Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest - Chapter 1065 252.2 - Why

Eventually, they crossed the northern path and veered off the main lane, toward a quieter section of the campus—the personal quarters reserved for high-ranking cadets. Irina’s dorm wasn’t just a room. It was a full private apartment, one of the perks granted to the top ten students in the rankings. Spacious, secure, and—more importantly—soundproof.

When they reached the door, she tapped her ID badge against the side panel. The warded locks clicked open with a soft chime, and she pushed it open with one hand, stepping inside without ceremony.

Astron followed after, the door shutting behind them with a quiet finality.

Inside, the space was warm—tastefully decorated, clean but not sterile. A set of windows stretched along one side, letting in light through half-drawn curtains. The scent of fire-magic still faintly lingered in the air from Irina’s last training, mixed with the subtle trace of citrus from a cooling ward on the far wall.

Astron stepped into the apartment with the casual precision of someone who’d been there before. His gaze flicked across the familiar layout—the polished wood floors, the low-set sofa beside the arcane-insulated glass table, the faint shimmer of wards embedded into the corners. Everything was exactly where it had been the last few times.

Except for the slight smell of singed ozone lingering in the air. A subtle heat still clung to the ambient mana.

He paused just past the threshold, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tilted his head.

“…You trained?”

Irina, halfway through dropping her jacket onto the wall hook, froze for a second. Then let out a laugh—short, almost guilty.

“…Yeah… haha…”

Astron didn’t move. “Or,” he said, voice as flat as ever, “you played the game.”

Irina’s shoulders stiffened.

A beat passed.

He turned slowly toward her, expression unreadable. “There’s no way your fire traces would be in the living room. You don’t use this space for magic.”

She huffed. “Ugh. Fine. I got a little angry.”

His eyes flicked toward the faint scorch mark near the edge of the console shelf. Barely noticeable—but to him, as clear as a trail of evidence.

“I can see that.”

Irina dropped onto the couch with a dramatic groan, arms thrown across the back cushions. “It wasn’t my fault,” she muttered, pulling her legs up beneath her. “My carry was flaming me the whole time.”

Astron, still standing near the console shelf, gave her a glance that could only be described as dry. “You could’ve just muted.”

“I won’t mute,” she snapped, kicking one heel against the floor. “When some bastard thinks he’s better than me while playing like trash—? No. He needs to know.”

Astron had heard this rant before. Many times. He didn’t bother replying with logic or reason. He simply tilted his head and said, “Feel free to pour your frustrations into the keyboard next time. Not fire.”

Irina huffed and picked up a pillow beside her, smacking it lightly against his shoulder. “You’re impossible. Now come on—what should we order?”

Astron turned his head toward her slowly, the faintest roll of his violet eyes giving away his internal commentary without a single word.

“I’ll prepare it,” he said at last.

Irina’s lips curled into a smirk. “Hehehe…”

With a quiet shake of his head, Astron turned and made his way toward the kitchen. The sound of the pantry opening and the gentle hum of the warded cooling unit followed soon after.

Irina leaned back into the couch, grinning to herself as she watched him go.

This—this was comfort. In its own, strange way.

Astron moved with his usual precision.

He washed his hands at the side basin first, the soft sound of water flowing into the polished sink barely audible over the distant hum of the cooling ward. Then he dried them with a flick of the towel—methodical, almost mechanical—before stepping toward the fridge.

With a pull, the enchanted door released its vacuum seal, revealing the neat rows of preserved ingredients. His gaze swept over the compartments, assessing.

And there they were.

The same ingredients he’d brought last time—monster flank cuts, cleaned and portioned; bundles of frostleaf herb, still wrapped in mana-treated paper; eggs stored in reinforced trays. Not one item had been touched.

He stared at them for a second. Then, without comment, he shook his head faintly and reached inside.

The prep began in silence.

Sizzling oil. The soft crack of an egg tapped against the side of a pan. The rhythm of a blade against the chopping board. Each motion crisp, efficient—just as she remembered.

Irina, still lounging on the couch with her knees tucked up and a pillow hugged lazily under one arm, watched him with half-lidded eyes. There was something quietly compelling about the way he moved when he cooked—like it was the only time he ever truly relaxed. Not by slowing down, but by focusing so entirely that the rest of the world faded.

It was familiar. A rhythm she could fall into.

But not today.

Today, something had been off. And she wasn’t going to let it go.

“…So,” she said finally, her voice quieter than before. “Why didn’t you sleep?”

Astron didn’t pause in his chopping.

But his hand slowed. Just slightly.

Then resumed.

He didn’t answer immediately. Just kept slicing, the herbs falling into a neat pile on the cutting board as if nothing had been said.

Irina didn’t press.

Not yet.

She just watched him—waiting.

****

The scent of browned oil and frostleaf began to fill the room, settling beneath the ceiling wards like a quiet warmth. Astron moved the pan slightly off-center to reduce the heat, then added the sliced herbs, watching as they sizzled and curled. His hands continued with the same careful pace—precise, practiced.

But his thoughts were no longer entirely on the meal.

Why didn’t you sleep?

A simple question.

Asked softly. No accusation. No pressure.

But it pierced more cleanly than any interrogation could’ve.

He hadn’t expected her to notice.

More accurately, he hadn’t thought he let anything show.

His posture was the same. His tone, unchanged. Even his mana was still sealed behind its usual restrictions, held close to his skin like a second layer of muscle.

And he wasn’t exhausted. Not truly.

Fatigue for someone like him—someone trained, modified, Awakened—was relative. He could go without sleep for days. A week, even. He had done so many times before, especially when he was younger, especially when the world still blurred with voices and prophecy fragments and all the futures that weren’t his.

But Irina had still seen it.

That was… interesting.

He stirred the herbs into the pan slowly, then cracked another egg into the skillet beside them.

In truth, he hadn’t decided if he was going to answer yet. The question still hovered in the space between them, not repeated, but not forgotten either.

He stole a glance sideways—subtle, peripheral.

Irina was still curled into the couch, one leg dangling lazily over the side, her arms half-wrapped around the pillow like it was armor made of cotton. Her expression hadn’t changed much. Still half-bored, still watching. But not in a casual way.

She wasn’t probing.

She was waiting.

That was the difference.

She’d asked because she noticed, not because she needed to know.

And that—more than the question itself—made it feel like something he could answer.

Not out of obligation.

But because it felt… allowed.

He exhaled quietly through his nose and began plating the food. The herbs formed a green-and-gold lattice over the softly steaming flank slices. The eggs sat beside, yolk intact and glowing faintly from residual mana heat.

He brought the dish over without flourish. Set it on the table. Turned.

Then said, with his back still half-turned toward the kitchen:

“Yesterday, did you feel anything?”