Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 986

Under the soft veil of the approaching evening, the academy grounds carried a stillness broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant footsteps of passing students. The air was cool now, the warmth of the afternoon sun long faded, replaced by a gentle wind that carried the scent of grass and distant mana traces from the dueling halls.

Beneath one of the tall trees lining the outer courtyard, a girl stood—half in shadow, half bathed in the silver glow of the lanterns that lined the path.

She wore casual clothes this time, a light charcoal hoodie left unzipped over a fitted maroon tank top, the fabric hugging her form just enough to suggest ease without effort. Her black joggers sat low on her hips, tucked into combat boots that looked like they’d seen both training and style. Around her neck was a faint shimmer of a charm—small, reddish-gold, and old. Her long hair—fiery gold at the tips, deeper at the roots—was tied into a high, slightly messy tail that swayed with the breeze, and a few strands had slipped loose, framing her face with deliberate chaos.

Golden eyes glanced toward the path again, narrowed slightly, then rolled upward in clear annoyance.

"He is late," she mumbled, crossing her arms beneath her chest.

He wasn’t. Not really.

But that didn’t stop her from saying it.

She shifted her weight onto one foot, letting her boot nudge a fallen leaf aside as she stared up at the canopy above. The branches swayed gently, the moonlight filtering between them in broken fragments, dancing over her skin.

All around her, the academy pulsed with low, controlled tension. Students passed by in small groups or alone, their steps quicker than usual, their conversations clipped and focused. No casual laughter, no lingering at the corners of the walkways—just muted chatter and the rustling of pages being skimmed on glowing tablets or folded papers.

Irina’s sharp ears picked up bits and pieces.

"—Professor Lorne’s adding spell formation matrices again. He never does that during mid-terms."

"Someone said last year’s fourth-year exam was used for the second years this time. What the hell does that mean for us?"

"…and with all this tension in the academy, who knows what the faculty will do to weed people out?"

Irina tilted her head slightly, catching more voices on the wind. The atmosphere was changing.

The exams were next week.

And it wasn’t just the usual panic of unprepared students. It was deeper than that—rooted in uncertainty, in the shifting politics and unease that had been threading itself through the academy’s routines for weeks.

This year, the mid-terms weren’t just going to be hard.

They were going to be a test of control.

A filtering of potential threats.

She could sense it—some students were expecting the curriculum to be rewritten last minute. Others feared their results would be used to determine something beyond just rankings. Even now, conspiracy theories were bubbling beneath the surface—quiet but persistent.

She sighed. Not that she was worried about herself. But tension like this had a way of building pressure around everything, making people act rashly. Especially when the academy itself already felt like it was holding its breath.

And then—

A subtle pulse.

A shift in the air, faint, almost unnoticeable.

But she felt it.

A presence brushing past the edge of her senses, moving through the crowd with a pace too smooth, too deliberate, to be anyone but him.

She didn’t even turn yet. Just waited, lips curving ever so slightly.

And a moment later, he stepped into the moonlight.

Dressed in dark casual wear—simple, clean lines, a fitted long-sleeve with muted silver trim at the cuffs, black slacks, boots silent on the stone path. His silver hair caught the light just so, and his purple eyes met hers with that same unreadable calm he always wore.

Astron.

Exactly on time.

Of course. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com

She smirked to herself, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as he approached.

"Tch," she murmured, barely loud enough for him to hear. "Still so annoyingly punctual."

She watched as he came closer, his steps unhurried, measured—like the world moved at a pace that only he dictated. His expression was the same as always: calm, unreadable, like nothing around him had the power to pull a visible reaction from his features unless he allowed it.

It was almost maddening.

Almost.

When he was close enough, she tilted her head, eyeing him with deliberate scrutiny.

"What is annoying about being punctual?" he asked without breaking stride, voice low and even.

Irina rolled her eyes, arms folding beneath her chest. "It makes me feel like you’re a robot."

Astron paused in front of her, gaze leveling with hers. "I’m not a robot."

"You look like one," she replied immediately, smirking just slightly. "Like a very well-programmed, mana-efficient machine. Probably made by some recluse alchemist who hates emotional expression."