Uncle Mance, seated in the shadows by the door, gripped his mug of ale—long since gone lukewarm—and watched it tremble in his hand, sending faint ripples across the surface.

  He stared at Rune. At that straight, almost luminous figure cutting through the murky lamplight like it carried its own light. Heat flooded his cheeks; a scalding wave of shame surged up from the deepest part of his chest, twisting his guts until they knotted.

  This boy—this kid he’d unconsciously regarded with pity, this child whose “defect” had secretly embarrassed him, whose single mocked “Fireball” spell had become the village punchline—had never once curled up in self-pity’s shadow.

  Instead, in silence, in stubbornness, in ways none of them could comprehend, he had forged himself in unseen corners into a lethal weapon. And now he stood here, staking every chip of his life to tear open what seemed an impenetrable iron curtain.

  And himself? A so-called elder, older by a handful of years, had let fear of other people’s whispers twist his own powerlessness at fate’s injustice into resentment toward this very child…

  Compared to the blazing little sun before him—shattering every haze and prejudice with fierce, unrelenting light—Mance’s own narrowness, cowardice, and hypocrisy lay naked and grotesque. He could barely breathe. He couldn’t meet those eyes.

  “…”

  Time crawled through the suffocating silence, each second stretched thin and sticky.

  Every gaze in the room locked on Uncle Brog’s face, waiting for the verdict they already knew was coming—yet hearts still hammered loud enough to hear.

  Rune’s situation was simply too rare. Rare enough that the rough tavern filled with an almost ceremonial solemnity.

  They might be witnessing the birth of a hero.

  Or they might be watching a boy hero march toward the execution ground.

  They didn’t know.

  But respect for the boy surged in every chest.

  “Sigh…”

  At last Uncle Brog’s shoulders sank—barely perceptible—and a long, heavy breath escaped him, as though every ounce of劝阻力 had been wrung out.

  He looked at Rune again. His gaze was a roiled deep pool—helplessness, scrutiny, the crushing weight of a guardian’s duty, and the faintest, reluctant spark of hope he himself refused to acknowledge.

  “…Fine.” The two words came out dry and clear, like stones dropping into still water, shattering the frozen quiet. “The iron rule set down by the first ‘Watcher’—Knight Roland… I have no right to refuse.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Brog.” For the first time, a faint smile cracked across Rune’s face—like the first fracture in a sheet of ice.

  He dipped his head in a small, precise bow—simple yet carrying a quiet decorum far beyond his years.

  Brog waved a hand, his expression swiftly snapping back to the pragmatic sharpness of a hunting captain. He shoved the tangle of emotions aside.

  “Since you’re dead set on the challenge, we’ll postpone tomorrow’s regular hunt by one day. Tomorrow we open the trial just for you. The group hunt shifts to the day after.”

  He paused. His eyes involuntarily swept over Rune’s thin frame and plain clothes. At last he added in a grave tone:

  “Go home. Prepare properly. Check everything you can bring—even if I know you probably don’t have much. Rest well. Eat your fill. Tomorrow, after noon, head to the beast pit north of the village. I’ll be waiting. I’ll handle every detail of the trial—including your opponent.”

  Out of habit he started to raise that heavy palm again—to clap the boy’s shoulder the way he always had, offering the familiar comfort or encouragement of an elder.

  But halfway up, his hand froze in midair.

  The Rune before him stood tall and straight. His eyes were clear. An aura of independence and quiet dignity surrounded him—no longer a child who needed a pat for reassurance.

  Brog held the gesture for a heartbeat, then slowly lowered his arm. It dropped to his side. He gave only a solemn nod.

  “Understood, Uncle Brog. I’ll be there on time tomorrow.” Rune inclined his head again—a clean, formal farewell gesture he’d learned from the village’s old scholar, one of the few courtesies he knew.

  Then he turned.

  His calm gaze swept the tavern one last time—taking in the faces still frozen in shock, complexity, worry, and faint exhilaration.

  He offered no grand declarations, no further explanations or reassurances. Like a gentleman who had delivered a solemn pronouncement, he gave the room a small, courteous nod.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Then he walked.

  His boots struck the old but sturdy wooden floor—steady, clear “tap… tap…” sounds that, in the near-vacuum silence, rang amplified, each step striking the hearts of everyone present.

  Every eye followed that slender yet unnaturally straight back as he approached the heavy oak door.

  Creak—

  The hinges groaned long and low. Cold twilight air and the scent of grass and evening woods rushed in, stirring dust by the threshold and breaking the stagnant atmosphere inside.

  Behind the door: hunters still stunned, still speechless, hearth light flickering uncertainly across their faces.

  Rune’s figure did not hesitate. He stepped straight into the deepening indigo dusk outside.

  The thick door swung slowly shut behind him with a muted thud—sealing away the tavern’s burning silence, its heavy gazes, and every still-churning emotion—gently but completely—into another world.

  “Damn it! Such a fine young man… how could the gods toy with him like this?! If even half—no, one-tenth—of Rune’s wits and character had gone to the kid I’m training, I wouldn’t have to worry so much about these brats!”

  “What a waste of a seedling… how could the gods fool him this badly?”

  Belated voices rose from inside the tavern, but they no longer reached Rune.

  …

  “Hey, do you people really need to make this such a big production?”

  The next morning, as the first pale light just began to burn away the forest mist, the hunting camp at the village center was already a hive of activity.

  Almost the entire hunting team had gathered—clearing weeds, checking fences, reinforcing stands—preparing to reopen the long-dormant circular beast pit.

  The unusual bustle drew curious stares from the transient adventurers staying in the village. They quickly pieced together the truth from snatches of conversation: the infamous “ Fireball Mage” was about to challenge a Tier 0 magical beast right here.

  A traveling mage in an embroidered robe—someone who often drank and bantered with Mance—watched his old friend sweating as he hauled rotten timber. He strolled over, slapped Mance’s shoulder with open mockery, and raised his voice deliberately so everyone nearby could hear:

  “What’s the fuss? It’s just a freshly awakened kid who can only do ‘Fireball’ parlor tricks wanting to play house with a Tier 0 beast. The way you’re acting, I thought you were gearing up to hunt a land dragon!”

  Mance—straining to drag a thick crossbeam—froze mid-motion.

  He straightened slowly. Turned.

  The easygoing smile he usually wore was gone. In its place was a dark, exhausted mix of shame and unprecedented gravity.

  He stared at this “friend” who had once joined him in drinking, boasting, and laughing at Rune. His chest rose and fell several times before he drew a deep breath of morning air laced with dew and rotting wood. When he spoke, his voice was low but carried unyielding weight:

  “Vark, in the past—however you joked, however you used our village as tavern gossip—I let it slide as bar talk. I heard it and let it go.”

  He paused. The words came heavier.

  “But today is different. no one —including you—gets to mock a decision made by staking his life on his future. That’s an insult to the word ‘warrior.’”

  He shrugged off Vark’s hand with deliberate force, then turned solemnly toward the ancient structure built of rough gray stone and massive logs.

  The beast pit cast a long, silent shadow in the morning light. Hunters were clearing thorns and wild grass from its cracks, exposing its raw, crude, almost savage original form.

  “This arena,” Mance’s voice echoed across the open ground, drawing more eyes, “was built stone by stone, log by log, by our village’s first hunting team—under the personal command of the ‘Watcher,’ Knight Roland. Its only purpose is to give those willing to prove their worth with blood and courage—not empty words—a stage to earn dignity.”

  He paused. His gaze swept the weathered stone walls and rusted iron bars. “It’s been silent for over ten years. That means it’s been over ten years since anyone had the sheer guts to walk alone into this circle and face fangs and claws.”

  He looked back at Vark, whose expression had begun to falter. Gone was the usual flicker of self-mockery in Mance’s eyes—only a hard, settled resolve remained:

  “Maybe in your eyes he’s just a Tier 0 mage. Maybe just a clumsy one who can only do ‘ Fireball.’ But his spirit—this all-in courage—is not something you get to belittle or turn into a joke. He deserves this arena. He deserves every bit of respect we can give—win or lose.”

  Remembering the words Rune had spoken in the tavern last night—like ice picks driven into his heart—Mance’s eyes flashed with deep guilt.

  He ignored Vark, bent down, and resumed hauling timber. His back was straight, every movement carrying the weight of atonement.

  Vark—choked by this unprecedented, near-rebuke seriousness from Mance, especially in front of everyone—felt a surge of humiliated anger.

  He took two quick steps forward and shouted at Mance’s back, voice sharp and cutting:

  “Respect? Ha! So what? It doesn’t change the fact that all he can do is play with sparks! Do you really believe that slow-cooking ‘Fireball’ can kill a Tier 0 beast? Stop fooling yourself! Everyone knows ‘Fireball’ is a household cantrip—barely better than flint for starting a fire! This so-called ‘challenge’ is a complete farce—a clown show put on by someone who doesn’t know his limits! Why are you acting all serious in front of me? Can you swear on your conscience you actually believe he can win?”

  His voice rang out harsh in the morning camp. Several hunters working nearby stopped instantly, turned, and glared—fists clenched—yet fell into a stifled, angry silence.

  They couldn’t refute the brutal core truth in Vark’s words.

  They admired Rune’s courage, yes—but reason told them a mage apprentice with only a cantrip-level Fireball and zero real combat experience stood almost no chance against even the lowest-tier magical beast alone.

  Mages—especially low-tier ones—needed team cover to bring their theoretical firepower to bear.

  The common wisdom among adventurers was clear: before Tier 3, soloing magical beasts was suicide.

  In most clear-eyed eyes, Rune’s act was nothing more than tragic… martyrdom.

  “Maybe to you, that’s true.”

  Just as the tension thickened and a smug look began to creep across Vark’s face, a voice—perfectly calm, without a single ripple—spoke from the shadowed entrance tunnel of the beast pit.

  Everyone turned.

  Rune stepped slowly out of the gloom.

  Morning light fell on his clean but plain robe. His face held no tension, no anger—only near-transparent calm.

  He looked straight at Vark, facing the open provocation head-on.

  Vark sized up the lean boy from head to toe and snorted through his nose: “So you’re the ‘warrior’? What—did I say something wrong?”

  Rune didn’t immediately counter. He simply shook his head lightly, then asked a sudden, professional question in a tone as casual as discussing the weather:

  “Do you know where the Slywind Rabbit’s weak point is?”

  The abrupt, technical query clearly caught Vark off guard. He opened his mouth; confusion flickered through his eyes.

  Slywind Rabbit? That common low-tier beast everyone saw? Who bothered memorizing its exact weak points?

  Seeing the blank look, Rune gave another small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. A faint expression—near disappointment—crossed his face.

  ......

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