After a moment of absolute stillness, Rune’s racing mind reached the only logical—and final—conclusion.

  The decision stripped away every trace of wishful thinking. It was cold, hard, like a blade tempered in fire.

  Once that icy, absolute verdict rooted itself fully in his heart, Rune’s inner world felt as though it had been plunged into an absolute-zero pool. All extraneous emotions—shock, panic, hope, resentment toward the unexpected—froze solid and sloughed away in an instant, leaving only pure, razor-sharp focus and calculation.

  His gaze became two red-hot nails, driven unyieldingly into the colossal beast opposite him.

  Perhaps the frenzied shouts and metallic pounding from Brog and the others outside the gate had further provoked it. The Terrene Drake had now completely shifted its attention away from the noisy “insects” beyond the walls. Its amber vertical pupils locked onto the lone prey in the center of the arena; murderous intent flowed through its eyes like viscous liquid.

  Its thick forelimbs shifted restlessly, heavy claws sinking deep into the sand. Neck muscles twitched. A low, thunderous rumble rolled in its throat—a posture of barely restrained readiness to lunge.

  In that moment, Rune’s mind became an overloaded precision instrument. Every scrap of information he possessed about the Terrene Drake—from the village’s tattered Magical Beast Compendium, from old hunters’ oral accounts, even fragments overheard from passing adventurers—was instantly retrieved, integrated, and analyzed:

  “Terrene Drake (Tier 1, earth-subtype draconic variant). Strengths: explosive linear charge speed rivaling some Tier 2 speed-type beasts; overlapping keratin-mineral plate armor granting exceptional resistance to physical slashes and low-tier elemental attacks—conventional Tier 1 magic struggles to breach; bite force extreme, capable of crushing fine steel plate with ease.”

  “Weak point analysis: (1) Relatively soft abdominal-to-jaw region. Scales here are thinner and sparser than on the back, defense significantly reduced—Tier 1 magic should be capable of meaningful damage. However…” Rune’s eyes flicked rapidly over the creature’s near-ground-hugging belly and the way its short, powerful forelimbs guarded it. “…this vulnerability is naturally shielded by its combat posture. Frontal attack opportunity approaches zero.”

  “(2) Oral cavity and internal organs. While its exterior armor is near-impenetrable, the internal tissues—throat, pharynx, oral mucosa—lack equivalent protection and are even more fragile than many Tier 1 beasts. It habitually opens its massive jaws wide before attacking, both to intimidate and prepare for the bite. That instant of maximum exposure is its single greatest vulnerability.”

  “My [Fireball: Condensed v1], when compressed to the limit, maintains a stable core temperature well above 2000°C. At that thermal threshold, unresisted soft biological tissue suffers catastrophic charring and vaporization in an extremely short window. Combined with explosive force… in theory, if precisely delivered deep into the Terrene Drake’s oral cavity, sustained high heat could rapidly destroy its respiratory system, sear the brain, or cause catastrophic intracranial pressure buildup… achieving lethal efficiency within seconds.”

  The brief weighing of options flashed like lightning.

  The abdominal weak point was too heavily guarded by posture and terrain—attack difficulty too high, success probability negligible.

  The oral cavity, while exposed only for a fleeting instant, was a clear, defined target that his attack method could theoretically exploit to maximum effect.

  “Target confirmed: attack the interior of the oral cavity.”

  Yet between concept and execution lay a vast chasm.

  Rune’s thoughts continued to race: “The Terrene Drake is acutely aware of its internal vulnerability. Its jaw closure speed is extremely fast—far exceeding a same-tier swordsman’s swing. This means the attack window is vanishingly brief. An uncompressed standard fireball travels too slowly and is easily intercepted or evaded by closing jaws. The compressed version, while far more potent, requires finer control to maintain its high-energy structure; launch velocity and precision demands are exponentially higher… I must create an absolute certainty of timing, and my own casting must be instantaneous, flawless, without the slightest delay.”

  “…Therefore, I need a tactic. A targeted tactic that forces it to open its jaws wide, and at the most precise moment, delivers the killing strike from the single most unavoidable angle!”

  On the sand, the standoff between man and beast entered a new phase.

  The Terrene Drake began to circle Rune as its center, moving with slow, oppressive steps that dragged deep arcs in the sand. Its bone-plated tail swept unconsciously like a siege ram, kicking up clouds of dust.

  It was observing. Applying psychological pressure. Seeking the optimal angle for a killing lunge.

  Rune moved in response. He did not retreat, nor did he flee blindly in a straight line. Instead, he mirrored the beast’s caution—moving laterally in short, measured increments along a path tangent to the Terrene Drake’s trajectory.

  His steps were light yet springy, every footfall deliberately placed on firmer patches of sand. His center of gravity remained perfectly balanced, ready to explode in any direction for evasion. His gaze never left the beast’s head—especially that intermittently gaping maw lined with ivory fangs—while his mind roared in silence, frantically conceiving, simulating, discarding, re-conceiving…

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Run! Rune! Run now! Don’t just stand there! Circle the edge!” Outside the arena, Brog’s hoarse roar pierced the thick stone door once more—muffled yet frantic.

  He and more hunters who had rushed to the scene were exerting every ounce of strength, trying to reverse the complex ancient lifting mechanism. The heavy winch groaned with tooth-grinding protest, but the iron gate remained utterly immovable.

  Rune’s movements made Brog’s heart clench in terror. The boy in the arena wasn’t panicking or fleeing—he was dancing a deadly duet with that terrifying colossus.

  But at this moment, Rune had entered a state of “absolute focus.”

  All external shouts, the roar of the crowd, even the violent pounding of his own heart—were walled off by an invisible barrier.

  In his world, only the ever-closing shadow of death opposite him remained—and in his mind, the single, razor-thin, perilously fragile steel cable that might yet lead to survival was steadily taking shape.

  Time passed in suffocating stalemate and measured circling. The Terrene Drake’s patience seemed to be wearing thin. Its nostrils flared with thicker jets of white breath. Its pace quickened slightly. Irritation and killing intent sharpened visibly in its eyes.

  Finally, after several full circuits around the arena center, a sharp, starburst-like gleam flashed in Rune’s eyes!

  A complete, clear tactical chain—built on ruthless calculation—snapped into perfect alignment in his mind!

  Almost simultaneously, he abruptly halted his lateral movement. His body leaned slightly forward into a new posture—subtly “provocative,” entirely different from before.

  And opposite him, the Terrene Drake—seemingly sensing the subtle shift in its prey’s bearing—halted its own circling almost in sync.

  Its thick forelimbs slammed down, kicking up a small ring of sand. Head lowered. Amber vertical pupils narrowed to vicious slits, locking unblinkingly on the prey that had finally “stopped.”

  A hot, rank exhalation blasted from its gaping maw. Sharp teeth glinted in the sunlight. Deep in its throat rolled the final, low growl before the strike.

  The charge was imminent.

  On the circular stands surrounding the arena, the crowd’s roar detonated like a powder keg!

  “Hit him! Fucking hit him already!”

  “Charge, you big lizard! Tear him apart! Swallow him whole!”

  “Don’t just stand there! Rush him! Bite that fire-playing brat to death!”

  “Come on! What are you waiting for?! Eat that pretentious little shit!”

  Adventurers from all corners—men who carried their lives on their belts—shed every pretense of restraint.

  They cared nothing for fairness, nothing for the boy’s meager arsenal, nothing for the near-certain tragic end.

  They craved only the rawest, most primal thrill: flesh torn apart, desperate struggle in extremis, the merciless annihilation of absolute power disparity.

  Rune’s fate? Merely the name of an insignificant side character in the death-drama about to unfold.

  Like the most fanatical spectators in an ancient Roman coliseum, they howled, stomped, whistled shrilly—desperate to see their “show” reach its climax: fangs sinking into meat, bones snapping under immense force, life extinguished in despair.

  And one of the “stars” in the arena had clearly received their “enthusiasm.”

  The Terrene Drake—provoked by the constant taunting, the alien environment, and the irritating little creature that kept moving—finally reached its limit.

  Thick neck muscles knotted. Amber vertical pupils shrank to cruel slits. Twin jets of hot breath blasted from its nostrils. After a brief coiling of power, its seemingly clumsy bulk exploded into shocking speed!

  BOOM!

  Powerful hind limbs slammed the ground; sand fanned outward in a shockwave!

  Its massive body transformed instantly into a low-flying dark-brown afterimage—like a siege ram launched from a trebuchet—carrying unstoppable, barbaric momentum straight toward Rune dozens of meters away!

  Forty or fifty meters—nothing to its savage burst!

  A terrifying pressure wave rolled forward like a tangible tsunami!

  At the same moment, its fang-lined maw gaped to its fullest extent. Rank wind arrived first. Target: Rune’s exact position—it intended to end this annoying pest with one classic charging bite!

  Just as the death-shadow was about to swallow Rune whole—

  —he moved!

  Rune’s body seemed to have anticipated everything. The instant the Terrene Drake’s hind legs drove forward, his center of gravity had already shifted subtly.

  No panicked, clumsy roll. No frozen, eyes-closed waiting for death. Only a clean, almost elegant, lightning-fast sideways spin!

  Whoosh—!

  The foul wind carrying sand and rank breath screamed past, brushing his clothes by the narrowest margin!

  The Terrene Drake’s iron-shearing jaws snapped shut less than half a foot from his body—producing a teeth-grinding empty “clack!” Droplets of rank saliva spattered the sand beside him.

  Hairbreadth escape! Millimeters!

  Having evaded the lethal strike, Rune did not pause for even a heartbeat.

  He didn’t even glance back at the missed lunge. His leg muscles snapped taut and exploded. He shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow—straight in a direction perpendicular to the Terrene Drake’s charge path—opening distance at maximum speed!

  The fully committed charging Terrene Drake—carrying massive inertia—could not possibly adjust its course or stop in time.

  Its heavy body continued hurtling forward. Claws gouged four deep furrows in the sand. It slid a full dozen meters or more before crashing hard—“BANG!”—into the beast pit’s solid gray stone perimeter wall!

  Stone chips cascaded down. Even its thickly armored head clearly rang from the impact. It staggered in place, shaking its skull, issuing low, furious grunts.

  By then, Rune had already retreated safely to the far center of the arena. Breathing lightly, eyes sharp as needles, he locked unblinkingly on the temporarily neutralized colossus.

  “As expected… speed and maneuverability exist in inverse proportion.” A cold, clear conclusion crystallized in his mind—like a lighthouse piercing fog.

  Just like a charging bull in a bullfight: immense power in a straight line, but turning radius enormous, stopping nearly impossible.

  Force it into a sharp turn, and it will only throw itself into disarray.

  The faster the speed, the poorer the instantaneous directional change in confined space—that was physical law, and biological limitation.

  “Theory verification successful!”

  With that thought, half the weight lifted from Rune’s heart.

  His tactical framework had just received its first critical real-world confirmation.

  Using his relatively small size and agility, he would maneuver in the limited space of the arena—constantly evading, draining the brute’s stamina, enraging it, forcing it to repeat these high-cost, low-efficiency charges.

  All while maintaining absolute calm and observation—waiting for the moment it had no choice but to open its jaws wide and could not immediately close them… and then deliver [Fireball: Condensed v1] straight into its maw. One-shot kill.

  No flashy feints. No complicated chains of tricks. Just the simplest, most lethal tactic built on calm observation and physical common sense: exploit one’s strengths to counter the enemy’s weakness.

  “Preliminary experiment… successful! Hypothesis confirmed! Tactical feasibility… verified.”

  When that conclusion flashed through his mind, the last ripple of emotion caused by the unexpected and the overwhelming foe smoothed away completely.

  In its place rose an ice-cold, hunter-like certainty.

  ......

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