The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 297

Chapter 297: Chapter 297 – “Still burning in the fire!”
Night had claimed the dwarven capital.

The sun had long slipped behind the mountain’s spine, leaving the arena bathed only in the glow of fire—soft in places, violent in others. The forges beneath the coliseum still breathed, rumbling like sleeping giants; molten veins snaked through the cracks in the arena floor, and the air shimmered with fading heat.

The stands were empty now—no cheers, no drums, no stomping boots. Just stone… and the lingering echo of history forged only hours ago.

High above it all, on the elevated platform carved of obsidian and rune-etched steel, the Seven Dwarven Elders remained. Their silhouettes were tall and immovable against the burning sky, cloaks fluttering in a faint updraft of heat that made every shadow dance like fire spirits bowing at their feet.

Elder Brokk cracked his neck loudly—the sound echoing like snapping boulders—as he leaned against his hammer.

“Well,” he grunted, his voice as rough as gravel grinding under iron. “How much time has it been since we’ve seen something like… that?”

Before anyone else could speak, Gromm Stoneback snorted—short, loud, utterly unfiltered.

“From what?” he shot back with a grin. “Your old bones burning away in whatever forge you all are cooped in?”

A beat.

And then the elders erupted into laughter—deep, hearty, unrestrained. Their voices reverberated through the platform, bouncing off stone pillars and igniting sparks in the air. Even Elder Hilda Flamehair laughed so hard her hair beads rattled like wind chimes struck by a storm.

But when the laughter died, Elder Huldor Forgevein groaned, rubbing his temples as though that alone might shield him from Hilda’s burning enthusiasm. His runic robes flickered faintly from the heat she was giving off.

“Hilda,” he muttered, voice dripping with weariness, “why in the blazing mines are you so damned happy? You’ve been grinning since that girl crawled out of a fireball big enough to roast a mountain goat.”

Hilda straightened her spine with the pride of an old war general, her broad chest swelling with triumph as flames flickered proudly around her shoulders.

“Happy?” she sneered—eyes gleaming like molten rubies. “Of course I’m happy! I’ve gained a disciple more precious than dragonfire and more talented than any brat born in our Great dwarven Clans!”

She threw her arms wide, fire curling around her wrists like obedient serpents.

“That girl,” she boomed, “that brilliant spark—performed an Infernal Metamorphosis! Do any of you understand how long it has been since we even whispered that term?”

A gust of flame spiraled upward behind her, painting the sky ember-red.

“That lass will write her own legend,” she said fiercely, voice trembling with genuine excitement. “And I—I will shape her flame into something the world will bow to.”

Brokk and Duram exchanged glances—half proud, half exasperated—but even they couldn’t deny the truth in her words.

Elder Duram, Keeper of the Great Furnace, stroked his beard thoughtfully, sparks falling like dust from ancient coals.

“And that boy… Kyle,” he rumbled. “He was not bad either. Foolish… reckless… but that kind of tenacity? It’s been years since I’ve seen a human stand against the arena like that.”

Elder Varrim Ironpulse folded his arms, his armor clanking softly. He grunted, nodding in agreement.

“Hmph. True. The Iron Duke must be blessed by the ancestors to have such grandchildren.” His eyes narrowed slightly, his tone turning contemplative. “But I wonder about the rest of the youngsters who came with them.”

His gaze swept the empty arena floor.

“They can’t all repeat what happened today.” His lips curled into a smirk as he turned slightly, fixing his attention on the largest figure among them. “Isn’t that right, Elder Thrain?”

All six elders shifted subtly—barely a motion, yet filled with anticipation—because Elder Thrain had been silent since the battles ended.

The flames around him burned taller, more controlled, more dangerous—like they feared him more than the other elders.

Thrain didn’t respond immediately. He stood with his arms crossed, posture rigid, eyes fixed on the dying flames of the arena below… as though still analyzing something the others had missed.

Finally, after what felt like the mountain itself holding its breath, he spoke.

“Don’t be so sure of that.”

His voice carried no humor—only certainty.

The other elders stiffened.

Hilda’s brows shot up.

Brokk frowned deeply.

Varrim shifted his stance, arms unfolding.

Only Gromm Stoneback spoke—his expression slowly beginning to mirror Thrain’s seriousness.

“You’re talking about that violet-haired boy… aren’t you?”

The embers around the elders flared—sensing something deeper was about to ignite.

The Elders shifted their attention to Gromm as Hilda’s fiery braids swayed forward with her movement. Her eyes, still bright with the residual glow of her disciple’s awakening, narrowed in curiosity.

“Do you mean,” she asked, planting a fist on her hip as sparks dangled from her beard rings, “that brat who had the audacity to hold my disciple’s hand as if she were some dainty elf princess?”

Her tone wasn’t angry—more incredulous, almost amused—but the question carried genuine interest.

Gromm nodded once, slow and deliberate, arms folding across his barrel-like chest. “Aye. That one.”

A faint huff escaped him, a sound between disbelief and grudging admiration.

“He was the only one among that group who knew of the Forgeheart Crucible. While the others fidgeted and lost their tempers, that brat stood there calmly—almost like he expected everything.” His thick lips curled upward, revealing teeth like chipped stone. “And more than that…”

A glint sharpened in his eyes, half challenge, half delight.

“That brat dared to look down on me.”

The laughter from earlier died instantly.

Several elders straightened subtly—Hilda’s eyebrows shot up; Varrim let out a low whistle; Brokk’s beard twitched as if he wasn’t sure he heard correctly.

“You?” Duram muttered, staring at Gromm as if trying to measure the size of the courage—or madness—required. “He looked down on you?”

Gromm simply grinned broader, cracking one knuckle after another, each pop echoing like distant hammers.

The entire council turned toward Thrain then, questions simmering in the air. Gromm was the one who voiced what they all wanted to know, leaning forward slightly as the firelight carved harsh shadows across his jaw.

“How do you know him, Thrain? You’re too calm about this boy.”

Thrain’s eyes stayed fixed on the molten arena floor as though replaying a memory. When he spoke, his voice was deep and steady, but there was a weight beneath it—not fear, but recognition.

“I saw that brat during my last visitation to the Empire’s capital,” he said. “He wasn’t some nameless child. He was the primary contributor to the Beastridge Mountain incident.”

The reaction was immediate.

Several elders inhaled sharply; Hilda’s flames flickered higher; Varrim nearly stepped back in shock.

“The Beastridge incident?” Brokk’s voice trembled—not with fear, but with sheer astonishment. “The one where a corrupted dragon was subdued? That was him?”

Thrain finally lifted his gaze, meeting theirs with a seriousness that tightened the atmosphere around them.

“And according to the latest reports,” he continued, “that boy also played a critical role in resolving the Elven Forest crisis.”

This time, the silence was thicker—heavier—like molten metal cooling into solid steel.

Hilda was the first who managed to find her voice. “Are you telling us,” she murmured, brows knitting, “that a human teenager was involved in two calamities of continental scale within a year?”

Thrain’s expression barely changed, but the smallest flicker in his eyes revealed a truth beneath the stoicism: even he struggled to believe how far that boy’s shadow reached.

“And…” he added quietly, “there are claims he holds elemental affinity for Time and Space.”

A collective exhale went through the elders—disbelief, awe, and wariness woven into that single breath.

Those were not elements.

They were stories.

Myths.

Concepts no mortal was ever meant to wield.

Huldor slowly dragged a hand down his braided beard, eyes widening with something dangerously close to reverence. “Time and Space… By the first forge, that’s something even our oldest records barely dare speak of.”

Gromm, who had been half amused and half intrigued until now, broke into a wide grin that radiated pure warrior delight. His thick fingers cracked loudly as he flexed them.

“Well then…” he rumbled, excitement igniting under his voice, “now I’m truly looking forward to seeing what that boy can do. I haven’t felt anticipation like this in a century.”

A few chuckles rippled around, but they were faint, dimmed by the enormity of what Thrain had revealed. Soon after, one by one, the elders descended from the platform—exchanging nods, muttering their farewells, the flames reflecting in their eyes like the birth of a new age.

Eventually, only Thrain and Huldor remained.

The arena below flickered with soft golden light, embers drifting like tired fireflies. A profound stillness wrapped around them—one that felt strangely intimate after the crowd’s thunder.

Huldor exhaled, a long, weary breath that fogged faintly in the cooling air. “How is he?” he asked softly, the question slipping out like a burden he’d been holding in his chest.

Thrain didn’t turn to him. His massive frame remained rigid, hands clasped behind his back in an attempt at appearing composed.

“Still burning in the fire,” he said, voice deceptively calm.

But Huldor’s eyes dropped immediately to Thrain’s fists.

Both were clenched—tight enough that the veins along his forearms bulged, trembling subtly beneath the skin.

For dwarves, whose bodies were shaped in fire, such tension could only mean one thing: emotion too deep to show.

Huldor’s shoulders slumped faintly as he sighed, the sound weighted with a mix of regret and helplessness. “Why don’t we let him out? He’s suffered long enough.”

Thrain’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching once before he forced his voice to remain flat.

“You know he won’t stop,” he answered. “Not until…”

His words dissolved, swallowed by the crackling torches.

A brief silence stretched between them.

Thrain finally exhaled through his nose and finished quietly, “He’ll only cause trouble—and nothing more—if we release him too early.”

Neither elder spoke again.

But the flames seemed to flicker with unspoken grief.

***

Luca stood leaning against the cold stone railing, his elbows resting lightly upon it, fingers tapping absently as he gazed at the darkness. The air was cooler now — no molten winds, no roaring crowd — just a quiet stillness broken by the distant pulse of city flames, their glow reflected faintly in his eyes. The weight of the day rested heavily on his shoulders, but in the silence he allowed himself to breathe, if only slightly.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him — measured, precise, and familiar — before Selena appeared at his side. She didn’t announce herself; she simply stopped a breath away, her posture straight, her pale hair catching the faint forge-light like strands of silver frost. Her arms were loosely crossed over her chest, but Luca could see the slight stiffness in her fingers, the subtle tightening of her jaw — tells she would never admit were signs of worry.

Her voice came out as cool as ever, smooth and composed, yet a small, almost imperceptible tremor softened the edges of her tone.

“How long until they awaken?”

Luca let the question linger for a moment before he turned his head. His gaze drifted through the doorway of their resting chamber where the faint glow of mana-crystals illuminated two resting figures. Aurelia lay closest to the window, wrapped in bandages glowing faintly from healing salves, her fiery hair dimmed to a soft auburn as it spilled across the pillow. Kyle lay further in, his torso wrapped tightly and his arms resting at awkward angles, his breathing shallow but steady. The room smelled faintly of herbs, burnt cloth, and lingering embers.

“I hope soon enough,” Luca answered quietly, his voice carrying a softness. His eyes lingered on Aurelia a heartbeat longer — a mixture of worry, pride, and deep relief flickering in their depth — before he drew in a slow breath and turned back to the balcony’s edge.

Selena followed his gaze briefly, her lips pressing together in a thin line before she shifted her eyes back toward the sky. The forge-light cast sharp shadows across her face, emphasizing the cool determination settling over her features.

“I will be the one challenging the trial tomorrow,” she said, the words steady and certain, though Luca caught the faint rise of her shoulders — the smallest exhale of tension released into the night.

He looked at her fully then, taking in the poised way she held herself, the resolve shining like ice in her amethyst eyes, and he offered a calm, assured nod.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” he replied. The warmth in his voice wasn’t loud or dramatic, but it was enough — enough for Selena’s expression to soften by just a fraction, enough for her eyes to flicker with quiet acceptance as the night held the two of them in silent understanding.

The forge fires below continued to burn.

Tomorrow, a new flame would be tested.