Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

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.

He couldn’t.

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

Then—

“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.

Faintly. Razor-thin. Cold.

“I’m not lying, though.”

The pressure paused—not fully receding, but faltering. A sliver of uncertainty.

And Lucas pushed it further.

His voice was hoarse now, strained from the air that wouldn’t come—but it carried power.

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

Another breath forced its way through clenched teeth.

“Don’t forget where you are.”

That landed.

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…

There would be consequences.

For both of them.

Lucas’s smile widened slightly. His voice low, mocking now.

“Unless you’re here to trigger a lockdown… Butler.”

The demonic pressure wavered.

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

The air rushed back into Lucas’s lungs all at once. He stumbled half a step, coughed once, hard, but never lost his stance.

His heart thundered in his ears—but his eyes remained steady.

Still smiling.

Still dangerous.

And beneath it all, one message repeated in his mind like a drumbeat:

That’s right.

You’re not the only one playing games.

The pressure withdrew fully now—not vanished, but pulled back like a claw resting just above his skin, waiting.

The air still felt charged. Taut. But Lucas could breathe again.

And then the voice came once more, quieter this time—no longer coiled with threat, but with something more pointed. Curious. Measured.

“You know me?”

It echoed faintly, but not into the hallway—into him. Not like a voice spoken aloud, but like something brushing along the inner wall of his thoughts.

Lucas didn’t hesitate.

He lifted his chin slightly, brushing a gloved thumb under the edge of his collar as if adjusting it—casual, confident, just enough to provoke.

“Belthazor spoke highly of you.”

A lie.

A bold one.

But that was the thing with creatures like them—they never truly knew how much their own kind had said behind closed doors. And in a realm built on secrecy, sometimes being certain was more powerful than being right.

He watched the silhouette closely, searching for any flicker, any twitch, any ripple. But it didn’t respond immediately.

That was good.

Lucas pressed just a little further, carefully layering tone and weight into his words.

“He said you moved like a rumor.”

“That you were the hand that passed through courtrooms and coffins without leaving a mark.”

The shimmer stilled.

No laughter.

But the silence that followed wasn’t rejection. It was recognition. Maybe not of the words—but of the myth.

And so Lucas let his voice drop a touch more, just enough to feel like something earned, something shared.

“He said…”

“…you were the only one he couldn’t see coming.”

There it was.

A pause.

A hesitation.

A flicker in the air that wasn’t just reaction—it was consideration.

You’re listening now, Lucas thought.

Good.

He had no idea what Belthazor would’ve said about this… thing.

But now, it didn’t matter.

Because they believed there could have been a conversation.

And that alone meant Lucas had just shifted the balance.

He didn’t need to be trusted.

He just needed to be useful.

And from the stillness that followed, he could tell:

They were wondering if he was.

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