The weak point of a Slywind Rabbit lies in its lower abdomen—specifically the region just past the end of the sternum. That’s where the fur is thinnest and softest, the muscle protection weakest, and the heart sits closest to the surface.”
Rune’s voice was clear and even, as though reciting a textbook entry.
He turned his head toward the adventurer Vark once more.
“Do you know the most effective way to attack a Slywind Rabbit?”
Rune asked calmly.
“I…”
Vark faltered again, mouth opening and closing without sound.
“Penetrating attack. With a spear, striking that weak point—even an ordinary person could kill a Slywind Rabbit cleanly.” This was knowledge Rune had gained over the past few months while assisting the village butcher.
He had deliberately chosen that work—dissecting the magical beasts—to familiarize himself with their anatomy, identify vital weak points, and build a data set of vulnerabilities.
It was invaluable for killing magical beasts.
Looking at Vark standing frozen in place, Rune shook his head slightly and continued:
“Then do you know how to render a Slywind Rabbit completely helpless, leaving it exposed for the kill?”
“…”
Vark shook his head instinctively, eyes blank.
“Simply scorch its eyes with flame. It will freeze rigid for a short time. At that moment, even an ordinary person—aiming at the weak point—can finish it.”
“And the best way to burn its eyes is to smash a Fireball directly into its face. That achieves everything.”
“That is what your so-called ‘useless’ Fireball is capable of.”
Rune stated the simplest tactical method for hunting a Slywind Rabbit in perfect calm.
When he finished, he looked around at the thoughtful expressions among the crowd, then at Vark still staring blankly.
“I am applying for the Hunting Challenge not because I cannot accept my ‘incomplete’ profession. It is simply because… I have confidence. Through my knowledge and this ‘deficient’ ability, I can win the challenge. This is based on data I gathered from dissecting hundreds of Tier 0 magical beasts.”
“Hypothesis confirmed.”
“That is all.”
He paused, his gaze reflecting Vark’s embarrassment like a still lake.
“But you…” Rune’s tone remained level, almost courteous, “…frankly, as a ‘complete’ mage and adventurer, your foundational adventurer knowledge is somewhat disappointing.”
With that, he turned away from the frozen Vark and began walking toward Captain Brog, who was already in quiet conversation at the edge of the arena.
“Well said!”
“Beautiful!”
“Perfect!”
As Rune’s words landed, applause and cheers erupted around him.
Several veteran hunters and old adventurers watched his retreating back with eyes that seemed almost alight.
Their gazes were filled with recognition.
“You—!” Vark snapped back to himself at the sound of the applause. He swept a glance at the surrounding adventurers—people who clearly approved of Rune and now looked at him with open contempt. His face flushed crimson.
Rune’s calm, almost mentor-like assessment of an underperforming student had pierced straight through his vanity as a proper mage.
“Slywind Rabbit? Just a worthless Tier 0 trash beast! Who bothers memorizing the weak points of something like that? Any Tier 0—or even Tier 1—magical beast is paper in front of my ‘Ice Spike’ spell! I’m not like you, stuck with one pathetic ‘Fireball’! Of course you have to remember every detail—it’s your only shot at survival! I’m a proper ice-element mage. A single Tier 1 ‘Ice Spike’ pierces their bodies clean through! Can you?!”
The last sentence came out as a near-shout, laced with the desperate attempt to reclaim face.
Rune’s footsteps paused. He slowly turned.
His face showed no trace of anger or insecurity—only that unnervingly clear calm. He regarded Vark with those too-clear eyes, then gave a slight, almost polite nod.
“Whether my ‘pitiful’ Fireball can kill a magical beast… you will know very soon. As for whether you need to remember monster weak points… perhaps one day you will understand.”
His voice remained perfectly even. “Good luck, esteemed adventurer.”
That response—calm to the point of chill, carrying the faintest trace of pity—was more humiliating than any heated retort.
Worse still were the contemptuous looks now coming from the surrounding adventurers.
Everyone knew exactly how valuable Rune’s hard-earned experience truly was.
Yet Vark had chosen to double down out of wounded pride, desperately trying to cover his own inadequacy.
He watched Rune turn away once more—that straight, unyielding back completely immune to the jeers and clamor behind it—walking steadily toward his goal.
“Smug little… wait till that beast tears you apart. Let’s see how you act then!”
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Vark muttered through gritted teeth, venom dripping from every word. He turned to find Mance, hoping for some support from his old drinking companion, only to meet an unfamiliar gaze—distant, reproachful.
Mance hefted the last load of debris and walked past him in silence, offering no further exchange.
Vark stomped his foot in fury. His resentful glare stabbed at Rune’s back as the boy calmly spoke with Brog. Finally, he slunk away, disappearing into the growing crowd of whispering onlookers.
In the center of the arena, the morning chill was steadily burned away by rising sunlight.
A trial of courage, intellect, and paradigm-shifting proof was about to unfold within this ancient ring.
......
An hour later.
Sunlight had fully burned away the morning mist, bathing the hunting camp in bright yet solemn radiance.
The beast pit’s mottled gray stone walls stood silent, casting sharp-edged shadows.
Outside, the makeshift stands had filled with nearly everyone in the village who could spare the time—plus even more curious out-of-town adventurers drawn by the news. A low buzz of speculation rose and fell like waves; every eye fixed on the heaviest door of all: the pitch-black iron gate studded with massive rivets.
Beyond that gate lay the final stretch of dim corridor leading to the sandy arena floor.
Outside it stood Brog—mountainous and immovable—blocking most of the view inward. In his hands he gripped not his usual battle-axe, but a gigantic square-headed iron hammer taller than he was. Its dark surface was scarred with use and old bloodstains, radiating brutal weight.
Rune stood before him. Between them lay only the threshold that would soon become the line between life and death.
Brog drew a deep breath. The air carried iron rust, dust, and the faint, indescribable tang of old blood. He slammed the hammer’s butt down hard—thud—silencing the distant clamor.
“Listen, kid.” His voice was rough and low, each word forced up from deep in his chest. “Once you cross this door, there are only two ways you come back out.”
He shifted sideways, jerking his chin toward the sunlit, empty circular sand behind him.
“Either your opponent lies dead at your feet, and you walk out through there—” he pointed to the far side of the arena, to a much smaller gate covered in iron bars “—the ‘Triumph Gate,’ as victor and warrior. You get cheers… or at least respectful silence.”
His gaze snapped back, locking onto Rune’s eyes with brutal honesty—no encouragement, no rhetoric, just raw truth:
“Or…you become the beast’s next meal. Your blood soaks into that sand. Your bones might end up its toy tomorrow. No one’s jumping in to save you. Everyone here can only watch. Watch you fight. Watch you struggle. Or watch you get torn apart. That’s the last ‘respect’ and ‘witness’ we can give anyone who steps into this ritual.”
He paused. His massive hand clenched the hammer haft so hard the knuckles blanched, as though trying to transfer strength—or hold onto something one last time.
“So…” Brog’s voice grew heavier, like a final tolling bell, “…tell me, Rune. Are you truly ready for this ‘decision’?”
He tilted his head slightly toward the black iron gate—the Warrior’s Gate—its massive hinges and rivets gleaming dully.
“Now’s the time to turn back. No one will think less of you for it. Betting your life is never something to take lightly.” Worry flooded his eyes, nearly overflowing. “But if you nod and step across that line, I’ll trigger the mechanism.”
He used the hammer head to point at a rusted, protruding bronze lever set into the corridor wall.
“Once that door drops,” his voice echoed coldly off the metal in the narrow passage, “no transcendent below Tier 5 can force it open from outside—not without siege engines. The only normal way to open it again is from the inside, via the Triumph Gate mechanism… or when the beast tunnel opens for cleanup. Meaning: once you’re in and it closes, saving you from out here is next to impossible.”
He took a half-step forward. His huge frame loomed, radiating pressure. One thick palm came down heavily on Rune’s narrow shoulder—firm, almost crushing, as though trying to imprint every warning and every ounce of care directly into the boy’s bones.
“In simple terms, kid: the moment you choose to step into that circle,” Brog spoke each word deliberately, eyes never leaving Rune’s face, not missing the slightest flicker, “your life is in your own hands alone. Live or die. Glory or oblivion. It all comes down to every judgment you make, every breath you take. That’s the real, coldest price of betting your life.”
“Are you sure you want to go through with it?”
Outside the corridor the crowd noise, the dry wind through the arena, even his own heartbeat—all seemed to recede into the distance.
Brog’s gaze was solid, a tangle of elder’s concern, captain’s duty, and deep, shaken awe at the incomprehensible resolve before him.
Rune’s shoulder bore the weight of that heavy palm without buckling. He stood perfectly straight—no tremor.
He didn’t answer immediately. His calm gaze met Brog’s complex one. Then, almost imperceptibly, he turned his head—glancing back at the sun-cut sand beyond the threshold, then forward again at the gate that marked the final choice.
Finally he looked back at Brog.
Something in the depths of those always-too-calm eyes seemed to settle—becoming profoundly deep, yet perfectly clear.
His lips parted. The words came out soft but utterly steady, as though stating a long-verified equation:
“Hypothesis confirmed.”
Before Brog’s pupils could fully contract, before the palm on his shoulder could tighten further, before he could leave himself even half a second of hesitation—
Rune lifted his foot.
Steady. Unhesitating.
He stepped across the cold threshold that divided safety from danger, spectator from participant, life from death.
His figure vanished into the shifting light and shadow of the arena without a single backward glance.
“This kid…” Brog’s arm remained frozen in midair, palm still warm from the boy’s thin but unyielding shoulder.
He stared at the spot where Rune had disappeared into the arena light. A storm surged in his chest.
That was composure beyond any age—almost inhuman!
Faced with such a clear threat of death, with no retreat possible, the boy’s mind hadn’t wavered for an instant—solid as thousand-times-tempered steel!
What kind of terrifying confidence—or obsessive faith in his own judgment—could forge a will like that?
Brog didn’t know.
He only knew that, as witness and enforcer of the rules, the only thing he could do now was honor this life-staked, heavy resolve.
He jerked his hand back. Both palms clamped around the massive hammer haft once more.
Muscles bulged. Veins rose like coiled dragons along his arms.
He stepped back half a pace, twisted at the waist, and poured every ounce of strength into his arms—raising the iron hammer high overhead. The head carved a dark, powerful arc through the corridor’s faint light.
“Hah—!”
A suppressed roar tore from his throat. With the full explosion of force, the hammer screamed downward and slammed into the rusted bronze lever on the wall!
BANG—!!
A deafening metallic crash erupted. The piercing shockwave ricocheted wildly in the narrow passage, hurting eardrums; dust rained down. The bronze lever buckled, deformed, and shattered under the blow!
RUMBLE—RUMBLE—!!
Almost simultaneously, a deep thunder rolled from above! The enormous black iron door—suspended for who-knew-how-long—lost its mechanical restraint. Pulled by its own monstrous weight, it began to accelerate downward! Chains and gears screamed in protest—sharp, tooth-grinding snaps and shrieks—as the massive slab sliced through the air, trailing dull wind pressure.
BOOM—!!!
The final impact shook the earth. The entire beast pit perimeter trembled as the door slammed home like a guillotine blade—sealing the threshold with bone-rattling finality. Dust exploded upward in a gray-yellow fountain; stone chips flew.
The slab met stone in perfect, merciless alignment. The thunderous echo rolled on and on, drowning every other sound.
At the same moment, faint magical runes began to glow along the Warrior’s Gate boundary—spreading across the thick arena walls in interlacing patterns.
They formed an invisible barrier that completely enclosed the beast pit.
Then the runes faded.
Dust slowly settled.
The only entrance to the arena—the final one—had been sealed shut. Utterly. Irrevocably.
The massive Warrior’s Gate stood like a giant tombstone, dividing two worlds. Its cold metal surface reflected nothing of what was about to unfold inside.
Only the still-warm dust shaken loose from the seams drifted slowly in the air.
Brog leaned on the hammer, chest heaving, staring at the door that now separated life from death. His ragged breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the suddenly quiet corridor entrance.
What came next was truly……life or death, each to its own fate.
......
......
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