Everyone turned toward the voice. Another middle-aged mage—dressed in a more refined red robe, holding a short staff embedded with a flame-element crystal—had shot to his feet.

  His eyes were wide and round, fixed unblinkingly on Rune in the center of the arena. His voice trembled slightly from extreme shock and the thrill of uncovering a secret: “It’s instant, silent casting! And—his ‘Fireball’ is absolutely wrong!”

  “Instant, silent casting?” The phrase had a magical pull, instantly seizing the attention of every spectator—especially those with even a passing knowledge of magic.

  The red-robed mage spoke at breakneck speed, gesturing wildly with his fingers, pointing straight at Rune in the arena: “Look! He just released magic without chanting! There wasn’t even obvious mana leakage! One lift of the hand, and the fireball was gone! That’s fucking ‘instant casting’! And high-difficulty ‘silent casting’! It means his understanding of that spell model and his mana control have reached a… an unthinkable level! This isn’t something an ordinary Tier 0 mage can do!”

  To make his words more convincing, he took a deep breath, quickly raised his left hand, and his lips began moving rapidly, reciting the standard, short incantation syllables for “Little Fireball.”

  As the spell completed, a fist-sized, steadily burning orb of warm orange-yellow flame appeared above his palm, radiating gentle heat.

  The fireball’s color was warm, its glow soft and harmless—exactly what everyone remembered a “Fireball” should look like.

  Then, as if by unspoken agreement, every gaze returned to the center of the arena, replaying in their minds that fleeting glimpse: the white streak of light, trailing searing heat, striking with surgical precision and inflicting terrifying damage.

  “So… so what he used just now wasn’t a ‘Little Fireball’?” someone stammered nearby. “Didn’t they say he could only do that one cantrip?”

  “That’s exactly why I’m saying he fooled everyone! That cunning little bastard!” The red-robed mage ground his teeth, but instead of anger at being deceived, his face lit up with near-maniacal excitement, eyes blazing frighteningly bright. “As for that magic… I’d bet my staff on it—it was still a ‘Little Fireball’! But he modified it! He rebuilt that most basic of spell models from the ground up, forcibly pushing a mere ‘cantrip’ to… to at least Tier 1 destructive power! That penetration and explosive heat just now—it was in no way inferior to a standard Tier 1 fire spell!”

  “Modifying a spell model?!” The phrase hit harder than “instant, silent casting.”

  A wave of sharp intakes of breath rippled across the stands. Even those completely ignorant of magic instinctively felt the sheer impossibility of it.

  It was like an apprentice blacksmith taking a rusted woodcutter’s axe and reforging it into a blade capable of cleaving steel armor—completely beyond common sense.

  “Is something like that… easy to do?” another voice asked timidly, voicing the question on everyone’s mind.

  The red-robed mage whipped his head around, glaring at the questioner like he was an idiot. His voice rose with excitement: “Easy? Instant silent casting is a skill only Tier 4+ high-rank mages can reliably master—and only after extreme mastery of specific low-tier spells! As for modifying and optimizing a foundational spell model that’s been fixed for thousands upon thousands of years? That’s a domain only Tier 5+ grand mages have the qualifications and knowledge to even attempt touching! What do you think?!”

  He ignored the ghost-like expressions around him, spun back, and locked his gaze on the arena like a spotlight. His chest heaved violently as he muttered: “A Tier 0 mage… instant silent casting… modified spell model reaching Tier 1 power… monster… this kid is a fucking monster!”

  The shock in the stands quickly settled, transforming into a more complex, more burning gaze that fixed tightly on the sweat-drenched boy who still stood ramrod straight in the arena.

  “So… with magic like that, can he actually kill the Terrene Drake?” someone asked cautiously, clinging to one last thread of hope.

  The question caused the atmosphere in the stands to freeze abruptly.

  Even the manic light in the red-robed mage’s eyes dimmed slightly. He fell silent for a moment, then slowly shook his head, voice carrying a trace of barely perceptible regret: “Impossible. Just now… that was pure luck. The Terrene Drake exposed its fatal abdominal weakness by accident because of its own mistake. From now on, that beast will only become more vigilant—it will never make the same error again. And while his enhanced ‘Little Fireball’ is powerful, breaking through the Terrene Drake’s thick dorsal and lateral plating head-on…”

  He paused, sighing. “…it’s still far too short. So…”

  He didn’t finish the sentence, but the meaning was crystal clear.

  A genius’s brilliance often burned like a meteor—brief, and destined to fall.

  To witness such a dazzlingly talented boy about to be mercilessly crushed under superior power before their very eyes—a heavy silence mixed with immense regret and powerlessness began to spread through the crowd.

  “ROAR—!!!”

  At that moment, from the arena came a roar more violent and frenzied than any before!

  The sound no longer held mere anger—it was laced with the bone-deep humiliation and excruciating pain of being wounded in a vital spot by a lowly insect, birthing a hysterical, murderous intent!

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  The Terrene Drake had finally recovered somewhat from the maddening agony.

  It whipped its head violently. Its amber vertical pupils, engorged with blood, glowed with terrifying scarlet light—like twin lanterns lit with hellfire—locked unblinkingly on Rune.

  Its nostrils flared wildly. What sprayed out was no longer simple hot breath, but jets of scorching, blood-scented air.

  Its thick tail lashed the ground like an iron whip, gouging deep furrows in the sand. The entire body trembled slightly from the peak of rage; every scale-covered muscle tensed to its limit, radiating the terrifying calm before annihilation.

  “Good…” Facing this rampaging colossus, Rune’s heart was like a frozen lake—perfectly still.

  He even felt a faint, icy “pleasure” at the smooth progress of his plan.

  There was no panic in his eyes—only a sharp gleam.

  “It’s completely enraged.”

  This was precisely the key step in his tactical blueprint.

  Rune’s goal had never changed. The Terrene Drake’s relatively vulnerable abdomen had been a fortunate bonus, but his true, only guaranteed “one-shot kill” target had always been the interior of that all-devouring maw.

  Attacking the abdomen had served a dual purpose: inflicting real damage, yes—but more importantly, enraging!

  Enraging this proud colossus, letting pain and humiliation cloud its judgment, causing it to abandon part of its natural caution, making its attacks more frenzied, more direct—and far more likely… to expose that fleeting, fatal opening.

  He knew full well that his extreme-compression, terrifyingly hot “Little Fireball”—while it had caught the Terrene Drake off-guard and inflicted a horrifying wound on its softer underbelly, causing ongoing agony—was far from enough to finish off this tenacious Tier 1 beast in one blow.

  That charred injury was terrifying, yes—but not immediately lethal. Instead, it had simply ignited the beast’s full savagery.

  His total mana was only a meager 200 points—one of his weaknesses.

  Each cast of this modified Little Fireball consumed the same 50 points as a normal one.

  That meant he could only cast it four times.

  And now, one had already been used.

  Every opportunity was precious. He could not waste them on attacks that couldn’t guarantee a kill.

  He needed a single window that could convert his limited mana into absolute death.

  Yet every coin has two sides.

  The now-thoroughly enraged Terrene Drake’s next lunge would be faster, more violent, more reckless.

  He had to hone his nerves sharper than any blade, push his physical reactions to the absolute limit, so he could slip through wave after wave of increasingly deadly assaults like the most agile fish—and seize that single, fleeting chance at victory.

  At that moment—

  Whoosh!

  At the far end of the arena, the Terrene Drake’s dark-brown body suddenly blurred!

  Its short, thick limbs erupted with terrifying force. The sand cratered beneath its stomp! The entire colossus transformed into a low-flying bolt of earthy-yellow lightning—faster than any previous charge by several fractions!

  The air was brutally torn, emitting a low whine. The massive figure moved so quickly it left almost only an afterimage on the retina!

  But Rune’s mind—already drawn to full tension like a bowstring—had raised his vigilance to the absolute maximum.

  The instant the subtle precursor appeared—the tightening of the Terrene Drake’s muscles, the coiling of its hind limbs—his body reacted instinctively: center of gravity shifted, muscles fine-tuned, every preparation made for maximum sideways evasion.

  When the Terrene Drake—carrying rank wind and sand like an out-of-control war chariot—suddenly “teleported” to where he had stood, its blood-drenched maw snapping down with force capable of crushing fine iron—

  Rune’s figure had already moved one step ahead, ghost-like, lunging sideways! The motion was clean, decisive, without a hint of waste.

  BOOM!!!

  The Terrene Drake crashed solidly into the hard gray stone wall once more, producing a muffled drum-like thunder. Stone chips cascaded down. The immense impact left even its thickly keratin-armored head momentarily dazed.

  Rune used the momentum of his forward lunge to execute a smooth forward roll, dissipating force, then rose instantly—without looking back—and sprinted full speed toward the open space on the opposite side of the arena.

  His steps remained steady; his breathing was labored but rhythmic.

  Years of physical conditioning showed their worth here—he might lack the explosive bloodline power of a knight or warrior, but his endurance and agility far surpassed any ordinary mage, becoming his greatest asset in this circle of death.

  He was like the most classical of bullfighters—calm, precise, elegant—teasing the raging “bull” before him that had been driven mad by the “red cloth.”

  After quickly opening safe distance, Rune spun around at the predetermined spot, eyes like lightning, locking onto his opponent once more.

  This time, the Terrene Drake did not roll in embarrassment. It only shook its head violently—still dazed from the impact—its amber vertical pupils now almost pure scarlet from blood and rage.

  Deep in its throat rolled a low, continuous growl—like lava bubbling up from hell’s depths. Every breath expelled scorching waves laced with the scent of blood.

  The pain of crashing into the wall didn’t make it retreat—instead, it poured fuel on the fire, pushing its fury to new heights.

  Seeing this, Rune felt no tension. The corner of his mouth even tightened almost imperceptibly.

  Everything was proceeding according to plan.

  He even felt the “fire” wasn’t burning hot enough yet. Slowly, he raised his right hand.

  Above his palm, the air shimmered faintly. Mana converged rapidly. That heart-palpitating, ping-pong-ball-sized incandescent white orb reappeared out of thin air, hovering silently, radiating searing heat and blinding light—like a deadly white mandrake blooming on the killing sand.

  “ROAR—!!!”

  This naked provocation was the final straw that broke the camel’s back!

  The Terrene Drake’s last shred of remaining reason was utterly incinerated by that orb that had once inflicted unbearable pain!

  It unleashed a deafening, throat-tearing roar of pure fury. Its four limbs slammed down. Without the slightest hesitation, it transformed once more into a vengeful yellow lightning bolt—charging recklessly toward Rune—and toward that hateful white light in his hand!

  Rune’s eyes were cold as iron. The instant the Terrene Drake launched, his body again displayed that near-prophetic synchronous reaction.

  Side-step, slide, forward roll… a series of movements rehearsed thousands of times in his mind, repeating the deadly dance of “charge—evade” with perfect precision.

  BANG! Another dull impact.

  Another clean escape.

  Thanks to a physical foundation far exceeding his peers—even comparable to a Tier 0 knight—Rune’s breathing was heavy and his thin clothes soaked through with sweat that left dark marks on the sand, but his stamina had not yet bottomed out.

  The fatigue he felt came more from the extreme mental concentration, the cost of instant bursts, and the normal comedown from adrenaline. The incandescent white orb he had raised to provoke had quietly dissipated the moment the Terrene Drake charged—conserving every precious drop of mana.

  He was like a precisely programmed machine—locked onto the giant beast opposite him that kept crashing into walls, turning, growing more frenzied yet still unable to truly touch him—waiting, calculating.

  ......

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