Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra-Chapter 656: Lucavion (3)

Selphine's voice cut through the tension like a thread drawn taut.

"Oh… It's that guy from the terrace!"

Aurelian blinked and leaned forward so fast his napkin fluttered off the table. "Wait—what? Where—?"

The projection hovering above the plaza shifted sharply—refocusing on one of the six relic zones: a clearing surrounded by colossal root-bridges, the air thick with ambient mana. And there, standing at the very center beneath an ancient tree still humming with radiant energy, was—

Him.

The same smirk.

The same unruly sweep of black hair, parted just enough to reveal sharp cheekbones and an expression that danced between amusement and challenge. His eyes—pitch black, deeper than ink—held the same unreadable depth they had when he faced down nobility with a smile and a sword.

And there it was again—his blade.

Long. Sleek. An estoc forged without excess, glimmering with a thin sheen of mana that caught the light not like fire, but like clarity. Poised in his hand with such ease it barely looked like he held it at all.

And nestled on his shoulder like royalty: the white cat. frёewebnoѵēl.com

Still curled. Still yawning lazily. Its tail flicked once in perfect dismissal of the chaos gathering around them.

Aurelian exhaled. "Stars above… he's actually claiming one."

Selphine narrowed her eyes, scanning the scene. Around the boy, other contestants were already approaching—some cautiously, others with clear aggression. Yet he didn't move. Didn't posture. Just stood there, loose-limbed and completely, infuriatingly at ease.

Elara didn't breathe.

Or if she did, it was shallow—measured not by instinct, but necessity.

Her gaze locked onto the figure in the projection, unblinking. Not a flicker of doubt in her eyes now. Not a whisper of disbelief. Just the slow, inevitable shift of something ancient cracking inside her chest.

"It's him…" she whispered.

Her voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.

"Luca," she said, barely above a breath. "He's alive."

And with the words came the rush.

The memory.

The vortex screaming open like a god's open mouth, the sky turned wrong, Cedric too far, everyone too late—and Luca, standing behind her one moment, and in front of her the next. Shoving her back. Not with anger. Not with fear. Just a look.

A smile.

"You're not ready to play hero just yet."

And then he was gone.

She had thought—

Gods, she had thought—

She hadn't let herself hope. Not really. Not past the first few weeks. Not when the search parties returned empty, not when the tides returned his cloak, not when even Eveline had gone quiet on the matter.

And now—

Now he stood in front of a relic stone with that same impossible smirk and a cat, as though he hadn't walked into the abyss at all.

As though he meant to come back.

"Elowyn?" Selphine's voice was quieter now, more careful.

But she didn't look at them. Not yet.

She watched the way Luca shifted his weight casually, the estoc glinting with restless promise in his hand as three contestants began circling him. He didn't tense. Didn't even fully acknowledge them.

Just smiled.

Like the world was still a game.

'You idiot,' she thought, something bitter and sharp curling through her throat. 'You stupid, arrogant, impossible idiot—'

But beneath it, quieter—aching—

'You're alive.'

And she didn't know what to think at all.

The moment settled around Elara like the hush after a storm—thick with weight, trembling with something unspoken. Her fingers remained lightly wrapped around the teacup, but she no longer tasted the warmth. Her gaze was still locked on the illusion feed as Luca stood beneath that relic tree, his posture a picture of maddening ease, the kind that tugged at memory like a half-finished song.

He looked just the same.

The hair, the smirk, the deliberate weightlessness in the way he held his weapon—as if the blade itself floated on amusement.

And yet…

The scar was gone.

That faint, silver-etched reminder that used to slash across his right brow—gone as though it had never existed.

Now, she could see his whole face more clearly. The contours were still him, unmistakable, but there was something…

'Familiar.'

Too familiar. In the way a melody haunts you even if you've never quite heard it before.

Elara blinked and inhaled slowly, suppressing the sudden flutter in her chest. 'Focus, don't spiral.'

She shoved the odd recognition aside, folding it down like parchment in a drawer not meant to be opened.

"...So?" Selphine asked finally, her voice cutting through the fog. Calm, but not without care. "Now that you've seen him... is he the same person you knew?"

Elara didn't answer right away. Her lips parted, but no sound came.

Not because she didn't have thoughts.

But because too many rose at once.

Her hands, resting gently on the edge of the table, curled just slightly—barely perceptible, unless you knew her well. She tilted her head, still watching the projection where Lucavion—Luca—now shifted slightly to intercept another approaching contender.

The movement was unmistakable. A tilt of the blade, a lean into threat, but not fully engaged.

He was baiting them.

Testing pressure. Judging breath. Reading every twitch like a page.

Just like before.

Elara exhaled, quiet but deep, letting the breath ground her.

"...Yes," she said finally. "He's him."

Selphine raised a brow. "That's not exactly a rousing affirmation."

"No," Elara murmured, a wry edge touching her voice. "But it's honest. He moves the same. Fights the same. Holds power like it's a language only he speaks."

"But?" Selphine pressed gently.

Elara's eyes flicked toward her, then back to the screen. "But something's different."

She didn't elaborate.

Because how could she?

How could she explain the strange shift in her chest when she looked into his face? The ghost of recognition that didn't belong—not to memory, not to their past, but to something older. Something deeper, nestled just beneath conscious thought.

A thing her instincts noticed before her mind could name it.

Aurelian leaned forward suddenly, his elbow knocking his teacup just slightly—but not enough to spill it. His eyes had narrowed, caught on a flicker in the illusion-feed's edge.

"Oh, wait," he said, the words slipping out in a low hum of intrigue. "Fight's about to break out."

Selphine arched an eyebrow. "Another one?"

"No—look." Aurelian pointed, half-rising from his chair, eyes gleaming now with the thrill of spectacle. "That's her. The illusionist from the third-tier trials. The dual-daggerist."

Elara followed his gaze as the projection shifted again, drawn to the sudden change in mana pressure and momentum inside the relic clearing. The light around the ancient tree shimmered with residual radiance, and just outside its core perimeter—a ripple. A blur of shadow and steel.

Selphine's mouth parted, recognition sparking in her voice. "That's Elayne Cors."

Aurelian grinned. "Blade of Nothing."

Elara's brow twitched upward at the nickname, but she said nothing. She remembered the name. How could she not? Elayne Cors, the commoner-born specter from the lower city districts. No noble backing. No house seal. Just a reputation built off clean kills, failed scrying attempts, and a body count that moved in silence.

Her tagline, whispered through every betting hall during the pre-trials, had become legend.

"I don't speak. I end."

And now—

There she was.

A flicker.

A distortion in the air, barely visible—until she chose to be.

Her form blinked into partial view like a mirage breaking through haze. Twin crescent daggers gleamed in either hand, one held backward, the other in a forward grip, both coated in a faint sheen of mana so sharp it sliced the surrounding light itself. She didn't posture. Didn't taunt. She moved.

Straight for Luca.

On the projection, he shifted. Slowly. Calmly. His blade angled down, his body turning just enough to face her without taking a true stance.

And yet the tension was already razor-fine.

"I really want to see the guy you spoke that highly of…."