The sun hung high over Ravenshire, bathing the training grounds in golden light. Hunnt watched Pyro sprint laps in four-legged bursts, Wooden Sword and Shield flashing in quick, sharp arcs. Every strike, every movement, bore the weight of months of effort. Pyro moved like water, precise and efficient.
At the edge of the clearing, Corwin lingered, the lumberjack's hammer slung across his back. His steps were heavy, his shoulders tense, eyes flicking toward the treeline as though monsters could emerge at any moment. He had strength, but fear clung to him.
Hunnt smirked, watching. Let's see what you're really made of.
"Alright," Hunnt called, waving him over. "First thing—foundation. If your body can't keep up, you'll collapse against a monster in minutes."
Corwin tightened his grip on the hammer and swallowed hard. "Uh… okay. I'll try."
Pyro crouched nearby, tail flicking, golden eyes following Corwin's nervous shuffle. To the villagers, Pyro was just a cat. To Hunnt, every twitch and mewl carried sharp observation.
Nyaah… slow, heavy steps… no rhythm… let's test him… nyaah, Pyro thought, ears twitching.
"Ten laps around the perimeter," Hunnt said, pointing. "Pyro, run with him."
Corwin staggered into motion. His strides were awkward, shoulders hunched, breath uneven. Hunnt jogged alongside, correcting him. "Straighten your back! Breathe steady, don't gasp. Push off the ground with intent!"
Pyro darted ahead effortlessly, weaving circles around Corwin, swiping at his legs whenever he slowed. Corwin flinched at first, nearly stumbling, but soon found a clumsy rhythm. His breathing steadied. His steps grew firmer.
After the laps, Hunnt pointed to a row of weighted logs. "Now, lifting drills. Strength without control is wasted. Balance it."
Corwin groaned but obeyed. Sweat poured down his face as he lifted, legs trembling under the weight. Pyro perched on a stump, watching closely, his golden eyes glinting.
Nyaah… strong arms, weak stance… unstable… nyaah, Pyro thought, tail flicking.
Hunnt's gaze narrowed. Corwin's grip on the hammer earlier had already told him what he needed to know. His swings are too wide. His follow-through unbalanced. He'll wear himself out in seconds against a real monster.
"Alright," Hunnt said after a while, grabbing a practice hammer from the racks. "Show me how you swing it."
Corwin blinked, caught off guard. "Now?"
"Yes, now." Hunnt planted his feet firmly. "Swing. As if you mean it."
Corwin raised the hammer, muscles bulging, and brought it down with all his might. The ground shook with the impact, but Hunnt's eyes narrowed further.
"Again."
Corwin obeyed. The swing was powerful, but his stance collapsed at the end. His recovery was slow. Hunnt stepped closer, tone sharp. "You're wasting energy. Your strikes are strong, but you'd trip yourself up in a real fight. And monsters won't wait for you to stand back up."
Corwin lowered the hammer, embarrassed. "I… I didn't know."
"Of course you didn't. That's why I'm here." Hunnt spun the practice hammer in his small hands. "Watch carefully."
He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, posture solid but relaxed. With a fluid motion, he raised the hammer and brought it down in a controlled arc. The strike cracked against the earth with startling precision—no wasted movement, no stumble afterward. He reset immediately, ready for the next swing.
"The hammer isn't about wild strength," Hunnt explained. "It's control. Impact at the right time, in the right place. You don't just swing. You target." He tapped the head of the hammer against his palm. "Monster skull, joint, wing—pick your mark, then strike to break it."
Corwin's eyes widened. The difference was night and day—his own clumsy swings compared to Hunnt's sharp, efficient strikes.
Hunnt lowered the hammer and raised his fists. His stance shifted, lighter, sharper. "Now—fist style. This isn't about heavy impact. It's about speed, precision, and survival."
He launched a flurry of quick punches into the air, each strike controlled and flowing into the next. His feet shuffled with fluid rhythm, movements fast but grounded.
"Fist style is for when you don't have a weapon—or when you need to move faster than a hammer allows," Hunnt said. "It won't crush bones like the hammer, but it'll buy you time. It'll keep you alive until you can strike again."
Pyro padded over, tail twitching, giving a soft "nyaah." Hunnt smirked. "Exactly. Even Pyro knows—hammer to break, fists to survive."
Corwin's throat went dry. He tightened his grip on the hammer, staring at Hunnt's small frame. How is he… so much better than me already?
"You'll train both. Hammer for power. Fists for survival. No more sloppy swings. No more hesitation."
Corwin swallowed, then nodded slowly. "I… I'll do it."
Pyro brushed against Corwin's leg, golden eyes glinting with what almost looked like approval.
Hunnt grinned. Good. He's rough, but I'll shape him. Hammer, fists, endurance—he'll learn. Or he'll break.
As the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across Ravenshire, the training ground echoed with hammer strikes, fists slamming into dummies, and Hunnt's sharp corrections.
The first true lesson had begun.