Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 1009

The specially constructed observation chamber overlooked the linked arenas through a network of one-way mana screens — transparent to the scouts but invisible to the cadets below.

The room itself was wide, with tiered seating arranged in subtle concentric arcs, each scout group separated by flowing partitions of light to discourage interference. Long, sleek tables lined with projection devices and crystal recorders filled the space, humming quietly with mana resonance.

Muted discussions drifted through the chamber. Low. Professional.

There were no cheers here. No applause.

Only calculation.

The first day of dungeon practicals was critical. Everyone knew it.

Not because it would reveal the cadets' peak performances — that would come later.

But because today would expose something far more fundamental.

Their Floor.

The baseline they could maintain under real, live pressure.

Raw instincts. Natural coordination. Minimum resilience.

Ceiling could be built. Floor could not.

And so, the chamber was full.

Representatives from major guilds — Silverhammer, Dawn's Cross, Phoenix Halo — sat alongside mid-tier syndicates and rising freelance collectives. A few quiet agents from the military and state defense units lingered near the upper tiers, their presence understated but unmistakable.

Even private venture groups had dispatched observers — hungry for new investments.

No one spoke louder than a murmur.

No one moved more than necessary.

Because every wasted moment could mean missing the next prodigy.

At the head of the chamber, a long projection screen floated — currently divided into a grid of six views, each one tracking a different dungeon team's early deployment phase.

Mana data flickered quietly beneath each feed: movement speeds, mana output ratios, spell consistency readings, environmental adaptation scores. Real-time metrics.

Cadet Team Fourteen — the focus of one quadrant — had just entered the misted ruins.

A tall man in a dark silver coat leaned forward slightly in his seat, eyes narrowing. His guild insignia — Solstice Dawn — was pinned discreetly to his chest.

"That team," he murmured to the woman seated beside him, voice low but certain. "Watch them."

The woman — her hair braided back into a sharp tail, her coat marked with the Phoenix Halo sigil — followed his gaze, adjusting her projection view.

At first glance, Team Fourteen wasn't flashy.

No grand spells. No overwhelming aura flares.

But their formation was tight.

Their approach was methodical.

And — most importantly — they moved with a quiet familiarity that even some field squads struggled to emulate.

Not far from the Phoenix Halo scouts, another group sat in measured silence — their section marked by the understated insignia of a mountain split by a blade: Blackstone Verge.

Their representatives — a pair of gray-uniformed men and a woman with sharp, calculating eyes — said little as the feeds rolled, but none of them missed the shift when Team Fourteen engaged.

"Emberheart's team," the woman finally noted, her voice barely louder than the whisper of turning pages.

A simple statement.

But one that carried weight.

Everyone knew Irina Emberheart.

A prodigy born of fire, ambition, and the kind of raw mana saturation that crushed most peers before a duel even began.

The daughter of the Crimson Blaze.

But to see her now—

Contained.

Measured.

The Blackstone scouts leaned slightly closer without realizing it.

On the screens, Team Fourteen advanced through the mana-fog ruins like a proper squad — not a scattering of egos straining for attention, but a cohesive unit, each movement complementing the others.

Layla Vance took point, shield up, pace steady but assertive — clearing paths through unstable ground with a professional's eye.

No wasted glances over her shoulder.

No nervous shifts in weight.

She anchored without needing to dominate the space, her shieldwork folding seamlessly into the team's rhythm.

There was strength there, yes — but more importantly, awareness.

Subtle recalibrations of position.

Micro-adjustments when the mist curled strangely or when footing shifted under ruined stone.

Not the instincts of a solo fighter.

The instincts of a trained vanguard.

Jasmine Reed moved alongside — not crowding the flanks, but sliding into gaps with that same uncanny fluidity.

Where Layla built walls, Jasmine cut through seams.

Her strikes were light at first — probes, distractions — but always at the right pressure points, always at the edges of engagement, never reckless.

It was the kind of predatory discipline that mid-ranked scouting teams spent years trying to instill into rookies.

One of the Blackstone scouts tapped a few notes quietly into a mana-slate:

'High group-awareness. Frictionless lateral coverage.'