Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest - Chapter 942 - 216.2 - Overachievers
Ethan rose from his seat at the back of the classroom, sliding his tablet into his bag with practiced ease. The ache in his ribs had dulled into a throb, but the weight on his mind hadn’t lessened since the night of the ambush—or the hearing.
His eyes drifted across the room, landing on Astron, who stood with his usual quiet composure, adjusting the strap of his bag while scanning the final glyphs on his tablet one last time.
Ethan made his way toward him, weaving between desks and half-formed clusters of students still caught in casual conversation. When he reached Astron’s side, he didn’t waste time.
“Let’s go.”
The words were spoken quietly, but directly.
Astron looked up from his screen and gave a faint nod before turning, falling into step beside him without question.
Today was Eleanor’s training day. That meant field coordination, team formations, and high-intensity drills. The kind of session where mistakes were punished with bruises or worse—and Ethan knew better than to show up late or unprepared.
But more than the physical regimen, he wanted to talk.
Not just about strategy.
About what happened.
They walked together down the hallway, the hum of voices behind them fading into the background. For a while, the silence between them was typical—quiet, but not uncomfortable.
But Ethan broke it.
“Are you aware of what happened?”
Astron didn’t stop walking, but he turned his head slightly, his sharp eyes flicking toward Ethan with that usual unreadable expression. His tone, when he responded, was calm—almost clinical.
“Are you talking about how you got baited and lost to your emotions?”
Ethan winced internally, even though he’d expected nothing less. Astron never sugarcoated things. He didn’t offer sympathy—just observations, blunt and precise.
Of course, he would phrase it like that.
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he muttered. “That.”
They rounded a corner, the halls quiet now except for the steady rhythm of their footsteps. Astron didn’t offer follow-up commentary right away, and Ethan glanced sideways at him.
“You knew, didn’t you? That it was going to happen.”
Astron finally stopped walking. He turned to face Ethan fully now, his expression neutral. “I suspected. You’re easy to read when it comes to people you care about.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond.
Astron continued. “They were watching for a weakness. They found it in Jane. And they knew they could find the rest in you.”
Ethan looked away, his shoulders tense. “I thought I could handle it. I didn’t think I’d… fall for it like that.”
Astron’s voice remained steady. “You’re not weak, Ethan. You’re just human.”
Then, in that way only Astron could manage—half-critical, half-genuine—he added, “Though admittedly, it was quite a performance. If you had just waited three more seconds before snapping, it might have been salvageable.”
Ethan scoffed, shaking his head with a short laugh. “Thanks for the encouragement.”
Ethan’s pace slowed slightly as Astron’s words sank in, the sting of their blunt honesty softened by the fact that they were, as always, true. Astron didn’t deal in comfort. He dealt in precision.
Ethan let the silence stretch for a few moments before speaking again, quieter this time.
“What could I have done differently?”
Astron didn’t answer immediately. His steps remained measured, but his gaze grew more focused, more analytical—as if mentally reconstructing the entire confrontation. His voice, when it came, was calm.
“You had four sophomores surrounding you. That alone should have raised alarms. Then they activated a sound barrier to isolate you. That’s not a conversation. That’s a trap.”
Ethan frowned. “I thought it was just a confrontation. They said they wanted to talk.”
“They lied,” Astron replied without hesitation. “And you believed them. That’s the problem.”
Ethan looked away, jaw tight. “So… what would you have done? If the same happened about Irina?”
Astron stopped again.
This time, there was a pause—not because he was thinking, but because something shifted behind his eyes. The hallway lights caught his profile as he turned, and for a moment, Ethan saw something different in his expression.
It wasn’t coldness.
It was distance.
“If someone did that to Irina,” Astron said, voice low, “they would die.”
Ethan blinked.
There was no edge to the words, no threat laced in venom. It was just a statement. Hollow, quiet, and terrifyingly certain.
Astron didn’t meet his eyes immediately, but when he did, his gaze was pale violet and unreadable. Not blank—just emptied. Stripped of emotion.
Ethan swallowed. “That serious, huh.”
Astron finally moved again, eyes narrowing with quiet focus. “However. In this specific situation, I would have waited.”
“Waited?” Ethan echoed.
“Yes,” Astron said. “When you’re being baited, acting emotionally gives your enemy everything they want. If you had taken a step back—acted confused instead of furious—you could’ve shifted the entire narrative.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Imagine it like this. You’re surrounded by four older students, they activate a sound barrier, and you say: ‘What were they doing? I didn’t feel safe like this.’ Now you’ve reframed it. You’ve made them the aggressors.”
Ethan exhaled slowly, the realization settling into his chest like a weight. “They’d say they were just talking.”
“And that’s when you offer to take the conversation elsewhere. Somewhere public. Somewhere visible.” Astron’s tone didn’t waver. “If they refuse, they expose themselves. If they accept, they lose the ability to escalate. Either way, you win.”
Ethan’s steps slowed again, the tension knotting tighter in his chest. He looked ahead, lips pressed together, then finally spoke, his voice low.
“But the video was cut.”
Astron’s gaze flicked toward him.
“I already tried to de-escalate. I told them I didn’t want to fight. I said I just wanted them to leave Jane alone. But then they showed me that… that thing.” Ethan’s voice cracked slightly, just for a moment. He swallowed it down, but the heat in his chest didn’t fade. “They made a fake video—with her face. Doing disgusting things.”
He paused, jaw clenched.
“They made that.”
The memory of it resurfaced—Jane’s face twisted into something shameful, something vile. Her voice manipulated, her body rendered into a puppet. It wasn’t just an attack. It was a violation.
Ethan’s hands curled into fists.
“I know it wasn’t real. I knew it then, too. But seeing it? Hearing it? The fact that they dared to do something like that—”
His voice faltered again, not with weakness, but with restraint. The kind it took everything in him to maintain.
Astron remained quiet for a moment. Then:
“That,” he said evenly, “is why you don’t let go of your emotions.”
Ethan turned sharply to look at him.
Astron’s expression hadn’t changed. He was calm. Unflinching. But his tone was heavier now—less clinical, more deliberate.
“When someone shows you something like that, you don’t react. Not immediately. If you already know it’s fake, then don’t ask what it is. Ask why they’re showing it to you.”
Ethan’s brow furrowed, uncertain. “Why?”
“To test you. To see how far they can push you. To confirm whether your anger is predictable. If you give them exactly what they want, you’re doing their work for them.”
Astron took a small step forward, gaze steady.
“The better option is to wait. Let them burn that card. Let them use their best move. And when they think they’ve broken you—when they’re alone, isolated, unaware—then you strike back.”
Ethan blinked. “Strike back?”
“Yes.” Astron’s voice was cool, like he was stating a formula. “Find them when they’re separated. When there are no recordings. No friends. No audience. Make sure they understand that actions have consequences.”
There was a long pause.
Ethan stared at him, his breath shallow, his heart still pounding. But something in him recoiled.
“That sounds… cruel,” he said quietly. “Like I’d be turning into them.”
Astron didn’t flinch. “It’s not cruelty. It’s precision. They weaponized Jane’s image to hurt her and bait you. If you don’t respond intelligently, you allow them to repeat it with someone else.”
“But going after them when they’re alone—doing what they did to me—how is that any different?”
Astron looked at him for a long moment. His expression didn’t shift, but there was something harder behind his eyes now.
“Why should it be different?”
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