The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 314

Chapter 314: Chapter 314 – ForgeHeart Crucible (Sylthara)!
The air inside the arena no longer felt like air.

It felt like breath held inside the lungs of a volcano—

thick, burning, vibrating with pressure.

Magma surged and boiled beneath Sylthara’s feet, casting molten light that danced like fire spirits across her obsidian skin. The volcanic stones she stood on groaned and shifted, rising and falling in subtle rhythms, as if the entire battlefield were breathing.

The barrier separating spectators glowed red-orange, humming with so much compressed mana that even seasoned mages felt their skin prickle. Reporters stopped cheering—many forgot to breathe. Even dwarves, famed for their love of fire and flame-forged trials, shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

This was not a spectacle.

This was danger.

—

Elder Thrain’s Voice Cut Through the Heat Like a Hammer on Iron

Standing atop his throne with runes blazing along his armor, Elder Thrain looked down at Sylthara with a grin carved as deep as mountain ridges. Lava jets erupted behind him in tall columns, as if saluting their master.

“DARK ELF GIRL!”

His voice cracked the air.

“This is the Burndown Crucible—a trial where only two things matter.”

He extended a hand toward the magma ocean.

“One: Endurance against the fire’s wrath.

Two: Control over your own destruction.”

A murmur rolled across the stands.

Luca’s eyes narrowed, focusing fully.

Thrain continued:

“The volcanic stones will sink, rise, tilt, and crumble. The magma will lash at your body and mind. The arena will attempt to erase your presence entirely.”

The lava surged, hissing, as if pleased to be acknowledged.

“So in this trial…”

his grin widened, brutal and proud,

“…you must do one thing.”

He slammed a fist into the arm of his throne.

“SURVIVE.”

The magma exploded outward in a fiery ring, molten waves splashing dangerously close to Sylthara’s feet—but she didn’t even blink.

—

On the challengers’ platform—

Luca leaned forward, fists pressed so tightly against the railing that his knuckles whitened.

This is… not just a test of stamina.

It’s a test of… destruction tolerance? Mana resilience? Willpower?

Tower Master’s veil fluttered in the heat, but her posture did not waver.

“Master,” Luca whispered without looking away from Sylthara,

“what exactly is Elder Thrain testing?”

Tower Master answered without shifting her gaze:

“He tests whether she can hold herself together in a battlefield designed to tear her apart.”

Luca’s jaw tightened.

“But… that arena—its mana is corrosive.”

Tower Master nodded once.

“Exactly. That fire isn’t ordinary. It burns the body, the mana flow, the aura, even the shadow of a person.”

Luca’s eyes widened.

Shadow…

He looked back at Sylthara—shadow affinity, standing above a realm where even shadows melted.

“This is a terrible matchup for her…” he muttered.

Tower Master’s eyes glimmered.

“Or the perfect one. Depending on how she uses it.”

—

Sylthara inhaled once.

The smallest breath.

Yet even that breath seemed to ripple through the magma sea, as if the volcano’s pulse slowed to listen.

Her obsidian skin glowed faintly—inky black polished with hints of violet shimmer, reflecting the molten light. The silver strands of her hair lifted with the heat, swaying like flames made of moonlight.

Her golden eyes narrowed, scanning the field.

One…

two…

three volcanic stones shifted beneath her feet.

Her trial had begun.

The First Shift

The stone tilted sharply.

A normal challenger would stumble.

Sylthara did not.

Her body moved like water flowing around a blade—smooth, instinctive. She slid one boot to the raised edge, lowering her center of gravity, arms opening slightly for balance.

The magma spat upward— A column of fire roared toward her side—

—and she stepped sideways, swift as a falling shadow.

Her silhouette blurred.

The fire missed by inches.

A few reporters gasped.

Luca’s eyes widened.

That movement… she didn’t dodge early or late… she dodged at the exact millisecond.

Tower Master whispered,

“Her perception is sharp. Very sharp.”

—

But the arena was far from done.

A violent surge of heat washed upward, intending to erase her shadow.

Sylthara felt it immediately.

Her pupils tightened.

Shadow affinity depended on darkness, contrast, grounding. But here—

the world was light and fire and heat.

Even her own shadow wavered.

Trying to disappear.

Sylthara lifted a hand.

Her dagger slid into her grasp with a whisper-like sound—black metal with a faint purple sheen, forged from deep-night ore she herself had never understood.

Her voice was low.

“Don’t disappear.”

Her shadow flickered, struggling to remain whole— —and then her mana flared.

A dark ripple—thin but sharp—spread beneath her feet. The stone cast a long, unnatural shadow that defied the blazing firelight around it.

Elder Thrain’s eyes gleamed.

“Oho…? She forces shadow in a fire-dominant terrain?”

The magma ocean responded angrily, waves rising taller, hotter, trying to drown the darkness.

—

Several volcanic stones sank at once.

Others shot upward.

The entire arena became a churning, unpredictable hellscape.

Sylthara leapt.

Her body arced through the air—obsidian skin catching the magma light like a shard of midnight glass. The dagger sliced downward, trailing a faint dark crescent, anchoring shadow into the stone she landed on.

The fire lunged again—vicious streams of burning mana snapping toward her like flaming whips.

Sylthara ducked under one, spun away from another.

Her movements were graceful, efficient—

not frantic.

She was calm.

Breathing slow.

Eyes sharp.

Step precise.

Like this inferno was merely a dance floor she had grown up on.

—

“She’s… incredible,” Luca whispered.

He hadn’t even realized how tightly his fingertips pressed into the railing until Selena placed a hand lightly over his wrist.

“She’s not panicking,” Selena murmured.

“She never panics,” Luca corrected softly.

Tower Master nodded.

“Shadow element is not her weakness. It is her mirror. And this fire—this destructive landscape—only highlights whether a shadow can find a place to exist.”

She paused.

“And she is forcing that place into existence.”

Luca clenched his jaw, feeling adrenaline pumping.

So this is Sylthara… when she fights without holding back.

—

The magma surged higher—so high it licked the edges of her platform.

Heat slammed into her legs.

Sylthara’s skin glowed with faint purple veins—shadow mana pushed to its limit. Instead of retreating, she stepped forward, leaned into the heat, and infused more mana into her dagger.

The blade gleamed.

Her shadow surged upward—forming a thin crescent barrier.

A fire wave crashed onto her—

—and broke.

Split cleanly down the middle as if cut by invisible shears.

Reporters screamed.

Nobles shot to their feet.

Dwarves HOWLED.

Elder Thrain grinned like a man seeing a legend unfold.

And Sylthara…

…stood unburnt.

Unshaken.

Her golden eyes glowed.

Her obsidian skin reflected the firelight like a warrior carved from darkness itself.

She whispered to no one—maybe to the fire, maybe to herself:

“Try harder.”

And the Burndown Crucible roared in answer.

The arena obeyed her challenge with terrifying immediacy.

The magma didn’t just surge —

it erupted.

A tidal wave of molten fire exploded upward, drowning half the battlefield in blazing gold. Several floating stones were swallowed whole, turning to ash in seconds.

And on the remaining stones—

Sylthara ran.

Fast.

Too fast for most spectators to track.

Her silhouette streaked from one platform to another, each step landing only long enough to propel her into another impossible leap.

But the Crucible was faster.

Lava geysers snapped upward like jaws.

Flame pillars spiraled like serpents.

Heat mirages twisted reality.

Smoldering rune chains lashed out from the depths, trying to hook onto her shadow and drag her downward.

The trial wasn’t just attacking her.

It was learning her.

Studying her rhythm.

Adjusting its timing.

Predicting her next move.

The dwarven elders noticed immediately.

Elder Hilda’s braid lifted in the heat as she muttered,

“…The fire is matching her steps.”

Elder Brokk leaned forward.

“That’s new. Thrain—what did you forge this arena with?”

Elder Thrain only smirked, hammer resting lazily on his thigh, beard glowing with ember-light.

“A forge grows sharper when honed against good ore.”

Down below—

Sylthara felt the shift before she saw it.

A shadow flickered wrong behind her—

and she turned just in time for a flaming rune chain to whip across her torso.

CRACK—!!!

The sound echoed like a broken bell.

Sylthara’s body jerked violently.

Heat ripped through her ribs, carving a blistered line across her obsidian skin.

She slid across a platform—

almost fell—

caught herself—

and gasped sharply.

For the first time…

She staggered.

Her knees bent.

Her dagger trembled in her grip.

Her breath, once calm and measured, now dragged in ragged, painful shudders.

Luca’s heart stopped.

“SYLTHARA—!!”

He slammed both palms against the barrier so hard the protective runes flared angrily.

Selena rose from her seat, eyes wide.

Even the Tower Master leaned forward—not much, but enough for her sleeve to shift.

The arena was merciless.

Another stone sank beneath Sylthara’s feet.

Two more cracked apart.

Heatwaves slammed into her back like hammer blows.

Her vision blurred around the edges.

This heat…

This endless, suffocating fire…

Her shadow flickered.

Her dagger dimmed.

Her legs trembled—

just a little—

then more—

And then the Crucible struck again.

A spiraling flame swept across the arena, aimed directly at her midsection.

Sylthara tried to pivot—

But her injured ribs seized.

Her footing slipped.

And the flame hit her full force.

FWOOM—!!!

Her body flew—

over one platform—

over another—

then struck a stone so hard it cracked beneath her.

She collapsed to her knees, coughing something dark and wet.

Her dagger clattered beside her, its black metal twitching as if trying to reform a shadow that the fire kept burning away.

Her arms shook violently.

Her breath wouldn’t come.

Her head fell forward.

And for a moment—

the arena seemed to tilt around her.

Luca’s voice broke.

“Sylthara—… Please—get up…”

Selena watched with clenched fists.

Lilliane, unconscious in the infirmary, twitched as if sensing something.

Even the dwarves stopped muttering.

Elder Thrain’s grin faded.

He exhaled heavily.

“…It seems,” he murmured, scratching his beard,”this trial has ended as well.”

A sad rumble.

A warrior’s disappointment.

He raised a hand to dispel the trial—

And then the impossible happened.

A soft hum—

barely audible—

vibrated from Sylthara’s chest.

Not fire.

Not shadow.

Not anything recognizable.

A small sphere of faint, pale-golden light drifted upward from her sternum.

Not blazing.

Not dramatic.

Just a gentle glow.

Alive.

Warm.

Steady.

Luca’s eyes widened so sharply he nearly fell forward.

“…No way…”

His pulse spiked.

That glow—

that familiar soft resonance—

that gentle mana that hummed like leaves in the wind—

He had seen it once before.

World Tree’s essence.

But not the tree itself.

Not its past.

Just the echo that lived inside the chosen.

“…Sylthara…” he whispered, voice trembling.

The essence drifted over her wounds—

touching the cracked ribs—

the burned skin—

the dark blood running down her arm.

Everything it touched…

Healed.

Not instantly.

Not like divine light.

But with slow, natural restoration—like a forest reclaiming a scorched field.

Her shadow stabilized.

Her mana flow smoothed.

Her breathing deepened.

Her vision sharpened.

The spectators gasped.

Reporters nearly dropped their cameras.

Elders stood up as one.

Elder Huldor whispered,

“Impossible…”

Elder Hilda’s eyes widened.

“Is that ancient mana…?”

Tower Master stared, veil trembling faintly.

“That isn’t… normal healing.”

And Luca…

Luca felt his heart slam against his ribs.

She’s… evolving.

Not through power.

Through survival.

Through sheer refusal to die.

Sylthara slowly rose to her feet.

Her obsidian skin now glowed with faint streaks of green light—

like vines of mana weaving through stone.

Her golden eyes sharpened, pupils narrowing to razor points.

She picked up her dagger.

Its blade, once dim, now pulsed with deep, vibrant violet—shadow infused with that strange healing essence.

The magma roared again—

but this time, it did not swallow her whole.

Her shadow deepened beneath her.

Her aura sharpened like a blade.

And Sylthara whispered into the inferno—

“Try harder.”

Again.

But this time—

the fire listened.

And bowed.