My Infinite System.

The silence of the annex corridor was broken by the distant echo of running footsteps.

Minutes passed. Garrick’s ragged breaths came in shallow bursts, his chest trembling with each inhale. The acrid scent of burned ozone still lingered, mixing with the old leather smell of fallen books around him. His limbs twitched as residual voltage flickered faintly across his skin.

A shadow fell over him.

”Found him,” a voice said softly, calm and clipped.

Two academy medics approached—both in white mana-stitched coats with blue trim and small Hunter’s Academy insignias pinned to their collars. One kneeled beside Garrick, checking his pulse with gloved fingers while the other quickly scanned his body with a glowing crystal tablet.

”Mana burn, minor nerve shock. No cardiac damage,” the kneeling medic reported, eyes narrowing at the reading. ”But... he’s unresponsive.”

”Get him to the infirmary,” the other ordered, tapping the tablet to sync his condition to the internal network. ”We’ll run a cognitive scan once his vitals stabilise.”

They moved with quiet efficiency. Within moments, Garrick’s limp body was lifted onto a mana-stretcher that hovered two inches above the floor, glowing blue under his weight. As they guided him down the corridor, the books he’d knocked over lay scattered like fallen feathers, pages fluttering under the breeze of their passing.

At the far end of the hallway, Dean Garos stepped out from behind a marble archway, his robes trailing softly against the polished stone. His hands were folded behind his back, his stern gaze fixed on the stretcher as it approached. Under the morning light streaming through the windows, the thin lines at the corners of his eyes seemed deeper today.

The medics stopped and bowed their heads quickly.

”Dean Garos.”

”What happened?” his voice was calm, but there was steel buried under the softness.

”Unknown, sir,” the scanning medic replied. ”We found him collapsed here. Mana residue readings show lightning-based energy—high voltage, rapid discharge, likely an ability strike. But there’s also... unfamiliar energy traces.”

”Unfamiliar?” Garos raised an eyebrow.

The medic nodded. ”It doesn’t match Garrick’s registered mana signature. It’s... similar, but not the same. It’s like... like his energy was mirrored or copied, but the structure is subtly altered.”

The Dean was silent for a moment, staring down at Garrick’s unconscious form. His robes shifted softly as he turned away, eyes narrowing in thought.

”Take him to the infirmary. I will handle the report.”

”Yes, sir.”

The medics moved swiftly, guiding the stretcher away down the long corridor, their footsteps echoing off the high glass windows. Dean Garos remained standing, listening to their retreating sounds until the hall fell silent again.

He closed his eyes, exhaling softly.

First Lucian... now Evelyn.

His mind replayed what he’d read in her early awakening records: undefined ability, unstable replication signature, unknown ceiling. He remembered how the assessment mages argued to reclassify her as unfit for Class Zero. Yet something in him told him otherwise. Something instinctive. Almost prophetic.

He opened his eyes again, staring out the window at the academy grounds beyond. Morning drills were underway in the eastern courtyards, where dozens of new hunter trainees practiced stance work under a rising sun that turned their sweat into glittering mist.

Infinite Replication, he thought, the words echoing quietly in his mind.

He chuckled once under his breath—a low, humourless sound.

”What a ridiculous ability...” he whispered to himself. ”This year’s Class Zero... just how broken are they going to be?”

He turned, his coat flaring slightly around his legs as he began walking back down the corridor. His footfalls were silent despite his heavy boots. Behind his calm eyes, calculations ticked away—political implications, power dynamics, training schedules. But deeper than that, buried in a place he rarely acknowledged, was something sharper.

Anticipation.

Lucian, Evelyn, Silas, Reia, Vyn...

One by one, he pictured their faces. Their potential. Their instability.

Five irregulars... five anomalies. Each one with enough raw potential to reshape the entire hunter world if guided properly... or destroy it if left unshaped.

He paused at the junction leading back to his office. For a moment, he glanced back down the empty library corridor, golden light slanting across the polished stone.

Evelyn Merrin, he thought. You don’t even know what you are yet, do you?

A faint smile tugged at his lips before it vanished.

He turned away and walked on, his robes sweeping behind him in quiet grace.

Let them be challenged. Let them bleed. Only then will their true nature surface. I will intervene only when their lives are at risk. Anything less will only blunt their fangs.

Outside, a breeze rustled through the academy gardens, carrying the scent of mana-infused blossoms. Birds perched along the roof tiles, singing softly to a sun that rose ever higher.

The world kept moving.

And in its quietest corners, Class Zero’s story continued to unfold—like silent lightning hidden within a clear sky, waiting for the moment it would shatter everything.

Thorn Estate

The wide hallways of Thorn Manor were silent, lined with towering glass windows overlooking trimmed black-pine gardens. Moonlight filtered through silk curtains, casting rippling shadows across the marble floors. Two guards in black formal uniforms stood at the far doors, spears held upright, their expressions blank as statues.

Inside the study, the scent of burning sandalwood drifted lazily in the air. A brazier flickered at the corner, its coals glowing orange and quiet. The walls were lined with shelves holding relics, spell scrolls, and weapon plaques—a testament to centuries of Thorn prestige.

At the centre of the room sat a man in a high-backed chair, turned away from the door to face the massive window overlooking the estate grounds. The moonlight framed him in silver, illuminating long dark hair streaked with grey at the temples. His posture was straight, his shoulders broad even in stillness. One leg was crossed over the other, polished shoes catching faint reflections from the floor. In his right hand rested a half-empty glass of amber liquor, untouched for the past hour.

Eron Thorn, Patriarch of House Thorn.

A quiet knock at the door broke the silence.

”Enter,” he said without turning.

The door creaked open, and a slim man in a grey tailored suit stepped in, bowing deeply. His white gloves glowed faint under the lanterns, and a thin pair of spectacles sat low on his nose.

”Patriarch Thorn,” the man spoke softly. ”The report... as you requested.”

Eron didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on the moonlit grounds beyond the glass, where rows of pine trees swayed under the night breeze like silent soldiers.

”Speak.”

The attendant cleared his throat, holding up a black tablet engraved with the Thorn sigil. Mana circuits pulsed across its frame as he scrolled down.

”Earlier today, young master Garrick was found unconscious in the academy’s library annex corridor. He suffered mild nerve trauma and mana burn consistent with high-voltage elemental discharge.”

A flicker of reaction crossed Eron’s eyes—a faint narrowing, gone in an instant.

”Lightning-based?” he asked quietly.

”Yes, Patriarch. Academy medics stabilised him. However...” the attendant hesitated, eyes darting across the data stream, ”...forensic mana readings indicate an unfamiliar energy trace mixed with the lightning signature. Similar to young master Garrick’s Lightning Descent, but altered at a structural level.”

Eron finally turned his head, just slightly, dark eyes gleaming under heavy brows.

”Altered,” he repeated softly.

The attendant nodded, swallowing. ”Yes, sir. Academy analysis suggests it was a replication ability of unknown ceiling. The attacker was identified as Evelyn Merrin of Class Zero.”

The room fell silent again.

Beyond the glass, clouds drifted over the moon, casting fleeting shadows across Eron’s face. His jaw tightened slightly, his eyes reflecting nothing but cold calculation.

”Merrin,” he said quietly. ”Third branch family. Low seat. No strategic relevance.”

”Yes, Patriarch.”

Eron placed his glass down on a lacquered side table with quiet precision. He leaned back into his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin.

”And yet... she carries a replication type strong enough to mirror Thorn lightning techniques.” He exhaled softly, a slow breath that clouded faintly in the cool air. ”What an amusing development.”

The attendant hesitated, glancing down at the tablet before continuing.

”Shall I dispatch an arbitration team to submit an academy inquiry for assault charges against her, sir?”

Eron was silent for a long moment.

Then he chuckled softly—a low, humourless sound that seemed to vibrate through the room.

”No,” he said.

The attendant blinked. ”Sir?”

Eron stood slowly, adjusting the front of his dark robe. The silk rippled with his movements, embroidered with silver threads depicting lightning striking mountain peaks.

”She was able to replicate Lightning Descent permanently.” His eyes narrowed as he gazed at his own reflection in the glass. ”That is not an enemy to crush... that is an asset to observe.”

He turned fully, finally facing the attendant. Under the lantern light, his features were harsh and severe, marked with fine scars across his chin and left brow—trophies of the battlefield he rarely spoke of.

”Continue monitoring her,” he ordered softly. ”Do not interfere. Do not reveal our interest. If Class Zero births such monsters... let them grow in their den. We will harvest them when the time is right.”

The attendant bowed deeply. ”Understood, Patriarch.”

Eron waved him away. ”Go.”

The man turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Eron remained still, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the moonlit pines once again.

Infinite Replication... he thought, his mind racing with implications and silent schemes.

A faint smile curved his lips—one that never reached his eyes.

The age of Hunters is changing. And House Thorn will not be left behind.

Outside, the moon drifted higher above the trees, silvering the quiet estate as a cold wind blew through the black pines.