The first rays of sunlight stretched across the village, painting the training clearing in gold. Birds stirred in the treetops, their calls blending with the faint whisper of wind through the leaves. Corwin stepped into the clearing, his body stiff from yesterday's grueling drills. Every muscle ached, but his eyes held a stubborn gleam.
Hunnt stood waiting, calm and focused, fists relaxed at his sides. Pyro perched on a rock nearby, tail swishing with quiet excitement, ears perked as if sensing the shift in the day's training.
"Alright, Corwin," Hunnt said evenly. "Today, we begin your fist-style training. Foundations first—stance, balance, and precision. Power comes later."
Corwin drew a slow breath, curling his hands into loose fists. "Yes".
Hunnt demonstrated with deliberate slowness. He slid into a stance, feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, fists guarding his chest. Then, with a smooth pivot of his hips, he sent a straight punch forward—controlled, fluid, and precise.
"Notice my stance," Hunnt instructed. "Everything comes from your base. If your feet are weak, your strike is weak. If your core isn't engaged, your strike has no weight. Don't swing wildly. The punch is an extension of your body, not a flail."
Corwin mimicked him, but his feet shifted too narrow, and his weight tipped forward.
"Stop." Hunnt moved behind him, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. "Relax here. Pivot more with your hips. Let your body carry the strike, not just your arm."
Corwin tried again. The movement was clumsy, the punch stiff.
From the sidelines, Pyro let out a short nyaah before hopping onto a low branch. With effortless grace, the Felyne shifted his weight from paw to paw, tail flicking to maintain perfect balance. His eyes locked onto Corwin. Watch, human. Balance first, power after.
Corwin blinked, almost laughing. "He's… showing me?"
Hunnt smirked faintly. "Even Pyro understands. Look at his posture—every movement starts from his center. Learn from that."
The lumberjack chuckled nervously. "Alright, I'll pay attention."
Training began in earnest. Hours passed in repetition: jab, pivot, block, reset. Hunnt circled like a hawk, adjusting Corwin's footing, tapping his elbow to correct form, reminding him again and again to breathe.
Meanwhile, Pyro became an unexpected partner. He darted in with his Wooden Sword, striking at Corwin's legs or arms, forcing him to guard or adjust mid-punch. Every time Corwin faltered, Pyro's tail lashed as if scolding him. Every time he held his stance, the little Felyne purred in faint approval.
By midday, Corwin's shirt clung to him, drenched in sweat. His arms trembled, his shoulders burned, but his punches were no longer wild. They carried rhythm, weight, and—most importantly—control.
Hunnt's sharp gaze softened with approval. "Better. You're already steadier than this morning. That's progress, Corwin. Remember—precision first. Master control, and power will follow naturally."
Corwin wiped sweat from his brow, breathing heavily but smiling despite the soreness. "I… I really did improve, didn't I?"
Hunnt chuckled, arms crossing. "More than you realize. The basics may look simple, but they're the hardest part to master. You did well today."
Pyro landed gracefully beside Corwin, tail curling neatly around his paws. His eyes glimmered as he gave a soft nyaah. Not bad… faster than yesterday. But don't relax yet, human.
Corwin laughed weakly, reaching down to pat Pyro's head. "Thanks, partner."
The sun dipped lower, stretching shadows long across the field. The three stood together—teacher, student, and companion—bound by shared effort and quiet determination.
Hunnt finally broke the silence. "Tomorrow, we add movement. Punches with footwork. Strike while advancing, retreating, and turning. If you can't move with your strike, you'll be cut down before landing a blow."
Corwin nodded firmly, though his arms ached. "I'll be ready."
Hunnt smiled faintly. Good. He's learning discipline, not just strength.
Pyro flicked his ears once more, tail swishing like a whip. Nyaah… don't disappoint us tomorrow, Corwin.
The clearing grew quiet as the day ended, but within that silence, something had shifted. Corwin had made his first strikes—not just against the air, but against his own doubts.