Afternoon light stretched long across the training ground, turning the dirt golden and warm. Dust swirled in the air with every swing of Rogan's longsword, his breath steady and sharp.
He had been at it since morning — hours of repetitive strikes — yet his weapon still held strong.
No cracks.
No chips.
No failures.
Every motion carried rhythm now, a steady rise and fall, a deliberate inhale and exhale between movements.
Rogan paused mid-swing, sweat rolling down his temple. His chest heaved as he looked at the blade — intact, gleaming faintly under the sunlight.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, half in awe. "Morning till now, and not a single break…"
Hunnt stood a few meters away, arms crossed, watching him like a blacksmith judging his own steel.
Rogan turned, grinning faintly. "Your training… it's different, Hunnt. More effective than anything I've done before."
Hunnt smiled slightly. "Good. You've finally mastered rhythm and control — at least the basics of it."
He stepped forward, his tone firm again. "Now comes the next step. Add power. Real power — your raw strength — into every swing."
Rogan froze. His hand tightened around the hilt, eyes flicking toward his sword. "I… I can't," he stammered. "If I add that much force, the sword will—"
"Break?" Hunnt finished, tilting his head. "That's what you thought before — when you were too focused on control."
He tapped the side of Rogan's blade with his own. "But now, your body remembers the rhythm. You've built the foundation. You're not fighting your sword anymore, Rogan. You're fighting your fear."
Rogan hesitated, still unsure.
Hunnt sighed softly. "Listen. If you're scared, you can start slow — let the power rise naturally until you feel the blade move with you. Or…"
He smirked. "We can use another kind of training. Kael, Seren, and Alder all went through it. It's faster — and a lot rougher."
Rogan's brows furrowed. "And what kind of training is that?"
Hunnt chuckled. "It's better you stick with the slow method. I don't want to shock you too soon."
That tone made Rogan swallow hard. "...Right. Slow sounds fine."
"Good choice," Hunnt said, stepping back. "Now — again. Basic forms, but this time, let your strength flow through the rhythm."
Rogan took a long breath, resetting his stance.
Overhead Slash.
Slow, steady, powerful.
Right Slash.
Air whistled from the force — but the sword held firm.
Left Slash.
A deep exhale, clean and smooth.
Thrust.
A controlled burst — strong, but balanced.
Rogan's eyes widened slightly when the blade didn't even tremble. "It… held," he whispered.
Hunnt nodded. "See? You've been afraid of breaking your weapon when the truth is — you were never syncing with it. Now, your strength has a rhythm. Don't forget that feeling."
From there, Rogan continued his drills, his movements growing sharper, heavier, faster — yet still guided by breath and balance. The sound of his swings echoed through the field like wind cutting through water.
By evening, the air shimmered with heat from their efforts. Rogan's blade sang through the air again and again, and though the edge dulled slightly, it no longer cracked. Only when fatigue set in did his excitement betray him — a rushed swing, an uneven breath — and the blade finally chipped at the edge.
Hunnt caught the mistake instantly. "Stop!"
Rogan froze mid-swing, panting.
"You're slipping back," Hunnt said calmly. "Your rhythm's breaking. Focus. The moment you lose that, your power turns against you."
Rogan nodded quickly. "Right… I got too excited."
Hunnt smiled faintly. "Excitement's good. Just don't let it take the lead."
When night fell, the training finally ended. Rogan collapsed onto the ground, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "Thank you, Hunnt," he said between breaths. "I never thought control could feel this natural."
Hunnt placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're learning fast. Rest for tonight — we'll continue tomorrow."
---
Later that night, after dinner, Hunnt made his way toward the village forge. The faint glow of molten metal spilled through the open doorway, casting long shadows across the ground.
Inside, the clang of hammer on steel echoed rhythmically — measured, precise. Behind the anvil stood an older man with a soot-stained apron and steady hands: Orrin, the artisan of the Eternal Wanderers.
When Hunnt stepped inside, Orrin turned, squinting. "Huh? Not Rogan or Lyssara tonight?" he called out. Then his gaze dropped to Hunnt's left arm — where the faint glint of the Eternal Mark shimmered on his gauntlet.
Orrin straightened instantly. "The path has no end," he said with a knowing grin.
Hunnt smiled, replying the old greeting. "The hunt has no master."
The old blacksmith let out a hearty laugh. "Ha! So, you're one of us then! I don't recognize you, though. A new member, eh? You've got the look of a drifter. What brings you here — need a weapon? Or did Kael send you to nag me again?"
Hunnt chuckled. "Whoa, easy there, old man. One question at a time."
"Hah! Sorry, sorry," Orrin said, still laughing. "Name's Orrin. You?"
"Hunnt."
"Hunnt, huh? Welcome to the Eternal, boy!" Orrin said, clapping him on the back. "So, what can I do for you?"
Hunnt ran a hand along the table stacked with ore and scales. "I need a new longsword. Kael said you'd make one if I showed this."
He lifted his arm, letting the Mark of Eternity glint under the forge light.
Orrin nodded approvingly. "Aye, that'll do. What kind of sword you want?"
"A blend of iron ore and Ignivar Rex bone," Hunnt said. "But without the fire element."
Orrin's cheerful tone shifted to something closer to respect. "That's… not an easy forge, boy. But it can be done."
Hunnt grinned. "Then I'll leave it in your hands."
"When do you need it?" Orrin asked.
"Tomorrow morning."
The old man let out another laugh. "Pushy, aren't you? Fine, fine — tomorrow it is."
Hunnt nodded once and left the forge, the sound of hammering resuming behind him — steady, strong, alive.
---
By dawn, Hunnt returned. The forge door creaked open, and Orrin stood proudly beside a freshly finished weapon resting on the table.
"There she is!" the old smith said. "Your new sword — I call it Drakeshard Reclaimer."
Hunnt stepped closer, running a finger along the blade's edge. The weapon was smooth, perfectly balanced, shimmering faintly with faint silver veins of hardened bone.
"You're a master-rank blacksmith," Hunnt said quietly. "This is flawless."
Orrin beamed. "Ha! You've got a good eye, boy. You're right — I am a master. How'd you know?"
"My own master was one too," Hunnt replied, a soft fondness in his tone. "But I took a different path. I'm more of a smith on the battlefield."
Orrin chuckled. "A fighting craftsman, eh? I like that. I'd sure like to meet your master someday."
Hunnt smiled faintly. "So would I."
He lifted the Drakeshard Reclaimer, testing its weight — perfect balance. The sword hummed faintly, as though alive.
"Thank you, Orrin," Hunnt said, sheathing the blade.
"Anytime, boy," the blacksmith replied, waving him off. "Go on, test her out. She's meant to be swung, not stared at."
Hunnt stepped out into the morning light and made his way toward the training grounds.
There, as expected, Rogan was already training — his blade cutting through the morning air with precision and rhythm.
Hunnt smiled to himself.
"Good," he murmured. "The forge burns hotter when the next fire's already lit."