In the stands, when the audience saw the Terrene Drake “smartly” begin attempting to climb—its blood-drenched maw drawing ever closer to Rune atop the boulder—the long-suppressed fanaticism and cruel anticipation erupted like a volcano!
“Yes! That’s it! My baby! Climb up!”
“Eat him! Quick! Tear him apart!”
“Hahaha! Well done! Little lizard! Just like that!”
“Get him! No escape now!”
“Yes! Cute little guy! Show him what you’ve got!”
They had gone insane!
Everyone had gone completely insane!
They pressed against the thick iron netting of the arena’s domed ceiling, faces crushed against the cold mesh, eyes bulging and bloodshot, screaming themselves hoarse, spit flying, faces twisted with extreme excitement.
The air was thick with a collective, naked craving and delight for the bloody climax about to unfold.
To them, the boy on the boulder was no longer a person—he was the perfect sacrificial offering in this cruel drama, moments from being devoured.
The Terrene Drake’s hind limbs began stomping the ground harder, trying to generate more upward thrust.
Its heavy body scraped against the rough rock face with grating screeches, dislodging cascades of stone chips.
Its amber vertical pupils locked on the prey above, scarlet light burning so intensely it seemed almost tangible.
Atop the boulder, Rune slowly straightened. The wind whipped through his sweat-soaked bangs, revealing eyes still terrifyingly calm and black.
“The opportunity… has come!”
Atop the boulder.
Rune ignored the volcanic roars from the stands and Brog’s muffled, desperate reminders squeezing through the gate seams.
His entire world had condensed onto the death-shadow now clawing into the rock face, climbing savagely upward.
In his eyes reflected the increasingly close, horned, grotesque head and the vertical pupils now completely swallowed by狂暴 scarlet.
Yet deep in that scarlet was not fear—but a nearly radiant excitement, the thrill of finally cornering its prey, exploding silently in his heart.
Right now!
He had climbed this boulder, endured the torment of near-total physical exhaustion, endured the thousand cuts of the crowd’s gaze—all to wait for, and meticulously orchestrate, this exact moment: when the Terrene Drake was forced to rear upright and deliver its maw straight to him!
Everything had gone according to plan!
The Terrene Drake’s heavy upper body had now fully reared. Its rough claws scraped the rock with ear-splitting noise and flying sparks.
Its plated chest was nearly level with the boulder’s summit. Its thick neck lunged forward. That maw—capable of swallowing all light—gaped with terrifying force, like a living trap snapping shut!
Rank wind hit first. Target: Rune’s legs, exposed at the edge as he stood!
In the split second before those jagged fangs could close and crush bone and flesh—
Rune moved!
He did not retreat. He did not seek nonexistent higher ground.
Instead, core and legs exploded with every last ounce of remaining power. His body uncoiled like a spring compressed to breaking—leaping diagonally forward and upward, straight toward the opening maw!
At the same instant, his right hand—hidden behind him until now—snapped forward like a striking viper!
In his palm, the extreme-compression incandescent white fireball—its internal energy on the verge of boiling over—finally broke free, radiating such terrifying heat and blinding light that the surrounding air wailed in protest!
The Terrene Drake’s biting motion and Rune’s leap-and-throw happened in almost the same frame!
Time seemed infinitely stretched, frozen.
The Terrene Drake’s maw gaped halfway. Deep in its throat, pink soft tissue and ivory throat bones were faintly visible—the most defenseless abyss in its entire body.
Rune’s body extended mid-air. His arm carved a resolute arc.
The incandescent white orb—ping-pong-ball-sized destruction—left his hand!
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No flashy trajectory—just a straight, searing, vision-burning white death-ray!
Whoosh—!
In the exact instant the Terrene Drake completed its bite, jaw muscles contracting to snap shut at lightning speed—crushing the audacious jumper and his attack together—
The incandescent white orb, like a bullet fired perfectly into a bottleneck, drilled flawlessly into the open gateway to hell, vanishing into darkness and fangs!
The Terrene Drake’s jaws slammed shut!
Clack!
A teeth-grinding empty snap. It bit nothing but superheated air…and the reaper already inside its body.
The closed maw formed a perfect, sealed explosion chamber.
BANG—!!!
Not a deafening roar—but a deeper, more bone-chilling muffled blast, smothered by thick flesh and bone!
It was as though a miniature sun had been forcibly ignited in the Terrene Drake’s throat!
Then—
Puff—SPLASH!!!
An indescribable horror bloomed on the boulder’s side!
The Terrene Drake’s thick, plated neck—now fully reared—suddenly ballooned, tore, and exploded from a point just below the throat!
Dark-red, scalding blood mixed with instantly vaporized tissue fluid, shattered bone, charred meat—all erupted in a violent, gorgeous spray from the massive rupture!
The instant it burst outward, residual thousands-degree heat at the wound edges vaporized part of it, turning the gush into a boiling scarlet-and-dark-gold blood fog!
This massive, vital cloud of destruction—driven by even more ferocious subsequent jets—billowed outward, forming an enormous, grotesque, yet cruelly beautiful blooming flower of blood against the boulder’s side!
The Terrene Drake’s remaining half-jaw—blown apart, exposing charred skull cavity—had already lost all vitality. Like a discarded broken toy, the head was hurled away by the blast’s force, arcing through the air before crashing heavily into the nearby sand with a dull thud, kicking up dust.
From the severed neck stump, blood continued pouring like a breached dam, drenching the rough rock below with hissing evaporation sounds, feeding even more blood fog and making the “flower of death” grow more three-dimensional, more “glorious.”
Meanwhile, Rune completed his leap and landed precisely back on the narrow flat top of the boulder.
He dropped to one knee, one hand braced against the rough stone surface, chest heaving like a broken bellows greedily gulping air thick with blood and char.
Sweat mixed with drifting, still-warm blood fog left dark-red streaks across his face and body.
He slowly lifted his head. Through the swirling scarlet mist, he looked down at the headless dragon corpse still twitching below, and at the violently blooming “flower of life’s end”—the faintest, sharpest arc curling at the bloodied corner of his mouth.
“Thank you…” he whispered hoarsely, yet with an eerie calm, “…for giving this ‘Little Fireball’… the perfect coming-of-age gift.”
At that moment, the rising blood fog still lingered around the boulder’s base like a massive lotus irrigated by hellfire and lifeblood—while the blood-soaked boy kneeling atop the stone sat perfectly centered in the “blood lotus.”
Extreme violence and an almost blasphemous artistic beauty fused in this instant into something heart-stopping.
He had won.
He had actually… won.
In the stands, the nonstop tsunami of roars and cheers that had lasted the entire fight—
cut dead the instant this image—beyond anyone’s imagination—slammed into their vision.
Absolute silence.
A suffocating, pin-drop silence.
Thousands upon thousands of frenzied, twisted faces froze like ice, then shattered, leaving only pure, stunned shock.
People stood with mouths open but no sound; arms raised to cheer hung frozen; wineskins slipped unnoticed, liquid gurgling out.
Every gaze was magnetically nailed to the arena center.
Nailed to the headless corpse still convulsing from the deep visceral explosion.
And to the boy who had slowly risen in the blood mist atop the boulder—chest rising and falling lightly, arm not yet fully retracted, face streaked with sweat and blood, eyes still clear and cold as a frozen pool.
A breeze swept through, lifting fine dust from the arena’s edge, brushing across rigid faces in the stands.
In this moment, time seemed to stand still.
Then—like a dam bursting!
“Hero!”
A shout—voice cracking from sheer shock yet filled with raw power—crashed into the frozen lake like the first falling boulder!
In the next breath, thousands of throats caught it, repeated it, amplified it—until it became a pure, frenzied, deafening tidal wave of sound that completely swept away every previous mockery, disdain, and cruel expectation:
“Hero!”
“HERO!!”
“HERO!!!”
Wave after wave crashed higher. Everyone in the stands—regardless of how they had cursed before—now flushed red, arms pumping, screaming the title with every ounce of strength, eyes feverishly fixed on the blood-misted figure slowly rising atop the boulder.
Victory—especially one achieved in such inconceivable, paradigm-shattering fashion, blending intellect and violent aesthetics—instantly conquered every soul that revered power and miracles!
“He actually… really won…” Behind the Triumph Gate, Brog leaned against the cold, damp stone wall. His hands had long stopped moving. He simply repeated the words in a daze, face a mix of relieved exhaustion, disbelief, and an indescribable pride.
At that moment, a long, relieved sigh—like a thousand-pound burden finally lifted—sounded beside him.
“This… damn kid.” Old Barnaby had somehow taken another pull from his old flask of strong liquor. His cloudy gaze passed through the gate’s gaps to the upright figure in the blood mist. The wrinkles at his mouth slowly smoothed into a genuine smile. “…Impressive.”
He shook his head, capped the flask, hung it back on his belt, then poked Brog—who was still stunned—with his cane: “Enough gawking. Next, wait for the kid to open the Triumph Gate’s reset mechanism from inside. This old bag of bones can finally go rest.”
With that, he turned without lingering and limped slowly back down the dim beast passage the way they had come, his back looking unusually relaxed in the shifting light and shadow.
In the arena, Rune finally regained some control over his body after the extreme burst of dizziness and exhaustion.
The mountain-roaring “Hero” chants washed over him like waves, scouring nerves stretched to breaking.
He slowly straightened, wiping the sticky mix of sweat and blood from his face.
The faint arc at his mouth deepened quietly.
“So I said…”
A clear, calm voice echoed in his heart.
“Theory… confirmed.”
Almost simultaneously, a cold, mechanical notification only he could “hear” rang quietly in the depths of his consciousness:
[System Alert!]
[Target Defeated: High-Tier 1 Terrene Drake]
[Experience Gained: +500]
Listening to that familiar sound—symbolizing growth and possibility—Rune’s eyes shone brighter than the incandescent fireball that had once burned in his palm.
The smile at the corner of his mouth finally bloomed fully—carrying the scent of blood and fire, and an unquestionable certainty that belonged to the victor.
In the stands, the thunderous cheers and applause rolled on without end—like waves that would never recede—crashing against the ancient stone walls of the beast pit.
No one wanted to leave. Everyone remained standing, clapping furiously, eyes feverishly following the figure in the arena, expressing their shock and reverence for witnessing a miracle in the rawest, loudest way possible.
......
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