Chapter 1017 - Saw
"So. You're saying I'm not charismatic normally?"
Astron turned to look at her fully, his gaze calm as ever, but this time there was something undeniably deliberate in his pause—like he was giving her one last chance to brace herself.
"That much," he said flatly, "must be obvious even to you."
Irina stopped in her tracks.
Her eyes narrowed, sharp and glinting with heat. "Obvious, huh?"
Astron met her stare without a flicker of hesitation. "You're too stubborn. Too direct. And your temper flares in under five seconds."
"And yet somehow," she shot back, stepping up beside him again, "people still line up to listen when I speak."
"They're scared of you," he said, almost too fast.
Irina blinked. "Scared?"
Astron shrugged, hands tucked casually in his pockets. "Charisma through fear is still charisma."
"You little—" She exhaled, half-laughing now, trying not to give him the satisfaction. "You really know how to kill a compliment."
"You were the one who asked."
Irina shook her head and smacked him lightly on the arm as they walked. "You know, for someone who barely talks to people, you've got a real talent for getting under their skin."
"I consider it efficient."
She scoffed, but couldn't stop the grin tugging at her lips.
Despite everything—the long day, the tension with the scouts, the uncertainty ahead—somehow, with Astron beside her and his dry honesty filling the air like it always did, the world felt just a little easier to walk through. A little lighter. Warmer.
She smiled, quietly, and didn't bother hiding it.
*****
Inside the simulated dungeon zone, the air was thick with the lingering stench of scorched flesh and mineral-heavy mana. Cracked stone and smoldering embers painted the aftermath of battle across the collapsed corridor walls. The projection sky above—painted with shifting hues of artificial dusk—cast long shadows over the battlefield.
Lucas stood still at the center of it all, the light catching against the blood-slick edge of his sword.
Beneath him, the broken forms of slain monsters lay in heaps—disfigured canines twisted by mana corruption, all bearing the signs of clean, efficient kills. Each strike had been purposeful. Every motion measured.
He exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave his shoulders.
Not bad…
His blue eyes drifted to the blade in his hand, to the gleaming streaks that marked the path of his latest improvement.
It's getting better.
Lucas had spent the last two months refining his sword style, paring it down to its most fluid form. Cutting away waste, stripping off flair, keeping only what mattered. He no longer chased power in brute displays—it was about precision, intention, control.
And the results spoke for themselves.
Just then—
BAM!
A violent tremor shook the stone beneath him as a hammer came crashing down several meters away. The sound echoed through the corridor like a thunderclap. The last monster—a hulking brute covered in thorny bone protrusions—let out a strangled gurgle as its head was pulverized into the ground.
Blood sprayed against the nearby wall like red ink.
Carl stood over the remains, his massive warhammer still humming faintly from the force of impact.
He exhaled with satisfaction, resting the hammer's head against the floor as he straightened up.
"It's finished now."
Carl's hammer slid back into its magnetic holster with a low hum, the glow of its enchantment dimming as the mana settled. His broad frame cast a long shadow against the fractured dungeon wall.
Stoic as always.
Not a smile. Not a word beyond what needed to be said. His expression remained neutral, his posture as steady and unmoved as it had always been.
Lucas glanced sideways at him, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Classic Carl.
That silence, that immovable presence—it was just how Carl Braveheart had always been. The type who never wasted energy on words. The type who took hits like a wall and never cracked. But Lucas had known him before. And he knew him after.
He had seen the future where Carl had fought beside Ethan. He had stood with him in the vanguard of desperate battles, had watched him hold the line against demon contractors and aberrants alike.
They had fought side by side often enough that Lucas had grown familiar with the way Carl moved, the way he breathed when strained, the way his mana flexed under pressure.
And what he saw now...
It's different.
Lucas narrowed his eyes slightly, letting his senses trace the after-echoes of mana in the room. The flow around Carl was cleaner now—sharper, denser. Not refined like a spellcaster's, but thick with reinforced layers. It was the mark of someone whose body had been conditioned to absorb punishment without breaking down.
He's improving faster.
He didn't need a scanner glyph to confirm it. He could see it in the way Carl's movements were more grounded than before. His timing, too—just slightly earlier, just slightly tighter.
He's at least reached Rank-6 now. And some of his stats... Lucas's eyes flicked to the faint aura residue trailing from Carl's shoulders. May even be Rank-7 at this point.
Most wouldn't notice it. But Lucas had lived those fights before. The vision—no, that other future—had burned itself into his muscle memory. And now, with each interaction, he could feel the deviations stacking.
He could compare. He could measure.
He's becoming stronger than he was back then. Earlier too.
Lucas inhaled slowly through his nose, letting the information settle. The threads were shifting again.
Which means I'm not the only one getting stronger ahead of schedule.
Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed lightly across the cracked floor—swift, deliberate, but unburdened by caution. Lucas glanced over his shoulder to see the rest of his team approaching.
Tarin, the team's speed-type swordsman, arrived first. His dual blades were already sheathed, but his face still gleamed with residual adrenaline. He wore that lopsided grin of his, the one that always followed a clean run.
"Whew. That's the fastest we've cleared a zone this week, yeah?" he said, swiping his brow with the back of his glove. "Feels like we're finally getting into a rhythm."
"About time," came Eliane's voice, calm and crisp. The mana archer fell into step beside Tarin, her long ponytail swaying as she scanned the cleared corridor one last time. Her expression was composed, but there was a quiet spark in her amber eyes—one that hadn't been there before. "Execution's tightening. We didn't waste a single volley."
And trailing just a few paces behind them was Ryn. The team's support-channeler was always a bit more reserved, but even now, he wore a rare, contented smile. His gloves were still glowing faintly from mana residue, but the glow was steady—unstrained. "Shield timings were clean. Didn't have to overcharge once."
Lucas looked at the three of them—Tarin, Eliane, Ryn.
Three more variables.
Three more people he had quietly scouted after the break, when he began to see just how different the future was becoming. None of them had been particularly noteworthy in the vision—skilled, yes, but not important enough to leave any lasting imprint.
And yet… they too had changed.
They were developing faster. Sharper reflexes. Tighter coordination. Mana signatures more polished than what they should have been at this point. That was what drew Lucas to them in the first place.
Were they the ones?
He had wondered.
But no… after weeks of observation, analysis, and pressure testing, Lucas was confident now. They weren't the cause. They were simply caught in the same current—pushed forward by the same invisible force that had twisted the future's threads.
The real culprit was still out there.
And his attention kept returning—again and again—to the same anomaly.
Astron Natusalune.
Lucas's expression didn't shift. He nodded once at his teammates, calm and composed. "Good work."
"Hey, that's practically praise coming from you," Tarin grinned, nudging Ryn in the ribs.
Lucas didn't respond. Instead, he tapped a command onto his wrist glyph, pulling up the operation console. A faint pulse of green lit the extraction rune embedded in the stone floor beneath them.
"Dungeon operation complete," he announced. "Extraction in thirty seconds."
The team relaxed slightly, the charged atmosphere easing now that the mission had been cleared. Eliane already began reviewing her spell logs. Carl remained a silent wall beside Lucas. Tarin leaned back and cracked his neck with a sigh. Ryn checked his mana reserves and nodded with quiet satisfaction.
And Lucas?
He just stared ahead at the closing dungeon walls, his thoughts already elsewhere.
The simulation faded around them—stone giving way to light, blood and ash replaced by polished floor tiles as the extraction runes engaged.
In the seconds before they were fully transported, Lucas closed his eyes briefly.
The threads are still unraveling.
And someone is still pulling them.
He opened his eyes again just as the world flickered into white.
Time to move forward.
Chapter 1018 - Saw (2)
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.
And yet…
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.
His hands clenched unconsciously.
Then a voice reached him, faint through the fog.
"Lucas?"
Eliane. She had stopped walking, eyes narrowing at his sudden change in demeanor. "You alright?"
Tarin followed her gaze, stepping slightly closer. "Hey, you don't look great. Was that fight harder on you than you let on?"
Carl's eyes didn't narrow, didn't shift, but Lucas could feel his attention settle on him too.
Lucas exhaled slowly, letting the pain coil deeper into his gut where no one could see it. His posture straightened, his expression slipping into something smooth, practiced—neutral.
He couldn't afford to look vulnerable.
Especially not in front of Carl.
Of all people, Carl was the last one he wanted sensing something amiss. The Braveheart heir didn't pry, didn't speak unless needed—but he noticed everything. And the fewer questions Lucas had to answer, the better.
"I'm fine," Lucas said with a quiet, measured breath. "Just… some leftover mana interference. Must've been from that distortion field deeper in the dungeon. I probably over-channeled a bit during the last burst."
Eliane's brow furrowed. "You sure?"
He turned to her with the faintest smile. "If I collapse, you're allowed to mock me. Until then—don't worry."
Tarin snorted. "Deal. Just don't make us drag you out next time."
Carl said nothing. But he didn't look away either.
Lucas walked forward, masking the remaining tremor in his fingers as nothing more than fatigue. He let the conversation drift, the idle chatter between his teammates picking back up as they exited the simulator halls toward the wide southern balconies of the academy's observation levels.
But inside, beneath the calm surface of his expression—
He was smirking.
So they've started showing themselves… this early?
That wasn't just some scout. That wasn't some mortal wearing gloves and good posture.
Lucas didn't know exactly what it was, but the remnants of Belthazor inside him had flared for a reason.
And it wasn't a demonic resonance. No.
It was something else.
Something older.
The harbinger of something greater.
The fact that it was here now—that meant the threads of fate were unraveling even faster than he'd predicted.
He narrowed his eyes slightly, the smile never touching his lips outwardly.
Good.
Let them move early.
Lucas's footsteps slowed just slightly as he let the others walk a pace ahead. The buzz of student chatter and scout murmurs blurred into background static, dulled beneath the hum of something deeper stirring in his chest.
He glanced back, subtle, like someone casually surveying the crowd.
And there—just where he'd last seen him—the butler stood.
Still.
Unmoving.
Watching.
And now, the man's face was turned toward him.
Their eyes met across the wide hall. The figure's expression was unchanged—serene, blank, almost painfully ordinary. But Lucas could feel it. That quiet weight behind the stare. The way the air warped slightly around him, as if the world wasn't sure he belonged in it.
Lucas let his lips curl just barely into a smile. Just enough to look polite. Enough to appear as if he were acknowledging a curious stranger's glance.
Then, with the same ease, he offered a small, measured nod.
Calculated. Controlled.
Just enough not to raise suspicion.
But inside—he was grinning.
Maybe… contacting you would be the best move after all.
He'd been itching for it.
For a meeting. For a whisper. For an invitation.
Because no matter what dangers they brought—no matter what chaos they promised—they were the only ones who could give him what he truly needed.
A way out.
A way to overthrow the future that was already written for him.
The Middleton name. The lineage. The path laid before his birth.
If he was going to destroy it all and carve something new—something his—he'd need power. The kind no guild, no scout, no noble family would ever offer.
And they—those harbingers lurking behind porcelain smiles and empty gloves—
They had that power.
And now, they were here.
So yes—
Let's talk soon.
Chapter 1019 - You are not the only one
From his seat near the upper western arc of the observation chamber, Leonard Elric sat quietly—hands folded, eyes narrowed in calm focus.
The insignia of Solstice Dawn gleamed faintly on his coat, understated but respected. His posture was relaxed, diplomatic even, blending seamlessly with the other seasoned scouts. He played his role well—curious, reserved, just another mid-tier recruiter seeking rising stars to polish and invest in.
But beneath the polished mask, his mind worked in silence.
Not for contracts.
Not for fame.
But for something far older. Far more dangerous.
The Kin of the Moon is within these walls.
Of that, he was now certain.
His artifact—tucked beneath his tunic, masked by a mana-muffling weave—had resonated faintly the moment the practicals had begun. It wasn't strong, not yet. The wards surrounding the dungeon floors dulled everything. But it was enough to confirm proximity.
Still, "proximity" was a word that meant little in a place as vast as Arcadia.
Two thousand cadets.
Six combat divisions.
Three administrative blocks.
And over forty-eight registered squads running rotations through the dungeon rings.
He would need time. Precision.
And he would need to watch.
Not for dramatic flares of power—that was the fool's route. The Kin of the Moon wouldn't be broadcasting their presence with flashy spells and grand declarations. No… they would be quiet. Interwoven. Hiding within the weave of others.
Like silver threads hidden in a tapestry of fire and stone.
He leaned back in his seat, one hand ghosting across the interface rune built into the projection console. His slate shifted, pulling up isolated feeds from teams that had already passed through the early dungeons: Team Twelve, Team Seventeen, Team Twenty-Nine.
Each one bore names with promise—powerful bloodlines, curious anomalies, or students who had demonstrated irregular combat patterns in previous terms.
He had his filters.
Mana types. Lunar sensitivity.
Unregistered spells with resonance feedback.
Cadets whose medical or family records were redacted beyond standard privacy norms.
So far? Nothing.
He observed a cadet from Team Seventeen—Rivas Moor, descendant of a forgotten archmage line. His fire techniques were refined, yes. But his mana bleed was too harsh, his resonance far too volatile.
Not him.
Team Twenty-Nine showed an interesting anomaly—a girl whose lightning output showed strange color shifts on saturation. But her signature was sharp, angular. Solar-aligned, possibly storm-touched. She lacked the layered harmony the moon often demanded.
Not her either.
Cadet after cadet. Team after team. Slowly crossed from his internal list.
The process was meticulous by necessity. The artifact could only guide him so far within these walls. He needed behavior. Data. Subtle shifts in spellcraft that indicated spiritual convergence, not just strength.
He paused briefly as his feed rotated again—Team Eight, engaging a deep-surface elemental trap.
A cadet at the rear was weaving complex sigils—fluid, practiced. Their spell composition held notes of old-world discipline, possibly traced through one of the hidden academies in eastern Arcadia. Interesting… but no lunar trace. Their mana lines were rigid, not cyclical. Their resonance sharp, not layered.
Leonard shook his head once, barely a motion.
"Not this one either."
He tapped a glyph on his slate, filtering the cadet out with a flicker of red light. Another name gone.
This isn't working. Not well enough.
The artifact under his tunic remained inert. Dormant. There were too many barriers—enchanted filters, suppression fields, mana noise from other casters. And more importantly, he was too far. Not just in distance, but in alignment. Without direct exposure to a concentration of Lunar Mana, the artifact couldn't properly attune itself to trace the resonance he was hunting.
It wasn't meant to be used passively.
It was meant to be pointed. Focused.
Directed toward a known signature—something the Kin would naturally carry once their awakening progressed.
He was close. He could feel that.
Even now, the list was shrinking. Already, he had ruled out more than a hundred potential matches. Every filter narrowed the path. Every scan made the signal more visible beneath the noise.
Still, he needed to get closer.
Closer to the cadets. Closer to the core.
Just as his fingers moved to tag the next team for analysis, a soft flicker of perfume cut through the crisp air.
And then—
A voice, low and velvet-smooth, murmured beside him.
"Now this is a surprise. I didn't think Solstice Dawn played the long game."
Leonard turned his head slightly.
She was seated beside him as if she had always been there—her arrival unannounced, her presence wrapped in practiced ease.
Long legs crossed beneath sleek crimson fabric. A faint silver tattoo shimmered along her collarbone, half-veiled by her coat—something old, arcane, deliberately visible. Her hair was a cascading shade of obsidian with streaks of amaranth, and her lips curved with the confidence of someone used to being noticed.
Leonard's gaze flicked toward the crest pinned to her shoulder—a stylized mirror etched in onyx and pearl, subtle yet elegant. It didn't match any of the major guilds he'd been briefed on. Not in the primary tier. Not even in the regulated freelance networks.
He committed it to memory anyway.
He didn't recognize her.
Didn't recognize her guild.
And he didn't like that.
Because Leonard Elric—scout of Solstice Dawn in name only—wasn't a man who left variables untracked.
Still, he kept his voice smooth. Measured.
"I'm afraid I don't recognize your badge."
She smiled.
"Oh, I'm not surprised. Solstice Dawn is rather… insular these days." Her tone was amused, but layered—like she was playing a private game.
Leonard tilted his head slightly, still watching the screens. "I'm new to fieldwork."
"Ah," she said, as if that explained everything. "That makes more sense."
She leaned in just a little, as though confiding something. Her perfume was faint—sandalwood and something darker beneath.
"You wear the guild colors well," she said with a lazy sort of admiration. "But you don't move like one of theirs."
Leonard didn't respond.
She didn't seem to mind.
"Solstice Dawn is old. Careful. They don't usually send pretty faces without a deep portfolio." She paused, then added thoughtfully, "Though if Asvel sent you, I suppose you're a special case."
Leonard's expression didn't change.
But inwardly?
A beat.
Asvel?
He didn't know the name. Not in connection with Solstice Dawn, not anywhere.
And that told him something very important:
She did.
"Didn't think he still recruited personally," the woman continued, tapping one manicured nail against her projection rune. "He's grown boring in his age. All temples and thesis circles now. But I suppose every relic needs a sharp edge."
She gave him another glance—this one longer, assessing.
"You don't talk like the others either. No market slang. No investment lingo. No regional drawl. So…" she tilted her head, her tone almost teasing, "why are you really here, Leonard?"
He met her gaze evenly. "To watch. Just like you."
She laughed—soft, sharp, like glass chiming.
"Watch what, though?" Her tone shifted slightly, her smile curving into something more knowing.
"I am really curious on that."
Chapter 1020 - You are not the only one (2)
"Watch what, though?"
Her voice was softer now. Too soft.
Her smile curved—not like a question, but like a blade tracing along the edge of a sheath.
"I am really curious on that."
Leonard didn't blink.
But he felt it.
That subtle shift behind her gaze. A faint shimmer beneath her words. Not overt—not yet—but the weight of intent, pressed down lightly, like a palm resting on the lid of a boiling pot.
She knew something.
And she wanted him to know that she knew.
He kept his tone neutral. Smooth. As practiced as ever.
"Just watching stars," he said. "Isn't that what we're all here for?"
Her smile widened as if he'd just confirmed something for her.
"I suppose we are," she murmured. "Though some stars burn a little differently, don't they? Some shimmer. Some flare. Some… vanish altogether when you look too hard."
And then—
She moved closer.
Casually, but with precision. Her hip brushed the edge of his seat, and her arm ghosted against his shoulder as she leaned just enough to peer at his slate.
"So tell me, Scout," she said, voice like velvet over glass. "Which of these lovely little prodigies have caught your eye?"
Her breath smelled faintly of something sweet—not natural. A mana-laced charm. Soft. Sophisticated.
And then her presence shifted again.
Just slightly.
A gentle pressure traced against his thoughts—not invasive, but probing. Subtle waves of mana, too refined for novice enchanters. Not domination. Not suggestion.
Curiosity.
Designed to lower walls. Invite openness. Maybe even nudge a slip of the tongue.
She was reading his responses. His emotions.
Or trying to.
Leonard let the moment stretch. Let her lean in.
Let her believe he hadn't noticed.
The fragrance drifted toward his nose—spiced plum, soft night herbs, laced with passive intent.
And then—
Nothing.
The spell found no purchase.
Her charm, her mana, her scent—everything rolled off him like mist against obsidian.
Because Leonard's constitution—blessed, altered, shaped by rites that even most priests had never heard of—rendered such magic inert.
And when his gaze shifted to meet hers again, it wasn't warm.
It wasn't disarming.
It was cold.
Still polite. Still diplomatic.
But behind his eyes, something sharp watched her now.
She saw it immediately.
And laughed.
A low, delighted sound that rang softly under the hum of mana screens.
"Oh, I like you," she purred, pulling back just enough to cross one leg over the other with languid elegance. "Sharp, quiet, and dangerous. They really are getting creative with recruitment these days."
Leonard's tone was even. "Your spell won't work on me."
"I noticed," she replied easily. "Though it wasn't a spell. Just… conversation, with intent."
She offered her hand, as if they were in a ballroom instead of a war room.
"Velvetin. No family name. Not anymore."
Her smile deepened, sly and amused. "Scout for the Mirrored Thorn. We're not on the public registries."
Leonard didn't take her hand.
Velvetin didn't seem offended.
"In my line of work, we chase threads," she said, still watching him with that predator's calm. "Stray bloodlines. Lost talents. People who don't belong where they were planted."
Her eyes gleamed faintly now. Not with mana.
With meaning.
"People like the ones you're watching."
Leonard leaned back, arms folding slowly.
"And what happens," he asked, "when you catch one of those threads?"
Velvetin smiled.
But this time, it didn't quite reach her eyes.
"That depends entirely," she said softly, "on how tightly they're woven."
And just like that, she rose again—her expression playful, her presence somehow heavier now.
"I'll let you return to your stargazing, Leonard. But do let me know if you find one that eclipses the others."
She turned with a rustle of crimson fabric and vanished into the seated rows with practiced ease—blending back into the watching crowd like smoke slipping through cracks.
Leonard watched her go, eyes narrowing slightly.
Velvetin. Mirrored Thorn.
A guild not registered.
And yet here.
Among the scouts.
Leonard's eyes lingered on the seat Velvetin had just vacated, the crimson fold of her cloak still ghosting across his vision.
Mirrored Thorn.
A name that did not appear on any official scout registry.
Nor any clandestine affiliate list he had access to.
And yet—
She was here.
With a pass. A projection slate.
A presence that moved through sanctioned circles like she belonged.
No.
Not like she belonged.
Like she didn't need permission.
And now that she was gone, he let himself feel it again.
The faint hum still clinging to the air.
Like a whisper of cinders on silk.
The kind of resonance no mortal blood could produce.
Demonic.
Refined. Subtle. Blended into human masking magic.
But unmistakable to someone like him.
So.
They were here too.
Just as the Lord had warned.
He leaned back slightly in his seat, eyes trailing across the glowing mana-screens of cadet feeds—but no longer really watching them.
Not for now.
The air against his skin felt fractionally colder. His fingertips tingled faintly—not with threat, but with recognition.
Velvetin.
If that was even her name.
She was no simple contractor with ambition.
She was touched.
And if he had sensed it—the blood-shrouded depth coiled beneath her veneer—then she had likely sensed the same in him.
That made them even.
It also made them dangerous.
But Leonard's expression remained calm.
Unbothered.
Because now was not the time.
Not to pursue.
Not to provoke.
And not to strike.
Their identities were still shadows.
And in this game of veiled purpose, shadows were safety.
If she suspected what he was looking for, she didn't say it.
If she meant to interfere, she hadn't acted.
And he wouldn't be the one to break that delicate balance. Not yet.
Because she wasn't his target.
She wasn't the one written in prophecy.
She wasn't the one the Holy Seal had trembled over.
She wasn't the one whose awakening would tilt the axis of their world.
The Kin of the Moon was.
And every breath spent on demons—no matter how carefully veiled—was a breath wasted in this search.
Leonard's gaze returned to the projection slate. A flick of his fingers dismissed several tagged names from the list. Three more eliminated. The signal was tightening.
Soon, he thought, his fingers brushing the hidden artifact beneath his collar.
The moon would rise.
And when it did—
He would be waiting.
*****
Leonard's fingers moved across the slate again—calm, fluid motions that masked the exacting calculations behind each filter.
He adjusted the algorithm, overlaying three parameters simultaneously:
Lunar-affinity distortion beneath standard elemental classifications.
Unregistered ancestry gaps in Academy records beyond second-generation lineage.
Spell resonance cycles with rhythmic anomalies—subtle, off-tempo pulses often found in incomplete awakenings.
Only four results emerged.
Three were easily dismissed. One was a transference error. Another had been flagged already by a separate guild. The third was simply a false positive—an illusionist whose chaotic spells disrupted pattern recognition.
But the fourth?
Leonard's eyes narrowed slightly.
Cadet Name: Darien Vale
He had found one.
Chapter 1021 - You are not the only one (3)
Cadet Name: Darien Vale
Rank: 340
Division: Mid-Combat Track
Discipline: Mixed Weapon + Wind-Ether Conduction
Background: No known noble ties. Partial orphan record. Sponsorship through anonymous provincial benefactor.
Affinity: Listed as Wind-Type.
Mana Cycle: Clean. Consistent.
But—
Overlaying the glyph structure from his last recorded sparring exam revealed something curious.
His Wind Magic wasn't circulating traditionally.
It folded.
Recurred on itself.
Looped.
Almost like lunar-phase constructs.
Unconscious? Perhaps.
But real.
Leonard tapped his finger once against the slate, setting a soft marker. Not a guild recruitment tag—he didn't need any competing interest. This one was private.
Silent. Reserved. Watchlisted.
Then, with a second motion, he pulled up Darien's latest dungeon assignment.
Team Thirty-One. Lower fog zone rotation. Scheduled within the next hour.
Perfect.
Leonard stood, brushing down the front of his coat, slipping easily back into the bearing of a field scout. One among many. Just another contractor browsing talent.
But his mind was already turning over the next approach.
Observation would only get him so far now.
He needed proximity.
A closer interaction.
Words. Pressure. Presence.
The Kin of the Moon wouldn't reveal themselves to crystal screens and filtered glyph traces. Their awakening would coil inward—private. Veiled in instinct. Subconscious defenses.
He needed to provoke clarity.
And if this Darien Vale was truly one of the final candidates…
Then a conversation might be the key to unraveling everything.
*****
He didn't have time.
Not to wait. Not to circle back. Not to risk losing another lead to guild scouts who watched with pockets full of contracts and eyes full of hunger.
Darien Vale's resonance wasn't stable—it was veiled. And the longer it stayed buried, the harder it would be to trigger.
But Leonard knew the rules.
The Academy's neutrality was law here, old and unyielding.
No scout was permitted to approach cadets directly during private cooldown phases.
No observation beyond the designated sectors.
And no mana-marking—not without a sanctioned clearance rune.
That meant one thing.
He couldn't follow Darien directly.
Not here.
But…
He didn't need to.
As Leonard turned from the prep alcove, his fingers brushed the inside of his coat, tracing a hidden glyph sewn into the inner lining of his sleeve—an invocation seal, woven by the Church's Lightbearers, dormant until called upon.
He stepped into the shadow of one of the hall's arched corridors, head bowed slightly—a quiet, devout posture, unnoticed in the flow of instructors and logistics officers.
Then, in a breath that didn't stir the air, he whispered the chant.
"Lux sōlis oculum… Aperi et vigila."
A subtle heat bled into the air. Not burning. Not even warm.
But ancient.
For a moment, the dust motes in the corridor froze—as if the very particles of light hesitated to fall.
And then—
A flash.
Silent. Sudden.
The sunlight that filtered through the high-arched windows pulsed—not brighter, but purer.
Refined.
A single ray broke through the lattice of protective wards above and struck the ground before Leonard's feet, forming a glyph—a perfect ring, inscribed with sun-shaped radial arms, twelve in total, like the spokes of a celestial dial.
In that moment, Leonard's eyes flared softly—not gold, but amber-orange, shot through with radiant streaks, like sunlight refracted through stained glass.
Above him—far, far above—a single solar fragment bloomed in the sky, invisible to all but him.
A Heliowatch.
A divine projection tethered to a sliver of celestial mana—a scouting satellite given shape through sunlight itself.
It would see what he could not.
Follow what he must not.
And relay back what no one else could interpret.
The world shifted slightly as the spell completed. His sight split—not fully, but partially. A flicker of vision tethered to the skies, fed directly through the heliowatch's luminous arc.
He whispered again:
"Mark the cadence of wind. The gait of silence. The boy who walks like dusk."
The sun heard him.
And obeyed.
Far above, a shimmering trace—a thread of light-bonded resonance—anchored itself to Darien's form the moment he stepped out from the dungeon's exit platform and back into the campus recovery zone.
No one would see it.
No one would feel it.
But Leonard would know.
****
Through the tethered sliver of his vision, Leonard watched the boy move.
Darien Vale.
He emerged from the dungeon's stone-ringed gate alongside his assigned squad—his gait light, but not reckless. A boy forged through discipline, not impulse. One of his teammates nudged him, speaking with casual familiarity, and Darien offered a tired, half-smile in response. Muted. Unassuming.
Yet the cadence of his movement remained the same—centered. Not too relaxed. Not too guarded. The kind of posture that didn't draw attention because it was always prepared for it.
Leonard tracked the team from his elevated position near the north-eastern path—too far to engage, but not too far to observe.
They didn't linger in the open square.
Instead, they veered left, toward the academy's main building sector—specifically toward the lower levels of the central cafeteria wing.
Off-limits.
Scouts weren't permitted inside. Not without direct faculty clearance.
Leonard's jaw tightened slightly—not in frustration, but quiet calculation.
They're smart. Or just hungry.
Either way, he could not follow.
He leaned slightly against one of the pathway arches, eyes flicking back up toward the sky's distant glimmer. The Heliowatch spun quietly overhead, its anchored thread still pulsing—subtle, golden, undisturbed.
He waited.
Minutes passed.
Thirty-two to be exact.
Until, finally—
Movement.
Darien emerged again—this time alone. A disposable container in hand. Must've grabbed something extra, or stepped out early. He took the narrow garden-bound route that wrapped around the southern dormitory—a path accessible to scouts under standard grounds rights.
Leonard's coat caught the wind just slightly as he stepped down from the arch.
He didn't rush.
Just walked.
Intersected the path naturally—timed to cross just as Darien slowed to check the enchanted message slate at his side.
"Darien Vale," Leonard said, letting his voice settle like a warm afternoon.
The cadet blinked, then looked up.
Leonard's expression was professional—polite without being forced.
He offered no pressure. No flourish.
Just presence.
"Leonard Elric," he said, extending his hand in a quiet gesture. "Solstice Dawn. I've been keeping an eye on your run today."
Darien hesitated for half a breath, then accepted the handshake.
His grip was firm, but not postured.
"Didn't know I was worth scouting," the boy said.
"You're worth noticing," Leonard replied smoothly, eyes reading not just movement, but every faint tremor in Darien's mana flow.
And as their hands touched, Leonard activated the artifact beneath his tunic—silently.
No light.
No glow.
Just a whisper of divine resonance flowing down his spine, into his palm, and outward—
—into Darien.
The artifact listened.
Measured.
Waited.
Leonard continued speaking, casual.
"Your wind techniques loop. That's rare. Intentional?"
Darien blinked. "Not really. It's just how they come out. The academy's been trying to 'correct' the patterns, but... I guess I'm stubborn."
"Or ahead of the curve," Leonard offered mildly. "That rhythm isn't common, but it has tactical merit. Did you learn it from someone?"
The boy shook his head. "Self-taught. Trial and error. My instructor just let me run with it after a while."
More nods. More smiles.
But no pulse.
No reaction.
The artifact hummed faintly—neutral.
Not even a flicker.
The celestial tether above pulsed once—flat. Dormant. Unmoved.
Not the one.
Leonard allowed the conversation to continue for another minute—asking questions, letting Darien speak, listening for hesitation, for forced memory, for dissonance.
There was none.
The boy was gifted. Disciplined. Slightly odd.
But ordinary.
No prophecy.
No tethered fate.
Just another good cadet in a sea of many.
Leonard exhaled internally.
"Thank you for your time," he said, offering a polite nod. "If Solstice Dawn reaches out, take the offer seriously. You've got promise."
Darien offered a quiet, grateful smile. "Appreciate that."
Leonard turned away calmly, stepping off the path and into the shade of the stone arches once more.
And as he vanished into the crowd, he deactivated the solar fragment with a murmur:
"Obscura sōlis."
The Heliowatch vanished.
The thread severed.
Darien Vale faded from the list.
One more possibility eliminated.
The list was growing shorter.
And time, as always, was moving.
Chapter 1022 - Second
The quiet hum of the evening settled over Sylvie's dorm room like a soft blanket. Outside, the faint glow of lamplight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting gentle lines across the floor. Her books lay untouched on the desk. The notes she had once reviewed religiously now sat half-open, forgotten.
She sat at the edge of her bed, her knees pulled in slightly, arms resting on them as she stared at the silent mana tablet on her nightstand. The events of the evening played on repeat in her mind—the scouts, the praise, the weight of it all.
Irina's words, though few, had been steady in her ears all night.
"You're being watched now. So tread with purpose."
Sylvie had taken those words to heart. Even now, as she sat alone, she could feel the shift. The way people had looked at her—evaluated her—was different. She wasn't just "promising" anymore. She was a candidate. A name. A prospect. And that meant... things would change.
'What should I do?' she wondered, her green eyes distant.
It wasn't just about choosing a guild. It was about deciding who she wanted to be. What kind of healer. What kind of cadet. What kind of person.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft vibration of her mana-engraved communicator—an artifact like most advanced students carried, tuned to key channels.
The name on the projection made her straighten instantly.
Headmaster Jonathan.
Or, as she still called him in private—
"Master," she whispered, her hand already moving to accept the call.
The faint outline of his figure appeared above the tablet: tall, composed, every line of his presence as sharp and immutable as a blade unsheathed. Even through the haze of the projection, his eyes were unmistakable—piercing, focused, and unwavering.
"Sylvie," he greeted, his tone low but not cold.
Jonathan's gaze didn't soften, but his tone did—just slightly. "It appears," he said, "you've made quite the impression today."
Sylvie flushed, her fingers tightening where they curled over her knees. She looked down, trying not to fidget, though the quiet flutter in her chest betrayed her composure.
"I've received a number of calls," Jonathan continued, voice even. "From scouts. From representatives. Some more professional than others. All of them very eager."
Sylvie's lips parted faintly, unsure whether to apologize or bask in the quiet warmth she felt rising in her cheeks. "I… didn't expect that many."
"I did," he said simply.
That made her look up.
Jonathan studied her through the projection, his expression unreadable. "You've spent the last two months sharpening more than your magic. You've been learning how to move. How to think. How to trust yourself. All I did was remove the excuses."
Sylvie felt her throat tighten, her chest filling with something close to pride—but steadier, quieter. "Still… I wouldn't have made it here without your guidance. Master."
Jonathan didn't respond immediately. He let the word settle, as if measuring its weight, before inclining his head ever so slightly.
Jonathan's projection remained still for a moment, the edges of his figure flickering faintly with stabilized mana. Then he spoke again, his voice low and deliberate.
"You've earned attention," he said. "And you'll earn more."
Sylvie listened carefully, her posture straightening unconsciously.
"It won't stop here," he continued. "In fact, this is just the beginning. That's why you must get used to it. The weight of being watched. Of being evaluated. Admired. Tested."
He paused, letting the words sink in.
"You already know your talent. Better than anyone else. That's why you cannot let their words define you. Not yet."
Sylvie nodded slowly, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of her blanket. "I understand, Master."
Jonathan studied her a moment longer, then gave a faint nod of approval. "Good."
His hand moved slightly out of frame—adjusting something on his end—and then he said, "For the time being, I'll block incoming contact requests routed to you from external guilds or organizations. You'll still receive updates, but there will be no direct pressure. As you already suspect… the best course is to wait. To watch."
Sylvie let out a small breath of relief. "Thank you. I'd prefer it that way."
His eyes met hers once more—sharp, unreadable, but steady. "Use this time wisely. Sort through your thoughts. The next steps you take will define more than just your career."
She nodded again, more firmly this time. "I will."
With that, Jonathan tapped a control rune on his end. "Good night, Sylvie."
The projection shimmered once… and vanished.
Leaving Sylvie alone in her room, her reflection dimly mirrored in the mana screen's fading glow.
But for the first time that night, her heart felt steady.
She knew where she stood.
And more importantly—she knew that others were starting to see it too.
******
The second day of the midterm practicals dawned colder than the first—gray clouds drifting overhead, diffusing the sunlight into a dull sheen across the academy grounds. Yet despite the gloomier skies, the mood around Team Fourteen was more focused than nervous.
They had gathered early, back at their familiar table in the academy café. Gone was the casual chatter of their earlier meetings. This time, their discussions were tight, deliberate.
Irina stood beside the projection glyph with a steaming mug in her hand, her fingers tapping across the floating interface as she reviewed the terrain specs from yesterday's run. "Yesterday was a ruin-style collapse zone with vertical hazards and open sightlines," she said. "We should expect something different today. Tighter terrain. Probably corridors, or partial blackout."
Jasmine nodded, already sketching angles onto a tactical pad. "I'd bet on a fortified interior. If they want to test adaptability, they'll give us the opposite of what we just cleared."
Astron, seated with his arms crossed and his usual unreadable expression, gave a faint nod. "Control zones or retrieval missions. One of the two."
Layla leaned over Jasmine's shoulder, chewing idly on a piece of energy bread. "Either way, I'll anchor point. We might get ambushed, so stick tighter during the first few minutes. I can take hits, but I can't stop a pincer from three sides if you're all stretched out."
Sylvie had her tablet open, already adjusting her preset enchantment cycles. "I'll keep low-light adjustments pre-loaded in case of blackout. If we get closed corridors, I'll be relying on you two—" she glanced at Jasmine and Irina, "—to control the flow."
Irina took a slow sip of her drink, lips quirking faintly. "Pressure line's ready. Just give me an angle."
"I'll be center support again," Astron said, eyes scanning the map without looking up. "If the terrain shifts mid-battle, I'll flex where needed."
No one questioned it.
The plan was set with the quiet efficiency of a unit that had already survived one storm together—and had no intention of stumbling through the next.
At 12:40 PM, they stood and gathered their gear.
Armor was checked. Weapons adjusted. Mana reserves confirmed. Each movement was smoother than yesterday. Quicker. Sharper.
By the time they arrived at the briefing zone, they were already being waved in by the coordinator.
"Team Fourteen," the instructor announced. "You're cleared. Proceed to Gate B. Today's parameters will be revealed inside the entrance. Your score and survival conditions will depend on successful retrieval of the core object."
The scouts were already watching.
Not as many as the day before, but enough.
Still, none of the cadets flinched—not even Sylvie.
Not anymore.
They stepped toward the gate.
And with a final glance between each other—Irina adjusting her gloves, Layla steadying her stance, Jasmine flashing a razor smile, Sylvie exhaling evenly, Astron lowering his gaze to the glyph—they moved as one.
Into the dungeon.
Ready for round two.
Chapter 1023 - Second (2)
The clang of metal against bone echoed through the narrow corridor as Layla drove her shield into the maw of a burrowing beast that had erupted from the wall beside her. Its jagged, chitin-covered limbs scraped furiously against her armguard, trying to force its way around her block—but she held firm, teeth clenched, knees locked.
A burst of light surged from behind.
Sylvie's glyph pulsed outward, reinforcing Layla's leg strength just in time to prevent a full collapse.
"Still holding," Layla grunted, though her breath hitched with strain.
Jasmine, just to her right, spun in a tight arc, her blade dragging sparks across the ground before she severed a second crawler lunging from the ceiling. She panted hard, sweat streaking down her jawline. "Too many angles—walls, floor, ceiling. They're everywhere."
"They're cornering us," Sylvie said, already adjusting her mana thread layout behind them. "They're using heat signatures from contact points to predict movement. We can't stay in formation much longer."
Irina's flames scorched a fresh wave of crawling horrors ahead, but even she could tell—the corridor's shape had worked against their usual layout. The tight turns and uneven terrain meant the burden of contact had fallen heavily on Jasmine and Layla to hold the forward arc. And they were paying for it now.
"They're trying to exhaust us," Astron said flatly from the back, where he stood over a fallen wall section, eyes still scanning. His daggers were bloodied, but his breathing was steady. "We're nearly through. One more junction before the core chamber."
Jasmine staggered slightly, her blade faltering mid-swing before she forced herself upright again. "Then let's push."
Layla gave a short nod, sweat dripping from her chin as she slammed her shield forward one more time, clearing a brief opening.
Irina stepped into it, her flames flaring wide, cleansing the tunnel ahead with a sweeping arc of heat.
The monsters shrieked.
The stone glowed red.
And in the silence that followed, only the team's breathing remained—harsh, ragged, but unbroken.
"We're close," Astron said again, stepping forward now, the faint shimmer of trap lines visible through his mana-sight.
"One last corridor," Sylvie confirmed, the glow from her gloves dim but unwavering.
Layla panted, shaking out her arms. "Then let's finish this."
And they moved again—bloodied, tired, but sharper than steel.
The final stretch awaited.
*****
The dungeon exit flared to life with a hiss of released pressure, mana seals unraveling in slow concentric pulses as the gate reopened. One by one, Team Fourteen stepped out—each of them marked by the unmistakable signs of a hard-fought battle.
Layla's armor was scorched and scraped, one shoulder visibly dented from where she'd taken the full force of a pouncing crawler. Jasmine's side was stained with dried blood, her gait uneven as she pressed a hand to her ribs. Sylvie looked drained, the blue glow of her gloves dimmed to a faint pulse. Irina's cloak was tattered along the hem, the ends burned from overuse of flame. And Astron, though the least visibly damaged, carried several new gashes along his arms—quickly sealed, but deep enough to prove engagement.
They looked like they'd clawed their way through the dungeon—and they had.
The staff on standby glanced up as they emerged, some making quick notes, others murmuring into communication crystals.
Jasmine exhaled hard, brushing a hand through her damp bangs as she glanced at the group. "That was rougher than I thought it'd be."
Layla grunted in agreement, her fingers flexing stiffly. "I couldn't hold everything. Not like last time. They kept slipping past."
There was a note of frustration in her voice—low, tight. Not anger, but disappointment.
Jasmine added quietly, "I think I slowed us down. I couldn't clear the second wave fast enough. Astron had to cover for me twice."
Irina looked between them, then shook her head. "You were fine."
Layla blinked, caught off guard. "You're not just saying that?"
Irina's gaze was cool, but not sharp. "If I thought you were dragging us down, I'd tell you."
Sylvie offered a soft smile, brushing her thumb against the faint burn along Layla's forearm. "It was a bad environment for both of you. Cramped terrain, constant angles, poor visibility. That's a nightmare for your styles."
Astron, now standing near the exit terminal, gave a faint nod without turning around. "Not every dungeon is compatible with the kind of hunter you are. That's how it works."
His voice was calm. Unapologetic. But it wasn't cold—just honest.
"You held the line when it mattered," he continued. "The formation didn't collapse. That's what matters."
There was a moment of stillness as Astron's words settled—low, steady, and unexpectedly grounding.
Layla glanced at him sidelong, eyes narrowing faintly—not in irritation, but surprise. Jasmine raised an eyebrow, half-expecting some kind of biting follow-up. None came.
Sylvie looked between them, her expression softening.
Jasmine broke the silence first. "Huh. Was that supposed to be encouraging?"
Astron didn't respond.
Layla gave a tired snort and nudged Jasmine's elbow. "Just take it as a compliment. That's as much as he gives."
Jasmine scoffed, but her grin was genuine. "Thanks, I guess."
Sylvie added quietly, "We appreciate it. Really."
Astron didn't look back. But he nodded once—enough.
The group stood in silence a moment longer, catching their breath, the cool air of the exit corridor washing gently over their sweat-slicked faces. The fatigue in their bones began to settle heavier now that the adrenaline had worn off.
"I'm calling it," Layla said, stretching her arms with a groan. "Shower. Bed. Nothing else."
"Same," Jasmine said, already turning away. "If I'm late tomorrow, tell Reynold I got eaten."
Sylvie gave a small smile, tucking a strand of damp hair behind her ear. "See you guys later."
One by one, the girls peeled away, footsteps echoing down the stone hall.
Irina lingered.
She stepped up beside Astron, her presence unannounced but unmistakable.
He didn't look at her at first.
Only when the sound of the others faded entirely did he shift, eyes narrowing slightly at the subtle heat still radiating from her form.
"Staying behind?" he asked.
Irina glanced in the direction the others had gone. "Just for a minute."
A pause.
She tilted her head slightly, studying his face—quiet, unreadable as always.
Then—quiet, almost an afterthought—she spoke.
"You... You proposed that formation so they could shine, didn't you?"
Astron didn't flinch. Didn't shift.
He simply turned his head slightly toward her, his expression as still as ever.
Then he shrugged.
He didn't deny it. He didn't confirm it, either. But in the way his eyes lingered—not dismissive, not surprised—she had her answer.
It was his job, after all.
In Team Fourteen, Astron had naturally become the strategist. No one had ever officially assigned him the role. It had just... happened. He scouted, observed, made the calls. He read terrain patterns, tracked mana distortions, adjusted team positions. And everyone followed—not because he demanded it, but because he was always right.
And this dungeon had been no different.
He was the one who had first mapped the branching paths, who had marked the choke points and warned about the aerial ambushes. He was the one who had drawn the tactical formation that placed Jasmine and Layla in the most dangerous forward arcs—while Sylvie handled support in more exposed intervals, and Irina kept the midline with room to maneuver.
It wasn't an optimized layout for speed.
And Irina had noticed that. They could've completed the route faster if she and Sylvie had pulled more weight from the start. Her range, Sylvie's support density, Astron's stealth—those three alone could have blazed through it.
But that hadn't been the plan.
Because the formation wasn't about efficiency.
It was about exposure.
About giving Jasmine and Layla room to feel pressure—and room to fight under it.
Irina folded her arms slowly, her eyes narrowing just slightly—not out of annoyance, but consideration.
"You didn't tell them," she said after a moment. "You knew it'd be harder that way. You let them struggle."
Astron looked ahead again, voice flat. "Struggling is the point."
His tone wasn't cruel.
It was clear.
Irina's gaze softened.
There it was again—that quiet principle behind the way he moved. Behind the things he didn't say.
He didn't hand things to people. He didn't offer comfort. But he placed them exactly where they needed to be... to break. Or grow.
Maybe both.
Chapter 1024 - Second (3)
Irina's gaze lingered on him, the faint glow of the mana gate casting a pale rimlight along the edge of Astron's profile. Always still, always composed, always just slightly unreadable—even now, after everything.
She let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and an exhale.
"It's strange," she said, her voice low, almost amused. "Watching you do all these thoughtful things with that weird, impassive face of yours."
Astron didn't answer.
Didn't glance her way. Didn't give a shrug or a smirk or even a blink longer than necessary. Just stood there, his hand still gloved, his presence quiet.
Predictably quiet.
And maybe because of that, Irina's smile only widened.
She stepped closer—not dramatically, just enough to close the air between them—and without asking, without warning, she reached down and took his hand.
Not forcefully. Not hesitantly.
Just… took it.
Astron's fingers tensed for half a second in response, the barest flinch of someone not used to being touched without tactical reason.
Irina held it anyway.
Warm. Direct. Steady.
"I like it," she said, her smile crooked now—genuine in a way that cut through the usual fire she carried.
'It shows you are getting better and better.'
Astron didn't reply.
But he didn't pull away.
And in the quiet that followed, the pulse of the gate dimmed entirely behind them—leaving only the soft hum of mana settling back into the stones, and the weight of a moment that neither of them needed to explain.
*****
The scout hall was quieter now.
The heavy press of first-day fervor had faded into something leaner. More measured. Less crowded.
Gone were the overeager contractors and wide-eyed freelancers. What remained were the ones who understood the game: career hunters turned talent brokers, guild tacticians with clearance, military strategists in plain uniform.
They no longer scrambled to tag every standout.
They watched. Waited. Focused.
But even among the veterans, one name remained on everyone's internal lists.
Sylvie Gracewind.
And yet—
Nothing.
No footage beyond official combat reels.
No post-dungeon sightings in scout-cleared cafeterias or open lounges.
No off-duty glimpses near the public walkways or student networking halls.
"She's avoiding us," one scout said flatly, his arms crossed as he leaned against a projection table.
The woman next to him, from Dawn's Cross, didn't look up. "No. She's avoiding attention."
A third scoffed quietly. "Same thing."
But none of them denied it.
Because it had become obvious by Day Three: Sylvie wasn't coming to them.
The academy had released a formal bulletin earlier that morning—low-key, but pointed. A gentle reminder of Article 17-A, which barred scout groups from initiating direct outreach beyond designated interaction zones.
They framed it as a matter of cadet focus. Stress minimization.
But everyone knew what it meant.
Too many eyes on too few names.
And one name in particular?
Had vanished.
"She's smart," muttered one of the Blackstone scouts, running the footage back through mana filters. "Stays with her squad, avoids isolated rotations, never lingers after dungeon clears. Not a single recorded visit to the usual hotspots."
"Someone's guiding her," said the older man beside him. "Could be Emberheart. Could be that boy. Astron."
"She's not hiding," the Dawn's Cross woman corrected. "She's managing exposure. That's different."
Either way—
The result was the same.
No approach. No conversation. No opening.
And that was fine.
Disappointing, yes. But not unexpected.
The smart ones never made it easy.
And so, without protest, the scouts shifted their lenses.
Today, their attention turned fully to the two names they could still read in real time:
Layla Calderon.
Jasmine Myre.
On-screen, the pair moved in tandem through a wind-blasted ridge formation—Dungeon Three's primary terrain.
Layla's stance had changed since the earlier runs.
Her shield handling had grown tighter, not in caution, but in structure. She no longer waited for impact. She anticipated pressure points, using terrain advantage to meet momentum before it hit her.
"She's breaking engagement flow," one observer muttered. "That's frontliner instinct. She's not waiting for the hit anymore. She's setting the angle."
Jasmine, too, was adjusting.
Where she'd once relied on flash-step mobility and reactive feints, now she layered her strikes—disruptive bursts followed by position theft. She moved more like a vanguard than a rogue—slipping into space Layla created, then forcing follow-ups with her own tempo shifts.
"Hard to flank when the second line collapses inward on cue," said a tactical analyst from Silverhammer, tapping timestamps. "That's trained synergy."
And the two together?
They moved with a kind of pressure-trained rhythm—rough-edged, maybe, but undeniably coherent. One advanced, the other filled. One struck, the other redirected. There was no wasted motion between them.
The Silverhammer analyst paused the stream, then leaned back slowly.
"…We were too focused on the Emberheart girl and the healer."
No one disagreed.
Yesterday, the board had been dominated by flames and resonance glyphs. The scouts had watched for brilliance. For refined spellwork. For innovation.
But this dungeon?
This was different.
Wind-heavy ridges. Sloped terrain. Visibility shifts.
A battlefield that actively punished forward line fighters.
Layla and Jasmine's affinities were ill-suited to it. Their control zones disrupted. Their movement channels fractured.
Yet—
They adapted.
Quietly. Without flare.
And that mattered.
"It's not about ceiling," one of the Blackstone scouts murmured, flicking through comparative feeds. "It's about floor. And they've raised theirs again."
He brought up prior footage from Dungeon One. Layla's timing had been slower. Jasmine's flanking less disciplined. It was subtle, but this latest run was sharper, tighter.
Effort left a mark.
"They're not Sylvie," said the woman from Dawn's Cross. "And they're not Irina."
"But they're clearly learning," added another voice. "Quickly. Under fire."
And that alone—
Was worth watching.
Names were updated.
Layla Calderon — Confirmed Shortlist.
Jasmine Myre — Confirmed Shortlist.
They weren't highlighted. Not flagged as first-priority prospects.
But they were no longer just background to Sylvie's brilliance or Irina's bloodline.
They were discernible.
Visible.
Reliable.
And in the long war that was guild development?
That meant something.
The screen dimmed.
And the scouts, without ceremony or chatter, began preparing for the next evaluation.
Because Team Fourteen wasn't just Irina and Sylvie anymore.
The other two were also not bad.
And the world had started to notice.
The screen dimmed.
And the scouts, without ceremony or chatter, began preparing for the next evaluation.
Because Team Fourteen wasn't just Irina and Sylvie anymore.
The other two were also not bad.
And the world had started to notice.
Then—
A shift in the chamber.
Not physical.
Not magical.
Just a voice—low, crisp, and immediately magnetic—carried from one of the upper-tier platforms.
"Ethan Hartley's team is entering."
It wasn't shouted.
It didn't need to be.
Because the moment that name left the scout's mouth, the atmosphere in the chamber changed.
Chairs swiveled. Screens adjusted. Conversations stilled.
Dozens of fingers flicked across crystal consoles, tuning feed allocations to a new window—marked now with a glowing identifier:
[DUNGEON FOUR – TEAM SIX: ENTRY SEQUENCE INITIATED]
Lead Cadet: Ethan Hartley
The weight behind the name wasn't just legacy.
It wasn't just bloodline.
It was momentum.
Because in the past few weeks—after every rotation, every challenge, every ranked bout—Ethan Hartley's name had risen.
Not loud.
But steadily. Irrefutably.
"He's finally at the front," one of the analysts murmured, leaning forward. "Let's see what he does with it."
Several scouts nodded, already aligning visual focus on the portal view.
No one said it aloud.
But the implication was clear:
Team Fourteen had made the board.
But Ethan Hartley?
It was a name that had far longer surpassed them in the name.