Days melted into nights as Hunnt trained relentlessly. The small clearing outside the village had become his sanctuary and his torment. He cycled through every weapon he could imagine — Sword and Shield, Hammer, Bow, Longsword, Great Sword, Dual Blades, Light Bowgun, Heavy Bowgun. Each one felt almost right, the motions etched into his memory from his favorite game, yet the same faint disconnection lingered. No weapon truly felt like an extension of his body.
It's like… none of these are meant for me…
The thought weighed on him like a heavy stone, pressing down with each swing, each thrust, each awkward attempt. Fatigue gnawed at his small limbs, muscles burning, palms blistered, sweat soaking through his thin shirt. Yet the pain was nothing compared to the ache of disappointment that wrapped around his chest like chains.
He sank to his knees, staring down at his trembling hands, hands that remembered every strike, every block, every roll he had seen in his game — but that could not find harmony with the weapons before him. Tears stung his eyes, blurred the horizon, and he whispered through trembling lips,
"Why… why… why!! I can't feel any connection… any… any of the weapons… maybe I'm not meant to… not meant to become a hunter…"
Memories flashed unbidden through his mind. The warmth of his parents' hands, the smell of their home, laughter that once filled the air. Then the screams, the roar of something monstrous, the cold fear that had clawed at him when he had lost them. His heart thudded violently in his chest.
Grief, anger, and frustration coalesced into a single burning need. He lashed out, fists striking the nearest tree with a desperate force.
Crack!
The splintering wood rang out across the empty clearing. Hunnt froze, staring at the fractured trunk. His chest heaved, breaths coming fast and shallow. And then, slowly, a spark ignited within him — an unfamiliar thrill of raw power.
His fists itched for motion. The weapons had betrayed him, but his body… his body remembered. He began punching the air, striking imaginary monsters with growing precision. Each motion felt fluid, natural, as if his muscles were speaking a language the weapons could not. Reflexes sharpened, timing aligned, and the faint disconnection that had haunted him vanished.
The body knows the motions… but the weapons don't.
Hunnt's small hands moved faster, a blur of punches and jabs, elbows and shoulder strikes. He imagined monstrous claws swiping, teeth snapping, and each parry and strike sent a thrill of exhilaration through him. Sweat dripped into his eyes, but he ignored it, letting the adrenaline guide his motions.
For a moment, he remembered the hunters he had observed in the village. The precision, the fluidity, the connection they seemed to have with their weapons. And then he realized: They weren't perfect… they had tools. I have me.
"If all weapons can't do it… then I'll use my fists!" he shouted, voice echoing through the forest. His heart raced, fierce and wild. "I'll make a new way of hunting… a weapon to hunt monsters… a gauntlet!"
He struck again, faster and harder, imagining the weight and resistance of monster hide, imagining sinew and bone beneath his punches. Every strike, every movement, built something within him — not just strength, but purpose.
Exhaustion and despair melted into determination. His small fists clenched as he stared at the distant horizon. Hunnt could almost see the path before him: countless monsters, endless battles, and the power he would need to survive, to protect, to master.
I'll survive… I'll grow strong… and I'll become a hunter, no matter what it takes.
A faint smile touched his lips, despite the sweat and dirt, the aching muscles and blistered hands. For the first time, Hunnt felt a sense of control, a flicker of destiny. The path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, yet within him, a seed had been planted. A promise whispered through his very bones: This is only the beginning. And I will not fail.
He dropped to his knees for a brief rest, chest heaving, eyes gleaming. The forest was silent except for the rustle of leaves and the distant call of some unknown creature. But inside Hunnt, a storm had broken, and it carried the first sparks of something unstoppable.
The boy who could not connect with weapons had found his path — with fists, with grit, and with a heart that refused to surrender.