The morning after Hunnt's departure broke quietly over the valley.
A soft golden mist rolled between the trees, brushing the rooftops of the rebuilt Felyne Village. The smell of woodsmoke and cooked fish drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of blooming herbs.
Pyro stirred beside the embers of a dying campfire. The spot where Hunnt had sat the night before was empty — his cloak gone, his presence only a lingering echo in the morning wind.
For a long moment, Pyro didn't move. His tail flicked once, brushing the ground as he stared at the notebook lying beside him. The leather binding caught the first rays of sunlight, and he could just make out the faint engraving on the spine — the black circle, the triangle, the clenched fist.
He reached for it slowly. His pawpads brushed the surface; it was warm, as if it still carried his master's touch.
He opened the cover, and Hunnt's handwriting greeted him — firm, deliberate, steady even when scarred.
"To my brother in arms — Pyro."
The words stopped him. For a moment, the morning faded away. He could almost hear Hunnt's calm voice beside the fire again, that steady rhythm of conviction that always cut through doubt.
He turned the page.
"What we build isn't power. It's purpose.
Rokushiki, Haki — these are not tools for dominance.
They are ways to understand the world, and to move within it without losing yourself."
Pyro's ears lowered, his throat tightening. He had seen Hunnt fight monsters, stare down fear, defy death — but the words here carried something deeper than any strike. They were… alive.
He flipped through the next few pages, eyes scanning the written philosophies — Soru: Step Beyond Fear… Tekkai: The Still Body… Kami-e: The Flowing Mind…
Each one was a memory.
Each lesson, a moment of struggle.
Each scar of ink — a piece of Hunnt left behind.
When he reached the final page, a single line waited there.
"The path of the Wanderer isn't a road to walk. It's a promise to keep."
Pyro's paw tightened around the cover. He looked toward the horizon, where the morning light touched the edges of the forest Hunnt had walked into.
"Nyaaah…" he whispered. "Then I'll keep it, Master. I promise."
---
Later that morning, the elder Felyne approached quietly, carrying two steaming cups of herbal tea. He placed one beside Pyro and sat next to him on the worn steps of a rebuilt hut.
"He's gone, isn't he?" the elder asked gently.
Pyro nodded. "Aye. Wanderers never stay long."
The elder's gaze drifted toward the forest line. "And yet, he left something stronger than himself."
Pyro lifted the notebook. "His will."
The elder studied the book for a moment, the flickering reflection of sunlight in his eyes. "Then perhaps it's time you stop calling yourself a student, Pyro."
Pyro blinked, caught off guard. "What do you mean, nya?"
"You've taken his teachings," the elder said softly. "Now you give them to others. That is not the way of a follower, but of a leader."
Pyro looked down at the book again. The weight of the words felt heavier than the leather binding.
He exhaled slowly. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it's time."
---
Days passed. Then weeks.
The rhythm of the village changed — not just in work, but in spirit.
Pyro rose before dawn every morning, leading the Felynes through stretches and drills. His voice echoed across the clearing — sharp but encouraging.
He taught them how to breathe through strikes, how to flow instead of force, how to move as one when danger came.
At night, he studied the notebook beneath lamplight, replicating Hunnt's exercises and rewriting them in smaller scrolls for his students.
When his legs trembled, he remembered Hunnt's words about endurance.
When the young ones grew impatient, he told them stories of his master — of a human who fought not for glory, but for balance.
Soon, the village that once cowered in silence now rang with energy.
Soru drills by sunrise.
Defense drills by dusk.
Laughter, determination, and the sound of wooden staves striking in rhythm.
The Felynes began calling him Scarlet Paw — after the crimson scarf he wore, and the pawprint he left in training dust.
At first, Pyro scolded them. "Nyaaah! I'm not a legend!"
But the name stuck, spreading faster than he could argue.
And deep down, he didn't mind.
---
One afternoon, Pyro stood before the village gate, a new wooden crest in his paws.
He had carved it himself — simple, clean, strong.
A black circle for the world they protected.
An upward triangle for strength and growth.
And over both, a crimson pawprint resting against a faintly etched fist.
The symbol of two species — one path.
He hoisted it onto the gate, hammering the last nail in place.
The sound rang out across the square, echoing like a bell of renewal.
The Felynes gathered behind him, eyes glinting in the light.
The elder stepped forward, leaning on his cane. "A new mark for a new age."
Pyro smiled faintly, tail curling. "No, Elder. The same promise… just with claws."
---
That night, under a star-filled sky, the Felynes gathered around the largest fire the village had seen since before the attack.
Drums beat softly — not of war, but of unity.
The elder stood at the center and called Pyro forward, his voice solemn and proud.
"Pyro of the Scarlet Paw," he began, "student of Hunnt, Keeper of the Second Teachings — do you vow to protect this village and walk the path of balance he left behind?"
Pyro stepped into the circle of light. The flames painted his fur gold and red. He knelt, placing a paw over his heart and bowing his head.
"I vow to guard this village and all its kin," he said, voice steady and clear.
"To teach what was given freely.
To fight only when balance breaks.
To walk unseen — not for glory, not for gold.
I am a Wanderer.
I am the Scarlet Paw."
The villagers repeated softly, like a prayer carried by wind:
"Scarlet Paw… Scarlet Paw…"
The firelight rose with their voices, casting warmth into the night.
---
The elder approached again, holding something wrapped in cloth — a red scarf, dyed with crushed berries and charcoal ash.
"Red for courage," he said, draping it over Pyro's shoulders. "Black for endurance."
Pyro adjusted it gently, his tail flicking. "Nyaaah… it's perfect."
The elder smiled. "So is the name."
---
Later, when the celebration faded and the village drifted into sleep, Pyro climbed a small ridge overlooking the lights below.
The stars shimmered faintly above, mirrored by the small fires of home — like constellations made from survival and hope.
He sat down, resting the notebook on his lap. The pages rustled softly in the breeze.
He turned to the last line Hunnt had written:
"The path of the Wanderer isn't a road to walk; it's a promise to keep."
Pyro picked up his pen — the same ink Hunnt had used — and wrote beneath it in careful script:
"You said the path never ends. Maybe it doesn't. Maybe it just changes paws."
He closed the book, staring toward the horizon — the same path Hunnt had taken, east into the unknown.
A faint smile crossed his face.
"Wherever you are, Master… I'm still walking, nya."
The scarf fluttered in the night wind, crimson against the silver light of the moon.
Below him, the fires of the Felyne Village glowed strong and steady — small suns in a world once lost to shadow.
And for the first time, the Wanderer's flame burned not in one heart, but in many.