Chapter 337 - "Can he Use it Again?"

Durgan Blackvein did not speak at first.

He simply looked at Luca.

Not with mockery.

Not with disdain.

With assessment.

His gaze traced Luca’s posture—the steadier stance, the way the boy stood despite the heat, the subtle difference in how the mana clung to his body now. As if Luca were no longer merely enduring the Crucible, but belonging to it.

"...Interesting," Durgan muttered.

Then he waved his hand.

Casually.

The arena answered.

Chains screamed as they unlocked. The suspended hammers lurched, gears roaring back to life as magma channels split open again with thunderous force. Lava surged like living veins, flooding the arena floor in glowing arcs.

The Crucible resumed.

The two hundred and first hammer fell again—this time without hesitation.

Luca grunted as the impact slammed into him, boots carving grooves into the stone as his body absorbed the force. Pain flared—hot, crushing—but it didn’t overwhelm him the way it had before. His spine bent, then straightened. His jaw clenched, breath hissing through his teeth as magma splashed against his legs.

"Hngh—!"

Another hammer followed.

Then another.

Bones cracked.

Muscle tore.

Blood sprayed.

But Luca stayed standing.

He staggered, yes—but he didn’t collapse.

From the challengers’ stand, Kyle sucked in a sharp breath.

"Okay—okay," he said quickly, forcing a shaky grin that didn’t quite convince even himself. "It’s fine now, right? I mean—he can reverse it. He literally just proved that. So as long as he keeps doing that, he shouldn’t—"

Sylthara nodded slowly, eyes fixed on Luca as another hammer struck and drove him to one knee before he pushed himself back up.

"He’s stronger now," she said, measured. "His body adapted. The Crucible isn’t overwhelming him the same way."

Kyle exhaled, relief bleeding into his voice.

"Exactly. So worst case, he rewinds again. No big—"

Selena didn’t answer.

Her gaze was sharp, calculating, locked onto Luca with unsettling intensity.

"...That’s assuming," she said quietly, "that he can rewind again."

Kyle’s grin faltered.

"What do you mean?"

Selena’s fingers curled slightly at her side.

"Abilities aren’t infinite," she said. "Especially not ones that violate causality." Her eyes narrowed. "Can he activate it repeatedly? Or was that a one-time response triggered under extreme conditions?"

Kyle swallowed.

"...You’re saying it might have a limit."

"Yes."

Another hammer fell.

Luca’s shoulder shattered audibly this time, bone fragments punching outward beneath skin before magma surged in and the limb twisted uselessly at his side.

He snarled—but stayed upright.

Selena continued, voice low.

"If he could reverse damage endlessly with no cost," she said, "then nothing could kill him."

Sylthara’s tail stilled completely.

"That would make him..." Kyle began.

Selena finished it.

"Untouchable."

Silence fell between them.

And far above, on the elders’ platform, the same realization was taking shape.

Elder Thrain watched Luca endure another sequence of crushing blows, his ancient brow furrowing deeper with every strike.

"No power in this world exists without exchange," he said gravely. "Magic, strength, miracles—they all take something."

Another elder nodded slowly.

"Equivalent exchange. Always."

Hilda’s gaze flicked between Luca and the Crucible mechanisms.

"If that was time reversal," she said, voice tight, "then what is it costing him?"

Brokk clenched his jaw.

"I don’t believe he can do it endlessly," he growled. "No vessel—human or otherwise—could sustain that kind of paradox."

Thrain’s eyes narrowed.

"If he could," he said slowly, "then even if he could never defeat another... he could never be defeated."

The word lingered unspoken in the air.

Invincible.

Below them, the Crucible showed no mercy.

Hammer after hammer fell.

Luca’s body shattered again—ribs collapsing, legs snapping, blood misting the air as magma invaded fresh wounds. Pain tore through him in violent waves, his vision flashing white with every impact.

But this time—

He endured.

His muscles held longer.

His bones resisted deeper.

His stance recovered faster.

The Crucible was breaking him.

And Luca Valentine—

was breaking back.

***

Far from Forgeheart—far from dwarven stone and blazing crucibles—the world grew quiet in a very different way.

Deep beneath the surface, where light had never been welcome and corrupted mana pooled like stagnant water, an underground hall stretched into darkness. The air itself felt wrong—thick, oppressive, crawling against the skin with a presence that whispered without sound.

At the far end of the chamber stood an obsidian throne.

It was not carved.

It was grown—jagged, asymmetrical, veins of dark energy pulsing faintly through its surface like a diseased heart.

Upon it sat a figure cloaked entirely in black.

No face was visible.

No hands.

No form that could be called male or female.

Only the sense of something watching.

Below the throne, a corrupted knight knelt with his head bowed low. His armor was warped and fused to flesh, veins of tainted mana crawling like living parasites across exposed skin. Even kneeling, his body trembled—not from injury, but fear.

"The plan has failed," he said, voice hoarse, scraping against the silence. "The Tower Master is unharmed."

The air shuddered.

A shrieking voice spilled from the throne—layered, distorted, as if several throats spoke at once.

"...Failed?"

The word echoed unnaturally, rebounding from walls that should not have carried sound.

"Were we," the voice continued slowly, "betrayed?"

The knight stiffened. He did not answer at first.

His silence stretched too long.

The pressure in the chamber increased.

"N–no," he said finally, swallowing hard. "It was... unforeseen."

The figure on the throne leaned forward—just slightly.

"It seemed almost done," the knight hurried on, desperation creeping into his tone. "The negotiations were collapsing. Durgan was cornered. The Tower Master restrained."

He hesitated.

"But a human brat interfered."

The pressure shifted.

"A dagger," the knight continued. "One that forced Durgan to retreat from the agreement."

The cloaked figure tilted its head.

"...Human brat?"

The words were curious now.

Interested.

The knight moved quickly, fumbling at his side before pulling out a compact device etched with corrupted runes. With a pulse of mana, the air above it shimmered.

A projection formed.

A young man with dark violet hair.

Crimson eyes.

Bloodied, defiant, unbroken.

Luca Valentine.

The figure stared.

For a heartbeat—just one—the oppressive aura wavered.

"...I see."

The voice was quieter now.

Something like recognition threaded through it.

The figure rose from the throne.

As it stood, shadows peeled away from its form like living things, stretching unnaturally across the chamber walls. The temperature plummeted, corrupted mana surging violently in response.

Behind the throne—

A sound emerged.

Low. Wet. Guttural.

A scream.

The knight’s head snapped up in horror as pain exploded through his body. His armor began to melt, blackened metal liquefying and fusing deeper into flesh. He screamed—begged—clawed at the stone as corruption consumed him from the inside out.

"P–please—! Mercy—!"

There was none.

His body collapsed inward, skin dissolving, bones turning to sludge under the weight of dark power. The screams cut off abruptly as the last of him disintegrated into nothing—no corpse, no ash.

Only silence remained.

The cloaked figure exhaled slowly.

"A human," it murmured. "With crimson eyes... is it him?"

The shadows settled.

Somewhere far above, a crucible hammered at fate itself.

And deep underground, something ancient had taken notice.

***

The four hundredth hammer fell.

The impact drove Luca’s body deep into the arena floor, magma surging violently around him, forcing its way through torn flesh and shattered pathways. His body was mangled again—skin split, blood bursting outward in scorching arcs—but it did not collapse into ruin the way it once had.

It stayed... together.

Barely.

His limbs trembled violently as lava flooded his insides, burning through muscle and nerve, steam tearing free from his body in choking bursts. His spine bowed under the pressure, ribs creaking, organs screaming under weight that should have erased him entirely.

Yet—

He did not scream.

A low, broken grunt escaped his clenched teeth, jaw locked so tight it trembled. Veins bulged along his neck and temples, eyes bloodshot and unfocused, but still open—still conscious.

Pain was everywhere.

Agony consumed him.

But beneath it, something else had taken root.

Grit.

An unyielding refusal to give way.

The hammers rose again.

The four hundred and twelfth strike crashed down.

His body shuddered violently, blood spilling freely as magma surged higher, invading deeper, burning from the inside out. His face twisted in pain, breath tearing in ragged gasps—but still, no scream came.

Around him, the arena trembled.

Those watching could see it clearly now.

His body—though torn and broken—was no longer shattering.

It bent.

It endured.

It took the beating.

The four hundred and thirtieth hammer fell.

Luca’s body slammed down again, stone fracturing beneath him, but his bones did not explode apart. Muscles tore and strained, flesh split and sealed unevenly, holding on through sheer resistance.

His chest heaved.

His vision blurred.

And inside his mind—

Thoughts moved.

I don’t know if I can force time reversal again...

The idea surfaced slowly, cautiously, as another hammer rose overhead.

Even if I can...

Impact.

His breath burst from his lungs in a harsh, silent exhale.

Am I willing to take that risk again...?

Lava surged anew, flooding into him, searing through every inch of his being.

If it doesn’t happen this time...

The next hammer descended.

His body convulsed violently, blood spraying outward.

I’m getting a ticket straight to hell.

Yet—

He wasn’t panicking.

He wasn’t drowning.

For the first time since the Crucible began, his thoughts did not scatter.

They sharpened.

What else...?

The four hundred and fiftieth strike hit.

His body trembled, breath ragged, eyes shaking—but still open.

What other options do I have...?

This time, he wasn’t lost.

He wasn’t grasping blindly.

There was certainty—quiet, stubborn certainty—that something existed.

Something he had missed.

Something the Crucible was forcing him toward.

The four hundred and fifty-seventh hammer rose—

—and fell.

The impact tore through him.

And Luca’s eyes widened.

Yes.

That’s it.