Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 975

The corridor leading to the changing rooms was quiet—blessedly so.

Astron stepped through the mana-scanned threshold, the door sealing behind him with a soft hiss. He didn’t speak, didn’t glance at the other lockers, most of which were unoccupied. His fingers moved automatically—cloak undone, gear stored in dimensional space, tunic peeled off with clinical efficiency. One by one, the layers came away until only the low hum of cooling enchantments filled the space.

But his mind wasn’t here.

It was still on the platform.

On the fight.

On her.

Julia Middleton.

He exhaled slowly, the faint warmth of exertion still clinging to his skin.

She’s gotten better.

The illusion work had surprised him—not because of the concept itself, but because of the execution. It wasn’t cast like traditional illusion spells. It wasn’t projected with mana tags or visual refraction techniques.

It was built directly into her swordplay.

Woven.

A phantom edge layered into her movements—not artificial, but natural. Learned. Crafted.

That kind of adaptation didn’t come from tutors or drills. It came from desire. From trial. From frustration.

Astron folded the inner layer of his tunic, eyes narrowing slightly.

She’s evolving.

And not just physically.

To be frank, her swordsmanship had always leaned on brute dominance. Speed, power, bloodline-enhanced ferocity. The [White Tiger] style thrived on pressure—outpacing, outmuscling, outlasting. It wasn’t built for subtlety. It didn’t need it.

But today?

Today, her rhythm changed. Her body slowed. Her instincts remained.

And that was what impressed him.

To fight like that—without her usual advantage—and still push that far…

That’s the mark of a main cast.

He sat down on the bench near the far end of the room, running a towel across his arms, then the back of his neck.

Yes, he could have won.

If he’d revealed more, forced the tempo, used the deeper rhythms he’d crafted in silence and solitude…

The probability of victory was around 60 percent.

Not overwhelming. Not certain. But in his favor.

Still, he didn’t.

Because this wasn’t that kind of fight.

It wasn’t about winning.

It was about seeing.

How far she’s come. How far she can go.

And the answer was clear.

She has that factor.

The same intangible quality Ethan carried—the irrationality that defied statistics. The raw spike of breakthrough potential that came not from calculation, but from instinct, pressure, desperation.

A sudden leap.

A moment of evolution.

The kind of moment that renders predictions meaningless.

That’s what made them protagonists.

Not power.

But possibility.

Astron leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the towel draped loosely between his hands.

And Julia… she was dangerous not because she was stronger than him.

But because she could become stronger in the middle of the fight.

Of course, that itself wasn’t a bad thing.

Astron’s gaze lowered, hands tightening slightly around the towel.

Growth like Julia’s… isn’t dangerous to me. Not yet. Not in the way that matters.

But still—

There are others.

His thoughts drifted—unbidden, but inevitable.

Lucas.

A different kind of threat. Subtle, intelligent, built not on physical power but mental precision and rhythmic deception. His blade was not fast—it was clever. His strength came from the structure of his intent, the design behind every illusion he wove into motion.

And then… there’s that person.

Astron didn’t linger on the name. He didn’t need to. Just the silhouette—distant, cold, wrapped in too many secrets—was enough to send a familiar chill down his spine.

I can’t reveal too much.

Not now. Not yet.

The time for my efforts to bear fruit is approaching. Every move must be measured.

He exhaled, leaning back against the cool metal wall. Silence enveloped the changing room—sharp in its contrast to the echo of clashing steel still playing in his thoughts.

But just because he hadn’t fought with everything—

Didn’t mean he had gained nothing.

On the contrary.

I’ve learned a lot.

More than he expected.

He had never fought a swordsman like Julia before—not at that level. The others he had faced were either too raw or too predictable, relying on either brute strength or textbook technique. But Julia’s fighting style?

It moved.

Her sword wasn’t just a weapon—it was an extension of her rhythm. Aggressive. Flexible. Disruptive.

It pushed him.

And it made me see the cracks in my own dagger form.

Small details—timing on his reverse grip parry, the slight hesitation in transition from block to disengage, how his footwork tilted out of alignment when responding to high feints layered with illusions.