The academy, which had been a peaceful ghost town for a week, was suddenly a teeming hive of activity. Students flooded the hallways, their chatter echoing off the reinforced walls. It was like the first day of a new MMO expansion, and everyone was rushing to the starting zone. I guess the special admissions kids like me really did get the VIP early access treatment.
The day began with a grand ceremony in the main auditorium. The Headmaster, a man with a magnificent beard that looked like it could deflect small-caliber bullets, gave a long, booming speech.
"Students of Budding Hunter Academy!" he began, his voice amplified by magic or really good speakers. "You stand on the precipice of greatness! The Union looks to you as its future shield against the dimensional tide! Awaken strong! Serve proud! And remember, the cafeteria's meatloaf on Thursdays is to be avoided at all costs. That is an official advisory."
He droned on about honor, duty, and the importance of not setting your classmates on fire during sparring matches. I tuned most of it out, mentally practicing my [Sting Shot] accuracy on his beard. *Pew. Pew. Right in the mustache curl.*
After the ceremony, a pressing biological need overtook me. Navigating by the holomap on my phone, I found the bathrooms. They were, like everything else here, surprisingly high-tech. The urinals had little holographic targets that appeared when you approached. This world was weird.
Finally, I found my first classroom: **Introduction to Spatial Crack Theory**. I slipped in and found a seat near the back, the perfect vantage point for observing without being observed.
And then *she* walked in.
Our teacher was… stunning. She had silver hair tied back in a practical ponytail and eyes the color of amethysts. She wore a tailored version of the Union uniform that somehow looked both professional and deadly. This wasn't a teacher; this was a retired Hunter who could probably dissect a demon while explaining the taxonomic classification of its spleen.
"Good morning," she said, her voice cool and clear, effortlessly silencing the last murmurs in the room. "I am Professor Elara Vance. This is Introduction to Spatial Crack Theory. You will refer to me as Professor Vance or Ma'am."
I sat up a little straighter. Okay, I was intrigued. And it wasn't *just* because she was ridiculously attractive. Maybe like 70% because of that, 30% genuine academic curiosity.
As I scanned my classmates, I casually tuned into their conversations. It was all snippets of bragging and posturing.
"...my father said my B-Rank [Wind Blade Dancer] profession has the potential to reach A-Rank with the right training..."
"...please, my family's guild only recruits B-Rank and above. It's a standard policy..."
"...I heard the practical exam is brutal, but for us, it should be manageable..."
A cold realization dawned on me. I was the only one in this room without a B-Rank profession. My C-Rank, Unique-class [String Theorist] was the odd one out. They must have grouped the "higher potential" students together, and my Unique status had shoehorned me in with the elite snobs. Great.
Professor Vance began her lecture, and I forgot all about my classmates. She was a brilliant teacher. With sharp holograms and crisp explanations, she laid out the fundamentals.
"Spatial Cracks are not random tears," she explained, a 3D model of one rotating above her desk. "They are stabilized portals, anchored by a core energy source deep within the pocket dimension on the other side. This core generates the demons and maintains the rift's integrity."
A hand shot up. It was mine. I couldn't help it.
"So, it's less like a hole and more like a door someone left open and is constantly throwing monsters through?" I asked.
A few students snickered, but Professor Vance's purple eyes flicked to me, a hint of a smile on her lips. "An… inelegant but accurate analogy, Mister…?"
"Sanchez. Ron Sanchez."
"Indeed. Think of it as a door with a generator on the other side. The Hunter's goal isn't just to clear out the 'room' of monsters. It is to find that generator—the Core—and destroy it. Only then will the Spatial Crack collapse permanently."
My mind was blown. I'd just thought Hunters went in, killed everything that moved, and the crack went *poof*. This was strategic. This was deliberate.
"So, experienced Hunter teams aren't just murder hobos," I muttered, a little too loudly. "They're surgical strike teams."
This time, the class laughed, and Professor Vance's smile widened slightly. "I would avoid the term 'murder hobos' in your final exam, Mister Sanchez, but yes. The objective is core destruction. Extermination is merely the necessary process to reach it."
The bell rang, signaling the end of the period. I was almost disappointed. The class had flown by.
And that was it. One subject. The rest of the day was for self-study, training, and, apparently, for the Culinary track, "Identifying Which Demon Parts Won't Poison You." The NEET lifestyle was alive and well in this world.
As everyone else gathered their things, chatting about meeting up at the gym or the library, I simply stood, shouldered my bag, and walked out. I didn't bother trying to make friends with the B-Rank brigade. Their conversations were about which elite guilds their parents knew. Mine would be about the most efficient way to use strings to open a bag of chips without getting up. We had nothing in common.
I beelined straight for my sanctuary: the private training room. Professor Vance's lesson had given me a new perspective. My power wasn't for showboating. It was for precision. For solving problems.
Today, I had a new goal. I wasn't just going to shoot at the dummy.
I focused, creating a single, incredibly thin [Monofilament Slash]. Instead of waving it around, I held it steady, aiming for a tiny, specific spot on the dummy's chest—a simulated "core." The stamina drain was noticeable, a steady trickle of energy.
Then, with my other hand, I began rapid-firing [Sting Shots] *puff-puff-puff* at the dummy's "body," not to destroy it, but to test if I could maintain the fine control of the wire while multitasking.
It was exhausting. It was frustrating. My focus wavered, the wire flickering.
But I grinned through the strain. This was it. This was the grind. I wasn't just training my power; I was training to be a surgeon. A core-seeking, string-wielding surgeon.
And maybe, just maybe, I'd be able to ask Professor Vance an even smarter question tomorrow.