Solo Cultivating in Superhero Academy
Chapter 98: Difficult missions

Chapter 98: Difficult missions

The man in black who stood at the front straightened his back slightly, as though preparing to deliver a decree that would alter the course of the entire room’s future.

"We want you," he began, his voice level and direct, "to be promoted."

A murmur rippled across the classroom.

"To a Second Semester F-Class Superhero."

And just like that—the room exploded into stunned, shocked, electrified silence.

Eyes widened.

Mouths fell open.

Pens and gadgets were dropped onto desks.

The wave of disbelief that rushed through the room was visible—palpable—like watching a mental earthquake unfold in real time.

For several of the students, especially the ones who had been here since orientation, this was unheard of.

An impossibility.

An insult. A legend crashing into their mundane lives like a meteor through soft wood.

"...He—what?"

"No way."

"You mean Second Semester? As in, skipping half a year?"

"Dude, I haven’t even passed two beginner missions..."

"Didn’t he just show up yesterday? Literally—yesterday?!"

"I—I—I’ve been here three semesters and I’m still F-Class, and I got bruised just fighting a robbery bot!"

"Second Semester means higher-tier dungeon access, better suit upgrades, and Mentor-tier mission privileges! He just got here!"

"He’s probably never even been to the cafeteria!"

"W-wait—does this mean he’s gonna leave our class? Like—leave-leave?"

"...Don’t say that..."

A heavy silence followed that last comment.

And then it happened.

The meltdown.

It started with the girls sitting in the back row—the ones who had spent the past hour sketching Elius’s features in the corners of their notebooks, dreaming of future duos, whispering about how he looked when his sword floated midair.

"Wait—he’s leaving?!"

"Noooooo! I haven’t even spoken to him yet!"

"He was like a mystery novel that just arrived—YOU CAN’T CANCEL HIM AT Chapter ONE!"

"I memorized his sword’s angle of rotation... I was going to draw fanart..."

"I was planning to accidentally bump into him during patrol duty!"

"I just started writing a poem for him to read, titled Blades of My Heart—"

"STOP. STOP THIS PAIN!"

"I—I... he hasn’t even smiled yet. What if he never smiles in our direction?"

"He was the first man who made me consider sparring as a romantic activity!"

"And now—he’s gone?! Like a flame flickering once and vanishing in the night?!"

"TAKE ME INSTEAD! I’LL DO THE MISSIONS!"

"I—I—need a therapist..."

One girl actually stood up, pressed her palm to her forehead, and dramatically collapsed back into her seat.

The scene was loud, chaotic, unhinged.

But Elius... ignored it.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance their way.

His eyes were still on the men in black.

He had already known this would happen.

And he welcomed it.

"Yes," Elius said calmly, "I’d like that. What do I need to do?"

The men in black glanced at each other again.

A subtle tilt of the head.

One raised a brow.

Another adjusted his collar.

And then—once more—the whispers began.

Low, secretive, almost molecular in its quietness.

This time, their communication stretched on like a spiraling incantation loop.

It was a network of whispers.

Tones shifted.

Security runes glowed faintly around their gloves, fingers twitching with signals.

They spoke of authorization codes.

They debated whether five missions was sufficient to measure true mettle.

Someone brought up Radiant Man’s shadow—that they needed to know if Elius was truly worthy of that attention.

They referenced combat logs.

Pulse scans.

Mental resilience ratings.

D-Class comparisons.

They compared him to other fast-track students who had failed, broken, or disappeared.

"...Too early?" one whispered.

"...No, necessary," another responded. "This is a stressor forge. He’s already tempering."

"What about collateral?"

"He’s already proven capable of limiting it. Besides, he has a sword. That’s rare."

"The sword floats."

"He wills it to float. It’s like mental electromagnetism combined with telekinetic power imprinting. Possibly Esper fused with a forgotten martial code."

"...A hybrid?"

"Maybe something worse."

"Or something better."

At last, they all turned toward him again.

"The terms are simple," said the lead agent. "To qualify for your Second Semester promotion, you must complete five missions that are like these things that were currently listed under the Second Semester F-Class difficulty tier."

Elius raised a brow slightly. "What kind of missions?"

The agent nodded.

And now—the explanation began.

And it was long.

Extremely long.

Like a sprawling scroll of dangerous destiny unrolled before his feet.

"These are not classroom simulations or exercise drills, these are true missions," the agent began. "For short, they are live combat missions—scenarios pulled directly from the Villain Surveillance Network’s real-time distress feeds. Each mission is verified to involve a legitimate F-Class threat. However, what distinguishes them is their volatility."

He tapped a button on his wrist, projecting five glowing mission files into the air. They rotated slowly like sacred orbs.

"Just like mission one: A gas-breather mutant whose pheromones induce mindless rage in a fifty-meter radius. Located near a construction district. Collateral threat: High."

"Next is mission two: An escaped F-Class techno-summoner who implants nano-leeches into civilians, transforming them into walking bomb-thralls. Collateral threat: Uncontrolled."

"And mission three: A failed weapon experiment from Project Glass Phoenix has awakened underground, and it’s starting to tunnel through an abandoned subway station. It senses kinetic vibration and responds with high-pressure steam bursts from its orifices."

"We want to add mission four: A former hero-turned-villain has begun acting as a false mentor, luring Sidekick hopefuls into ’secret training camps’ and brainwashing them. Three students are already missing."

"And last but not the list, mission five: A dimensional rift anomaly in the border district has produced a rogue elemental pocket, filled with unstable flame sprites capable of incinerating entire buildings if left alone. Estimated self-destruction timeline: four days."

The room was silent.

The agent folded his arms. "Each one has the potential to spiral into a D-Class scenario if not contained. Each one will test your judgment, restraint, battle sense, and emotional resistance.

"These are not one-on-one duels. They are chaos vectors. You may be forced to choose between saving a child or stopping the villain. Between shielding yourself or neutralizing the threat. And no one will guide you. You will be alone. So are you interested in taking missions like these ones?"

Elius listened.

Quiet.

His eyes closed slowly.

These... were not simple missions.

They were like spiritual trials.

All five were deadly in the most insidious way—not with brute force, but with layered complexity.

Cultivation wisdom often taught that true mastery wasn’t revealed in open combat, but in the crossroads between duty and survival.

But I have my Heavenly Slam, Elius thought, eyes opening again.

It was the ultimate strike art that the system perfected to be invincible in the Qi Condensation stage—the technique that condensed his essence, his will, and his sword control into one divine slam of energy.

In this world’s terms? F-Class.

But in the game world? It was a finishing move that could level minor sects.

I’ll be fine.

He nodded.

"Yes," Elius said, voice strong. "I’ll take them."

A pause.

A moment of disbelief.

The men in black blinked in tandem, visibly surprised for the first time.

They hadn’t expected him to accept it so swiftly.

Not after the weight of the missions.

Not after understanding their risk.

But Elius simply stood there, expression unreadable, like a mountain forged of silence.

And that’s when two of them whispered to the other:

"Can he really take them?"