Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

Chapter 794 Chapter 183.4 - Outer Currents

Chapter 794  Chapter 183.4 - Outer Currents

The opulent room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a warm amber hue over the lavish furnishings. Ornate carvings adorned the dark wood furniture, and luxurious velvet curtains framed the tall windows. The air was scented with a faint trace of expensive cologne, mingled with the lingering scent of intimacy. In the center of the room, a massive bed with silk sheets lay in disarray. Zafira reclined against the pillows, her raven-black hair spilling over her bare shoulders like a dark cascade. Beside her, a young man slept soundly, his face serene but his body showing signs of exhaustion. His chest rose and fell steadily, the sheets barely covering his well-defined physique. Zafira's lips curved into a satisfied smile as she glanced at him. Her fingers absentmindedly traced the intricate patterns on the silk sheets. The room's opulence, the man's identity, none of it truly mattered to her. What mattered was what she had achieved. Her crimson eyes gleamed with triumph as she reflected on the events that led her here. She had infiltrated the academy during the final exams, sensing the faint yet unmistakable energy of Belthazor. But despite her efforts, she hadn't been able to confirm the true owner of that power. It was fleeting, elusive, slipping through her grasp like smoke. 'A one-time opportunity wasted,' she thought, her smile fading for a brief moment. 'That's why I needed a more secure foothold. Something more... permanent.' She turned her gaze to the young man sleeping beside her. His identity wasn't important, just as his actions during their encounter weren't. What mattered was his position—a hunter with credentials, and more importantly, someone with an inroad to the academy. Her smile returned, this time laced with wicked satisfaction. 'Taking the body of another hunter… it's almost too easy. Their ambition, their pride… they make for such willing tools.' Leaning closer to the man, she weaved her hand around him, her fingers tracing the lines of his tired body. "You have proven to be quite useful…" she murmured, her voice a sultry whisper. "And you were quite fine in bed too…" Her smile widened, cold and merciless. "Though sadly, this is the end." With a flick of her wrist, a faint pulse of dark energy emanated from her fingers, flowing into the man's forehead. His body twitched slightly before falling still, his peaceful expression undisturbed. His memories of the night—of Zafira's presence, of everything they'd shared—were wiped clean in an instant. Zafira sat up, her movements fluid and deliberate. She dressed swiftly, her mind already focused on the next step of her plan. As she adjusted her attire, she cast one last glance at the man who had unwittingly served his purpose. "Thank you," she said softly, her tone almost mockingly tender. "Your sacrifice will not be forgotten… for as long as I need it." With that, she slipped out of the room, her presence fading into the shadows. The rich hunter would wake up hours later, disoriented but none the wiser, and Zafira would be long gone. But now, she had what she needed—a solid position within the academy and a path closer to her true objective. As she walked into the cool night air, her smile returned. The hunt was far from over, but the pieces were falling into place. ********** A vast chamber stretched out in shadowed grandeur, a Gothic masterpiece bathed in the pale kiss of moonlight. The ceilings arched impossibly high, their darkened spires vanishing into an inky void, as if trying to pierce the heavens themselves. Silver beams filtered through stained glass windows, depicting twisted yet awe-inspiring tales of ancient saints and sinners, their intricate colors muted by the night. Stone columns lined the cathedral, each a towering sentinel carved with grotesques—some angelic, others monstrous, their gazes eternal and unyielding. Between them hung black iron candelabras, their wax-dripped candles snuffed out long ago, leaving the hall to echo with an eerie, sacred silence. Artifacts were scattered throughout like forgotten relics of a bygone age. A gilded chalice rested atop a marble pedestal, its edges encrusted with jewels that caught the moonlight like tiny stars. Along the walls, towering suits of armor stood at attention, their hollow visages staring forward as though keeping a vigil. A massive organ loomed at the far end of the hall, its pipes gleaming faintly, promising a thunderous hymn that might shatter the stillness if played. And there, amidst the majesty and the shadows, a man stood. His figure was tall and commanding, his posture regal yet unnervingly still, as though he were a marble statue come to life. The moonlight seemed to seek him out, outlining his sharp features with a silver edge. His high cheekbones and chiseled jaw bore the marks of age and wisdom, while his deep-set eyes gleamed with a cold, calculating light. A large mustache adorned his face, meticulously groomed and curling at the ends with precision, as if mocking the disorder of the world around him. His attire was as striking as the man himself—a deep crimson coat, its trim lined with black velvet, draped over a crisp white shirt. Gold chains hung from his vest, catching faint glimmers of light, while a black cape with a blood-red lining flowed down his back like a shadow refusing to detach itself. In his gloved hands, he held an ornate cane, the handle shaped like a raven's head, carved from dark ebony. The air around him was heavy, not with menace, but with authority. It was as if the cathedral itself bent its will to his presence, and the silence wasn't mere absence of sound—it was submission. He tilted his head slightly, his piercing gaze tracing the outlines of the artifacts, as if assessing their worth. Then, almost imperceptibly, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, his mustache curling slightly upward with the movement. "The past echoes louder in places like this," he murmured, his voice a low, velvety baritone that reverberated faintly off the stone walls. "One only needs to listen carefully… and take what the silence offers." As his words dissolved into the stillness, a faint rustling sound stirred from the shadows behind the columns, too quiet for the ordinary ear to catch. Yet the man didn't flinch, his sharp features remaining calm, his presence unshaken. Instead, he turned his head ever so slightly, allowing the faintest hint of a smile to widen. "Come forward," he said, his voice dripping with quiet command. The sound of footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, a rhythm that seemed almost reverent as it approached. From behind one of the towering columns, a man emerged, his form shadowed yet precise. He moved with purpose, each step deliberate, until he came to a halt a few paces behind the figure in crimson. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head low as the weight of the cathedral's silence pressed down on them both. "Great Master," he said, his voice steady yet laced with reverence, the words ringing clear in the still air. The man in crimson turned slightly, the edge of his cape rippling as though the air itself shifted to accommodate his movement. He didn't look down at the kneeling figure but instead tilted his head, gazing up at the towering stained-glass windows. "What is it, Valthar?" His voice, smooth and commanding, resonated with an undertone that demanded answers without delay. Valthar raised his head slightly, his expression one of solemn pride. "As you instructed, we have begun supplying the Philips Family. The arrangements are in motion, and all is proceeding as we wished." The man in crimson, his sharp features bathed in the cold silver of the moonlight, gave the faintest nod. "Good. As it should be." "And," Valthar continued, "as you predicted, the Emberheart Family has yet to discover our mages' true affiliations. They remain convinced they belong to the Frostborne Family, as you intended." At this, a subtle smile played on the Great Master's lips. He turned fully now, his piercing gaze falling upon the kneeling figure with a quiet intensity. "Of course," he said softly, the words carrying an air of inevitability. "Predictability has always been the weakness of the powerful." For a moment, he said nothing more, letting the weight of his presence fill the space between them. Then, his gaze shifted upward, tracing the cathedral's massive arches, its heights lost in shadow. "One hundred and thirteen years," he murmured, his tone reverent, as though speaking to the cathedral itself. He lowered his gaze back to Valthar, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "Now," he continued, his voice sharp as the edge of a blade, "isn't it finally time for our family to take its rightful place?" Valthar nodded fervently, his hand pressed against his chest in a gesture of loyalty. "It is, Great Master. The pieces are aligning, just as you have foreseen." The man in crimson stepped forward, his boots tapping lightly against the stone as he moved closer to Valthar. He extended a gloved hand, resting it on the man's shoulder, his touch both reassuring and unyielding. "Good." he said simply, his tone a mixture of approval and expectation. The light of the moon shifted, casting his features in stark relief. His smile widened, sharp and calculating. "Prepare the others. The time of silence is over."