The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 320

Chapter 320: Chapter 320 – “Final Day of ForgeHeart Crucible!”
The water slid from Luca’s shoulders in slow rivulets, steam still clinging to his skin as he stepped out of the shower. The dwarven stone beneath his bare feet was cold—grounding. Real. He paused for a moment, letting the chill bite into him, letting it anchor his thoughts.

The mirror across the room reflected a version of him that felt… different.

Not calmer. Not lighter.

Focused.

His crimson eyes no longer carried the restless edge of the night before. There was no hesitation there now—only a quiet, settled resolve, like a blade finally aligned with its sheath. He reached for his clothes, pulling on layers meant for battle rather than comfort, fastening straps and buckles with practiced efficiency. Each movement was deliberate. Measured.

When he was done, he sat down on the edge of the bed.

With a flicker of mana, his storage ring shimmered, and two sabers slid into his hands.

One black. One white.

Twin blades that had followed him through blood and fire, through victories stolen from fate itself and losses he refused to accept. Luca ran his fingers along their hilts slowly, reverently, as if they were living things—companions rather than tools.

“I’ll finish this,” he murmured, so softly it barely counted as sound. “Together.”

The sabers pulsed faintly, responding not to mana, but to intent.

He stood, sheathed them at his sides, and took one last look at himself in the mirror. No dramatic pause. No unnecessary words.

Then he turned and left the room.

—

The infirmary doors opened with a familiar creak.

Warm light spilled out, carrying with it the scent of herbs and stone-heated air. Inside, the quiet was broken only by the soft breathing of the unconscious and the occasional murmur of a healer in the distance.

Kyle stood near the entrance, tugging his belt into place, shoulders still bandaged but posture unmistakably upright. He glanced over his shoulder as Luca entered, a grin tugging at his lips.

“So,” he asked casually, “you ready?”

Luca nodded once and walked past him, steps carrying him straight to Aurelia’s bedside.

She hadn’t moved.

Her crimson hair lay neatly arranged against the pillow, her expression peaceful in a way that hurt more than panic ever could. Luca gently took her hand in his, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“Wake up soon,” he said quietly. There was no tremor in his voice now. “I promise… we’ll go on a date together.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“Just….wake up.”

He released her hand slowly and turned—

Only to frown.

“Where’s Sylthara?”

Kyle’s lips twitched with irritation as he said, “That Dark Elf? She woke up like she was just taking a nap. Freaked the healer out, honestly.” He snorted. “Said she was going to look for Lilliane.”

Luca’s eyes dimmed for a brief moment.

Then he nodded. “I see.”

He straightened as he asked. “Are you coming with me?”

“Yup,” Kyle said immediately. “Of course I’m coming.”

Luca gave Aurelia one final look, then turned away. Together, they stepped out of the infirmary and into the corridor beyond.

—

They didn’t get far.

The Tower Master stood waiting near the junction ahead, white hair falling neatly over her shoulders, veil unmoving. Beside her was Selena.

Selena didn’t meet Luca’s eyes at first.

Then she did.

“Win it,” she said shortly, almost like an order—and then looked away.

Luca inclined his head in acknowledgment, gaze shifting to the Tower Master. She nodded once, silently.

Nothing more needed to be said.

They resumed walking.

—

The arena loomed ahead, its massive gates already visible between towering stone columns—

And just a few meters before it, Luca slowed.

Because standing there was an… unusual sight.

Sylthara, silver hair gleaming softly in the morning light, stood with her arms loosely crossed.

And beside her—

A pink haired doll.

Pink hair. Pale face. Blank eyes.

She looked less like a person and more like a doll someone had forgotten to finish painting—standing upright, breathing, but not fully present.

Kyle leaned closer to Luca, lowering his voice. “Uh… is she okay?”

Luca’s gaze lingered on Lilliane for a moment before he shook his head slightly. “Let’s hope so.”

As they approached, Sylthara turned, placing a hand lightly on Lilliane’s shoulder—guiding her to turn as well. Lilliane complied without resistance, eyes drifting toward Luca without truly focusing on him.

Luca looked from her to Sylthara, silent question written plainly on his face.

“I’ll take care of her,” Sylthara said calmly. “I got permission from the healer. Keeping her locked in that dark room won’t help her.”

She glanced at Lilliane, her golden eyes softening just a fraction.

“This is better.”

No one argued.

Kyle nodded. Luca nodded. Even the Tower Master, watching from a distance, did not object.

And so, together—broken, healing, determined—they turned and began walking toward the arena.

Toward the final day of the Forgeheart Crucible.

The Forgeheart Arena welcomed them like a living colossus.

Stone terraces rose layer upon layer, carved directly into the mountain’s heart, their edges glowing faintly with embedded runes that pulsed in anticipation. Massive braziers burned along the perimeter, flames twisting upward in disciplined spirals, casting molten gold light across blackstone walls etched with the history of a hundred trials. The air itself felt heavier here—dense with mana, with expectation, with something ancient stirring awake.

As they entered, the sound hit first.

A roar.

Not one sound, but thousands layered together—dwarven voices booming like rolling thunder, boots stamping against stone, metal mugs clashing, laughter and shouts colliding into a deafening wave. Compared to yesterday, the crowd had multiplied several times over. Every seat was occupied. Every ledge packed. Even the upper scaffolds meant for maintenance were crowded with onlookers.

Reporters were everywhere.

Far more than before.

Floating camera crystals hovered in dense swarms, blinking and flashing, spinning to capture every angle. Some reporters were half-hanging over railings, shouting into communication devices, their voices hoarse with excitement.

The nobles’ section gleamed with excess—enchanted seating, protective barriers shimmering faintly, silken banners embroidered with crests fluttering lazily. Their interest was sharp today, eyes narrowed not with boredom, but anticipation.

Sylthara guided Lilliane toward the challengers’ stand, Kyle walking just behind them. Selena followed, quiet, her expression unreadable. The Tower Master stopped only briefly, her gaze lingering on Luca before she stepped aside as well.

One by one, they entered the stand.

Kyle clapped Luca lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t die.”

Selena didn’t say anything—she just nodded once.

Sylthara paused, golden eyes meeting Luca’s. “Come back.”

Even Lilliane, guided gently to the railing, turned her head toward him—unfocused, distant, but present enough to stand there.

“Good luck,” someone murmured. It was hard to tell who.

And then—

They were gone.

The gates to the challengers’ stand sealed behind them.

Leaving Luca alone on the arena floor.

For a moment, he simply stood there.

He let the noise wash over him.

He turned slowly, taking it all in—the vastness of the arena, the impossible number of eyes fixed on him, the weight of history pressing down from the stone itself. The heat from the braziers, the hum of ancient runes beneath his boots, the smell of metal, sweat, and fire.

Then he heard it.

Murmurs.

“Hm? Have I seen that kid before?”

“Yeah… now that you mention it, he does look familiar.”

Camera crystals subtly adjusted, zooming in. Reporters leaned closer, whispering urgently to one another.

A voice cut through the murmur—sharp, loud, deliberate.

“Hmph… that’s Luca Valentine.”

Heads snapped toward the source.

A senior reporter stood near the front, eyes gleaming as he spoke loudly enough for half the arena to hear.

“The Hero of Beastridge Mountain,” he continued, voice rising. “The one who cut down a corrupted dragon, and later slaughtered dozens of cultists alone in an old church.”

Gasps rippled outward.

“There was an article about him,” someone said hurriedly.

“I remember now!”

“He’s the one who—”

“—got a medal from Her Majesty herself,” a noble added, leaning forward with interest. “That boy.”

Excitement surged like a wildfire.

“So that’s him!”

“Let’s see if he’s really worth the hype!”

Luca ignored all of it.

His eyes lifted.

High above, seated upon the carved obsidian platform, the Dwarven Elders’ Council watched him in silence. Massive thrones, ancient runes glowing faintly beneath them. Elder Thrain sat among them, arms crossed, gaze heavy and unreadable. Others leaned forward, curious. Evaluating.

Judging.

The announcer stepped into the center at last, arms raised dramatically, mana amplifying his voice until it thundered through the arena.

“DWARVES! HUMANS! NOBLES OF EVERY LAND!”

The crowd roared in response.

“AFTER HUNDREDS OF YEARS—THE FINAL DAY OF THE FORGEHEART CRUCIBLE IS UPON US!”

Cheers exploded.

“And now—!” He turned sharply, pointing straight at Luca, his grin sharp, provocative. “CHALLENGER! WHO DO YOU WISH TO CHALLENGE?!”

The arena held its breath.

Luca inhaled.

Slow. Deep.

He opened his mouth—

BAMMMMMMMM—!!!

The world shattered.

A blinding explosion erupted from the far side of the arena, white-hot and deafening, the shockwave tearing through stone and rune alike. The sound wasn’t just loud—it was violent, a concussive force that slammed into bodies and minds simultaneously.

BOOOOOOMMMMM—!!!

The ground heaved.

Entire sections of the arena collapsed inward as blackstone shattered like glass. Runes screamed and detonated. Braziers were ripped free, flames spiraling wildly into the air as the mountain itself groaned in protest.

The stands shook.

Screams erupted.

Camera crystals shattered midair.

An earthquake ripped through the Forgeheart Arena, throwing dwarves and nobles alike from their seats. Stone pillars cracked. Entire walls caved inward.

Dust exploded upward—thick, choking, absolute—swallowing the arena whole.

Then—

Silence.

No cheering. No screaming. No sound at all.

Just dust, and utter silence.

A suffocating gray veil obscuring everything.

Seconds passed.

Then, slowly… the dust began to settle.

Shadows emerged.

Broken stone. Craters. Shattered runes.

And at the very center of the devastation—

A body.

Luca lay sprawled across the ruined arena floor, blood streaking from the side of his head, pooling darkly against fractured stone. One of his sabers lay several meters away, half-buried in debris. His chest rose shallowly, uneven.

His eyes were open.

But unfocused.

Dazed.

He coughed weakly, lips trembling as he tried to move—and failed.

A faint sound escaped him. Broken. Fearful.

“M… master…”

And the arena held its breath once more.