Re-Awakened :I Ascend as an SSS-Ranked Dragon Summoner-Chapter 619: Murderous intent

The days that followed on this hunt had become almost trivial by nature. While the other colors worked, the reds were reaping what a certain Burt had sowed.

Day two saw the red group return to base camp with forty cores, their haul drawing impressed looks from instructors and jealous glares from yellows and greens who’d spent the entire day tracking and fighting beasts for maybe ten cores each. The reds played their parts well, looking appropriately tired, complaining about difficult fights, describing encounters that sounded dangerous enough to justify their success.

Nobody questioned it. Yet.

Day three brought another forty cores, the reds settling into their routine with practiced ease. Wake up, hike to the lake near the beetle massacre site, spend the day relaxing while a rotating crew harvested cores from corpses that were starting to smell truly awful as decomposition progressed in the humid forest air.

It was during the evening count on day three that the cracks started showing.

The greens gathered in their section of base camp, maybe thirty recruits clustered around a small fire, the expressions on their faces ranging from different emotions. One of them, a tall recruit named Senna who’d been vocal about strategy from the beginning, stood up to address the group.

"Something doesn’t add up," Senna said, her voice carrying enough that nearby recruits from other colors turned to listen. "The reds are winning by a huge margin. Day one they brought back sixty cores. Day two, forty. Day three, another forty. That’s one hundred forty cores total."

"So they’re good hunters," someone replied, though the tone suggested doubt.

"We’re good hunters too," Senna countered. "Greens have brought in maybe thirty cores total across three days. Yellows have maybe forty. The reds have nearly four times our combined total. How is that possible?"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the green group. Other colors were listening now too, yellows exchanging glances, a few reds on the periphery looking uncomfortable.

"They’re stronger in direct combat," another green offered, playing devil’s advocate. "Reds are supposed to be the main fighters. Maybe they’re just better suited for hunting."

"Better suited, sure," Senna agreed. "But this much better? They’re averaging over forty cores per day. We’re seeing maybe one or two beasts per day in our territory. The math doesn’t work unless their territory is incredibly dense with beasts, which doesn’t make sense since the instructors said all territories were comparable."

The speculation continued, theories building on theories, but no conclusions reached. Just a growing sense that something about the red group’s success wasn’t quite right.

Werner, listening from the red section, kept his expression neutral but his mind was calculating. ’They’re suspicious. Not enough to accuse us directly, but enough to start watching more carefully. We need to dial it back. Make day four look more modest.’

***

Day four dawned with the now-familiar routine. The red group assembled, performed a token check of their equipment for any instructors watching, then headed north toward their "hunting grounds."

The hike to the lake took maybe an hour, the path well-worn now from repeated travel. The forest here was beautiful in the morning light, ancient trees creating cathedral-like spaces where sunlight filtered through in golden shafts. Birds sang in the canopy, small animals rustled through undergrowth, the whole scene peaceful enough that it was easy to forget they were supposed to be on a dangerous hunt.

The lake appeared through the trees like a hidden gem. Maybe a hundred feet across, fed by a stream that Noah had used days ago to wash beetle blood from his hands. The water was crystal clear, reflecting the sky and surrounding forest in mirror-perfect detail. Smooth stones lined the shore, worn flat by centuries of water flow, creating natural seats and lounging areas.

The red group spread out around the lake with the ease of people who’d done this before. Some found spots in the shade, others stretched out in sunlight. A few waded into the shallow edges of the lake, cooling off from the hike.

The beetle massacre site was maybe two hundred yards downwind, far enough that the smell was manageable but close enough for quick access when they needed to harvest cores. Nobody wanted to spend time near the corpses anymore. The stench had progressed from unpleasant to genuinely nauseating as decay advanced, flies swarming in clouds, the whole area becoming a biological hazard.

Werner claimed a flat stone near the water’s edge, stripping off his shirt and using it as a pillow. Several of his friends settled nearby, the informal leadership circle that had formed over the past days.

"This is the life," one of them said, a stocky recruit named Garrett who’d been with Werner since training camp started. "Getting paid to win a competition by lounging at a lake while everyone else actually works."

"We’re not getting paid," Werner corrected, but he was smiling. "Just winning. There’s a difference."

"Winning feels like payment enough." 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

Noah found his own spot further down the shore, away from the main group but not so far as to seem antisocial. He’d brought several straight branches he’d cut on the hike, each one maybe three feet long and reasonably uniform.

He planted them in the soft ground near the water’s edge, spacing them about a foot apart, creating a line of targets. Then he stepped back maybe ten feet and settled into a ready stance.

His fist shot forward in a straight punch that stopped just short of the first branch. The concentrated force traveled through the air, invisible but devastating, and the branch exploded at the impact point. Not shattered, not broken. Exploded, the wood pulverized into splinters from a hole maybe half an inch across that punched clean through.

Noah moved to the next branch, repeated the strike. Same result. A tiny hole driven through the wood with such concentrated force that the surrounding material couldn’t handle the pressure differential and simply disintegrated.

He worked through all six branches methodically, then walked over to examine the damage. Each hole was clean, precise, the kind of penetration that would be instantly lethal on anything with vital organs in the path.

’The technique is becoming natural,’ Noah thought, studying his work. ’Not something I have to think about anymore. Just compress the force before extension, maintain concentration through release, let muscle memory handle the execution. Three weeks ago this was impossible. Now it’s just another tool in the arsenal.’

He planted six more branches and started again.

"Burt’s training while we’re relaxing," Garrett observed, watching Noah work from across the lake. "Dedicated bastard."

"He’s got standards," Werner replied, not taking his eyes off Noah’s form. "Doesn’t like being idle."

The group settled into their various activities. Some were swimming now, the braver recruits diving into deeper water. Others were practicing their own techniques, using the downtime to refine skills without the pressure of actual combat. A few just slept, exhausted from weeks of constant training finally catching up.

Werner stood and moved to where Noah was working through his third set of branches. The red leader positioned himself casually, leaning against a tree, watching the precision with which Noah destroyed each target.

"You know," Werner said conversationally, "I’ve been thinking about what I’m going to do after we win this competition. After we graduate and become actual dragon knights."

Noah sent another concentrated strike through a branch, didn’t look away from his practice. "Yeah? What are you thinking?"

"Celebrate properly. Find a nice girl, buy her drinks, see where the night goes." Werner’s tone was carefully casual. "Actually, I’ve had my eye on someone specific. That yellow recruit, Nami. Your friend."

Noah’s next strike went slightly off-center, the hole still clean but positioned maybe an inch to the left of where he’d been aiming. His first mistake in the entire session.

Werner noticed, satisfaction flickering across his face. "She’s attractive, you know? Good with knives, which suggests she’d be good with her hands in general. I’m thinking I could charm her, buy her some food, maybe take her somewhere private and—"

"Werner," Noah interrupted, his voice flat, still not turning away from his targets. "Are you trying to make me angry?"

"What? No. Just talking about a pretty girl. Why would that make you angry?"

"Because you’re testing me," Noah replied, finally looking at Werner directly. "Trying to see if I’ll react when you talk about bedding Nami. Trying to figure out if I have feelings for her, or if I’m protective, or if I’ll get territorial. It’s obvious what you’re doing."

Werner’s carefully constructed casual expression cracked slightly. "Maybe I just think she’s attractive."

"Maybe you do," Noah agreed. "But that’s not why you brought it up. You’re still trying to figure me out, still analyzing, still looking for angles and leverage. You’ve been doing it since the beetle corpses."

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, the pretense of casual conversation dropping away.

"Can you blame me?" Werner asked finally. "You’re an enigma, Burt. You master techniques in days that take others months. You move faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. You suggested we check northeast and we found enough cores to win the entire competition. And somehow, despite all that, you claim to be just a tavern boy from nowhere important."

"I am a tavern boy from nowhere important," Noah replied.

"Bullshit." Werner’s voice carried conviction now. "Nobody becomes that skilled working in a tavern. Nobody develops that kind of combat awareness, that kind of precision, that kind of control without serious training. You’re hiding something, and I want to know what it is."

Noah turned back to his branches, his fist shooting forward to obliterate another target. "Everyone’s hiding something, Werner. You hide your insecurities about living up to your family legacy behind arrogance and aggression. Garrett hides his actual intelligence behind playing the loyal follower. Nami hides how much pressure she feels to prove yellows are as valuable as reds. Everyone wears masks."

"And what mask are you wearing?"

"The one that keeps people from asking questions I can’t answer." Noah destroyed the last branch, then started gathering new ones. "You want to bed Nami? Fine. She’s capable of making her own decisions about who she sleeps with. But using her to try to provoke me into revealing something about myself? That’s weak, Werner. You’re better than that."

Werner watched Noah work for another moment, then laughed quietly. "You’re right. That was weak. I apologize."

"Apology accepted."

"But I’m still going to figure you out eventually," Werner added, walking back toward his spot by the lake. "Whatever you’re hiding, whatever you’re really doing here, I’m patient. I’ll find out."

"Looking forward to it," Noah replied, not looking up from planting his new set of branches.

The afternoon wore on. The sun climbed to its peak, then began its slow descent toward evening. The red group rotated through various activities, training, swimming, talking, napping, the whole day taking on the quality of a vacation rather than a competition hunt.

As the sun started lowering toward the horizon, Werner stood and addressed the group.

"Alright, we need about twenty cores to bring back today. Keep the numbers modest, don’t want to look too successful and raise more suspicion." He looked around, identifying the recruits who’d been relaxing most of the day. "Marten, Ricks, Tove, Sella, Bram, and Corvin. You six head to the site, harvest twenty cores, bring them back here. The rest of us will start packing up, meet you on the trail back to camp."

The six recruits Werner had named exchanged looks, their expressions souring immediately.

"Why us?" Marten asked, a lanky recruit who’d been napping for the past two hours. "We’ve been doing harvesting duty every day."

"Because you’ve been lounging while others trained," Werner replied. "Consider it compensation for your relaxation. Now go, we’re losing daylight."

The six stood reluctantly, gathering their packs, grumbling under their breath. They left the lake heading toward the massacre site, their complaints audible even after they disappeared into the trees.

Noah watched them go, something nagging at the back of his mind. A feeling that wasn’t quite dread but adjacent to it, like standing on the edge of a cliff in the dark and knowing there was a drop somewhere ahead but not seeing it yet.

He shook it off. Probably just residual tension from Werner’s earlier prodding.

***

The six recruits walked toward the massacre site with all the enthusiasm of people heading to clean sewage. The path was familiar by now, well-trampled from repeated trips, but that didn’t make the destination any more appealing.

"Can’t believe Werner’s making us do this again," Ricks complained, a heavyset recruit with fire magic that he used for heating food more than combat. "We’ve been harvesting these damn cores for three days while he sits by the lake playing lord."

"He’s leveraging his position," Marten replied, his tone bitter. "Werner and his friends get to train and relax while we do the actual work. It’s typical family legacy bullshit. Born into the right circumstances, automatically deserves better treatment."

"At least we’re winning," Tove offered, trying to find a silver lining. She was shorter than the others, quick-footed, specialized in speed enhancement magic. "The cores might smell awful but they’re securing victory for reds."

"Victory Werner will take credit for," Sella muttered. The quiet recruit rarely spoke up, but when she did it was usually cutting. "Watch him position himself as the strategic genius who led reds to dominance. Meanwhile we’ll be footnotes."

They continued their complaints as they walked, voices rising, inhibitions lowered by the knowledge that Werner and his inner circle were too far behind to hear.

Bram, the largest of the group started doing an impression. He puffed out his chest, adopted Werner’s confident stride, lowered his voice to mimic the red leader’s tone.

"I am Werner," Bram announced, gesturing grandly. "Born to greatness, blessed by family legacy, destined to lead lesser mortals to glory through my brilliant strategies. Strategies such as: make other people do the work while I lounge by lakes and contemplate which yellow girls I want to bed."

The group laughed, the mockery feeling good after days of biting their tongues.

"Don’t forget the part where he stares at Burt like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle," Corvin added, a lean recruit with tracking skills. "Werner’s obsessed with the guy. Watches him constantly, analyzes everything he does. It’s weird."

"Burt is weird though," Ricks pointed out. "You’ve seen what he can do. Nobody gets that good that fast without something unusual going on."

"Maybe," Marten agreed. "But Werner’s approach to it is creepy. The way he watches, the way he tests, trying to provoke reactions. It’s like he can’t accept that someone might just be naturally talented without it being some grand conspiracy."

They reached the massacre site still trading insults and impressions, their mood lightened by the shared grievance. The smell hit them like a physical wall, the stench of rotting beetles having progressed from bad to absolutely putrid. Flies swarmed in thick clouds, the buzzing audible from twenty feet away.

"Oh gods," Tove gagged, covering her nose and mouth. "It’s worse today. How is it worse?"

"Decomposition accelerates," Marten replied, his voice muffled through his shirt pulled up over his face. "The heat and humidity speed it up. By tomorrow this whole area will be unbearable."

"Let’s make this quick," Bram said, moving toward the nearest hatchling corpse. "Twenty cores, then we get out of here."

They spread out among the bodies, each claiming a corpse to work on. The harvesting process had become routine by now, though no less unpleasant. Find the crack in the armor, widen it with weapons or magic, reach inside to locate the core near where the heart had been, extract carefully to avoid damaging the crystallized structure.

The work took maybe fifteen minutes per core if you were efficient. They were pulling their third cores when they all heard a sound.

A sneeze. It was quiet and quickly stifled, but unmistakable in the relative quiet of the clearing.

All six recruits froze, their heads snapping toward the sound. It had come from the tree line to the east, maybe thirty feet away, from a dense section of undergrowth that provided good cover.

"Who’s there?" Bram called out, his voice carrying across the clearing.

No response. Just the buzzing of flies and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

"Come out," Marten added, his tone harder. "We know someone’s there. Show yourself."

All of a sudden there was movement in the undergrowth, then three figures emerged with their hands raised in a placating gesture. Green armbands identified them immediately. Two males and one female, all looking nervous, clearly caught in a position they’d hoped to avoid.

"We don’t want trouble," one of them said, a male recruit with enhancement magic if the faint glow around his hands was any indication. "We were just... we wanted to see where you were getting all the cores. We didn’t mean—"

"You were spying," Ricks interrupted, his expression darkening. "Following us and planning to run back and tell everyone about our site."

"We weren’t—" the green female started, but Bram cut her off.

"Search the area," he ordered the other reds. "Make sure there aren’t more hiding."

The six reds spread out, checking the surrounding undergrowth, weapons drawn, looking for additional greens. They found nothing, just these three, but the invasion of their secret felt massive regardless.

The greens stood in the center of the clearing surrounded by beetle corpses and increasingly hostile reds, their earlier bravado completely gone.

"What do we do with them?" Tove asked, looking at Marten since he was the de facto leader of their harvesting group.

"We need to tell Werner," Corvin suggested. "Let him decide."

"Werner will lose his mind," Ricks countered. "He’ll blame us for not being careful, for leading them here somehow. You know how he gets when things don’t go according to plan."

"Then what?" Sella asked. "We can’t just let them go. They’ll report this to instructors, the whole competition gets invalidated, reds get disqualified for cheating."

The implications settled over the group like a heavy blanket. Everything they’d worked for, the easy victory they’d been coasting toward, all of it jeopardized by three greens who’d been suspicious enough to follow and smart enough to find their source.

"Who says they have to make it back?" Bram said quietly, his voice carrying a weight that made everyone turn to look at him.

"What?" Tove’s voice was uncertain.

"Think about it," Bram continued, his expression hardening. "Greens are support specialists. Healers, enhancement casters. Not strong in direct combat. They rely on other colors for protection during fights. What if they unfortunately ran into beasts that the instructors had failed to account for in this area? Tragic accident. Nobody’s fault really. These things happen during dangerous hunts."

The clearing went silent except for the buzzing flies.

The three greens’ faces went pale, understanding dawning in their eyes. One of them took a step back, hands coming up defensively.

"You can’t be serious," the green female said, her voice shaking. "You’d kill us? Over a competition?"

"Not over a competition," Marten replied, his tone cold. "Over our futures. You think getting disqualified won’t follow us? We’d be marked as cheaters, barred from becoming dragon knights, our families shamed. All because you three couldn’t mind your own business."

"We won’t tell anyone!" one of the green males pleaded. "We’ll keep it secret, I swear. We’ll even help you, we can harvest cores, we can—"

"Your promises mean nothing," Ricks interrupted. "The moment you’re back at camp, fear or guilt or righteousness will make you talk. You’ll tell instructors, or tell other greens, or tell someone. We can’t trust you to stay quiet."

Bram stepped forward, his muscles visibly swelling as he activated his strength enhancement magic. The transformation was dramatic, his frame expanding, veins standing out on his arms, his whole body becoming a weapon.

"We make it quick," he said, his enhanced voice deeper, carrying more authority. "One good blow to the head each. You won’t feel anything. Compared to being killed by actual beasts, this is mercy."

The greens backed away, drawing weapons with shaking hands. One had a staff, another a short sword, the third only a knife. None of them looked confident in their ability to fight, but terror was making them try anyway.

"Please," the green female begged, tears running down her face. "Please don’t do this. We’re all on the same side. We’re all training to be dragon knights. We’re supposed to protect people, not kill each other."

"You should have thought about that before you decided to spy," Sella said, her own weapon coming out, a pair of daggers that she spun with ease.

The six reds began to spread out, forming a loose circle around the three greens, cutting off escape routes. The greens pressed together, their weapons raised but their stance defensive, hopeless.

Then a voice cut through the clearing, sharp and commanding, carrying an authority that made everyone freeze.

"Now what the hell do we have here?"

Everyone’s heads snapped toward the new voice.

Yellows emerged from the tree line opposite where the greens had been hiding. Five of them, weapons drawn, magic already activated. Leading them was a recruit Noah vaguely recognized from training, a tall girl with ice magic that was already forming frost patterns on her hands.

Nami was there too, her knives drawn, her expression furious as she took in the scene. Two other yellows had bows drawn with arrows nocked, the projectiles glowing with enhancement magic. The last yellow held a chakram that looked suspiciously similar to Pip’s signature weapon.

The clearing had transformed from a murder about to happen into a three-way standoff. Six reds with weapons drawn and hostile intent. Three greens terrified and cornered. Five yellows armed and ready to intervene.

Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. The tension was thick enough to taste, violence hanging in the air like an approaching storm.

The yellow leader’s eyes moved from the reds to the greens to the beetle corpses scattered across the clearing, understanding dawning on her face as she processed what she was seeing.

"So this is where you’ve been getting all those cores," she said slowly, her voice carrying across the clearing. "Not hunting. Just harvesting from corpses someone else killed. That’s your big secret."

"This doesn’t concern yellows," Marten replied, trying to maintain control of a situation that was rapidly spiraling beyond anyone’s control. "You should leave. Go back to your own territory."

"It concerns us when we hear reds discussing murder," Nami shot back, her knives steady in her hands. "When we see you surrounding greens who look terrified for their lives. That makes it very much our concern."

"We weren’t going to—" Ricks started, but Nami cut him off.

"Don’t lie. We heard everything. The part about tragic accidents, about beasts the instructors failed to account for, about making it quick. We heard all of it."

The standoff intensified, everyone’s grip tightening on weapons, magic building in preparation for potential combat.

This had gone so far beyond a simple competition that the original stakes seemed almost quaint in comparison.

And nobody knew how to de-escalate. Nobody knew how to step back from the edge they’d all found themselves standing on.

The clearing hung in suspended animation, waiting for someone to make the first move, to tip the balance from tense standoff into actual bloodshed.