Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 1018

The glow of the extraction faded, giving way to the clean-cut edges and polished stone of the academy's simulation terminal halls. Mana vents hissed softly overhead, cycling away the residual energy from the operation. The atmosphere outside the dungeon was no less tense—if anything, it had grown heavier.

Dozens of figures stood along the observation corridors now—guild scouts, independent sponsors, private envoy officers. They watched with keen, calculating eyes as teams stepped out of the terminals, reviewing performance logs on floating glyph displays, jotting down notes, murmuring in low voices behind enchanted privacy veils.

Lucas and his team stepped out, their boots clicking against the floor as they headed down the central lane. Tarin stretched with an exaggerated groan while Ryn quietly reviewed their team data, and Eliane scrolled through tactical footage already archived in her tablet. Carl said nothing, as usual—just walked beside them like a slab of moving granite.

But Lucas?

His eyes were already scanning the crowd.

And he knew many of those faces.

Too many.

From the future he had seen, these were people who had played pivotal roles—scouts who recruited Ethan, who picked the rising stars of their generation, who placed the pieces where they needed to be for the war to come.

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None of them turned toward him.

Not one approached.

It didn't surprise him.

Of course they didn't.

Lucas was affiliated with the Middleton Family—an old name, tied too deeply to politics, to history. It didn't matter that he'd earned his spot at the academy on his own strength; to scouts, he was still a piece on someone else's board. He didn't represent opportunity. He represented negotiation.

And Carl?

The Braveheart line was even more rigid. Highborn knights, steeped in tradition, with paths already charted long before they ever enrolled.

Scouts avoided candidates like them.

Because the future of someone from a noble line wasn't in their hands—it was in contracts, inheritance, obligation.

Lucas knew this.

Had known it before he'd ever taken his first step through the academy gate.

Still, a small flicker of something bitter curled behind his calm smile.

Then, as he let his gaze wander casually across the crowd—

He saw them.

And his steps slowed.

His eyes widened—just slightly, a flicker of instinctive recognition sharpening his expression.

They… they were here?

For a heartbeat, Lucas couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His fingers twitched against his side, though he kept his posture smooth.

It didn't make sense. They weren't supposed to be here—not yet.

But there 'he' stood.

The moment Lucas laid eyes on the figure across the hall, something deep within him twitched.

It wasn't instinct.

It wasn't fear.

It was something older—deeper—a pulse from the bones of something he no longer possessed.

The remnants of Belthazor.

Though his demonic core had long been destroyed—sealed away, buried beneath willpower and rituals and pain—the echoes of it remained. Like ashes still warm in a long-dead fire. And now, those ashes stirred.

Why…?

His gaze locked onto the unassuming figure: a man in a simple black suit, standing with perfect posture near the edge of the scout line. He was taller than average, slender, with gloved hands folded neatly in front of him. The light from the overhead fixtures didn't quite seem to touch his face.

No insignia. No badge. No guild emblem.

Just a butler.

That's what the eye would say.

But Lucas felt something else.

He felt the pressure creep along his spine like cold fingers brushing the edge of his neck.

He felt his jaw tighten as an image—no, a memory—stabbed through his mind.

Tendrils.

Black, writhing tendrils where the man's face should have been.

A flicker of a vision.

A veil pulled back.

Lucas staggered half a step. His hand went to his temple as a sharp pain lanced through his skull like a blade of ice. The world blurred, edges twisting for just a moment.

He gritted his teeth.

Not now. Not here.

He forced his breath steady, grounding himself, pushing the ache into the back of his mind.

But the reaction—it wasn't the typical resonance of demonic energy. It wasn't the echo of Belthazor reacting to another infernal presence. This was different.

Deeper.

Older.