The next morning, the Martian training grounds were a symphony of controlled chaos. The vast space was divided into short sections by energy fields and physical barriers, each one hosting hunters of various ranks honing their skills. The air hummed with the sound of clashing practice weapons, the thrum of drawn bowstrings, and the grunts of exertion.
Russell found Gareth already waiting, stretching beside a rack of battered training weapons. The redhead was practically vibrating with energy.
"Alright, partner! Now, let's decide what we focus on first," Gareth said, rubbing his hands together.
Russell's hand went instinctively to the katana at his hip.
"Obviously, battle style and skills. I need to learn how to wield Emma properly. Right now I'm just swinging her."
Gareth's eyebrows shot up.
"Emma who? Your girlfriend? Ooooh, you have a girl back home? Huh? Tell, tell!" He nudged Russell with an elbow, a mischievous grin on his face.
Russell sighed, though a small smile tugged at his lips.
"Emma is my blade's name, you idiot. Now stop wasting time and start training."
"Alright, alright, Mr. Serious," Gareth chuckled, not offended in the slightest. He grabbed a compound bow from the rack and a quiver of blunt-tipped practice arrows. "You practice your sword style. I'll practice my archery. A good team needs a sharp blade and a sharp eye."
They claimed an empty training sector. Russell moved to one end, facing a reinforced practice dummy. He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the basic stances and footwork from historical datafiles on samurai techniques he'd accessed. It was a style built on discipline, precision, and efficient movement—the complete opposite of his wild, wide swings.
He began, slowly and deliberately.
He practiced the overhead cut (Shomenuchi), focusing on keeping his elbows in and letting the movement flow from his center, not just his arms. He moved into a lateral cut (Yokomenuchi), working on his footwork to generate power instead of just arm strength.
Each movement was awkward at first, his muscles protesting the unfamiliar forms. But he repeated them. Again. And again.
The clumsy, wood-chopper swings began to slowly—painstakingly—smooth out into something resembling actual technique.
Across the sector, Gareth was having his own struggles.
He nocked an arrow, drew the bowstring, and fired at a target twenty yards away.
The arrow sailed past the target and clattered against the far energy barrier.
"Okay, a little to the left," he muttered to himself. He fired again. This one hit the very outer ring of the target.
"A little to the right. Dammit."
He wasn't a natural. But like Russell, he was persistent. He focused on his breathing, on his stance, on the feel of the bowstring against his cheek.
Shot after shot, his accuracy slowly—incrementally—improved.
They trained in focused silence for over an hour, the only sounds being the thwack of Russell's practice cuts on the dummy and the thwip of Gareth's bowstring.
They were two rookies from different worlds with different skills, united by a simple goal:
To not be dead weight.
To survive.
The path to becoming a Hunter had truly begun.
---
Training isn't glamorous. It's repetition, frustration, bruised muscles, and stubborn will.
But on Titan, only one rule matters—the weak don't survive.
Russell and Gareth step into the grind… and the Hunters' path finally begins.