Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 993

So what is she playing at?

Is she trying to showcase the academy's talents to the world? Use Astron and Ethan as proof that their training philosophy works? That they're producing Hunters stronger and faster than the other academies?

If that was the case…

It made sense.

Eleanor exhaled sharply, her boots shifting quietly against the stone floor.

But why not just say that?

Why hide it? Why tiptoe around something so obvious?

Unless…

Unless the tournament wasn't just about showcasing.

Unless someone wanted to claim talent before the Federation even realized what it had.

She stared down the hall, expression unreadable, but her thoughts were dark.

Amelia's words replayed in her mind:

"They'll be the ones repaying it."

Not just performing.

Repaying.

If that's the case…

If Amelia was using the tournament to get back at her—to make some pointed statement about Eleanor's independence, her "unauthorized" resource use, her unorthodox mentorships—then fine.

Let her play that game.

Let her push cadets onto the stage like pieces in a power struggle.

Eleanor could deal with that. Politics were part of the job.

But…

Something didn't sit right.

It wasn't just the maneuvering. It wasn't just the veiled condescension, or even the smugness that clung to Amelia's every word.

It was something else.

Something quieter.

Something that Eleanor couldn't quite name—but felt.

A weight beneath the surface. A pull that hadn't been there before.

She narrowed her eyes.

There's more to it.

She could feel it like a splinter caught beneath skin—not painful, but present. Irritating. Familiar.

Maybe I'm overthinking it…

The thought slipped through Eleanor's mind like fog through iron bars—distant, unwelcome, but not entirely dismissible.

Maybe this really was just Amelia being Amelia.

Petty. Political. Strategic in the way only someone who had grown up behind closed doors and polished halls could be—dripping courtesy while masking ambition.

And yet…

Eleanor's jaw tensed.

With my identity…

With her rank, her record, her title as the Invoker, she had long learned to trust what others dismissed.

Instinct.

Not the fleeting gut feelings born from stress or paranoia—but that cold, slow-clenching intuition that had saved her more times than mana shields or contingency spells ever had.

The one that whispered: You're not seeing the full picture.

And that whisper was growing louder.

Still… she had nothing to act on.

No name. No movement. No policy breach.

Only the sense that Amelia's words had been too deliberate. That her detachment wasn't natural. That even her warning—the one veiled as helpful—was framed too neatly.

Eleanor exhaled slowly through her nose.

She had nothing left to say.

Not yet.