Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 954

Eleanor remained still above the training chamber, arms folded, her eyes tracking Astron’s movements with unwavering precision. The gleam of his daggers caught the filtered lighting of the facility, tracing arcs of cold clarity through the air as golems crumbled around him. His footwork, his timing, his mana flow—so much of it whispered mastery.

There it is again, she thought. That innate clarity in combat.

He wasn’t just a good dagger user. He was a good fighter. His understanding of spacing, prediction, and rhythm wasn’t born of mere repetition—it was instinct reinforced by experience. Eleanor had seen thousands of cadets go through drills, sparring, real battles. Some could move well. Some could think well. Rarely both. Astron… he adjusted on the fly, seamlessly aligning his body and energy toward a singular goal.

It’s not just skill, she thought. It’s comprehension. The kind that only happens when fighting becomes a language.

Still, there was something else in the way he moved that made her pause—some strange thread that connected back to a memory.

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

That duel.

Astron and Irina. The impromptu spar, right after the [Stripes] class. She hadn’t intervened, hadn’t even needed to. The students had watched, and so had she, from a quiet distance.

Irina had the background. Elite tutors, sword lineage, textbook [Stripes] with elegance and refined mana infusion. She had been molded for swordsmanship in the way only nobles could afford to be.

And Astron?

He didn’t even have a sword style.

But he’d stood his ground. Matched her rhythm. Adjusted mid-combat, slowly narrowing the gap. His movements then had been raw, but he had responded to her strikes with uncanny clarity—like he was remembering something his body had never been taught. Understanding the sword as if it belonged to him.

And that final clash—where Irina used a stripe-sword hybrid strike that compressed and twisted mana with refined control—even then, he had parried six of her seven slashes with nothing but instinct and emerging rhythm. Only the final strike had landed. But the look in his eyes afterward… it hadn’t been disappointment.

It had been calculation.

And now, watching him fight here, Eleanor let the memory settle in her thoughts like a weight on her chest.

What if… someone actually trained him with the sword?

What if that raw comprehension were paired with real swordsmanship? With a proper grip, breathing discipline, blade angle instruction, mana harmonics—everything he currently lacks but imitates anyway?

What would that look like?

A daggerist who thinks like a swordsman.

A bowman who moves like a duelist.

A combatant without a form—but with mastery over flow.

Eleanor’s jaw tightened, her thoughts racing beneath her composed exterior.

It’s an interesting concept.

…And a sad one.

Because no matter how well he moved with a sword in hand, no matter how instinctive his corrections became, Astron was not a swordsman.

His occupation marked him. His trait, his build, his mana tuning—everything leaned toward daggers, projectile weapons, adaptability. He wasn’t built to carry the reach or weight of a long blade. The sword was never meant to be his.

And yet…

Her eyes flicked to his silhouette as he pivoted, tore through the final golem, and reset his stance in a smooth, low guard.

Is that really the case?

That question—quiet and sharp—sliced through her mind like the whisper of drawn steel.

Eleanor’s question lingered, not in doubt, but in consideration.

She straightened slowly, her eyes still fixed on Astron’s form—how he shifted his weight after every strike, how he never stayed still for too long, how even his dagger grip adjusted to mimic the optimal guard angles she’d taught with swords.

He’s not just imitating what he’s seen. He’s internalizing it.

Her thoughts deepened, trailing through the corridors of data she had stored in memory—student files, trait awakenings, combat scores. Astron’s progression wasn’t linear. It spiked. Every few weeks, another breakthrough. Quiet, undocumented, but noticeable to anyone observant enough to look for patterns.

And then… there was the bow.

The Archer occupation. He awakened it later than most—after the trait settled, after his dagger affinity had already matured.

That alone had raised eyebrows. Occupations didn’t just emerge without compatible base traits. But Astron’s did. It layered itself onto his existing foundation. A combatant meant for close quarters suddenly gaining a mid-range path. Not a contradiction—an expansion.

So… what if it could happen again?

What if the Swordsman occupation had simply never had the chance to awaken?

She folded her arms, expression hardening as possibilities unspooled behind her eyes.

The way he analyzed attacks. The way he mirrored sword technique with daggers. The way he had understood [Stripes] after seeing them once.

If the conditions aligned—if his mana signature adjusted just enough—there was a path. A narrow one. But real.

It was fascinating.

And dangerous.

A daggerist who could switch styles.

An archer who could fight in a duel.

A swordsman… who was never supposed to be one.

Eleanor closed her eyes briefly, the analytical part of her mind snapping back to structure.

He’s accelerating too fast.

Both of them were. Ethan and Astron.

Not just physically. Not just through combat scores. Their mana development, their core refinement, even their reactions to external stimuli—everything was speeding beyond what the curriculum accounted for.

Which meant something was bound to break.

She could already see it—micro-adjustments in how Astron handled the amplified feedback during resonance training, or how Ethan over-pushed mana flow through his upper circuits without proper grounding. Tiny details. Inconsequential now. But dangerous later.

Being the Invoker, she saw things others didn’t.