Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 772

The semester might have changed, the rankings might have shifted, but I hadn’t. Improvement wasn’t a matter of sudden bursts; it was built on consistency, on maintaining routines that grounded progress. And so, as usual, I found myself heading to the training grounds.

The walk there was quiet, the crisp morning air carrying the faint hum of mana that always seemed to permeate the academy. The training hall loomed ahead, its tall, clean structure reflecting the subtle glow of the rising sun. As I stepped inside, the familiar scent of polished wood and faint mana traces greeted me.

The hall wasn’t crowded, just as I’d expected. At most, around ten percent of the stations were occupied. A few students sparred in the central ring, their strikes ringing out as their weapons clashed. Others worked with dummies or practiced channeling their mana into controlled bursts. The air was alive with muted focus, but it lacked the intensity it should have had.

I paused near the entrance, surveying the scene. The ratio was too low for what the academy expected of its students. A faint frown tugged at the corner of my mouth as the realization set in.

"They still didn’t get the seriousness back," I murmured to myself, my voice barely above a whisper. "It appears the academy still hasn’t managed to instill that sense of urgency."

In a way, it wasn’t surprising. For many students, the stakes didn’t yet feel real. The rankings, the lessons, the spars—it was all part of a system that felt distant from the harsher realities beyond the academy’s walls. They weren’t truly feeling the weight of what awaited them outside—monsters, demons, the unpredictable chaos of the world.

But for those who understood, for those who could see the storm brewing, there was no room for complacency. Every minute here mattered. Every ounce of effort was a step closer to survival.

I stepped further inside, heading toward an empty station near the far corner. The familiar hum of mana resonated faintly from the training equipment, a steady rhythm that always seemed to settle my focus. I set my things down, stretching briefly before moving into my routine.

First, warm-ups—focused strikes on a dummy, each one calculated to build precision and fluidity. My movements were deliberate, each punch and kick driving mana in controlled bursts, reinforcing the habits I’d drilled into myself.

Next came mana control. I stood still, centering my focus as I channeled mana into my hands, weaving it into fine, stable threads. The energy coiled and uncoiled with each motion, the faint glow reflecting off my palms. This part wasn’t about strength; it was about finesse. Control was the foundation of every technique, and without it, power meant nothing.

As I worked through the exercises, I noticed a few students glancing in my direction. Some watched with curiosity, others with mild recognition. It didn’t matter. My focus stayed inward, on the rhythm of my movements, the feel of mana flowing through me.

’Routine,’ I thought, the word steadying me as I shifted into the next sequence. It was the backbone of progress. No shortcuts, no sudden bursts—just the quiet, relentless march forward. And as the training hall echoed softly with the sound of effort, I immersed myself in the familiar, the steady, the constant.

******

The room was cloaked in darkness, the faint hum of the city outside muffled by heavy curtains drawn tight over the lone window. In the stillness, the air felt heavy, stagnant, as though time itself hesitated to move forward within these walls.

A single light, dim and weak, spilled out from a desk lamp tilted upward. Its glow stretched across the room, barely reaching the corners, but enough to illuminate the wall in front of it. Enough to reveal the shrine.

Pictures. Countless pictures. The wall was a chaotic mosaic of moments frozen in time, all centered around one person. A young girl. Her long purple hair cascaded like silk in every shot, a perfect frame for her expressive face. Some pictures showed her smiling, her lavender eyes glowing with warmth; others captured her in motion, walking down busy streets, her steps confident, purposeful. One photo showed her at a desk, lost in study, her brow furrowed in quiet determination. Another showed her seated cross-legged, meditating amidst an ethereal landscape—a place where air, water, earth, and fire seemed to converge.

The images, meticulously arranged yet unnervingly obsessive, formed a collage of her existence. Her presence dominated the room, her likeness etched into every frame and every shadow.

And then, there was him.

Below the girl’s photos, tucked in the center of the display like a venomous parasite, hung a single image of a young man. His black hair framed a face both sharp and composed, his purple eyes glinting with an intensity that matched the girl’s own. His arm rested lightly on her shoulder in the photograph, as though their closeness were natural, effortless.

But the serene moment captured in the photo had been desecrated.

A massive, angry X had been slashed across his face, cutting through his features with jagged fury. Scrawled around the edges of the photo, as though etched into the paper by a trembling, obsessive hand, were the same word over and over again:

DIE.

DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE. DIE.

The repetition spiraled out from the image, the letters scratched deep into the paper’s surface, overlapping and chaotic, as though the writer couldn’t stop.

In the dim light, Trevor Philips sat hunched in a worn-out chair. His elbows rested on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together as though trying to anchor himself. The faint illumination of the desk lamp flickered, casting sporadic shadows across his face. His expression was unreadable—his jaw clenched tight, his gaze fixed on the wall as though it were the only thing that existed in the universe.

The air around him felt alive with tension, an invisible crackle that vibrated in the stillness. His breathing was shallow, almost inaudible as if the act of drawing breath required more effort than it was worth.

His fingers twitched, curling into fists. The knuckles turned white as he finally broke his silence, a low, guttural whisper escaping his lips: