Rune did not wait for a response—or rather, the wordless, mortified silence was answer enough.
He continued in that same flat, even tone, his gaze sliding past Mance as though addressing the empty air with a universal truth:
“Furthermore, I have never understood why others feel entitled to mock me because of my awakening result. What profession one awakens to, what initial skill one receives—these are matters strictly between the individual and fate. Whether the outcome is deemed ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ ‘high’ or ‘low,’ it has no intrinsic bearing on anyone else. Their ridicule serves no purpose beyond extracting a fleeting, pitiful sense of superiority and vanity from someone else’s misfortune. I can think of no other meaning.”
He lifted his chin slightly. On that still-youthful face appeared a look of detached, almost indifferent disdain far beyond his years:
“Frankly, Mr. Mance, I have never taken those mockers seriously. Deep down, I pity their narrowness. Only those whose own paths have already dead-ended—those who have stagnated, lost the courage to challenge what lies ahead, the true failures—take pride in sneering at another’s ‘flaws.’ They use it to cover their own incompetence and cowardice. How pathetic. How utterly tragic.”
He looked one final time at Mance, whose face had gone ashen, and delivered his closing words:
“I remember and remain grateful for the care you showed me in the past. For any trouble or embarrassment my reputation as a ‘trash mage’ has caused you, I apologize once more. However—”
His tone turned absolute, brooking no argument.
“If you intend to blame me for it and use that as justification to wound me—then I’m sorry, but I cannot accept it, nor will I ever agree. Because this has nothing to do with me.”
The words fell. Rune gave the man who now looked suddenly ten years older not another glance.
He turned, spine ramrod straight, and walked through the tavern’s deathly, almost congealed silence toward the deepest part of the room—toward the table where Brog, captain of the hunting team, sat. Those sharp eyes had never left Rune once; now they burned with astonishment, scrutiny, and an increasingly intense, indescribable heat.
The entire tavern sank into an unprecedented, absolute hush.
Only the light tap of Rune’s boots on the wooden floor and the restless crackle of the hearth fire remained.
Hunters stared wide-eyed, mouths agape, faces etched with sheer disbelief.
They watched that slender yet unnaturally upright back, the calm-to-the-point-of-cold, razor-logical words still echoing in their minds.
Contempt? Pity? Embarrassment? All the complicated emotions that had previously crowded their hearts were now displaced by something far stronger: stunned curiosity and dawning awe.
This boy they had assumed fate had broken—this boy they thought could only endure in silence—possessed an inner world so clear, so sharp, so near-arrogant!
What had he really come here for? It was certainly not just to refute Mance.
Every eye followed Rune involuntarily, fixing on that serene young face, on the resolute stride carrying him straight to Captain Brog.
An unspoken premonition rippled outward through the old hunters’ minds like silent waves from a stone dropped in deep water.
“Uncle Brog. Good evening.”
Rune stopped before Brog’s table. No pleasantries. No hedging.
His voice was not loud, yet it cut cleanly through the tavern’s lingering delicate silence like a blade parting still air.
“I came here for one purpose only.” He met Brog’s eagle-sharp gaze—now brimming with complex emotion—and spoke each word with absolute clarity: “I wish to join the hunting team and participate in tomorrow’s expedition to the edge of The Duskwood. I request your approval.”
His demeanor was too calm—lacking the nervousness or urgency most youths would show when asking such a favor, and showing no trace of agitation from the earlier clash with Mance.
He simply stood there—posture erect, eyes clear and certain—like an eagle perched on a cliff surveying territory already his by right. That composure far beyond his years, that near-arrogant confidence, made the hunters—still reeling from his earlier cutting words—exchange low, involuntary breaths.
Brog leaned slowly back against the heavy chair.
His thick fingers drummed unconsciously on the tabletop—tap… tap…—while his gaze roamed Rune’s face like a physical thing, searching for the slightest hint of bravado or youthful bravado.
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At last he spoke, voice low and carrying unmistakable regret:
“Kid… what you just said really opened a lot of eyes here—mine included, and plenty of the old-timers’. Calm, logical, even… painfully clear-headed. That’s good. It proves you’re not the kind of coward fate can just crush.”
His tone shifted; his eyes swept the room—taking in the varied expressions of curiosity, skepticism, and open disapproval among the hunters.
As captain, he had to weigh the team’s safety and cohesion above all.
“But,” Brog sighed heavily—a sound laden with a protector’s duty and genuine sorrow for the boy’s wasted potential—“I have to refuse you. Regretfully. You cannot join tomorrow’s hunt.”
“Because my strength has been judged insufficient to handle the risks of hunting—is that correct?” Rune asked without a flicker of disappointment or argument, as though confirming a known variable.
“Since you already guessed it, I won’t waste words.” Brog straightened, hands clasped on the table, his manner turning serious and pragmatic—captain’s authority surfacing naturally. “Exactly. Strength is the only threshold. Rune, if you had awakened with even two or three spells—hell, even two basic 0th-Tier ones like a Fireball for utility plus a Flame Spear or Firebolt for offense or control—I’d approve on the spot. I’d let you tag along under veteran watch for your first taste of real combat. A mage apprentice with multiple tools—even crude ones—can always find a role in the team and grow into it over time.”
He paused, regret sharpening as he met Rune’s still-impassive face.
“But… you have only one Fireball. A spell most mage handbooks classify as a cantrip—bottom of the 0th-Tier pile—usually good for nothing more than starting fires, lighting the way, or scaring small animals.”
He didn’t need to continue. The meaning was plain.
In the high-stakes, split-second violence of a hunt—where instant damage or reliable control could mean survival—a mage limited to a “cantrip” might contribute less than a well-trained mundane hunter.
His safety could not be guaranteed. Worse—he could become a liability to the team.
Yet the corner of Rune’s mouth lifted almost imperceptibly—not quite a smile, more a quiet “as expected” and the calm confidence of someone about to reveal their hand.
“I understand your concern, Uncle Brog. Before coming here, I had already anticipated your—and everyone’s—doubts.” Rune’s voice remained steady, yet carried a gathering sense of momentum. “The number of spells does not directly equate to real combat power. A crude boulder is not necessarily more lethal than a precisely fletched arrowhead.”
He slowly raised his right hand, fingers naturally splayed, palm up.
“ Fireball is labeled a cantrip because—in conventional understanding and typical use—its power is feeble, its structure simple, its control limited. But that does not mean it inherently lacks offensive potential… nor does it mean… it cannot become stronger.”
The instant the words ended—
Puff!
A searing flame ignited without warning above his palm!
Not the loose, flickering orange of an ordinary campfire—this was a highly condensed, ping-pong-ball-sized sphere of pure incandescent white!
It hovered stably, core blazing with blinding white heat—like a miniature sun cradled in his hand.
Even more shocking: the moment it appeared, a tangible wave of scorching heat rolled outward from Rune in all directions. Brog—closest to him—felt the hairs on his face curl and his skin prickle unmistakably with radiant burn!
The already warm tavern air spiked several degrees. The hearth fire itself seemed dimmed in comparison to the concentrated brilliance of the orb.
Hunters’ eyes widened. Some instinctively leaned back; mugs trembled, ale sloshing gently. Even Old Barnaby behind the bar paused his filing, single eye narrowing as he studied the impossibly stable, white-hot flame.
“Under normal circumstances,” Rune’s voice carried clearly through the stunned silence, calm and precise as though lecturing on basic principles, “a mage who has awakened only the ‘Fireball’ cantrip is indeed considered of limited use in combat. However—”
He paused deliberately, letting his gaze sweep across faces ranging from skeptical to openly fascinated, before returning to the dangerously pulsing white core in his palm.
“We often overlook—or simplify—the true nature of fire damage. It is not merely ‘burning.’ It is the manifestation of temperature: violent energy release upon matter.”
He held the fireball steady and began listing phenomena the hunters knew intimately yet had never connected in quite this way, his tone rising with the implied heat:
“100°C—boiling water—denatures the toughest beast-meat fibers, turning raw to cooked.”
“300°C—campfire heat—roasts food crisp outside, tender inside.”
His voice climbed steadily, mirroring the escalating temperature he described:
“600°C—sustained exposure—begins carbonizing the thick hides of Tier 0 beasts that resist ordinary blades, releasing that familiar charred stench you all know too well.”
“800°C…” His gaze flicked briefly toward the distant smithy. “…softens steel to glowing red, malleable on the anvil.”
“And 1200°C…” Each word landed heavier, like a branding iron pressed to consciousness. “…is the threshold of phase change. At this temperature, iron flows as molten red liquid. Likewise, it can—in the instant of contact—reduce a Tier 1 beast’s hardwood-like bone to brittle, blackened char, destroying its vitality from within.”
He paused again, letting the implications sink in as he swept the room once more.
The hunters had forgotten their drinks, forgotten their earlier debate. Every eye was locked on the ping-pong-ball-sized orb radiating skin-prickling heat and warping vision with its blinding white core.
The air shimmered faintly from the temperature. Those nearest caught the faint scent of singed hair.
“A standard ‘ Fireball,’” Rune continued, voice steady, gaze finally locking once more with Brog’s serious eyes, “is conventionally capped around 300°C. For daily village life, it serves as a decent ignition source—a convenient tool for campfires. It will never see a battlefield.”
He lifted his arm slightly higher, making the incandescent white core—with its orange-red corona—the undeniable center of light in the tavern. The hearth flames seemed tame by comparison.
“But,” Rune’s tone shifted, a spark of explorer’s certainty flashing in his calm eyes, “I discovered that the temperature of ‘Fireball’ is not permanently locked at 300°C by divine decree or immutable law. Its ceiling depends on control. On our understanding and reshaping of mana’s essence.”
He adjusted his stance, extending the hand holding the orb forward more steadily, forcing every gaze to confront the miniature sun-eye burning in his palm.
The fireball rotated silently, core blazing white-hot, dangerously alive yet perfectly contained.
“The key is—compression.” Rune’s voice spread clearly through the hush, each word outlining an invisible mana equation. “With sufficiently precise and powerful mana control, we can shatter its inherent loose energy structure.”
His left hand rose. Fingers curled in the air around the fireball in a slow inward-squeezing gesture—as though demonstrating an unseen forge compressing reality itself.
