The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 335

Chapter 335: Chapter 335 – “THUMP”
The hammers stopped.

Not gradually.

Not reluctantly.

They simply ceased—midair, chains locked, heat still radiating—like a thought cut off halfway through forming.

Luca did not move.

The magma around him cooled in thin, cracking skins, dulling from molten gold to blackened red. Steam rose once, softly, then thinned into nothing. His body lay where it had fallen, half-submerged in hardened lava and blood, limbs twisted beyond anything that could still be called living.

No breath followed.

No reflex.

No tremor.

Silence pressed down on Forgeheart Arena so completely it felt physical—like weight on the chest.

Kyle was the first to understand.

Not because of sight.

Because of absence.

He stared at the center of the arena, waiting for something—anything—that had always followed Luca. A cough. A twitch. A stubborn refusal to stay down.

Nothing came.

Kyle’s hands loosened from the railing without him realizing it. His fingers slipped, useless, and he dropped to his knees with a muted sound that didn’t echo. His shoulders hunched forward, spine collapsing inward as if whatever had been holding him upright had finally been removed.

He didn’t cry.

He didn’t shout.

He just bowed his head and stayed there, motionless, staring at the stone between his knees like it might explain what had just happened.

Selena stood behind him.

Perfectly still.

Too still.

Her gaze remained fixed on Luca’s body, unblinking, pupils slightly dilated. One hand hovered near her side, fingers half-curled as if she had been about to move—about to do something—and had arrived a fraction too late.

Her breathing slowed.

Once.

Twice.

Then she closed her eyes—not tightly, not in denial—just enough to shut out the sight. Her jaw set, and a faint tremor passed through her shoulders before she forced it still again.

“I see,” she said quietly.

The words were flat. Not acceptance—recognition.

Beside her, Lilliane stood exactly as she had before.

Eyes unfocused.

Posture empty.

She stared at the arena without blinking, head tilted just slightly, as if watching something that did not fully register as real. There was no change in her expression when Luca failed to move. No gasp. No flinch.

Only one thing shifted.

Her fingers curled slowly into the fabric of Sylthara’s sleeve.

Just enough to wrinkle it.

Sylthara noticed.

She said nothing.

Above them, within the dwarven suppression device, the Tower Master did not scream.

She did not struggle.

She did not fall to her knees.

Her hands rested against the glowing runes, palms flat, as if she had been leaning on them for support—and only now realized they were the only thing holding her up.

Her shoulders sank.

Just a little.

The veil hid her face, but her head bowed, white hair sliding forward like a curtain closing. For a long moment, she did not move at all.

Then her fingers pressed harder against the runes.

Not in rage.

In quiet, futile refusal.

High on the platform, the dwarven elders stood.

No one spoke.

Elder Thrain’s gaze remained locked on Luca’s body, his expression carved from stone—but the lines in his face had deepened, as if he had aged years in seconds. One hand came to rest against the armrest of his throne, gripping it not for balance, but because letting go felt impossible.

“So…” one elder murmured, voice barely audible, “this is where it ends.”

Hilda closed her eyes.

Only briefly.

When she opened them again, the fire around her shoulders had dimmed to embers.

Durgan Blackvein stood.

The sound of his boots against stone was the only noise in the arena.

He looked down at Luca with a detached expression, head tilted slightly, as if evaluating the final state of a weapon that had cracked under forging.

“Hm,” he said.

Outwardly, it was indifference. Almost boredom.

“Tch. Human.”

He turned away.

But his hand tightened where it rested at his side—just once—before relaxing again.

Inside, something sour twisted.

Disappointment.

Not at Luca.

At the world.

In the stands, the crowd exhaled.

Not relief.

Release.

Murmurs spread slowly, unevenly, like cracks in ice.

“So he really—”

“After all that…”

“No one could survive that.”

“It was inevitable.”

“Still… he lasted longer than—”

Some dwarves looked away, faces rigid, jaws clenched. Others stared openly, eyes dark with something unspoken.

Human nobles shifted in their seats, discomfort replacing spectacle. A few pressed hands together, not in prayer, but in reflex—something to do with fingers that suddenly felt too empty.

Reporters lowered their crystals.

No one rushed to write.

No one hurried to speak.

Because this wasn’t a moment for words.

At the barrier—

Aurelia had stopped hitting it.

Her hands rested against the rune-wall, palms flat, fingers spread, as if feeling for warmth that wasn’t there anymore. Her chest rose once, sharply, then stilled.

She stared.

At the body.

At the place where Luca should have moved.

Her lips parted.

No sound came out.

Her knees gave way slowly, not collapsing, but folding, until she was kneeling on the stone with her forehead resting against the barrier. Her shoulders shook—not violently, not loudly—just enough to betray the strain of holding something inside that had nowhere to go.

“Luca…” she whispered.

The name didn’t echo.

It didn’t answer.

Forgeheart Arena remained silent.

And in that silence, the truth settled—cold, final, and unforgiving.

Luca Valentine did not rise.

The Tower Master had not realized she was crying.

The tear slid down in silence—warm, slow—vanishing into the pale fabric at her collar before she became aware of it. For a long moment, she simply stared at the place where Luca lay, unmoving, as if her mind refused to accept what her eyes had already concluded.

Her hands were clenched.

Tightly.

Too tightly.

The glowing runes of the dwarven suppression device hummed beneath her palms, reacting faintly to the instability in her mana, but she did not notice. Her breathing was shallow, uneven—not panicked, not frantic—controlled only by habit.

W-what happened?

The thought was barely formed, fragile, almost afraid to exist.

And then the memories came.

Not gently.

All at once.

A quiet academy dorm, bathed in moonlight.

A boy sitting on the edge of a bed far too small for the weight he carried, shoulders shaking as he cried without sound—trying desperately not to be heard. She remembered standing in the doorway, uncertain for the first time in years, unsure whether stepping inside would help or only intrude.

“Will you be my disciple?”

She had asked it impulsively. Perhaps selfishly. Perhaps because she had seen something broken that reminded her too much of herself.

She remembered his stunned expression. The way his tears had paused mid-fall.

Small moments followed—unimportant, insignificant at the time.

The way he listened intently when whatever little time she had to guide him.

The way he spoke to Selena—awkward, careful—trying to mend a rift that was never his responsibility.

The long night in the magic tower, forging a storage artifact together, his hands blistered, his focus unwavering.

And the jade bangle.

Her fingers moved without conscious command, touching the cool surface at her wrist.

He had offered it so casually.

A gift.

A safeguard.

A promise he hadn’t put into words.

Just days ago.

“Do you trust me, Master?”

He had stood there—steady despite everything—meeting her gaze without fear.

She remembered the press of the crowd, the sharp hunger of reporters, the way the air had turned hostile and dangerous. And Luca—stepping forward before she could—placing himself between her and the world as if it were the most natural thing to do.

“I will take responsibility, Master.”

Her chest tightened.

And then—

Just hours ago.

Blood running down his temple. His stance unsteady. His eyes unfocussed , but he still dared to say…

“Return my master.”

The words echoed in her mind now, louder than the screams, louder than the hammers, louder than the silence that followed his fall.

Her breath stuttered.

Her hands trembled.

And then—

A sound slipped through the silence.

So small it almost didn’t exist.

A single, dull,soft, uneven sound, like something brushing against the edge of perception rather than announcing itself.

The Tower Master froze.

Her trembling hands stilled against the glowing runes, fingers loosening just enough for confusion to pierce through the grief clouding her thoughts. Her head lifted a fraction, veil shifting as her breath caught halfway in.

…That sound—

Thump.

Her brows knit faintly.

It wasn’t echoing through the arena. It wasn’t resonating through the stone or the constructs or the magma veins.

It was closer.

Intimate.

Her gaze snapped back to the center of the arena.

Luca’s body lay exactly as before—broken, unmoving, half-encased in cooled lava and blood. Nothing about him had changed.

And yet—

Thump.

The sound came again.

Stronger.

Her eyes widened.

A heartbeat.

No.

His heartbeat.

The realization struck her so suddenly it stole the air from her lungs.

Impossible.

Her lips parted, but no words came out—because even as her mind rejected it, the sound grew clearer.

Thump.

Thump.

This time, it wasn’t only hers to hear.

Kyle’s head snapped up violently.

“What—?” he breathed, scrambling to his feet, eyes darting around the arena as if expecting an ambush, a spell, anything that made sense.

Sylthara’s ears twitched sharply. Her pupils narrowed, golden eyes locking onto the arena floor with predatory focus.

Selena stiffened.

Her breath halted completely as she listened—not with hope, not with denial—but with the precision of someone trained to detect the impossible.

…That’s not residual mana, she realized instantly.

That’s not a construct.

Her gaze dropped slowly.

Directly to Luca.

Thump.

Thump.

The sound deepened, no longer fragile—no longer uncertain.

It rolled through the arena like a pulse through stone.

The murmurs died instantly.

Dwarves straightened in their seats, expressions shifting from grief to confusion to something bordering on fear. One elder leaned forward unconsciously, ancient eyes narrowing.

“That sound—” someone whispered.

“Is that…?”

“No. That can’t be—”

Reporters lifted their heads in unison, crystals forgotten, mouths half-open as the sound registered not just in their ears—but in their chests.

Human nobles felt it next.

A pressure.

A vibration.

A rhythm that didn’t belong to the arena.

Thump.

THUMP.

The third beat landed heavier than the last.

The magma veins along the arena floor flickered.

Not brighter.

In sync.

Durgan Blackvein stopped mid-turn.

Slowly—deliberately—he looked back over his shoulder.

The casual disdain on his face cracked for the first time.

Just a little.

His eyes narrowed, sharp and alert now, no trace of boredom left in them as he stared down at the motionless figure at the center of the Crucible.

“…Hoh?”

Even Lilliane reacted.

Her unfocused gaze shifted—not sharply, not fully—but enough.

Her head tilted.

Her fingers released Sylthara’s sleeve.

And for the first time since the trial began, she whispered something—so quiet it barely reached the air.

“…beat…”

THUMP.

The sound thundered now.

Not loud.

Present.

It filled the arena, steady and undeniable, vibrating through rune-etched stone, through armor and bone and breath alike.

Every eye turned.

Every thought aligned.

Every single person—dwarf, human, elder, reporter—looked at the same unmoving body with the same unspoken question tearing through their minds.

WHAT.THE.HELL!?