Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

“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.

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