Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest - Chapter 1067 - 252.4 - Why

Chapter 1067: Chapter 252.4 – Why

They ate the rest of the meal in silence.

Not the kind laced with tension—but the quiet that came after something significant had been acknowledged and set aside, for now. The food was good—balanced, filling, subtly seasoned in that way Astron always managed, never flashy but undeniably thoughtful. Irina ate slowly, glancing over at him now and then.

He hadn’t said anything more.

But his silence said enough.

When they finished, she stood first, brushing her fingers lightly against the edge of her empty plate before taking it to the sink. Astron followed her without a word, rinsing his own and setting it down beside hers. His movements were as quiet and composed as ever.

But Irina could still see the edge of fatigue in him. Not in his body—he moved with the same deliberate control—but in the rhythm of it. Slower. Less driven. Like something behind his eyes hadn’t stopped spinning since yesterday.

She turned toward him as he wiped his hands on the cloth by the sink.

“You need to sleep.”

Astron looked at her with that calm, unreadable expression. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“Irina.”

“You don’t need to do that thing,” she said, folding her arms. “Where you pretend your body doesn’t have limits just because you’ve pushed past them before.”

He exhaled softly through his nose. “You don’t need to do this either.”

“I do.” She stepped closer. “Because if you keep acting like your head doesn’t weigh anything, eventually it’s going to fall and crush you.”

Astron didn’t reply to that. He just held her gaze, and for a moment she thought he might push back again.

But instead, he simply turned away—wordless, composed—and walked to her room.

Irina didn’t follow right away.

She waited until she heard the faint sound of the door close, until the weight of his presence on the other side settled into the air like a vanishing ripple. Then she exhaled, finally allowing her posture to relax.

Good, she thought, reaching for a blanket and moving back toward the couch. Finally listened for once.

It was strange, though.

Whenever they’d spent nights in the same room before—on missions, training camps, temporary stays at scout checkpoints—Astron always woke first. Always. He was mechanical about it. Clean. Unobtrusive. Like he was never truly resting, just powering down in short intervals.

But now?

Now, he was sleeping in her bed. And she was still awake.

Alone in her own living room.

Irina stood quietly at the edge of the living room, blanket draped loosely over her shoulders, the dim overhead lights casting long shadows across the polished floor. The apartment was still—soft, warm, untouched by academy noise or pressure. And for once, there was no ticking schedule behind her thoughts.

She moved toward the bedroom door, careful not to make noise, and opened it just enough to let a sliver of light spill through. Just enough to see him.

Astron lay on his side, one arm folded under the pillow, the other resting over the blanket—breath slow, steady. His silver hair was slightly tousled, the fringe brushing the edge of his brow. There was no tension in his shoulders. No sharp alertness behind closed lids. Just sleep.

Real sleep.

She leaned against the doorframe silently, watching.

This won’t happen often, she thought. Not with him.

There were too many things in his head. Too many layers of restraint, duty, calculation. Moments like this—unguarded, unconscious—were rare. Precious in their stillness.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Just watched.

*****

It didn’t last.

Astron’s sleep, for all its depth, was never meant to linger.

Not because of dreams. Not because of discomfort. But because his body had been trained beyond the need for prolonged rest. Conditioned to adapt. Recalibrate. Continue.

And so—after just under ninety minutes—his eyes opened.

No jerk. No groggy breath. No confusion. Just a slow inhale, precise and steady, as his awareness came back online like a system easing out of standby. The faint warmth of the blanket still pressed against his skin. The ambient ward-hum of Irina’s apartment still settled low in the background.

It was quiet.

Still dark, save for the faint spill of mana-threaded light from under the door.

Astron blinked once.

…Just a slow inhale.

A half-second of stillness.

And then, movement.

Astron turned his head toward the faintest pulse of heat on the other side of the door. The mana sensor embedded in the room’s boundary glyphs responded gently, marking activity without alarm. Familiar. Stable.

He pushed the blanket aside with one smooth motion and stood, not bothering to stretch. His body was light, precise. The residual stiffness from earlier had already faded. Ninety minutes was short by most standards—but it was enough for him.

Still, Irina had been right.

He hadn’t needed sleep.

But he’d benefited from it.

Astron stepped quietly to the door and opened it just enough to glance into the living room.

The lights had dimmed further, softened by the ambient shift in the apartment’s nocturnal cycle. And there—on the couch—was Irina.

Asleep.

Wrapped in the same blanket she’d pulled around her shoulders earlier. One arm tucked under her head, the other curled against her chest. Her legs were folded easily, not tense, not cold. Just… resting.

And the faintest trace of mana drifted from her skin—residual heat, sleep-warmed from where her emotions had wound tight earlier and slowly, finally, begun to unspool.

Astron didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move for a moment.

He just watched.

’…She was tired too.’

There was no sharp deduction behind the thought. No strategic layering of meaning. Just quiet understanding. The kind that came only when there was nothing left to assess.

She must have played all night. And not well. If she’d intended it, she would’ve messaged. Dragged him into it. Sent a challenge, baited him with points or stats.

But this hadn’t been planned.

Whatever frustration had spilled out of her and into those fire traces in the living room—it had come on its own.

He looked at her for one more second, then moved.

Quietly. Carefully.

No footsteps audible over the carpeted floor.

He passed the corner into the small side alcove of the apartment, where the wash basin was set just beside the wall-length mirror. The water flared gently as he approached, recognizing his presence and activating with a low hum.

Astron leaned forward.

Let the cold stream hit his face.

It wasn’t just for alertness. He was already awake. Already aligned. But the sensation grounded him. Brought his focus back to the surface.

He exhaled—slow, even.

No alarms today. No emergency drills. No immediate obligations.

He could use this.

This quiet.

He straightened again, wiping his face on the cloth that hung from the ward-peg near the mirror. His reflection didn’t show fatigue. But behind the eyes, there was still weight.

His mana was calm now.

Tamed again. Silent beneath the surface.

But he’d learned his lesson.

If it could be pulled out under pressure—then it had to be reconditioned.

Again.

This week of rest should be spent on this, he thought to himself.

Not on sleep. Not on aimless sparring. Not even on reading field reports.

But on structure. Recalibration. Mental reconstruction.

He needed to push deeper into control—not just over the form, but over the reaction. That flare, the one Eleanor had drawn out of him, hadn’t been malicious. It had been instinctive. Automatic. A part of him responding to pressure before his mind even allowed it.

That couldn’t happen again.

This week would be—

Bzzzt.

His wrist buzzed.

Astron blinked.

Then slowly lowered his arm, watching as the faint pale blue of the training glyphs reflected off the screen’s surface.

But the notification color was different.

Not the pale gray of a system ping.

Not the crisp white of standard academy assignments.

This was—

Blackish…