“If the same total amount and intensity of flame mana is no longer allowed to scatter loosely across an apple-sized space,” Rune continued, and as if in response to his words, the fireball in his right palm contracted inward slightly, its light growing even more focused, “but is instead forcibly constrained and compressed into a smaller, denser spell framework with stronger binding force—say, walnut-sized, or even smaller. Like this…”
Rune pushed the fireball forward a little. The searing, condensed thermal radiation rolled outward; Brog, closest to him, could actually hear a faint crackling in the air before his face—the sound of tiny water molecules flash-vaporizing.
“Volume is reduced to its limit, yet the total mana quantity and activity remain unchanged…” Rune’s voice rose unconsciously, carrying the exhilaration of unveiling a secret, “…then the flame energy per unit volume surges exponentially! And the most direct, most terrifying manifestation of that density leap is—”
He raised his right hand higher, fully displaying the now fist-sized orb that blazed so intensely it hurt to look at—like staring into the core of the midday sun.
It was terrifyingly stable. No longer the restless flicker of ordinary flame; it resembled a perfectly faceted, furiously burning incandescent white gem.
“—a terrifying spike in temperature!”
“And the Fireball I have now condensed and mastered… its core temperature is not 300°C, not 600°C, and certainly not 1200°C…”
He drew a deep breath and declared each word like a law being pronounced:
“It is above 2000°C.”
The number struck like a physical heat wave, slamming into every hunter’s understanding.
2000°C!
They might not have grasped the full implication before.
But now they did.
It meant most metals would melt in short order, ordinary rock would vitrify, and the flesh-and-blood bodies of Tier 0—or even Tier 1—magical beasts…
Several hunters swallowed hard despite themselves.
“Uncle Brog,” Rune’s gaze burned as fiercely and steadily as the flame in his hand, “do you now believe I possess the… qualification to join the hunting team and face the Tier 0—and even Tier 1—magical beasts at the edge of The Duskwood?”
The words fell. He did not wait for an answer.
Instead, he gave his wrist a light flick.
The terrifyingly hot, blinding white fireball hovering above his palm dispersed quietly, as though its purpose had been fulfilled.
No explosion. No sound. Only countless tiny firefly-like motes—still carrying residual warmth—scattered into the surrounding air and vanished.
All that remained was the lingering rolling heat wave that warped the tavern’s humid, stuffy atmosphere, and the persistent burning sensation on everyone’s skin—proof of its existence and the cataclysmic potential it had held when compressed to the extreme.
As the last mote faded and the final shimmer of heat reluctantly dissipated into the malt-scented stillness, Rune lowered his hand and raised his eyes.
His gaze had returned to calm, yet it felt deeper now—like the sea after a storm had passed.
He looked quietly at Uncle Brog. He said nothing more, but the confidence born of absolute reason and paradigm-shifting power filled his straight spine and steady breathing.
He was fully prepared.
Fireball: Condensed v1—its core temperature hot enough to melt through iron plate with ease—was no longer a child’s trick. It was real, tangible combat power.
He believed that with such clear proof laid bare, this captain who always valued practical ability had no reason left to keep him out.
Yet the anticipated approval or astonishment did not come.
Brog’s rugged face only furrowed deeper.
He pressed his thick lips together. His Adam’s apple bobbed once—as though swallowing words that had risen to the surface. He pondered for a long moment.
The tavern’s dim lamplight cast shifting shadows across his angular features. Suspended dust motes seemed to freeze in the silence.
“I’m sorry, kid.”
At last he shook his head heavily, voice carrying a hoarse, near-helpless note Rune had never heard from him before.
“I still can’t agree.”
“Why?”
Rune’s brows snapped together. A mix of confusion and faint frustration surged in his chest.
This made no logical sense.
He had clearly explained the principle of compression, the resulting leap in energy density, and the terrifying temperature that surpassed ordinary flame.
He had demonstrated power—power sufficient to injure or kill certain low-tier magical beasts.
What more was Uncle Brog hesitating over?
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“You’re very smart, kid,” Brog stepped forward. His heavy boots thudded dully on the old wooden floor. He stopped in front of Rune and laid one broad, scarred palm on the boy’s somewhat narrow shoulder—not too hard, not too light, but carrying undeniable steadiness. “I’ve known since you were little that your mind spins faster than every brat in the village combined. But…”
He paused, gaze sliding past Rune as though piercing the tavern walls to stare into the perilous, shadowed forest beyond.
“Hunting isn’t drawing diagrams on parchment. It isn’t weaving adventure tales by the fire. And it sure as hell isn’t… showing off a newly learned trick that looks impressive and calling it done.”
He refocused on Rune’s face. Those weathered eyes held no scorn, no mockery—only the caution forged by decades of survival, and a trace of worry that was hard to spot.
“Your Fireball does look different. Hotter? More concentrated? You threw out those numbers—300? 2000?—I don’t understand them.” He spread his callused, scar-crossed hands, thick knuckles flexing slightly. “These hands have weighed beast bones, felt the shock of a blade splitting carapace, smelled the difference between faint and thick blood on the wind. But your ‘Celsius’… they’re as distant to me as elven poetry. I don’t get how making a fireball smaller and hotter actually translates to real results in a hunt.”
Before the words fully settled, Brog turned and strode toward the far corner of the tavern.
There, leaning against the wall, rested his short-handled axe. Its blade gleamed dully in the low light.
He gripped the leather-wrapped haft. The instant his fingers closed, his entire presence shifted—from genial tavern regular back to the strongest hunter leading Blackoak’s team.
He didn’t head for the door. Instead he walked to the deepest wall corner where stood a waist-high block of gray-black rock—rough and pitted, the “test stone” used daily to check blade sharpness or practice cleaves.
Under the puzzled stares of the room, Brog didn’t adopt any dramatic stance.
He simply lifted the axe one-handed, arm muscles tightening slightly. Then, with a casual-seeming flick of the wrist, he struck—not with the edge, but with the flat of the axe back—diagonally against the side of the stone.
BANG—!
A short, muffled, yet deeply penetrating impact rang out!
No dramatic spray of shards—but right in the center of the solid block appeared a deep, spiderweb-cracked fracture. The next instant the entire stone split cleanly along the line and collapsed to either side with a heavy thud. The break surfaces were rough yet startlingly even.
“Whoa—!!!”
After a stunned beat, whistles, table-slaps, and cheers erupted from the bar and scattered seats.
“Boss, beautiful!”
“That ‘burst force’ control is getting smoother every day!”
“Tier 2 berserker foundation—damn, just watching it gets the blood pumping!”
Brog ignored the clamor behind him. He casually leaned the axe back against the wall as though he’d done nothing more than swat a fly.
Then he walked back to Rune, positioning himself to block the view of the split stone. His gaze was calm but carried immense weight.
“See that, kid? That’s what the hunting team needs—something visible, tangible, something that decides life or death right then and there.” He gestured toward the cleaved rock. “That strike just now? I used barely enough force to qualify as Tier 1 transcendent. Can your Fireball do that? Not slowly burn, not melt a little hole—do that: one hit, problem solved.”
Rune’s gaze swept across the two halves of stone. The ripple in his heart gradually settled into clear understanding.
He got it.
This wasn’t rejection for rejection’s sake. This was Brog using the bluntest, cruelest language of the hunt to show him the entry standard.
The high-temperature trait of Fireball lay in sustained energy delivery, pinpoint penetration, and incineration. It excelled at melting and charring—not instantaneous, explosive physical destruction.
To shatter a block of stone that size in one blow with its current form and energy-release pattern? Impossible.
This wasn’t a lack of power. It was a mismatch between form of power and demand of the scenario.
Rune drew a deep breath. The tavern smells of malt, tobacco, and old timber filled his lungs.
No angry argument. No futile lecture on the different combat philosophies of mages and warriors.
He simply lifted his head, met Brog’s scrutinizing gaze, and answered honestly and clearly:
“I’m sorry, Uncle Brog. Using my Fireball to split that stone the way you just did… I really can’t do it.”
Rune dipped his head slightly. Deep in his eyes, the flame of curiosity and stubborn determination did not dim in the face of hard reality. If anything, it burned quieter, brighter, after cool assessment.
He neither exaggerated nor downplayed his ability. He stated the truth plainly.
He wasn’t the type to overstate his strength.
“So there you have it, kid.” Brog’s voice dropped, carrying the heavy patience of someone who had walked the road before. “It’s not that I’m trying to keep you out of the hunting team on purpose. Your current strength really isn’t enough yet. This isn’t your fault—it’s the rule. It’s reality.”
He picked up the mug of ale from the bar and took a long pull, as though washing down something dry in his throat.
“Mages—everyone agrees—are supposed to eat with overwhelming destructive power. A fresh 0th-Tier apprentice who just learned Ice Spike can often match Tier 1 transcendent damage output right away. Why? Because mages trade frail bodies, slow movement, and poor defense for sheer annihilating force in their hands. That’s the law. That’s balance. But right now…”
Brog’s gaze returned to Rune, confusion and regret mingling. “You say your Fireball is special, powerful—but it can’t even manage a basic Tier 1-level display like splitting that test stone. How am I supposed to believe it can protect you—or help you complete a hunt—in a real crisis? Against claws and fangs, or worse? If I said yes, I wouldn’t be helping you. I’d be pushing you through death’s door.”
Rune listened quietly. He could feel—through every word, every pause, every slight furrow of Brog’s brow—the genuine concern of an elder who carried real responsibility.
There was no disdain in the refusal—only the sober judgment born of long experience and duty.
That sincerity kept any resentment from rising in Rune’s heart.
But understanding was one thing. The pressure of reality remained a heavy weight.
Hunting magical beasts to gain experience was the critical next step—upgrading Fireball, establishing himself in this world.
Venturing alone into the danger-filled forest? Suicide.
Joining the hunting team—gaining experience under relative safety and veteran oversight—was the only viable path.
Brog’s rejection was a boulder blocking the most important door in his plan.
His brows furrowed deeper, but his mind—cooled and sharpened by the cold water of refusal—spun rapidly, analyzing.
Where did Fireball’s advantage lie?
Not in brute force. Not in instant physical shattering. Its power was internalized, concentrated, penetrative.
2000°C and above—what did that mean? Instant carbonization and breach of tough magical beast hides on contact.
If detonated inside or at a vulnerable point—boiling blood, flash-vaporized tissue—internal devastation far beyond axe-cuts.
Against certain hard-shelled but fire-vulnerable species, it held a natural edge.
This was magical “point-kill” and “penetration”—a completely different track from the warrior’s “area damage” and “armor-breaking.”
The problem was how to make Brog—accustomed to measuring strength by “splitting stone”—viscerally understand that difference.
How to translate “high temperature” and “penetration” into “strength” he could accept and feel?
Just then, seeing Rune lower his head in silence, Brog mistook it for discouragement. His tone softened, taking on the comforting note of an elder:
“Come on, kid. Go home for now. We all understand—awakening with only a Fireball… this isn’t what you deserve, and it’s not what we wanted to see. But the gods’ gifts can be cruel like that sometimes. We can’t change talent. But at least here in the village, with us around, you’ll never go hungry or cold. And we sure as hell won’t let danger touch you. Living safe and sound is a choice too.”
His words seemed to signal something. The tavern’s tense atmosphere eased slightly.
......
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