The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He? - Chapter 336

Chapter 336: Chapter 336 – “Survived!”
THUMP.

The sound rolled through Forgeheart again—deep, steady, undeniable.

Not a metaphor. Not an illusion. A heartbeat.

The arena did not erupt. It froze.

The cooled magma around Luca’s body cracked.

At first, it was subtle—hairline fractures spreading across the blackened crust like frost on glass. A thin line split open along his chest, and a faint glow pulsed beneath it, dim and irregular, as if something beneath the stone was remembering how to move.

THUMP.

The glow strengthened.

The blood pooled beneath Luca’s body began to stir.

Not boiling. Not burning. Reversing.

The dark crimson seeped inward, crawling back toward torn flesh as if pulled by an invisible tide. Cuts sealed—not cleanly, not gently—but wrongly, edges snapping together with sharp, wet sounds as time folded back over them.

A rib shifted.

There was a sound—dry, hollow, unmistakable.

Crack.

Then another.

Bones realigned not by mending, but by undoing. Fractures rewound, splinters snapping back into place as if they had never broken. The twisted angle of his arm corrected itself inch by inch, joints sliding back into alignment with a series of sickening pops that made more than one person in the stands recoil.

Steam rose—not from heat.

From displacement.

The magma invading Luca’s body was forced out violently, expelled through reopened channels as if reality itself rejected its presence. Molten gold spilled back into the rune-grooves, hissing furiously as it was driven away from living flesh that should not have been alive.

THUMP.

THUMP.

The rhythm stabilized.

Stronger. Cleaner.

Luca’s chest—crushed, collapsed moments ago—rose.

Once.

Kyle staggered forward, gripping the railing so hard his fingers went numb.

“…No way,” he whispered.

His voice shook—not with fear, not with grief—but with disbelief so complete it bordered on hysteria. “That’s—he was—he was—”

Sylthara’s pupils narrowed to slits.

Her instincts screamed at her—not danger, not threat—but impossibility. She leaned forward unconsciously, ears stiff, golden eyes tracking every unnatural correction in Luca’s body.

“is-is this regeneration?,” she said quietly.

Selena’s breath hitched.

Her composure shattered—not loudly, not explosively—but utterly. One step forward. Then another. Her eyes were wide now, as if realizing something,reflecting the faint glow pulsing beneath Luca’s skin.

“…Time?,” she breathed.

The word barely left her lips.

Beside her, Lilliane stared.

At first, nothing changed.

Then her unfocused gaze sharpened—just a little.

Her head tilted further, as if listening to something no one else could hear. When Luca’s fingers twitched—just once—her lips parted.

“…He’s… warm,” she murmured.

No one asked how she knew.

At the center of the arena, Luca’s eyes fluttered.

Once. Twice.

Then they opened.

Not wide. Not sharply.

Slowly.

As if waking from something far heavier than sleep.

A breath dragged into his lungs—rough, uneven, but real. His fingers curled weakly against the stone, scraping softly as sensation returned piece by piece. The glow beneath his skin dimmed, sinking inward, leaving behind flesh marked with scars that looked… unfinished.

Luca coughed.

Not blood.

Air.

The sound broke whatever spell had gripped the arena.

A collective inhale tore through the stands.

Reporters surged forward, crystals flaring wildly as hands trembled too badly to focus lenses. Dwarves stared openly now, ancient certainty fracturing into awe and unease. Human nobles stood without realizing it, chairs scraping loudly behind them.

Elder Thrain took a single step forward.

“…Reversal,” he said slowly, disbelief heavy in his voice. “Not healing. Reversal of state.”

Hilda’s embers flared.

Then roared.

Her eyes burned—not with anger—but with something dangerously close to reverence. “The Crucible doesn’t allow survival,” she whispered. “It allows… reforging.”

High above, Durgan Blackvein stared.

Not smirking. Not amused.

Focused.

For the first time since Luca entered the arena, Durgan leaned forward, both hands braced against the stone railing, eyes locked onto the young man dragging himself back from death.

“…So that’s it,” he muttered. “You didn’t endure it.”

His lips curled slowly.

“You denied it.”

At the barrier—

Aurelia had stopped breathing.

Her hands trembled violently against the rune-wall as tears blurred her vision, joy crashing into shock so hard it left her dizzy. When Luca’s chest rose again, she let out a broken sound that was half-sob, half-laugh.

“Luca—!”

Her knees nearly gave out again—but this time, she caught herself.

Above them all, within the dwarven suppression device—

The Tower Master straightened.

The tear at her collar was forgotten.

Her clenched fists loosened as the heartbeat thundered through the arena, resonating not just in stone—but in her mana, in the jade bangle at her wrist, in something deep and instinctive she had not felt in years.

Alive.

He’s alive.

Her breath trembled—not with grief now, but with something fierce and overwhelming. Her head lifted fully, veil shifting as her gaze locked onto Luca’s recovering form.

A smile touched her lips.

Small. Uncontrolled. Brilliant.

“That reckless boy…” she whispered, voice thick with emotion she did not bother to hide.

The runes binding her flared.

Cracked.

No one noticed.

Because all eyes were on the arena’s center—

Where Luca Valentine, broken and rebuilt by time itself, pushed himself to one knee.

Breathing.

Alive.

And very clearly— not finished.

Luca drew another breath.

It came easier this time.

The pain was still there—deep, echoing, lingering in places that remembered being broken—but it no longer owned him. As he pushed himself upright, knees trembling only slightly, he became aware of something else beneath the ache.

Strength.

Not the sharp, brittle kind that came from forcing mana through damaged flesh—but a dense, grounded solidity, as if his body had been tempered rather than merely repaired.

Yes…

I did it.

His gaze dropped to his own hands.

They were steady.

Reversal of time… but only within my body.

The realization settled in with a clarity that made his pulse quicken.

Not healing.

Not regeneration.

I didn’t fix the damage… I denied that it ever happened. I reversed my own body.

He flexed his fingers slowly, feeling how muscle responded—how it resisted, then answered, tighter than before. The lava that had invaded him hadn’t just been destroyed; it had forced adaptation. Flesh that had survived that heat had been compressed, reforged. Bones that had shattered and been pulled back through time now felt heavier, denser, as if the memory of breaking had made them unwilling to yield again.

My muscles… tougher.

My bones… reinforced.

So the Crucible didn’t just fail to kill me… it strengthened me.

A low murmur swept through the arena.

No—murmurs were too small a word.

“What in the hell did we just witness?” a human noble whispered hoarsely, half-rising from his seat.

“That wasn’t healing magic,” another said sharply. “My family employs archmages—none of them can do that.”

Dwarves leaned forward openly now, ancient eyes narrowed, beards bristling with unease.

“He was dead,” one growled. “I felt it. No breath. No mana circulation.”

“And then—” another stopped, swallowing hard. “And then he wasn’t.”

Reporters spoke over one another in disbelief, voices overlapping, frantic.

“Did you capture that?!”

“Say it again—he reversed it?”

“No spell circle—no incantation—how is that even—”

High above, Durgan Blackvein let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“…Hah.”

He leaned forward fully now, one hand braced on the stone, eyes alight with something far sharper than amusement.

“How the hell that brat did that,” Durgan said, voice carrying clearly through the arena. “Just what the hell happened?”

His grin spread—wide, feral, delighted.

“By the Forge… what a monster.”

Among the elders, silence broke at last.

“That ability—” Elder Thrain began slowly. “It defies causality.”

“It violates natural progression,” another elder added, awe and alarm tangled together. “Damage… undone after completion.”

Hilda’s gaze flicked once—to the Tower Master.

And the Tower Master answered.

“Time,” she said.

Her voice was calm, clear, absolute.

Every head turned.

“He wields time as his element,” she continued, fingers resting lightly against the jade bangle at her wrist. “Not as an external force—but as an internal authority.”

That was enough.

The elders inhaled sharply as one, the implications crashing into them all at once.

Time.

Not acceleration.

Not delay.

Not foresight.

Reversal.

Among the common folk—human and dwarf alike—the word meant little beyond confusion and dread. But among those who understood even a fraction of what it implied…

The arena felt colder.

Back at the center, Luca straightened fully.

So that’s the limit, he thought, testing the sensation carefully.

For now… the range is only my own body.

His lips curved upward, just slightly.

But maybe…

If I strengthen it…

If I invest into it…

Someday, I could expand that range.

The thought sent a quiet thrill through him—not arrogance, not recklessness, but something purer.

Possibility.

His shoulders squared.

Focus, he reminded himself.

This isn’t the time to dream.

He lifted his gaze.

Durgan Blackvein stood above him, massive and burning with interest, the Thousand Hammer Crucible still looming—paused, not ended.

Luca wiped dried blood from the corner of his mouth, posture relaxed now, eyes clear and confident.

He smiled.

“Let’s continue,” he said evenly, his voice carrying without strain.

Then, with a faint tilt of his head—

“Shall we?”