Hunter Academy: Revenge of the Weakest

Jeremy's father, Reginald Hawkins, stood in the grand hallway of their family estate, his face a mask of barely contained rage and disbelief. The news had come suddenly, carried on the breathless words of one of his trusted guards, but nothing had prepared him for what he was about to witness.

When the doors to the room opened and Jeremy was wheeled in, Reginald's breath caught in his throat. His son, his proud and ambitious heir, was unrecognizable. The once-handsome face that had been a symbol of the Hawkins family's future was now a grotesque, charred ruin. The burns covered the entire side of his face, the skin blackened and twisted, a cruel mockery of the young man Jeremy had once been.

Jeremy lay still, his eyes glazed over with pain and fear. He was unable to speak, his body trembling from the trauma he had endured. His breathing was shallow and ragged, each intake of air a reminder of the agony that had consumed him.

Reginald's hands clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles white with the force of his fury.

"What… happened?" Reginald's voice was cold and controlled, but the underlying threat was unmistakable. He turned his gaze to the guard who had brought the news, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "Tell me everything."

The guard, a seasoned warrior who had served the Hawkins family for years, hesitated for only a moment before he spoke, his voice steady despite the gravity of the situation. "Sir, it was Lady Irina Emberheart. She… she did this to him."

Reginald's expression hardened, his mind racing as he processed the implications of what he was hearing. "Irina Emberheart," he repeated slowly, the name laced with venom. "She dared to do this to my son?"

The guard nodded, his face grim. "Yes, sir. According to witnesses, Lady Irina used her fire magic to brand the young master. They say she did it in front of the other guests, with no hesitation… no mercy."

Reginald's fury surged, his eyes blazing with cold fire. This was not just an attack on Jeremy; this was an open declaration of war against the Hawkins family. The Emberhearts had made their move, and it was a move that would not go unanswered.

He stepped closer to his son, examining the burns that marred Jeremy's once-proud face. His hand trembled slightly as he reached out, stopping just short of touching the injured skin. The sight of his son in such a state, broken and helpless, filled him with a rage so intense it was almost suffocating.

"Have they given him the high-ranking potions?" Reginald asked, his voice barely above a whisper yet carrying the weight of command.

The butler, who had been standing silently by the door, stepped forward and bowed his head respectfully. "Yes, Master Hawkins. We have administered the best options we had at our disposal. But… the burns remain. We even called the head healer of our guild, but she was unable to reverse the damage. It appears that the fire magic used was of a nature we've never encountered before."

Reginald's gaze snapped to the butler, his eyes narrowing. "Are you telling me that nothing can be done?"

The butler swallowed, his face pale. "As of now, sir… we are at a loss. The fire magic seems to have a lingering effect, resisting all attempts at healing. We will continue to search for a solution, but it may take time."

Reginald turned back to Jeremy, his expression a mix of fury and sorrow. His son, his legacy, was lying before him, disfigured and broken. The reality of it was almost too much to bear.

"Irina Emberheart…" Reginald muttered, his voice barely more than a growl. "She thinks she can get away with this?"

Reginald Hawkins stood over his son, his mind a tempest of fury and cold calculation. Jeremy's disfigured face was a painful reminder of the cost of failure, but for a man like Reginald, failure was simply another challenge to overcome, another variable in the complex equation of power and survival.

"We were already planning to get rid of them for a while now…" Reginald muttered under his breath, his voice cold and detached. The decision had been made long before this incident, but now, with Irina Emberheart's blatant assault on his son, the timeline had been forcibly accelerated. "That means we'll be pushing the plans forward from now on."

Jeremy's approach to Irina had been part of that very plan—a calculated move designed to place them closer to the Emberheart family, to gather intelligence and leverage against them. Jeremy was supposed to charm her, to worm his way into her trust. Instead, he had been outplayed, and his arrogance and underestimation of Irina led to this disaster.

'Damn boy,' Reginald thought with a mixture of anger and disappointment. 'You were supposed to be my spearhead, and now you've become a liability.'

But Reginald Hawkins was not a man who allowed setbacks to cripple his plans. The first rule of rising in this wretched world was to be prepared for every eventuality, to adapt and strike when the time was right. Situations like this—where plans went awry and unforeseen challenges arose—were all too familiar to him. They were the crucible in which his power had been forged.

He turned to his butler, who stood nearby, pale and tense. "Prepare the secure line," Reginald ordered, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. "I need to contact the organization immediately."

The butler bowed swiftly and hurried out of the room, leaving Reginald alone with his son. Jeremy's shallow breaths filled the silence, a stark reminder of the stakes they were playing for.

'The organization won't be pleased,' Reginald thought as he waited, his mind already anticipating the conversation that would follow. 'They'll think it's too soon. They'll warn me about the risks.'

But this was no longer just about strategy or timing. Irina Emberheart had made her move, and in doing so, she had revealed too much.

Reginald wasn't a fool—he knew the signs of someone who had caught wind of something they shouldn't have. And if Irina had even the slightest inkling of their true intentions, then delaying was no longer an option.

Moments later, the butler returned, nodding to Reginald as he handed over the secure communication device. Reginald took it, his expression hardening as he activated the link.

The line connected with a soft click, and a voice on the other end answered, low and measured. "Hawkins. We weren't expecting your call this soon."

"There's been a complication," Reginald said without preamble, his tone clipped and businesslike. "Irina Emberheart attacked my son. Burned him—left him disfigured. This wasn't some random act of violence; she knew something. We need to move up the timeline."

A brief pause followed, and Reginald could almost feel the weight of the organization's collective mind considering his words. When the voice spoke again, it was cautious. "This is too early, Hawkins. The plan isn't fully in place. If we act now, we risk exposing ourselves prematurely."

"I understand the risks," Reginald replied, his voice firm. "But we've been forced into a corner. If Irina knows—if she even suspects—then the danger of waiting is greater than the danger of acting. We need to strike before they can counter us."

"Then it's decided," the voice concluded. "Commence with the plan. But keep in mind, Hawkins—our hands are limited now. If anything goes wrong, there won't be a second chance."

Another pause, longer this time. Then, the voice returned colder. "Very well. But know that if this goes wrong, it's on you. The organization won't cover for failure."

"I'll take full responsibility," Reginald said, his mind already working through the logistics of the accelerated timeline. "But rest assured, it won't fail. We've come too far to let a girl and her family stand in our way."

"Then it's decided," the voice concluded. "Commence with the plan. But keep in mind, Hawkins—our hands are limited now. If anything goes wrong, there won't be a second chance."

Reginald ended the call, the weight of the decision settling over him. His hands were tied, and the resources he could call upon were now restricted by the organization's caution. But he was nothing if not resourceful, and he knew how to turn limitations into strengths.

He looked down at Jeremy one last time, his expression unreadable. "You'll have your vengeance, my son," he murmured, more to himself than to Jeremy. "And I'll ensure that the Emberheart family regrets ever crossing the Hawkins name."

With that, Reginald turned and strode out of the room, his mind already moving to the next phase. The game had changed, but the outcome would be the same. The Hawkins family would emerge victorious, no matter the cost.

*******

<Mansion of the Emberheart Family, Midnight>

The heavy doors of the Emberheart mansion closed behind Irina and Esme with a soft thud, sealing them inside the grandeur and tension that awaited. The grand hall was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows that danced across the polished marble floor.

The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, a tradition Irina's mother insisted upon, its smoky tendrils curling through the air like silent specters.

Esme stopped at the base of the grand staircase, bowing her head slightly. "I will wait here, Young Miss. The Matriarch will see you alone."

Irina nodded, her face set in a mask of determination. She ascended the staircase, her footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness of the mansion.

As she reached the top, two guards stationed outside the Matriarch's chambers opened the heavy oak doors, allowing her to enter.

The chamber was as imposing as ever, a reflection of the woman who ruled from within it. The Matriarch sat at the far end of the room, behind a large desk adorned with documents and relics of Emberheart's legacy.

Her presence was formidable, a commanding figure draped in deep red robes, her eyes as sharp as the fire she wielded. The room's hearth crackled with a steady flame, casting a warm glow on her stern features.

"Irina," the Matriarch's voice was cool, almost indifferent. "Sit."

Irina obeyed, taking a seat across from her mother. The silence that followed was suffocating, the kind that gnawed at the edges of resolve. But Irina held her ground, meeting the Matriarch's gaze with unwavering eyes.

"I've heard about what happened tonight," the Matriarch began, her tone devoid of emotion. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"

Irina's jaw tightened, but she remained composed. "Yes, Mother. I acted to protect our family. Jeremy Hawkins posed a threat, and I neutralized it."

The Matriarch's eyes narrowed, her fingers drumming lightly on the desk. "You disfigured the heir of a powerful ally, a move that could unravel years of alliances and carefully woven ties. Did you think about the consequences?"

"I did," Irina responded, her voice firm. "But I also thought about the future—our future. Jeremy Hawkins is not just an heir; he's a danger to everything we've built. I've seen what he can become, and I won't allow that to happen."

The Matriarch leaned back in her chair, her gaze piercing. "You presume much, Irina. Do you think I don't know the kind of man Jeremy is? Do you think I haven't considered the dangers?"

Irina's heart pounded, but she didn't flinch. "Then you must understand why I did what I did. The Federation is already corrupted, teetering on the edge. If we don't take a stand now, we risk losing everything. Sometimes, alliances need to be broken to protect what truly matters."

For a long moment, the Matriarch said nothing, her eyes boring into Irina's as if searching for something. Finally, she spoke, her voice softer but no less commanding. "You've always been headstrong, Irina. At least before, you were faking it….But that does not seem to be the case right now."

Irina remained silent, her breath steady despite the turmoil swirling within her. There was no doubt her mother sensed the shift in her, the transformation that had taken place.

The Matriarch leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low, probing tone. "Something about you has changed recently… a change I did not foresee. What has happened, Irina?"

Irina hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. She knew what her mother was implying, the question lurking just beneath the surface. She steadied herself, refusing to show any sign of weakness.

The Matriarch's eyes sharpened further, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "That boy… You had been warned."

Irina's heart skipped a beat, but she did not falter. She met her mother's gaze with unwavering resolve, her voice clear and calm. "I've become someone who can choose what is best for me, Mother. I won't be swayed by anyone's warnings or threats. I decide my path."

For a moment, the silence in the room was absolute, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth. The Matriarch's face remained inscrutable, her gaze boring into Irina as if trying to unravel the mysteries she held.

And then, slowly, a smile curled at the corners of the Matriarch's lips—a smile that was anything but warm. It was a smile devoid of warmth, a chilling expression that sent a shiver down Irina's spine despite her resolve. "If that is the case," the Matriarch said, her voice as cold as her smile, "then you should take responsibility for your own actions."

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