Pain came first.
It greeted Kael Morric before the sun did.
Before thought. Before breath.
The first day of training began with Harven slamming a blunt wooden staff into Kael's side before dawn.
"Get up."
No greeting. No warning.
Kael groaned and staggered upright, ribs screaming. He barely had time to steady himself before a boot struck his stomach and sent him sprawling again.
"Lesson one," Harven said coldly. "A Hunter does not wait for the fight to start. He lives in it."
For seven days, Kael endured a nightmare designed to forge him—or break him.
---
Day 1: Collapse
Kael was made to run the perimeter of the Lyre estate thirty times. Uphill. In weighted gear.
He collapsed on the twelfth lap. Velia hovered overhead, wind coiling around her fingers.
"Get up," she said, voice calm. "Or stay weak."
By dusk, Kael's legs bled from strain. His hands shook from dehydration. He vomited twice.
That night, he passed out before dinner, face-down in the training yard dirt.
---
Day 2: Cut and Bruise
Wooden swords. No padding.
Harven taught him forms, only to break them again. Every mistake was punished. Every hesitation, countered.
Kael's arms were covered in bruises by midday.
"You move like you think you're still human," Harven spat. "You survived the Howler. Start acting like something that can kill."
Velia watched from a distance, making notes. Occasionally, the wind would knock Kael flat without warning.
"You must learn to react without seeing."
He didn't sleep that night. Not really. The pain kept him half-conscious, twitching from phantom blows.
---
Day 3: Void and Flame
Kael woke coughing black smoke.
The mark on his chest throbbed violently. His heartbeat no longer matched the rhythm of his body. It was deeper. Alien.
Velia sat beside him, her expression unreadable.
"Your soul is starting to resist," she said. "That's good. But be warned—if it breaks before it bends, you'll die."
Training that day focused on mana control. Velia forced him to light candles in a circle without touching them. Not with hands, not with wind, not even with his blade.
Only intention.
Only soul.
Kael failed a hundred times.
But on the hundred-first, one flame flickered.
---
Day 4: Blood Trail
Tracking.
Harven took him deep into the forest, blindfolded and barefoot.
"Your enemy won't announce itself. Learn to hear what's not said. Smell what doesn't belong."
Kael was made to follow a simulated blood trail—a potion mixed with actual monster ichor.
The forest mocked him.
He stepped on thorns. Got whipped by branches. Bitten by ants. Once, a real Gravetooth cub chased him up a tree.
He returned before sunset, barely, carrying a feather from a decoy target Harven left hidden.
Harven didn't smile. But he nodded.
Just once.
---
Day 5: Breakpoint
That morning, Kael's legs refused to move. His body trembled even when still. The weight of the past days bore down like a boulder.
Velia placed a single blade before him.
"Cut the wind."
He blinked. "What?"
"Do it."
She unleashed a swirling gust—powerful enough to throw him ten feet. The task was simple: swing until the wind broke.
Kael swung until his hands blistered. Until his shoulders popped from overuse. Until blood dripped from the hilt.
When the wind finally stilled for a heartbeat, Velia whispered, "Good."
Then it hit him again.
---
Day 6: Echoes of Death
Velia brought him into a sealed chamber beneath the Lyre estate—filled with spirit echoes from past monster kills.
The pressure nearly made him vomit.
Here, he had to spar with memories—phantoms of beasts long dead but echoing with fury and violence.
They didn't bleed, but they could break his mind.
He faced down illusions of Tyrant Jackals, Bone-Fanged Vultures, and even a copy of the Shadow Howler.
At one point, he screamed and fell to his knees, reliving his family's death all over again.
But he stood up.
He faced it again.
And again.
Until the phantoms faded.
---
Day 7: Ascension
Harven gave Kael a single command:
"Climb."
A brutal cliff behind the Lyre estate towered over the valley. No gear. No rope. No rest.
Kael slipped five times. Cut his hands on stone. A storm gathered as he climbed.
Every limb shook. His vision blurred.
But Kael kept going.
Each inch was a rebellion against death itself.
By the time he reached the top, the sun had risen.
Harven and Velia stood there waiting.
Harven handed him a blade—not wood, but steel.
"You're not ready for war," he said. "But you've earned the right to fight."
Velia added, "From this day, you train not as a beggar... but as a Hunter."
Kael took the sword, gripping it with both bloodied hands.
His name was Kael Morric.
And for the first time since the Howler, he didn't feel like prey.
He felt like a storm waiting to be unleashed.