The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He?-Chapter 339 - Final 10 Strikes!
The Crucible no longer felt like a trial.
It felt like a process.
The hammers continued to fall, one after another, their rhythm merciless and absolute. There was no pause long enough to recover, no breath long enough to steady. The impacts blurred together into a continuous force, a crushing sequence that erased distinction between strikes.
Luca was no longer thinking.
Not because he had chosen not to—but because his mind could no longer afford it.
Pain had drowned thought completely.
His body moved on instinct alone, expanding space inward again and again, over and over, like a broken mechanism that knew only one command. Expand. Make room. Disperse. Survive. The inner pathways that had once been meridians were now something else entirely—stretched, warped, forced into shapes never meant to exist.
He no longer felt where his body ended.
Bone was visible in places—white arcs beneath torn flesh—only to be washed over again by molten lava that burned away what little muscle remained. Blood sprayed with every impact, vaporizing before it could even fall, turning the air around him into a choking, metallic haze.
He looked less like a man now.
More like something that had been crushed, reforged, crushed again, and left unfinished.
A corpse that refused to lie still.
Another hammer fell.
The sound shook the arena.
Luca did not scream.
He could not.
His throat had long since torn itself raw. What escaped him now were broken, airless sounds—breath dragged through ruin. His chest expanded unevenly, ribs grinding faintly beneath skin that no longer healed cleanly. 𝕗𝐫𝚎𝗲𝘄𝐞𝕓𝐧𝕠𝘃𝕖𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝚖
The lava surged again, filling every hollow, burning whatever remained.
Most of the spectators had turned away.
Some stared at the stone beneath their feet. Others at the far walls. A few had covered their faces entirely. Even hardened dwarves—those who had witnessed forge accidents, battlefield annihilation, and centuries of war—could not keep watching.
This was no longer spectacle.
It was endurance taken past meaning.
The silence became unbearable.
No cheering. No murmurs. No commentary.
Only the sound of hammers. And breath.
Durgan Blackvein stood rigid on the platform, his posture unchanged but his chest tight, each breath shallow and controlled. His eyes never left the center of the arena—not out of cruelty, not out of curiosity—
But because looking away felt wrong.
Another hammer struck.
Luca’s body twisted under the force, magma exploding outward in a violent hiss. For a split second, it looked as if nothing recognizable remained at all—just a mass of blood, steam, and broken structure clinging stubbornly to the ground.
Durgan swallowed.
His jaw tightened.
Under his breath—so softly it barely deserved to be called sound—he muttered:
"...j-just ten more."
The words trembled.
Not in triumph.
In disbelief.
In fear of the silence that would follow if they were not true.
But the arena was too quiet.
And the sound carried.
One by one, heads turned back.
Hands lowered from faces. Eyes lifted from stone. Breaths hitched.
The words spread without being spoken, passing through the crowd like a shared thought.
Ten more.
Ten more hammers.
Human nobles leaned forward despite themselves, fingers digging into armrests. Reporters raised their crystals again, not out of duty, but because history was clawing its way into their hands whether they wanted it or not.
Dwarves who had looked away now stared openly, eyes wide, chests rising and falling too fast.
Even those who wanted to believe it was over could not.
Because at the center of the arena—
That thing.
That man.
That broken, blood-soaked figure still stood.
Barely upright. Barely whole. Barely alive.
And still—still—enduring something that should not have been endurable.
The hammers rose again.
And the entire arena held its breath—
Waiting to see whether the next ten strikes would finally break him...
Or whether they would break something else entirely.
The Crucible did not slow.
The hammers still fell with the same merciless weight, the same deafening authority—but something had changed. Not in the mechanism.
In the people watching.
At the challengers’ stand, Kyle’s chest heaved as if he were the one being crushed. His hands were clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms, but he didn’t feel it. His eyes burned. He lifted one hand and dragged it across his face, wiping at tears that had no right to exist on him now.
His breath shook.
"...Ten."
The word barely left his throat.
The hammer fell.
The impact swallowed Luca entirely—blood, magma, and shattered form exploding outward—yet still, impossibly, he remained.
Kyle exhaled sharply, shoulders trembling.
Beside him, Sylthara’s golden eyes narrowed, her tail rigid behind her as if bracing against a storm. Her jaw was clenched so tight the muscles along her neck stood out, breath controlled but heavy.
"...Nine."
The ninth hammer descended.
The arena shook. Luca’s body bent almost double, space inside him screaming under the strain, lava tearing through what little flesh remained.
Selena’s fingers trembled for the first time without restraint.
She had been calculating. Measuring. Containing.
Now she wasn’t.
Her lips parted, breath catching—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.
Hope.
"...Eight."
The eighth hammer struck.
Luca staggered, blood spraying in a wide arc, his form barely recognizable now—more ruin than man—yet the invisible expansion within him held, just barely, just enough.
Lilliane stood frozen.
But something inside her shifted.
It was subtle—so subtle that no one would have noticed if they weren’t already watching her closely. Her unfocused eyes sharpened just a fraction, pupils trembling as if reality had finally pierced whatever numb fog she had been trapped in.
Her fingers—still clutching Sylthara’s sleeve—tightened.
Her lips parted.
She tried to speak.
No sound came out.
"...seven..."
The word existed only in the movement of her mouth.
The seventh hammer fell.
The impact was brutal enough to force a collective flinch through the stands. Luca’s body folded inward for a heartbeat, blood and magma erupting outward as if the arena itself were trying to swallow him whole.
Lilliane’s hand slipped from Sylthara’s sleeve.
Her fingers curled slowly—uselessly—into the air, as if she had been holding onto something that no longer existed.
She did not blink.
Farrel Ronfield forgot how to breathe.
His chest hitched sharply, lungs stuttering as he leaned forward without realizing it, fingers digging into the edge of the reporters’ stand. His eyes were wide—not in fear—but in something rawer, almost reverent.
His lips trembled.
History.
It was happening again.
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
"...six," he whispered.
Not as a count.
As a confession.
The sixth hammer struck.
The sound ripped through the arena like a cannon fired underground. Luca’s form was barely distinguishable now—bloodied, warped, half-consumed by heat—but still upright. Still refusing.
Farrel’s hand shook.
His other hand came up to his mouth, knuckles pressing hard against his lips—not to stop a scream, but to stop himself from laughing in disbelief.
Whenever this young man stepped onto the stage of the world, history followed—and bowed.
Above them, stone scraped loudly.
All seven dwarven elders stood.
Not ceremoniously.
Not proudly.
They rose as one, chairs pushed back, ancient bodies leaning forward with expressions that did not belong on beings who had lived for centuries.
This was not judgment.
This was witnessing.
Elder Thrain’s hands were clasped behind his back—too tightly. One finger twitched, betraying strain. Hilda’s embers flickered wildly, flames trembling instead of burning steady.
"...five," Thrain said.
His voice was low.
Gravelled.
The fifth hammer descended.
Luca’s knees buckled visibly this time.
A ripple of collective breath swept through the arena.
But he did not fall.
His spine locked.
His body held—by will alone.
At the barrier, Aurelia’s hands slid down the rune-wall.
She didn’t collapse.
She pressed her forehead against it instead, shoulders trembling as tears dripped silently from her chin. Her breathing was uneven, broken, but there was no panic left in it.
Only endurance.
"...four," she whispered.
The word shook—but it was soft.
Relieved.
As if counting down a sentence rather than a death.
The fourth hammer struck.
Luca’s body convulsed violently, magma tearing through him again, steam erupting in a suffocating cloud. Several spectators turned away at last, unable to endure the sight any longer.
Aurelia exhaled.
Long.
Shuddering.
High above them all, Durgan Blackvein leaned forward.
Both hands were gripping the stone railing now.
His shoulders trembled once.
Just once.
He bowed his head—not in mockery, not in dominance—but in something dangerously close to acknowledgment.
"...three," he said.
The word barely made it past his teeth.
The third hammer fell.
The arena shook so hard that cracks raced up the pillars. Luca vanished beneath blood and heat for an instant—
Then reappeared.
Still standing.
Durgan’s breath escaped him sharply.
Within the suppression device, the Tower Master did not look away.
Her eyes shone—not with command, not with authority—
With belief.
With trust.
With the certainty that had driven her to choose him in the first place.
A tear slipped free.
"...two."
The second-to-last hammer struck.
The sound was deafening.
Luca’s form wavered violently, space inside him stretched beyond what should have been possible. His breathing was nothing but shattered noise, body flayed and burning—
But still—
Still—
Everyone was standing now.
No signal.
No command.
They rose because something inside them demanded it.
Dwarves. Humans. Nobles. Reporters.
All staring at the same blood-soaked figure with the same unspoken realization burning behind their eyes.
When danger comes...
heroes rise to meet it.
This was no longer a trial.
This was a declaration.
And as the final hammer rose—
As silence strangled the arena—
They shouted together.
Not in chaos.
Not in fear.
But in unity.
"ONE!"
The final hammer fell..
BAMMM!!!
