Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 1037

Chapter 1037: Chapter 246.1 - Sister

Lucas walked alone through the quiet northern corridor, the echo of his footsteps sharp and even against the polished stone. The pressure that had once saturated the air was gone now—faded like mist at dawn. But the weight of the encounter still clung to his skin, subtle and electric, like the memory of thunder.

He adjusted his collar without thinking, his pace unhurried, his expression calm.

It went well.

Exactly as he’d calculated.

He didn’t need to win them over completely. Not yet. In fact, winning them over too quickly would have only drawn suspicion. But planting the idea—the possibility—that he might be worth remembering? Worth watching?

That was the goal.

And by all measures, it had been met.

Lucas’s thoughts were precise, layered as always, running in parallel—one part of him recalling every word spoken, every tonal shift, every pause; another dissecting the subtleties of the presence, the way it had reacted, the hints of the deeper game behind that cold voice.

Curious, but not careless. Powerful, but cautious. Measured.

Just as he expected from one of them.

But what mattered most was this:

He had their attention.

And in a world like this, attention from the wrong thing was death—

—but attention from the right wrong thing?

It was opportunity.

Lucas exhaled through his nose, satisfaction curling like smoke inside his chest.

Now the seed is planted.

Then, his mind returned to the final exchange—the last flicker of conversation, just before the presence vanished.

A voice, low and distant, like it had already started withdrawing into the folds of something far older than the academy.

"You have desire. Rage. Purpose."

"We remember such things."

And then—

Not a promise.

Not an invitation.

Just a parting note.

"When the time comes, Middleton... choose carefully which hand you offer."

Lucas’s jaw tensed slightly at the memory. He understood the meaning. There would be more than one offer. More than one door. And not all of them would open to where he wanted to go.

But that was fine.

He didn’t need clarity.

He just needed leverage.

And now, he had it.

With the evening sun beginning to slant through the upper windows, gilding the hall in pale gold, Lucas continued walking—alone, unreadable, satisfied.

The game had shifted.

And he was no longer just a player.

He was a piece worth claiming.

*****

In any case—

Leonard returned to the hunt.

He spent the rest of the day trailing the other marked cadets, one by one.

Quiet encounters. Subtle approaches.

A handshake disguised as idle greeting.

A question masked as professional curiosity.

A presence cloaked beneath pleasantry.

All of them bore promise on the surface.

But none of them—not one—stirred the artifact beneath his collar.

Not a tremble. Not a pulse.

Nothing.

He recalibrated the heliowatch twice. Switched scan algorithms mid-pattern. Even layered an old celestial lens—something rarely used outside of temple-grade rites.

Still—

The crescent remained cold.

Silent.

Unmoved.

By sunset, only shadows answered his summons.

And Leonard, though patient, began to feel the hours bite.

Was he looking at this the wrong way?

The Kin of the Moon—if they were truly present in Arcadia—why had none of the patterns held?

He’d worked with divine traces before. With prophetic alignments. The signs were subtle, yes, but not invisible.

Unless...

He paused on the far edge of the upper training field—still, solitary—his eyes narrowing.

Unless the Kin had not awakened yet.

Or worse—

They were hiding.

Not in rank.

Not in spellwork.

But in self.

But not emptiness.

And if the Kin was someone cautious—or unaware of what they were—they would not shine at all.

At least, not yet.

The scouts’ accommodation wasn’t within the campus proper. By law and tradition, observers did not sleep where they watched. Neutrality was maintained by distance.

And so, every evening, academy-provided manalift services escorted the scouts beyond the boundary gates—down to the reserved quarters nestled along the north ridge.

Velvetin.

Her hair was down this time—flowing in dark, gleaming waves, shot through with streaks of soft amaranth. Her coat was half-unfastened at the throat, revealing just the edge of a sigil burned into the skin above her collarbone—not a tattoo. A mark. Old. Intentional. Dangerous.

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