Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

A stillness hung in the air as the weight of Instructor Verren's final words settled over the room.

You are candidates.

Act like it.

The cadets stood straighter, shoulders a little more squared. For a long moment, no one said a word—until a hand quietly rose from the middle of the formation.

It was Mira.

Her voice, while respectful, carried a note of genuine curiosity. "Instructor… what about the duel between Victor and Ethan?"

A hush fell across the room again, sharper this time. Everyone turned toward Verren, eyes narrowing with unspoken tension.

Even Julia, who had been leaning back lazily with arms crossed, straightened slightly.

Victor's name still carried an unnatural weight—and Ethan's fight had been the quiet thunder hanging behind every match.

Verren didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he stared down at his tablet for a long beat, as if gathering his thoughts—or perhaps deciding what to say. Then, finally, he let out a deep, restrained sigh.

"…Ethan Hartley fought as close to his limit as anyone could ask," Verren said, his voice lower now, more grounded. "He held his stance, made no critical errors, responded to overwhelming pressure with composure. That in itself is commendable."

Ethan, who had remained silent, kept his gaze steady, though the memory of the fight still pulsed faintly in his jaw and ribs.

"But," Verren continued, lifting his gaze to meet the room again, "that match serves as a lesson of a different kind."

The students listened with breath held. Even Astron looked up.

"There are times when you will do everything right," Verren said, "and still lose."

The words struck hard. Clear. Unapologetic.

"You may face a monster," he said slowly, "that you can't outrun. Can't outfight. One that stands too far above you—individually or even as a team. No weakness to exploit. No obvious path to victory."

He paused. The room remained silent.

"In that case," Verren said, his voice like steel against stone, "you'll need to understand something many hunters refuse to accept."

He stepped forward, his gaze unrelenting.

"You will need to make a choice."

Another pause.

"Not how to win—but what you're willing to lose in order to survive."

His next words cut even deeper.

"Sometimes, you must make sacrifices."

The cadets shifted uncomfortably. No one dared speak.

"Maybe it's letting go of pride. Maybe it's leaving behind a teammate. Maybe it's yourself."

Victor, still leaning against the far column, remained motionless, his gaze flicking once—only once—toward Ethan.

Verren's eyes scanned the room once more.

"I don't say this to scare you. I say this because one day, it will be real. You'll be standing at the edge of something greater than you. And you'll need to ask yourself, not just 'Can I win?'…"

He turned away, walking slowly back to the center of the room.

"…but 'What am I willing to lose in order to survive?'"

Silence reigned.

It was no longer just a combat class.

It was a war room in disguise.

Verren nodded once more.

"Class dismissed."

The moment Verren uttered the words—"Class dismissed"—a quiet, heavy exhale swept through the room. Not relief. Not fatigue.

Weight.

The cadets began to move, slowly, hesitantly, like gears reluctantly turning in a long-dormant machine. Conversations that might've sparked after an intense match were nowhere to be heard. There were no light jokes, no friendly shoulder-pats, no post-fight banter.

Just silence.

Thick. Lingering.

Even the sound of boots against the polished floor felt subdued, as though the hall itself had chosen to mourn something unspoken.

Because no matter how strong they were—how talented, how prideful—Verren's words had cut deep.

They weren't just students anymore.

They were candidates.

Candidates for a war none of them had truly seen.

Even Julia walked slower now, her usual fire cooled to embers. Her arms still crossed, but the confidence in her posture had dulled—not broken, but tempered. Verren's words had struck somewhere beneath her pride, somewhere she hadn't wanted to admit was vulnerable.

Lilia followed a step behind her, lips pursed, brows drawn. Her eyes weren't on anyone—just lost in that final phrase. What are you willing to lose?

It wasn't a question with easy answers.

Irina's footsteps were sharp, but quiet. Composed. Yet her mana had shrunk, pulled inward—coiled like a flame denied oxygen. There was no visible reaction, but her fingers flexed every so often, as if responding to something she couldn't quite burn away.

And Ethan…

Ethan walked behind them, his hand resting briefly against his ribs. Not from pain—but thought. Verren hadn't needed to single him out. Everyone had already known. He had lived those words during the duel.

He had done everything right.

And still lost.

It wasn't something he'd forget soon.

Not even Astron spoke.

He moved at his usual pace, head slightly tilted, gaze unreadable. But for those who'd come to know him—even in fragments—it was clear he hadn't dismissed Verren's words. He had logged them. Filed them away with all the others. Words like that stayed with people like him.

And then there was Carl.

Carl walked ahead, steps solid, face as still as carved stone. No one said anything to him. No one needed to. There was something in his gaze—a weight no one else carried. Not because he'd heard words like Verren's before.

Because he'd lived them.

Carl had seen missions go wrong. Had heard the panicked breathing of wounded allies. Had made the kinds of choices Verren spoke of.

Sacrifices.

To the others, Verren's words were a revelation.

To Carl?

They were a reminder.

The group regrouped loosely near the arched exit of the hall, but even there, no one said anything at first.

Then Lucas finally let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Well. That was… grim."

The silence lingered like fog—thick and unwelcome.

Everyone stood there, shifting awkwardly, their thoughts still trailing behind Verren's heavy words. But then—

Clack.

Julia stepped forward, the heel of her boot tapping deliberately on the stone. She rolled her shoulders once, exhaled, and broke the silence the only way she knew how.

"With all due respect to our beloved grim-reaper-instructor," she said, voice light but not mocking, "I don't plan on making sacrifices."

Lilia glanced over, brows furrowed, but Julia continued before anyone could comment.

"I just need to be strong enough. That's all. Strong enough that I don't have to choose. No sacrifices. No 'what are you willing to lose.'" She gave a half-shrug, lips twitching into her usual smirk. "I'll beat whatever's in front of me and keep everyone intact. Simple."

Lucas tilted his head with a knowing look. "That sounds like major cope, not gonna lie."

Julia turned and smacked him lightly on the shoulder with the back of her hand. "Shut up, Lucas."

"Hey, I'm just saying," he said, raising both hands defensively, though grinning. "Sounds like you're trying to shout over your own existential dread."

Julia scoffed, but the slight glint in her eyes betrayed the intention—she had lightened the mood. A little, anyway.

"Existential dread's boring," she said, flipping her hair. "I prefer winning."

Ethan finally cracked a small smile. "That's… one way to deal with it."

Lilia sighed, but the corners of her mouth pulled upward. "Only you could turn a near-death philosophical lecture into motivational nonsense."

Irina, standing a bit to the side, gave Julia a sidelong glance, arms crossed. "You talk like you've got it all figured out."

Julia smirked. "Nope. I just refuse to get depressed in a hallway."

And just like that, the tension around them began to ease—still present beneath the surface, but no longer suffocating.

Because Julia had done what she always did.

She brought the fire back.