The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 321

Chapter 321: Chapter 321 – A Transaction!!
The silence did not break immediately.

It lingered—thick, unnatural—pressing down on the shattered Forgeheart Arena like a held breath after a scream. Dust hung in the air, heavy and opaque, swallowing sound and light alike. The crowd, moments ago deafening, had been reduced to nothing more than silhouettes frozen in place. No cheers. No panic.

Just disbelief.

Then—

Mana flared.

Seven pillars of power surged upward from the high platform, ripping through the settling dust like spears of light. The Dwarven Elders rose into the sky almost simultaneously, propelled by ancient runic platforms and pure elemental force. Stone cracked beneath where they had stood, the air vibrating violently as their presence asserted itself.

High above the ruined arena, the seven elders hovered, cloaks and beards whipping in the turbulent air.

“What in the forge-father’s name was that?!” one elder barked, eyes scanning the devastation below.

“This arena is warded by layers of ancient runes!” another snapped, disbelief etched deep into his features. “Even a dragon lord couldn’t breach it like this!”

Elder Hilda clenched her fists, flames licking unconsciously along her braids. “That explosion didn’t just destroy stone,” she growled. “It overrode the Crucible’s authority.”

A chill ran through the air.

Elder Brokk’s voice was lower now, careful. “Then this wasn’t an attack from outside.”

The implication settled like lead.

“It was an intrusion,” he continued. “From beneath. Or from within.”

Their gazes shifted instinctively—toward the ruined heart of the arena, where fractured runes still flickered weakly, screaming in silent protest.

At the center of the elders, Elder Thrain had gone utterly still.

His broad frame seemed rigid, as if carved from the same mountain stone he had once commanded. His eyes—usually sharp with confidence—were now wide, pupils constricted.

“No…” he muttered.

The word barely escaped his lips.

The others noticed immediately.

“Thrain?” Elder Hilda turned sharply. “What is it?”

Thrain’s jaw tightened. His gaze was fixed on something none of the others could see—something buried far deeper than rubble.

“That mana signature…” he said slowly, each word heavy. “That way of tearing authority from the forge itself…”

His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“…Durgan Blackvein.”

The name hit like a hammer blow.

The air itself seemed to recoil.

Several elders stiffened violently.

“That’s—” one began, then stopped.

“Impossible,” another said hoarsely. “Blackvein was sealed centuries ago.”

“Executed,” someone else corrected, though their voice lacked conviction.

Elder Hilda’s face had gone pale. “You’re saying that Durgan? The one who defied the High Forge? The one who—”

“—challenged the King of the Deep Anvil and lived,” Brokk finished grimly.

A low, uneasy silence followed.

Fear—not the loud kind, but the kind born from memory—crept into their expressions.

Before any of them could speak again—

A sound rolled through the dust.

Laughter.

Deep. Resonant. Amused.

It didn’t echo.

It pressed.

The dust below the elders began to churn, spiraling inward as if drawn toward a single point. The broken stones lifted—not shattered further, but pushed aside—parting in a wide, circular motion.

Then—

A figure rose.

He floated effortlessly into the air, boots never touching stone, as if gravity itself had been politely dismissed. His body was massive, wrapped in blackened dwarven armor etched with runes so old they looked like scars rather than carvings. A thick beard, braided with iron rings, fell down his chest, streaked with veins of dull crimson mana.

His eyes burned.

Not with fire.

With command.

“Hahahahahaha—!”

The laugh boomed outward, powerful enough to send shockwaves through the remaining dust, clearing the air completely.

“Still alive, I see,” the dwarf said, voice rich with mockery as his gaze swept across the hovering elders. “And still clinging to your thrones like frightened children.”

The elders recoiled.

“It is you…” Elder Hilda whispered.

Durgan Blackvein.

He turned slowly in the air—and only then did the full horror reveal itself.

Suspended beside him, bound within a complex dwarven suppression device forged of blacksteel and glowing crimson runes, was the….. Tower Master.

Chains of rune-inscribed metal wrapped around her limbs and torso, pinning her arms close to her body. A collar of interlocking sigils encircled her neck, draining and sealing her mana so completely that the air around her felt empty.

Her white hair hung loose.

Her veil was torn yet didn’t reveal her face.

Yet even restrained, even powerless, her posture remained straight. Her eyes—sharp, calm, furious—were locked onto Durgan with unbroken defiance.

The elders felt it immediately.

That device—

“It’s a High Containment Relic,” Brokk breathed. “Only forged during the War of the Broken Forge…”

Durgan grinned wider.

“Ah, you recognize it,” he said proudly. “Took me a long time to rebuild the design. Longer to improve it.”

He tilted his head toward the Tower Master, almost affectionately.

“Even a calamity like her,” he continued, “needs to be reminded what it means to be captured.”

The Tower Master did not speak.

She did not struggle.

But the silence around her was sharper than any scream.

Elder Thrain’s fists clenched so tightly that stone cracked around his knuckles.

“Blackvein,” he growled. “Release her. Now.”

Durgan laughed again—louder this time.

“Oh, Thrain,” he said, eyes glittering with cruel delight. “You really think this is about her?”

His gaze shifted downward.

Toward the shattered arena floor.

Toward the bloodied boy lying unconscious at its center.

“No,” Durgan said softly. “This is about the future you’ve been so desperately trying to protect.”

The wind howled.

The sky darkened.

And far below, Luca lay unmoving—

As the true enemy finally revealed himself.

The wind howled around them, carrying ash and broken mana through the shattered sky above Forgeheart Arena. The seven elders held their positions in the air, forming a loose arc around Durgan Blackvein—close enough to confront him, far enough to avoid provoking him into immediate slaughter.

Elder Thrain moved first.

His voice was steady, but the strain beneath it was unmistakable.

“Blackvein,” he said, forcing calm into every syllable, “you are a dwarf of the forge. A warrior who once understood strength, honor, and the weight of battle.”

Durgan’s grin did not fade.

Thrain continued anyway.

“And yet you descend upon us not to challenge blades, not to test steel—but to shackle a powerless woman.” His eyes flicked briefly to the Tower Master, bound and silent. “Is this what you’ve become? Does the Blackvein name now stand for chains instead of hammers?”

Another elder stepped forward, voice sharper.

“If you bear hatred, speak it. If you carry a grudge against her, then face it like a dwarf—openly! This is not the way of our people!”

“Yes,” Elder Hilda added, flames curling faintly around her fists. “You were exiled for defying the forge, not for cowardice. So explain yourself.”

The air vibrated with tension.

For a moment—just a moment—Durgan Blackvein did not laugh.

He looked at them.

Really looked.

At Thrain’s clenched jaw.

At Hilda’s burning defiance.

At the fear the others were trying—and failing—to hide.

Then he sighed.

A long, almost disappointed sound.

“…You still don’t understand,” he said.

He shifted slightly in the air, the massive suppression device rotating with him, runes humming as the Tower Master’s restrained form moved along, suspended helplessly at his side.

“This has nothing to do with grudges,” Durgan continued, voice calm now, almost conversational. “Nothing to do with revenge. Or pride. Or old wars.”

Elder Brokk frowned deeply. “Then why?”

Durgan’s eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in amusement.

“Because I was offered something,” he said simply.

The elders stiffened.

“A deal.”

The word echoed far louder than it should have.

“A deal?” Thrain repeated, disbelief seeping into his tone. “With whom?”

Durgan chuckled softly.

“Oh, you wouldn’t like the answer,” he said. “But I’ll tell you anyway.”

He lifted one massive gauntleted hand and gestured lazily toward the Tower Master.

“This woman,” he said, as if discussing a tool rather than a person, “was the price.”

The air went cold.

“The exchange,” Durgan went on, “was simple. Elegant, really.”

His grin returned—wide, cruel, satisfied.

“Her freedom… in return for mine.”

The elders’ expressions shattered.

“You’re saying—” Hilda began, then stopped, her voice failing her.

“You made a bargain to be released,” Brokk said slowly, dread settling into his bones, “and you paid for it with her?”

Durgan nodded once.

“Yes.”

The Tower Master’s eyes flickered—not with fear, not with panic—but with something far more dangerous.

Understanding.

Elder Thrain’s voice dropped into a low, furious growl.

“You would sell the balance of the world for your own chains to be broken?”

Durgan tilted his head, amused.

“No,” he corrected. “I would trade anything for freedom.”

He leaned forward slightly, gaze sharp as a blade.

“And before you ask—no. I do not know who truly benefits from this exchange.”

The elders froze.

“I don’t care,” Durgan finished calmly. “The terms were clear. I walk free. She is delivered.”

Silence crashed down between them—thick, suffocating, final.

Below them, the shattered arena lay broken.

Luca remained unconscious.

And high above, bound in runes meant to cage calamities, the Tower Master closed her eyes for a brief moment—

A

s the truth settled in:

This was never a personal vendetta.

It was a transaction.

And whatever force had engineered it

was still watching.