The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 323

Chapter 323: Chapter 323 – “RELEASE. MY. MASTER!!”
Darkness did not come all at once.

It seeped in through the cracks.

Sound arrived before sight—distant, stretched, warped—like echoes traveling through a cavern too large for memory to fill. Stone grinding against stone. A low roar that might have been an explosion or might have been his own pulse. He couldn’t tell. His body felt impossibly heavy, as if the ground itself had wrapped around him and refused to let go.

And then—

A voice.

Not loud.

Not clear.

A whisper, fractured at the edges, slipping through the fog of his mind like smoke through broken glass.

Master… do you remember… the first time…

The words didn’t arrive whole. They never did. Pieces of them surfaced, dissolved, resurfaced again, as if his thoughts were trying—and failing—to assemble something important.

The darkness rippled.

Shapes bled into one another.

A corridor that wasn’t here.

Moonlight that didn’t belong to this place.

The quiet weight of another presence beside him.

He felt himself sitting—smaller, colder, knees drawn in, fingers digging into fabric he no longer remembered wearing. His chest ached with an emotion that had no name yet, only pressure.

Another whisper—hers.

…Why bring… that up…

The sound was distant, like it came from the far end of a tunnel. He couldn’t see her face clearly. Only white—white hair, white presence, unmoving, steady, as if the world could collapse and she would remain exactly where she was.

Images stuttered.

A dorm room—too narrow, too quiet.

Tears he didn’t remember starting.

A ceiling he had stared at for too long, wondering why breathing hurt.

His own voice returned—not spoken, not remembered—felt.

I was a mess… didn’t know what to do…

The words broke apart as soon as they formed.

Crying over things… things I didn’t even understand…

Feeling alone… so alone…

The memory warped, colors bleeding at the edges, but one thing stayed solid.

She didn’t leave.

She didn’t speak.

She sat.

The entire time.

He felt it again—that unbearable relief of someone choosing to stay without being asked, of silence that didn’t judge, of presence that didn’t demand explanations.

Her fingers moved inside her sleeves.

Just slightly.

A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding slipped free.

The sensation echoed in his chest now, even as he lay broken beneath rubble and dust.

You listened…

You let me trust you…

Her eyes—blurred, indistinct—softened, not fully, never fully, but enough for him to recognize the change. Enough to know he had mattered.

Then—

A tremor.

Fear.

Not loud.

Not panicked.

A subtle tightening. A hesitation buried so deep it almost escaped notice.

I’m not asking… you to tell me everything…

The memory fractured harder here, the edges splintering, scenes overlapping—her standing on a balcony, sealing her power, the word daughter echoing without context.

Not forcing you… to explain… why you’re afraid…

Her hands shifted.

Once.

Twice.

Weighing something unseen.

The feeling of responsibility pressed down on him even in unconsciousness, heavy and suffocating.

Selena… needs you…

The name resonated sharply, cutting through the haze like ice through flame.

And I… I want you to trust me…

The image shook.

A pause.

A long one.

Her posture loosened, then straightened again, like someone bracing themselves before stepping into cold water. The veil fluttered—not from wind, but from breath drawn too carefully.

Then—

Decision.

Not peace.

Not comfort.

Acceptance sharpened by pain.

…If this is the only way… I may see my daughter…

The words came softer now, thinner, but they struck deeper than anything loud ever could.

…Then I agree.

Relief surged through him so powerfully it cracked the memory apart.

He felt himself bow.

Felt the weight lift—just a little.

Thank you… Master…for trusting me!

The noise falls away.

The pain.

The weight.

The fear.

All of it dissolved—until only one moment remains.

He stands on the balcony.

The world is caught between night and dawn, the horizon painted in deep blue and fragile silver. The mountains lie silent, waiting. Beside him stands the Tower Master, her white hair stirring gently in the cold wind, her veil calm and unreadable.

Luca doesn’t look at her.

“Do you think,” he asks quietly, “that I’m harming my friends, Master?”

She doesn’t answer at once.

Then—she smiles.

He feels it, even without seeing her face.

She raises her hand and points.

The first ray of sunlight breaks free from the horizon, cutting through the darkness and washing the stone in gold. Shadows don’t flee—they simply give way.

Her voice reaches him, steady and certain.

“You are not the darkness that swallows them.”

The light touches his hands.

His chest.

His breath.

“You are the sun,” she says softly, “giving them a light to follow.”

With her smile being more dazzling than the rising sun itself.

The world shattered.

Reality crashed back in violently, ripping the memory apart mid-breath.

Pain exploded behind his eyes.

Heat.

Dust.

The taste of blood.

Luca sucked in air like he was drowning, grit grinding between his teeth as sand slid across his cheek. His vision swam, unfocused, the sky spinning wildly above him as if the world itself had been knocked off balance.

He tried to move.

His body screamed.

He forced himself upright anyway, coughing, blood dripping warm and sticky down the side of his head.

The arena—

Gone.

No—ruined.

Stands collapsed. Runes broken and sparking uselessly. Smoke rolling through shattered stone like a living thing. Dwarves staggered through the wreckage, shouting, coughing, dragging one another free.

His heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

“Master…”

The word tore itself from his throat, raw and desperate.

No answer.

He stumbled forward, legs shaking, vision blurring as he searched through the chaos—helping without thinking, grabbing a dwarf’s arm, hauling him upright, pushing another toward safety even as his own knees threatened to give out.

Then—

Sylthara.

Kneeling.

Burned. Bleeding.

And beside her—

Lilliane.

Standing.

Breathing.

Empty.

Her eyes stared through the destruction like none of it existed.

“Have you seen her?” Luca demanded, gripping Sylthara’s arm, his voice cracking despite himself. “The Tower Master?”

Sylthara shook her head.

Something inside him tightened dangerously.

“Take care of her,” he said, nodding toward Lilliane. “Don’t let her be alone.”

He moved again.

Selena.

Collapsed.

Bloodied.

Barely conscious.

He lifted her, hands trembling as he asked if she was okay, if she had seen her mother—but her eyes couldn’t focus, her lips couldn’t form words.

Kyle.

Still standing.

He handed Selena to him without ceremony.

“Don’t let her fall,” Luca said, already turning away.

“Master!” he shouted again, voice tearing through smoke and panic.

“Master!? Where are you?!”

“Answer me!”

Nothing answered. And then…

The ground trembled.

Stone groaned.

The arena shifted—massive dwarven constructs unfolding, gears screaming, entire sections reforging themselves into a colossal war-machine. Luca dodged falling slabs, leapt across shifting plates, exhaustion dragging at him like chains as blood continued to drip into his eye.

Then—

Silence.

The dust settled.

And he saw them.

The elders.

Seven of them.

Fighting.

And one more figure.

A dwarf standing against them all, power rolling off him like heat from a furnace.

But Luca didn’t see the fight.

Didn’t hear the explosions.

His world collapsed inward.

Because beside that dwarf—

Suspended.

Bound.

White hair drifting gently in the air.

The veil.

The presence that had stayed when he was broken.

Everything else went black.

Sound died.

Color drained.

There was only her.

His lips trembled.

“M… Master…?”

And somewhere deep inside him, beneath pain and fear and blood, another voice rose—his own, echoing from that fractured memory.

“Trust me.”

“I’ll take responsibility.”

“Nothing will happen to you.”

Something snapped.

Aura surged.

His hands moved.

Black and white sabers answered.

And without thought—without hesitation—he struck.

“MOONSLAYER—”

The attack vanished into the storm of power already raging, swallowed by forces greater than his own—

But a single, thin line opened across the dwarf’s cheek.

Blood flowed.

And the world froze.

Silence fell so deep it hurt.

Every eye turned.

Toward him.

Toward the boy standing unsteadily amid ruins, blood streaking his face, posture ready to collapse, gaze burning with something far more dangerous than strength.

Luca raised his head.

And in a voice colder than steel, sharper than fear, he spoke:

“RELEASE.

MY.

MASTER.”

Silence swallowed the battlefield.

Not the uneasy kind that follows chaos—but the absolute kind.

The kind that presses against the ears until even breathing feels too loud.

Stone fragments hung half-buried where they had fallen. The dwarven constructs stood frozen mid-motion, gears ticking once… then stopping. Fire crackled faintly in distant fissures, but even it seemed unsure whether it was allowed to exist anymore.

Every eye turned.

Dwarven elders—bloodied, stunned, still forcing themselves upright—stared down from shattered platforms.

Human nobles leaned forward, disbelief etched into their faces.

Reporters forgot to breathe, quills frozen mid-air, lenses trembling in their grips.

At the center of it all stood Luca.

Blood streaked down the side of his face, dark and sticky, matting his hair. One knee threatened to give way, his balance held together by nothing but will. His chest rose in uneven, painful breaths, shoulders trembling with exhaustion that had long surpassed its limit.

Yet his stance did not break.

Black and white sabers rested in his hands—not raised, not lowered—simply present, like extensions of a resolve that refused to collapse.

“Release… my master.”

The words lingered, sharp and cold, cutting through the dust like a blade.

High above him, within the dwarven suppression device, the Tower Master’s fingers tightened inside her sleeves.

Just slightly.

So slight that only someone who knew her would notice.

Her posture remained composed. Her breathing steady.

But behind the veil—

Her eyes shifted.

Worry flickered there for the briefest instant.

Not fear for herself.

Fear for him.

Durgan Blackvein stared down at Luca.

Then—

He laughed.

At first, it was low. Almost thoughtful. A single breath of sound that rolled from his chest like distant thunder echoing through stone.

“Hah…”

His shoulders shook once.

Then again.

The laughter grew—deep, booming, unrestrained—rippling through the broken arena and reverberating against the mountain walls. Lava veins pulsed brighter in response, as if the world itself were reacting to his amusement.

“Hahahahaha…!”

The sound was overwhelming. Dominant. Cruel in its confidence.

Durgan tilted his head, wiping the blood from his cheek with his thumb, examining the red smear as though it were an interesting curiosity. Then his gaze lifted back to Luca, eyes burning with delight.

“Do you think…” he said slowly, voice dripping with mockery,

“…you can order me, boy?”

The laughter faded into a grin—wide, feral, unafraid.

Luca swayed.

His vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing before his eyes. His arms trembled as if they might give out at any moment—but he forced them to remain extended.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand dipped toward his storage ring.

Mana flickered weakly.

And then—

A small object appeared in his palm.

It was unassuming. Compact. Easy to miss amid the devastation.

Luca’s fingers curled around it tightly, knuckles whitening as he lifted his hand just enough for Durgan—and everyone else—to see.

His voice came out rough. Broken. Barely holding together.

“Not me…” he said, breath hitching,

“b-but… I am sure this can.”

The object glinted faintly in the settling dust.

And for the first time since his arrival—

Durgan Blackvein’s laughter stopped.