Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest-Chapter 1003: Chaoter 235.3 - Practical Mid-terms

Reina's gaze softened—fractionally. Just enough for Astron to notice.

But then, she leaned back, the formal steel returning to her tone like a reflex.

"That's all for now. I'll forward the encrypted transcript of the fluctuations we recorded—review it when your schedule allows."

Astron gave a slight nod.

Reina's expression remained composed, but there was something behind it. A sliver of something quieter, not spoken aloud.

"And Astron?"

He paused. "Yes?"

"Do well on your exams," she said, tone light—but firm. "Your instructors are watching. And so am I."

A beat. Then, a dry smile ghosted across her lips.

"I expect results."

The connection blinked out before he could reply. The mana-screen dissolved into particles, fading back into the stillness of his room.

Silence returned.

Astron didn't move at first. His eyes lingered on the wall for a few seconds longer, watching the faint remnants of residual mana spiral through the air like embers left in reverse.

Then, slowly, he turned—his gaze shifting toward the arcane-etched wall opposite his desk.

Blank. Silent. Unchanging.

But not unseen.

His fingers hovered near the side of his eye for a breath, then dropped.

What does this mean?

He'd already sensed it.

Yesterday, just before midnight. The sky had shifted. Not in color, but in structure. The clouds had frozen mid-motion, and the thunder hadn't rumbled—it had curled, folding over itself like a looped frequency.

The leylines pulsed in reverse. The ambient mana began spiraling inward instead of outward.

He'd stared at the distortion for nearly thirty seconds—his [Eyes] active, locked on the deviation.

And it had almost broken him.

Not from pain. Not from pressure.

But from information.

He'd seen things—shapes, symbols, inverted echoes of runes that didn't belong to any modern system. Foreign anchors floating in the sky. Tethers that weren't connected to the land, but to something else entirely. Something distant.

At some point, the volume of raw data had overwhelmed him. His vision bled silver, and his perception twisted into noise.

He was forced to shut his [Eyes] off.

Just to remain grounded.

That should not have been possible.

Even when facing illusion domains, even under Reina's direct projection trials—he'd never been forced to disable his gift.

But last night…

It wasn't like looking at the world's secrets.

It was like the world was looking back.

Yet this was not the important thing.

He stared at the wall, unblinking.

Not because it held any answers.

But because it didn't.

Under twenty-one.

That was what Reina had said.

The gates are choosing based on age.

Not affinity. Not training. Not achievement. Just… youth.

His hands folded over his knees, fingers tapping once against the fabric of his pants.

Why?

The logic eluded him. In the framework of the natural world—of mana physics and system thresholds—there was no reason for dimensional access points to begin selecting based on such a human criterion. Age wasn't a construct of magic. It was biological. Arbitrary.

And yet, here it was.

The gates weren't opening for veterans, no matter their power.

Only for them.

This isn't how it happened in the game.

His eyes narrowed, the glow of recent mana data still faint in his pupils.

In Legacy of Shadows: The Hunter's Destiny, the event that shifted the world's balance came much later. Well past the academy arcs. Well past the awakening of personal Authorities.

It was the Descent of the Demon King.

A cataclysmic invasion from another realm. A point of origin descending upon the world like a corrupted sun, warping the mana system—not redirecting it. Not filtering who could enter gates.

It thickened the mana.

That was the canonical trigger.

Every leyline surged. Every zone outside major settlements became hostile. Dungeons spawned with greater frequency because of destabilized dimensional seams—not choice.

There was no selection mechanism.

No preference for age.

Just chaos.

This… this was different.

This feels… orchestrated.

He leaned back against the wall, his eyes drifting upward toward the ceiling—where a faint pulse of stabilized mana shimmered behind the room's protective enchantments.

Someone is choosing.

That was the only explanation.

And that someone wasn't part of the game's original script.

A systemic fluctuation? That could be attributed to engine divergence. Anomaly spawn rate spike? Possible early trigger due to butterfly effects. But selective access based on age?

That was new code.

New rules.

And that meant one thing above all:

Someone—or something—was rewriting the narrative.

Astron closed his eyes for a moment.

The world is being rewritten.

Those had been Reina's words.

He agreed with Reina.

The world was being rewritten.

And he had known it would be, ever since that night. The night he woke in this body—not just as someone who had transmigrated, but as someone who had merged.

The original Astron Natusalune wasn't erased. His memories weren't overwritten. They had become one. Layered. Interwoven. A soul from another world, fused with the instincts and scars of a boy bred in silence and shadows. It wasn't a possession. It wasn't a takeover. It was a convergence.

And because of that—because he bore both understanding and foundation—the world had no choice but to begin deviating.

Things were always bound to change. ƒreewebɳovel.com

Butterfly effects had already begun long ago. The first subtle divergences: conversations that hadn't occurred in the game, characters interacting in ways they weren't meant to, minor battles ending in silence instead of conflict. His mere presence, rational and watchful, was enough to tilt balance. Small deviations. Slight shifts.

But this—

This was not slight.

This was a fracture in the narrative's spine.

Gates filtering candidates. Age restrictions imposed by an unknown hand. And now mana itself—one of the constants of this world—bending not due to invasion or war, but due to preference.

His eyes opened again, and for a moment, they shimmered faintly violet.

This will affect the future.

He had studied the game's route like scripture. He had mapped every arc, flagged every event marker. He knew when factions rose and fell, when betrayals occurred, when world events tipped toward oblivion or salvation. Everything had structure. Everything had purpose.

But if the system began rewriting eligibility… then event chains would collapse.

Future bosses—those intended to be fought by veteran Hunters—might never spawn. Some artifacts, bound to open only for certain ages or bloodlines, might now awaken early… or remain sealed. Key characters could be thrown into different arcs—some gaining power before their turning point, others fading into irrelevance because the narrative that once carried them no longer had weight.

And what of the Protagonist?

Ethan's growth was anchored in struggle—crafted to bloom in a world of gradual tension. If the gates began choosing early—if the world accelerated before he had time to build his bonds, to face the right enemies, to awaken his Authority properly—then the whole structure might shatter.

Or worse…

Something new might take center stage.

Astron's hands rested on his knees again. He didn't tremble. He didn't flinch. But his breath slowed—methodical, deliberate.

I've been shaping events carefully. Steadily. Guiding things toward the breakpoint.

The moment everything shifted. The divergence point he intended to reach before too much changed. Before things spiraled into the unknown. He had spent months preparing—cultivating allies, observing threats, manipulating opportunities. A spider's web of plans, all set to trigger once the right catalyst arrived.

But now?

That web was trembling. Not breaking—not yet—but bending beneath pressure from an external hand.

If the world's logic was changing… then so too would the weight of every choice he made.

He narrowed his eyes.

There's still time.

The breakpoint wasn't here yet.

But it was closer.

Closer than he had accounted for.

And now, he would have to think sharper. Cut deeper into the threads of fate before they were rewritten by someone else's hand.