The seasons passed, and with them, the steady rhythm of change. Winter winds stripped the branches bare, summer rains hammered the rooftops, and spring brought back green life to the ridges around Ravenshire. The hunters grew with every season, their bodies hardening, their senses sharpening, their bond becoming something unshakable.
Where once the village had celebrated each successful hunt with bonfires and song, now the nights were filled with the sounds of steel against wood, the grunt of effort, and the whistle of arrows slicing the evening air. Victory was no longer rare. It was expected. The hunts that once terrified them had become their proving grounds.
Hunnt's frame changed before the village's eyes. The boyishness melted away, replaced by a lean, coiled strength. Muscles traced his arms and shoulders, every line carved from years of training and combat. Sweat streaked down his back as he launched into another set of Soru dashes, feet pounding the earth like drumbeats. His lungs burned, his thighs screamed, but he welcomed the fire. Pain was no longer his enemy—it was his whetstone.
If I can't push past my limits here, he thought, teeth gritted, how can I face what waits beyond the village?
On the other side of the training ground, Corwin's hammer crashed down on a reinforced post wrapped in monster hide and scales. Each strike sent vibrations through the soil, dust trickling from the wood with every impact. He didn't swing wildly; each blow carried precision, patience, and devastating weight. Where he had once relied on raw strength, now his control was absolute. The hammer moved as though it were an extension of his heartbeat.
Nearby, Elara's bowstring twanged in rhythm with her breathing. Her arrows flew swift and sharp, each one guided not by sight alone but by the ripples of intent she had come to sense through Observation Haki. A breeze tugged at her hair, shifted her target slightly, but she adjusted without hesitation. The arrow struck dead center. She exhaled slowly, lowering her bow, and in the fading light her eyes reflected a confidence that hadn't been there years ago.
Corwin glanced her way and allowed himself a rare smile. Elara answered it with the faintest curve of her lips before nocking another arrow.
And then there was Pyro. The little Felyne darted between the three of them, SnS flashing as he mimicked Hunnt's footwork. His shield clanged against posts, his sword flickered through the air, his tail lashed with irrepressible energy. He had grown leaner too, though his mischievous golden eyes still gleamed with the same spark. When Hunnt stumbled on his thirty-seventh dash, Pyro bumped his shin with his shield and squeaked, a chiding sound that made the others pause.
Hunnt laughed despite the pain in his chest. "Yeah, I know. No excuses."
The years tempered them not only in drills but in hunts. What had once been survival turned to dominance. Packs of Jagras that had harassed livestock were dispatched with coordinated precision. Hunnt intercepted lunges with armored fists, his black-steel gauntlets cracking jaws and shattering claws. Corwin smashed through ranks with brutal arcs, the earth shaking beneath each strike. Elara's arrows rained from cover, piercing throats and joints before the beasts even reached her allies. Pyro darted through the chaos, distracting, cutting, harrying, his laughter and cries filling the battlefield with a rhythm of their own.
It wasn't just about victory anymore—it was about mastery.
At night, when the village slept, Hunnt often sat beneath the glow of a lantern, his calloused fingers resting on parchment. The quill scratched steadily, though his words came carefully. His notes were more than a diary—they were instructions, lessons for whoever came after.
Movement. Stamina. Positioning. These are the roots of survival. Master them, and the rest will follow.
He paused, staring at the crude symbol he had sketched at the top of the page: a black circle, a white fist inside it. At first, it was a doodle, but the more he looked at it, the more it meant. Discipline. Growth. The unyielding will to stand, even when bloodied.
Hunnt tapped the page thoughtfully. A name whispered in his mind, one that carried both humility and weight.
iAmElder.
Not as a boast, but as a reminder: one day, he would become the foundation for others.
---
The village watched their growth with quiet awe. Dom and Mel often stood at the edge of the training grounds, their proud smiles hidden beneath stern words. Coerl, though still gruff, lent his forge to every experiment Hunnt proposed. Weapons, armor, weighted gear—each invention became sharper, sturdier, more refined with every passing season.
There were failures, too. Nights where arrows snapped, where gauntlets shattered, where exhaustion dropped them into the dirt before drills were done. Monsters still bloodied them, still threatened the balance of their home. But where once they would have cowered, now they rose, again and again, each scar a testament to growth.
Hunnt's fists grew calloused beyond recognition. Corwin's hammer strikes rang like thunder across the cliffs. Elara's arrows never missed when it mattered. And Pyro—playful, tireless Pyro—remained the heart of their team, his laughter reminding them why they fought at all.
---
One autumn evening, as leaves drifted like fire through the cool air, Hunnt sat with his companions around a small fire outside the village walls. They had just returned from a hunt against a wyvern none of them had seen before—scarred, feral, and fast. They had prevailed, but only barely. Their bodies bore bruises, but their spirits were unbroken.
Elara leaned back, her bow resting across her knees. "Do you ever think about how far we've come? From the first time we stepped into the forest, to now?"
Corwin grunted, poking the fire with a stick. "Farther than I thought we'd survive."
Pyro purred beside Hunnt, tail curling around his legs. "Nyaah… but we're still just beginning. The world's bigger than this forest. Bigger than Ravenshire."
Hunnt smiled faintly, gazing into the flames. "That's why we keep training. Because one day, what we face won't just threaten us—it'll threaten everything beyond these trees."
They fell into silence, the crackle of the fire the only sound. But in their hearts, they knew he was right.
---
Years of growth had transformed them. The children who once flinched at roars were gone. In their place stood hunters, hardened by trial, bonded by trust, and sharpened by discipline.
Hunnt closed his journal one final time that night, the ink of the white fist emblem drying under the lamplight. He wasn't just recording hunts anymore—he was laying the groundwork for something greater.
A legacy.