Seventeen came with strength that felt sharper than any blade Hunnt had ever carried before. Where once his fists had bled raw against unyielding hides, now they struck with the solidity of iron, each blow ringing with the quiet authority of mastery. His movements blurred with Soru, steps cutting across the ground so fast they seemed to erase him from sight. His skin hardened with the steady pulse of Armament Haki, no longer flickering like a candle, but burning with a controlled flame. Each strike he made was cleaner. Each step more deliberate. Every breath was discipline.
The training grounds echoed with the sharp rhythm of combat. Hunnt stood across from Pyro, the little Palico's SnS raised, his shield trembling slightly with the pulse of his Observation Haki. His golden eyes narrowed, ears twitching at every shift of intent. Hunnt's fist shot forward, blindingly fast, but Pyro twisted his body just enough, Kami-e slipping him past the strike.
"Too slow, Master!" Pyro chirped, though his tail flicked nervously, betraying how close the punch had been.
Hunnt smirked. "Then keep up."
They clashed again and again — fist against blade, shield against hardened knuckles. Hunnt's blows came from impossible angles, but Pyro deflected what he could not see with his eyes, his Observation Haki whispering warnings through instinct. Sparks scattered as claws met gauntlet. The two moved in rhythm, steel and will colliding until their muscles screamed.
When at last they broke apart, panting, both collapsed into the dirt laughing. Sweat soaked their clothes, breaths ragged, but their grins were wide. "You're getting faster, Pyro," Hunnt admitted.
"Nyaahaha… only because you're teaching me, nyaah!" Pyro replied proudly, before flopping back onto the grass.
Across the training yard, the steady boom of Corwin's hammer split the air. Each swing landed with the weight of an avalanche, splintering reinforced posts that had survived countless drills. His mastery was undeniable now. Armament Haki flowed across his weapon and arms like a second skin, making every strike devastating. Yet when he set the hammer aside, his fists clenched with equal readiness.
Corwin shifted smoothly into fist style, his punches slower than Hunnt's but carrying a crushing force that rattled the very ground. Each blow reverberated with discipline. Hunnt paused mid-rest to watch him. Corwin had been awkward once, slow to learn, but now his strikes carried confidence and precision that could stagger even the fiercest beast.
On the ridge above, Elara trained in silence. Her bowstring was taut, her eyes closed. She didn't need to see. The faint breeze shifted, and her breath fell in sync with the rustle of leaves. The heartbeat of her allies behind her pulsed softly in her awareness, and the target dummy below became a point of inevitability.
Thwip.
The arrow pierced its center.
She exhaled slowly, her Observation Haki stretched outward, feeling not just sight but intent, motion, and space itself. She loosed another arrow, and then another, each striking the same point until the dummy's head sagged under the relentless precision.
Hunnt felt pride swell in his chest watching them. They had come so far.
Together, they hunted like a single organism now. Where once their movements clashed and stumbled, now they flowed with seamless unity. Corwin's hammer cracked bone with thunderous force, Elara's arrows pinned exposed joints or blinded a foe, Hunnt slipped through defenses with blinding speed, and Pyro darted into the smallest openings, SnS flashing with calculated strikes.
Beasts that had once driven them into desperation now fell in orchestrated silence. What had once been chaos was now symphony.
---
But it wasn't only their strength that grew. Their lives intertwined deeper than battle.
Corwin and Elara's bond, quiet and steady, had blossomed into marriage. Their unity in combat mirrored the unity of their hearts. They moved as one, fought as one, laughed as one. The village whispered of them with quiet admiration, their bond a living symbol of what it meant to grow not just as hunters but as people.
Even Pyro, ever mischievous, had softened in the evenings, teasing them less harshly and sometimes curling between their boots near the fire as if anchoring himself to their bond.
Hunnt watched it all with quiet contentment. He wasn't envious — no, he was proud. He had his path, and they had theirs, and together their bonds created something greater than any single hunter could claim.
---
Evenings often found Hunnt apart from the laughter, lantern light illuminating parchment. His calloused fingers guided the quill across pages, the scratch of ink steady against the silence. Notes became lessons, lessons became polished passages.
Movement. Stamina. Positioning. These are the roots of survival. Master them, and the rest will follow.
He wrote of Rokushiki drills, of the interplay between Observation and Armament Haki, of weapon forms both simple and complex. His quill moved with the same precision as his fists — deliberate, clean, and patient.
Sometimes Elara would glance over his shoulder, teasing him softly. "Still writing, Hunnt? You'll run out of ink before monsters to fight."
Hunnt only smiled faintly. "Maybe. But someone will need this after us."
And she understood.
One night, long after Corwin and Elara had retired and Pyro purred himself to sleep by the hearth, Hunnt paused mid-sentence. The quill hovered above the page. His eyes wandered to the emblem he had drawn at the top: a circle, black and simple, with a white fist at its center.
He set the quill aside, leaning back in his chair. Outside, the sounds of the village hummed softly — the clatter of tools, the laughter of children, the distant calls of night birds. Safe. Alive.
His fists rested on the desk, bandages loose around his knuckles, and he thought of everything that had brought him here: the Ravagerak, the Mistwing, the endless nights of training and the scars of failure. He thought of Corwin and Elara, of Pyro's loyalty, of Grandma Mel's scolding and Dom's quiet pride.
And he knew. His time here was almost finished. The village was safe, his friends were strong, and his heart no longer pulled him to stay.
His path stretched beyond the village walls.
But before he left, he would leave behind more than memories. He would leave a legacy.
The quill touched parchment again. At the top of a new page he wrote the words slowly, carefully:
Core and Weapon: Fist Style Mastery.
The title gleamed in the lamplight, sharp as his fists. The beginnings of his first book.
Hunnt smiled faintly. His legacy had begun.