Chapter 369: Chapter 369: The Weight of Victory
The tent was silent except for the hum of the mana screen. Numbers shifted across its surface as the final tallies of the Hunt updated in real time.
The name at the top glowed brighter than the rest:
1st – Noel Thorne.
2nd – Selene von Iskandar.
3rd – Marcus (Nivaria line).
The silence shattered.
"This is absurd!" Mirelle’s voice cut sharp, her jeweled fingers slamming against the table. "That boy could never outpace Sylvette—twenty-four hours without rest? Impossible!"
Serina leaned forward, eyes blazing. "Do you expect us to believe he surpassed Marcus too? He isn’t even—"
"Enough."
Albrecht Thorne’s voice struck the air like an iron bell. The two women froze, their protests choking in their throats. He didn’t raise his tone, but the weight behind it silenced the entire tent.
Albrecht’s gaze swept the gathered patriarchs and matriarchs, unflinching. "You all saw it. Every one of you."
A murmur rippled through the room, grudging affirmations. The drones had broadcast every moment—the relentless hunt, the blood, the unbroken pace. For twenty-four hours Noel Thorne had not faltered.
"He never stopped," one of the elders admitted. "Not once."
Vaelora von Iskandar folded her arms, her icy eyes narrowing at the glowing screen. She didn’t speak, but the faint tension at the corner of her mouth betrayed her thoughts.
Mirelle tried again, softer this time, but still seething. "It’s unnatural—"
Albrecht cut her off with a look alone. "Unnatural or not, it happened. Denying it changes nothing."
The tent fell still once more, the only sound the steady hum of the drones circling high above the mountains. The hunt had ended, and the impossible was now written plain for all to see.
The mana screens flickered again, and this time the voice of the drones echoed across the entire mountain range.
"Hunters, gather. The Hunt of Inheritance has concluded. Assemble at the main tent."
The words rolled like thunder. Every survivor, every competitor, heard them. One by one, figures emerged from the ridges, battered but alive, converging toward the heart of the camp.
Noel walked among them. His steps were steady despite the ache dragging at every muscle. Revenant Fang hung at his side, still stained with the hunt’s remains. He kept his expression calm, as if the exhaustion clawing at his bones didn’t exist.
A blur of movement caught his eye.
"Noel!"
Elena von Lestaria broke from the crowd, her long hair streaming behind her as she ran straight into him. She threw her arms around his shoulders, clinging tightly. "I didn’t see you once in the entire Hunt. Where were you?"
For the first time in hours, Noel let out a faint breath that almost resembled a laugh. "It was long," he said quietly, resting a hand against her back. "I’ll tell you later."
Her lips pressed together, but she nodded, unwilling to release him just yet.
A shadow fell across them. Sylvette, her expression sharp, studied her brother from head to toe. Her eyes narrowed, a hint of disbelief flickering there. "So you’re still standing." She leaned in slightly, voice low but edged. "We’ll see who truly deserves to stand as head of the house, little brother."
Noel met her gaze, unflinching. He didn’t answer. The title meant little to him.
The camp buzzed with murmurs as more students returned, but Noel stayed quiet, Elena still clinging to him, Sylvette’s words lingering like a blade unsheathed.
The flow of returning hunters thickened around the main tent. Voices overlapped—exhausted laughter, grumbles of pain, the hollow quiet of those who had lost too much.
Among them, Clara approached with Marcus at her side. Her hand was looped around his arm, her usual brightness dimmed but intact. Marcus, though battered, still carried himself with a calm pride.
He spotted Noel instantly. "There you are," Marcus called, his tone light despite the bruise across his jaw. "How did it go?"
Noel gave him a faint nod, his face unreadable. "Good," he said simply. "It was... good."
Clara tilted her head, sensing the weight behind the understatement, but she didn’t press. Instead, she smiled gently, as though reassured just by seeing him safe.
Marcus smirked, shaking his head. "You make it sound like you went on a stroll, not a Hunt."
Noel didn’t answer. The truth of what he’d endured was something only he could carry, well, and Selene.
From the edges of the crowd, a different presence lingered—quiet, distant. Selene. She didn’t push through the sea of heirs to reach him. Instead, she stood a little apart, her pale wand still strapped to her side, her figure straight against the fading light.
For a moment, she only watched him. Her expression was cold, composed as always. But when Noel’s eyes finally found hers, something broke through that mask.
She smiled.
Not the faint curl she gave in rare moments, but a true one—soft, fragile, fleeting.
Noel blinked, caught off guard by the sudden warmth in her face. It passed quickly, her expression tightening again, but the mark it left lingered.
He exhaled, adjusting Revenant Fang at his side. ’Selene...’
The camp bustled on, but between them, the silence carried far more weight than words.
The crowd thickened until the main tent felt like the center of the world. Students, clan heirs, instructors—all gathered beneath the banners as the hum of the drones finally dimmed. The hunt was over.
Lord Edric de Nivaria stepped forward, his broad figure casting a long shadow across the assembly. His voice carried easily, a mix of authority and warmth. "First, allow me to commend you all. This Hunt of Inheritance tested more than strength—it tested resolve. And you endured."
His eyes shifted, landing on Marcus near the front. A rare smile tugged at Edric’s lips. "Third place. Well done. You’ve earned it." Then, with a sly twist of humor, he added, "Perhaps enough to finally deserve the hand of my daughter."
Clara’s face ignited crimson instantly. "F-Father!" she squeaked, covering her cheeks with her hands. Marcus only laughed softly, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder, his calm making her flush even deeper.
Laughter rippled faintly through the crowd, breaking some of the tension. Then Edric raised his hand, and silence fell again.
"Second place," he announced, his gaze turning toward the Iskandar line. "Selene von Iskandar."
A quiet murmur swept through the tent. Selene inclined her head with her usual composure, though her cyan eyes flickered briefly toward Noel.
"And finally," Edric said, voice dropping into a weight that settled over everyone present. "First place. Noel Thorne."
The name struck the air like a hammer. Some gasped, some scowled, but none could deny what they had seen. Twenty-four hours of relentless slaughter, recorded by the drones for all to witness.
Noel stood still under the weight of countless eyes. Elena’s hand tightened on his arm; Marcus offered him a nod; Selene’s faint smile from earlier lingered in the back of his mind.
Edric’s final words sealed the night. "These are the heirs of tomorrow. Remember their names."
The tent buzzed anew, but Noel’s expression never changed. To him, the title was nothing. The hunt had never been about glory.
It was about climbing higher. Always higher.