Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

Chapter 1034  Chapter 245.2 – They

The room had fallen still.

No one spoke during the last five minutes of footage. Not as the ground buckled, not as the creature emerged. Not even when Layla and Irina’s absence became obvious—when it was just two cadets left against something that didn’t belong in a standard dungeon sequence.

The only sound was the faint ticking of crystal time counters and the occasional scratch of stylus against mana-slate.

And then—

The lance.

The moment Sylvie raised her hand, every scout leaned forward.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

But intentionally.

Together.

The golden glow, the spiraled weapon, the crackling hum of Authority—

It wasn’t just another glyph.

It wasn’t healing.

It wasn’t reinforcement.

It wasn’t utility.

It was something else.

Something new.

When the lance launched, a visible pulse erupted through the screen’s mana feedback interface—brief, dense, high-tiered, categorized in-system as:

[UNREGISTERED STRIKE | GOLD-SPECTRUM | CLASSIFIED INTERFERENCE: NULL]

Then came silence.

And then—

The kill.

The scouts sat there, not frozen—but calculating.

No cheers.

No exclamations.

Just quiet, professional recognition.

Because every single person in that room had just watched a cadet—a healer—defeat a dungeon-tier aberrant monster without support. Not with brute force. Not with some overclocked relic.

But with instinct, rhythm, and control.

And something more.

One of the observers from Crimson Deep finally broke the silence.

“…That wasn’t a support maneuver.”

The older woman beside him from Radiant Chain nodded slowly, eyes locked on her notes.

“Definitely not,” she said. “That was an offensive construct. High density. Not bound to staff focus. Pure internal weave. Traced back to core casting, not channeled.”

“She’s not a pure healer anymore.”

“No,” the woman murmured. “She’s something else now.”

Several of the scouts had already begun rewriting her profile on their slates.

Sylvie Gracewind

— Previously: Healing Specialist / Support-Oriented

— Revised: Dual-Class Candidate

— Observed Trait: Golden-threaded Projection

— Suspected: Authority-Based Mana Channeling

— Possible Class Merge: Healer + Strategist / Precision Spell Lancer

“She’s awakened something,” said the youngest scout near the lower tier, speaking with cautious reverence. “I don’t know what to call it yet—but it’s real.”

The Dawn’s Cross tactician frowned slightly, eyes narrowing as he skimmed the mana data logs.

“Did you catch the delay before activation?” he asked. “She wasn’t just reacting. That casting process wasn’t reflex—it was calculated. She saw something. Traced it.”

“She tracked that monster’s rhythm,” another murmured. “Like a command unit. Like a battlefield analyst. But without external tools.”

“No. Worse,” the Crimson Deep observer said quietly. “She predicted it.”

A new silence formed.

Because that wasn’t just talent.

That was structure.

The kind of structure that guilds built squads around.

The kind of structure that didn’t break under duress—but organized chaos through it.

The silence still held. But not all silence was equal.

In the backmost row of the chamber—beneath a veil glyph designed to dull presence without outright concealment—a woman leaned back in her seat, gloved fingers steepled beneath her chin.

Velvetin.

Affiliated publicly with a diplomatic liaison cell under the Federation’s neutral archives bureau.

Affiliated privately… with something far less visible.

Her eyes were half-lidded. Her expression unreadable.

But as the replay looped—frame by frame—of Sylvie Gracewind raising her hand, the faint golden trail etching itself into the air, the spear forming, the kill landing—

Something beneath her skin prickled.

Not alarm.

Recognition.

Not of the girl.

Of the energy.

“…The sun,” she whispered.

It wasn’t a metaphor.

It was truth.

The golden resonance wasn’t simply light-typed or high-mana. It wasn’t a refined combustion or radiant subclass mechanic. It pulsed with something deeper—older. Not raw fire, but focused brilliance. Structured pressure. Authority-driven harmony.

Solar coding.

She knew it.

She’d studied it.

Because years ago, one of the quiet factions had flagged it as a latent line—one they were tracking, one they feared might resurface.

And that girl—that power—had been the potential anchor.

The one Velvetin had been told was dead.

An accident. A covered trail. Old bloodlines extinguished. Demon contractors had taken care of it. There was no official follow-up because the contracts between internal shadow groups weren’t centrally filed. Each syndicate did their own work.

She hadn’t questioned the silence.

Until now.

Now?

The signature danced before her eyes again in high-sensitivity rewind. Golden pulse. Spiral glyphs. The flash-frame when Sylvie’s mana saturated the canyon space and forced the system to issue a NULL classification tag.

It was elegant. Subtle. Precise.

But unmistakably Sun-rooted.

Velvetin’s brow furrowed, lips barely parting.

“…Alive?”

It wasn’t confirmation.

It wasn’t denial.

But it was enough to make her question the sealed record she’d been handed five years ago.

A thread she hadn’t expected to see again now dangled before her—glowing, golden, and very much breathing.

And if it was her—if Sylvie Gracewind was truly the child marked in that old prophecy scroll, the one her faction’s deep records had only half-believed—

Then she couldn’t be left unchecked.

Not in Arcadia.

Not under the eyes of guilds who didn’t know what they were watching.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

Not when the old sun was supposed to stay buried.

She tapped a silent rune along her wrist-sigil.

[Initiate internal query protocol — codename: Sol-Flare.]

[Subject: Gracewind, Sylvie – Affinity Crosscheck. Confirm Origin Trail.]

[Priority Flag: Black. Clearance: Velvetin.]

No alarms.

No alerts.

Just a soft pulse of red light—confirming the query was live.

Velvetin sat back again, her gaze sharpening even as the other scouts around her debated class merging, field deployment potential, and recruitment timelines.

She already knew what their interest would become.

A gold-rank contract offer.

Training labs. Scholarships. Positioning.

They’d see a prodigy.

She might be one.

But Velvetin had seen something more.

A danger.

And if her suspicion was right…

If that child was who they once feared she might become—

Then someone had made a mistake leaving her alive.

And this time?

She would not allow that mistake to reach adulthood.

******

Lucas turned.

Slowly. Deliberately.

His gaze met the source of the voice—if it could even be called that.

The air near the far corner of the hallway shimmered, fractured faintly like glass under tension. And from within that distortion, a silhouette emerged—not fully formed, not anchored to the world. A figure that wore the shape of a man, but was made of shadowed contours and slow-breathing nothingness.

It was the same presence he had seen outside.

The same butler.

Only now, there was no crowd. No watching eyes.

No reason for it to pretend.

Lucas felt it immediately.

Pressure.

Like the air had thickened threefold. Like his bones had been steeped in mercury. His breath hitched, barely. A pulse echoed through his chest—once, twice—too heavy, too slow.

This is not something that walks the same world as I do.

His fingers twitched at his sides, not in fear, but in restraint. Because every instinct in his body screamed to kneel, to collapse, to avert his gaze before it shattered something fragile inside him.

But Lucas forced himself still.

Even as his spine burned with resistance.

Even as his lungs clawed for steady rhythm.

Even as his mana, usually refined and precise, began to spiral like oil trying to burn underwater.

He did not flinch.

Not now.

Not in front of them.

And then—

The voice returned. Clearer now. Less a whisper, more a presence that leaned into him.

“Why do you have his energy inside you?”

Lucas felt it then. The recognition. Not of him—not of Lucas Middleton.

But of Belthazor.

The fallen prince. The corrupted star. The one who devoured names and walked with broken crowns in his wake.

The voice wasn’t merely asking.

It was accusing.

And yet—

Lucas smiled inwardly.

A slow, dangerous smile.

Because this was exactly what he had been waiting for.

He straightened subtly, letting his breathing stabilize, even as the remnants of Belthazor inside him clawed like embers reigniting in dry wood.

So you noticed. Good.

Then you know I’m not just a vessel.

He met the silhouette’s stare—or what passed for it—with cold, calculating poise.

And thought, with a flicker of cruel satisfaction:

If you’re asking that question…

Then maybe you don’t know everything after all.

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