Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

The academy grounds were lively as always—cadets chatting in groups, practicing in the distance, mana training sessions echoing through the open-air corridors—but for Emily, the world had dimmed into a quiet haze.

Her boots clicked softly against the stone as she made her way across the main path, books clutched tightly to her chest. The early morning breeze tugged at the edges of her uniform coat, but she barely noticed.

Another day. Another set of lectures. Another quiet lunch in the corner of the dining hall.

She had classmates, of course. Names she recognized, faces she nodded to in passing, the occasional comment shared in group exercises. But none of them were close. None of them were the kind of people she could turn to and say, “My father was nearly,” or “My guild is bleeding while I sit in a classroom pretending everything’s fine.”

She wasn’t sure if it was her own doing—keeping a distance out of instinct—or if it was just the way things had turned out. Either way, the result was the same. She was alone.

Tucking a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, Emily pushed open the doors to the academy’s library. The soft scent of old paper and ink welcomed her like an old friend. It was quiet here, mercifully so. No one expected conversation, only silence and study.

She found a corner desk near one of the tall arched windows and set her books down. Her schedule had been packed tighter than ever since her father’s hospitalization. She had to study. She had to keep her grades up. She had to monitor the state of the guild through encrypted messages and Liora’s updates—juggling it all without letting anyone in the academy notice she was unraveling, inch by inch.

No time to rest. No time to grieve.

On the other side, the soft rustle of turning pages and the muted tick of an old wall clock filled the air inside the library. The grand arched windows filtered in a warm, golden light, bathing the wooden tables in a soft glow that made the dust motes shimmer midair like lazy fireflies.

At a corner table near the far wall, Jane sat, her head slightly lowered over an open book. Her fingers flipped through the pages methodically, though her gaze occasionally lingered, her thoughts wandering far from the text. A cup of cooled tea sat untouched beside her, its faint aroma blending with the musty scent of parchment and wax-polished wood.

She looked calm—composed—but it was the kind of stillness that came from being watchful. From waiting.

Lately, her life had changed. Dramatically.

The academy, reeling from the escalating incidents between students, had finally acted. Surveillance systems were upgraded, monitoring spells reinforced, and patrols increased. New policies came down like iron gates: zero-tolerance toward unprovoked aggression, randomized inspections, stricter curfews.

The atmosphere was tense, yes—but for Jane, it also brought something she hadn’t had in a long time.

Breathing room.

No more watching every hallway like it might turn against her. No more whispers and threats slipping past instructors unnoticed. With all eyes on the student body now, her enemies were suddenly less bold. Melanie had grown quieter, more strategic—still venomous, but not as reckless as before.

As long as Jane was careful, as long as she didn’t give them an opening, she was… safe.

Safer than she had been in months.

She exhaled quietly through her nose and marked a passage in her textbook with a thin strip of paper. Her mind wasn’t fully on the material, though. It drifted—always—to Ethan.

He said he’d stop by after his field exercise wrapped up. He always said it casually, like it wasn’t a big deal, but she knew he made the time deliberately. Ethan didn’t just show up by coincidence. He chose to come.

And knowing that grounded her.

Her fingers brushed a second chair across the table, nudging it ever so slightly. She didn’t know why she did it—it was probably silly—but it was a small, silent invitation.

She didn’t need to be alone anymore. Not all the time.

Turning back to her notes, Jane straightened slightly in her seat, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her pen moved again, slowly but steadily, across the page.

Even now, under the safety of reinforced academy rules and layers of protection, she didn’t let her guard down completely. But in this quiet corner of the library, waiting for Ethan, with a patch of sun warming her sleeve—

The quiet hush of the library was interrupted—barely—by the soft creak of the front doors opening.

Ethan stepped inside, his presence somehow both subdued and unmistakable. He walked with an unhurried confidence, the weight of a long day still clinging to his shoulders, though his expression remained composed. He swept the room once with a glance, sharp hazel eyes flicking across the study tables.

Then, he saw her.

Jane.

Seated by the window, framed by the golden afternoon light, a faint breeze from the cracked glass above teasing the strands of hair that had slipped from her ponytail. She looked up the moment he walked in, as if she had felt him before she saw him.

Their eyes met.

Her tired but steady expression softened almost imperceptibly, and the corners of her lips curved into a quiet, genuine smile.

Ethan’s pace slowed as he made his way through the rows of shelves and study tables, his steps soft against the carpeted floor. When he reached her table, he gave her a small nod, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Hey,” he said simply, his voice low but warm.

“Hey,” Jane replied, her voice barely louder than a whisper but no less sincere. She reached out and gently pushed the chair next to her—already slightly drawn—as if she’d known he would take it.

He sat down beside her, exhaling a breath that seemed to carry the whole weight of the day with it. For a moment, they didn’t say anything else. Just the sound of pages fluttering and distant footfalls filled the silence between them.

And yet, it wasn’t awkward.

It was settled.

Jane glanced at him sideways, the edge of her smile still present. “Rough day?”

Ethan gave a dry chuckle, leaning back slightly in his seat. “Nothing new,” he said. “But this part of the day’s better.”

She looked down for a moment, almost shyly, then back at him. “Good.”

Their shoulders weren’t quite touching, but the distance was barely there. A quiet understanding passed between them—one not built on grand declarations or flashy gestures, but something steadier. Something earned.

Ethan pulled out one of his notebooks, flipping it open without fanfare. Jane returned to her notes, her hand steady as she wrote—though now, the fatigue in her eyes seemed just a little less heavy.

Their quiet companionship settled into an easy rhythm—papers shifting, pens scribbling, and the occasional whisper passed between them like secrets carried on the wind.

“Are you still meeting with Professor Eleanor?” Jane murmured, leaning slightly toward Ethan, her hand hovering above her half-scribbled notes.

Ethan glanced at his open notebook, then gave a subtle nod. “Yeah. Just for a bit. She wants to go over the practical assessment scores.”

Jane gave a thoughtful hum. “We could squeeze in training after dinner, then. Maybe on the south terrace? It’s quieter there.”

Ethan smirked faintly. “You’re trying to dodge eyes again?”

Jane tilted her head, her expression playful but knowing. “You can’t blame me.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Fair enough.”

They went on, exchanging quiet plans—the kind that hinted at routine and partnership. A study break around seven. A run-through of group formations before the next field exam. Maybe coffee, if either of them remembered to grab some. Maybe not.

It was mundane, and it was perfect.

Until—

“Ethan?”

The voice echoed softly across the library.

Both he and Jane turned their heads toward the entrance, and standing there—just past the rows of bookshelves—was a girl.

Chestnut hair, neat and falling just past her shoulders. Brown eyes, wide but composed. She clutched a few books to her chest, her posture straight but with a flicker of hesitation in her stance.

Emily.