Chapter 1025 - Threat
The late afternoon light filtered down through the mana-laced clouds above the Academy's eastern wing, casting fractured blue-white beams over the training plaza where the dungeon gates shimmered faintly, waiting.
Ethan stood just beyond the edge of the marble steps, eyes fixed toward the horizon—not looking at anything in particular. His spear was slung across his back, the strap cutting diagonally over his shoulder. His gloves were already on, and his gauntlet glyphs hummed faintly with pre-channelled psions.
Still, he hadn't moved in nearly a full minute.
"Where are you looking at?"
Thud.
A hard smack landed on his shoulder.
"Gah—Julia!" Ethan flinched and stepped forward, nearly stumbling from the sheer force behind her hit. "Do you ever not hit like you're trying to dislocate something?"
Julia raised an eyebrow, hands on her hips. "Would you prefer I aim for your ribs next time? You're staring into the void like someone in a soap opera. Focus up, Hartley."
"I was focused," Ethan muttered, rubbing the sore spot beneath his coat.
"Sure. On the afterlife maybe," she shot back, then glanced over her shoulder. "Team's already checking gear. Let's go."
They descended the final steps together, where the rest of their squad had gathered near the active gate line.
Their group of five wasn't elite—at least not on paper—but they'd worked together long enough to find rhythm. Julia was the leader, by rank and presence both. Ethan, second in command—less vocal, but no less steady.
Then there was Raine, a mid-tier Light Affinity who handled healing and defense glyphs. A bit of a perfectionist, and currently double-checking her restoration crystals like her life depended on it.
Marin, a Windwalker speardancer who could not sit still, was bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. His scarf was tied tight across his jaw, eyes flicking toward the gate every few seconds like it might explode.
The final member of their squad stood a little apart from the others, adjusting the tension of her bowstring with slow, practiced motions. Kaela, their long-range specialist and forward scout. Tall, lean, and quiet, with sharp gray eyes that missed nothing. Her job was to mark the path, predict enemy positioning, and put an arrow through a threat before it could breathe in their direction.
Julia had wanted someone else in that role originally. Someone colder. More precise. Someone who saw paths and counters before they even existed.
Astron.
But that offer had never gone through. Whether because of scheduling, politics, or just Astron being Astron, Julia had been forced to pivot. And Kaela, while not the replacement she imagined, had earned her place through consistency.
Still… the pressure showed.
It showed in the stiffness of Kaela's stance, in the way her fingers lingered too long on her quiver, in the subtle glances the rest of the squad threw toward the watching towers above. The faint shimmer of surveillance glyphs glowed across the upper walkways, and though the scouts had said nothing—made no grand entrances or announcements—their presence was felt in every movement, every breath.
Raine's lips were tight. Marin had stopped bouncing. Even Deacon stood a little straighter, as if trying to make his silhouette look more disciplined.
Julia noticed.
And, in typical Julia fashion, she smiled.
Not the usual cocky grin. Not the sharp smirk she wore during duels. Just a confident, easy smile that was meant to break tension.
"Well," she said, one hand on her hip as she looked around at the squad. "We all know the drill. This is just another dungeon. You've all done dozens. One foot in front of the other, stick to the plan, don't die, and we walk out looking prettier than when we walked in."
Marin gave her a flat look. "That speech worked better when we weren't being judged by half the Federation."
Kaela muttered under her breath, "Easy to say when no one's watching you."
That struck harder than it should have—but no one said it was wrong.
Julia was from the Middleton Family. Old name. Deep legacy. One of the cornerstone bloodlines of the East. She didn't need to impress the scouts. Her path was already carved in granite. A few top guilds had probably already sent offers under the table, and she hadn't even glanced at them.
So when she told them to "just relax," it didn't land.
Because for them—Raine, Marin, Kaela, Deacon—this mattered.
This was the moment that decided whether they'd be recruited into real teams or buried in backline support roles for the rest of their careers.
And no matter how well Julia led, she couldn't understand that fear.
Not the way they did.
Ethan saw it.
Saw the way Kaela's fingers kept brushing her bowstring like it was the only thing grounding her. Saw the way Raine stared at the ground, whispering some small mantra beneath her breath. Saw how Marin had stopped moving altogether.
Ethan glanced once at Julia's smile.
She meant well. She always did.
But intent didn't always meet reception. Not when the air was this tight, when the surveillance glyphs above burned like judgmental stars, and half a dozen recruiting captains were no doubt already watching with pens in hand.
They're scared.
Not of the dungeon. Not really.
Of what comes after. Of being overlooked.
His gaze drifted to Kaela again—her jaw clenched, shoulders locked like stone.
Then to Raine, still murmuring under her breath.
Marin, whose silence said more than his usual chatter ever did.
And Ethan?
He understood.
Even with the Hartley name.
Even with status, backing, bloodline, prestige.
There had been a time—not that long ago—when he'd stood at the gate just like this. A nobody among legacies. Just a "cadet" who hadn't Awakened. No lightning. No Form. No spear legacy to draw on. Just expectation—mountains of it—crushing his lungs every time he stepped onto the field.
He remembered the silence in his own dorm after failing his first elemental synchronization trial. The way instructors tried to explain it away—delayed reaction, maybe a compatibility issue, you'll bloom eventually—while others whispered behind enchanted barriers, wondering if he'd be the Hartley embarrassment.
He remembered standing exactly where Kaela stood now, thinking:
What if this is it?
What if I'm already behind?
What if this is as good as I'll ever be?
What if I disappoint everyone?
And so—
Ethan took a breath, stepped forward, and let his voice carry—not loud, not commanding like Julia's—but steady.
"The first time I went through a gate," he said suddenly, "I tripped."
Four heads turned. Even Julia blinked.
Ethan kept going.
"Didn't fall all the way, but I stumbled—boots caught the edge of the mana weave, threw me off balance. My squad leader laughed so hard he almost forgot to pull me out when the mist creature lunged."
A beat.
Silence.
Then, slowly, Raine blinked. "…Seriously?"
Ethan nodded once. "Dead serious."
A faint puff of breath—half-scoff, half-disbelief—from Marin. "You? Mr. Hartley Lightning Step?"
Ethan gave a crooked grin, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Me. Back before I even had lightning. Back before I had Form One, or any clue what I was doing with my spear. I didn't even have gauntlets. Just a loaned uniform, a secondhand blade, and a mentor who made fun of me more than he taught me."
He let that hang for a second. Then:
"I know what today feels like. The pressure. The watching eyes. That voice in your head that won't shut up, saying don't mess this up."
Kaela's fingers stopped moving.
Raine looked up.
Marin shifted, just slightly.
Ethan's expression softened.
"But listen. This isn't a test of perfection. It's not about who moves the cleanest or lands the first blow. This is about what you do when the plan goes wrong. When you stumble. When you mess up."
He looked at each of them in turn. "Because that moment? That's when they're really watching. That's when you show who you are."
A pause. The air settled a little.
Then Ethan's tone lightened—not forced, but real.
"So, if anyone's planning to trip at the entrance like I did, I'll buy you coffee after. Call it tradition."
Chapter 1026 - Threat (2)
A beat passed.
Then another.
And slowly—subtly, like the shift in wind before a summer storm—something changed.
The weight in the air didn't vanish, but it tilted. Lightened.
Raine exhaled, her lips parting slightly as her grip on her crystal case loosened. She blinked once, then again, like something had just clicked behind her eyes. The quiet murmuring stopped.
Kaela didn't move at first, but her bowstring—once caught between fidgeting fingers—was finally let go. She rolled her shoulders once, just barely, and her stance corrected into something straighter. Sharper. Less burdened.
Marin let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and finally—finally—his feet moved again. Not the nervous bounce from before, but a firm step forward. Grounded. Present.
He looked at Ethan for a long second, eyes unreadable behind the scarf. Then, without warning—
Smack.
His hand landed against his own cheek in a loud, self-inflicted slap that made Raine jump and Julia whip around.
"…What the hell, Marin?" Julia muttered, blinking.
But Marin didn't answer her.
He looked straight at Ethan. The corners of his eyes crinkled just slightly above the cloth. "Thanks," he said. "Really."
Then he turned to the rest of the squad. His voice was clearer now. "Alright. No more bitching. Ethan's right."
He glanced toward the gate.
"We've trained for this. And if we trip, we get up. Simple as that."
Kaela snorted under her breath, barely audible, but she was nodding. Raine gave a small, almost reluctant smile, tucking her crystals back into her belt pouch and rising to her full height.
Even Deacon—quiet, often forgettable Deacon—straightened beside them, his hand tightening over the hilt of his shortblade.
There was no fiery cheer. No rallying war cry.
But that didn't matter.
Because something had steadied.
And beneath the eyes of the Federation scouts, the fear didn't own them anymore.
They remembered.
They all remembered.
Ethan Hartley—the boy who hadn't even ranked in the top 2000 when the semester began. The one who had no elemental affinity in the first month. The one who showed up late to group matches because of extra remedial sessions and was paired with cast-offs no one wanted.
He'd been behind all of them once.
And now?
Now he stood at their side, second-in-command, lightning spear at his back, calm in his voice, and no one questioned why.
He must have felt what they did—worse, even.
But had he whined?
Had he frozen like Kaela, or spiraled like Raine, or cracked jokes like Marin to hide it?
He hadn't.
He'd gotten stronger.
Quietly.
And maybe… maybe that's what they needed to do too.
****
They began to walk.
Boots hitting stone. Step by step, five shadows cast forward toward the shimmer of the gate. No hesitation now. No faltering. Just motion—measured, ready.
Ethan walked just behind Julia, his spear strap snug across his back, gauntlet humming faintly with residual psions. The others flanked close—Raine adjusting her wristbands, Kaela scanning their surroundings, Marin flicking his fingers like he was already warming up for the first strike.
And then—
SMACK.
A sharp, sudden smack landed clean across Ethan's shoulder.
He winced, stumbling half a step forward. "Ow—again?"
He turned to look at her, frowning. "What was that for?"
Julia didn't stop walking. She just tilted her head, smile playing at the corners of her lips. "No reason."
Ethan gave her a look. "Seriously?"
"What?" she asked, all innocent eyes and not-so-innocent amusement.
He opened his mouth to press further—but Julia beat him to it. She raised her hand, index finger pressing gently to her lips, mock-thoughtful.
"Shhh," she whispered with a grin. "You looked cool back there."
Ethan blinked.
She leaned in, just a bit, voice teasing. "Keep talking like that, and you'll make a lot of girls fall for you."
He stared at her, flustered. "I didn't say any of that for that reason."
"Oh. Of course, mountain boy," she drawled, eyes twinkling.
Ethan groaned. "Don't call me that."
"Why not? You were so noble and humble—like some kind of martial arts protagonist from an old cultivation drama." She gave a theatrical sigh, eyes fluttering for effect. "Truly, a man forged in silence and snow, rising from obscurity to steal the hearts of maidens everywhere…"
Kaela coughed from behind them. Raine snorted. Marin didn't even try to hold in his laugh.
Ethan looked up toward the shimmering veil of the gate, muttering, "I take it back. I should've let you do all the talking."
Julia grinned, clapping him on the back again—but lighter this time. Familiar. Steady.
"You did good, Hartley," she said, just loud enough for him to hear.
And together, they stepped into the light.
****
The moment their boots touched down inside the dungeon's barrier field, the temperature dropped.
A thin mist crawled along the ground, lit faintly by the gleam of bioluminescent moss clinging to the jagged cavern walls. The air smelled damp—minerals, old blood, stale mana. Somewhere in the distance, something growled—low and gurgling, like a creature not meant to exist outside the dark.
Marin was the first to speak.
"…Yeah. This place sucks."
Julia cracked her neck once, rolling her shoulders. "Suckier for them."
Ethan let his fingers slide along the haft of his spear, the silver inlays catching the low light. His psions were already active—quiet hums echoing in the gauntlets, lightning folded tight around his muscles. He didn't need to charge anything.
This wouldn't take long.
They didn't even form a proper battle line. No elaborate pre-fight ritual. No whispered strategies.
They didn't need them.
The squad's structure had always been simple—Julia in the front, Ethan at her flank, and everyone else orbiting around the chaos they created.
Because Julia was chaos.
The first beast emerged—twice the height of a man, covered in bone-plated armor with three jaws layered atop one another—and Julia didn't wait for it to finish screaming.
She launched.
No callout. No warning.
Just a blur of muscle and grit, her longsword already in motion as her mana exploded out in a crimson arc behind her.
CRACK—BOOM.
The beast's front leg was severed before it could take a full step. Blood sprayed across the mossy stone as it howled, only to have that howl cut short by Julia driving her blade straight up through its center mouth with a brutal twist.
It collapsed.
Marin whistled. "Right into it, huh?"
Kaela didn't answer—she was already moving, arrows loosed in a crisp rhythm, each one pinning distant spawn to the walls before they could fully emerge from the mist. Raine followed close behind, her light-based glyphs spinning into place like clockwork—one barrier, two buffs, a rapid minor heal for Julia's shoulder even though Julia hadn't even noticed she was bleeding.
Ethan?
He moved like water around her.
The second wave hit harder—four beasts this time, serpentine and armored, with mana-coiling tails that lashed out like scythes. But Ethan didn't flinch. He dashed forward, lightning singing beneath his feet, and struck before they could converge.
"Form Two—Radiant Surge."
A spiraling bolt of thunder cracked through the cavern, illuminating their path in blinding arcs. His spear struck once, but split into three lines of piercing current, ripping through two of the serpents before they could hiss.
One lunged for him, jaws wide.
Julia's boot crashed down on its skull from above.
She drove her heel into the thing's cranium like it was a fruit, using the height from her leap to anchor the strike and grind its head into the stone.
Another tried to flank.
Ethan spun, slashing sideways with an arc of coiled lightning, catching its jaw and launching it sideways—right into Kaela's waiting arrow, which didn't just pierce the skull but detonated in a focused burst of compressed air.
CRACK.
Silence returned for a breath.
Then another gate opened deeper inside.
More monsters.
Larger.
Some even wearing fragmentary armor, remnants of a corrupted hunter squad long since lost. Their movement patterns were different—smarter, faster, adaptive.
It didn't matter.
Julia grinned. "Perfect."
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Chapter 1027 - Threat (3)
"Perfect."
She launched herself into the pack again, spinning her blade in brutal, unrefined arcs—every strike born from muscle memory, aggression, and sheer refusal to yield. Her form was ugly, wild—but nothing got past her.
And behind her, Ethan danced.
Where Julia overwhelmed, Ethan controlled. Every enemy that broke through her radius was met with surgical bursts of lightning, his spear snapping out in short, precise jabs that targeted joints, cores, and exposed sigils. Where Julia cracked skulls, Ethan shut systems down.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
This wasn't coordination.
This was instinct.
Marin covered their blind spots with mid-range strikes, his blade darting between Julia's kill zone and Ethan's fallback line like a stitching thread. Kaela ghosted between outcroppings, never staying in one place for more than a few seconds, every arrow making space before the others could feel pressure. Raine's hands never stopped glowing—shield, cleanse, mend, repeat.
Fifteen minutes.
That's all it took.
The dungeon's final chamber crumbled around them, the corrupted mana source at its heart still crackling faintly—until Julia smashed it open with one overhead strike that left a crater the size of a wagon.
The mist receded.
The mana stilled.
And just like that—it was over.
Ethan stood at her side, the crackle of his lightning fading with every breath. Julia wiped the blood from her blade with one swift swipe against a fallen beast's fur, then turned to the squad.
"Time?"
Raine glanced at her wrist-sigil. "Fourteen minutes, forty-seven seconds."
Julia whistled, low and amused. "Tch. Sloppy."
Marin choked. "Sloppy?"
"You almost missed one," Kaela added helpfully, nodding toward a half-melted beast Ethan had finished off mid-run.
Julia shrugged. "That was his job."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "I do love being backup janitor."
"See?" she said cheerfully, slapping him on the back again. "That's why I keep you around."
And for a long moment, none of them moved. They just stood there, blood on their boots, sweat cooling in the dungeon air.
And for a long moment, none of them moved. They just stood there, blood on their boots, sweat cooling in the dungeon air.
But then—
Ethan's fingers twitched.
It was subtle at first. A flicker of something—not sight, not sound, not even psion detection. Just presence. A pressure that didn't belong. A ripple against the edges of his awareness, like a hand grazing the surface of still water from beneath.
He straightened, eyes narrowing.
The atmosphere hadn't changed. Not visibly. The corrupted mana source was gone, the dungeon collapsing inward in slow, harmless pulses of dissipation. No new enemies. No alarms. No strange readings on the glyph scanners.
But the feeling was there.
Cold. Thin. Sharp.
Like breath on the back of his neck.
His gaze swept the craggy cavern walls—the broken ceiling overhead, the tendrils of mist still thinning into silence. Nothing moved. Nothing shifted.
And yet…
Ethan's shoulders tensed.
The spear in his hand hummed faintly again, residual psions reactivating on reflex.
He didn't speak right away. Just took a slow, measured breath. Then another.
There it was again.
A flicker.
A presence just out of reach—something watching, not from the shadows, but beneath them. As if the walls themselves had eyes. As if the dungeon hadn't died—it had gone still. Waiting.
Julia noticed first.
Her voice dropped, low and wary. "What is it?"
Ethan didn't look at her. His eyes were still fixed on the far corner of the chamber—a spot where the darkness seemed a shade too thick. Not unnatural. Just… off.
"I don't know," he said quietly.
Kaela had already readied another arrow.
Raine, without needing instruction, pulled her healing wards into a tighter formation around them.
Even Marin stopped joking.
Ethan's grip on his spear tightened. "It's probably nothing."
He didn't believe it.
The chill crawling down his spine wasn't psionic. It wasn't magical. It was instinctual.
Like something had brushed against the threads of his fate, then slipped away before it could be named.
And that—that—was what unsettled him most.
He didn't sense a threat.
He sensed... awareness.
Not just of their location.
Of him.
Of his lightning. His psions. His breath.
As if something out there had just catalogued every strike he'd made—and was still deciding what to do about it.
Ethan stepped closer to Julia, voice low. "We need to move. Now."
She didn't argue.
None of them did.
Because though the dungeon had collapsed… Ethan still felt watched.
And that feeling wouldn't leave.
Even after the gate opened.
Even after they stepped out.
Even after the light of the academy swallowed the darkness—
The weight of that unseen gaze lingered.
Like something had marked him.
And simply... let him go.
*****
The screen was already split into multiple angles—high frame-rate, combat zooms, mana-thread overlays—when the final monster fell. The corrupted core shattered in real-time, light folding inward, and the kill feed officially sealed:
[Team Six — Dungeon Four: Clear Time — 14:47]
There was a pause.
Then a low whistle from the center aisle.
"…Sloppy," one scout repeated, voice dry. "That's what she called it?"
"She's not wrong," said another. "Could've been sub-14 if Ethan hadn't diverted for that intercept mid-run."
"Don't be ridiculous," a third countered, eyes locked on the rewind feed. "That flank would've taken out Kaela. The fact that he turned, cleared it, and rejoined in under two seconds is what made this a clean run."
None of them were arguing.
Not really.
Because the performance was undeniable.
Julia Middleton was chaos incarnate. Her style hadn't changed, but her command over it had. Every wild swing carried deliberate risk-to-reward calculation. No hesitation. No fear.
"She's gotten stronger," murmured one of the Dawn's Cross tacticians, tapping a rune to zoom in on Julia's overhead cleave in the final chamber. "Sharper, too. Less waste. Less noise."
"Just like her brother," another added. "That Middleton bloodline's not going quiet, that's for sure."
There was a short silence at that—because everyone knew what that meant.
Lucas Middleton, the prodigy-turned-enigma.
Julia Middleton, the wildcard who'd once been written off as too erratic to ever lead.
And now both names were carving reputations on opposite ends of the field.
"But he's not the one leading this team," someone said, their tone shifting. "Not really."
All eyes turned back to the footage.
Because while Julia dominated the field, it was Ethan Hartley who held it steady.
He never commanded.
Never called loudly.
But the tempo followed him.
Where Julia carved a hole, Ethan sealed it.
Where the others staggered, he created anchor points.
Every movement—refined. Every decision—precise.
Not flashy.
But undeniably effective.
"He's got control," the Blackstone Verge woman said simply. "The kind that doesn't show up in highlight reels—but shapes every outcome."
"And lightning affinity," another added. "Rare enough. Harder to stabilize in confined terrain."
"Late Awakening too," someone murmured, scrolling through Ethan's dossier. "Only came online a few months before term began. No affinity profile until week two."
They all saw the same line:
Initial Ranking: Unlisted. Provisional Class.
And now?
He was matching Julia Middleton strike for strike.
And anchoring a formation most veteran squads would buckle under.
"The reports weren't exaggerated," said the Hollow Edge scout. "He really is the fastest-rising Awakened this term."
They let that sit for a moment.
Because there was no need to exaggerate it.
Ethan Hartley was doing the one thing that no amount of hype or bloodline could guarantee.
He was earning it.
Step by step. Fight by fight.
Against stronger enemies.
In harder dungeons.
Beside more dangerous allies.
And each time—
He endured.
More than that.
He won.
A few names were quietly added to private lists.
Julia Middleton — Confirmed High-Priority, Close Combat Specialist
Ethan Hartley — Flagged: Rising Star / Adaptive Control Tier
No offers yet.
Not publicly.
Not while the boards were still shifting.
But the message was clear.
This year's stars weren't waiting to be discovered.
They were making sure no one could look away.
Chapter 1028 - Narrowed
The names were added.
The lists updated.
The scouts moved on—efficient, clinical, already scanning the next team entry.
But not everyone in the chamber moved with them.
Far above the seated tiers, where the light dimmed and the projection glows didn't quite reach, a lone figure stood near the upper catwalk—behind the reinforced viewing shield, where only those with high clearance had access.
He hadn't spoken a word all day.
But now—
Now he stared.
Through the shifting feed. Through the echo of thunder spells and spear strikes. Through the rising hum of scout chatter and system resets.
Straight at Ethan Hartley.
His pupils were slit.
A thin vertical line of gold gleamed inside each eye, refracted through the crystalline lens like twin blades drawn halfway from their sheaths.
His breath caught—once.
A crack escaped his throat.
Soft.
But fractured.
"…It's him."
The words weren't spoken with wonder.
They dropped like broken glass.
His hands curled at his sides—one wrapped in a silk glove, the other bare and scarred with faint arcane scoring. His coat—dark, noble-cut, unmarked by faction—shifted slightly with the ambient mana pressurizing around him.
And his eyes—
His eyes did not blink.
They froze.
Like something long-buried had stirred.
Like something long-feared had been recognized.
Or remembered.
And slowly—slowly—his gaze turned cold.
Dead cold.
As if memory had locked its jaws onto him and whispered a name he could neither refute nor forget.
"Ethan Hartley…"
Something that didn't belong.
Something that should've never caught up.
And now that it had—
He would not let it pass again.
*****
The morning sun filtered through the cathedral-like windows of the Arcadia North Annex, casting thin, deliberate beams across the clean-cut stone of the observation corridor.
Fourth day.
Leonard stood still, hands resting behind his back, gaze fixed on the display crystal hovering in front of him—unlit.
He hadn't activated it.
Not yet.
The silence around him was almost meditative, but his thoughts moved like clockwork gears—grinding, calculating, realigning.
He had spent the last three days combing through the academy's cadet roster with surgical precision. From the top fifty down to the 900s. Filter after filter. Pattern after pattern.
He'd observed formations. Studied recovery responses. Measured mana drift, tempo irregularities, and glyph contour delays.
Every anomaly had been logged, marked, tested.
And discarded.
One by one.
Even Darien Vale—one of the most promising outliers on his list—had returned no resonance. No echo. No pulse.
Three days. Over four hundred cadets personally reviewed.
And the artifact?
Still quiet.
Still waiting.
Still blind.
He let out a long, quiet breath through his nose.
This method is too slow.
He had known it from the start, but now—with time compressing and scouts circling like wolves around the rising stars—he could no longer afford the wide net.
Precision. Now. Not theory.
That meant changing tactics.
Leonard activated the projection crystal at last—but not to search.
Instead, he pulled up his private list.
Nine names.
Each one marked with a golden glyph in the shape of a crescent halo.
They weren't the highest-ranked cadets. Some weren't even in the top 1000.
But they shared traits.
Not power—but silence.
Mana signatures that looped oddly.
Records with missing birth notations.
Spell rhythms that bent instead of surged.
And most importantly…
A way of hiding, without realizing it.
These weren't cadets trying to be seen.
They were cadets whose presence distorted just slightly the longer you looked at them.
Of course while he was looking for his target, he didn't forget his sister.
But sadly…..It was not the time.
Not yet.
Leonard hadn't had time to properly observe her team's dungeon runs. Not with how deeply entangled he'd become in building, refining, and combing through the initial candidate net. Filtering theory from noise. Casting light through a maze of shadows.
And while whispers of her performance had reached his ears—
People murmuring about her flawless mana threads.
Scouts trading clipped phrases about an "unmarked healer with conductor instincts."
Even one of the Blackstone Verge observers had referred to her as "a tempo catalyst with layered field awareness"—
Leonard hadn't been surprised.
He'd expected nothing less.
Because he knew his sister's potential.
Even before her mana had awakened.
Even before she had entered the academy.
He had seen the signs of it—quietly blooming, half-curled beneath her calm demeanor, unassuming but never truly dormant.
And yet, he hadn't looked.
Not yet.
That wasn't neglect.
It was discipline.
She had asked him to wait—until her team was stronger. Until the moment was right.
And Leonard honored that.
But still...
A flicker of thought crossed his mind, light but persistent.
"I should probably visit her soon."
He filed the thought away with practiced ease.
First, the list.
These nine cadets.
These final threads.
On the list—there was no Sylvie Gracewind.
Not yet.
Leonard hadn't had time to properly observe her team's dungeon runs. Not with how deeply entangled he'd become in building, refining, and combing through the initial candidate net. Filtering theory from noise. Casting light through a maze of shadows.
And while whispers of her performance had reached his ears—
Cadets murmuring about her flawless mana threads.
Scouts trading clipped phrases about an "unmarked healer with conductor instincts."
Even one of the Blackstone Verge observers had referred to her as "a tempo catalyst with layered field awareness"—
Leonard hadn't been surprised.
He'd expected nothing less.
Because he knew his sister's potential.
Even before her mana had awakened.
Even before she had entered the academy.
He had seen the signs of it—quietly blooming, half-curled beneath her calm demeanor, unassuming but never truly dormant.
And yet, he hadn't looked.
Not yet.
That wasn't neglect.
It was discipline.
She had asked him to wait—until her team was stronger. Until the moment was right.
And Leonard honored that.
But still...
A flicker of thought crossed his mind, light but persistent.
"I should probably visit her soon."
He filed the thought away with practiced ease.
First, the list.
These nine cadets.
These final threads.
He stepped away from the projection crystal, its golden crescent-marked glyphs still floating silently in his wake. His coat flared faintly behind him as he exited the observation corridor and stepped into the sunlit hallway beyond.
The scouts' sector remained quiet at this hour—most of them still reviewing footage, or preparing bid offers. The academy's schedule had entered its later combat phases. Dungeons were rotating fast now. Cadets moving on tighter schedules.
That suited him fine.
Leonard passed through the warded barrier at the end of the hallway with a single pulse of mana—subtle, clean, uniquely his—and entered the cadet-side quadrant.
Now came the second movement.
He murmured under his breath, voice low enough to avoid echo, syllables shaped by ancient pronunciation:
"Caeli tangere, lumen signare, ambulo inter eos."
Mark from the heavens. Touch the breath between them.
A flicker of warmth passed over his palm. Not hot. Not even visible.
But as his fingers moved in slow, deliberate passes through the air, they traced tiny arcs of radiant ink—golden lines that evaporated almost immediately. Unseen to all but the caster.
Helio-threads.
Sunlight-based sigil points, each designed to latch onto a specific mana imprint as long as proximity was maintained.
Leonard passed through the southern arch of the training wing's mezzanine, where two of the nine marked cadets were scheduled to pass through for a physical examination block.
He timed his breathing.
His steps.
And as one cadet—a wiry boy with hawk eyes and wind-thread tattoos—moved past the stairwell, Leonard whispered again:
"Signa primum."
The thread latched.
No reaction.
No resistance.
No detection.
Success.
He continued walking. Twenty seconds later, another cadet—older, a transfer from the western front line academies—passed through near the apothecary column. Leonard adjusted his pace. Tilted his shoulder. Whispered the spell once more—barely a breath.
Marked.
Chapter 1029 - Narrowed (2)
Marked.
But he stopped there.
Even this was risky.
He could mark no more than one at a time—two, if the academy's detection wards weren't finely tuned that day.
But today?
They were.
He could feel it in the ambient air pressure. The subtle resistance of arcane scrutiny drifting just beneath the casual weight of sunlight. The Arcadia wards had grown sharper.
More alert.
Probably due to the scouts.
Probably because of people like him.
If he overcast—if his mana dipped just a bit too high—someone would notice.
And he could not afford notice.
He rolled his shoulder slightly, adjusted his collar, and kept walking.
Two marked.
That would have to suffice for now.
Leonard flexed his fingers once—lightly, casually, as though stretching—and felt the resistance in the air press just a little tighter against his skin. Yes. That was the limit.
Any more, and the Arcadian ward lattice would notice. Not an alarm—not a blaring siren—but a nudge. A whisper to the on-site surveillance teams that someone was casting without declaration.
He wasn't ready for that attention.
Not yet.
So he moved.
His coat trailed behind him as he descended the stairwell into the student-level walkways—elegant stone corridors curved with gentle arches and gilded mana-lanterns, each tuned to adjust to cadet energy levels. The academy's infrastructure hummed with quiet life.
Leonard tracked the first signature, his steps light, mind already constructing the cadence of the encounter—
—when it hit him.
A pressure.
Not direct.
Not sharp.
But sudden. Wide.
His foot paused mid-step.
And his body stiffened.
A wave of raw mana had rippled through the ether—not in his direction, not near him—but large enough to touch everything in the quadrant. Like a tremor rolling beneath the stone, barely felt, but too unnatural to mistake.
Leonard's breath stilled.
'What…?'
It wasn't pain.
It wasn't even destabilization.
It was disruption.
As if two forces had collided—not violently, but deeply. Not a clash of spells, but of principles.
Two sources of mana—vast, tempered, and opposing—had brushed against one another.
And it had sent a cold shiver up his spine.
Leonard's gaze darted toward the sky for a split second.
Then down the length of the corridor.
There was no explosion. No screams. No announcements.
Just that pressure, and now—nothing.
'Was that… the Headmaster?'
It was possible. Jonathan Hartley was no ordinary mage. If someone had triggered a defense ward near his proximity…
But no.
That wasn't a solar pattern.
The mana wasn't light-based.
It wasn't lunar either.
It was older. Broader.
Elementless in the worst kind of way—like something not meant to be shaped.
Leonard stood still, his heartbeat steady, even as his mind raced beneath his still exterior.
Was something happening?
Had something awakened?
Or worse—
Had something recognized him?
He didn't know.
But more importantly—he didn't care.
Not now.
His mission wasn't to unravel every secret in Arcadia.
He was here for one.
The Kin.
And with two cadets marked and time ticking away, he couldn't afford to chase echoes.
Not unless they screamed his sister's name.
So he adjusted his coat once more, and turned down the hall that led toward the student dormitory courtyard—a broad open space with seated areas, fountain paths, and the occasional quiet shade where cadets took breaks after rotation.
His first mark was approaching.
Leonard's expression returned to that easy, diplomatic calm.
Let the world shiver.
He had work to do.
******
The fourth dungeon was a storm.
Not just of monsters—but of pressure, speed, and terrain.
The environment was a fractured canyon, serrated rock walls and deep pits winding through the interior like veins. Scattered mana geysers pulsed at random intervals, distorting vision and throwing off sensory scans. Even Sylvie's detection threads had to refresh twice as often.
And yet—
Team Fourteen pressed forward with absolute cohesion.
They didn't survive the onslaught.
They danced through it.
"Right flank, diving types—two incoming," Astron's voice came clear and quick through the team channel, and Jasmine was already moving.
Her foot snapped off a rock ledge, using the uneven terrain as leverage as she flipped over a jagged spike and slashed mid-air. The first winged beast—a harrier-type with molten talons—screeched as her blade struck its throat. She landed low, slid beneath the second, and came up with a sharp backhanded arc that ripped through the underside of its wing.
Both creatures fell before they could touch ground.
Layla was just behind her—shield raised, aura reinforced.
Where once she had only reacted, now she read the enemy's momentum. She shifted in tandem with Jasmine, blocking a third monster that attempted to strike during Jasmine's brief recovery frame. The impact hit hard, but her knees didn't buckle.
Instead, she turned it.
Twisting her stance with controlled force, she slammed her shoulder forward, cracking the beast's head into the canyon wall and stunning it long enough for Jasmine to drive her blade home.
"Thanks," Jasmine breathed, pushing off the corpse.
Layla smirked, sweat glinting along her brow. "We've done worse."
Behind them, Irina stepped forward into a geyser's burst, using the vapor to mask her ignition point. She didn't call her spell this time—she just raised a hand, and three spiraling orbs of fire curved outward in a perfect arc, one for each approaching shadow on the opposite ridge.
The beasts didn't scream.
They simply ceased.
"Irina, rear left!" Sylvie called, already weaving a sigil mid-air.
Irina pivoted as a fourth harrier dove through the mist—but before it could strike, a glowing tether lashed around its body, jerking it sideways. Sylvie's binding glyph yanked the beast mid-flight, off-course and into a pillar of burning stone left behind by Irina's previous strike.
"Beautiful," Irina muttered.
Astron moved through the middle of the formation, not drawing attention—but always where he needed to be. A claw strike aimed for Sylvie's blind spot—parried. A beast slipping past Jasmine—stabbed mid-air before it landed. A mana surge from the canyon floor? Already marked, already called out.
But this time, he didn't command the team.
He worked with them.
The formation shifted like gears—rotating smoothly as monsters flanked from the upper ridges and tunnel mouths. Sylvie fell back without prompting when pressure rose, and Irina slid in, not to save her—but to replace her position. Layla didn't have to shout anymore—when she staggered from a blow, Jasmine was already there with a reverse grip catch, intercepting the next attacker.
It wasn't perfect.
They were bleeding. Panting. Tired.
But their rhythm was exact.
Monsters fell in sets of two, then four, then clusters—overwhelmed not by raw strength, but precision.
Jasmine cut through another beast with a tight, clean flourish—her strikes no longer wild, but paced, calculated, efficient.
"I think…" she panted, ducking beneath a collapsing ridge as Astron covered her retreat, "I'm starting to enjoy this."
Layla laughed, short and tired but bright. "That's because we're not scrambling anymore."
From behind, Sylvie's healing pulse washed through them, mending bruises, restoring movement, and reinforcing aura flow. Even her enhancements now anticipated shifts—buffing Irina's power just as she cast, boosting Jasmine's speed just before she engaged.
They were tired.
But they were sharp.
And as the final wave of monsters surged from the far canyon ridge, jaws open and wings spread wide—
The team reformed without speaking.
WHOOOOOOOM!
The monster wave surged over the ridge like a flood of fang and talon—eight, ten, fifteen of them. Winged lizard-kin with serrated tails and molten orange eyes, their scaled bodies reinforced by mana plating that shimmered beneath the canyon haze.
But Team Fourteen was already in motion.
Layla stepped forward, boots grinding into the cracked stone as she slammed her shield into the ground with a resonant KLANG!—activating her skill Anchor Pulse. A radiant ring of force erupted outward, slowing enemy momentum within a ten-meter radius and dragging the first two beasts into her zone of control.
One lunged—she caught it mid-air, her shield erupting with glowing runes as she met its jaw with a forward bash. THUMP! The creature's skull snapped sideways.
Chapter 1030 - Narrowed (3)
WHOOOOOOOM!
The monster wave surged over the ridge like a flood of fang and talon—eight, ten, fifteen of them. Winged lizard-kin with serrated tails and molten orange eyes, their scaled bodies reinforced by mana plating that shimmered beneath the canyon haze.
But Team Fourteen was already in motion.
Layla stepped forward, boots grinding into the cracked stone as she slammed her shield into the ground with a resonant KLANG!—activating her skill Anchor Pulse. A radiant ring of force erupted outward, slowing enemy momentum within a ten-meter radius and dragging the first two beasts into her zone of control.
One lunged—she caught it mid-air, her shield erupting with glowing runes as she met its jaw with a forward bash. THUMP! The creature's skull snapped sideways.
The second circled lower—she pivoted, braced, and drove her knee up, stunning it long enough for—
Shff!
Jasmine to cut in.
Her sword gleamed silver with flickering wind mana, skill-imbued with Flicker Fang. She vanished from Layla's right and reappeared in a blur to her left, carving through the monster's wing joint. SLASH!
It howled—until she spun and drove her blade into its neck. KRRSSK!
She didn't pause.
"Behind!" Layla warned.
Jasmine ducked low just as another beast dove from above. Irina's flame met it mid-dive.
FWWOOOSH!
A roaring spiral of fire surged upward—Crimson Bloom, a delayed detonation spell Irina had pre-layered into the terrain's broken crevice. The creature hit the flames and ignited mid-air, spinning wildly before crashing to the canyon wall.
Irina followed up with Ignition Trail, dashing forward and dragging a line of burning mana across the battlefield. The air hissed—and when the trailing beasts crossed the path, the flames exploded upward like a wall. BOOM!
Sylvie, standing just behind Irina's position, moved her fingers in tight, deliberate arcs, knitting together enhancement glyphs mid-air. Threaded Focus shimmered across Irina's back, tightening her flame compression and raising her cast rate by 20%.
"Left crest—two coming!" Sylvie called.
Without waiting, she pivoted and unleashed a focused burst of yellow energy—Sunbind Shot—striking one of the aerial monsters in the eye. ZAPP! It shrieked, blinded, and spiraled down.
Layla shifted to intercept its fall, shield flashing.
CRASH!
They moved like that—moment by moment. A living formation.
Flaws were answered with covers. Openings were punished instantly.
Layla's defense wove into Jasmine's precision. Jasmine's tempo fed Irina's lane control. Irina's flames carved space that Sylvie reinforced and locked down with suppressive bursts and heals.
Even the terrain worked for them now.
The canyon that once splintered their cohesion now channeled enemies into traps and choke points that they could exploit with near-perfect synergy.
And then—
CRACK.
A noise.
Not from the monsters.
From the air.
From the dungeon itself.
Sylvie's eyes darted upward.
"…Did you feel that?" she asked quietly.
They all paused for just a second—mid-motion. Even the monsters that remained held slightly back, pacing at the outer edge.
Another crack.
CRACK—KRRRRSSSSHHHH!
The sky shimmered again—this time violently. Mana fractured through the air like lightning splitting glass. The canyon walls groaned. The ground pulsed once beneath their feet—then twice, harder.
Astron's voice came out like a whip. "Take cover—now! Sylvie, barrier—!"
But before Sylvie could lift her hands, before the incantation could fully form—
ROOOOOAAAARRRRR!
A thunderous bellow, ancient and wrong, ripped through the canyon, so loud it didn't just shake their ears—it rattled their bones. A wall of concussive force struck them like a tidal wave, a shockwave of raw mana pressure exploding from deep within the fractured chasm ahead.
BOOOOM!!!
The air detonated.
A fiery-red flare cracked through the center of the battlefield like a spear of godlight, and the world split.
The ground beneath their feet heaved.
Layla's shield shot from her arm as she was launched backwards, crashing into a rock outcropping with a sickening CRUNCH. Jasmine flew sideways, tumbling mid-air as debris slammed into her ribs. Irina's spell detonated prematurely, the fire spiraling out of control before flickering away, its caster hurled through the haze in a burning arc.
Sylvie screamed, hands up too late, her half-formed barrier shattering like glass. She hit the ground hard and rolled, skidding through shattered stone and glowing mana dust.
And Astron—Astron vanished into the burst.
When the smoke settled, the canyon was no longer the same.
The floor had collapsed, a vast crater torn into the middle of the battlefield, glowing with unstable violet light. The walls glowed with jagged fractures, pulsing like veins in a dying beast.
And rising from the chasm—tall, cloaked in warped shadows and flickering mana fire—stood something wrong.
Twisted humanoid in shape, but with spined limbs too long to belong to anything human, and eyes like burning sigils carved into molten gold.
Its voice echoed through the ruined canyon.
SCREEEEEEEEECH!!!
The sound tore through the canyon like a blade through silk—inhuman, unrelenting, and brimming with the kind of raw malice that didn't need words to be understood.
The creature's intent surged outward in waves—hatred, hunger, annihilation. It wasn't sentient in the way a person was, but something in its twisted mana—its broken, aberrant form—screamed one message loud and clear:
Destroy. Everything. Alive.
Sylvie barely had time to breathe.
The monster moved like a blur of ink and fire—lunging forward with impossible speed, its spined limbs slicing the stone beneath it into molten shards.
It was faster than anything they'd faced.
Too fast.
"SYLVIE—!"
A hand yanked her back, just as the creature's claw slammed into the spot where she'd stood. Stone shattered, glowing fragments slicing into the air where her chest would've been.
Sylvie tumbled backward—into Jasmine's arms.
The two of them hit the ground hard, rolling, but alive.
Jasmine's breath came short and sharp, but her grip didn't loosen.
"Hey—hey, look at me!" she snapped, eyes blazing.
Sylvie's pupils were wide, hands trembling, mana still sparking incoherently between her fingers.
"We don't have time to freeze—Sylvie!"
That snapped something loose.
The fog in Sylvie's mind shattered.
The fractured light.
The ruined terrain.
The pressure.
None of it mattered.
One thought surfaced in the noise, calm and absolute:
Focus.
Her breath steadied.
She raised one hand, threads of golden energy weaving swiftly across her knuckles.
"Jasmine, hold steady."
A burst of bright glyphs spiraled around Jasmine's feet and arms—Acceleration Sigil and Pulse Blade Sync—both slammed into place like falling locks.
Jasmine surged forward just as the creature twisted its torso, spines flaring outward. Its next strike aimed to impale, to erase.
But Jasmine was already gone.
CRACK—SHFFF!
She blurred low under the creature's reach, wind mana whirling around her blade, feet striking canyon stone as she launched upward in a sharp arc. Her sword carved across the monster's outer plating—KRRRSH!—scraping along the edge of its protruding ribs.
The creature reeled, not in pain—but in reaction.
Sylvie didn't hesitate. She sprinted behind Jasmine, weaving new glyphs mid-run. Stability Thread lined Jasmine's spine, helping her absorb impact from rebounds. Shield Bloom wrapped faintly over her arms—not a full block, but enough to deflect a grazing hit.
The creature snarled—if it could be called that—and swung again, limb sweeping horizontally.
Jasmine ducked and pivoted, drawing the swing past Sylvie's retreating side.
"Left—!" Sylvie called.
Jasmine spun and delivered a crushing diagonal slash into the beast's joint as it overextended—WHAM!—forcing its limb down into the stone.
"Right!" Jasmine barked.
Sylvie was already casting—Burst Pin Glyph, a concentrated spark of binding light that exploded in a crack of gold, blinding the monster's right eye socket for three seconds.
FLASH!
The creature shrieked, staggering half a step.
It wasn't much.
But it was a start.
Chapter 1031 - Narrowed (4)
Jasmine's blade struck true again—SLASH—carving through a groove in the monster's side that Sylvie had revealed moments earlier with a burst of glyph-light. But the follow-through… didn't land right.
The monster's body twisted—not just in defense, but in response. Its muscle fibers, if they could be called that, bent like molten vines and reformed mid-impact, dampening the strike. What should've staggered it didn't even slow it down.
Sylvie noticed it first.
"That… should've hit deeper," she muttered, blinking hard.
Jasmine didn't answer at first. She leapt back from another swipe, boots skidding across dust-slick stone, her breathing quick and ragged. "I know. I'm not getting through."
She rushed again, pivoted around the creature's flared limb and dove beneath its guard, blade flashing with wind-imbued momentum.
SLASH—KRSSHH!
Another strike, across a thinner joint near the mid-ribs.
It hit—but it slid. Like the monster had anticipated her tempo.
"Something's off," Jasmine hissed. "I can't cut through. Not like this."
Sylvie was already weaving another round of buffs, lips pressed tight. Her hands moved on instinct—Agility Thread, Kinetic Buffer, another Reinforce Bloom on Jasmine's weapon. But even as she cast, she felt it.
She was patching holes in the system, not reinforcing a structure.
They weren't breaking through—they were delaying collapse.
And then, it clicked.
Jasmine wasn't Irina.
She was quick. Deadly. Sharp.
But she wasn't built to be the primary pressure point.
Her strength came in rhythm—with others.
With Layla holding a wall in front of her. With Irina burning a lane that Jasmine could exploit. With Astron in the background, marking the enemy's breathing cycle and whispering "Right leg, behind the plate. Two-second delay before the tail recovers."
There was none of that now.
Sylvie ducked another claw that smashed into the canyon wall beside her—BOOOOM!—and stared into the monster's burning gold eyes as it reared back, its body folding in preparation for a lunge.
She knew it wasn't just Jasmine struggling.
She was struggling, too.
Because Astron wasn't just the center of the formation.
He was the mind of it.
He didn't bark commands or shout orders, but when Astron was around, their movements flowed. He'd say "fall back one step," and a surprise pincer would be neutralized. He'd tell Irina "two seconds to detonation," and the ground would rupture on cue. He saw things—named them.
And he wasn't here.
Sylvie's hands twitched. Her buffs weren't landing with the same precision. Not because she was failing—but because the structure was gone.
There was no Layla anchoring the rotation.
No Irina setting the tempo.
And no Astron reading the battlefield like a book.
It was just them.
Sylvie's eyes locked onto Jasmine—still weaving, still moving, her body slick with sweat and her blade not quite cutting deep enough.
She realized then: Jasmine wasn't losing—but she was wearing down.
"Jasmine!" Sylvie called, voice sharp as steel. "You can't keep pace like this—!"
"I know!" Jasmine shouted, parrying a spined limb before rolling to the left. "But what choice do we have?!"
The creature lunged.
Jasmine barely blocked in time. Sylvie's magic caught the impact—but only just. The feedback nearly knocked her off her feet.
They hit the dirt again, tumbling apart.
The monster's limbs curled, dragging mana from the fractured canyon floor. Shadows twisted. The air compressed.
The intent was clear:
Next strike ends this.
Sylvie gasped, breath catching.
Her heart pounding.
Not from fear—but from clarity.
They were two pieces of a formation that no longer existed.
This wasn't just a strong enemy.
This was a reminder:
They were still a team.
And a team needed its core.
Sylvie's lungs burned.
Her hands shook.
Not from fear—but from the realization that this couldn't continue.
Jasmine couldn't hold the line alone.
Sylvie couldn't support a crumbling rhythm forever.
This wasn't a duel. It wasn't even survival.
It was failure, dragging itself closer with every breath.
And if something didn't change—now—this dungeon would become their tomb.
Her eyes locked onto Jasmine—still moving, still fighting, but every strike was slower, every dodge a fraction too close.
Sylvie's breath trembled as she lowered her stance, hands spreading slightly, fingers glowing with mana. The golden light crackled along her gloves—but this time, she didn't weave a glyph.
Instead, she whispered, low and steady:
"…Alright, Astron. I can't think like you. I can't move like you. But…"
She inhaled.
Then exhaled.
"I'll speak like you."
Her voice dropped, calm, clipped.
Like command distilled to essence.
"Jasmine. Back step. Left side soft—tail recoil is slower than the arms."
Jasmine hesitated—just for a second.
But she moved.
And the monster's tail struck just behind her as she slipped past it, blade slashing along the inner thigh seam the moment it overextended.
CRRRSSH!
A good hit. Not deep. But real.
Sylvie's eyes narrowed.
"Keep your blade close. Don't overextend. It wants you airborne."
Jasmine blinked. Her gaze flicked back—then sharpened.
Sylvie wasn't panicked anymore.
She was guiding.
And then—Sylvie did it.
She reached into herself. Into the mana core she rarely dared to tap fully.
And there—nested deep within her chest—it stirred.
[First Lord's Authority]
Golden mana surged through her veins, coiling up her spine and into her eyes. Her breath caught—and then—
FLASH.
The world slowed.
No—shifted.
Color muted. Sound dimmed. Every motion became deliberate. Every breath felt like it echoed through glass.
And Sylvie screamed inside her mind.
Her vision burned.
Like needles through her sockets. Like light piercing into places it didn't belong.
But she endured.
Because in the stillness, something appeared.
A trail.
A faint, golden thread etched into the fractured air.
Winding across the battlefield, past rubble and shadow, weaving around the monster's movements, outlining its shifts before they happened.
A path.
A prediction.
A plan.
Her lips parted.
"I see it…"
The pain pulsed again—but she focused.
And in her mind, the battlefield assembled.
A map.
A tempo.
Astron's perspective—or something close to it—forming itself in her instincts.
She raised her hand again, pointing with the confidence of someone who knew.
"Jasmine—its next breath draws in from the core. It will pause. That's your window."
Jasmine didn't question it this time.
And true to the word—the monster hesitated.
Its form pulled inward, torso swelling with energy.
"NOW!"
Jasmine dashed forward with everything she had, blade glowing, mana whirling like wind caught in a cyclone.
WHRRRSHHH—KRRRRSH!
She drove her sword deep into the underside of the creature's torso—exactly where the trail had led.
The monster reeled back—roaring in pained fury.
Sylvie's knees buckled, blood dripping from the corner of her eye.
Her head screamed for her to stop.
But her voice stayed steady.
"…Good. That's better."
And through the blur of gold and agony—she pressed on.
Because this was more than reaction.
This was direction.
And for now—
She would be the one to lead.
The world pulsed around her, each beat of her heart echoing like a war drum in slow motion. Sylvie's body trembled—eyes burning, mana thrumming, blood slipping quietly from the corner of one eye.
And still, the trail burned before her.
That golden thread.
The path.
The answer.
She raised her hand—not with elegance, but with absolute intent—and gathered her remaining mana.
It responded instantly.
Her golden energy coiled in her palm, condensing into a single point, then extending—stretching outward with silent precision.
A weapon of pure focus and will.
A lance.
It shimmered in the broken light—long, spiraled, etched with faint glyphs along its length that pulsed in time with her breathing. The air around it warped, humming with the same pressure as the Authority that sang through her veins.
And then—
She let go.
The lance didn't fall.
It floated.
Suspended above her outstretched hand like it was waiting—listening.
Her eyes followed the trail once more, locking onto the exact node where the golden thread tightened, where every movement in the monster's grotesque form converged.
There.
Right there.
"Go," Sylvie whispered—voice soft, breaking.
The lance shivered—
—and then launched.
FWWWWWWWWWHHHTTT!
The air split apart with a piercing howl as the golden lance tore across the battlefield like a divine arrow loosed by judgment itself. The monster had no time to react—still reeling from Jasmine's last strike, its torso twisted, mouth opening again for another screech.
The lance pierced it.
Not wildly.
Not vaguely.
But exactly where the golden thread had pointed—right beneath the second rib of its right flank, where distorted mana coils were exposed just for a moment mid-breath.
THUNK—SHHKRRRCH!
The impact wasn't explosive.
It was surgical.
The creature froze.
Its mouth still open, but the sound died before it could rise. Its limbs twitched once, then again—spasming—and then fell still.
The glowing sigils in its molten eyes flickered once.
Twice.
Then faded.
And slowly—almost delicately—
The monster collapsed.
Dead.
A heavy silence fell across the battlefield.
Sylvie dropped to one knee, the golden glow around her eyes fading in an instant. The world snapped back into color and noise.
She gasped, sharp and small—like surfacing from deep water.
Jasmine turned, blade still in hand, panting. "Did you…?"
Sylvie didn't speak.
She didn't have to.
The crater where the monster had fallen told them everything.
And in that silence, before the exhaustion truly hit her—
Sylvie whispered, so low only she could hear it.
"…I did it."
Chapter 1032 - Narrowed (5)
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.