatever he’d crawled through to make that killing intent coil around him like second skin.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. Not in judgment. Not even in disdain.

In calculation.

Then—

His voice cut through the still air, sharp and easy at once.

| “There’s a peeping tom here. Wanna show your face now?”

Mireilla flinched—only slightly. A muscle under her eye twitched.

He hadn’t turned. Hadn’t looked directly at her. But he knew. Of course he did.

She stepped from the shadow of the archway with slow, even steps. Not rushed. Not shy. But deliberate.

If he wanted to call her out—so be it.

She wasn’t ashamed.

“I wasn’t peeping,” she said, folding her arms with quiet defiance as she approached the edge of the ring. “I was observing.”

Lucavion turned toward her now, the estoc resting along his spine once again, his posture relaxed but eyes sharp with amusement.

“Well,” he said, flashing a grin. “Good observers know not to get caught.”

Mireilla shrugged. “You were loud.”

He barked a single laugh—quick, bright, brief. Elayne didn’t move beside him, but her eyes flicked once toward Mireilla—acknowledging. Measuring.

Mireilla’s gaze settled on Lucavion again.

That smile.

So casual.

So practiced.

She didn’t return it.

“You’ve killed a lot of people,” she said simply.

No accusation.

Just a truth laid on the table.

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, the smirk still ghosting across his face, but something beneath it had shifted—subtly, like a ripple in still water.

“Oh?” he said, voice low and thoughtful. “Is that your verdict then? My killing intent gave me away?”

He didn’t laugh this time. Didn’t sneer. Just watched her—like a puzzle he hadn’t decided how interesting it really was.

“If that’s how you measure someone,” he continued, tone smooth, “you’ll end up chasing the wrong monsters.”

A beat passed.

Then—rustle.

Elayne shifted.

Not much. Just the barest incline of her head.

But it was enough.

“No,” she said softly.

Lucavion’s eyes slid to her—not sharply, but with the kind of curiosity that barely masked interest.

Elayne’s gaze remained forward, level.

“It wasn’t the killing intent,” she said. “That was just the shadow of it.”

Lucavion raised an eyebrow, not interrupting. Waiting.

“It’s your eyes.”

The words were calm. Clear. Unflinching.

And they hung in the space between the three of them like a thread pulled taut.

Lucavion said nothing.

But his smile faded—just a degree. Not gone, but quieter now. Less performance. More precision.

Mireilla stepped in then, voice steady.

“You don’t fear death,” she said. “That’s what your eyes show.”

Lucavion blinked once.

Still no denial.

“People say they’re not afraid of dying,” Mireilla went on, her arms still folded, her stance unchanged. “They romanticize it. Glorify it. But when it’s real—when it’s close—the body knows. The eyes betray them. They always do.”

Lucavion exhaled softly through his nose. “And what makes you think mine don’t?”

Mireilla’s gaze didn’t flinch.

“Because I’ve seen a pair like yours before.”

His head tilted slightly again, the estoc shifting at his back like it too was leaning in.

“Oh?” he asked, the word softer this time.

No mockery.

No smirk.

Just… interest.

Mireilla’s jaw tightened. Not from hesitation—but memory.

“I was fourteen,” she said. “And a rogue mage tried to use one of our outposts to summon a binding construct—some old war relic. It went sideways. Killed everyone in the upper floors. Everyone except one man.”

Her voice didn’t waver. But it cooled, like stone left to settle in shadow.

“They sent an execution squad. I wasn’t supposed to be there—I was just fetching supplies. But I stayed. Watched.”

Lucavion didn’t move. Neither did Elayne.

“And when the squad hesitated,” Mireilla said, her voice now barely above the hush of morning wind, “that man walked forward. Alone. He didn’t draw a weapon until it was time to end it.”

She looked at Lucavion then. Direct. Unblinking.

“He had eyes like yours.”

Lucavion was still.

Lucavion’s silence stretched just long enough to seem heavy—then broke, not with solemnity, but with a low, quiet chuckle.

It wasn’t mocking.

But it was evasive.

“Well then,” he said, one hand sliding back to rest on his hip, his estoc settling more comfortably against his spine, “you must be mistaken.”

His grin reappeared, softer now but no less deliberate.

“I value life deeply, I’ll have you know. I’m practically sentimental.”

Mireilla stared at him.

Flat.

Silent.

The kind of silence sharpened by decades of dealing with people who liked to dodge the point by painting over it with charm.

Lucavion seemed utterly unfazed. He offered a light shrug, as if wiping the whole conversation clean with a gesture. “Really. I weep at funerals. I cry over spilled wine. I water plants with whispered apologies.”

“…”

“I sang a lullaby to a kraken once.”

“…”

Lucavion’s grin widened.

Mireilla’s arms folded tighter across her chest.

But before she could open her mouth—before she could grind out a response through the rising irritation pressing against her temples—he stepped in again, that glint of interest flickering back to life behind his lashes.

“But you…” he said, voice dipping into that curious lilt again, like he was weighing a coin with each word. “You strike me as the experienced older sister type.”

She blinked.

What?

“You’ve got that look,” Lucavion continued, breezily. “Patient. Calculated. Hair tied back like you’ve just finished wiping someone else’s blood off your boots before breakfast.”

He gave her a once-over, exaggeratedly thoughtful.

“This little junior is getting curious, now. Care to share more of your wisdom, oh seasoned one?”

A vein visibly popped on Mireilla’s temple.

It was faint, but Elayne’s head turned a fraction, as if bracing for an incoming detonation.

“Who is old!?”

She was a woman after all…

———–A/N————

A mistake seems to have occurred in the following chapters.

I am trying to fix them, but the chapters will be delayed. Sorry for the delay.