Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

The training hall was still.

The air, moments ago filled with lightning’s hiss and mana’s roar, now hung in a reverent silence. Only the echo of that final clash lingered, trailing like smoke after a fire. The other students—those who had once been sparring, stretching, waiting—stood frozen. All eyes locked on the scene at the center of the arena.

Victor stood calm, blade at Ethan’s neck. Not a scratch on him. Ethan stood equally still, chest heaving, sweat trickling, his spear frozen mid-air in a strike that had gone wide at the last second.

It was over.

No declaration needed.

Only silence.

From the sidelines, Julia stared, arms crossed tight over her chest, her usual smirk absent. Her blue eyes followed the slow, inevitable way Victor lowered his sword and stepped back with quiet finality.

“…That wasn’t just a fight,” she murmured, barely above a whisper. “That was a freaking textbook.”

Lilia didn’t speak at first.

Her gaze hadn’t left Victor from the moment the match began. Even now, her eyes tracked the subtle shifts in his posture—the effortless way he sheathed his sword, like nothing of importance had happened.

And yet—what she had just witnessed was anything but ordinary.

Her voice finally escaped her lips, low and strained.

“Just what on earth…?”

Irina, standing beside her, arms loosely crossed, exhaled slowly. “That wasn’t normal. His movements…”

“They weren’t just precise,” Lilia added, eyes narrowing. “They were… calibrated.”

Julia finally tore her gaze from the arena to glance between them. “It’s like space itself was bending around him. Like it wouldn’t let him be touched.”

Irina’s amber eyes narrowed slightly, focused on the spot where Victor had stood. “His movements were too clean. Not just trained—unnaturally stable. There wasn’t even a fluctuation in his mana stream when he deflected Ethan’s spear.”

“Yeah,” Lilia murmured, her voice more unsettled than analytical for once. “Every time Ethan struck, something in the air… shifted. But not because of the spear. It was like—his mana didn’t respond the way it should.”

Julia crossed her arms again, slower this time, her brows furrowed. “So what? You think it was a skill?”

“Most likely,” Irina answered. “But not one I’ve seen before.”

“Gravity?” Lilia suggested, her tone thoughtful but uncertain. “That’s the closest thing I can think of. The way Ethan’s spear got pulled off-course… the curve wasn’t natural. It felt like the space around Victor was heavier.”

Julia tilted her head. “Then why didn’t Ethan feel weighed down? It didn’t slow his movement—it just kept redirecting him. Like something was shifting right before impact.”

Julia’s gaze lingered on the arena for a second longer before she turned, eyes sharp now—not with judgment, but with curiosity sharpened into suspicion.

“Astron,” she called, her voice cutting through the murmuring quiet like a chime against glass.

He stood a few steps back from the group, one hand resting lightly against the edge of the viewing platform, posture relaxed, almost detached. His coat still held faint traces of movement from his earlier sparring—creases around the shoulders, a dusting of dried mana along the cuffs—but there was no tension in his stance. Just silence.

He glanced at her slowly, expression unreadable. “Hmm?”

Julia folded her arms, angling her body toward him fully. “What do you think that was?”

Astron shrugged. Not exaggerated. Just a subtle shift of the shoulders, a motion so casual it almost seemed dismissive.

“I think,” he said calmly, “that I saw what you saw.”

Lilia turned toward him as well, her brows furrowing. Irina didn’t speak—just tilted her head slightly, watching.

Astron continued, voice still even. “Victor moved, Ethan couldn’t hit him, and now everyone’s confused. That’s all.”

Julia narrowed her eyes. “You’re not that simple.”

“I try to be.”

“Cut the act.” She stepped forward, just enough to close the distance without making it look confrontational. “You know something. You’re just not saying it.”

His gaze met hers. Unflinching. Not cold, not mocking. Just… quiet.

“I know a lot of things,” Astron replied evenly. “And I don’t know a lot of things.”

That answer—so deliberately useless—hung in the air for a second.

Julia stared at him, clearly weighing whether to push again. Lilia’s eyes hadn’t left his face. Even Irina, who rarely showed interest in classroom drama, seemed more engaged now.

Astron exhaled slowly through his nose, as if entertaining the moment.

Then, he added, quieter:

“Victor’s control is beyond what most people are trained for. That’s obvious. Whether it’s a skill, a blessing, or something else… I can’t say. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” Julia asked, catching on.

He didn’t answer.

Just turned back to the arena, where Victor was already walking off, his steps as unbothered as when he arrived—no wave to the crowd, no smile, no acknowledgment.

Only silence.

Astron watched as Victor’s figure disappeared through the far exit of the training hall, his posture as composed leaving as it had been in the final moment of the duel. No acknowledgment of the murmurs, no nod to Ethan, no satisfaction. Just quiet retreat.

His gaze lingered for a moment longer.

Then, slowly, he looked down at his own hands.

They were still, relaxed at his sides. But faint traces of mana still pulsed beneath the surface—quiet, invisible to the others. He allowed his fingers to flex slightly, as if reacquainting himself with them.

There’s a reason I went through all that trouble.

He didn’t sigh. Didn’t smirk. But the thought settled like weight behind his eyes.

The Voidborne ability… It wasn’t just curiosity. Not some side objective, or a power grab.

His eyes shifted slightly, catching Ethan in the corner of his vision—still breathing hard, still gripping his spear, knuckles pale from the tension that hadn’t faded.

It was for people like Victor.

People who stood outside the ordinary flow of mana. People who had crossed into the realm of Authority.

Victor’s wasn’t the only one, but it was active—and refined.

Ethan would have his own eventually. It was written in the bones of the world. As the protagonist, his growth was inevitable. Astron knew that. Accepted it.

But Victor was already there.

And that makes him the strongest Hunter in the current generation.

Not just in name. Not just by skill. But by truth. Because Authority changed the rules.

No—redefined them.

But Victor’s Authority…

Astron’s fingers stilled. His eyes narrowed just slightly, enough that none of the others would notice.

It’s different.

Stronger.

Among those who’d awakened their Authorities in this generation, there were a few—outliers whose names the instructors whispered when they thought no students were listening. Astron had studied them all. Compared their combat data. Deduced the structure of their power.

But Victor’s was something else.

Not just powerful.

Fundamental.

“Order.”

That was the name assigned to it, though the term barely scratched the surface of what it actually did.

Astron had watched carefully, seen it in motion—not just in this duel, but in the sparring logs, the mission footage, the way mana behaved differently around him when he was serious. It didn’t flare, didn’t explode—it corrected.

When Ethan’s strike veered off-course in that final moment… it wasn’t because Victor dodged. It wasn’t a miscalculation.

It was Overwriting.

Restoring the Order, as he called it.

An external force rewriting the vector and force index of the strike mid-flight. Not through raw strength, not even mana displacement—but concept alteration.

It didn’t matter how fast or precise Ethan was. If his action violated the imposed logic Victor had declared—

Then the action would fail to exist correctly.

This isn’t just defense. It’s law enforcement.

Victor’s Authority didn’t just protect him.

It enforced a system.

A structured, invisible logic that bent the battlefield to his interpretation of balance.

Most Authorities enhanced the user. Strengthened what already existed. Pushed limits beyond natural laws.

But Victor’s? It didn’t break limits.

It replaced them.

Overwrite.

That was the key.

Where Ethan’s future Authority would likely lean toward evolution, growth, ascension—Victor’s existed in parallel. A counterbalance. A mirror.

The rival archetype incarnate.

Which made sense. He wasn’t just a powerful Hunter. He was the narrative opposite of the Protagonist. Equal in weight. Equal in promise.

And if Ethan was a blade meant to cut through destiny—

Then Victor was the sheath that could nullify the cut entirely.

Astron’s hand curled slightly, the faint hum of [Voidborne] beneath his skin pulsing in response.

Void doesn’t overwrite. It erases.

No correction. No resistance. Just nothingness.

And in a world where Authority could rewrite reality, maybe the only thing capable of contending with it…

…was the power to undo reality altogether.

He let the thought settle in silence.