Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

Chapter 626 137.4 - The kid

The boy stood there, trembling slightly as he looked at me. My words hung in the air, unanswered, as his hollow eyes stared back with that same vacant emptiness. "Do you want to live?" I had asked, but he seemed unable to grasp the meaning of the question.

For a child like him, the concept of living had long since become an abstract idea. His life had been one of survival, of existing in a world that offered nothing but cruelty and suffering. In his mind, there was no difference between life and death—both were inevitable conclusions to the same grim reality. And so, he said nothing.

His gaze flickered, but not with recognition or understanding. It was the look of someone who had long ago forgotten how to hope, someone who had been trained to accept whatever fate awaited him, without question, without resistance. He had become what I once was—just a body, moving through the motions of existence, waiting for the end. Nôv(el)B\\jnn

I knelt down in front of him, my eyes scanning his frail form. His clothes hung loosely on his small frame, and his skin was pale, almost ghostly in the dim light of the chamber. The fear that should have been there wasn't. He had nothing left to fear.

"I know what you're thinking," I said, my voice quieter now. "You've given up. You don't even know what it means to live, do you?"

The boy didn't flinch, didn't respond. He simply continued staring, his expression devoid of any emotion.

I could feel the weight of his despair pressing against me, like a mirror of my own past. He had been pushed to the edge, just as I once had, and had finally fallen into the abyss where life and death became meaningless concepts. The difference between us, however, was that I had found something to pull me back—vengeance, the raw desire to destroy those who had wronged me. But this boy… he had nothing.

I stood, the faint pulse of demonic energy from Zharokath's core still simmering within me. I knew what that kind of emptiness could do to someone, how it could turn them into a shell, a slave to their fate. But this boy didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve to be a casualty of a world that had never shown him mercy.

"You've lost everything," I continued, my voice steady, "but that doesn't mean you can't choose something for yourself now."

The words sounded foreign, even to me. I wasn't in the business of offering hope. That wasn't who I had become. But at this moment, standing over this broken child who reminded me so much of my former self, I couldn't help but feel the weight of it all—the burden of a world that crushes the weak, the forgotten, and the lost.

The boy's eyes flickered again, a faint shift of recognition in the depths of that hollow gaze. But still, he said nothing. Perhaps he had no voice left with which to answer. Or perhaps, he didn't know the answer himself.

And yet, I stood there, waiting.

Would he choose to live, even if he didn't know what living truly meant?

"Let me tell you something," I said after a long pause, my voice rougher now, as if the words themselves were difficult to force out. "Living isn't easy. You won't find hope handed to you, not in this world. But it's a choice you have to make, and once you make it, you fight for it. No one's going to give it to you, but if you want it badly enough, you'll find a reason."

The boy's lip twitched, just slightly, as if trying to form a response. But the words were still stuck somewhere deep inside him, buried beneath years of torment and hopelessness.

I turned away from him, glancing at the lifeless body of Zharokath, the remnants of his dark power still fading from the air. It had been the end for Zharokath, just as it could have been the end for me. But I had made my choice. I had decided to live, even if it was a life consumed by vengeance.

As I turned to leave, my steps were slow but deliberate. The air around me was still heavy, thick with the lingering energy of Zharokath's death. His demonic essence was gone, and with it, the weight of this place seemed to lift, but only slightly. The chamber, once alive with malevolent power, now felt cold and hollow—like a corpse slowly decaying.

There was nothing left for me here.

I had done what I came to do. Zharokath was dead, his Demonic Core shattered, and his plans destroyed. The Void Dragon's revival was thwarted for now, and I had gained the power I needed through [Vengeful Bane]. Yet, as I made my way toward the exit, I could feel the structure itself beginning to groan and shift. The walls creaked under the strain, as though the very foundation of this dark fortress was unraveling now that its master was gone.

It would all come crashing down soon.

Good. Let it burn.

I moved forward, ready to leave this place behind. But just as I reached the threshold of the chamber, something stopped me. The faint sound of a crumbling stone echoed in the background, but that wasn't what made me pause. It was the memory of the boy—those empty, hollow eyes that had stared at me without understanding, without hope.

I could still see him, trembling and lost, a reflection of the person I had once been. His life had been stripped of meaning, his spirit broken before he had even been given a chance to fight for it. And now, with Zharokath gone, what would happen to him?

I could just leave. There was nothing tying me to that child, no reason to concern myself with his fate. He had survived this long in a world that didn't care for him, and he would either find a way to continue or he wouldn't. That was the way of things.

But those eyes…

They haunted me. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had looked into a mirror, that I had seen a part of myself in that child's broken gaze. The same emptiness, the same resignation to a fate he believed was inevitable. I knew that feeling all too well.

I released a sigh, the sound heavy in the cold, damp air of the chamber. "Damn it."

What would happen to him if I left now? With the structure collapsing around us, he'd be buried here. He wouldn't fight. He couldn't resist. He would simply lie down and accept whatever came. And I couldn't say I blamed him—after all, what did he have left to fight for? There was no one waiting for him, no place of safety or comfort outside these walls.

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on me. It wasn't my responsibility. This world wasn't made for saviors, and I wasn't one. I had my own path, and my own goals to pursue.

But…

I glanced back over my shoulder, looking into the dark chamber where the boy still stood. His small frame was still trembling, still rooted in place, as though he hadn't moved since Zharokath fell. He was alone, just as I had been once.

"Why do I even care?" I muttered under my breath, frustrated with myself. But the answer was already there, buried beneath layers of my own past.

I took a deep breath and turned back, walking slowly toward the boy. The structure was falling apart, and time was running out, but something inside me had shifted. Maybe it was the boy's eyes, maybe it was the echo of my own past, or maybe it was the faintest sliver of something I didn't want to admit—something like compassion.

"You," I said, my voice firm as I approached him again. "Come with me."

The boy didn't move at first, his gaze still distant, as if he hadn't processed what I was saying. I knelt down in front of him, locking eyes with him once more.

"You don't have to die here," I said, my voice quieter now. "You don't have to give up."

He blinked, just once, and for the briefest moment, I saw something flicker in those hollow eyes—something fragile, barely there, but it was enough.

I reached out my hand. "Do you want to take it, or not?"

For a long, tense second, I wasn't sure if he would move. But then, slowly, hesitantly, his small hand reached up and grasped mine.

"..." As I felt that small hand, I couldn't help but shake my head.

'What am I doing?' I asked myself.

If I wanted to get out of here silently without alerting anyone else, it was better if I was alone. Since [Shadowborne] will be covering for me,

'Tsk.'

But looking at the kid, I couldn't help but shake my head. How could I just leave him here?

I turned my gaze back to the boy, his small hand still gripping mine, though his eyes remained distant, clouded with years of trauma and uncertainty. The weight of the situation settled heavier in my mind. I wasn't meant to be responsible for anyone. Not anymore. But here I was, standing with a broken child who hadn't asked for this, just as I hadn't.

"You," I said, my voice quieter now but firm. "What's your name?"

He didn't respond at first. His silence hung between us, his eyes flickering with some invisible struggle. I could see him withdrawing again, slipping back into the emptiness that had defined him for so long. His grip on my hand tightened slightly as if he wasn't sure whether to let go or hold on.

I sighed, repeating the question. "What's your name, kid?"

His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. I could see him fighting to find the words as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he whispered, "Eryon."

The name came out soft, barely more than a breath, but it was there. A small fragment of who he was, a piece of his identity that hadn't been completely erased by the cruelty of this world.

"Eryon," I repeated, nodding as I processed it. "Alright, Eryon. Let's get out of here."

His grip loosened slightly, but he still held on as if afraid that letting go would mean being left behind. I couldn't blame him. This place had consumed everything around it, leaving nothing but fear and despair in its wake.