The next morning, the air above Vaelstorm was thick with sea mist. The cries of gulls echoed faintly across the port, blending with the distant crash of waves against the cliffs.
Hunnt stood alone at the practice field behind Will and Willa's home, the grass wet beneath his boots, the long sword glinting faintly in the morning light. The twins had already left for the coast to check if the monsters' behavior had changed since Hunnt's brief skirmish the day before. He'd told them not to get too close, but he knew they would anyway.
That left him with silence — and the rhythm of steel.
He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his breathing. The memory of the blade's motion played in his mind, not from this life but from long ago — fragments of motion and muscle memory that never truly left him.
He began again.
The basic forms came first — clean, precise, foundational.
Overhead Slash. Right Slash. Left Slash. Thrust.
Each strike flowed into the next, his breathing syncing naturally with the movement.
Then came the Spirit Gauge combo, the pulse of energy building through repetition.
Spirit I — diagonal.
Spirit II — upward.
Spirit III — spinning cross-cut.
Spirit Roundslash — full circle.
The faint hum of focus filled the air, an invisible rhythm rising around him. His movements grew sharper, the transitions smoother. The blade no longer felt distant. It was beginning to move as if it remembered him too.
Hunnt paused, exhaling slowly, then reached into the dirt to draw a set of lines with the sword tip — a list. The key techniques he'd once known, from countless hunts across time and memory.
He murmured their names under his breath as if reciting an old prayer.
"Fade Slash."
"Spirit Roundslash."
"Foresight Slash."
"Helm Breaker."
"Iai Slash."
"Harvest Moon."
Each word carried a weight, a fragment of purpose.
He began with Fade Slash.
Hunnt visualized the movement — a backward step with a slicing motion, clean and efficient. His boots slid over the dirt, blade tracing air like a whisper. He repeated it again and again, adjusting the rhythm until his feet and arms moved as one.
Then came Spirit Roundslash, the finishing flourish of momentum.
His body turned with the strike, the sword cutting a perfect circle, trailing a faint gust of air. He repeated it until the motion felt instinctive — not forced, but remembered.
Next was Foresight Slash.
This one demanded focus. Timing. He imagined the monster's attack, saw it in his mind, then slipped through it — pivoting and countering in a single movement. His strike followed the imagined blow, perfect and precise.
Helm Breaker came after — a test of agility and power.
Hunnt leapt from a grounded stance, twisting mid-air before bringing the blade down with both hands, the strike ending in a heavy downward arc that stirred dust from the ground.
Then Iai Slash, the discipline of calm.
He returned the blade to its sheath, breathing in deeply. His hand rested lightly on the hilt. For a long moment, he stood perfectly still — then drew the blade in a flash, cutting the air before resheathing it in one motion. The speed was silent, almost unseen.
Finally came Harvest Moon.
Hunnt drew a circle into the dirt with the tip of his sword — symbolic more than real. He imagined the ring surrounding him, the aura of focus heightening his awareness, sharpening his control. His stance shifted within that circle, his breathing steady, eyes unblinking.
Each move repeated, refined, memorized. His body began to flow through them without hesitation — movement becoming rhythm, rhythm becoming instinct.
By the time the sun reached its highest point, Hunnt's shirt was soaked through with sweat. His shoulders burned, his arms ached, but his eyes were steady, calm, alive.
He took a brief rest, then continued into the combo regimens he'd planned — linking the moves one after another until they formed complete, fluid sequences.
Ground Flow:
Overhead Slash → Right Slash → Left Slash → Thrust → Spirit Combo I-IV → Spirit Roundslash.
Every swing was measured. Every turn deliberate. Dust flared beneath his steps, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next.
Then came the Counter Flow — subtle and precise.
Iai Slash → Foresight Slash → Spirit Roundslash → Helm Breaker.
It was elegant and lethal — a style born not from the guild but from something deeper, older, freer.
Finally, the Aerial Flow.
Fade Slash → leap into Helm Breaker.
He soared a few feet from the ground before landing, the downward strike shaking the earth slightly. His boots dug into the dirt from the impact, sending a faint tremor through the field.
At first, the combinations were disjointed. He missed the timing, stumbled through transitions, and his breathing lost rhythm. But repetition burned away the hesitation. Every failure taught the next correction. His movements began to sync — not perfect yet, but whole.
By afternoon, the field was marked with dozens of shallow cuts and footprints. The sword gleamed faintly in the sunlight, now moving as though it had found its rhythm again.
That was when the twins returned.
Will and Willa came down the trail, covered in sea spray and exhaustion. When they reached the edge of the yard, they stopped, frozen in place.
Hunnt didn't notice them at first. He was still moving — blade slicing arcs through the air in perfect tempo, every cut ringing with deliberate control.
"That's not… the guild's form," Will said quietly, breaking the silence.
Willa nodded slowly, her eyes wide. "No. The guild doesn't teach that. His strikes — they're too fluid. Like he's feeling the sword instead of following orders."
Hunnt's final swing ended with a sharp hiss through the air. He exhaled, lowering the blade. Sweat dripped from his jaw, but his breathing remained steady.
He turned toward them, his expression calm.
"The guild's way," he said softly, "teaches repetition — obedience to motion."
He raised the sword slightly, its edge catching the dying sunlight.
"But a sword isn't obedience. It's rhythm. Flow. It listens only to the one who truly understands it."
Will swallowed, unsure what to say.
Willa managed, "Did… did you invent those moves?"
Hunnt gave a faint smile. "Yes and no."
"Which one is it?" Will asked, half-joking, half-nervous.
Hunnt didn't answer. He simply turned back to the field and lifted his blade once more, his voice calm and distant.
"Ask me again," he said, "when you can move like this."
Then he resumed his practice — strike after strike, the rhythm unbroken, the sound of steel against air echoing into the sea wind.
The twins stood there in silence, unsure whether to be amazed or afraid, as the sun fell low over Vaelstorm and Hunnt's shadow danced endlessly across the training ground.