Shattered Innocence: Transmigrated Into a Novel as an Extra

Chapter 831: Breakpoint

Valeria stood at the edge of the terrace, unmoving.

Her breath had stopped somewhere in the middle of that final clash. Her fingers, pale against the marble railing, dug just slightly into the stone—pressing down to keep herself grounded in this moment that felt too vast, too charged, too alive to be real.

The draw was announced.

But her ears barely registered it.

Her eyes were wide. Unblinking.

Because what she had just witnessed wasn’t a duel.

It was a revelation.

Not a show of strength. Not a contest of pride.

It was a conversation between souls. Between two blades.

And her own sword, resting at her side like ceremonial jewelry, felt suddenly loud in its silence.

No—it wasn’t silent.

It was calling her.

A quiet tug in her chest. A pull that started as awe, bled into hunger, and settled deep into the marrow of something wordless.

For the first time in her life, Valeria wished she hadn’t been born a noble.

Not because of shame.

But because the weight of her blood, her name, her posture—all of it—felt suddenly like a wall between her and the kind of freedom she’d just seen.

That fight—

It hadn’t followed the rules.

It had dismantled them.

Rowen’s sword had been breathtaking—resonant, regal, forged through legacy and discipline. And Lucavion’s?

Lucavion’s was chaos made art.

Wounds wrapped in rhythm. Defiance dressed in steel.

Together, they hadn’t just fought—they had spoken in a language that no title, no lineage, no one had ever taught her.

She wanted to answer it.

She had never wanted to swing her sword more in her entire life.

Every part of her, from the knots of muscle in her shoulders to the stillness in her gut, buzzed with the urge to move.

To draw her blade and test something.

Not to fight.

To reach.

To stretch past the stagnation she hadn’t wanted to admit, the dull edges that had begun to form on her instincts despite how hard she’d trained.

Because she had been training.

Endlessly.

She had been refining her footwork. Studying combat theory. Cultivating night after night until her core began to pulse with depth.

And still, her sword had felt like it was waiting for something.

Now, she knew what.

This.

This was the thing her blade had been missing.

Not power.

Not prestige.

But this.

That fight didn’t unfold like a spar or a contest. It unfurled like a truth being cut open.

And it was that truth that stirred the hunger in her—burning now behind her ribs, climbing up her spine, tightening in her throat until it almost felt like tears.

’So that’s it…’

Her eyes dropped briefly to her palm—one that had wielded countless forms, one that had parried hundreds of strikes.

And yet, it had never shaken like this.

She closed her hand slowly into a fist.

This was an eye-opener.

Not because she’d seen something greater than her.

But because she’d remembered the feeling when she picked up the sword in the first time.

It was not a feeling one felt when…

To prove oneself…

Or to restore their family….

It was a feeling that she was feeling right now.

To chase a horizon that could never be fully grasped.

To carve through silence and find herself in the echo.

Valeria breathed in deeply, her jaw clenched, eyes still locked on the field below.

At that time when she was watching….

Initially, she was watching just to see Lucavion’s current prowess and Rowen as well.

…And then, it clicked.

Not in sound.

But in sense.

When Rowen had stepped into that final form—when his blade spiraled like a dancer’s ribbon, each movement deliberate, breathless, beautiful—Valeria hadn’t just admired it.

She recognized it.

Not as a technique she had studied. Not from the pages of Drayke forms or noble archives.

But in her body.

Her breath had matched his without realizing.

Her pulse had synchronized with that rhythm.

It wasn’t Rowen she was mimicking.

It was something inside herself that stirred when she saw him move.

And then—Lucavion.

When he moved…

When his eyes locked onto Rowen’s spiral, dissecting its elegance, analyzing its rhythm only to shatter it with a cut no form could contain—

Her hand had tingled.

Not from nerves.

From resonance.

A phantom twitch, just under the surface of her palm. A tremor that made her fingers itch for a hilt. Her mana pathways—normally slow to stir in calm—had flowed to her limbs like heat to metal, unbidden.

She hadn’t seen that motion before.

But her body wanted to follow it.

Her bones responded not like a noble observing swordplay, but like a swordswoman hearing a song.

Her sword had never sung to her before.

But now?

Now it hummed.

A low note. An unfinished line of melody. Not quite resonance. But not silence either.

Something was opening.

For the first time in what felt like years, Valeria felt like she wasn’t chasing echoes of other people’s legacies. She wasn’t trying to recover what was lost in the Olarion downfall. She wasn’t trying to prove herself worthy of some inherited myth.

She was moving forward.

Not back.

Not up.

Forward.

Toward a path she couldn’t name.

And somehow—somehow—it didn’t matter that she hadn’t touched [Sword Resonance] yet.

Because for the first time, she wasn’t waiting for it to come from her family’s blood.

Or a title.

Or permission.

It would come from her.

She didn’t have to imitate Rowen.

She didn’t have to rival Lucavion.

She just had to step in.

That feeling—when her fingers twitched in response to Lucavion’s pivot, when her breath caught in rhythm with Rowen’s flow—that was her sword reacting.

That was her answer.

The echo had reached her.

And now—she would answer back.

Valeria’s grip loosened slowly from the railing.

Her gaze lifted, no longer stunned, no longer wide with awe—but sharp with focus.

Determined.

That alone was enough.

****

Lucavion’s intervention didn’t just catch Priscilla off guard.

It unsettled her.

She had been bracing herself—not for help, but for isolation. For the shame that would settle in quietly like fog, for the slow stitching of composure after another scene she couldn’t control. And yet, when Thalor’s spell wrapped around her throat like a collar of silence, it hadn’t been the guards who moved. Not Rowen. Not the courtiers.

It had been Lucavion.

And not just sensing it—that would’ve been impressive enough. Thalor’s spells were refined, cloaked, nearly imperceptible. Most mages wouldn’t have picked it up unless they were targeted themselves.

But Lucavion had.

He’d sensed it.

And then he acted.

That was the part she couldn’t explain. Why?

Because he had no reason to. No political alignment with her. No social favor to gain. If anything, defending her now was risky—publicly and privately. Lucien would take it as rebellion. Thalor had already twisted it as provocation.

She should have been angry.

Should have been humiliated all over again.

And yet—

There had been something terrifyingly precise in how Lucavion diffused it. No flourish. No declarations. Just… presence. A smile. A flick of his mana. A single well-timed line:

| “I suppose I’ve become a little sensitive to mana.” |

It was surgical.

Calculated.

But underneath it all, she couldn’t shake the knot forming in her stomach. Because if he really was as calculated as he appeared, then that means he intervened for a reason.

And that reason—it couldn’t be pity. Not from Lucavion.

Not from him.

So what, then?

’Did I cause this? Again?’

It was a quiet thought. A guilty one. One that clawed against the edges of her pride.

She didn’t want to be the reason someone else got hurt.

She didn’t want to owe anything. Not to him. Not after everything.

Yet, it had happened, but this scene….

She really was not expecting that.

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