Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

On the far end of the fractured dungeon, the ground was jagged and warped—splintered stone veined with flickering lines of unstable mana. Smoke drifted between shattered towers of basalt and half-collapsed stone platforms, some still trembling from the impact of the detonation.

The sky overhead—a false sky conjured by the dungeon’s mana field—rippled faintly with distortion, as if reality itself were thin in this place.

Astron stood amidst the wreckage, crouched low behind a slanted pillar of obsidian, his coat torn at the shoulder, a thin line of blood trailing down his jaw. His breathing was controlled. His eyes, sharper than ever.

Three monsters circled in the haze around him—angular insectoids with shimmering, translucent carapaces, their movement silent, erratic, designed to confuse the senses.

But Astron’s mind was still.

He watched. Measured. Let their motions play out twice before drawing a breath.

The instant the first lunged, he was already moving.

THNK—FWIP—CRRSH!

His dagger caught the creature’s extended joint mid-thrust, severing it cleanly before he rotated, planting his foot against the stone and flipping over the second attacker’s head. A quick glance—a mental snapshot—gave him the arc of the third’s movement.

STAB!

He struck upward into the soft chitin beneath its jaw just as it lunged beneath him.

All three collapsed in near silence.

He stood slowly, cleaning the blood from his blade, and looked up—eyes scanning the warped skyline. Mana flickered through the air like static.

Then he paused.

This isn’t standard dungeon corruption…

He turned in place, observing the terrain. The crater. The placement of the monsters. The way the team had been scattered—not to random points, but to equally distanced quadrants of the battlefield.

Astron stood still for a moment longer, the haze swirling faintly around his boots, the blood on his cheek already drying against the cooling air.

Scattered positioning. Strategic monster deployment. Environmental collapse timed to split the formation evenly.

No, this wasn’t random.

The academy didn’t make mistakes on days when external scouts were watching. Especially not this kind of mistake.

The pressure. The stakes. The psychological tension.

It was all part of it.

A test.

They’re watching us.

Not just for strength.

But for adaptability. Individual initiative. Composure in isolation.

Astron’s fingers tightened briefly around his dagger hilt before he let it drop back into its sheath with a whisper of steel.

He didn’t sigh. He didn’t curse. He didn’t look frustrated.

This was a scenario.

So he would play his role.

He crouched low, shifting along the broken edge of a tilted platform, scanning the distorted leyline paths. The golden trail of Sylvie’s mana was faint—but present. Her Authority had flared. That much was real.

Which means she’s being pushed.

That, at least, wasn’t simulated.

And so Astron moved—not recklessly, not even urgently—but with controlled momentum. Navigating the maze of shattered ground with the quiet, deliberate efficiency of someone who understood what they were supposed to do, and chose to appear as if he were barely staying ahead.

If they want a test, I’ll give them a passing performance.

****

On the other side of the dungeon, deep within a collapsed ridge ringed with jagged obsidian, Irina stood with her back to a glowing canyon wall, her coat singed along the edges, a faint trickle of blood running from a gash near her temple.

The air around her shimmered—still rippling with the aftermath of her last spell.

Dozens of scorched corpses lay scattered across the cracked stone. Mangled, blackened things with warping bone structures and armor fused to their hides. But more were coming.

They always were.

She exhaled sharply and flicked the sweat from her brow, her eyes glowing faintly—not with exhaustion, but with tempered fire.

“Four more,” she muttered.

She didn’t ask for help. Didn’t shout for backup.

She never had.

And she wouldn’t start now.

The next wave emerged from the black mist—creatures taller, thicker-armored, more agile. Fire-resistant, no doubt. She could feel it already in the way their mana signatures slithered toward her.

The dungeon was adapting.

“Trying to corner me with suppression types,” Irina muttered, lips curling.

The fire along her arms coiled tighter, brighter. She tapped a glyph etched near her collarbone—Flame Vein Catalyst—and felt the mana shift inside her, flowing toward her extremities like a tide responding to moonlight.

“I don’t need a team to clean up vermin,” she whispered, stepping forward into the dark, her eyes narrowing—

“You need a furnace.”

And then she burned.

The flame erupted around her like a living storm.

FWWWWOOSH!

Irina’s boots scorched the cracked stone with every step. The obsidian ridge glowed under the rising heat, light pulsing in waves as mana condensed around her form. Her jacket had burned off at the shoulders now, revealing glowing lines of red glyphwork carved beneath her skin—channels of flame, active and pulsing.

The four enemies closed in fast, their armor shifting with each step, adapting. One opened its maw, spewing suppressive mist meant to weaken fire mana density. The others flanked, curving in a three-point maneuver.

Irina didn’t blink.

Crimson Bloom: Rupture Cycle.

She snapped her fingers once—and the ground beneath them ignited in a lattice of pre-laid runes.

BOOM—BOOM—KRRRRASH!

Each monster was engulfed in a pillar of flame, the air above them spiraling upward into vortexes as heat and pressure ripped through the obsidian field.

They didn’t scream.

They simply crumbled.

She exhaled slowly, embers floating from her skin like drifting snowflakes made of fire.

Then—

A rumble from the far side of the ridge. A vibration in the canyon floor. Irina turned sharply, eyes narrowing.

“…That direction…”

She stepped to the edge of the ridge, one hand glowing bright as she pressed it against a jagged slope of black stone. The surface hissed, melting under her touch. She forced her mana into it—pressure and precision—until the wall began to crack.

One burst. Then another.

Stone shattered outward, revealing a narrow tunnel beyond—twisting through the dungeon’s underbelly, veined with mana.

Her instincts told her the others were that way. She felt it. The bond of shared mana flow in the same team network. More than that—

She felt Sylvie.

The girl’s presence had always been gentle, calm, restrained. Even her spells, powerful as they were, moved with grace. But what Irina sensed now was different.

Roaring.

A surge of Authority.

Mana that screamed through the dungeon’s core like sunlight focused through a burning lens.

Irina froze at the mouth of the tunnel, her hand still hot with flame.

Then—

Far in the distance—

A golden flare arced across the sky like a divine spear.

The entire dungeon shuddered.

And in the next breath—

Silence.

A deep, consuming silence. The kind that comes not from fear or stillness, but finality.

Irina’s flames flickered and dimmed.

She blinked once. Then again.

“…Was that…?”

She didn’t finish the sentence.

She didn’t need to.

The pulse from the dungeon’s core—a signal of termination—washed over her like a warm breeze. The suppression field dropped. The false sky rippled once, then began to settle. The dungeon itself… went quiet.

The boss was dead.

Irina slowly pulled her hand back from the stone, her expression unreadable.

Then, almost begrudgingly, her lips pulled into a faint smirk.

“…Didn’t think you had that in you, Sylvie.”

She turned from the tunnel, firelight still dancing across her back as she walked into the settling dust.

There was no need to break through now.

The dungeon had already been conquered.

******

Leonard sat at the edge of the courtyard garden, posture calm, hands loosely clasped in his lap as he spoke with the second of the marked cadets.

The conversation was careful. Measured.

Polite.

Just like the first.

And, just like the first—

Unremarkable.

The artifact hadn’t stirred. Not even a whisper. No trace. No pull.

Not from the handshake.

Not from the conversation.

Not from proximity.

Empty.

Again.

He rose shortly after, giving the cadet a courteous nod and a final word of encouragement—his tone impeccable, like any professional scout who’d simply found someone “not quite the right fit.”

And that was true.

In every sense.

As he walked along the pathway that split through the sculpture garden, the crescent-sigil still faint beneath his tunic, Leonard’s thoughts sharpened.

Two more names crossed out.

Which left seven.

Each one would take more time.

Each one would yield fewer chances.

The solar fragment tethered to him was already showing signs of attenuation. The academy’s ambient pressure had grown worse since morning—perhaps reacting to whatever that earlier presence had been.

And then—

He stopped.

Mid-step.

His hand didn’t reach for a weapon. His mana didn’t flare.

But his body knew before his mind did.

The world shifted.

Not violently.

But subtly.

As if the light around a certain student bent just slightly too much.

Not enough to break.

But enough to feel like the world didn’t want you to look directly at him.

Leonard turned.

Slowly.

His eyes narrowed.

A boy.