The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 315

Chapter 315: Chapter 315 – “You did not endure the Burndown Crucible.”
The heat receded.

Not violently.

Not all at once.

Like a great beast settling back into sleep, the magma beneath the arena sank, its furious glow dimming to dull crimson before sealing itself beneath layers of blackstone. The volcanic stones that had risen and fallen like the ribs of a living creature lowered themselves obediently, locking back into the familiar geometry of the Forgeheart Arena.

The barrier shimmered once—twice—and dissolved into motes of fading light.

Normality returned.

And somehow, it felt unreal.

Sylthara still stood at the center of the arena.

Her chest rose and fell in heavy, uneven breaths. Heat haze clung faintly to her obsidian skin, sweat tracing slow lines along her temples and collarbone. Her dagger hung loosely at her side, its point nearly touching the ground, her fingers barely strong enough to keep hold of it.

Exhausted.

Burned.

Barely standing.

Yet her golden eyes were sharp—locked unflinchingly onto the high platform where Elder Thrain sat.

The sun dipped low beyond the open ceiling of the arena, bathing the stone in deep amber and gold. Long shadows stretched across the ground, converging at Sylthara’s feet as if the world itself acknowledged her presence.

No one spoke.

Dwarves, humans, nobles, reporters—tens of thousands of voices held in check by something heavier than awe.

Silence.

Then—

A sound broke it.

A low chuckle.

Rumbling.

Measured.

Dangerously pleased.

The chuckle grew, deepening into laughter that rolled like thunder through the arena. Elder Thrain leaned back on his throne, one massive hand slapping against the armrest as his laughter swelled, echoing off the stone walls until even the ground seemed to vibrate in response.

“Hahahaha—!”

The crowd flinched.

Then Elder Thrain leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes blazing with fierce approval as he looked down at Sylthara.

“DARK ELF,” he boomed, voice carrying easily across the arena now that the Crucible’s roar had faded. “You did not endure the Burndown Crucible.”

His grin widened—proud, fierce, unrestrained.

“You conquered it.”

A wave of stunned realization rippled through the stands.

Luca’s breath caught.

Selena’s eyes widened a fraction, sharp focus snapping fully back onto Sylthara.

Elder Thrain rose to his feet, towering even from the platform, his voice lowering—not in volume, but in gravity.

“You stood where shadows should not exist… and forced them to remain. You bled, burned, broke—yet refused to fall.”

His gaze sharpened, heavy with the weight of centuries of trials.

“This trial acknowledges you.”

For a heartbeat, Sylthara didn’t react.

Then the tension finally left her body.

Her dagger slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stone.

Her knees buckled.

She collapsed forward.

“SYLTHARA!”

Luca was already moving.

He vaulted the railing without hesitation, Selena right behind him, both hitting the arena floor at a run. Luca caught Sylthara just before her body struck the stone, one arm wrapping around her shoulders, the other supporting her legs as she went completely limp.

Unconscious.

Alive—but utterly spent.

Selena knelt immediately, checking her pulse, her jaw tightening before she nodded sharply.

“She’s breathing. Stable. Just… drained.”

Luca exhaled shakily, relief flooding through him as he adjusted his grip, pulling Sylthara closer to his chest.

Around them, the arena exploded.

Not into chaos—but celebration.

Dwarves leapt to their feet, fists slamming against stone railings, boots stomping in thunderous approval.

“HAHA! DID YOU SEE THAT?!” “A SHADOW THAT STOOD AGAINST FIRE!” “ELDER THRAIN ACKNOWLEDGED HER—THAT’S NO SMALL THING!”

The cheers grew louder, raw and honest, echoing with a pride that transcended race or origin.

Even some of the older dwarves—those who had scoffed earlier—nodded grimly, respect carved deep into their expressions.

The human nobles, on the other hand, reacted very differently.

Some leaned back in their seats, brows furrowed, calculating.

Others whispered urgently to attendants, eyes never leaving the unconscious Dark Elf in Luca’s arms.

A few smiled thinly.

Dangerous smiles.

The announcer stepped forward at last, his voice magically amplified, barely containing his excitement.

“WHAT A DISPLAY!” he shouted. “A trial survived against impossible odds! THE BURNDOWN CRUCIBLE ACKNOWLEDGES ITS CHALLENGER!”

The crowd roared again.

“And with that—!” he continued, raising a hand for silence. “That concludes today’s trials! TOMORROW WILL BE THE FINAL DAY OF THE FORGEHEART CRUCIBLE!”

The cheers that followed were deafening.

As the arena slowly began to empty, Luca lifted Sylthara fully into his arms. She weighed less than he expected—light, fragile now that the fire had released her.

He looked down at her face, peaceful in exhaustion, silver hair clinging lightly to her cheek.

When I first met her…

Even back then, her potential was already terrifying.

His thoughts drifted, brushing against memories he deliberately refused to finish forming—something ancient, something that had once pulled her back from the brink.

He shook his head subtly.

Whatever it is… it chose her.

The Tower Master joined them quietly, her gaze lingering on Sylthara for a long moment before she turned away, veil hiding whatever thoughts stirred beneath.

Together, they left the arena.

Behind them, the dwarven crowd—satisfied, exhilarated—slowly dispersed, voices loud with retellings of fire and shadow, of a Dark Elf who refused to be erased.

And above the emptying Forgeheart Arena, the sun finally set.

Tomorrow would be the final day.

—

The infirmary was quieter than the arena—but not calmer.

The air smelled faintly of herbs and heated stone, the dwarven healer’s poultices releasing thin trails of steam that curled lazily toward the ceiling. Soft orange mana-lamps lined the walls, their glow steady and reassuring, casting long shadows across rows of stone beds carved smooth by centuries of use.

Luca stepped in first, Sylthara held carefully in his arms.

Selena followed close behind, her expression guarded, eyes scanning the room on instinct. The Tower Master entered last, her presence alone enough to make the dwarven attendants straighten their backs unconsciously.

Two beds were already occupied.

Aurelia lay on the one closest to the wall, her crimson hair fanned out against the pillow, bandages wrapped neatly around her torso and shoulder. Her breathing was steady—but deep, unresponsive.

On the bed beside her lay Kyle.

Also unconscious.

Luca slowed, his jaw tightening slightly at the sight, before gently lowering Sylthara onto an empty bed between them. He was careful—almost reverent—adjusting her position, tucking her silver hair away from her face, making sure her breathing wasn’t obstructed.

A stout dwarven healer hurried over immediately, thick fingers already glowing faintly with diagnostic runes. He ran practiced hands over Sylthara’s arms, her ribs, her forehead, muttering under his breath as symbols flickered and faded.

“…Hm… fascinating…” he murmured, then frowned, then muttered again. “Truly fascinating.”

Luca stiffened. “She’s—?”

The healer straightened and waved a hand dismissively, beard bobbing as he chuckled.

“She’s fine. Just exhausted. Deeply, absurdly exhausted.” He scratched his head, still visibly puzzled. “Honestly, it’s a mystery how she’s this fine. After that trial, most challengers would be charcoal—or worse.”

Selena exhaled quietly.

The Tower Master’s shoulders eased by the smallest fraction.

“She’ll wake up?” Luca asked.

“Aye,” the healer nodded. “After a good night’s sleep. Might be sore for a day or two, but nothing permanent.”

A collective breath left the room.

Luca nodded in thanks, then turned away slowly, his steps carrying him toward Aurelia’s bed.

He stopped beside her, looking down at her face.

She looked peaceful—too peaceful. Her chest rose and fell steadily, but there was no sign of consciousness, no twitch of lashes, no faint reaction to his presence.

“When will you wake up…?” he murmured under his breath.

The words barely left him—

When suddenly—

“Ughhh—my head—”

A groan cut through the room.

Luca snapped his head around.

Kyle stirred.

At first it was just a weak shift, his fingers curling, his brow creasing as if the world itself offended him. Then his eyes fluttered open, unfocused, staring at the ceiling.

“…Huh?” he muttered. “Why does everything feel… heavy?”

He sat up abruptly—

—and immediately regretted it.

“Ow—OW—okay—bad idea—”

He pressed a hand to his forehead, squinting as memories slowly, painfully shuffled back into place.

Then—

His eyes widened.

And his lips stretched into a grin.

And before anyone could stop him—

“Hahahahaha!!”

The laughter burst out of him, loud, unrestrained, echoing off the stone walls.

“You bald dwarf—HAHAHA—did you see that hit?! Now you KNOW how great I am—HAHAHA!”

The room froze.

Selena stared at him.

The healer stared at him.

The Tower Master stared at him.

Luca stared at him.

Kyle laughed for another full second—

Then noticed the silence.

He blinked.

“…Why do you all look like that?” he asked, glancing around. His gaze landed on Luca. “Hey. Why don’t you seem happy that I woke up?”

Luca’s lips twitched.

You woke up the wrong sibling, goddess, he thought flatly.

Kyle followed Luca’s line of sight—and finally noticed Aurelia.

His grin vanished instantly.

“…Huh?”

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

“What’s she doing here?” His voice dropped. “Did she fail? Is she okay?”

Before anyone could answer, his gaze drifted again—to the bed beside hers.

To Sylthara.

Unconscious.

Still.

Kyle’s expression shifted, the humor draining from his face as his voice lowered.

“…Why is Sylthara unconscious too?”

The door creaked open.

A dwarven guard stepped inside, helmet tucked under his arm as he looked straight at Luca.

“Your friend has woken up from her unconsciousness,” he said evenly.

Kyle blinked.

“…Wait.”

He looked around slowly.

“…Someone else is unconscious as well?”

Luca’s heart skipped.

A single name flashed through his mind—

Lilliane.

His body moved before the thought could finish forming.

He turned sharply and bolted for the door.

Behind him, Kyle’s voice rose in sheer confusion, echoing through the infirmary.

“HEY—! Can someone tell me what the hell is going on?! Just how long was I unconscious for?!”

The door slammed open.

And Luca was already running.