Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

The echoes of Victor's final step hadn't even faded before Instructor Verren raised a hand.

"Next match. Irina Emberheart—Lilia Thornheart."

Another ripple passed through the room—not thunderous like before, but sharp. Focused.

Even those still murmuring about Victor fell silent.

Because now came a different kind of duel.

Not one of overwhelming force… but of pressure and precision.

Irina and Lilia.

Two names that had long since carved their way into the academy's combat rankings—not with brute displays of power, but through dominance of rhythm and field. Control. Calculation. Command.

They stepped toward the central platform without a word, their paths converging at opposite sides.

Lilia moved like a shadow on still water. Unhurried. Balanced. Her bow already summoned and drawn across her back—silver limbs etched with faint runes that shimmered under the overhead lights. Her long coat fluttered lightly with each step, and her emerald eyes never once left her opponent.

Irina, in contrast, walked like a flame in still air. Poised, but dangerous. Her braid swept behind her with each measured stride, combat jacket catching glimmers of ambient mana. She said nothing as she ascended the stone steps to the elevated platform. Her hands remained at her sides, relaxed—no weapon summoned.

But her presence was already igniting the space.

Amber eyes met emerald.

The audience—both student and instructor—tightened in.

Victor's fight may have stolen the spotlight.

But this?

This was the duel they were going to study.

Two battlefield generals in the making. Rank-2 against Rank-5.

Control versus control.

Lilia reached the top of the platform first and turned, drawing her bow in a smooth arc across her body. It gleamed with practiced familiarity, the string thrumming softly as she notched an arrow—not to fire, but to wait.

She did not speak.

She did not need to.

Irina stepped onto the platform a breath later, her footfalls light against the stone. She faced Lilia fully now, a thin smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

Not taunting.

Acknowledging.

"Shall we?"

Lilia answered with the faintest incline of her head.

From the side of the platform, Instructor Verren's voice rang out.

"Begin."

The arena didn't explode—it shifted.

Wind stirred. Mana rippled. Light bent.

And in an instant—

Lilia moved.

A blur of movement—graceful, clean. Her arrow loosed with pinpoint control, not aimed to kill, but to test. The shot curved in midair, guided by mana, spiraling not toward Irina's chest—but just beside her. A feint meant to trigger a dodge.

But Irina didn't dodge.

She stepped.

A half-pivot to the left. The arrow sailed by, and before the hum of its passage faded, a flare of heat coiled at Irina's heels.

She didn't retaliate immediately.

She watched.

Lilia was mapping her.

Three arrows followed in quick succession, each at a different angle—low, left, centerline. And each one was meant to provoke a reaction. Lilia didn't need a direct hit. She needed data.

Distance. Timing. Mana sync rate.

Irina gave her none of it.

She moved with the barest necessary motion, each dodge efficient and unreadable. Her mana signature remained faint, subdued—like kindling untouched by a match.

But then, the rhythm changed.

Lilia shifted position, sliding across the arena edge like water across stone, her bow already raised for the next volley. She didn't pause. Two shots fired—then three—then four, the pattern unpredictable, some fast, some delayed by half-beats.

It was a storm of control.

But Irina was waiting for exactly that.

Flick—

Her fingers twitched. Heat surged.

The air shimmered as flame burst around her in a tight, spiraling pattern—not as a wall, but a web.

Each point of fire marked a predicted line.

Every arrow that approached—met flame.

Not a wall. A net. And it caught the rhythm of Lilia's assault, choking it mid-arc.

Smoke curled into the air.

Now, Irina moved.

One foot forward. Then another.

Flames trailed her heels, tracing runes beneath her steps—temporary footholds of heat, building something larger, unseen.

Lilia's eyes narrowed. She adjusted.

A leap. A pivot. Her arrows changed again—now not aimed to test, but to cut off.

But Irina was already there.

She wasn't fighting Lilia's arrows.

She was fighting Lilia's intention.

Every time Lilia tried to force her back, Irina stepped diagonally. Not into retreat, not into confrontation—but into the angles Lilia had not accounted for.

She was slipping out of the script.

The instructors leaned forward.

One of them, an older woman with deep-set lines around her eyes, muttered, "She's not burning through mana like most do. She's fighting inside of a rhythm."

Another added, "No, she's constructing a rhythm. Look—those flames under her feet. She's laying down something. A timed formation?"

A breath passed. Then—

BAM.

A line of fire erupted across the arena, not wild, not uncontrolled—but deliberate. It split the floor between them in a sweeping arc, flames crawling like serpents along a path that had been written before the match even began.

Lilia's foot slid back, barely avoiding the blaze.

Irina's eyes lifted—sharp. Focused.

"You've mapped me," she said aloud, her voice calm, clear. "Now let's see how fast you can unlearn it."

Lilia's eyes narrowed.

But Irina was already moving again, flame coiling at her heels in elegant spirals as she paced to the left, then to the right—not chasing, not defending. Just... reshaping the tempo.

'This is different.'

She could feel it in the tight coil of her core, in the precision of her mana control, in the way her body moved before her thoughts had even fully formed. She was reading Lilia—not by instinct, not by reflex—but by design.

And the reason?

'Astron.'

Every time they trained, every time they clashed, she had felt it.

His presence on the battlefield was never bound by conventional spacing or movement. He didn't just dodge—he slipped through seams in a rhythm she hadn't realized existed. He mapped the terrain without walking it. He made her feel surrounded even when standing still.

And though he never taught her, not really—he didn't have to.

'He made me feel how deep the field could go.'

And now, standing here, trading rhythm and control with Lilia, Irina could see it. Every line of intention, every breath of misdirection in Lilia's form—like reading sheet music once the ear finally learned to listen.

'This wasn't possible before. But now? I'm not just reacting. I'm orchestrating.'

Another arrow came.

It wasn't aimed to strike—it was aimed to disrupt. A tracer, meant to force her to shift and break the formation she'd been slowly, invisibly laying across the ground.

Irina stepped through it.

Not around. Not away. Through.

Flames rose at her back like a curtain, flaring tall and wide. But even as they burned, Lilia moved, her bow glowing with a sharp violet hue.

The tempo snapped.

Lilia leapt backward, flipping midair as her fingers drew another arrow—not a normal one. This time, her mana pulsed in short, sharp waves.

And then—

Fwip.

The arrow cut through the space between them. The instant it entered the arc of Irina's flame—

Fssh—

The fire disappeared.

No explosion. No clash.

It just collapsed. Snuffed out.

Irina's eyes sharpened.

'She just—cancelled it?'

Another arrow. Same technique. It sliced through a gout of flame as if it were mist, leaving nothing behind but vanishing heat.

The audience collectively leaned forward. Even the instructors stilled.

Lilia landed in a crouch, bow lowered, her expression cool and focused. "Your flamework is clean as usual," she said, just loud enough to be heard. "Will you enter a battle of wits?"

Irina felt the challenge in those words—arrogant, taunting.

'Heh….You tihkn I will back down.'

If Lilia wanted to test her off, so be it.

She then followed with the same spell, though slightly changing the formation.

But following that, more arrows came, fired in staggered succession—not in a flurry, but in pulses, like sonar. Each one struck at a specific mana node in the arena—places where Irina's flames were meant to bloom.

And each time—

Collapse.

The spell died before it could take shape.

'Tch.'

Irina's feet slid back slightly on instinct, her left hand raising to draw a defensive blaze—but she stopped. Instead, her lips curved faintly.

'So that's your angle.'

It wasn't raw force. It was manipulation—inversion. Lilia's mana had been tuned specifically to interfere, the way wave propagation patterns cancelled each other at the precise moment of contact. A field disruption technique, layered into each shot.

'She's not a mage. But her understanding of mana? It's surgical. As usual, classic Lilia.'

And yet—Irina's smile grew.

Because this wasn't discouraging.

It was invigorating.

A worthy opponent. A shifting rhythm.

And more than that—an excuse to unveil something she'd never needed before.

'You're not the only one who learned to break tempo.'

The air around her flickered.

Then—stilled.

Lilia's bow rose again, but something was different.

The flames at Irina's feet no longer swirled. They hovered—floating just above the stone, as if unbound by gravity.

And then—

Whhhhp.

Three sigils bloomed in the air.

Not fire-based.

Force-based.

[Telekinesis]