The Huntsman Of Death:A Gamer's POV As Side Character

Edwin sat on the sofa, his gaze fixed on the image on the screen in front of him. On the screen was a man with a sharp, cold expression. His eyes bore into Edwin, filled with authority and judgment.

The room was quiet, almost unnervingly so, until the man on the screen finally spoke.

"You did well," he said, his voice heavy and commanding.

"Thank you," Edwin replied with a slight nod, keeping his tone calm and measured.

The man's gaze hardened. "But why didn't you finish him off yourself? You could have done it. Why rely on a commoner for such a task?"

Edwin stiffened slightly, his face remaining calm, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes. He took a slow breath before answering, choosing his words carefully.

"He isn't just a commoner," Edwin said, his voice steady.

The man's expression didn't waver. His voice turned colder, sharper. "What do you mean by that?"

Edwin met his gaze through the screen. "Exactly what I said. He's skilled—exceptionally skilled. His abilities are well-suited for stealth and assassination."

There was a pause, then a low chuckle from the other side.

"I see. You're already scouting talent," the man said, his tone amused yet sharp.

"A leader needs a strong foundation," Edwin replied. "And for someone to catch my interest, they must be special."

The man's smile vanished, replaced by a stern, prideful look. "If you believe he's worth it, tame the hound. But remember this, Edwin—our house is the pride of Valcrest. Do not let anyone stain our honor. If they do..."

"I understand, Father," Edwin interrupted softly, nodding.

The man's cold gaze lingered for a moment before the screen abruptly went dark.

Edwin sat there for a long moment, his body still, except for the slight tremble in his hands. He reached for his teacup, but his grip faltered, the cup shaking as sweat gathered on his palms. He steadied himself, exhaling softly.

Father's expectations were always heavy, but this time, they felt almost crushing.

.....

Martin's voice cut through his musings. "Remember, rituals, divinity, and mastery are all parts of the journey. The real test is how far you're willing to go to achieve it."

As the session continued, Lukas glanced at Selena. She sat still, her cold demeanor betraying nothing, but he caught a flicker of calculation in her eyes. Smirking slightly, he turned his focus back to the lesson, already planning his next move.

The long class on mysticism finally ended. Martin's voice had carried an almost magnetic quality throughout, making even the darker subjects compelling. He spent the last hour delving into the intricacies of rituals—how they worked, their materials, and their dangers.

"For regular rituals," Martin said, pacing at the front of the room, "a medium is essential. This medium could be anything—a sacred artifact, a natural element, or even a chant. It acts as a bridge, a way for us to signal the gods and receive their guidance."

He paused, his tone darkening. "But evil rituals are far more sinister. These demand sacrifice. Human lives, offered up to abyssal gods in exchange for power. If you ever come across decay or signs of death in an unnatural pattern, take it as a warning. If you're not strong enough to stop it, run. But if you are..." His gaze swept across the room, sharp and expectant. "It's your duty to end it."

The room was silent as the bell rang, signaling the end of the class.

Selena, seated beside me, got up and glanced my way. She hesitated, her lips parting slightly as though choosing her words. Finally, she spoke.

"Which class do you have now?"

I looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "Why do you want to know?"

Her face flushed slightly, and she looked away, mumbling, "I don't want to know... Leila asked."

Then, she bit her lip, turning toward Leila. "Sorry, Leila."

I shrugged, suppressing a smirk. "I've got social science next."

With a brief nod, Selena turned on her heel and hurried out of the room, her steps quick and slightly awkward. I shook my head, amused, and began packing up my notes when Martin called out.

"Hey, you!"

I turned toward him. "Yes?"

"I need help carrying a few things. You mind?"

I glanced around. A few students were watching, their curious stares making me slightly self-conscious. After a moment's hesitation, I nodded. "Sure."

---

Carrying a precarious stack of old books, I followed Martin through the hallway to his office. He didn't say much as we walked, but his presence had a calm weight to it that made silence feel natural.

When he opened the door, I stepped into what could only be described as a controlled chaos. The room was cluttered with shelves full of books, some ancient and dusty, alongside strange trinkets and artifacts that looked like they belonged in a museum.

But amidst the chaos, one corner stood out: his desk. It was surprisingly neat, with a single framed photo placed prominently on it. The picture showed Martin standing beside a girl with soft brown hair sitting in a wheelchair.

"She can't walk," Martin said quietly, noticing my gaze.

I looked at him. His face was calm, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of emotion—a faint ripple in an otherwise composed demeanor. Not wanting to intrude, I didn't press further.

Martin walked to his desk and sat down, gesturing for me to take a seat across from him. "You said you needed help understanding the spirit world. What's going on?"

I nodded, leaning forward slightly. "I can see spirits when I activate a certain vision. But when I do, it's overwhelming. I hear whispers and murmurs, and it feels like they're all talking at once."

He listened intently, his fingers steepled under his chin. After a thoughtful pause, he nodded. "Alright. Let's break this down."

He snapped his fingers, and a small flaming bird materialized in the air, its wings glowing as it circled the room.

"This is Ness, my contracted spirit," he explained casually, as though conjuring firebirds was an everyday occurrence. He snapped his fingers again, and the bird vanished.

"The spirit world—also called the astral world—coexists with ours, but they don't overlap entirely. For spirits to interact with the physical world, they usually need a medium. That's where living beings come in. Low-level spirits can't manifest without one, but high-ranking spirits can phase in and out as they please."

I nodded, absorbing his words. "And specters?"

Martin's eyes sharpened. "You tell me. What do you know about them?"

I took a breath, recalling his earlier lessons. "Spirits are natural beings born from the blessings of nature. Specters, on the other hand, are born from hatred, negative energy, or the corrupted souls of the dead."

A faint smile crossed his face. "Exactly. Specters are manifestations of dark emotions. They can't take physical form like spirits, but they can manipulate people—or worse, possess the dead or weak-willed."

He leaned back in his chair, his expression turning serious. "Now, about your problem..."

"When you activate your vision, you're essentially straddling the line between the real world and the astral world. That overlap makes spirits flock to you, all trying to interact at once. Your body isn't trained to handle the influx, which is why it overwhelms you."

I stared at him, stunned by the simplicity of his explanation. "So, my spectral vision doesn't just let me see into the spirit world—it partially pulls me into it?"

"Exactly. It's like opening a door between two rooms. You're peeking into their world, and they're all crowding the door trying to get a look at you."

I let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through my hair. "Damn. Such a simple concept, and I completely missed it."

Martin chuckled softly. "Don't beat yourself up. It's not simple when you're in the middle of it. Besides, understanding this is the first step to mastering it."

I nodded, grateful for his calm wisdom. "Thanks, Professor."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Get some practice. And next time, don't forget to close the door after you open it."

As I stood to leave, I caught one last glance at the photo on his desk. The ripple of emotion I'd seen earlier was gone, replaced by the calm, collected Martin I'd always known.

...

Vladimir stormed into the Archery Club's president room, slamming the door behind him. His jacket flew off as he threw it onto the nearest chair, his face twisted in fury.

"Damn it! Damn it!" he roared, his voice echoing in the empty room.

He clenched his fists, pacing back and forth like a caged animal. "I had such a perfect chance, and that asshole ruined everything!"

"Fck! Fck!" he shouted, slamming his hand against the desk. His knuckles turned white, trembling with rage.

His mind raced back to what could've been. He had it all planned out—a flawless opportunity to get close to Freya, the one person he'd been watching ever since she joined the club.

Her entrance had caught his attention immediately. She stood out, not because of her skill, but because of her complete lack of it.

"Her skills are so bad," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "It's embarrassing to watch. How could someone from the Osborne family—a family of legendary archers—be this terrible?"

The Osbornes were renowned for their unmatched archery skills, feared across nations. In past wars, the mere mention of an Osborne sniper had made enemies tremble. Yet Freya? She was a disaster.

"But that's what made it perfect," he hissed, a twisted smile creeping onto his face. "She might've inherited the talent, but she needed someone to guide her. And I was going to be that someone."

He could already picture it: her gratitude, their growing bond, and eventually, the Duke's praise for shaping her into a great archer. It would've been his ticket to a lifetime of glory.

"But no," he spat, his voice dripping with venom. "That bastard just had to ruin it."