Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest novel Chapter 1065

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.

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