The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He?-Chapter 340 - "Little Boyfriend!"

The practice grounds lay open beneath a washed, cloudless sky—wide, level, and meticulously maintained. Pale stone tiles formed a vast circle etched with old imperial drill markings, their edges worn smooth by decades of disciplined footwork. Weapon racks lined the perimeter, banners snapping lazily in the wind, gold-threaded sigils catching the light.

Five figures stood in formation at the center.

Imperial knights.

Their armor was uniform—layered plates of polished gold alloy reinforced with mana channels, engraved at the joints for flexibility without sacrificing protection. Each helm bore a narrow visor slit, expressionless and cold. Their builds were exactly what the Empire demanded: tall, broad-shouldered, balanced. Not exaggerated—efficient. Soldiers shaped by doctrine and repetition.

Their weapons were varied by design.

One sword-and-shield vanguard, stance low and anchored.

One dual-sword striker, weight forward, knees loose.

One spear wielder, planted at mid-range, weapon leveled with surgical precision.

One archer at the rear, already nocking an arrow, eyes calculating distance.

And one heavy-blade knight, carrying a greatsword resting on his shoulder like a promise.

They were trained to be fit, and with large builds.

And still—

They looked small.

Because standing opposite them, just beyond the center mark, was a giant.

He was massive in a way that ignored proportion—thick arms like tree trunks, shoulders broad enough to blot out the banners behind him. His skin was rough and scarred, muscles layered over one another like corded stone. A crude iron mace rested on his shoulder, its head dented and darkened from repeated impacts.

And his expression?

A stupid smile.

Wide. Vacant. Almost friendly.

"Ready," the vanguard knight called, shield snapping into position.

The giant tilted his head, listening, as if the word itself needed time to reach him.

The signal horn blew.

The knights moved instantly.

The archer released first—two arrows loosed in rapid succession, trajectories adjusted mid-flight by wind mana. The spear knight advanced half a step, thrusting to control space, while the dual-sword striker flanked left, blades low and fast.

The giant raised his mace.

Not defensively.

Just... raised it.

The arrows struck.

Metal rang as both shafts deflected off the giant’s shoulder and chest, glancing away without penetrating. The impact barely shifted his posture.

The spear thrust followed—clean, precise, aimed at the joint beneath his ribs.

It hit.

The point sank an inch—

—and stopped.

The giant looked down at it, eyes crossing slightly as if confused.

"Huh."

The vanguard slammed in immediately, shield-first, a practiced maneuver meant to destabilize. The heavy-blade knight followed, greatsword carving a diagonal arc meant to force retreat.

For a moment—

It worked.

The combined impact pushed the giant back a step. Stone cracked beneath his heel. Dust puffed up around his foot.

The knights pressed.

Shield bash.

Spear twist.

Dual blades cutting high and low in staggered rhythm.

The giant grunted as steel scraped across his skin, shallow cuts opening along his arms and side. He stumbled another step, smile wobbling.

"Grr... hey..."

The archer loosed again—this time targeting the eyes.

The giant blinked.

Then—

The mace came down.

Not swung.

Dropped.

It smashed into the stone between the vanguard and spear knight with a concussive boom that rattled armor and teeth alike. The shockwave alone threw both men backward, shields spinning free as they slammed hard into the ground.

Before the formation could reset, the giant moved.

Fast.

He grabbed the spear shaft mid-recovery and yanked.

The spear knight was lifted clean off the ground, armor clanging as he was swung in a brutal arc and released—his body flying end over end until it crashed into the archer’s position, taking both of them down in a tangle of limbs and gear.

The dual-sword striker lunged, blades flashing toward the giant’s exposed flank.

The giant turned.

One massive hand caught the knight by the helmet.

There was no finesse.

He simply threw him.

The knight sailed across the practice grounds and hit the stone hard enough to slide several meters, gasping, blades skittering away from nerveless fingers.

The heavy-blade knight roared and charged, greatsword raised overhead, mana flaring along the edge.

The giant met him head-on.

He stepped into the swing, shoulder-first, letting the blade bite into muscle—then closed his free hand around the knight’s chest plate and lifted.

The greatsword fell.

The knight followed.

He hit the ground with a wheezing sound, armor dented inward, breath knocked completely out of him.

Silence fell over the grounds.

Five knights lay scattered across the stone—groaning, coughing, struggling to draw breath. None were unconscious.

All were defeated.

The giant stood in the center, mace resting against his shoulder again, chest rising and falling slowly. Small cuts dotted his skin, already closing. His stupid smile returned, wider than before.

He looked around at the fallen knights.

Then toward the edge of the grounds.

"Can I get the food now?"

***

Just beyond the practice grounds, high within the palace’s eastern wing, a tall arched window stood open to the afternoon air.

From there, the clash below had been perfectly visible.

Two figures watched in silence.

The first was a middle-aged man, tall and broad despite the casual way he leaned against the stone frame. His presence was difficult to define—not overwhelming, not oppressive—but deep, like a lake whose bottom refused to reveal itself. Laugh lines creased his face easily, and his eyes carried the unmistakable sharpness of someone who had survived far more than he ever spoke of.

Beside him stood a woman who did not need posture or armor to command attention.

Golden hair fell freely down her back, catching the sunlight like molten metal. Crimson eyes—clear, focused, and mercilessly observant—followed every movement on the practice grounds below. She stood straight, hands resting lightly against the window sill, her expression calm but intent.

After a moment, she spoke.

"He is good," she said simply.

Then, with a slight tilt of her head, she added, "You trained him well, Uncle."

The man beside her burst out laughing.

"Good?" he echoed, voice booming as he straightened and clapped a hand against the stone. "Good?! Hahahaha—admit it, Celestia. He’s the best of the best."

He gestured toward the grounds below, where the giant still stood amidst the scattered knights, mace resting on his shoulder, wearing that same idiotic grin.

"Five imperial knights. Coordinated. Armed. And he barely broke a sweat."

Celestia’s gaze lingered on the scene a heartbeat longer before she turned to look at her uncle.

Her eyes narrowed slightly—not in suspicion, but scrutiny.

"You seem different," she said. "More... easygoing than before."

Her uncle blinked, then laughed again—this time softer.

"Of course I am," he replied, shrugging. "Who wouldn’t be happy if they had a disciple like that? I must thank you for introducing him to me."

He smirked, folding his arms.

"He’s invincible in his realm. Not even your little boyfriend could defeat him."

The words landed.

Celestia’s brows furrowed instantly.

"...Little boyfriend?"

Before she could respond, a flicker of mana brushed the air.

A small mana bird—translucent, glowing faintly blue—fluttered into the room through the open window. Its wings beat soundlessly as it circled once before landing lightly on Celestia’s shoulder.

She stiffened.

Slowly, she raised her hand.

The bird dissolved into light.

A folded letter materialized in her palm.

Her expression shifted the instant she broke the seal.

At first—confusion.

Then—sharp widening of her eyes.

A visible flinch, breath catching just slightly.

Worry followed, fleeting but unmistakable.

Then—

Relief.

Her shoulders eased. Her grip loosened. The tension drained from her posture as calm returned, smooth and controlled, as if she had never faltered at all.

Her uncle watched the entire sequence with open fascination.

"...Impressive," he muttered. "You just went through your entire emotional quota for the next five years in ten seconds."

He leaned closer, peering at the letter in her hand.

"So?" he asked. "What could possibly—"

Celestia turned and extended the letter toward him.

"Read."

He took it.

His expression changed almost immediately.

Surprise.

Then disbelief.

Then a sharp, incredulous inhale.

"...What—" he muttered, eyes scanning the lines again.

"Thousand Hammer Crucible...?"

His gaze snapped up.

"That boy?"

Celestia met his stare calmly.

There was a hint of pride in her eyes now.

"Now," she said coolly, "what were you saying again about my ’little boyfriend’?"

***

[Dwarven Lands]

The dwarven infirmary was quiet.

Not the heavy, oppressive silence of the arena—but a gentle one, shaped by slow breaths, muted runes, and the faint crackle of heatstones embedded in the walls. Soft amber light flowed from engraved veins in the stone ceiling, warm and steady, designed to soothe bodies pushed beyond their limits.

The air smelled of metal, herbs, and clean heat.

Luca surfaced slowly.

At first, there was only brightness—too much of it. His eyelids fluttered open for a fraction of a second before instinct forced them shut again, a dull ache blooming behind his eyes.

...Too bright.

He inhaled shallowly, chest tightening, then exhaled. The pain was there—but distant. Managed. Wrapped carefully in layers of numb warmth and restorative magic.

Okay... try again.

This time, he opened his eyes slowly.

The ceiling came into focus first—arched stone, glowing runes pulsing softly like a patient heartbeat. He blinked once. Twice. The world steadied.

Alive.

The realization settled without fanfare.

He turned his head slightly.

And froze.

Beside his bed, sitting on a simple stone chair, was a girl with red hair.

Her head rested against the edge of the mattress, cheek pressed lightly into the blanket. Strands of crimson hair had slipped loose, falling across her face. Her shoulders rose and fell in slow, even breaths.

She was asleep.

Aurelia.

For a moment, Luca simply stared.

The memory of fire, hammers, pain—of screaming space and shattered thought—felt far away now, like something that had happened to someone else. What remained was this quiet room... and her.

A faint smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.

He shifted slightly—and immediately regretted it.

A sharp pressure flared in his chest, not enough to overwhelm him, but enough to remind him that his body had not escaped unscathed. His breath hitched, and the small sound was enough.

Aurelia stirred.

Luca turned his head away instinctively to the other side—and then noticed someone else.

His eyes widened.

"What are you doing here—" he started, voice rough, dry—

"—kh—!"

The words broke apart as a cough tore free from his chest.

Pain flared sharply, and Luca instinctively raised a hand toward his mouth as another cough followed, harsher than the last.

The quiet of the infirmary trembled.