Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest-Chapter 953 - 219.3 - Show

It was not bad indeed.

The silence that followed was satisfying. The kind earned only through motion, not words. His hands remained open for a second longer, letting the faint pulse of residual mana thrum in the chakrams before he flicked them back into their compartments. They vanished with a metallic whisper.

Enough for now.

He hadn’t neglected his chakrams—nor the rifle or the bow. Each had their moment. Each served a purpose.

But daggers were where it all began.

His feet shifted into stance. His fingers brushed the hilts with familiarity, the twin blades slipping free once more. Clean. Responsive. Built not for brute power—but for a style that demanded instinct, agility, precision.

Time to sharpen the edge again.

The system responded instantly.

[Weapon Focus: Dual Daggers]

[Engagement Type: Close Quarters Combat]

[Golem Units: Adaptive Difficulty Enabled]

The floor beneath him shimmered. One by one, the training golems emerged again—three this time, each with a different build. One armored. One fast. One unpredictable.

Good.

He moved before they did.

The first dagger found its mark in the throat seam of the nearest unit—a gap he had memorized after countless repetitions. He used its collapse as a springboard, launching into a spin that brought his second dagger into a sweeping slash against the side of the nimble-type golem. Sparks lit up, but its plating held.

He adjusted—twisting midair, kicking off the golem’s shoulder to gain height. His daggers arced together downward in an X-shaped strike, denting the plating enough to drive his knee into the joint and buckle it.

It fell.

A flicker passed through his senses.

He froze mid-turn—daggers poised to strike—and exhaled through his nose.

She’s back.

’Eleanor.’

The sensation wasn’t loud. Not a shift in mana. Not even sound. Just presence. An awareness woven into his instincts.

He didn’t turn to confirm. He didn’t need to. He knew how she moved—quiet, precise, unreadable to most. But to him, it was always a little too intentional.

She didn’t come here by accident.

Another golem lunged from behind. Astron flowed sideways, letting it overcommit before carving two fast slashes across its midsection and then driving both blades upward into its core. A mechanical whine stuttered, then died.

He remained in motion, but now his rhythm had changed.

Smoother. Sharper.

She’s watching.

*****

Eleanor stepped lightly into the facility, the door sealing behind her with its usual whisper-hiss. She hadn’t planned on coming here today—not officially. Her schedule was already packed, and she had no intention of micromanaging the two she had chosen specifically not to hover over.

But something in the back of her mind had pulled her here anyway.

A gut instinct.

She didn’t suppress those.

And now, as she crossed into the main hall, the soft pulse of movement, of active combat signatures, confirmed her hunch.

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He was here.

Astron.

Eleanor’s steps slowed as she passed into the elevated observation platform. The lights remained low, and she made no effort to announce herself. She didn’t need to.

Below, in the wide-open combat field, the air shimmered with residual heat and mana. Astron’s daggers moved like extensions of breath—silent, sudden, and certain. One golem shattered under the force of a perfectly placed strike to its kinetic core. Another stumbled back from a curved intercept that disarmed it mid-lunge.

She paused at the edge of the rail, watching without a word.

It wasn’t surprising, not really. Of the two, Astron was more likely to keep himself sharp even outside scheduled hours. Ethan’s bursts of intensity were stronger—but they came with emotional charge. Astron? He was like a drawn string—always taut, always held in place by unseen pressure.

And clearly, listening.

She’d told them this facility was theirs now. That the conditions she laid out weren’t negotiable. She had wanted to see whether that would mean anything.

Astron had answered the question without ever saying a word.

She watched as he dismantled the third golem with a series of short, precise movements. Each slash controlled. Each pivot balanced. His footwork had improved—not flashier, not faster, just cleaner. More grounded.

He wasn’t just fighting.

He was refining.

And yet…

Eleanor narrowed her eyes.

There it was again—that feeling. Like being seen, even when no glance was given. Astron hadn’t looked her way. Not once. Not even a flicker of attention toward the upper deck. But something in the way he shifted his shoulders, the way his form closed tighter, made her certain.

He knew.

He knew she was there.

Could she prove it?

No.

Could anyone?

Not likely.

But Eleanor trusted her instincts—and they told her this wasn’t a coincidence. The way his style had shifted, not just to efficiency, but to something more visible, more deliberate… this was the version of Astron he wanted her to see.

He could’ve chosen to train in one of the three isolated chambers. Could’ve used the deeper wings, where even her senses couldn’t track fluctuations clearly. But he hadn’t.

Which meant one thing.

This training—the one she was watching now—was curated.

Measured.

Intended.

Eleanor’s arms folded across her chest as she leaned slightly against the railing, her expression unreadable.

Interesting.

She wasn’t annoyed.

If anything… she was curious.

Because if this was what he chose to show—then she had to wonder:

What was he still hiding?

The rhythmic sound of steel meeting synthetic plating echoed across the chamber, each clash clean, deliberate, a thread in the silent dance that was Astron’s combat routine. Eleanor remained still above, eyes narrowed in focus.

His daggers moved with uncanny familiarity—not just wielded, but expressed, as though each slash and counter was written into his blood. His spacing was immaculate. Movement economic. Reactions instinctive. There was no wasted motion. No hesitation.

And more than anything—there was understanding.

Yes… she had seen this before.

Eleanor’s thoughts drifted for a moment, not into admiration, but recognition.

He moves like someone who already understands what battle is.

Not just techniques. Not drills or footwork patterns. But the feel of combat. The ebb and flow of pressure, the necessity of commitment, the purpose behind every motion. That couldn’t be taught. Only earned.

She exhaled quietly, her gaze sharpening. "Your comprehension is nearing its limit," she murmured to herself. "But even that limit… isn’t fixed."

Still, as clean as it was, she could tell.

There were tiny imbalances in how he adjusted mid-motion. Micro delays. Overreliance on reverse-angled pivoting. A few small choices that leaned into habit rather than need.

He self-trained too long. Some habits are too deep to notice alone.

And then, without prompting, a memory stirred.

The first semester. That lesson.

She could still recall it with clarity—the [Stripes] class. A mandatory lecture where she introduced the cadets to the foundational forms of the Federal Swordplay.

Most had followed along—clumsy, eager, some overly confident.

But Astron… he hadn’t stood out then. Not the way others had. In fact, he had almost deliberately blended in. Observing more than executing. Performing only enough to pass undetected.

At the time, she had assumed it was laziness. Maybe arrogance.

But now…

Now she saw the truth.

He hadn’t participated fully because the sword form wasn’t his.

She remembered how he held the blade—not incorrectly, but with a different grip. Not center-aligned, but slightly pulled back toward the wrist. Efficient for shorter blades. Daggers.

And even back then, when she had taken him aside and forced him to demonstrate… he had adjusted immediately. Adapted to her instructions with unnatural speed. Faster than the others.

Her voice from that day echoed in her mind.

"Notice how the mana flows seamlessly along the surface of the blade."

She remembered guiding his hand. How his pulse hadn’t faltered once. How his corrections had landed not just where she’d told him, but one step further—anticipating the next problem before it surfaced.

Back then, she had merely taken note of it. Stored it away under "adaptive with potential."

But now, watching him here, daggers in hand, moving through the golems like breath through lungs—it was undeniable.

Daggers were his main tool.

She leaned forward against the railing slightly, her voice low.

"…You’re not just trained. You’re refined. You understand combat the way most understand breathing."

Astron disarmed the last golem with a backward slash and stepped through the falling motion in one fluid movement, turning the wreckage into part of his footwork. The blades flicked once more—metal vanishing into his wrists with a metallic whisk.

He didn’t look up.

He didn’t need to.

But Eleanor was certain.

He knew she was there.

And what he’d shown her… was only the part he wanted her to see.

She smiled faintly.

"Then let’s see," she whispered, "if I can make you show the rest."