The storm had passed, leaving the village damp but glistening under the morning sun. Hunnt stretched his small frame, muscles waking from a night of mental simulation. The pages of his father's journal were still open on the table, notes and sketches scattered across the floor.
I know what to do… now, he thought, determination lighting his eyes.
He headed for the training grounds, fists clenched and ready. No more makeshift weapons — no more sticks or branches. Every movement he executed was with his own body, relying solely on strength, reflexes, and precision.
He began with simple punches, testing speed, range, and impact. Each strike felt natural, instinctive, a fluid extension of his small frame. The faint disconnect he had felt with weapons was gone, replaced by a sense of flow he had never experienced before. With each punch, he imagined monsters attacking him — Velocidrome, Jagras, even Rathalos — and practiced combinations, feints, and counterstrikes.
If I can't use a weapon… I'll make my body one, he thought, grinning despite the sweat dripping down his face.
He rotated his shoulders, pivoted his feet, and let his fists fly in arcs and jabs. Every motion was repeated, over and over, with relentless focus. Hunnt's mind replayed every hunter he had observed, every strike he had memorized, translating them into fist techniques that fit his small frame.
By midday, he was panting heavily, but a strange exhilaration coursed through his veins. His body felt lighter yet stronger, his reflexes sharper than ever, his endurance pushing past what should have been possible for a five-year-old. The Growth Acceleration talent, silently amplifying his efforts, allowed him to improve at a pace that would have taken ordinary people months, even years.
He paused to catch his breath and studied his hands, noticing the subtle redness on his knuckles and the small cuts forming from the rough bark of training trees. A satisfied smile spread across his face. This is right… this feels right. My fists… my body… this is my weapon.
Hunnt experimented further. He started varying the speed and force of his punches, alternating between quick jabs and powerful strikes, trying to anticipate monster movements. Each repetition refined his accuracy, timing, and balance. His muscles burned, but the fatigue felt good — a proof of progress.
Later, he added footwork, practicing stepping, pivoting, and dodging imaginary attacks. His small legs trembled from the effort, but he could already feel improvements in his coordination and speed. Each movement was calculated, instinctive, and growing stronger by the minute.
Grandma Mel appeared with a plate of food. "Hunnt, you've been at it all morning. Eat before you collapse."
Hunnt grinned sheepishly. "Just a little more, Grandma… I need to finish this drill."
She shook her head, muttering, "That boy… just like his father."
Hunnt ate quickly, but his mind was already racing ahead — planning the next session, analyzing monster behavior, and simulating combat. He noticed how his fists responded faster than before, how his muscles reacted almost instinctively to imagined threats. A new realization dawned on him, subtle but undeniable: I'm learning faster… everything feels sharper…
The villagers watched from a distance, some whispering in awe at the small boy moving with such intensity. Hunnt waved briefly, but his focus never wavered.
By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, Hunnt's small body was exhausted, sweat-soaked, but his eyes shone with determination. Every punch, every dodge, every pivot was a step forward.
Mind and muscle… fists and reflexes… that's how I'll survive. That's how I'll become a hunter.
And for the first time, he knew the journey ahead would not rely on swords, bows, or hammers. His fists — his own body — would be the key.