(bruh forgot to release this chapter)
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Aster was sitting now, spine resting against the elevated edge of the infirmary cot, a cooling spell sewn into the bed beneath him that hummed faintly with runic pulses. His legs dangled limply off the side, bare toes grazing the chilly wooden floor. Across the room, a nurse ward muttered to herself as she restocked healing tinctures into glowing drawers marked with soft green sigils.
Outside the infirmary's wide crystalglass windows, the morning sun painted long shadows across the charred remains of the academy's northern quadrant. The barrier dome overhead shimmered faintly—patched but not whole.
The Academy of Valebourne was still bleeding.
His hand trembled.
It wasn't just from fatigue. Not anymore. Not even from mana burnout, though that weight still hung over him like a fog. It was something deeper. Something colder.
He had killed. Not once, not in self-defense on instinct, but dozens of times. Consciously. Carefully. Efficiently.
And he remembered it all now.
The phantom weight of claws slicing toward him. The way time bent, fractured, then slowed. His class awakening had seized control of his senses with a predator's focus. Each motion, each death—it was methodical. Calculated. The system hadn't guided him this time. It had… observed.
And at the peak of it all—when he'd torn through the last demon with nothing but a scorched metal rod—he had heard it.
> "Class Awakening Complete. Class Path: [Phantom Reaver]. Classification: Rare. Sub-Type: Instinctual Executioner."
But it was more than that. Something had whispered. A voice beneath the system. Low. Amused. Almost impressed.
"You are beginning to see."
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The Briefing
By late morning, the survivors were gathered.
Not in the halls of learning, not in any of the great lecture domes—but in the open, beside the statue of Valen the First, whose sword now bore cracks from the battle. The courtyard had been cleared, the stone washed, though the smell of ash clung to the wind.
About two hundred students remained standing.
From the original freshman intake of over four hundred, nearly half had either died, been critically injured, or had withdrawn permanently. Many faces were missing. And those present wore them like ghosts—pale, withdrawn, hardened.
Aster stood among them, arms wrapped tightly in gauze, a faint hum of suppression runes still etched along his veins. He'd tried to wash the blood off his hands three times. It hadn't worked.
At the center stood Headmaster Orin Drel, robed in crimson-black, his voice like dry gravel over a battlefield.
"To those of you who remain: you have earned the right to call yourselves true entrants of Valebourne. The gate has tested you, and you have stepped through it."
A few heads bowed. Others didn't respond.
"There will be no formal punishment for defensive action taken during the invasion. No blame placed. The academy failed you. We acknowledge that."
A ripple passed through the crowd.
"But know this." His gaze sharpened. "The academy is no longer at peace. This was not a random attack. This was a message."
Silence.
"The demons breached six defensive wards. Coordinated. Precise. Almost intelligent. This—" he raised a hand toward the northern side of campus, where several halls still smoldered "—was not meant to be a slaughter. It was meant to be a provocation."
Behind him, Vice-Headmistress Kaelen, the shadowy figure with hair like obsidian flame, stepped forward. Her voice was velvet, laced with steel.
"Which means one thing. War is on the horizon."
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Aster's Aftermath
Later that evening, Aster sat atop the western tower balcony—the only place that still smelled like old books and summer air.
He needed space. Quiet. Not more condolence glances. Not more whispers about how many he'd killed.
That number had spread. Sixty-two. People were counting.
He didn't even remember the sixty-second one. Only that it had lunged at someone else, and his body had moved before his brain caught up.
Was that him now? Was that… who he'd become?
He touched the faint mark etched along the inside of his forearm. A tattoo-like brand that had appeared during the Awakening. Angular. Black. Pulsing gently with mana when he focused on it.
> [Class Trait: Echo Drift (Passive)]
Your reflexes flicker half a second into the future during life-threatening events.
Warning: Trait bypasses conscious control.
Side effects: Mental fatigue, fragmented foresight, mild reality dissonance.
He sighed.
"So that's what near-death insurance looks like," he muttered.
There were other system logs, too. Aster had finally opened the new panel that appeared after the Awakening:
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SYSTEM – CLASS MODULE
> Class: Phantom Reaver
Class Type: Execution Instinct / Adaptive Assassin
Core Traits:
Echo Drift (Passive): Partial reflex foresight during combat
Phantom Step (Active – Lv.1): Dash through enemies in a short burst of intangibility
Crimson Dissonance (Locked): ???
Affinity Gain:
+3 Perception
+2 Agility
+2 Willpower
New Stat: Blood Imprint
Represents synchronization with combat instincts.
Current Value: 17%
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Even now, his hand twitched slightly when the wind howled. He could still see the red in his peripheral vision. Hear the scream of steel against bone.
And worst of all—he didn't know if he regretted it.
The academy had failed. But he hadn't. And that scared him.
In the reflection of the tower's glass, he saw someone new.
Not a predator. Not a hero. But something born between the two.
He leaned back, one hand curled around the last piece of toast he'd stolen from the mess hall. Cold. Crunchy.
He took a bite.
"…Guess I'm in it now."
The system pinged gently.
> [You have survived a Major Unforeseen Event. Trait Stability has increased.]
[You are being watched.]
Aster blinked.
Wait. What?
Watched?
> [??? has marked you as "Anomaly." Surveillance engaged.]
He looked up sharply at the empty sky. But there was no one. Nothing. Just wind.
And a faint laugh that brushed his ear.
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