Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest-Chapter 623 - 137.1 - The Kid

'He's lost everything,' I thought as I studied him. 'There's nothing left for him.'

That empty look was familiar.

It reminded me of myself, of the days when I had wandered with no purpose other than to die—when I had clung to vengeance, but without the strength or means to do anything about it. Back then, my eyes had been just like his.

Dead, but still walking.

The boy hadn't flinched when Zharokath was about to devour him. He had stood there, accepting his fate without question.

No fear, no resistance—just the quiet acceptance that death was inevitable.

That kind of resignation only came from a life of suffering, from being ground down until the will to live was crushed completely

I could already imagine what kind of life he had lived. An orphan, most likely, raised in a place where hope had long since died. An orphanage, perhaps, tied to demons, where children were nothing more than livestock. Raised not as individuals with futures, but as prey for beings like Zharokath. Used, discarded, forgotten.

'He doesn't even have a reason to run,' I thought, watching the boy's frail form as he stood there. There was no escape for him in his mind, no place to go that would offer anything different from what he had already endured.

I could understand that emptiness. I had been there. It was a suffocating void, where the only solace came from the idea that everything might end soon.

For a moment, I wondered what would become of him now. Freed from one predator, but left alone in a world that wouldn't offer him much more than the same cruelty. I couldn't help but feel the weight of that thought, knowing the fate that awaited him if I simply let him go.

'But what am I supposed to do?' I thought, the question hanging in the back of my mind. I wasn't a savior, and this world wasn't a place for second chances. The same truth that had shaped me would shape him, one way or another.

Yet, as I stood there, staring into the boy's empty eyes, I knew one thing for certain. He didn't deserve to die like this. Not without a fight.

"You..." I said quietly, my voice calm but firm. "Do you want to live?"

********

Eryon had never knew how would it feel to be in a mother's embrace.

He opened his eyes for the first time without any memory of parents, family, or warmth. His first memories were of the orphanage, a place that felt more like a cage than a home. The walls were old and cracked, paint long faded from neglect. Every corner seemed worn down by time, as if the building itself was tired of housing children who had no futures.

Eryon's bed was a hard, wooden frame with a thin, lumpy mattress that barely cushioned him from the cold, unforgiving floor. Each night, as he lay down, he could feel the sharp springs pressing into his bones, a reminder of how little comfort this place offered. The blankets were threadbare, unable to ward off the chill that seeped through the broken windows, which rattled with every gust of wind.

The other children around him were just as worn and hungry as the walls that surrounded them. Resources were always scarce. Meals consisted of meager portions of stale bread and watery broth, never enough to satisfy their constant hunger.

Their clothes, often hand-me-downs from previous orphans, were patched together and always too small or too big, offering little protection from the biting cold.

Days were filled with monotonous tasks: cleaning, carrying water from a distant well, and tending to the few crops that the orphanage tried to grow.

Eryon's small hands grew calloused from the work, his body thin and weak from years of malnutrition. There was no joy here, no play, no laughter. Only the silent acceptance of their shared fate—a life of toil and hardship, with no promise of a better future.

Yet, even in this place, the cruelest part of Eryon's life was not the lack of food, warmth, or care. It was the lack of purpose. From the moment he could understand, he knew the orphanage wasn't a place of hope.

The caretakers rarely spoke, and when they did, it was with cold, distant voices, as if they, too, were trapped in this life of despair. The children were never told of the outside world, never given a reason to dream. They were raised to endure, not to live.

As time passed, Eryon stopped wondering about his origins. He didn't know who his parents were, and he never asked. It didn't matter.

All that existed was the orphanage—the walls that confined him, the beds that sagged beneath his growing body, and the other children who stared at the floor with the same lifeless gaze he carried.

For the children of the orphanage, the feeling of a full stomach was a distant dream—something they heard about but never experienced. Hunger gnawed at them constantly, a dull ache that never left. Meals were nothing more than meager scraps, and the concept of satisfaction was foreign. Eryon had long forgotten what it felt like to eat until he was full, if he ever even knew.

The orphanage stood on the outskirts of a bustling town, and though the children rarely ventured beyond its walls, they could see other children from the town, walking with their families, holding hands with their mothers and fathers. Those children laughed, carefree, their faces glowing with happiness, unaware of the hollow stares from the orphans who watched them from afar.

But for Eryon and the others, there was no such thing as family. Those who had known their parents had long since forgotten their faces, and the few who still remembered held no hope of reunion. Any family they might have had wanted nothing to do with them. They were cast-offs, forgotten, and left to endure life in the orphanage alone.

They were all alone.

But one day, everything changed.

It was a rare sunny afternoon when the doors of the orphanage creaked open, and a group of people entered—strangers unlike any Eryon had ever seen before. They were dressed in fine, clean clothes that shimmered in the sunlight, the fabric so smooth and rich it seemed unreal to the orphan's eyes. Their skin was bright, their faces flawless, as if they had stepped out of a dream.

Eryon's breath caught in his throat. He had never seen such beauty in his life. The contrast between these people and the drab, decaying world of the orphanage was almost too much to bear. The children, used to seeing nothing but their own reflection of hopelessness, were mesmerized by the elegance and grace of the strangers.

The leader of the group, a tall man with a striking, almost ethereal appearance, stepped forward. His voice, when he spoke, was warm and soothing, filled with kindness that felt foreign to the children's ears.

"We are here to help," he said, smiling gently at the children. His teeth were white, gleaming in the dim light of the orphanage. "We've heard about the conditions here, and we want to offer a solution. We can provide you with food, warmth, and care—everything you've been missing."

A murmur of disbelief ran through the orphans. Help? Real help? It seemed impossible, too good to be true.

Eryon, standing near the back, felt something stir within him—a spark of hope, though small and fragile. Could this be real? After all the years of suffering, could someone truly want to help them? He had long since stopped hoping for a better life, but the sight of these strangers made that long-dead hope flicker in his chest, just for a moment.

The group's leader continued, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the ragged children and the crumbling walls. "We can give you all a better life. A chance to leave this place, to escape the hardships you've endured. We can offer you a future."

The children were silent, unsure how to respond. The caretakers stood in the shadows, their faces impassive, neither endorsing nor rejecting the proposal. They had long since given up on promises of hope themselves.

The man's smile widened, his voice softening. "All we ask in return is a small commitment. We have a place where children like you can thrive, where you can grow strong and learn valuable skills. In exchange for your cooperation, you will be taken care of, as you deserve."

The room was filled with hesitant glances. No one dared to speak, too afraid that it might all disappear if they voiced their thoughts.

Eryon's heart raced. It was the first time in his life that anyone had offered him anything beyond survival. He had never known what it felt like to be wanted, to be seen as something more than just a body to toil. But these people, with their kindness and beauty, were offering him a way out—a chance to escape the confines of the orphanage, to leave behind the hunger and the hopelessness.

The other children began to whisper, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. Could this be the opportunity they had all been waiting for? Could this be their way out?

Eryon clenched his fists, uncertainty swirling in his mind. Something deep within him warned him to be cautious, but the pull of the strangers' promise was too strong. He had spent his entire life in the darkness of the orphanage, and now, for the first time, there was a glimmer of light. It was impossible to ignore.

The man noticed the hesitation in the room and spoke again, his voice like honey, smooth and persuasive. "I understand your fear. But I assure you, this is no trick. We only wish to help you, to offer you a life of comfort and safety."

Eryon, like the others, was torn. On one hand, the orphanage was all he had ever known, and it had taught him not to trust too easily. But on the other hand, the possibility of escape, of a life beyond these crumbling walls, was too tempting to pass up.

The decision weighed heavily on him, but as he looked into the eyes of the strangers, their beauty and confidence radiating in the gloom of the orphanage, he felt his resolve waver. Perhaps, just this once, hope wasn't a lie. Perhaps these people truly were his way out.

Yet, little did he know that this was when everything had changed.