Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

Chapter 1073: Chapter 254.2 – Return to the base

The cab slid to a halt.

No words were exchanged.

The doors parted with a faint hiss, and Astron stepped out into the streets of Arcadia’s southern industrial scape.

Unlike the gleaming glass corridors of the upper districts, this place breathed in gradients of gray. Steel-paneled warehouses loomed on either side of the road, their surfaces etched with old company tags, half-faded sigils, and rusted stabilization anchors that buzzed faintly with residual charge. The air carried the scent of processed mana—burnt ozone mixed with the chemical tang of coolant runoff.

He didn’t pause.

His boots hit the pavement in practiced rhythm, each step muffled against the textured polymer streets. Overhead, the sky was darker here—less light bleed, more coverage. No advertisement projections. No transport rails above. Just static towers in the distance and the intermittent hum of arcane conduits.

Astron lifted his smartwatch again.

The device flared to life without prompt, recognizing its wielder instantly and shifting to a secured interface. A faint glyph pulsed at the top right of the screen—a mark only Adepts within the Organization could see.

He tapped the mission seal once. The location registered.

───

| Entry Point: Sector S-19, Corridor Vault 7

| Distance: 0.4 km

| Clearance: Confirmed

───

The moment he stepped beyond the 200-meter security buffer, the watch shimmered again—this time releasing a subtle pulse through the inner weave of his coat. The mana thread along his collar flared once in sequence. A response signal. The embedded enchantment confirming synchronization.

Which meant he was close.

Astron turned down an alley that cut sharply through the edge of the main sector.

It was narrower here, quieter. The buildings around him seemed to lean slightly inward, giving the illusion of a closing mouth—old infrastructure designed to contain and deflect field energy in case of rupture. Patches of moss and tech-lichen crawled up the sides of some walls, feeding on mana leaks.

And then, there it was.

A rusted delivery chute half-submerged in a freight depot wall. Most would mistake it for part of the decommissioned supply line. To Astron, however, the shimmer of mana along its seam told a different story.

Another pulse confirmed the match.

───

| Corridor Vault 7 Identified

| Status: Sealed – Awaiting Adept Entry

───

Astron crouched briefly and pressed his gloved hand against the intake valve.

The intake valve hissed under Astron’s touch.

Soft light webbed out from beneath his palm, tracing invisible lines across the chute’s rusted surface. A moment passed—then another—as the glyphs responded to his psion signature. The edges of the metal rippled faintly, like heat distortion warping steel.

And then—

sh̵̛̩̝̊̆i̶͖̘̎̽̎̅͗͠f̸̢̨͓͚͚̩̝̏͋̎͌͠t̶̞̰̬͙̠͙̖̓̍…̷̠̮̿̌b̷̨̛̮͌̈́͗̿͠é̶̢͈̝̿̎͛̐̕ͅl̶̤͔̟̤̗͓̾̄̈́̍͂̓͘o̶͈̓͋̌͝w̴̲̜̘̘̘̲̓͊͐͌̇…̶̢̥͕̔͆̐͂͒̌͐…

The sound was not sound—not language, not exactly. It trembled from above and below, leaking through dimensions like oil through fractured glass. The sky itself darkened. Not visibly. But energetically—as if some unseen curtain had drawn shut over reality’s frame.

Astron stilled.

The glyphs under his hand pulsed harder, brighter—until one flared white.

Then—

the world cracked.

No pull.

No flash.

Just a singular, silent collapse—

—and Astron was gone.

The rusted chute hissed once more, as if exhaling after a long breath.

And silence returned.

White.

Not bright. Not glowing. Not blinding.

Just an endless, quiet white.

Then came sound.

Soft at first, like rainfall against paper. A low, continuous whisper echoing through fabric-wrapped halls. Then came structure—rising from the nothing, assembling itself in vertical lines and geometric calm.

Walls.

Floor.

Ceiling.

All shaped from the same ethereal matter. Smooth stone infused with psion resonance. Familiar. Controlled.

Astron opened his eyes.

He was lying down—not restrained, not confined. Just resting against the padded surface of a low recline bench within a pale, circular room. A monitoring halo hung above his chest, already retracting now that vital signs were confirmed.

He sat up. Instinctively checked his gear. All in place.

Then—he heard the steps.

Soft. Measured.

And through the still-separating wall-panel across from him stepped a young woman. Uniform crisp, bearing the emblem of the Watchers across her right shoulder—a tri-sigiled ring designating logistics and interface operations.

She bowed politely, hands clasped behind her back.

“Welcome back, Adept Astron

Her voice was smooth. Professional. Touched with a melodic cadence, like trained speech enhancers were active at a low frequency.

“I am Rynne, your designated intake assistant for this session. Miss Reina will not be present for this debriefing. She is currently handling Riftline mobilization in Sector Eight.”

Astron stood fully now, coat settling into place.

Astron gave a single nod.

No questions. No hesitation.

Reina’s absence didn’t matter. If she was deployed to Riftline mobilization, then the situation warranted it. And he wasn’t the type to concern himself with deviations in chain of command—not unless they interfered with mission flow.

Rynne turned smoothly on her heel and motioned toward the now-open corridor.

“This way, please.”

They stepped into a wide passage lit by embedded psion threads—blue-white filaments running parallel to the floor, pulsing faintly with directional current. Each pulse matched the rhythm of the main grid, subtly guiding foot traffic forward. Efficient. Functional.

But unlike last time, Arcadia Base was different.

More personnel. More urgency.

Across the transparent lift ramps and magnetic transit platforms, agents in layered uniforms moved in coordinated lines, their arms full of tactical data cores, reinforced carry cases, or field deployment gear. One operant group loaded sealed crates into a multidimensional stasis vault. Another was clustered around a large screen projecting Riftline fluctuations—angular glyphs updating in real time as pulses spiked irregularly across the map.

Even the air felt heavier. Denser with psion flow. Like the very foundation of the base had been tilted slightly forward—poised on the edge of something about to break.

Astron didn’t comment.

He took it all in—the patterns, the rhythm, the way certain movement corridors had shifted since last time. Rerouted traffic lines. Temporary restriction seals on two of the three lift hubs. Signs of mobilization.

“It’s been an active seventy-two hours,” Rynne said, not breaking stride. “Arcadia Riftline readings hit a Tier Four deviation spike at 03:12 last cycle. We initially projected a phantom drift, but then one of the secondary tears held long enough to require spatial stabilization. That confirmed a breach.”

Astron’s gaze lingered on the fluctuating Riftline feed as they passed—a glyphal construct arcing along a central display hub, flickering with red and violet anomalies. The edges of the dimensional markers blurred with instability.

Multiple gates. Unstable coordinates. Breach fluctuation patterns inconsistent.

This wasn’t just a singular failure point. It was a network destabilization.

He understood immediately.

The Riftlines—dimensional gateways that the Organization monitored, regulated, and at times weaponized—were beginning to slip outside controlled bounds. That’s why he had been called. That’s why the Arcadia Base pulsed like a living nerve center on edge.

Not for one mission. But for a coming wave.

Rynne continued, voice calm but clipped with logistical urgency. “At present, we’ve logged thirteen minor gate flickers within the past two cycles. Four of them self-collapsed. Two were forced shut. The remaining seven have persistent pressure signatures—likely connected to external forces attempting traversal.”

Astron’s expression didn’t change, but his mind began sketching probabilities. Pressure meant intent. Intent meant coordination. And coordination across gates was never random.

“Until Miss Reina returns,” Rynne said, guiding him down another curved passageway—this one quieter, shielded from the main command floor by a layer of sigil-stabilized paneling—”you’re to remain inside the base. No external assignments will be authorized. Once she’s debriefed and reassumes operational command, your mission queue and Adept-class placement will be finalized.”