CHAPTER 39: CH-39- E GRADE?

Isn’t this a joke?

The thought was a desperate, repeating loop in every mind.

How can this be real? They were A-rankers, legends in their own right, individuals spoken of in whispers for their power to split mountains and slay behemoths.

Yet this young man, who looked like he hadn’t seen a hard day’s labor, had dismantled them with less effort than it took to swat a fly.

The more they tried to process it, the more their brains refused to comply, short-circuiting on the impossibility of it all.

No one was more violently vexed than Sebastian. Propped up on one elbow, his face a mask of congealing blood and fury, he watched the final moments of his elite team’s humiliation. The sight didn’t fill him with fear, but with a black, all-consuming need for revenge. This insult, this absolute annihilation of his power and prestige, demanded a price in blood that only Baelgor’s could repay.

Cisco, meanwhile, was a statue of pure, cold shock. The avaricious calculations that had filled his mind moments before had frozen solid, replaced by the primal understanding that he had been casually conversing with a natural disaster wearing a man’s skin. A tremor ran through him as he realized every word, every attempted swindle, had been a dance on the edge of a bottomless chasm. His only coherent thought was a prayer of gratitude that the monster’s gaze had, thus far, found him unworthy of its attention.

Baelgor himself paid the groaning forms on the floor no more mind than one would give to overturned furniture. His expression was one of profound, weary boredom. His thoughts drifted back, a comparison forming in his mind.

When I was still imprisoned, he mused,

SSS-ranked champions from a dozen worlds were not strong enough to withstand the aura of my clone, a mere vessel containing one percent of my power. The beings he had casually swatted aside here were less than insects; they were motes of dust.

He was, in the most literal sense, the strongest being in existence, and their petty challenges were a dull, repetitive noise.

With the minor interruption concluded, he turned. His purpose here had been delayed long enough. He walked toward the registration desk, his footsteps echoing in the silent hall.

Every single eye in the chamber followed him, their earlier fear and confusion now morphing into rapt, intense anticipation. They had just witnessed a display of power that defied all known rankings. Now, they would see it quantified. The air hummed with unasked questions. This had to be an S-rank, perhaps even an SS. Nothing else could explain the casual, effortless annihilation of a team of A and B-rank hunters. They leaned forward, a collective audience awaiting the revelation of a legend in their midst, finally understanding they were in the presence of something the world had never before seen.

"My lord,"

he said, his voice carefully modulated into a respectful whisper.

"This way, if you please."

He gestured toward a reinforced archway leading deeper into the complex. He had seen the cataclysm wearing a man’s skin, and his only desire now was to complete their transaction, collect his exorbitant fee, and put as much distance between himself and this "lord" as possible. He prayed to any god that would listen that their paths would never, ever cross again.

Baelgor gave a slight, indifferent nod and followed.

They passed into the testing hall, a vast, circular chamber that was the heart of the Hunter’s complex yet operated with complete autonomy. It was governed by a neutral council of reclusive, powerful hunters whose sole purpose was the impartial quantification of power. Its authority was absolute, a rare island of neutrality in the cutthroat world of guild politics.

At the room’s center stood the Grading Monolith, an ancient, obsidian-like stone covered in faint, pulsating runes. Around the perimeter, figures lingered in shadowed alcoves and balconies scouts from every major guild, their eyes sharp and predatory, always hunting for the next great talent to recruit. It was an open secret that hunters who displayed high potential but refused guild affiliation had a troubling habit of meeting unfortunate "accidents" deep within dungeons. Survival, for a lone hunter, was a precarious proposition.

All eyes, which had already been glued to Baelgor since his entrance, now followed his every step as he crossed the chamber. The expectant buzz was palpable. They had witnessed the impossible; now they craved the classification that would make sense of it.

He reached the registration counter where a young woman presided over the ancient ritual. She was elegant and poised, with intelligent eyes the color of dark honey that held a weary understanding of the room’s politics. Her chestnut hair was pulled back in a severe but practical braid that highlighted the graceful line of her neck. She wore the simple, grey robes of the Testing Guild, a symbol of her neutrality, but a faint, shimmering tattoo of a locking rune on her wrist hinted at a latent power of her own.

She had watched the disturbance in the main hall from a distance, and now, seeing the cause of it approach, her professional calm was tinged with keen interest. She watched the casual, almost languid way he moved, the utter lack of concern in his posture.

Perhaps an S-rank,

she thought, a thrill of excitement running through her. Maybe even higher.

A true genius. A quieter, more cynical thought followed. Just pray this one is smart enough to accept a guild’s protection quickly. The vultures from Blackface are already watching.

With a practiced, respectful smile, she gestured to the smooth, palm-sized indentation on the face of the Monolith. "Welcome, hunter. Please, place your hand upon the stone. Channel your mana into it, and your grade will be revealed."

Baelgor looked at the stone with an expression that was neither curious nor anxious, but mildly... analytical. As if assessing the primitive quality of the tool. Without a word, he raised his hand and placed his palm flat against the cool, dark surface.

A hundred pairs of eyes locked onto the runes, waiting for them to flare to life, to announce the birth of a new legend. The scouts leaned forward, guild contracts already mentally prepared. The chamber held its breath.

The air in the testing hall was taut with anticipation, a silent scream held in a hundred chests. All conversation had died. The only movement was the shifting of light across the ancient, rune-etched surface of the Grading Monolith.

The device was a pillar of polished obsidian, segmented by glowing lines that denoted the sacred hierarchy of power: F, E, D, C, B, A, S, SS, and at the very pinnacle, the very powerful SSS. It was a testament to a hunter’s potential, their worth, their very place in the world.

Baelgor regarded the stone with a flicker of distant recognition. A high-quality Mana-Stone, he mused inwardly. I have caverns full of these in my dungeon. I used them to pave the lesser halls. The technology was rudimentary, a child’s toy compared to the arcane instruments he had once commanded. But it would serve this simple purpose.

He placed his palm upon the cool, smooth indentation. The sensation was trivial. He understood the principle—the stone measured the density and potency of one’s mana by resonating with it. To release his true aura would be akin to trying to measure the ocean with a thimble; it would not merely overflow, it would vaporize the thimble, the handler, and likely the entire city block.

I don’t want to draw too much attention to myself, he reasoned, the thought almost amusing given the scene he had just left. I should probably release just a tiny bit. A single drop from the ocean.

He allowed a minuscule, almost negligible fraction of his power to brush against the stone.

Immediately, the runes at the base of the monolith flared to life. A brilliant blue light shot upward from the F-rank segment. It didn’t climb; it surged, as if the lower ranks were utterly insignificant and unworthy of even a moment’s pause.

Gasps rippled through the crowd as the light blasted past E, D, and C without a hint of deceleration. It tore through the B and A ranks, its glow intensifying from blue to a blinding, fiery gold. The scouts on the balconies shot to their feet, their professional composure shattered. The light hit the S-rank, and a collective roar began to build in the chamber. It was happening. They were witnessing history.

But it didn’t stop. The light consumed the SS-rank designation, its brilliance becoming almost too painful to look at. The stone itself began to hum, a high-pitched whine that spoke of straining power. Then, with a sound like a thunderclap, the light exploded into the final, gleaming segment.

"SSS! BY THE GODS, IT’S SSS!" someone shrieked.

Pandemonium erupted. An SSS-rank awakening was the stuff of legends, a event that occurred once in a century. The guild scouts were already fumbling for communication crystals, desperate to be the first to report this world-shaking news to their masters. The young woman at the counter stared, her hand clamped over her mouth, her professional neutrality utterly forgotten.

The Monolith, however, was not done. The blinding light concentrated at the peak began to pulse violently, like a heart straining to burst. The hum became a shriek. Cracks, fine as spider silk, began to web across the stone’s surface. It was being pushed beyond its limits, unable to contain the "tiny bit" of power it was being asked to quantify.

Just as it seemed the ancient artifact would shatter into a million pieces, the light vanished.

It didn’t fade. It didn’t recede.

It simply snapped off.

The shrieking hum cut out into an absolute, deafening silence. The runes went dark. For three heartbeats, the great stone was utterly inert, a dead piece of rock.

Then, with a feeble, sputtering flicker, a soft blue light pulsed once in the very first segment. It glowed with a pathetic, steady certainty.

Every face in the hall, frozen in expressions of awe and excitement, now slackened into identical masks of pure, uncomprehending confusion. A thousand eyes stared, unblinking, at the impossible result.

The woman at the counter, her voice a dry, disbelieving croak, read the grade aloud, the words hanging in the silent air like a bad joke.

"...E-grade?"