In the gradually steadying rhythm of his breathing, Rune located the concealed reset mechanism on the inner stone wall of the Triumph Gate.
Following the method etched in his memory, he pushed the heavy bronze lever and turned the rusted but still sturdy gears.
With a grating “clank-clank-clank” of chains and a low, rumbling “boom-boom-boom,” the “Warrior’s Gate” that had separated life from death and the triumphal portcullis slowly rose. Long-absent daylight and the roar of the crowd flooded into the blood-soaked sand together.
Before the gate had fully ascended to its highest point, the hunting team members waiting behind the Triumph Gate could no longer hold back. They surged forward like a flood released from a dam!
Brog led the charge. His massive palm slapped down on Rune’s shoulder with such force that the boy staggered, but he was immediately surrounded by even more arms.
“Well done, kid!”
“Fucking incredible!”
“Blackoak Village’s pride!”
Amid the rough, jubilant cheers, Rune felt his feet leave the ground as the excited hunters tossed him high into the air!
Once, twice, three times… with every rise and fall, he was met with louder roars and faces flushed with excitement.
Only when he grew dizzy did they catch him with laughing shouts and set him firmly back on the ground.
Feet planted on the blood-stained, now muddy sand, Rune drew a deep breath, calming the turbulent qi in his chest.
He said nothing more. He simply nodded to the excited team members, then turned and led the way toward the open Warrior’s Gate corridor—the symbol of survival and glory.
Outside the corridor, the area was already packed solid with people who had poured down from the stands.
There were villagers who had dropped their work to rush over, as well as countless adventurers from all over who had yet to leave.
They had spontaneously formed two long lines on either side of the corridor, creating a narrow but extended human passageway. When Rune’s figure appeared at the mouth of the corridor, bathed in the fierce noon sunlight, all the clamor strangely died down. Only countless gazes remained, focused on him like searchlights—eyes filled with villagers’ proud excitement, adventurers’ undisguised curiosity and scrutiny, and a near-reverent solemnity.
This was the gaze of respect given to the strong.
A mage who had only just awakened, at Tier 0, possessing only one “cantrip” that the world had mocked, had relied on incomprehensible calm, magic techniques that defied common sense, and tactics as precise as machinery to single-handedly kill a Tier 1 high-level magical beast renowned for its defense and ferocity—the Terrene Drake—inside a sealed arena.
This was no longer mere victory. This was the beginning of a legend worthy of being written into bardic epics, one that overturned the common knowledge of the continent!
Such a person, regardless of his current mana rank, had already earned the heartfelt respect of everyone present.
Rune’s steps were steady, even somewhat slow.
He walked through the corridor that the crowd had automatically parted to create. His face, still smeared with blood and sand, remained calm and expressionless as he accepted the fanatical, curious, or awed gazes from both sides without flinching.
Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the crowd, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across his body.
Just as he was about to step completely out of this “path of glory” paved by gazes, a figure at the edge of the crowd—who had been trying to shrink into the shadows to lower his presence—was fully exposed by the parting sea of people. It was the ice-mage adventurer Vark, who had repeatedly mocked Rune at the corridor entrance and in the stands.
His face was deathly pale, eyes darting, completely out of place amid the heated atmosphere, looking abnormally awkward and wretched. He wanted to slip away, but people surrounded him on all sides; his escape route had been silently sealed.
Rune’s steps halted right in front of him.
The crowd fell instantly silent. Every gaze flicked back and forth between the two men. The air thickened with subtle anticipation.
Rune’s gaze settled on Vark’s face. Those still-clear eyes held no victor’s pride, no vengeful glee—only a near-statement-of-fact calm.
“So,” Rune spoke. His voice was not loud, yet it reached every ear clearly, “I said it before—theory confirmed.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over Vark and, in doing so, over everyone who had ever doubted him.
“Killing magical beasts is not solely dependent on brute force or rank suppression.
Logical deduction, precise calculation, and the ultimate exploitation of one’s own power and the opponent’s weaknesses… as long as the logical chain is complete and the theory holds, even the most inconceivable tactic becomes feasible.”
His eyes returned to Vark’s pale, complicated face. His tone was flat yet carried an unquestionable weight.
“Perhaps you really should… memorize the weak points of magical beasts properly. Not just to mock others, but so that when you face them yourself, you can survive.”
With that, the blood-stained Rune gave a graceful, solemn bow. Then, without looking at him again or waiting for a response, he calmly turned, continued forward, and walked straight through the silent crowd toward his simple, quiet little wooden house at the edge of the village—leaving all the clamor, cheers, complicated gazes, and the frozen figure of the defeated man behind in the dazzling, almost blinding sunlight.
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Vark’s Adam’s apple bobbed with difficulty as he swallowed a mouthful of saliva that tasted of fear or bitterness.
He watched Rune’s straight yet somewhat slender back gradually recede, the scenes from the beast pit replaying uncontrollably in his mind—the instant silent casting, the modified “Little Fireball” with terrifying power, and the final strike that perfectly fused art and violence… each one enough to shock and even tremble a “proper” Tier 1 mage like him.
Rank might measure total mana, but what this boy had displayed was something more fundamental, more terrifying—an understanding of magic’s essence, mastery of combat artistry, and a heart that remained ice-calm in the face of life and death.
Around the beast pit, the adventurers from all corners of the continent—who had seen countless life-and-death struggles and the strong and weak—now looked at Rune’s retreating figure with eyes that no longer held the initial curiosity, mockery, or contempt.
In their place was a heavy respect, and the burning reverence reserved for true “powerhouses.”
They worshipped strength, but they worshipped even more the wisdom and will that allowed the weak to defeat the strong and shatter conventions.
In Rune, they saw that possibility.
Although his current mana rank was still low, in their hearts this boy had already become a “powerhouse”—one who had not yet fully revealed his edge, but was destined to be extraordinary, a name and face worth remembering.
The sunlight stretched Rune’s shadow long, slowly merging it into the shadows cast by the village houses.
Behind him, the beast pit still echoed with faint clamor, but the life-staked狂舞 had already ended.
The joke about the “trash mage” would, from this day forward, become the beginning of a legend about a “miracle creator.”
And for the boy who had just verified his own “theory,” this was merely the start.
...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
In the evening, the setting sun dyed the silhouette of Blackoak Village in a warm orange-red. Cooking smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of every house, and the air carried the simple fragrance of firewood and stewed food.
The light had softened, casting long shadows across the rutted dirt road.
The door of Rune’s simple wooden hut—built of rough logs at the edge of the village—was knocked on with measured force.
The wooden door creaked open. Rune’s figure appeared in the dim yellow light inside. His face still carried the calm of deep thought as his gaze fell on the visitor outside.
It was Mance.
The middle-aged hunter stood at the threshold, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes drifted, and his rough fingers unconsciously scratched at his messy brown hair, as though he didn’t dare meet Rune’s calm gaze directly.
The afterglow of the sunset gilded half his body in gold, yet it could not illuminate the awkwardness on his face.
“Little… little guy,” Mance cleared his somewhat dry throat. His voice was lower than usual. “Captain Brog sent me to tell you that tomorrow morning, at first light, everyone is to gather at Old Barnaby’s tavern. We’re starting… um, a new round of hunting missions.”
He spoke a little quickly, as though relieved to have delivered the message, but his body remained slightly tense.
Rune nodded, his expression unchanged. “Understood, Mr. Mance. I’ll remember.”
His voice was steady, revealing no emotion.
Then, seeing that the elder in front of him clearly had more to say but was hesitating, Rune paused slightly and asked proactively, “Mr. Mance, is there anything else?”
His gaze was calm as still water, waiting quietly—neither urging nor showing impatience.
Mance’s body stiffened almost imperceptibly at the question. He avoided Rune’s eyes, lowered his head, and stared at the mud-spotted tips of his boots, falling into a brief silence.
The evening wind blew past, carrying the faint laughter of children from afar, making the silence at the doorway feel even heavier.
Finally, he drew a deep breath—so deep it seemed he had gathered the courage of a lifetime.
He raised his head again. This time, his gaze no longer dodged. He looked straight into Rune’s eyes. Those eyes, usually full of cheer or irritation, were now filled with complex emotions—guilt, self-reproach, a faint plea, and the frankness of a man who had made up his mind.
“Little guy,” Mance’s voice turned low and hoarse. Every word seemed forced out from deep in his chest. “I… I owe you an apology. You were right—completely right.”
He licked his cracked lips and continued, “You and Gart and the others—I watched you grow up from this small—” he gestured with his hand “—little by little. We may not be blood-related, but in this village, I’ve always thought of myself as your elder, your uncle.”
Pain crept into his voice: “But when you… when you ran into trouble, when those bastards from outside mocked and slandered you, I, as your uncle, didn’t stand up for you, didn’t back you up. Instead… instead I joined them, throwing stones at you, saying those awful things… I… I’m sorry.”
Mance’s eyes grew moist, but he forced himself not to look away. “I know, after everything that happened… I probably no longer have the face or the right to let you call me ‘Uncle.’ But…”
He paused, his voice carrying a near-humble sincerity. “I still hope you know that I… I, Mance, may be a fool, a coward blinded by face, but… I’m not that bad. I really… I was just too stupid, too messed up at the time.”
After saying this long stretch of words, Mance seemed to have exhausted all his strength. His shoulders sagged slightly, and he couldn’t help sighing and shaking his head.
He didn’t dare look at Rune’s reaction. In a small voice, almost muttering to himself, he added, “You… get some rest early. Don’t be late tomorrow morning. I… I’ll be going now.”
With that, he turned. His back, stretched long by the setting sun, looked somewhat forlorn and desolate as he took a step toward the direction of the village where lights were beginning to glow.
At that moment, Rune’s voice came from behind him.
The voice was still calm, but it no longer carried the icy edge from last night in the tavern, nor the deliberate distance of calling him “Mr. Mance.”
It was gentle, steady—like the tone the boy had used on many previous evenings when asking him for hunting advice or listening to his adventure stories.
“Uncle Mance,” Rune’s voice rang out clearly, “there’s still a long road ahead.”
Just four short words, accompanied by that familiar, warm form of address.
Then came the soft “click” of the wooden door closing.
Mance stopped dead in his tracks, as if frozen by a spell.
He stood with his back to the little house, motionless in the deepening twilight.
A few seconds later, he slowly, deeply exhaled. That breath seemed to carry away the heavy stone that had pressed on his heart for so long.
The forlorn look on his face dispersed like clouds blown by the wind, slowly smoothing out. The corners of his mouth lifted uncontrollably into a truly relieved smile—tinged with a little bitterness but far more comfort.
He did not turn around. He simply tilted his face upward, looked at the last splendid glow of sunset on the horizon, then nodded heavily—as if to himself, and as if to the now-closed wooden door.
No longer hesitating, he took a step. This time his stride was much lighter and more determined as he walked firmly toward his own little house with its warm glowing windows. The evening wind seemed gentler now, carrying the aroma of cooking food and swirling around him.
Inside the wooden house, Rune looked through the simple window lattice at the broad back disappearing into the twilight. A faint, almost gentle light flashed in his eyes. Then he turned and continued his unfinished meditation.
Outside, the village lights gradually brightened, like stars dotting the quieting land.
Only when the sky had completely darkened did Rune emerge from his meditation.
Feeling his mana once again full, a faint smile appeared on his face.
“My mana has recovered! It’s time to upgrade Fireball and prepare for tomorrow’s hunting team mission.”
Rune stood up, his eyes flashing with sharp determination.
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