Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

"That's enough for today."

Ethan stumbled forward as the pressure relented, his arms slackening slightly, muscles aching from holding form too long. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist and gave a tired exhale.

Astron emerged a moment later, more composed, but even his normally calm breathing held a slight hitch. His footsteps were slower, deliberate, and for once, visibly strained.

Eleanor stepped forward, hands still behind her back as her eyes swept over both of them.

"This type of training," she said, her voice steady, "is not sustainable over long periods. If you overexpose your mana veins to amplified feedback without proper pacing, you'll destabilize your internal cycles."

Ethan nodded absently, still catching his breath. "Yeah, no argument here."

Astron gave a single nod as well, saying nothing—but Eleanor could see the fine tension still in his fingers. He had been pushing. Quietly. Carefully. Just enough.

Eleanor turned without another word and began walking toward the exit of the training chamber. Her steps were measured, composed, with the faintest click of her heels against the polished floor—a sound that somehow made Ethan flinch more than the pressure chamber ever had.

Without being told, the two followed.

The door hissed open as they exited into the facility's outer corridor—cooler air greeting them like a reprieve. The walls here weren't laced with pressure enchantments, nor were the floors glowing with resonant mana. It felt… normal. Or close to it.

Ethan leaned back against the wall, hands on his knees as he took a long, controlled breath. "This place is insane," he muttered.

Astron sat down with quiet composure, pulling in long, deliberate breaths through his nose, letting the strain settle and ease out of his body.

Eleanor didn't speak at first. She gave them their moment. Let them breathe. Let the silence fill the space between instruction and correction. Only when their shoulders had eased did she speak again, voice quiet but clear.

"I reviewed your dungeon logs."

Ethan looked up, slightly wary. "And?"

"You're not bad at integrating into a team," Eleanor said simply. "Not flawless—but better than most."

That caught both of their attention. She rarely gave compliments—let alone opened with one.

"But…"

The word landed like a spike through still water.

Eleanor's tone didn't change, but the atmosphere did. Slowly. Subtly. The air grew heavy—not like gravity, not like a spell—but like tension thickening with every syllable.

"It is not always monsters you fight."

Ethan's brow furrowed. Astron stilled, eyes narrowing.

And then, without warning—it hit.

Eleanor's mana surged outward, invisible and suffocating, curling into the corridor like smoke without form. The walls didn't shake. The ground didn't tremble. But they did.

Ethan's breath hitched, his knees instinctively locking. Astron stiffened where he sat, a flicker of tension running through his spine.

Their hearts beat faster.

The air felt wrong—not just heavy, but aware. As though her presence had filled every inch of the space and left no room for their own.

Eleanor's eyes shimmered faintly with pale-blue light as she spoke, her voice layered with mana, with command.

"Let's start now."

Ethan barely had time to curse under his breath before she gave the order.

"Come at me. Both of you."

Astron was already on his feet. Ethan straightened with a pained groan, his muscles protesting, his instincts flaring.

"But we just—"

Eleanor's pressure intensified, like an unseen tide pressing into their lungs.

"I said," she repeated, voice calm and terrifying in its restraint, "come at me."

The floor beneath them seemed to pulse with her presence.

And just like that—breather over.

Hell resumed.

*****

Ethan's eyes snapped to Eleanor, his breath still ragged but his instincts already sharpening beneath the surface. Her presence blanketed the hall like a storm cloud—silent, suffocating, inevitable.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders once to shake off the ache in his muscles, then tilted his head, narrowing his gaze at her.

"With weapons?" he asked, voice low.

"Yes," Eleanor replied, with a single nod.

The word hit like a spark to dry kindling.

"Then—" Ethan's hand lifted, and in a flash of blue lightning, his spear materialized into his palm, the familiar weight settling in his grasp like a long-lost companion. "—if that's what you want."

There was no hesitation in his voice—only fire. After all, this wasn't something he could afford to squander. Being able to go against Instructor Eleanor, even in a limited setting… it wasn't a privilege students were given lightly. He wasn't about to waste it.

Across from him, Astron stood in a single fluid motion, his expression composed but his movements swift and deliberate. His hand moved to the elegant curve of his bow, drawing it from thin air in a graceful sweep of mana. The string hummed softly as his fingers grazed it, a single arrow of dense silver-blue energy forming in place.

Ethan and Astron locked eyes.

Not with hostility.

But with clarity.

They knew exactly what this was.

Not just a trial.

But an opportunity.

The moment hung suspended between them like the drawn string of a bow—tight, taut, inevitable.

Ethan was the first to break it.

With a roar and a burst of lightning psions trailing his footsteps, he dashed forward, his spear arcing through the air like a bolt from the storm.

CRACK!

The spear collided—but not with steel.

A deep, reverberating thud sounded as Eleanor met the strike with her blade—one carved entirely from wood. Smooth, dark, polished, and unadorned. It didn't glow. It didn't pulse. But it didn't move, either.

The impact should've knocked her off balance—or at least made her yield a step.

But she didn't move.

Not even an inch.

Ethan's eyes widened at the contact. The moment his spear touched her sword, it felt like striking the trunk of an ancient, rooted tree—unyielding, immovable, alive.

Eleanor's stance was effortless. Her body didn't resist the force—it redirected it, subtly shifting her center of gravity so the impact dissolved through her form like water through stone.

"You fight like a storm," she said evenly, flicking her wooden blade just enough to unbalance his posture.

"But in front of a ground it breaks upon, a storm is nothing."

Before he could reset, she stepped in, her wooden sword twisting around his guard with disarming grace—not striking, not punishing, but testing.

Behind them, Astron moved.

He had waited for the perfect opening, letting Ethan draw Eleanor's attention—and now, with the barest pull of his string, the silver arrow loosed, whispering through the air like a breathless promise.

Eleanor turned.

The arrow should have landed—its speed was unnatural, and its trajectory flawless.

But her sword flicked sideways.

CRACK.

The wooden blade deflected the arrow mid-air, sending it spinning harmlessly into the wall, embedding with a deep, resonant thunk.

"Not bad," Eleanor said coolly, her gaze flicking to Astron. "You waited for the right moment. You let the distraction settle before striking. That shows control."

But before the compliment could even settle, her form blurred.

In the blink of an eye, she was gone from in front of Ethan—and directly in front of Astron.

Her wooden sword slashed down with a force that cut the air itself, swift and absolute.

Astron's eyes narrowed, but he didn't flinch. He moved instinctively.

The bow in his hand shimmered—and vanished, replaced in a flash of psionic light by twin daggers that snapped into his grip like they belonged there.

CLANK!

The first dagger met her sword at an angle, parrying it just enough to break the momentum of the strike. Sparks of friction danced off the polished wood as he deflected the force, his other hand already twisting in preparation for a counter.

Astron's leg swept upward in a clean, driving kick—aimed to launch her back and open space between them.

But Eleanor didn't yield.

She shifted.

Her body tilted just enough for the kick to graze past her waist—no impact, no leverage. At the same moment, she spun slightly on her heel, breaking the rhythm of his movement and throwing his weight off balance.

"This habit of yours," she said mid-motion, voice sharp as her blade, "to open distance against a stronger opponent—"

Her elbow came down, and her palm smashed directly into Astron's chest.

"—will be fatal."

BOOM.

The force sent Astron flying backwards like a ragdoll. His back slammed into the wall with a brutal crack, the breath forced from his lungs. A splatter of blood escaped his mouth, painting the floor beneath him.

Ethan's eyes widened. "Astron!"

He lunged, his spear gripped tightly, lightning dancing along its length.

But Eleanor had already turned.

She raised her left hand—and the air folded.

The corridor warped around Ethan's feet, and suddenly, his balance was gone. He stumbled mid-stride, his momentum twisting awkwardly as if the floor had buckled beneath him.

'Telekinesis?' Ethan's thoughts raced.

But before he could recover, she was already in front of him.

A clean, arcing slash with her wooden sword crashed across his side.

CRACK!

Ethan grunted in pain, his body skidding across the floor, lightning flickering in confused arcs as his grip faltered.

"Just because an enemy is a close combatant," Eleanor said coldly, her blade lowering to her side, "doesn't mean they won't have range skills."

She didn't look winded.

She didn't look strained.

Only controlled. Composed. Inevitable.

And in her presence—both storms and shadows broke alike.