For a significant portion of the spectators, the fate of the boy named Rune in the arena had already been shoved to the back of their minds.

  They didn’t care about fairness. They didn’t care about original intent. They didn’t even care about life or death.

  Nerves numbed by monotonous days and petty adventures now craved only the most direct, most violent, most lopsided stimulation to reignite them!

  A novice mage who could only cast a laughable “Little Fireball” pitted against a ferocious magical beast far beyond his capability—this near-sacrificial cruelty, this doomed-yet-primal clash of tension, was exactly the “spectacle” they hungered for!

  If the originally expected Tier 0 fight had been little more than mildly amusing sparring, then this sudden twist had instantly escalated the drama into a life-or-death mismatch of brutal proportions.

  The vast gulf in power no longer invited mockery. It now triggered a shiver that mixed fear, exhilaration, and cruel anticipation.

  Every eye in the stands was magnetically locked on the dark tunnel mouth—where heavy scraping, labored breathing, and increasingly distinct beastly roars kept pouring out.

  They held their breath, waiting for the monster whose emergence would detonate their emotions and feed their bloodthirsty imaginations.

  Thump… thump… thump…

  The heavy footfalls rang like funeral bells. Each impact squeezed Rune’s heart tighter.

  He, standing in the arena, felt the terrifying mass contained in those sounds far more clearly than any spectator ever could.

  His original plan—the strategy tailored for a Tier 0 beast—evaporated instantly in the face of this steadily approaching unknown threat.

  An icy, almost instinctive warning seized him: something had gone wrong. Fatally wrong. Whatever was about to step from that darkness was definitely not the weak prey they had prepared for.

  Finally…

  Whoosh…

  The shadows at the tunnel mouth twisted violently and swelled. A massive, ferocious head burst out of the darkness and into the blinding daylight of the beast pit!

  In that instant, Rune’s pupils shrank to pinpricks!

  Every muscle in his body snapped taut like the world’s strongest bowstring. Every nerve screamed at maximum alert.

  “Terrene Drake! It’s a Tier 1 Terrene Drake!!” someone on the stands shrieked, voice cracking from sheer shock.

  That cry landed like a spark in hot oil—igniting the entire arena!

  “My god! How is that thing here?!”

  “It’s over! It’s completely over!”

  “What the hell is this? This isn’t a fight—it’s murder!”

  Gasps, questions, disbelief, twisted delight, feverish excitement, frenzied shouts blended into a deafening roar. The stands descended into chaos.

  Rough, weathered yellowish-brown scales like cracked stone covered its entire back. Small, razor-sharp amber vertical pupils contracted against the sudden light. Its jaws—lined with dense backward-curving teeth—parted slightly, exhaling a hot, earthy-scented breath.

  Sunlight glinted coldly off the uneven plates of its armor.

  At the edge of the beast pit, behind the heavy iron bars of the “Warrior’s Gate,” Captain Brog’s face had turned deathly pale.

  His hands gripped the freezing bars so hard his knuckles stood out bone-white.

  He stared at the colossal creature that had fully emerged from the tunnel—now lashing its thick tail, visibly restless as it surveyed the unfamiliar environment. His throat felt dry; breathing became difficult.

  “It’s over…” A near-desperate murmur slipped from his trembling lips.

  Beside him, Old Barnaby had somehow already arrived, leaning on his cane.

  The anger that had earlier twisted the old man’s face was gone, replaced by a deep, ashen desolation.

  He gazed silently into the arena, then at Brog—who looked ready to crush the bars in his grip—and finally said nothing. He merely shook his head heavily. His gaze passed through the gaps in the bars to the tiny yet stubbornly upright figure now dwarfed by the giant beast. In his eyes remained only profound regret and helplessness.

  “That boy… is done for.” Old Barnaby muttered under his breath—words meant for no one else—the cold verdict on a battle that hadn’t truly begun.

  Amid the uproar in the stands, an experienced old adventurer with a knife scar across his face let out a heavy sigh and shook his head at his companion.

  “No need to keep watching. The outcome is already decided.”

  Beside him, a younger adventurer—face still bright with eager curiosity—asked in confusion: “Why? It’s only a Tier 1 beast. The hunting team is already on the way to save him, right? As long as the challenger can run and stall for a while, buy time until rescue—”

  “If it were any ordinary Tier 1 beast, there might be a one-in-ten-thousand chance,” the old adventurer cut him off, voice grave. “But a Terrene Drake… that’s the exception among exceptions.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He raised a hand and pointed at the giant creature now pawing irritably at the sand.

  “See that layer on its body?” the old man asked.

  The newcomer followed his finger. Terrene Drake’s form was covered in thick, overlapping plate-like scales the color of weathered earth—each one palm-sized, edges jagged, interlocked so tightly it looked like the beast wore custom-forged heavy armor. In the sunlight, the plates gleamed with a rocky sheen—seemingly impenetrable.

  The young adventurer swallowed hard. Just looking at it conveyed terrifying defense.

  “Terrene Drakes have two fatal traits,” the old adventurer continued, voice carrying the lingering dread of someone who had witnessed its terror. “First: explosive short-range sprint speed and burst power. Second: that ‘rock armor’ that makes any same-tier opponent despair.”

  He glanced toward Rune—the calm young mage in the arena. “Mages aren’t known for physical strength or speed. Even against faster Tier 0 beasts, they usually need teammates to cover them. And now he’s facing a Terrene Drake—famous for its burst speed… there’s no way he can rely on running to buy time.”

  The young adventurer’s face began to pale.

  “And that armor…” The old adventurer’s finger traced the beast’s body in the air. “…is what truly makes it hopeless. Normally, a Tier 1 fire-specialist mage’s spells can threaten or even severely injure most Tier 1 beasts. But a Terrene Drake’s plating can easily nullify most of the damage from same-tier magic. It’s one of the few Tier 1 monsters that can effectively ‘immune’ direct magical harm from its own level.”

  “Immune to same-tier magic?” The newcomer sucked in a cold breath. He knew full well the destructive power of Tier 1 spells—enough to melt iron, shatter stone walls!

  The old adventurer nodded heavily and dropped an even more shocking detail: “That’s not even the worst part. According to ancient hunter codices and accounts from a few survivors, the highest-grade scales on a Terrene Drake can briefly withstand the full-force bite of a mid-Tier 2 magical beast.”

  “That’s impossible!” the newcomer cried out, voice cracking from shock. “A mid-Tier 2 beast’s bite can chew through hundred-forged fine steel like a biscuit!”

  The old adventurer merely shrugged, offering no argument. His gaze returned to the arena, where tension had reached breaking point. “Believe it or not. But that’s exactly why everyone’s saying… that kid has no chance.”

  The young adventurer opened his mouth, then closed it. He looked back at the arena—where the Terrene Drake now seemed to have adjusted to the light and noise. Its amber vertical pupils slowly locked onto the only target in the center: the boy standing quietly, as though waiting for something.

  A wave of true, bone-deep despair finally soaked into the heart of everyone who understood what this truly meant.

  “There’s still a chance!”

  In the center of the beast pit, Rune’s state formed an ice-cold contrast to the boiling emotions around him.

  Thanks to years of rigorous training in emotional and rational control, the adrenaline now surging through him did not trigger a collapse of fear. Instead, it acted like a highly efficient catalyst—purifying and compressing his mind to an unprecedented peak of clarity.

  All external noise—the tsunami of gasps, despairing sighs, and gloating howls from the stands, even the wind whistling over the high walls—faded as though someone had pressed mute. It receded rapidly, then vanished completely from his perception.

  His world shrank instantly. In his vision, only the massive yellowish-brown beast remained—gradually acclimating to the environment, shifting from restless irritation to clear hostility.

  Its thick tail lashed the sand impatiently, gouging deep furrows. Its relatively small head lowered. Those cold amber vertical pupils acted like precise calipers, measuring the distance to the sole “obstacle” in the arena.

  “There’s still a chance.” An absolutely rational voice rang in the depths of his mind—cold and clear.

  Terrene Drake.

  Tier 1 high-level magical beast.

  Primary threats: exceptional short-range burst speed, near same-tier physical immunity via “rock armor,” terrifying bite force capable of crushing steel plate, supplemented by iron-whip tail sweeps.

  Data streams activated like an archive library in his hyper-focused mind—searching, sorting at lightning speed.

  Every relevant passage, every annotated weak-point diagram from the village hunting team’s accumulated records—compiled by the old village scholar into the Border Magical Beast Compendium and Hunting Notes—plus subtle observations passed orally by veteran hunters and never written down, now unfolded as crisp data and images in his consciousness.

  He had read that book countless times. It was nearly instinct.

  “Current situation analysis: direct attack neutralized. Even the extreme-compression [Fireball: Condensed v1]—with its estimated penetration and heat—faces a near-zero probability of breaching the Terrene Drake’s specialized plating, evolved specifically to resist energy impact and physical tearing. Frontal assault equals mana waste and certain death.”

  “Optimal strategy: disengage from the battlefield, delay time.”

  Rune now operated like a machine, thoughts racing. His eyes scanned the surroundings like radar.

  “Triumph Gate already closed. Entry tunnel gate fully dropped!” His gaze swept the entire structure of the beast pit in an instant.

  With the Terrene Drake’s entrance, the heavy metal portcullis of the Triumph Gate had slammed shut—just as inexorably as the Warrior’s Gate that sealed retreat earlier. Both now sat flush in their stone grooves.

  To reopen either gate from inside would require activating complex, time-consuming reset mechanisms—impossible to perform calmly under the jaws of a rampaging beast.

  That window of time would be more than enough for a Tier 1 colossus to crush and devour him, bones and all.

  Towering, smooth stone walls encircled the arena. The only exit—the “Warrior’s Gate”—had already crashed down, turning this place into a pure death cage.

  “Escape route—none…”

  Rune reached the final conclusion.

  The instant he accepted it, no anticipated panic or chill arrived—only a dust-settling, near-absolute calm.

  The logic chain was flawless. Emotion had no place here.

  Just then, a hoarse, anxiety-filled shout pierced through part of his self-imposed filter and slammed into his ears:

  “Run! Run now, Rune! Hold on! We’re opening the gate! Hold until we get in!! Right away—!!”

  Rune snapped his head sideways.

  Through the thick iron bars of the “Warrior’s Gate,” he saw Captain Brog’s face—twisted and flushed from extreme exertion.

  The captain and nearly every core member of the hunting team were clustered there—muscles bulging, veins standing out—shouldering, lifting, prying at the massive metal door with all their strength.

  Brog, a Tier 2 berserker capable of reducing boulders to dust, combined with the full force of veteran hunters—enough power to breach a small city wall—yet the door only groaned under unbearable strain, trembled slightly, shed dust from its edges, but remained firmly seated against the ground. Immovable.

  “Impossible!”

  Rune’s gaze lingered on the door for less than half a second before snapping back.

  “The main control mechanism is located in the beast-cage management area behind the Triumph Gate. Complex structure—multiple levers and counterweight locks. Even with full familiarity and no interference, the minimum time to unlock and raise the Warrior’s Gate is… one hour. And that’s just the physical mechanism. There are also magical rune arrays. Without a Tier 4 or higher runemaster, it’s impossible to open.”

  The description of the beast pit’s emergency mechanisms from Village Chronicles: Public Structures surfaced automatically.

  Rune drew a deep breath.

  “I won’t last that long. So I have only one option, and that is…”

  His gaze returned to the arena.

  The Terrene Drake had calmed. Its attention was now fully locked on him.

  Its massive body lowered slightly. Rear leg muscles bunched like coiled steel cables—clear prelude to an explosive charge.

  Primitive predatory hunger condensed in those cold amber vertical pupils.

  “—kill it.”

  ......

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