Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

Chapter 974 225.4 - Swordsgirl

From the shaded platform above the dueling rings, Eleanor stood motionless, her arms loosely crossed, blue eyes narrowing with every exchange.

She had been present since early morning, the moment the internal message reached her:

"Victor Blackthorn had matched with Ethan Hartley. Match approved."

And she came. Not out of formality, not as an instructor obligated to supervise, but out of something else-intent. Curiosity, perhaps. Quiet concern. The kind only a teacher who had invested in her students understood.

And Ethan hadn't disappointed.

Yes, the result had been expected. Victor was, stronger, and cruelly precise. His style was less about dueling and more about dismantling. Yet Ethan, despite the pain, the disadvantage, and the weight of every blow-he endured. He resisted. Even adapted.

He was getting better.

It was rough, incomplete, a boy still trying to mold himself into something more. But it was growth. And that was enough, for now.

Still, the match had ended.

And Eleanor had remained.

Because another fight had begun.

And this one?

This one had her full attention.

Below, steel clashed with steel. Flashes of gold and silver blurred across the platform. Julia's blade, alive with motion, danced in seamless arcs of aggression. A duelist's precision. A predator's rhythm. She had always been a powerhouse in motion-but now, something had changed. There was sharpness behind her aggression. Technique layered over instinct.

Illusions...? Eleanor's gaze sharpened slightly.

Not cast, but crafted. Built into the tempo of the blade itself.

A variant.

Julia's evolving. Fast.

But the one who held Eleanor's attention-truly-was the one in front of her. Astron.

Daggers in hand. Feet sliding across the stone. Movements tight, minimalistic, but never clumsy. She could see it in how he turned his hips on a block, how he used Julia's own pressure to shift tempo. The way his eyes flicked-not in panic, but in prediction. Every illusion Julia weaved, he tracked. Every false angle she twisted, he filtered. Not all cleanly. Not without strain.

But he saw through them.

And that-

That was no accident.

Eleanor's fingers tapped softly against her forearm.

When I watched him train, she thought, I suspected it. When he mimicked the Stripes with daggers, when he closed the gap with Irina after barely holding a sword for minutes-I saw it.

Now, watching him exchange blows with Julia-a prodigy swordswoman with nobility-forged technique, aura, and physical mastery-her suspicions evolved. They solidified.