Chapter 324: Chapter 324 – “What’s that ?”

The silence did not break.

It deepened.

The dust finished settling, drifting downward in slow, lazy spirals, revealing the ruined arena in full—collapsed tiers, fractured runes, dwarven constructs frozen mid-breath like titans caught between heartbeats. The air still shimmered with residual heat and mana, but no one moved. No one dared.

It felt as though the mountain itself was waiting.

Luca stood at the center of it all.

Blood continued to slide down his temple, dripping from his jaw to darken the broken stone at his feet. His breathing was uneven now, every inhale scraping his lungs raw, every exhale threatening to be his last. His body swayed—subtly, dangerously—but he did not fall.

His gaze never left Durgan.

And in his hand—

That small object.

At first, it didn’t look like anything at all.

Just metal.

Plain. Unadorned. No gems. No radiant aura. No roaring mana. Its blade was short, its edge worn smooth by time rather than sharpened to brilliance. The hilt bore no ornamentation—just darkened steel and a grip molded by hands that had held it far too often.

An ordinary dagger.

A laugh almost escaped someone’s throat.

Almost.

Then the air changed.

Not violently.

Not explosively.

It bowed.

The mana in the arena—wild, chaotic moments before—stilled as if kneeling. The fractured runes embedded in the stone flickered once… then dimmed, as though refusing to shine brighter than the thing now revealed.

One by one, the dwarves felt it.

A pressure—not crushing, not hostile—but ancient.

Old enough that it didn’t need to announce itself.

The dwarven elders descended slowly from the sky, boots touching stone with reverence rather than force. Their expressions had changed completely. No fury. No command.

Only disbelief.

And fear.

Elder Huldar took a single step forward, his eyes locked on the dagger in Luca’s trembling grip.

“…That… can’t be…”

Elder Brokk’s fingers shook as they curled around the haft of his hammer—not to raise it, but to steady himself.

“…By the Deep Forge…”

Even Thrain—Elder Thrain, whose will had stared down fire itself—went utterly still.

His pupils contracted.

His voice dropped to a whisper that barely carried.

“…It is.”

The word rippled outward.

Murmurs followed—low, horrified, reverent.

“No… it was lost.”

“Sealed away.”

“Destroyed… wasn’t it?”

“That dagger…”

The dwarves did not kneel.

They froze.

As if kneeling would be an insult.

As if standing was the only way to face something that old.

Luca felt none of it.

Not the pressure.

Not the weight of history.

He only knew that the dagger felt right in his hand—heavy in a way that had nothing to do with mass, warm in a way fire could never replicate. His fingers tightened around the grip, blood smearing across the metal as his stance widened just enough to keep himself upright.

He raised his head.

And met Durgan’s eyes.

For the first time—

Durgan Blackvein did not smile.

The amusement drained from his expression slowly, like molten metal cooling too fast, leaving behind something brittle and dangerous. His grip on the suppression device tightened unconsciously. The veins along his forearm stood out, his jaw locking as his gaze dropped—not to Luca’s face—

—but to the dagger.

His breath hitched.

Just once.

“…No,” he said quietly. Then again, slower, heavier. “…No.”

His eyes narrowed, disbelief warring with something far more dangerous.

Recognition.

“…That dagger,” Durgan muttered, voice low, almost reverent despite himself. “That shouldn’t exist anymore.”

Thrain swallowed.

“…It was never meant to fall into human hands.”

The air felt tighter now—not with aggression, but with judgment.

Luca stood between them.

Bleeding. Shaking. Unyielding.

The dagger caught the dim light and reflected nothing special—no glow, no radiance.

And yet every dwarf present knew the truth.

They weren’t looking at a weapon.

They were looking at a verdict.

Luca’s voice came out hoarse, barely holding together—but steady enough to cut through the fear.

“You asked,” he said, eyes never leaving Durgan,

“…if I could order you.”

He lifted the dagger a fraction higher.

Blood slid down its edge.

“I didn’t come to order you.”

The mountain seemed to lean closer.

“I came to end this.”

And for the first time since breaking free—

Durgan Blackvein took a step back.

A ripple of sound finally returned to the arena.

It began as whispers—uncertain, disbelieving—spreading outward from the shattered center like cracks in ice.

The human nobles were the first to find their voices.

“What… is that thing?” “A dagger?” “Why are the dwarves reacting like that?” “Is it some kind of relic?”

Reporters leaned forward, camera crystals whirring back to life, lenses zooming desperately toward Luca’s bloodied hand.

“I don’t see anything special about it.” “Is it enchanted?” “No mana signature… none at all.”

A nobleman dressed in layered silk leaned back with a scoff, waving a dismissive hand as though brushing aside a bad performance.

“All this fuss,” he sneered loudly, voice sharp with condescension, “for an ordinary dagger? Are the dwarves truly this desperate for theatrics?”

His laughter was short-lived.

“SHUT UP.”

Elder Thrain’s voice did not boom—it pressed.

The word slammed into the arena like a forge hammer striking raw iron, vibrating through bone and stone alike. The noble stiffened mid-breath, color draining from his face as Thrain’s gaze pinned him in place with naked fury.

“Do not,” Thrain said slowly, each word measured and heavy, “open your mouth again unless you wish to disgrace yourself beyond redemption.”

Silence swallowed the noble whole.

Thrain turned then, his expression shifting—not to calm, but to something far older and deeper. His eyes settled on the dagger, and for a brief moment, the weight of centuries settled visibly into his shoulders.

“That blade,” he said, voice lower now, resonant with memory, “is forged of ordinary steel. No divine blessing. No rare alloy. No enchantment.”

Several humans exchanged incredulous looks.

“But—” Thrain continued, lifting one gauntleted hand, “it is the first.”

The dwarves inhaled as one, a collective breath pulled from deep within their chests.

“The first forge of the son of our greatest hero,” Thrain said. “The warrior who stood beside the ancient races when the Devil Emperor threatened to drown this world in ruin.”

Gasps rippled outward.

“That son was young,” Thrain went on, eyes darkening. “Unproven. His hands were unsteady. That dagger was crude by our standards—uneven balance, imperfect edge.”

His fingers curled slowly.

“And yet he carried it into war.”

Images seemed to form in the air as he spoke—battlefields soaked in blood, fire clawing at the sky, a young dwarf standing where legends were born.

“It broke,” Thrain said. “It was reforged. Again. And again. And again. Until it became more than metal.”

His gaze swept the arena.

“That dagger was lost when the age ended. And every dwarf thereafter swore an oath.”

The air felt tight. Expectant.

“Whoever returns that blade to us,” Thrain said, voice ringing like a vow struck into stone, “will have the eternal debt of the dwarven people.”

Murmurs exploded.

“Eternal debt…?” “You mean—” “Any request…?”

“One wish,” Thrain confirmed, his eyes locking onto Luca now. “Any single wish. No matter the cost.”

Shock rolled through the arena like a tidal wave.

And at the center of it—

Luca’s knees finally wavered.

His body swayed, the world tilting sharply as exhaustion caught up to him all at once. The dagger dipped—

—and a pale hand caught his arm.

Selena was there, breath shallow, eyes wide with fear as she braced him with everything she had. Her fingers trembled against his sleeve, grip tight and desperate.

Sylthara stepped in on his other side, posture firm, shoulder sliding under his arm to anchor him. Her golden eyes flicked briefly to the dagger, then back to Luca—steady, grounding.

Kyle moved behind him, one arm coming around Luca’s back, holding him upright with sheer stubborn strength. “Hey,” he muttered, forcing a grin despite the tension in his jaw. “Don’t you dare collapse now.”

Just behind them—

Lilliane stood.

Silent.

Still distant.

But her eyes were on Luca.

Selena’s gaze lifted shakily toward the air, toward the suppression device, toward her mother. Fear crept across her face, raw and unguarded.

Luca barely registered the crowd anymore.

His vision blurred as he looked down at the dagger resting in his bloodstained hand.

I was going to use this after the trial…

The thought surfaced faintly.

After winning… I was going to ask for black mythrill.

The rarest metal.

Unbuyable.

Unbreakable.

A wish that could have reshaped everything.

His fingers tightened around the hilt.

Then he looked up.

At the Tower Master.

Bound.

Watching.

And the thought finished itself, clean and unwavering.

None of that matters.

His breath shuddered.

Nothing is more important than saving you, Master.

The dagger did not waver in his grip.

And for the first time since the explosion—

The mountain itself seemed to listen.

The dagger trembled faintly in Luca’s grasp—not from fear, but from the strain running through his body. Blood continued to trail down his temple, warm against his skin, his vision pulsing at the edges. Still, he lifted his head.

And looked straight at Durgan Blackvein.

“Return my master to me,” Luca said.

His voice was hoarse, scraped raw by dust and shouting, but the words themselves were steady. There was no plea in them. No bargaining. Just a statement—simple, direct, immovable.

High above, within the suppression device, the Tower Master watched him.

Her posture remained composed, hands folded within her sleeves as always, veil hiding her expression from the world. To anyone else, she looked unchanged—calm, distant, untouchable. But her eyes lingered on Luca longer than before, following the way his shoulders trembled, the way he forced himself to remain standing through sheer will alone.

Yet she did not speak.

Around them, the dwarven elders descended further, landing heavily upon broken stone. Their boots cracked against fractured runes as they formed a loose semicircle around Durgan, their expressions hard, proud, resolute.

“Blackvein,” Elder Thrain said, his voice carrying the weight of law and history, “you know what this means.”

Elder Huldar stepped forward, eyes burning with urgency. “The dwarven pledge is not a suggestion. It is the spine of our people.”

“You may be mad,” Elder Brokk added, gripping his hammer, “you may be dangerous beyond reason—but you are no oathbreaker.”

Hilda’s voice cut sharp as steel. “Release the Tower Master. Now.”

The words piled upon one another, not shouted, not threatened—but expected. Because among dwarves, an oath was not enforced by fear. It was enforced by identity.

For a moment—

Just a moment—

Durgan said nothing.

Then his lips spread into a wide grin.

Not mocking.

Not dismissive.

Thrilled.

“Hah… hahahaha…”

His laughter rolled outward, low and rich, vibrating through the ruined arena like a forge bell struck too hard. He tilted his head back slightly, eyes glinting as he looked down at Luca once more.

“It doesn’t work like that, boy,” Durgan said, his voice almost playful.

He raised a finger slowly.

The elders stiffened.

Durgan’s gaze sharpened, his grin turning feral. “And besides… I’ve already made a deal.”

The air around him tightened.

“With someone,” he continued, eyes darkening, “I cannot back out of.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd—confusion, unease, fear.

Durgan’s attention returned fully to Luca now, studying him—not as prey, not as a nuisance, but as a challenge worth acknowledging. His eyes traced the boy’s battered form, the way he leaned subtly into Selena and Sylthara for support, the way his grip on the dagger had not loosened even once.

“So,” Durgan said slowly, drifting a little higher in the air, shadow and heat coiling around him like a mantle, “if you want something from me…”

He leaned forward.

His eyes locked onto Luca’s with crushing intensity.

“You ought to be worthy of it.”

The mountain groaned.

Deep within Forgeheart, mechanisms stirred—ancient, colossal, awakening from dormancy. The sound of massive hammers striking unseen anvils echoed through the depths, not once, but many times, overlapping into a thunderous rhythm that made the air vibrate.

Durgan spread his arms wide.

A declaration.

“A trial older than your kingdoms,” he said, voice ringing with savage pride.

“A crucible that does not test skill—only endurance.”

The elders’ eyes widened.

“No,” Huldar breathed.

“You wouldn’t—”

Durgan’s grin sharpened.

“I will.”

He spoke the name like a verdict carved into stone.

“Thousand Hammer Crucible.”

The world seemed to brace itself.

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