The Crimson Tyrant's Forbidden Source

The Hunt

Chapter 11: The Hunt

The heavy oak doors of the grand hall hadn't even fully settled back into their frames after Julian’s departure before the suffocating silence broke into a frenzied, low frequency hum.

The maritime freshman lay unconscious in the center of the floor, a broken, twisted mess surrounded by a pool of his own rapidly coagulating blood. Nobody stepped forward to help him. In an academy explicitly designed as a closed loop hunting ground, the main objective was to weed out the weak of mind, will, and strength. Here, power is supreme, and the key to not getting your ass beat is knowing who can beat your ass and tactically avoiding any confrontation at all. Mercy was viewed as an unnecessary expenditure of social capital. Instead, the crowd simply shifted their perimeters, adjusting their circles to avoid getting the spreading crimson stain on their tailored footwear.

The music from the orchestra immediately resumed like a phoenix rising from the dead and undergoing Nirvana. The instruments played as if they had never even been interrupted. Instead, the melody surged with a renewed vigor, as if this little incident was the exact spark that lit up the entire atmosphere and turned it into a wildfire. The musicians on the dais played and strummed their instruments as if they were entirely set apart from whatever was going down in that dark corner.

The Vice Dean's heavy sighs were completely drowned out by the orchestra as a paintbrush materialized in his hands.

Eva stood perfectly still near the shadow of the eastern pillar. Her eyes watched as the Vice Dean simply painted a spiral circle onto the thin air. Instantly, both the unconscious boy, the scattered pieces of debris, and the pool of coagulated blood were sucked into the vacuum and vanished completely.

She did not look at Malachi, who was currently standing ten paces away in the dim light as the scarlet hue slowly receded from his eyes, his breathing heavy and ragged. They hadn't spoken a single word since arriving at the academy, and she had no intention of breaking that boundary now or ever. They were not partners; they were not friends. In her view, he was simply a highly volatile variable, a walking environmental hazard. Interacting with him directly without a definitive, calculated advantage was a logical liability she refused to entertain.

What truly bothered her was the fact that she wasn't sure how to deal with such power, especially considering the way he had been staring at her during the few hours she had been here. He looked like a predator staring at prey, and not just any prey, but prey that was already trapped inside its mouth. Truth be told, it might just be her own delusions. She deeply hoped they were just her delusions, or her mind playing tricks on her due to the stress and the complete change of environment. She prayed that was all it was, though she had a numbing feeling at the back of her head that there was far more to it. Honestly, even her appearance at this academy didn't seem like that much of a coincidence. It was almost as if there was an invisible life form steering her life behind the scenes, a feeling she absolutely abhorred.

Bzzzt. Bzzzt.

The synchronized vibration of dozens of smartphones echoed against the high marble ceiling, a dull, mechanical drone that completely cut through the ambient whispers. Eva didn't need to pull out her own device to know what the notification was. The Chaos Ranking application’s backend algorithm was working in real time, its localized kinetic and spiritual sensors carrying instant gossip about exactly what had just occurred.

On the digital interface of everyone’s screens, the data fields were fluctuating wildly. A new anomaly record had just been generated under the name "Malachi Cross," and the sheer volume of instant student searches was causing the application's light blue warning interface to blink rapidly in the dark. The entire internal hierarchy of the lower pavilion was being rewritten on a Friday night, and the seniors on the upper tiers were already staring down, their eyes scanning the floor to take note of the potential freshmen who could bring the most benefits to their respective houses.

It didn't take long for the first move to be made. In a hunting ground, a vacuum of power is filled within minutes.

Eva watched on as the induction was completed without any more fuss, and the upper pavilion was finally opened to the freshmen. At this particular moment, they had officially become members of the academy. Eva watched as five third-year students walked down the grand staircase and stood at the center of the hall, every eye turning toward them and the three second-years standing directly behind each of them.

Eva looked on as one of the third-years, whose cuffs and collars were covered with criss-crossing swords embroidered with gold threads on a red uniform, pointed downward. Following the command, one of the accompanying students walked down the stairs and handed a token sitting on a platinum plate directly to the muscle head, Bulin.

Eva watched as Bulin picked it up, a wide grin spreading across his face.

Soon after, another one of the five third-years pointed downward, this time targeting Serena. This particular senior had shining stars with silver threads embroidered on their cuffs and sleeves. One of the second-years performed the exact same actions, presenting the plate. Serena picked up the card from the plate with practiced elegance, surprise flashing in her eyes for a brief minute. Eva watched as almost all the top one hundred freshmen received cards, except for Julian, who was no longer present, Lozac, who had suddenly disappeared, and the boy with the spatial displacement ability, Kieran, who hadn't even appeared at the gala.

Eva’s fingers subtly grazed the edge of a token through the fabric of her coat. The surface was cold, dense, and heavily weighted. Stamped deep into the center was their unmistakable, unyielding motto: “Everything you want in gold.” She didn't need to look at it to understand the strategy. House Midas was already trying to buy positioning before the weekend even began, throwing financial weight and resource security at anyone remotely connected to the evening's anomaly. To them, every crisis was just an open market waiting for a hostile takeover.

Moments later, the air beside her grew faintly warm, carrying the distinct, artificial scent of ozone and sweet spirits. A piece of irregular, shifting metallic glass was dropped onto the high table right next to her resting hand. The person who left it didn't pause to speak, disappearing straight into the shifting crowd with a low, mocking chuckle that lingered in the air.

It was the mark of House Carnival.

Eva turned her head slightly, her gaze tracking the reflective surface of the glass token. Their motto was casually scrawled across the back like vibrant, careless graffiti: “They call us the freaks of the hall but we'll be the magic story you've been told.” They were the chaotic wild cards of the campus ecosystem. They didn't care about territorial lines, political backing, or administrative stability; they operated purely on the philosophy of high stakes entertainment and systemic disruption. They probably didn't view Malachi’s bloodlust or Julian’s terrifying counter-play as a political crisis; they saw it as a magnificent first act. They wanted variables that would shatter the rigid, boring monotony of the upper pavilion, and they were throwing out bait to see who was reckless enough to join the circus.

The final token came from the shadows near the back service exit, far from the light of the central chandeliers. It was a coarse, blood red piece of parchment, slid across the polished wood by a student whose posture remained entirely unbowed by the heavy presence of the upper class heirs or the Vice Dean's imposing aura.

House Liberty.

The parchment came to a halt right at the edge of her coat sleeve. Stamped in stark, indelible black ink was their unyielding decree: “Unchained, untamed, unconquered.” The faction of liberation didn't offer the lucrative financial contracts of Midas, nor did they promise the volatile immunity of Carnival. They were an anarchic collective existing solely to tear down the established hierarchy of the great houses. They weren't looking for assets to manage or games to play; they were looking for teeth. They saw the remnants of the Cross bloodline as a potential hammer to smash the upper tier, and they were testing Eva's position to see if she was a tool or an obstacle.

She had received all three of these invitations after the third years walked out of the halls. Three entirely conflicting philosophies of survival, all delivered under the cover of the post incident whispers while the administration maintained a transcendent position, watching as if nothing could ever threaten its power or its ultimate control over the literal futures of tomorrow.

Meanwhile, outside the main hall, Vice Dean Lucian was still massaging his temples, his fingers pressing hard against his skin as he thought back to the pool of blood. His face was a mask of sheer, bureaucratic exhaustion. He was calculating how to sweep this entire mess under the rug before the main office or the useless Dean caught wind of it. The seniors on the upper floor weren't helping matters; they had leaned over the stone railings with faces filled with open mockery and schadenfreude, deliberately waiting to see him embarrass himself further. To them, Lucian was nothing more than a kept man whose A-tier Painter’s Touch ability was entirely useless on its own and dependent on his wife. He was a figurehead holding a broken gavel, and he felt thankful for the sterling boy who had helped him save face.

Just while he was still deep in thought, his eyes suddenly became clouded with a thick fog. He walked forward as if being directly guided, and suddenly disappeared entirely from the hallway.

Back inside, Eva’s lips thinned into a straight, almost imperceptible line as she gathered the three tokens into her palm, concealing them perfectly within her sleeve with a single, fluid motion. She didn't feel excitement, nor did she feel the cheap thrill of validation that a normal freshman might experience after being targeted by three major factions on her first Friday night.

To her, these cards were not honors or golden tickets; they were calculated metrics of environmental danger. They were physical receipts proving that she needed to create a perfect mask just to survive in this environment. The hunting ground had officially opened its gates ahead of schedule, the internal ranking algorithms were live, and the campus syndicates were already placing their bets on potential newcomers.