Chapter 979 - What was that?
The moment Victor left their circle, the tension didn't vanish—it simply hung, coiled like smoke above a fire that hadn't quite gone out.
Silence clung to the group for a few seconds longer before Lucas exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Okay… can we just acknowledge how weirdly intense that was?"
Lilia nodded slowly. "He moved faster than I could see."
Irina, still holding residual heat in her psions, looked at Astron, her gaze narrowed—not in suspicion, but in sheer calculation. "You didn't flinch."
Astron glanced toward her. "Why would I?"
Before she could respond, Ethan stepped up beside him, brow furrowed, concern drawn across his face like tension in a bowstring. "Astron, you good?"
Astron turned his eyes to him. Calm. Distant, as always.
"I don't mind it."
His tone was as casual as if they were discussing a mild inconvenience. "Words don't bruise."
Ethan frowned slightly but nodded. He knew Astron meant it. That didn't make it sit any easier.
Still, his eyes drifted.
Across the hall—Victor stood near the far column now, arms folded, face as still and unreadable as ever… but his gaze? It remained sharp. Focused.
Not on the crowd.
Not on the instructors.
But on them.
Ethan's jaw set slightly.
Julia noticed.
She leaned in a bit, giving him a sideways look, arms folded again. "What was that?"
Ethan didn't look away from Victor. "Not sure."
Julia followed his line of sight, and her lips tugged into a smirk. "Regained your fire?"
Ethan gave a quiet, half-laugh. "Something like that."
Before the conversation could deepen, the sharp clap of hands cut through the air—firm and commanding.
Instructor Verren stood at the center of the room again, his presence pulling attention like gravity.
"Form up," he barked. "Final announcements before dismissal."
Instructor Verren stood tall at the center of the training hall, his sharp gaze sweeping across the cadets now gathering back in line. Sweat clung to uniforms, a few bruises had already begun to form on arms and ribs, and the faint residual crackle of mana still lingered in the air.
But no one dared to look fatigued.
Not with Verren watching.
He clapped his hands once—sharp, commanding, final.
"Good effort today," he said, his voice booming across the training hall. "A few of you showed clear improvements in both discipline and technique. Others… still need reminding that recklessness is not strength."
His gaze didn't linger long on anyone in particular, but the weight of his words found their mark.
Then, he lifted his hand and tapped his tablet once. A projection glyph shimmered to life behind him, displaying brief clips from several sparring matches—paused at key moments.
"First."
He gestured toward a still of Astron Natusalune and Julia Middleton, mid-clash—Julia's blade caught against Astron's forearm, his weight turned in close, her momentum half-redirected.
"Natusalune and Middleton." His tone sharpened, eyes flicking to both of them. "A textbook example of what close-quarters combat between hunters should look like."
Julia's brow arched slightly in surprise. Astron, unsurprisingly, showed no reaction.
Instructor Verren kept his hands behind his back, eyes flicking back to the paused frame of Astron and Julia on the projection behind him.
"Middleton," he said, tone steady but clear, "your fighting style is exactly what one would expect from someone with a strong combat intuition. Aggressive, fast, and instinctive. That kind of pressure is excellent in many encounters. You push the tempo, you force mistakes. It suits you."
Julia raised an eyebrow, unsure if it was praise or criticism.
"But," Verren continued, leveling his gaze at her, "you overextend."
The cadets stirred slightly at the shift in tone. Julia's grin faded—just slightly.
"Your rhythm is clean, but your aggression borders on recklessness. If Astron had used your momentum against you more harshly, that match would've turned quickly. Tone it down by ten percent. Learn to bait with pressure, not overcommit."
She gave a short nod, uncharacteristically subdued.
Verren gestured to the screen. "The Middleton family's sword style is beastlike by nature. It's overwhelming, unpredictable, and difficult to replicate unless you have the physicality and senses to match. Most of you won't—and shouldn't—try. But even so, there are lessons to be learned in watching how she carries that aggression. Initiative wins fights."
The screen zoomed in slightly on Astron, caught mid-block, weight turned just so. Verren's gaze shifted.
"As for Natusalune—he demonstrated something more subtle."
There was a pause.
"The art of standing your ground."
Several cadets glanced toward Astron, who, true to form, stood impassive and silent.
"You were at a disadvantage in raw skill. Everyone here knows that. But your response was controlled. Calculated. You neutralized instead of contested. That's something every hunter must learn. You will not always be the strongest in a fight—but you must always be able to withstand."
He let the words hang for a moment before swiping to the next projection.
Irina vs. Lilia.
The image displayed Irina mid-cast, fire spiraling into a lunge, while Lilia stood at range, her arrow nocked and ready, eyes focused.
"I'll be honest," Verren said, eyes narrowing just slightly. "I didn't expect Emberheart to handle a mage-versus-ranger duel with such clarity."
There was a flicker of surprise across the room—praise from Verren was rare.
Irina didn't react much, save for a faint tightening of her arms across her chest.
"She pressed without rushing. Guarded her casting with pressure. Her timing and zone control were excellent. For a duel like that, the slightest hesitation or poor footing would've given Thorneheart control."
His gaze shifted to Lilia. "As for you—your awareness of field positioning and arrow spacing was solid. You played the edge of her reach well, forced her to burn more mana than necessary. Foundationally, it was textbook ranger work. Not flashy, but efficient. That's good. Don't try to impress—control the battlefield instead."
Lilia gave a quiet nod, her expression unreadable but clearly attentive.
Then the projection shifted again—this time to Lucas Middleton and Carl Braveheart.
Lucas was caught mid-spin, halberd sweeping around in a wide arc, while Carl's shield was raised, hammer tight to his side in a grounded, braced position.
"And this," Verren said, his tone sharpening, "was the best match of the day."
Lucas blinked in surprise, looking over at Carl, who stood relaxed, arms crossed, but with the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"Lucas Middleton used the same foundational sword style as Julia, but executed it through range and technique rather than raw aggression. He fought with measured strikes and tested footwork, forcing the fight to come to him before reacting with clean counters."
Julia leaned toward her twin and muttered, "Show-off."
Verren continued, "And Carl Braveheart. Hammer and Shield—a combo most underestimate. He did not flinch, did not chase, and used timing to reduce the effectiveness of Lucas's range. A tank-style hunter in a duel is usually at a disadvantage against a reach weapon, but Carl turned that around with discipline and explosive breaks."
He let out a slow breath.
"This was a match of rhythm vs. anchor. And both of you displayed a level of clarity that most of your peers have not yet reached."
The cadets exchanged glances. There was no jealousy—only a deeper sense of what would be expected of them moving forward.
Verren deactivated the projection glyph and looked over the class once more.
"Your progress is being tracked. These duels were observed by more than just myself. Mentors are watching. You're no longer just cadets—you are candidates. Start acting like it."
The words rang like steel.
Chapter 980 - What was that? (2)
A stillness hung in the air as the weight of Instructor Verren's final words settled over the room.
You are candidates.
Act like it.
The cadets stood straighter, shoulders a little more squared. For a long moment, no one said a word—until a hand quietly rose from the middle of the formation.
It was Mira.
Her voice, while respectful, carried a note of genuine curiosity. "Instructor… what about the duel between Victor and Ethan?"
A hush fell across the room again, sharper this time. Everyone turned toward Verren, eyes narrowing with unspoken tension.
Even Julia, who had been leaning back lazily with arms crossed, straightened slightly.
Victor's name still carried an unnatural weight—and Ethan's fight had been the quiet thunder hanging behind every match.
Verren didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stared down at his tablet for a long beat, as if gathering his thoughts—or perhaps deciding what to say. Then, finally, he let out a deep, restrained sigh.
"…Ethan Hartley fought as close to his limit as anyone could ask," Verren said, his voice lower now, more grounded. "He held his stance, made no critical errors, responded to overwhelming pressure with composure. That in itself is commendable."
Ethan, who had remained silent, kept his gaze steady, though the memory of the fight still pulsed faintly in his jaw and ribs.
"But," Verren continued, lifting his gaze to meet the room again, "that match serves as a lesson of a different kind."
The students listened with breath held. Even Astron looked up.
"There are times when you will do everything right," Verren said, "and still lose."
The words struck hard. Clear. Unapologetic.
"You may face a monster," he said slowly, "that you can't outrun. Can't outfight. One that stands too far above you—individually or even as a team. No weakness to exploit. No obvious path to victory."
He paused. The room remained silent.
"In that case," Verren said, his voice like steel against stone, "you'll need to understand something many hunters refuse to accept."
He stepped forward, his gaze unrelenting.
"You will need to make a choice."
Another pause.
"Not how to win—but what you're willing to lose in order to survive."
His next words cut even deeper.
"Sometimes, you must make sacrifices."
The cadets shifted uncomfortably. No one dared speak.
"Maybe it's letting go of pride. Maybe it's leaving behind a teammate. Maybe it's yourself."
Victor, still leaning against the far column, remained motionless, his gaze flicking once—only once—toward Ethan.
Verren's eyes scanned the room once more.
"I don't say this to scare you. I say this because one day, it will be real. You'll be standing at the edge of something greater than you. And you'll need to ask yourself, not just 'Can I win?'…"
He turned away, walking slowly back to the center of the room.
"…but 'What am I willing to lose in order to survive?'"
Silence reigned.
It was no longer just a combat class.
It was a war room in disguise.
Verren nodded once more.
"Class dismissed."
The moment Verren uttered the words—"Class dismissed"—a quiet, heavy exhale swept through the room. Not relief. Not fatigue.
Weight.
The cadets began to move, slowly, hesitantly, like gears reluctantly turning in a long-dormant machine. Conversations that might've sparked after an intense match were nowhere to be heard. There were no light jokes, no friendly shoulder-pats, no post-fight banter.
Just silence.
Thick. Lingering.
Even the sound of boots against the polished floor felt subdued, as though the hall itself had chosen to mourn something unspoken.
Because no matter how strong they were—how talented, how prideful—Verren's words had cut deep.
They weren't just students anymore.
They were candidates.
Candidates for a war none of them had truly seen.
Even Julia walked slower now, her usual fire cooled to embers. Her arms still crossed, but the confidence in her posture had dulled—not broken, but tempered. Verren's words had struck somewhere beneath her pride, somewhere she hadn't wanted to admit was vulnerable.
Lilia followed a step behind her, lips pursed, brows drawn. Her eyes weren't on anyone—just lost in that final phrase. What are you willing to lose?
It wasn't a question with easy answers.
Irina's footsteps were sharp, but quiet. Composed. Yet her mana had shrunk, pulled inward—coiled like a flame denied oxygen. There was no visible reaction, but her fingers flexed every so often, as if responding to something she couldn't quite burn away.
And Ethan…
Ethan walked behind them, his hand resting briefly against his ribs. Not from pain—but thought. Verren hadn't needed to single him out. Everyone had already known. He had lived those words during the duel.
He had done everything right.
And still lost.
It wasn't something he'd forget soon.
Not even Astron spoke.
He moved at his usual pace, head slightly tilted, gaze unreadable. But for those who'd come to know him—even in fragments—it was clear he hadn't dismissed Verren's words. He had logged them. Filed them away with all the others. Words like that stayed with people like him.
And then there was Carl.
Carl walked ahead, steps solid, face as still as carved stone. No one said anything to him. No one needed to. There was something in his gaze—a weight no one else carried. Not because he'd heard words like Verren's before.
Because he'd lived them.
Carl had seen missions go wrong. Had heard the panicked breathing of wounded allies. Had made the kinds of choices Verren spoke of.
Sacrifices.
To the others, Verren's words were a revelation.
To Carl?
They were a reminder.
The group regrouped loosely near the arched exit of the hall, but even there, no one said anything at first.
Then Lucas finally let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Well. That was… grim."
The silence lingered like fog—thick and unwelcome.
Everyone stood there, shifting awkwardly, their thoughts still trailing behind Verren's heavy words. But then—
Clack.
Julia stepped forward, the heel of her boot tapping deliberately on the stone. She rolled her shoulders once, exhaled, and broke the silence the only way she knew how.
"With all due respect to our beloved grim-reaper-instructor," she said, voice light but not mocking, "I don't plan on making sacrifices."
Lilia glanced over, brows furrowed, but Julia continued before anyone could comment.
"I just need to be strong enough. That's all. Strong enough that I don't have to choose. No sacrifices. No 'what are you willing to lose.'" She gave a half-shrug, lips twitching into her usual smirk. "I'll beat whatever's in front of me and keep everyone intact. Simple."
Lucas tilted his head with a knowing look. "That sounds like major cope, not gonna lie."
Julia turned and smacked him lightly on the shoulder with the back of her hand. "Shut up, Lucas."
"Hey, I'm just saying," he said, raising both hands defensively, though grinning. "Sounds like you're trying to shout over your own existential dread."
Julia scoffed, but the slight glint in her eyes betrayed the intention—she had lightened the mood. A little, anyway.
"Existential dread's boring," she said, flipping her hair. "I prefer winning."
Ethan finally cracked a small smile. "That's… one way to deal with it."
Lilia sighed, but the corners of her mouth pulled upward. "Only you could turn a near-death philosophical lecture into motivational nonsense."
Irina, standing a bit to the side, gave Julia a sidelong glance, arms crossed. "You talk like you've got it all figured out."
Julia smirked. "Nope. I just refuse to get depressed in a hallway."
And just like that, the tension around them began to ease—still present beneath the surface, but no longer suffocating.
Because Julia had done what she always did.
She brought the fire back.
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Chapter 981 - Thoughts
The classroom was dimly lit, warm sunlight filtering in through high-arched windows, casting long rays across rows of elevated desks and flickering glyph-screens. Professor Varn stood at the front, an elderly Hunter with a face carved from years of battlefield survival and a voice like sand scraping stone.
"The Aethermane is a Class-3 high-speed variant, most commonly found in glacial ruins. Contrary to its feline appearance, it uses wind-type psions, not ice…"
Ethan sat in the third row.
His pen hovered over his tablet, screen open to a half-filled page titled Beast Catalog: Glacial Types.
And yet—he wasn't writing.
Wasn't listening.
His gaze was fixed on the glyph diagram at the front of the room, but his eyes were unfocused. Distant.
Because no matter how much he tried to immerse himself in the day's lesson… his mind kept drifting.
Back to that moment.
Back to the duel.
Victor's sword resting against his neck.
The weightless, inevitable end.
The way space had bent—just slightly—enough to rob him of impact.
The way his spear, fueled by all his will, all his training, had simply… veered.
Not because he missed.
But because reality itself had told him no.
He shifted in his seat.
The murmured voice of the professor rolled on, naming the next beast: "The Marrowback Hydra. Don't let the juvenile form deceive you…"
Ethan's grip on his pen tightened.
He'd fought so hard. Grown so much.
Lightning Step. Arc Reversal. Heaven's Crack. Every technique that had once pushed him forward now felt… small. Predictable.
He remembered what it felt like, watching Victor lower his sword with the same serenity someone might use to set down a book.
No arrogance.
No disdain.
Just control.
Total control.
And for the first time in a while—since breaking past the barrier into mid-tier ranks, since pushing himself to the limits of his bloodline—Ethan felt small again.
Insignificant.
He exhaled through his nose, head leaning forward slightly as he rested his chin against one hand. His other hand tapped a rhythm against his thigh. Not fidgeting.
Just… trying to feel like he was here.
"Mr. Hartley," Professor Varn's voice cut through the room like a whip crack.
Ethan blinked, head snapping up.
The entire class had turned toward him.
He sat upright immediately. "Y-Yes?"
Professor Varn didn't frown. He rarely needed to.
He simply raised one grayed eyebrow and gestured lazily toward the diagram floating beside him. "Since you seem so reflective, perhaps you can tell the class the primary weakness of the Mirror Stalker."
Ethan's brain scrambled.
Mirror Stalker. Mirror Stalker…
His mouth opened—but no words came out.
He knew this. He should know this. He had read about it last week. A beast that mimicked its prey's appearance and techniques, adapting rapidly through sensory feedback.
But the answer didn't surface.
Because all he could see in his mind—
Was Victor.
Standing still.
Deflecting.
Unmoving.
Perfect.
"…Its eyes," someone else muttered. Julia, two rows up, flipping her pen between her fingers. She didn't look back. "The weakness is the eyes."
"Correct," Varn said, with only a faint tilt of the head. He looked back to Ethan. "Try to remain grounded, Mr. Hartley. Daydreams don't kill beasts. Focus does."
Ethan nodded once, sharply. "Yes, Professor."
The lesson resumed.
But Ethan… didn't.
His hand returned to his chin. His eyes returned to the glyph diagrams.
And his thoughts returned to the truth he didn't want to admit.
I thought I was getting stronger.
But if that's what strength really looks like…
Then maybe he was still at the foot of the mountain.
The thought echoed as the minutes dragged on, each word from Professor Varn flowing around Ethan without landing. Diagrams flickered. Glyphs expanded and collapsed across the air. His tablet auto-saved a half-blank page of notes. He didn't even notice.
And then—
Briiiiing.
The bell chimed. The glyph-screens dimmed one by one.
Chairs scraped back, a few students stretched and groaned in exaggerated relief, while others grabbed their tablets and slipped out quickly, voices rising with the first taste of freedom in hours.
Ethan sat still for a second longer, watching the notes flicker off the main display. Then, quietly, he stood.
"Ugh, finally," one cadet muttered behind him, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "That lecture felt like it lasted a year."
Another groaned, "Yeah, and now we have mentorship? Right before midterms?"
"Seriously, what kind of sadist scheduled this? We're gonna be dead by exam day."
Lilia passed them with the faintest smile. "You're Hunters. Try not to cry in public."
Julia snorted as she slid her tablet into her bag. "She's right, though. Midterms and Eleanor? If I live through this week, someone better throw me a parade."
Irina, who'd sat silently throughout the lecture, rose and gave a slow stretch. "Parade won't save your legs when Eleanor starts the agility drills."
"You say that like you're not going to smoke the rest of us," Julia muttered. "At least pretend to struggle for morale."
A few chuckles followed that, some tension easing from the room as cadets filtered out in pairs and clusters.
Ethan should've joined them.
Should've made a joke, should've exchanged a grin.
But instead, he moved past the rows with quiet purpose, his steps leading him not toward the exit—
—but toward a desk two rows over.
Astron sat there, still in his seat, his tablet closed neatly before him. He hadn't moved when the bell rang. He rarely did. The other students had long since learned not to wait for him.
Ethan came to a stop just beside the desk and spoke with a tone that wasn't loud, but not entirely casual either.
"Astron."
The violet-eyed cadet lifted his gaze slowly, as if he'd known Ethan would come, but saw no need to acknowledge it early.
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck, then lowered his voice. "You going to the mentorship session?"
Astron blinked once, then offered the faintest nod. "As assigned."
His gaze flicked over Ethan—not judgmental, but not gentle either. Just observant.
"Let's go then."
Astron's eyes lingered on Ethan for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he gave a small nod and rose from his seat.
His movements, as always, were precise—no wasted motion, no fumbling with his gear or glancing at his tablet for confirmation. He simply stood, adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, and stepped around the desk, falling into step beside Ethan as they left the lecture hall.
The hallway outside was brighter than the classroom, afternoon light spilling through the tall windows and casting gold across the floor. A breeze passed through from the upper vents, carrying with it the faint scent of steel and ozone from the training fields beyond the academy.
The murmurs of other students drifted in from the main hall—groups gathering before dispersing toward their assigned tracks. But Ethan and Astron didn't slow. Their path was already set.
Only the two of them trained under Eleanor.
The thought lingered in Ethan's mind as they made their way down the polished corridor, each footstep echoing softly.
They turned left past the courtyard—a shortcut only used by those who didn't need directions anymore—and for a while, silence stretched comfortably between them.
But Ethan's thoughts didn't stay silent.
Eventually, he spoke.
"…What do you think separates someone like Victor from the rest of us?"
Chapter 982 - Thoughts (2)
"…What do you think separates someone like Victor from the rest of us?"
Astron didn't stop walking, but his gaze shifted slightly—just enough to show he'd heard. The question hung in the air a moment longer, like he was weighing its value.
Then, softly, he replied.
"Definition."
Ethan blinked, glancing sideways. "Definition?"
Astron nodded. "Most cadets train to be stronger. Faster. Better. But that pursuit is vague. Shapeless. Even when they improve, they don't know what they're improving toward."
His hands slid into his coat pockets as they walked.
"Victor doesn't have that problem. His strength is defined. Structured. Controlled. Every movement you saw in that duel wasn't just instinct or raw power—it was a philosophy. A law he obeys. And forces others to obey too."
Ethan frowned slightly, the memory of his spear veering off course still vivid. "You're talking about that order thing he had said."
"Yes," Astron said simply.
They continued walking, the echo of their footsteps folding neatly into the silence of the corridor.
Ethan's brows furrowed. "He said something… 'Restore the order,' right before my spear missed. That wasn't just a catchphrase. It did something. I felt it."
Astron gave a faint nod, his gaze now ahead—watching the hall stretch toward the training center, but his thoughts clearly elsewhere. "It wasn't a spell. Not in the way you or I cast them. It wasn't a technique either. What you saw…" he hesitated, only for a breath, "was a phenomenon."
Ethan looked over. "A phenomenon?"
"Mana doesn't act like that on its own," Astron said, calm and certain. "It doesn't redirect attacks mid-flight. It doesn't suppress psionic backlash without visible runes. It doesn't drain lightning as if it were steam pulled into a vent. That's not a skill or a technique. That's behavior. Environmental restructuring."
He let the weight of that settle before continuing.
"Victor spoke a phrase—and the world agreed with him."
Ethan exhaled slowly, not liking how that made his skin crawl. "That's not normal."
"No," Astron replied, "but it was complete."
That gave Ethan pause. "Complete?"
"Whatever he's doing," Astron said, "he isn't invoking it partially, like a chant or a construct. He embodies it. His every movement reflects it. That's why it can't be broken by pressure. Because it doesn't act with him. It is him."
Ethan said nothing for a moment. The words bounced around in his chest, heavy but not cold. Familiar in a strange way.
"And you think…" Ethan started, slower now, "...that's what I need to reach?"
Astron didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stopped in front of the final set of training doors—reinforced steel etched with old sigils, their edges humming with soft, defensive mana. He turned his head toward Ethan, face calm, tone quiet.
"You're not a normal Hunter, Ethan," he said.
The words weren't flattery. They weren't kind.
They were true.
"And I think," Astron added, voice low but steady, "you already know that."
Ethan looked at him, unsure what he expected to see in those pale violet eyes—disdain, maybe. Or envy. But there was none.
Only analysis. And something deeper. Something quiet.
"But that doesn't mean," Astron continued, gaze fixed now, "that you are the only abnormal one."
Ethan's eyes widened.
"You are not the only abnormal one."
Such a simple phrase.
So quiet.
So flatly spoken.
And yet—it struck something in him. Something buried. Something he hadn't allowed himself to think too deeply about.
Because for all his pride, for all his discipline, there was still a part of Ethan that carried this weight like it was natural. As if it was supposed to be his burden alone.
He had always believed he was the outlier.
The anomaly.
The late bloomer who had somehow clawed his way upward through sheer will.
The truth, though, had always lingered in the back of his mind.
He had grown too fast.
Faster than anyone in his family ever had.
His brother, a well-known high-rank Hunter, had awakened at the age of nine. His sister had manifested her bloodline psions at eleven. Even his mother, a towering figure in the Hartley legacy, had never accelerated her growth like he had.
But Ethan?
Ethan had awakened late. He'd spent the first fifteen years of his life ordinary. Unawakened. Watching from the sidelines as the rest of his family—the "true Hunters"—trained, fought, advanced.
They never treated him cruelly.
But they never treated him seriously, either.
And when his awakening finally came—quiet, unexpected, unspectacular—he was already years behind.
Everyone else had years of advantage.
Everyone else had expectations built around them.
He had… nothing.
But seven months later, here he stood.
Rank 215.
He didn't brag about it. Didn't advertise it.
But the truth was, even that number was behind where he felt he actually was. The past two months had changed him. His control, his psion refinement, his ability to chain techniques in live combat—it had sharpened, accelerated. He hadn't shown everything yet.
He was saving it for midterms.
Saving it for a moment where they would finally see.
Yet he had still told himself it was just effort. Just discipline. That this was the natural reward of late nights, early mornings, and endless repetitions.
He never allowed himself to call it what it might be.
Abnormal.
But now, standing beside Astron—who had spoken it so plainly—it hit differently.
He wasn't alone in this.
He wasn't the only one growing at a pace that defied the logic of the academy's progression curves. He wasn't the only one breaking through the glass floors faster than the world was prepared to categorize.
Astron's voice still echoed faintly in his ears. That soft, matter-of-fact cadence:
"You are not the only abnormal one."
He blinked once, the words still sinking in.
It wasn't just about him anymore.
It never had been.
And somehow, that realization didn't shake him.
It steadied him.
Maybe I've been getting arrogant…
The thought slipped into Ethan's mind, not with shame—but with clarity.
He had started to believe it was just him.
Just his fight. Just his rise. Just his proof to deliver.
But there were always exceptions to the rules. Always others like him—people who defied the curve, shattered the pattern, walked faster than the map allowed.
He wasn't the only one carrying a secret pace.
Thinking he was?
That would've been way too arrogant.
His gaze slid sideways as they entered the threshold of the training chamber. The mana in the air shifted—colder, charged with the distinct hum of Eleanor's influence. The mats underfoot bore the soft wear of countless sparring rounds, and the walls shimmered faintly with layered reinforcement glyphs. It was a place for pushing limits.
And standing beside him, silent, composed, was Astron.
The same Astron who, not even a year ago, was ranked dead last in the academy.
The bottom.
Unawakened. Untested. Unwanted.
And now?
Now he stood among the top thousand.
Unshaken. Unbothered. Unapologetic.
A quiet phenomenon moving at his own impossible rhythm.
Ethan smiled faintly, not mocking, not skeptical—just thoughtful.
He tilted his head toward him.
"Are you one of those people too?" he asked softly. "The exceptions."
Astron didn't turn.
Didn't respond.
His violet gaze remained forward, fixed on the center of the training room, where Eleanor was adjusting a mana regulator with her back turned.
The silence lingered.
Ethan didn't press.
Because that was the answer.
Astron didn't need to confirm it.
He was one of them.
And maybe that was enough.
Chapter 983 - Anomaly
Eleanor stood at the far end of the training hall, hands clasped lightly behind her back as she gazed at the rows of active mana regulators lining the walls. Soft pulses of energy blinked in a controlled rhythm, keeping the chamber's mana density stable, calibrated. Adjustable at a moment's notice.
It was quiet now. Only the distant hum of enchantments filled the space.
But she knew that silence wouldn't last.
Ethan and Astron would arrive soon.
And when they did, today's training would begin.
Her eyes flicked toward the doorway, then drifted back to the middle of the room where the sparring field stretched across polished stone. Everything was reinforced, not just to handle strength—but to handle intention. When people like those two fought, it wasn't just force. It was pressure. Alignment. Momentum.
Two anomalies walking a fine line between brilliance and breakdown.
Eleanor exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.
She had watched it unfold from the beginning. Ethan's acceleration. Astron's emergence. What had once been potential now threatened to become something else—momentum. And momentum in the wrong direction was far more dangerous than stagnation.
Not just for them.
But for everyone around them.
Especially now.
Her gaze tightened.
The guild tensions in the capital are rising again. More skirmishes between city-based Hunters. Small disputes, weapon regulation arguments, even suppression rights over dungeon gates. All of it building into something more serious. The kind of tension that didn't stay in the back alleys. It crawled into the academies. Into students' minds. Into curriculum.
If it spilled over, if things snapped—then Astron and Ethan, latter was way more likely would be pulled in faster than they knew.
Because they weren't normal cadets anymore.
Especially Ethan.
Eleanor's thoughts lingered on him a moment longer.
He had come a long way in a short time—too long, too fast. The kind of trajectory that didn't stay hidden for long. She could already see it forming around him: the buzz in instructor lounges, the subtle shifts in student hierarchy, the way eyes lingered a little longer when his name was mentioned.
If he continued at this pace—no, when he continued—his name would start brushing against a different tier altogether.
And eventually?
He would meet Victor again.
Not in the practice rings.
Not under adjusted conditions.
But in the real circuits. The sanctioned duels. The tournament brackets that caught the eye of national guilds, of federations, of the political elite.
That meeting… it was inevitable.
And necessary.
Even if not everyone would like it.
Ethan was rough. Still brimming with too much rawness, too much emotional drive—but she had seen the way he responded to failure. Not with collapse. With refinement. Every duel, every loss, every mistake—he metabolized it. Converted it into something sharper.
Victor had the polish. The law. The structure.
Ethan?
He had the fire.
But fire without refinement consumes itself.
Which was why she was here.
Why today mattered.
Her gaze lifted the moment the double doors parted.
Astron stepped through first, his movements as always quiet, composed, with the silence of someone used to making decisions without alerting the world. Ethan followed a second later, rolling his shoulders with a casualness that barely disguised the calculation in his eyes.
Both stopped at the edge of the platform.
Eleanor turned to face them fully.
She didn't speak right away.
She looked.
Into their eyes.
Astron's: cool, observant, already dissecting the training space, noting mana flow, field layout, exit paths.
Ethan's: calm, but steady—not clouded by pride, not distracted by frustration. Centered. He had grown since the last time. Something had clicked.
Good.
She spoke.
"Today, we begin real training."
There was no preamble. No pleasantries.
Eleanor gestured toward the center of the chamber, where two stabilizer pillars rose beside a long table lined with elemental crystals and psionic channels.
"We'll focus on two things," she said, walking between them as the mana hum in the room deepened. "Weapon coating—and psion control efficiency."
Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly. Astron gave a short nod.
Eleanor continued.
"I've reviewed your practical sparring assessments," she said. "And while your external control has improved—internally, you're both still leaking power. The conversion rates are inefficient. Especially during fast switching and layered engagements."
She paused.
"For normal cadets, that's acceptable. Not optimal, but functional."
Her gaze sharpened.
"But neither of you are normal anymore."
A beat of silence.
Eleanor turned, her coat flicking lightly with the motion, and activated the array embedded in the floor. The platform lit with soft white rings, partitioning the space into zones.
"First task: Coating calibration."
She gestured toward the crystals—each one keyed to a different elemental alignment and psionic thread.
"These are charged for feedback. Your goal is to maintain full coverage over your weapon—blade, edge, or shaft—for at least forty-five seconds without a drop below 85% cohesion."
She didn't need to explain why that mattered. In real combat, unstable coating was worse than no coating. It meant backlash. Blowback. Wasted mana and ruptured cores.
Eleanor looked back at them.
"Fail, and the crystal will resonate with your psion frequency. You'll feel the backlash."
She let that linger.
A reminder that this wasn't sparring anymore.
It was sharpening.
Her voice lowered, but her presence grew colder.
"You're here because you've reached the point where refinement isn't optional. From now on, every weakness I see—I will correct. Whether you like it or not."
She turned to face the field, her hand raising slightly as the system confirmed their biosignatures.
"Begin."
******
The crystals pulsed once as the system acknowledged the activation.
Without hesitation, Astron stepped toward the psionic focus table, his fingers brushing lightly across the handles of the training daggers laid out beside the elemental regulators. Ethan mirrored the motion—more direct, his movements steady, almost impatient in the way that suggested quiet eagerness.
Eleanor didn't speak.
She watched.
The first coating phase began—mana thread convergence. The crystals aligned to each cadet's natural frequency, forming thin channels that snaked toward the weapon surfaces.
Immediately, resistance hit.
Astron's control faltered—not in intensity, but in balance. His coating began to layer unevenly, the left blade gaining more psion saturation than the right. The cohesion dropped quickly, flickering below threshold before the system triggered a warning pulse.
His face remained still, but she saw the adjustment attempt—the micro-shift in posture, the recalibrated grip, the pulse shift in his fingers.
Too slow.
Backlash triggered.
The crystal emitted a sharp, focused resonance. Astron's left hand flinched—just slightly—as the feedback registered.
Ethan's situation wasn't better—at first.
His lightning psion flared too quickly, surging across the blade with no foundation to contain it. Sparks danced along the edge, arcing backward into the regulator node and destabilizing the feedback loop.
Warning pulse.
The psion slipped.
Backlash triggered.
But this time, Eleanor's eyes narrowed.
Because unlike Astron, who was adjusting carefully, methodically, Ethan reset.
Immediately.
She watched his core resonance shift—his breathing synced with the next attempt, and his lightning psion did not surge.
It slid.
Clean. Refined. Still raw, but tempered.
Like someone who had just now figured out why it had failed—and how not to let it fail again.
His second coating attempt held longer. Not stable yet, not clean. But Eleanor could already see the arc anchoring to the hilt properly. The energy loss at the blade's midpoint was dropping.
Seventeen seconds, she counted silently. Not bad.
Astron was resetting as well, though slower. He had noticed the imbalance and was trying to harmonize left and right simultaneously—a good instinct, but too rigid.
He'll need to loosen his frame, Eleanor thought. He's treating it like dual output. It's not. It's parallel flow alignment.
Neither passed the forty-five-second mark.
But the differences were clear.
Ethan was closer.
Eleanor's gaze sharpened.
It wasn't just the speed. It was the internal adjustment.
He instinctively knew how to tame the volatility of lightning.
She had expected Astron to be the more measured one here—and he still was. But Ethan's tempo had caught up. In this specific exercise, he wasn't playing catch-up.
He was leading.
That alone was rare.
She stepped forward, the soft click of her boots echoing across the now dimming field as the crystals reset for the next calibration cycle.
"Stop."
Chapter 984 - Anomaly (2)
"Stop."
Both halted.
Sweat beaded on Ethan's forehead. Astron's breathing had shortened slightly, his grip relaxed but not fatigued.
"You both failed," Eleanor said, flat and uncompromising. "But the failure was expected. It's your first day working with live resonance."
She turned slightly toward Ethan.
"Lightning is volatile. Few cadets grasp how to follow its rhythm before trying to force it into control." A pause. "You followed."
Ethan blinked, almost surprised by the note of acknowledgement.
She didn't linger.
Instead, she turned toward Astron.
"You understood the structure. You anticipated the imbalance. But you treated it like split mana control." Her voice lowered. "Don't. This is not dual-casting. This is convergence."
Astron's gaze didn't waver, but he gave the faintest nod.
Eleanor stepped back, arms crossing again as her analytical mind ran through timelines.
If they keep this pace…
Her thoughts mapped across days, iterations, potential breakpoints.
Eleanor's gaze drifted from their faces back to the regulators, now cycling through cooldown patterns, the glow of the elemental crystals dimming into stillness. Her arms remained folded, but her mind was moving rapidly.
Of course Ethan adjusted faster. It makes sense.
Lightning.
It wasn't just his elemental affinity. It was something deeper, more instinctive. Every inch of his psion structure responded to lightning as if it were native—coded into his body's rhythm. That kind of connection wasn't built through study or repetition.
It was felt.
He didn't tame it.
He understood it.
She had seen this before. Among those who trained early in elemental resonance. Among bloodline warriors and trait-forged heirs. But Ethan hadn't had that kind of start. No tutor-guided mana paths. No refinement chambers.
And yet—
He moved like someone born to wield lightning.
It was more than control. It was intuition.
Eleanor's eyes shifted to Astron.
And him?
That was the question she still hadn't answered.
Even now—months into her observation, even after personal sessions, even with full access to his training logs—she had no idea what his elemental affinity was.
He had never shown preference. Never leaned into any specific energy type. She had subjected him to fire, wind, ice, even high-resonance shadow induction… and none of them stuck.
Not in the usual way.
No rejection, no resistance—but no acceleration either.
Just… neutrality.
That's what made it so strange.
Elemental neutrality was rare. Suppressed affinity even more so. But him?
She studied Astron's posture—the loose readiness in his arms, the way he waited for the next command without leaning forward or backward.
No anticipation.
No hesitation.
Just balance.
It's like his mana doesn't belong to any family of elements I've shown him. As if… his affinity is hidden. Or worse—undefined.
That possibility was unsettling.
Yet it also made sense.
Because for all the vagueness of his alignment, Astron's understanding was precise. High.
When things were explained clearly—when a concept was mapped out with direct cause and effect—he absorbed it without error. His execution might lag behind at first, but only because he spent that time solving the problem, not brute-forcing it.
He didn't learn by feel like Ethan.
He learned by logic.
By structure.
If I give him the right frame, he adapts. Fast.
And that, Eleanor mused, was where the contrast lay.
Ethan's learning curve was strange. It wasn't steady. It dipped and rose in sharp bursts. There were times when he struggled with a concept for days—and then, seemingly without warning, something would click.
He would break through.
Not because of external feedback.
But because his internal world had shifted. Realigned.
That was the mark of what most instructors would call a "natural genius." Not the kind that mimicked perfectly or studied with discipline, but the kind that internalized.
And when Ethan internalized something?
It stopped being knowledge.
It became instinct.
Eleanor's lips thinned as she completed the thought.
He leaps forward when no one's watching.
That kind of mind was dangerous. Brilliant, but volatile. Because without the right direction, those leaps could go wrong. Too far. Too soon.
She looked between the two of them now.
Astron—the tactician with undefined power and razor understanding.
Ethan—the wild current shaped by discipline, waiting for internal sparks to unlock his next layer.
They were different.
But both were moving forward at speeds the academy wasn't ready to accommodate.
Eleanor turned back to the console, her fingers hovering over the next program.
Her calculation was nearly complete.
A month.
That was all it would take.
If she guided them correctly—if they kept responding as they had—then in a month, their weapon coating and psion resonance wouldn't just stabilize.
It would evolve.
She glanced back once more.
And quietly, with a note of anticipation rising in her chest—
"Let's begin again."
******
The final cycle of resonance dimmed with a low, harmonic chime—an audible signal that the regulators were disengaging. The elemental crystals blinked once, then faded to their dormant states, the shimmering strands of active mana slowly unwinding into still air.
The field stilled.
Ethan exhaled hard, his breath ragged, shirt clinging to his skin, damp with sweat. His shoulders rose and fell with the kind of fatigue born not from exhaustion—but sustained focus. His hair was stuck to his forehead, lightning residue still faintly crackling at his fingertips before fading into silence.
Astron, too, was winded. Less visibly—but the signs were there. The subtle tightness in his stance, the measured inhale through his nose, the faint tremor at the edge of his left hand where he had kept psionic output stable longer than before.
Their weapons lay on the racks nearby. The air between them was charged—not with mana, but with quiet, hard-earned progress.
Eleanor stepped forward at last.
She didn't smile.
She never did.
But there was a faint change in her presence. A soft recalibration of tension. A cue that, for today, their trial was complete.
"Sit."
The command was flat, but neither of them resisted. Ethan sank onto the mat with a muted grunt, wiping his forearm across his brow. Astron followed, silent, folding one knee beneath him in his usual disciplined posture.
Eleanor summoned a slim black notepad from her dimensional seal and tapped it once. A translucent projection flared to life above the mana regulators—a rotating display of real-time resonance data, pulse feedback, and internal convergence maps.
She began the briefing.
"First: Resonance Disruption Patterns."
A graph appeared, showing a clean slope for Astron and a jagged, broken one for Ethan.
"Ethan, your lightning psion initialized too aggressively in the first cycle. That caused your output waveform to spike—resulting in 'detached flow syndrome.' That's when the element refuses to adhere to the weapon's surface tension and instead arcs back toward the user."
Ethan grimaced. "Right. That's what burned my glove."
"Yes. Because you weren't grounding the energy."
She tapped again, and the projection focused on a blade schematic.
"Lightning resonance relies on field balance—you can't anchor it the way you would with flame or frost. You need to oscillate your core resonance to match its pulse. Think of it like surfing—don't hold the wave. Ride it."
Ethan nodded slowly, absorbing it with a furrowed brow.
"Your last run was much better. You started modulating your output in tandem with exhalation. That's the correct instinct. Continue tuning that pattern."
"Astron."
The graph shifted. This time, his lines were tighter—compressed, controlled, but asymmetrical.
"Your issue wasn't surge—it was balance. You approached the dual-weapon coating as two separate resonance threads. That caused polarity conflict between the regulators. You need to unify your core before you split flow."
She flicked again, and the image now showed a dual-core diagram, with mana threads branching outward.
"Think of dual coating not as dual output, but mirrored expression. Both weapons should reflect the same base signal. Symmetry before divergence."
Astron nodded once, quietly.
"You made significant progress by the fourth run. Good frame shift. But remember—refinement doesn't come from constraint. Stop over-managing."
A pause.
Then:
"I want both of you to write this down and internalize it—"
The projection flattened into clean lines of script:
| Weapon coating principles, notes:
Resonance must match....
Stability requires...
.
.
It went like this with details that she noted.
Eleanor waited until both had memorized it. Ethan was already jotting it into his mana-notes with a tired but focused hand. Astron, she noted, merely scanned it twice—then nodded.
It was enough.
She turned away, walking toward the far regulator control panel, and with one last glance over her shoulder, spoke without inflection:
"You're dismissed."
Ethan stood slowly, rolling his shoulder, offering a quiet "Thanks, Professor," before heading toward the door.
But before Astron could follow—
"Wait."
He stopped mid-step, turning his head slightly.
"I'd like to speak with you."
Chapter 985 - Anomaly (3)
The door sealed behind Ethan with a soft hiss, leaving only Eleanor and Astron in the training hall's quiet. The low ambient hum of mana regulators pulsed steadily in the background, a constant rhythm—unlike the silence that now stretched between them.
Eleanor didn't speak immediately.
She watched him for a moment—how he stood, not tense, not relaxed, simply still. The kind of stillness that came from someone always measuring, always processing.
Her voice broke the silence, calm and level.
"I watched your duel with Julia."
Astron didn't blink. His gaze remained steady. "I assumed."
"I wasn't the only one," she added, stepping forward slowly, hands clasped behind her back. "But I doubt anyone else saw what I did."
He didn't respond—just waited.
"I've seen plenty of students adapt to pressure. Many can copy patterns, borrow forms, even mimic techniques. But that isn't what you did."
Eleanor stopped a few paces in front of him, her eyes meeting his directly.
"You weren't mimicking. You were comprehending."
Astron's brow twitched.
She continued, her voice low. "When you fought Julia… you held back. But not because you were unsure. You were experimenting. You were learning the blade in real time."
Another step forward.
"And your body responded like it already knew how to use it."
She let the words settle.
Then, with the kind of precision that cut deeper than most blades, she asked:
"Do you want to learn the sword?"
Astron's eyes sharpened slightly. His eyebrows lifted—just a fraction—but enough.
His head tilted, that subtle, familiar gesture of quiet scrutiny. "Why would I?"
A fair question. His tone wasn't dismissive. Just… curious. He didn't move. Didn't deny. Just waited for her logic.
Eleanor exhaled softly through her nose. "You're not a swordsman. That much is true. Your class is registered as Daggerist, with a secondary in Archery."
She paused, watching for a reaction.
"And yet… the Archery class wasn't present at the start of the semester, was it?"
His gaze narrowed, slightly.
"I checked the records," she said. "You registered your Archer class late. After the first month."
A beat.
Astron didn't hide it. He gave a small nod. "Correct."
"So you awakened it mid-term," Eleanor concluded. "It wasn't part of your original class set. But it appeared—and when it did, you adapted to it immediately."
Another silence passed between them.
"You were a Daggerist. Pure melee," she said. "Then suddenly, mid-semester, you gained a ranged class. With no recorded incident or awakening event logged. No public duel. No awakening arena claim."
Astron's tone remained calm. "I never felt the need to announce it."
Eleanor nodded, unsurprised.
"I don't care about the theatrics," she said. "But I do care about what it means."
She stepped closer now—her voice lowering.
"Traits don't just evolve without cause. And classes don't shift unless the core is capable of resonating with something new."
Her gaze fixed on his eyes.
"That duel with Julia confirmed what I suspected. You can adapt to swordplay—not as a borrowed tool, but as if it belongs to you. Like Archery did. Like Daggerist once did. And if that's the case…"
She took one last step.
"…then what you are, Astron, may not be defined by a single class."
Astron held her gaze, unflinching.
There was no hostility in his eyes—just that familiar calm, veiled behind thought. He tilted his head a little, his expression unreadable, and for a moment, it almost looked like he would let her words hang unchallenged.
Then, softly—
"You're speculating too much."
Eleanor arched an eyebrow, but said nothing yet.
"I didn't learn how to use a sword during that duel," he continued. "I adapted. That's all. Adjusted spacing. Countered momentum. Measured tempo."
His tone was flat, not defensive—simply correcting her interpretation, as if laying down a more accurate report.
"From your angle, it might have looked like understanding. From mine? It was just—response."
He paused, then added, "I also didn't hide my strength, if that's what you're implying."
Eleanor's lips curled slightly.
A small, knowing smile.
"That won't work on me," she said, voice smooth. "I know you're more capable than that."
Astron didn't answer.
She stepped a little closer.
"But let's say you're right," she allowed, gesturing faintly with one hand. "Let's say I am reading too much into it. That I'm assigning too much meaning to a series of clean responses and blade familiarity."
Then, her eyes narrowed just slightly.
"Why do you hesitate?"
Astron's brow furrowed faintly. "What do you mean?"
"I'm not asking you to become a swordsman," Eleanor said. "I'm offering to teach you—personally—how to wield the blade. How to refine a skill you've already proven capable of grasping. So I ask again…"
She looked him in the eye.
"What do you lose by saying yes?"
There was silence.
Then—Astron spoke again, a fraction softer.
"I lose my time," he said. "Time spent learning something that likely won't benefit me. I'm not a close-quarters duelist. My class synergy is between Daggerist and Archer. The blade doesn't align with either path."
Eleanor's eyes glinted. "Doesn't it?"
Astron didn't respond.
She stepped around him now, slow, deliberate, her voice steady behind him.
"You and I both know that's not true. You're already using sword structure in your dagger work. You use deflections, spacing, even reaction-based counters that are sword-adjacent. Your footwork mimics half-guard principles. Your tempo-breaking mimics single-beat assault systems."
She circled back in front of him.
"If that's not alignment, I don't know what is."
Still no reply.
Eleanor exhaled lightly.
"Don't play this game with me, Astron," she said, eyes meeting his again, this time more serious. "This isn't a trick. It's an opportunity."
Her voice lowered.
"One that you don't want to miss."
Astron's eyes held hers, steady and unblinking.
Not defiant.
Not dismissive.
Just quiet, patient calculation.
The kind that spoke not of pride—but of caution. Of someone who measured risk not with fear, but with intention. Eleanor could almost see the weight of his thoughts shifting behind those pale violet eyes.
She said nothing more at first.
Let the silence speak.
Then—softly, but unmistakably firm:
"Whatever it is you're trying to keep hidden, Astron…"
Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
"…I've already seen it. Felt it."
She took a step closer—not to intimidate, but to make the truth in her words impossible to walk away from.
"You're more than the title written in your cadet file. More than the weapons you choose to show. And now that I've seen that with my own eyes?"
A pause. Her tone sharpened—not cruel, but inescapably real.
"I won't let it go."
She let those words hang in the air, cool and absolute like frost beneath a blade.
"I will dig through it," she continued. "So you might as well make use of the opportunity while it's still yours to take willingly."
Then, after a short beat, her gaze softened—just a fraction.
"You're still a kid."
It wasn't an insult.
It was a fact.
Not about ability.
About time.
About growth.
About how, even with all his control, all his silence—there was still room to shape him before the world tried to do it in worse ways.
Astron looked at her for a long moment.
Not with challenge.
But understanding.
And then—
A breath.
A shift.
A word:
"...Fine."
His tone wasn't reluctant.
It was honest.
Measured.
Like someone who had calculated the cost and found the result acceptable.
"There's no point in refusing," he added after a moment, his voice even.
"And…" he said quietly, "I trust you, Professor Eleanor."
Eleanor's expression didn't change.
It wasn't supposed to.
Years of discipline, of status, of commanding presence—she had trained herself to wear composure like a second skin.
And yet.
At those words—"I trust you, Professor Eleanor."
She felt it.
A subtle twitch at the corner of her mouth. So small no one would see it. Not even him. But she felt it.
This kid…
He didn't flatter. He didn't plead. He didn't chase approval like most cadets did.
And yet, somehow—he knew exactly how to stir that quiet, dangerous part of her that remembered what it meant to want to protect a student.
Not because they were helpless.
But because they were still unfinished.
Still forming.
Still in that precious, narrow window where guidance actually mattered.
Eleanor inhaled slowly through her nose, smoothing away that impulse with practiced control.
"Good," she said at last, voice cool again, but no longer distant.
She turned slightly, glancing toward the regulator panel across the hall.
"We'll begin after mid-terms."
She looked back at him, gaze sharp once more.
"Until then, focus on refining your psion efficiency and maintaining coating consistency. Swordwork training will require clear mental load capacity—and I don't want you distracted by fatigue when we begin."
Astron nodded once. Quiet, but resolute.
Eleanor gave a final nod in return.
Then, she turned.
Conversation over.
Training decided.
But as she walked back toward her console, coat swaying behind her, the faintest thought lingered at the edge of her mind.
So, he trusts me.
She didn't smile.
What an easy liar…..
But this time?
She didn't stop the corner of her mouth from twitching again.