The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He?-Chapter 346 - "Healing..."

The room was quiet in the way only shared spaces could be—still, enclosed, carrying the weight of things that had not been said out loud.

Soft light filtered through the narrow stone window, pale and muted, cutting the floor into long, thin shapes. A heat crystal glowed gently near the wall, its warmth steady and patient. The air smelled faintly of stone and clean linen.

Lilliane sat on the edge of the bed.

Her back was straight. Too straight.

Hands folded neatly in her lap, fingers interlaced as if arranged by habit rather than comfort. Her gaze rested forward, unfocused—not on the wall, not on the window, not on anything that existed in the room.

She looked like a doll someone had placed there and forgotten.

Sylthara leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, ears swaying slowly on her head. She had been watching for a while now—long enough to recognize the absence of movement.

No shifting. No fidgeting. Barely any blinking.

Sylthara pushed off the wall with a quiet exhale and walked closer, boots soft against stone. She stopped a few steps in front of Lilliane.

"You know," she said, voice casual but low, "I’m really bad at this kind of thing."

No response.

Sylthara crouched slightly so she wasn’t towering over her. Her golden eyes searched Lilliane’s face—not forcing, not demanding.

"I don’t know what happened to you," Sylthara continued. "I don’t know what you saw. Or what you felt. Or what broke so badly inside that you went this quiet."

She paused, then added honestly,

"And I won’t pretend I understand it."

Lilliane’s fingers twitched.

Just once.

Sylthara noticed.

"But," Sylthara said, straightening and pulling a chair closer, "I do know what it feels like when the world ends and keeps going anyway."

She sat down in front of Lilliane—not blocking her, not crowding her. Just close enough to matter.

Lilliane’s gaze shifted a fraction. Not to Sylthara’s face—just to the floor between them.

Sylthara rested her forearms on her knees.

"I almost got my entire kin killed," she said.

The words were blunt. Unadorned. They landed heavily in the room.

"My choices. My decisions. My hands."

Her ears stilled completely.

"They died in front of me," Sylthara continued, voice steady but tight beneath the surface. "Torn apart by cultists. Burned. Broken. Screaming my name like I could still do something."

She didn’t look away as she spoke. She stared at the floor, jaw clenched.

"I remember thinking—this is it," she said quietly. "This is where my world ends. There’s nothing left after this."

Her fingers curled slowly into her palms.

"For a long time, I felt like I was walking through ruins that only I could see."

Silence followed.

Not empty silence. Heavy silence.

Lilliane’s breathing changed—just slightly. Less rigid. Less measured.

Sylthara noticed and continued.

"Every sound felt wrong. Every smile felt fake. And every time someone tried to talk to me, I wanted to disappear."

She lifted her gaze now—just enough to look at Lilliane’s hands.

"But then," Sylthara said, softer, "someone came."

Her voice didn’t brighten. It didn’t romanticize it.

"He didn’t fix anything," she said. "Didn’t heal the dead. Didn’t make the guilt go away."

A faint huff of breath escaped her—almost a laugh.

"But he stood there anyway. Right in the middle of the wreckage."

Sylthara’s golden eyes softened.

"And for the first time," she said, "I realized that even if my world had ended... it didn’t mean I had to."

Lilliane’s fingers loosened.

Just a little.

Sylthara leaned back in the chair, giving space again.

"I don’t know what that boy means to you," she said gently. "And I won’t pry."

Her gaze flicked up—brief, knowing.

"But I saw the way you looked when he didn’t get up."

She paused.

"And I saw the way your hand moved when his heart started beating again."

Lilliane swallowed.

Her shoulders dropped a fraction, as if something heavy had shifted off them—just a little.

"This isn’t the end of the world," Sylthara said firmly now. "Even if it feels like it."

She tapped the arm of the chair lightly.

"And you don’t have to explain yourself. You don’t have to talk. You don’t have to be okay."

Her tail flicked once, slow and deliberate.

"But you’re not alone in this room."

Lilliane blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Her eyes refocused—not fully, not clearly—but enough.

Her lips parted.

No sound came out.

Sylthara didn’t rush to fill the silence. She stayed exactly where she was, breathing slow, steady.

After a few seconds, Lilliane closed her mouth again—but her jaw didn’t lock this time. Her hands slipped apart, resting loosely against her thighs instead of clasped together.

It wasn’t healing.

It wasn’t recovery.

But it was movement.

Sylthara leaned back slightly, a quiet breath leaving her chest.

"See?" she said softly. "Still here."

She glanced toward the window, light brushing her face.

"And whether you like it or not," she added, "you’ve got people who aren’t going anywhere."

When Sylthara stood to leave a little later, she felt it.

A faint tug.

She paused.

Lilliane hadn’t looked up.

But her fingers were touching the edge of Sylthara’s sleeve—light, hesitant, as if unsure whether she was allowed to ask for that much.

Sylthara didn’t comment.

She simply sat back down.

And stayed.

The corridor stretched long and quiet, its stone walls lit by evenly spaced rune-lamps that hummed softly with contained heat. Luca moved at a measured pace, crutches tapping lightly against the floor, each step careful but steady. His bandages tugged faintly with motion, a dull reminder of everything his body had endured.

Behind him—

"Hey, wait for me!"

Kyle’s voice echoed down the hall, hurried footsteps following. Luca didn’t turn, but he slowed just enough for Kyle to catch up, falling into step beside him with an exaggerated huff.

"You walk fast for someone who was legally dead a few days ago," Kyle muttered.

Luca snorted quietly. "Says the one who won’t shut up."

They walked in silence for a few seconds, the rhythm of crutches and boots filling the space between them. Then Luca glanced sideways.

"So," he asked, tone casual, "who is it that wanted to meet me?"

Kyle’s expression shifted.

Not dramatically—but enough.

The usual grin faded, replaced by something more restrained. Thoughtful. His hands slipped into his pockets as he looked straight ahead.

"I think," Kyle said after a beat, "you should see it for yourself."

Luca sighed, already tired—and not just physically. "That bad, huh?"

Kyle didn’t answer.

The corridor opened into a wider chamber ahead, its ceiling higher, light spilling in from a tall, arched opening. Luca’s steps slowed instinctively as his gaze lifted.

Someone was standing there.

Alone.

Waiting.

The man turned the moment he heard the crutches.

His posture straightened—too quickly, like someone who hadn’t expected to be caught staring. His eyes moved over Luca in a single sweep, taking in the bandages, the crutches, the stiffness in his movements.

Concern crossed his face before he could hide it.

"Your injuries..." he began, voice low, careful.

Luca raised a hand immediately, flicking it once in dismissal. "It’s a long story," he said lightly. "Professor."

The word hung between them.

The man hesitated. His hands shifted—clasping, unclasping—before settling awkwardly at his sides. He took a small step forward, then stopped, as if reconsidering.

"...You," he said slowly, uncertainly, "you’re here?"

Luca tilted his head slightly. "That’s what I was wondering."

Another pause.

The man glanced at Kyle—just briefly—then back at Luca. His jaw tightened, shoulders drawing in a fraction, as if bracing himself.

"Can we..." he started, then stopped.

He took a breath.

"...Can we speak alone?"

Kyle raised a brow but didn’t comment. He just looked at Luca, waiting.

The corridor felt quieter suddenly.

Luca studied the man for a moment longer—the tension in his stance, the careful distance he kept, the way his eyes never quite left Luca’s face.

Then he nodded once.

"Sure," Luca said.

***

Recovery did not come all at once.

It came in pieces.

At first, it was mornings in the infirmary where Luca woke before the runes dimmed, staring at the ceiling while his body argued with itself. Bandages were changed. Bones were checked. Mana was guided—slowly, carefully—by dwarven healers who clicked their tongues every time they looked at his charts.

"Healing like this shouldn’t be possible," one muttered.

Luca pretended not to hear.

The crutches stayed with him for a while.

Short walks down the corridor at first—ten steps, then twenty. Aurelia walked beside him without touching, close enough that he could lean if he needed to, far enough that she didn’t make him feel fragile. When he stumbled, she didn’t rush in. She just slowed her pace and matched his breathing until he steadied again.

Kyle showed up every day.

Sometimes with food he definitely wasn’t supposed to bring into the infirmary. Sometimes with stories that went nowhere. Sometimes just to sit on the chair backward and complain loudly about how boring it was to watch someone heal responsibly.

"Back in my day," he said once, feet propped on the bedframe, "I recovered from life-threatening injuries in, like, three days."

Selena kicked his chair without looking up from her book.

Sylthara helped in her own way.

She didn’t hover. She didn’t ask if he was in pain. She trained beside him instead—slow stretches, controlled movements, breath alignment. When his muscles trembled, she noticed. When his mana slipped, she corrected him with a quiet word and a firm look.

Lilliane was there too.

Not always close. Sometimes just sitting near the window, sometimes standing silently by the wall. She didn’t speak, but when Luca’s steps faltered, she was always the first to look up. Her fingers tightened around whatever she was holding. Her shoulders eased when he straightened again.

Little by little, things changed.

The crutches became lighter in his hands.

Then unnecessary for short distances.

Then forgotten at the foot of the bed.

One morning, Luca stood up—and didn’t reach for them.

He froze mid-motion, realizing it only after the fact.

Aurelia noticed first.

"...Luca?" she said carefully.

He looked down at his hands.

Empty.

He took a step.

Then another.

His body protested—but it held. Bones firm. Balance steady. Mana flowing without resistance.

Kyle blinked.

Then grinned.

"Well I’ll be damned," he said, clapping his hands together. "Look at you."

Sylthara’s ears flicked once, sharp and pleased.

Selena closed her book.

Lilliane’s eyes widened—just a fraction.

Luca took one more step, then stopped, laughing softly under his breath. He rolled his shoulders, testing them, feeling the unfamiliar but welcome solidity of his own body again.

Kyle crossed his arms, smirk firmly in place.

"So," he said, tilting his head, "you’re finally fully fit, huh?"