Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 1035

Chapter 1035: Chapter 245.3 - They

Lucas steadied himself.

He drew in a breath—slow, sharp, measured like a blade being unsheathed—and let the pressure settle over his skin like a second layer. The ache in his bones remained, the coiling weight in his gut still churned, but he pushed them down.

Buried them beneath the calm he had cultivated through countless nights clawing at fate.

His eyes, cold and unwavering, locked onto the silhouette before him.

And then, with a voice as smooth as the silence before a storm, he spoke.

"Are you talking about Belthazor?"

The words rang clean through the corridor—clear, confident, and deliberate.

He saw the shimmer ripple.

A pause.

Like something behind that presence leaned back slightly, reassessing.

Good.

Lucas had made the first move. No hesitation, no pretense of ignorance. If they already knew what rested inside him—or what used to—then there was no point in playing dumb. Better to steer the direction himself. Better to show that he didn’t fear the weight of that name.

Belthazor.

He let it hang in the air like a weapon.

The ancient name of the demon that had once burned in his soul—now broken, scattered, sealed in fragments deep beneath his flesh and mind.

A silence stretched between them.

Then, the voice returned—

Not louder. Not sharper.

But closer.

"...So you know his name."

It wasn’t surprise.

It was confirmation.

Lucas offered a faint tilt of the head, his expression unreadable.

Let’s see what you say next.

Because now the game had begun.

The shimmering presence did not move in the way mortals moved—no footsteps, no sway of weight. It simply leaned forward across dimensions, folding closer to Lucas with the subtle gravity of something that should not be.

And when it spoke again, the voice had changed. Not louder—no. Just deeper. As if it had peeled back a layer of politeness to reveal something older beneath.

"Then tell me... why does a human heir walk with the embers of Belthazor inside him?"

"What pact was made?"

"What throne did you kneel to?"

Lucas’s jaw tightened, just slightly, but he didn’t break his gaze. His heart was steady now—steady in the way a sword is steady when its tip rests just against another’s throat.

This is dangerous.

But it’s also what I’ve been waiting for.

He let silence hang for a beat longer, as if considering whether to answer at all.

Then, carefully—intentionally—he smiled. Just a little.

"Kneel?" he echoed. "I don’t kneel."

The ripple in the air stilled.

Lucas took a slow step forward—not enough to be a threat, but enough to show he wasn’t backing down.

He continued, voice low, sharpened to deliberate control.

"There was no pact. No agreement. No summoning. If you’re asking what ritual, what exchange of blood and binding made this happen—" he tapped two fingers lightly against his chest, where the cold coil of that broken power still lurked, "—you won’t find one."

Another step. The air crackled faintly. The corridor, so empty moments ago, now felt crowded, as though the weight of two realities had begun to converge.

Lucas’s fingers hovered near the edge of his coat, not reaching for a weapon—just steadying himself against what he knew was coming. His voice remained level, each word carved with deliberate precision.

"Belthazor came to me."

The presence pulsed. The ripple shivered like oil reacting to fire.

And then—

"Belthazor came to you?"

The voice no longer echoed—it folded into the world, like a hook anchoring into the very fabric of space.

Lucas nodded once. Calm. Controlled.

"Yes."

That was the moment it shifted.

The air collapsed.

Like a trapdoor opening above him—no motion, no sound—just pressure.

Crushing.

His lungs stopped.

His chest seized.

Not with pain—no. With force.

Like invisible coils had wrapped around his ribs, tightening with every heartbeat. The corridor around him faded, colors draining into gray-white static. And worse still—

He felt it.

Something entering him.

A thin, piercing thread of foreign mana, vile and ancient.

Demonic. But not Belthazor’s. Not even close.

It wasn’t wrath.

It wasn’t hunger.

It was judgment.

Lucas’s knees buckled half an inch before he caught himself.

Breathe.

His skin burned. His limbs numbed. And that creeping pressure kept digging deeper—searching—trying to unearth whatever truth he was hiding.

"Lying in front of me will not do any good."

The voice was no longer curious. It was disappointed.

Lucas’s vision flickered at the edges, a red haze dancing across his sight. And still—still—he smiled.

"I’m not lying, though."

"And you might want to consider retracting this energy of yours."

"Don’t forget where you are."

The corridor. The wards. The academy.

This place wasn’t like the world outside. It was laced with layered protections—ancient runes buried beneath every stone, binding glyphs watching every interaction. And if demonic influence was detected, even from them...

"Unless you’re here to trigger a lockdown... Butler."

And then, like a curtain falling in reverse, it recoiled.

That’s right.

You’re not the only one playing games.

"You know me?"

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