“Although I still don’t fully understand what kind of energy medium ‘fire element’ is in this world, it’s clearly far beyond any combustible material or plasma I knew in my previous life… Simply increasing density can already push the temperature above 2000°C—this in itself is practically a miracle. But now it seems that even this miraculous energy has a physical—or rather, magical-rule-level upper limit to the compression density it can achieve within a specific space…”

  So where does the path lie?

  “If temperature can no longer be pushed higher for now… does that mean I can only shift direction?” Rune’s brows knitted into a tight knot, but the brief flash of frustration in his eyes was quickly replaced by the calm, analytical mindset he habitually adopted when facing difficult problems.

  He stood in the now-quiet room that had become a mess from the earlier explosion. The oil lamp’s light cast his shadow on the wall, swaying slightly.

  “No! This can’t possibly be the limit!” Rune suddenly lifted his head, gazing through the window at the last remnants of sunset glow. “If temperature had an absolute ceiling, the sun itself could never have formed! A star is the largest flame in this world!”

  The thought swept away the momentary dejection. His mind became rational and clear once again.

  “The existence of the sun, the existence of gravity—these prove that this world still follows basic physical rules! I don’t yet understand the true nature of fire element, but it must obey rules I haven’t discovered yet. Those rules are temporarily blocking my exploration of higher temperatures! What I need… is to learn! To learn magical knowledge about fire element! And more advanced meditation methods!”

  Rune drew a deep breath.

  The physical world has physical laws.

  Then the magical world should also have its own magical laws.

  He simply didn’t know them yet.

  “But… learn where? I don’t seem to have the qualifications to enter a magic academy.”

  In his previous life there were schools; naturally there were schools in this life too.

  In the previous life they taught physical knowledge; in this life, they taught magic or knight training.

  Moreover, in this world, attending a magic academy required a recommendation from a noble or a transcendent professional of Tier 4 or above.

  How could an ordinary villager born in a remote village like him possibly obtain such a recommendation?

  “Never mind. Thinking about this now won’t help! I should focus on leveling up my skills first!” After pondering for a long while without finding a solution, Rune shook his head and temporarily set the matter aside.

  “Still… it’s not like there’s no improvement at all!” He took another deep breath and swept away the distracting thoughts for the moment.

  With a slight movement of his hand, the previous fist-sized Level 3 compressed fireball reappeared.

  “The highly dense compressed ‘Little Fireball’ possesses unstable explosive characteristics… A larger volume means that in the instant of explosion, it can release a greater total amount of high-temperature fire element. Although the peak sustained burning temperature is locked around 2000°C, the instantaneous explosive peak temperature and the area of scorching impact will inevitably increase again with the greater total amount of fire element participating in the explosion and performing work in that instant!”

  He slowly closed his left hand, letting the incandescent white flame silently extinguish.

  “This can also be considered… another form of ‘power increase.’” He summarized quietly, the heaviness on his face gradually fading, replaced by the focused, sharp expression he always wore when facing a new challenge.

  “Continue leveling the skill! This is currently the only way forward. If I keep leveling it up, I might eventually find a new method to raise the temperature of Little Fireball…”

  He dispersed the incandescent white fireball in his hand.

  He cast a long glance at the completely darkened sky outside the window.

  Then he began cleaning up the stove area and preparing his dinner…

  ......

  “Boss, something’s been seriously off around the outskirts of The Duskwood lately.”

  The morning sunlight had only just begun to gild the dust on the window lattices of Old Barnaby’s tavern in gold when the crisp clink of rough wooden tankards and the low rumble of men’s voices already filled the entire space.

  Scar-faced Vorn stabbed several times with a chipped charcoal pencil at the worn sheepskin map spread across the greasy wooden table—its edges frayed, different-colored inks marking various trails and points. His brows knotted into a tight lump.

  “Our usual hunting spots… the last few trips barely brought back half of what we used to get. Those Mossback Boars, Terrene Burrowers, Shadow Foxes… it’s like they all learned to play hide-and-seek overnight. Their numbers are absurdly low. If this keeps up, we won’t even have enough game to fill our own bellies.”

  He raised his head and looked at Brog, who sat opposite with arms folded in deep thought. Vorn’s voice carried the sharp unease of a seasoned hunter mixed with a reckless spark of adventure.

  “What do you think, boss? Should we… push deeper? Scout for new game trails and dens?”

  The tavern was thick with pipe smoke; the mingled scents of ale and last night’s lingering hangovers hung heavy in the air.

  Ordinary hunting team members clustered in twos and threes around the long wooden tables—some spitting and boasting about past close calls, others sternly chewing out the young probationers beside them who fidgeted nervously, not knowing where to put their hands or feet.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  But the atmosphere around the table near the bar was noticeably heavier. Seated there were the core of the hunting team—Brog and his most trusted lieutenants.

  Brog’s gaze lingered on the familiar marker points on the map, points that now seemed strangely starved of life.

  His thick fingers drummed unconsciously on the tabletop, producing dull thuds—tok… tok…

  After a long silence, he slowly shook his head. His voice was steady, carrying an unquestionable weight.

  “Explore new territory? Not yet.”

  He lifted his eyes and swept them across the equally grim-faced deputies.

  “Opening unknown hunting grounds means unknown dangers. It means casualties we might not be able to afford. More importantly—” He jerked his chin toward the probationers. “—those kids’ wings aren’t fully grown yet. They’re a long way from standing on their own. We can’t turn our backs on a bunch of children who still need constant watching.”

  He paused, then traced a circle with his finger around several of the old zones on the map.

  “Wait a little longer. Wait until a few from this newest batch can truly hold a shield and anchor the formation. Then us old bones will take them deeper together—slow, steady, careful. For now… we stick to familiar ground. Safety first.”

  “But boss!” Vorn’s voice rose involuntarily, drawing glances from nearby tables. He didn’t care. He leaned forward, lowering his voice urgently. “The ‘stock’ in the old places is visibly running dry! This has been going on for almost half a year! If we keep burning time like this, in three months the game we bring back might not even cover equipment repairs and basic potion costs! We’ll struggle just to break even! You and I both know how fast those kids grow—without a year and a half of real combat tempering, how can we count on them stepping up right away? This… this is a deadlock!”

  Brog listened to Vorn’s clear, anxiety-laced analysis and fell silent.

  He raised a hand and rubbed hard at the deep crease between his brows. Exhaustion and worry shadowed his bronzed face.

  He opened his mouth as if to speak, but in the end only a faint, almost inaudible sigh escaped.

  The predicament before him was like tangled vines; even a veteran like him couldn’t immediately untangle them or produce a perfect solution.

  Around the tavern, the buzz of discussion about today’s hunting routes, personnel assignments, and potential troubles started up again—habitual liveliness tinged with an undercurrent of barely concealed restlessness.

  And right in the middle of that interwoven clamor and heaviness—

  Creak—

  The tavern’s heavy oak door was gently pushed open.

  A somewhat slender yet ramrod-straight figure appeared in the doorway, backlit by the exceptionally clear morning light pouring in from outside.

  The newcomer wore an old robe that had been washed nearly white but was impeccably clean.

  It was Rune.

  The moment he appeared, it was as though an invisible ripple of silence spread outward from the doorway like concentric waves.

  The hunters closest to the entrance were the first to fall quiet. They turned, eyes settling on the calm young face.

  Then, as if contagious, talking, laughing, scolding… all sounds receded like a retreating tide.

  Within mere seconds, the tavern that had just been roaring with voices became so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

  Every gaze—wherever it had been before—now converged, without exception, on the youthful figure standing in the halo of light.

  Over by the bar, Brog and the others—already frustrated by the stalemate in their hunting plans—immediately noticed the sudden, unnatural hush.

  They looked up, following the collective line of sight, and saw Rune standing there looking faintly puzzled, those clear eyes calmly scanning the room.

  The deep worry and furrowed brow on Brog’s face melted like frost under sunlight the instant he saw the boy—slowly, visibly relaxing.

  A genuine, heartfelt smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  The next moment, without saying a word, he simply raised those big hands—

  Slap! Slap! Slap!

  Clear, powerful, unreserved applause rang out—abrupt yet profoundly solemn—in the silent tavern.

  The sound was like a signal.

  Immediately after, the lieutenants seated beside Brog broke into broad, hearty grins filled with admiration, gratification, and welcome. One after another, they raised their hands and joined the clapping.

  Then, like a fuse catching, the applause swept through the entire tavern!

  Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap! Slap…!

  At first scattered, but in the blink of an eye it became a roaring, sustained wave of sound!

  Tables were pounded until they thumped, boots stomped the floorboards in rhythm, and every hunter’s face bore an unfeigned grin, eyes blazing as they looked at the youth in the doorway.

  “Look who it is! Our little hero’s here!” Brog’s booming voice cut through the clapping, thick with laughter.

  Still speaking loudly, he rose from his seat and walked with steady strides toward the slightly awkward-looking figure now under every eye.

  As his words and movement rang out, the tavern instantly erupted in good-natured, rough-edged laughter and whistles!

  “Haha! Damn right! Our little hero!”

  “Kid, you were fucking magnificent yesterday!”

  “That move! Gods, I keep seeing it in my dreams—like a damn painting!”

  “Well done, lad! You brought real honor to the village!”

  “Bloody brilliant! No two ways about it!”

  Praise, shouts, even crude but warm-hearted teasing—all in thick local accents—washed over Rune like a warm tide.

  These blood-soaked men expressed their highest respect for courage, wisdom, and overwhelming strength in the most direct way they knew.

  Faced with this sudden, overwhelming wave of fervent attention, even someone as calm and rational as Rune felt his cheeks warm slightly. He lifted a hand and scratched the back of his head in faint discomfort.

  He was accustomed—and excelled—at thinking in silence, observing from corners, constructing worlds through solitary deduction.

  Being the center of attention, the “hero” under every gaze—this sensation was foreign to him… and left him somewhat at a loss.

  Whether in that already hazy previous life or in this life full of trials, he had almost never been surrounded by so many gazes of pure, unadulterated admiration.

  At that moment, Brog’s broad, warm palm landed heavily—but with careful restraint—on Rune’s shoulder.

  “Little guy,” Brog lowered his head, meeting Rune’s still-clear eyes that now held a faint, almost imperceptible trace of embarrassment. His voice was sincere and strong, carrying not the slightest hint of teasing. “Yesterday’s fight—you did damn good. What you won wasn’t just a battle. You earned… the genuine respect of every single person in here.”

  He made a fist with his other hand and gently thumped it against the left side of his own chest, right over his heart.

  Rune opened his mouth. Facing Brog’s eyes—full of honest encouragement—he suddenly found himself at a loss for words.

  All those complex tactical simulations, all those cold cost-benefit analyses… right now, none of them seemed useful. In the end, he only managed to force out—somewhat stiffly—the sentence that had practically become the emblem of his beliefs:

  “Just… the theory held up.”

  “Theory held up? Hahahaha!” Brog froze for a split second, then burst into an even heartier, booming laugh.

  Looking at Rune’s attempt to maintain composure while still unable to hide that trace of youthful awkwardness, Brog suddenly realized something: the “little monster” in front of him—who had pulled off a near-miracle and stayed unnaturally calm—was, at his core, still just a boy who had only recently shed the last of his childhood and stepped into manhood.

  The realization sent a softer, warmer wave of gratification through Brog’s chest.

  Still laughing, he threw out one thick arm and—without asking—hooked it around Rune’s somewhat narrow shoulders in a gesture that brooked no refusal yet overflowed with rough affection. Half-embracing, half-dragging, he steered Rune toward the bar.

  “Come on, come on—don’t just stand there in the doorway!”

  When they reached the bar, the lieutenants had already risen to their feet. Broad smiles covered their faces. No one spoke. They simply turned toward Rune and—firmly, solemnly—raised their big thumbs in salute.

  Rune looked at the faces before him: some familiar, some he’d only seen once, yet every single one now radiated maximum goodwill in his direction. The corners of his mouth pulled upward in a slightly stiff, unpracticed motion—the closest thing he could manage to a smile—as his form of reply.

  “Alright! Brothers!” Brog released Rune, clapped his hands once, and his booming voice easily cut through the tavern’s still-roaring chatter. “Enough talk! Serious business now! Come on—let’s give our little guy… the official induction ceremony!”

  ......

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