Chapter 313 - "Who is the Strongest?"

The Forgeheart Arena trembled with anticipation, a low, volcanic hum rippling through the stone floor as Sylthara stood alone at the center. The magma-veins beneath the arena glowed brighter, reacting instinctively to Elder Thrain’s rising aura.

The elder descended from his stone throne with steps heavy enough to rattle dust from the pillars. His armor clinked with the weight of centuries, runes pulsing a harsh, unyielding red. His presence alone felt like the pressure of a mountain settling on Sylthara’s shoulders.

He stopped only a few paces from her, towering, beard braided with ember-lit rings that flickered as he spoke.

"Dark Elf," Elder Thrain rumbled, voice deep enough to stir the air itself,

"Why me?"

The arena fell silent.

Tens of thousands leaned forward.

The dwarves—normally loud, unruly—were utterly still.

Even the magma seemed to pause, held in suspense.

Sylthara did not answer immediately.

Her golden eyes lowered, unfocused for a breath as a thought drifted through her mind—

a memory from only a night ago.

---

The dwarven guest chamber glowed with a faint amber warmth, lit only by the slow-burning embers inside the wall torches. The stone walls trapped heat like a sheltered cavern, yet the silence that filled the room was soft, almost soothing—broken only by the occasional crackle of fire and the faint drip of distant water somewhere deep in the forge tunnels.

Two beds faced each other, carved from dark mountain oak and covered with thick woolen blankets. Lilliane lay on her back atop one, hands tucked under her head, pink hair spilling like soft petals across the pillow. Sylthara lay on her stomach on the other bed, obsidian skin shimmering gently under the orange glow, silver hair cascading down her back like liquid moonlight.

For a long while, neither spoke.

Only the quiet warmth of the room breathed around them—calm, still, peaceful.

Then Sylthara shifted.

Her golden eyes blinked slowly, turning toward Lilliane as her chin rested on her folded arms.

"...Tomorrow," she murmured in her steady, low voice, "the trials begin again."

Lilliane nodded softly, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

"Yes..."

But Sylthara noticed it immediately—the tiny, hesitant pause in her tone. The way Lilliane’s fingers tightened for a moment around the edge of her blanket. The quick flutter of her lashes, followed by a slow exhale as if she were preparing to speak... yet couldn’t.

Sylthara’s ears twitched faintly.

"Speak," she said simply.

Lilliane jerked slightly, startled by how directly Sylthara had cut into her silence.

Her lips parted... then closed... then opened again.

"...Can I..." she hesitated, sitting up slowly, pulling her knees to her chest, "...can I be the first one to go tomorrow?"

Sylthara blinked.

No emotion crossed her face—not confusion, not understanding, just calm acknowledgment.

She nodded.

"Alright."

Lilliane’s eyes widened a fraction.

"W-wait... just like that?" she asked. "Y-you don’t want to know why?"

Sylthara tilted her head, silver hair sliding over her shoulder in a smooth cascade.

"...Do I need to?" she asked. "You want to go first. So you will go first."

Lilliane stared at her for a moment—then let out a small, helpless laugh under her breath.

"...You really are strange, Sylthara."

Sylthara made no comment, just blinked once and rested her cheek back on her arms.

Silence returned—but now it felt lighter, more open.

After a few breaths, Sylthara asked, gaze drifting upward:

"Who are you going to challenge?"

The question lingered in the warm air.

Lilliane’s shoulders tensed. She looked at Sylthara—then down at her blanket—then back again. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed again as if deciding whether this was something she should hide.

But finally... she sighed.

"...Elder Huldor."

Sylthara blinked.

"Why?"

That one word was all it took.

Lilliane sat up fully, eyes brightening, her entire posture shifting—from hesitant to genuinely excited. Her hands moved as she spoke, gestures growing quicker, her voice lifting slightly with enthusiasm.

"Because he’s Elder Huldor!" she said, leaning forward, pink hair bouncing with her movement. "Do you know how long I’ve wanted to see him? Since I was a child!"

Sylthara blinked at the sudden burst of energy, her ears perking slightly.

Lilliane didn’t notice—she was already lost in her own excitement.

"He’s the greatest rune master of the dwarves! People say he can carve runes into anything—metal, stone, even air! And if I could—if I could learn even one thing from him, Sylthara..."

Her hands curled into eager fists against her knees.

"I could control all my elements better. Every rune responds to the mind—and I have all basic and advanced affinities. If I learn rune resonance, I could create techniques with multiple elements infused into them!"

Her eyes sparkled—purely.

Unrestrained joy.

"He’s... incredible. And I want to grow stronger. Properly. Not by copying others’ training—but by understanding mana itself."

Sylthara watched quietly, golden eyes widening just a little—more than she ever showed openly. There was something almost charming about how Lilliane’s voice kept rising in pitch, how her smile stretched so brightly it almost lit the dim room.

"...You like this ’rune’ thing very much," Sylthara observed softly.

Lilliane laughed again—this time joyful.

"Yes! I really do."

She paused... then looked shyly at Sylthara.

"Um... what about you? Who will you challenge tomorrow?"

Sylthara blinked once.

Twice.

Then she asked with total sincerity:

"Who is the strongest among them?"

Lilliane froze.

"...Strongest? Uh... that would be Elder Thrain. He’s the head of the council, and—"

"Oh," Sylthara said, her golden eyes brightening instantly. "Then I will challenge him."

Lilliane’s mouth fell open.

"W-WHAT?!"

Sylthara nodded calmly, as if she had just decided what to eat for breakfast.

"The strongest should be challenged first."

"T-that’s not—Sylthara—that’s not how this works!" Lilliane squeaked, clutching her blanket in panic. "Y-you can’t just—just go straight for him! He’s—he’s literally—he’s like the boss of all dwarven elders!"

Sylthara blinked again.

"...So he is strong."

"THAT’S NOT THE POINT!"

Sylthara tilted her head slightly, ears flicking.

"It is for me."

Lilliane collapsed backward onto her bed with a defeated groan.

Meanwhile, Sylthara simply rested her cheek back on her folded arms, closing her eyes as her silver hair flowed quietly around her shoulders—serene, unbothered, and absolutely committed.

The fire crackled softly between them.

And the night slipped deeper into stillness.

---

Sylthara lifted her chin, silver hair sliding like moonlit silk over her shoulders.

Her golden eyes met Elder Thrain’s burning gaze without fear, without hesitation, without even the faintest tremble.

Her answer came quiet—

but steady enough to echo through the entire arena.

"Because you are strong."

Silence—

—then the arena erupted.

Not in cheers.

In laughter.

Roaring, chest-shaking, beard-wobbling dwarven laughter.

"HAH—! She just—said it—like that?!"

"Strongest one, she says! Bwahaha!"

"By the anvils, this girl’s got guts!"

Elder Brokk nearly fell off his seat, clutching his stomach. Elder Duram slapped his thigh so hard the sound cracked like a whip. Even Elder Hilda hid a smile behind her hand, shoulders shaking.

But the most shocking reaction—

came from the Tower Master.

Her veil trembled ever so slightly—

a soft, delicate sound escaping her.

A giggle.

Refined, controlled, but unmistakable.

She quickly pressed her fingertips to her lips, eyes curving slightly in amusement.

Even sealed of power, she seemed lighter in that moment, warmed by Sylthara’s pure, literal honesty.

In the challengers’ stand, Luca just dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose as a faint smile tugged at his lips.

"...Of course she’d say that," he muttered.

His voice held no frustration—only fond amusement.

Selena raised an eyebrow.

Lilliane (from the infirmary) would have fainted anew if she’d heard it.

Reporters nearly dropped their cameras.

Human nobles stared like she had insulted their entire lineage.

And Elder Thrain...

The elder’s laughter was not loud.

It was low.

Slow.

A rumble of genuine surprise shaking his broad chest.

"Well then," he said, cracking his massive knuckles as magma-light flared behind him,

"come and see how strong I am."

The Forgeheart Crucible trembled—

and Sylthara’s trial began to ignite.

The arena did not simply change—

it erupted.

A deep, ancient rumble rolled through the Forgeheart Coliseum, a sound so primal it vibrated in the marrow of every spectator present. Dwarves stiffened. Humans jolted upright. The stone beneath Sylthara’s feet cracked, glowing red from within as if the mountain’s heart was awakening.

Then—

BOOOOOM—!!

A shockwave burst outward from the arena center, rippling through the blackstone floor like the roar of an angry volcano. Scar-red runes burst to life along the rim of the battleground, racing in perfect fracture-lines, each symbol igniting one by one—

THRUM— THRUM— THRUM— THRUM—!!

The Forgeheart Arena responded to Elder Thrain’s declaration not as stone and metal...

...but as a living beast.

The spectators jerked back as the entire viewing section shuddered, then lifted, stone platforms rising smoothly into the air like floating islands. The stands separated themselves from the main arena by several meters, held in place by shimmering cradles of molten-orange mana.

The protective barrier slammed down around them with a sound like a thousand hammers against steel—

KRAAAASH—!!

A massive dome of transparent rune-fire enveloped the spectators, glowing with brilliant gold and deep red. The barrier hummed violently, thick enough to withstand explosions, shockwaves, even collapsing magma flows.

Dwarven children pressed their faces to it in awe.

Reporters scrambled to adjust their lenses, shouting breathlessly.

Human nobles recoiled, gripping the railings as mana surged beneath their feet.

One muttered, trembling, "W-what level of crucible is this...?"

Another whispered, "Are they insane? This isn’t a normal stage!"

Sylthara stood in the center of the battleground...

...as the arena floor vanished.

Completely.

In an instant, all solid ground apart from a handful of rising, jagged volcanic stones crumbled away into a boiling, heaving lake of magma. Lava surged upward like an ocean in a storm, its waves restless and hungry, sloshing against the rising rocks in molten sprays.

The heat slammed into Sylthara’s obsidian skin, shimmering across her like rippling moonlight striking polished stone.

She did not move.

Did not flinch.

Did not lower her gaze even as the entire world beneath her feet transformed into a sea of living flame.

Her stone platform—narrow, uneven, floating like an island in hell—stopped rising just above the magma’s surface. Lava spat and hissed beneath her boots, tiny fiery droplets sizzling harmlessly against her obsidian skin.

Her silver hair lifted in the heat currents, swirling around her like a banner of starlight against fire.

A lone silhouette against the blazing inferno.

Above her, Elder Thrain burst into booming laughter—deep, volcanic, echoing across the arena like the laughter of the mountain god himself.

"Hahahahahaha!!"

He stomped once, and the stone he stood on launched him upward with explosive force.

He soared through the air—ascending like a meteor rising instead of falling—trailing red-hot arcs of mana as his runes lit up with brutal brilliance. His silhouette cut across the barrier ceiling, then fell in a clean arc toward the elder platform.

THONK—!!

He landed on his throne with the weight of a collapsing mountain.

His armor flared to life, every rune along his chestplate igniting in sequence. Lava behind Sylthara responded instantly, surging upward in spiraling plumes like pillars bowing to him.

Then he raised one massive arm.

And the world held its breath.

His voice thundered across the fiery expanse:

"LET THE BURNDOWN CRUCIBLE—BEGIN!!"

The magma erupted around Sylthara in a circle of explosive flame—

FWOOOOOOOOSH—!!!

—and her trial began in a world made entirely of fire.