The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 331

Chapter 331: Chapter 331 – “The Shattered Bones!”
“Aahahahhhhhhh!….”

The scream did not fade.

It did not echo and disappear like sound was supposed to.

It tore through the arena and stayed, clinging to the walls, sinking into the rune-etched stone, vibrating through metal, bone, and breath alike—as if the mountain itself had been wounded and did not know how to respond.

For a single, terrible moment, the Thousand Hammer Crucible lost its rhythm.

The hammers froze mid-descent.

Magma hesitated in its channels, glowing veins pulsing erratically, no longer flowing with their former certainty.

And everyone—everyone—felt it.

Kyle’s hands slammed against the barrier again, harder than before, the impact ringing uselessly against reinforced stone.

“LUCA—!”

His voice cracked completely this time. There was no bravado left. No attempt at humor. His shoulders shook as he leaned forward, fingers digging into the barrier as if he could tear it open through sheer desperation.

“That scream—” he choked, unable to finish the thought.

Sylthara stepped forward half a pace, golden eyes wide now, no longer controlled, no longer calculating. Her breath hitched sharply as she saw Luca’s body convulse against the arena floor, limbs jerking unnaturally, posture collapsing in on itself.

“That wasn’t strain,” she said quietly, horrified recognition setting in.

“That was failure.”

Selena’s composure shattered.

Her hands clenched so tightly around the railing that the metal groaned faintly in protest. Her pupils trembled, breath shallow and uneven, as she stared down at the arena—at the body writhing where a person should have been standing.

Bones don’t make that sound unless—

She didn’t finish the thought.

She couldn’t.

Above them, within the dwarven suppression device, the Tower Master moved.

Not dramatically.

Not violently.

But unmistakably.

Her posture broke.

For the first time since her capture, her hands unfolded from their sleeves, fingers spreading slightly as if reaching—then stopping, arrested by the glowing runes that bound her. Her head dipped sharply, white hair falling forward as her breath left her in a single, silent exhale that trembled more than she would ever allow anyone to see.

Her eyes were wide now.

Not calm.

Not composed.

Focused—terrified.

“Luca…”

The word barely left her lips.

High on the platform, the dwarven elders rose as one.

Stone cracked beneath their feet.

“That sound—” Huldar whispered, face drained of color.

Brokk’s expression hardened into something grim and furious as his hammer aura flickered violently. “That wasn’t muscle. That wasn’t mana.”

Thrain’s gaze locked onto the arena floor, ancient eyes narrowing as he traced Luca’s twisted posture, the way his chest rose unevenly, the way one shoulder sagged lower than the other.

“…An internal load-bearing fracture,” he said slowly.

Hilda inhaled sharply, flames guttering low around her shoulders. “At this escalation rate… even dwarves—”

She stopped.

Because the implication was unbearable.

“This trial was never meant for a human body,” one elder muttered bitterly.

Thrain didn’t answer.

His fists clenched.

Down in the arena, the world returned to Luca in fragments.

Not pain.

Pain had already burned itself numb.

What he felt now was wrongness.

Something inside him had shifted—no, collapsed—and refused to return to where it belonged. Every breath sent jagged pressure lancing through his torso, not sharp enough to scream again, but deep enough to make existence itself feel unstable.

He lay on his side, cheek pressed against scorching stone, vision pulsing in and out like a dying flame.

Cracked.

The word surfaced unbidden.

Something is… cracked.

He tried to move his arm.

It didn’t respond.

Not paralysis.

Delay.

Like the signal had to travel through broken ground to reach where it was supposed to go.

Ah.

So that’s the sound.

His breath hitched into a wet, broken cough. Blood leaked freely now, no longer spurting, no longer dramatic—just leaking, pooling beneath his mouth, soaking into the cracks in the obsidian floor.

Internal fracture.

Not a break that ends things quickly.

Not a clean snap.

The kind that turns every movement into punishment.

The kind that doesn’t kill you immediately—but makes you wish it would if you’re not careful.

He laughed.

Or tried to.

What came out was a breathy, cracked exhale that scraped his throat raw.

Twenty-five, he thought hazily.

And it already took something important.

His ribs felt… wrong. One side didn’t expand the same way as the other. Each breath felt like forcing air through bent metal. Mana circulated unevenly now, snagging painfully where internal pathways had collapsed under pressure.

So that’s the price, huh?

He tried to push himself up.

His body answered with a violent spasm.

White exploded across his vision.

No—

Not yet.

His fingers dug weakly into the heated stone, nails scraping uselessly as his muscles trembled, refusing coordination.

You don’t stop because something breaks, he reminded himself dimly.

You stop when you can’t move at all.

The hammers above him shifted.

Chains groaned again.

The Crucible did not care.

It had only paused to register damage.

And now—

It was ready to continue.

The hammers descended again.

The twenty-sixth strike came down with a force that no longer felt like impact but occupation, as if something vast had decided Luca’s body was space it could claim. The blow drove straight through his spine, crushing air from lungs that could no longer fully expand, forcing a sound from his throat that was neither word nor scream—just a raw, animal rupture of breath.

“A—ahhh—!”

The cry tore free anyway.

It echoed.

Not sharply.

Endlessly.

The magma channels flared wide, and this time the heat did not merely surround him—it entered. Through torn sleeves. Through cracked skin. Through wounds that had not yet sealed because the Crucible refused to allow healing to complete. Liquid fire crawled across muscle and bone, seeping into him, flooding the spaces where structure had already failed.

The twenty-seventh.

His ribs collapsed further inward. Something splintered with a wet, grinding sound. Blood sprayed upward, arcing briefly before evaporating midair, leaving only dark mist and the stench of iron and heat.

The twenty-eighth.

His scream broke into sobbing gasps as his throat tore raw, voice shredding under the strain. His hands clawed weakly at the stone, fingers bending at wrong angles, joints already compromised, already failing.

The twenty-ninth.

Magma surged again, licking higher, slipping beneath skin that could no longer keep it out. Luca’s body convulsed violently, muscles seizing as heat and pressure fought for dominance inside him.

The thirtieth.

“Aaaaaaahhhhh—!!!”

The sound ripped through Forgeheart Arena like a blade.

People flinched.

Some dwarves turned away, jaws clenched, fists trembling at their sides. Others stared in rigid silence, eyes wide, breathing shallow, as if looking away would make them complicit—but looking on was unbearable.

Human nobles recoiled, faces pale, hands rising instinctively to mouths. One retched over the edge of the stand. Another shut their eyes tightly, unable to reconcile spectacle with the reality unfolding below.

Reporters forgot their lenses.

Quills fell from numb fingers.

Even those who had chased war and slaughter for a living felt something crawl up their spines as Luca’s screams continued—not in bursts, but unbroken, stretched thin across pain that had no end.

The hammers did not slow.

The thirty-first.

The thirty-second.

Bones shattered audibly now—not one at a time, but in clusters, like brittle wood crushed beneath a collapsing structure. Luca’s body was no longer fighting to stand. It was fighting to remain intact.

The thirty-fifth.

Blood no longer pooled neatly beneath him. It splashed outward with every impact, spraying the arena floor, staining rune-lines crimson as magma hissed and boiled where it met flesh.

The fortieth.

His screams cracked, voice tearing into something hoarse and broken, yet still refusing to stop. Each breath dragged pain through shattered ribs, each exhale bubbling wetly from his lungs.

The fiftieth.

More than half his bones were gone—collapsed, fractured, ground down by pressure that doubled and doubled again without ever caring what remained behind. His arms lay twisted at unnatural angles. His legs no longer responded at all.

Magma filled him.

Not metaphorically.

Physically.

It forced its way into torn muscle, into broken cavities, into the hollow spaces where organs had shifted and failed. Heat flooded his core, burning from the inside out, rewriting sensation until pain was no longer something he felt—but something he was.

“Aa—ahhhhh—haaahhhh—!!!”

The scream became continuous.

Unending.

A sound so full of agony that it seemed to bypass ears entirely and press directly against the chest of everyone present.

Kyle had collapsed to his knees, fists pressed into the stone, shoulders shaking violently as he bit down on a scream of his own.

Sylthara stood frozen, face rigid, eyes glassy, jaw clenched so tightly blood ran from the corner of her mouth where she had bitten through skin.

Selena did not move.

She could not.

Her entire body trembled as if caught in winter, nails digging into her palms until blood dripped down her fingers. She did not blink. She did not breathe properly. She watched.

Above them all, the Tower Master leaned forward fully now, composure shattered, hands pressed hard against the glowing runes of her prison as if she could force reality itself to give way.

“Stop—”

The word left her lips soundlessly.

The sixtieth.

The seventieth.

Time lost meaning.

There was only impact. Heat. Rupture.

The eightieth strike turned Luca’s screams into nothing but air dragged through ruined lungs. His mouth still opened. His body still convulsed. But sound came and went, flickering like a dying flame.

The ninetieth.

His eyes rolled back, pupils unfocused, vision dissolving into haze and shadow. The world narrowed until there was only pain—and then even pain began to blur, dulled by overload.

One thought floated up through the wreckage of his mind.

Is… is this my limit…?

The hundredth hammer rose.

It fell.

The sound was not loud.

It was final.

Luca’s body slammed fully into the stone, no strength left to even twitch. Blood spread beneath him in a wide, dark pool, steaming gently as magma cooled within it.

His eyes glazed.

The scream died in his throat.

Darkness flooded in from all sides, heavy and absolut

e, swallowing the arena, the pain, the sound, the world itself.

And Luca Valentine collapsed—

motionless—

into the heart of the Thousand Hammer Crucible.