Shadow Weaver: Sole Heir Of The Night-Chapter 191: Hunter Games Briefing

Thane, son of the prince of the left Longdan.

Talos, son of the prince of the right Fagnet.

Wilder, son of the conqueror of Miday.

Mitus, son of the Dawn Sword.

Raven, daughter of Freedom and daughter of the late Dark Emperor.

These were the true participants of the Hunter Games, the carefully raised heirs of power and blood. Each name carried a legacy heavy enough to bend kingdoms, each title forged in war, politics, or quiet massacres whispered about behind closed doors. They stood not as children, but as banners of their factions.

To become an heir was not simply to inherit. It was to survive.

The grand hall swallowed them whole. Pillars carved from pale divine stone rose endlessly toward a ceiling veiled in drifting light, as though the sky itself had been trapped above their heads. Every footstep echoed too loudly. Every breath felt monitored.

"Why does everyone seem to hate us?" Zeke smiled bitterly, his eyes drifting from group to group as new arrivals stepped through the towering gates.

Each faction entered with disciplined strides, cloaks brushing marble, armor glinting faintly under holy luminance. And every single one of them stared.

Not glances. Not curiosity.

Daggers.

Cold, open hostility that did not even attempt to hide itself.

"That normal no?" Enzo replied beside him, voice light, almost playful. "People tend to hate you when you’re winning."

His lips curved as though amused, yet his eyes were sharp, calculating. He noticed the way hands lingered near hilts. The way divine auras pressed subtly against them, testing, measuring.

Actually, everyone here was much stronger than them.

The weakest among the gathered heirs was at least Sanctified, their presence dense and suffocating. Most were Tyrants, their mere breathing distorting the air around them. Some carried scars that hummed with old battles. Others wore smiles too calm to be trusted.

By comparison, Zeke and the others felt like cracks in polished stone.

They were, without question, the weakest currently in this room.

Yet weakness was relative.

When measured against the world outside, they were monsters. When measured by factional might, the Freedom Party still stood as the single largest consolidated force present. Its banners were not loud, but its influence was undeniable.

That was what truly drew the hatred.

They were young, undergrown, and yet standing at the center of the largest power structure in the hall.

Resentment brewed easily in such conditions.

"Hello, my children. How have you been of lately?"

The High God’s voice descended before her presence fully registered. It rolled through the hall like distant thunder, warm on the surface yet carrying something suffocating beneath.

Light gathered at the far end of the chamber, coalescing into her form. Radiant robes cascaded down her frame, shimmering like woven sunlight. Her eyes swept downward, slow and deliberate, surveying the heirs below.

Silence followed her gaze.

Because she was a woman, and Gaia’s customary law only allowed children to take their father’s name within polygamous unions, she had always been estranged from most of them. They carried their fathers’ banners. Their fathers’ legacies.

Not hers.

Except when she chose to remind them.

"We are fine, mother."

Talos stepped forward first, bowing with perfect serenity. His posture was flawless, head lowered just enough to appear respectful without seeming weak.

Talos had always been this way.

Polished. Controlled.

A kissass to whoever stood in front of him.

Their mother was, by most quiet accounts, a terrible being. Cruel in ways that never left visible marks. Calculating in ways that ruined lives generations later. Yet fawning over her had become instinct. Survival had taught them early that affection, even false affection, was safer than honesty.

"Good."

Her lips curved faintly. It did not reach her eyes.

She asked them one after the other about their well being. Wilder answered with firm composure. Mitus with restrained pride. Thane with careful neutrality.

Each response measured. Each word weighed.

When her gaze finally reached Raven, it lingered.

The temperature seemed to drop.

Raven stood straight already, shoulders squared, chin lifted in quiet defiance she barely concealed. Her dark hair framed a face that carried too much of her late father’s shadow.

The High God paused.

Her expression hardened.

"Stand up straight," she muttered.

The words did not travel normally through the air. They coiled. They tightened.

Raven’s body jerked subtly as invisible pressure wrapped around her spine and limbs, forcing her posture into something unnaturally rigid. Her muscles locked, tendons straining beneath divine authority that allowed no resistance.

Her jaw clenched. She did not cry out.

Seeing this, Enzo frowned.

The playful edge vanished from his face. His fingers twitched once at his side as if debating something reckless.

But there was nothing he could do.

Not here.

""Whatever. Longdan, brief them."

After a short sigh, the High God waved her hand dismissively and reclined into her throne. The radiance behind her dimmed slightly, though the pressure of her presence remained like a weight pressing against every chest in the hall.

The prince of the left stepped forward.

"As a lot of you know, the High God has been ill for quite a while. Even our enemies are aware of it. You are expected not to say a word of this. Ever."

He was tall and lanky, almost fragile in build, a far cry from the overwhelming brilliance of the woman seated behind him. His limbs seemed too long for his robes, yet there was nothing weak about him. His eyes burned with an ice cold gleam that cut sharper than any blade in the room.

The words he spoke rippled through the gathered heirs like a silent explosion.

High God and ill.

Those two words did not belong in the same sentence. That was peasant gossip. Tavern talk. The kind of foolish rumor that earned executions.

Yet now they were hearing it from the prince himself.

No one dared to interrupt.

"But yes," Longdan continued calmly, clasping his hands behind his back as he paced once across the polished floor. "We are seeking a method to cure her. It is not a major ailment, nothing that threatens her divinity directly."

He paused, lips curling faintly.

"Unfortunately, acquiring the materials required to mitigate it has proven... troublesome. That will be the basis of this Hunter Games."

His gaze swept the hall slowly, deliberately, measuring reactions. It slid past Talos, lingered on Mitus, brushed over Wilder, and finally settled on Raven.

The faintest narrowing of his eyes followed.

"We will assign several fractured worlds to you and your respective factions. Within those territories grows the Dark Ice Lilly."

A faint projection shimmered above the center of the hall, revealing an image of a flower carved from something like frozen night. Its petals were translucent and jagged, glowing faintly from within as if containing trapped starlight.

"It grows only in areas saturated with extreme corruption," Longdan continued. "Places where the land rots. Where divine laws fracture. Where even Tyrants hesitate to step."

His voice remained steady.

"Yet instead of being corrupted, the Dark Ice Lilly cleanses it. It absorbs filth and refines it into something pure. That purity is what we require."

A low murmur stirred among the heirs. Not fear exactly, but calculation. Corruption zones were not battlefields. They were living graves.

Suddenly, a sharp vibration echoed from every communication device in the room.

A single message transmitted simultaneously.

This is a qualifying factor. It is also part of the Games.

If you fail this task, it is best not to return here.

Silence followed.

The meaning was clear.

Failure meant disqualification

Zeke felt the tension thicken beside him. Even Enzo’s expression hardened slightly, the humor gone completely now.

Across the hall, some heirs smiled. Others looked thoughtful. A few seemed almost excited.

Raven stood unmoving, her posture still unnaturally rigid from earlier. But her eyes burned darker than before as she started directing at the high god.

""For this, we have prepared a set of materials within the inner sanctums of the palace. No one is to attempt killing one another at this stage. And only one divine being may remain with each faction."

The prince’s voice did not rise, yet it carried effortlessly across the hall.

His gaze shifted toward the gathered divine guardians standing behind their respective heirs. Ancient beings cloaked in authority, halos dimmed but unmistakable. He scanned them one by one before giving a faint shake of his head.

Certain factions were far too wasteful.

Sending multiple gods to babysit mortals as if the Games were a pilgrimage instead of a crucible. It was inefficient. Irritating.

The Hunter Games were not meant to be safe.

They were meant to thin the herd.

"Further instructions will be made available as the Games begin to unfold," he added, folding his hands neatly behind his back once more.

There was something deliberate in the way he said unfold, as though the Games were a living thing with teeth hidden beneath silk.

He turned slightly, glancing back at the High God. It was subtle, but unmistakable. He was waiting.

Waiting for approval.

The High God remained reclined upon her throne of woven light, one arm resting against its side. Her expression revealed nothing. For a moment, the hall felt suspended in stillness, like the pause before a blade fell.

Then she gave the slightest nod.

Permission granted.

Longdan stepped back into position beside the throne, posture straight, face calm, as if he had merely announced a festival rather than a deadly expedition into corrupted worlds.

Below, tension coiled tighter among the heirs.

This Hunter Games would not resemble the previous ones. That much was obvious. There was no grand spectacle promised. No immediate clash to thin out rivals in glorious combat. Instead, they were being sent into rotting dimensions to retrieve something that purified corruption.

A mission disguised as a competition.

Or perhaps a competition disguised as mercy.

Zeke exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes narrowing.

Only one divine being allowed. That meant protection would be thin. It meant exposure. It meant risk.

Enzo’s lips curved faintly again, though there was no humor in it. He understood the subtext.

They were being tested before the Games even began.

And if they failed, they were not to return home.

Longdan knew this round would be harsher than the previous cycles. The corruption zones alone guaranteed casualties. The limited divine support ensured it.

However, who was he to tell them that outright.

If heirs required warnings, how would they cope with the endless mental games from that sick twisted woman called Gaia?