The wind had changed again.
It no longer came in sharp, chaotic bursts like last week. Now it moved with rhythm—steady but unpredictable, shifting between calm and storm with every passing hour. It was as if the land itself wanted to test how far Hunnt's newfound balance could endure.
He stood shirtless at the heart of the plateau, black volcanic dust clinging to his sweat. His breathing was even, his heartbeat slow. Every inch of him carried fatigue, but his gaze remained sharp—focused not on the storm, but the air between each gust.
Last week, he had learned to stand.
This week, he had to learn to move.
"Anchor Step gives me balance," he murmured, his voice lost in the wind.
"But balance means nothing if I can't flow."
---
Day 1
He began again from the start—small movements, light shifts of his center of gravity, each step measured. The first few hours were repetition: footwork, pivots, stance transitions. His focus wasn't on strength but on how energy passed through him.
Each gust of wind was a teacher, each push a lesson in control.
When the wind struck his side, Hunnt turned his shoulder and rolled with the motion. When it came from the front, he stepped back slightly and let it glide past. At first, it was awkward. His body fought instinctively to resist the impact, and every time he did, he lost his footing. His shoulders tightened, his stance stiffened.
He cursed softly.
"You're fighting again," he said to himself. "You already know that doesn't work."
Hunnt stopped, closed his eyes, and simply listened.
The air brushed across his chest, light but cold. He could feel the subtle shifts—like ripples before a wave. He exhaled, loosened his muscles, and waited.
The next gust came. He moved—not back, not forward, but around. His shoulder turned just enough for the wind to slide across him instead of hitting full force. He felt it pass over his skin, wild but harmless.
"That's it," he whispered, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "Flow, not fight."
---
Day 3
By the third day, he began to test the principle in motion.
Hunnt stepped into the storm, fists raised. He threw slow punches into the air, each one controlled, deliberate. Every strike produced recoil, a ripple of wind pushing back against him. Instead of absorbing the force through tension, he redirected it—sliding his weight, rotating his torso, letting the counterforce guide him into the next movement.
The rhythm began to emerge.
Strike, turn, breathe, shift.
The motion of his body matched the motion of the wind.
When the gusts came from the left, he allowed them to roll across his ribs, pivoting so they passed harmlessly by. His movements grew smaller, subtler—each adjustment requiring less effort, each turn smoother than the last.
He remembered Corwin once saying that fighting was like chopping wood. You swing with strength, not thought. But now, Hunnt realized true mastery was different. It wasn't about cutting through obstacles—it was about never stopping the motion.
By afternoon, he had turned the entire plateau into his training ground. Dust and wind spiraled around him as his body flowed between steps, twists, and pivots. His breath moved with the storm, calm and steady amid chaos.
When night came, he collapsed near his campfire, sore but smiling. The stars above shimmered like cold sparks over the volcanic sky. He stared up at them and whispered, "I think I'm starting to get it."
---
Day 5
The storm returned.
Dark clouds gathered over the mountains, thunder cracking in the distance. The air was heavy, charged with static. Hunnt knew the next few days would be the real test.
He walked into the center of the plateau again, barefoot, arms relaxed. His mind was clear. The wind struck suddenly, harder than before—wild and unpredictable.
Hunnt didn't brace this time.
He moved with it.
He pivoted, hands open, guiding the force with his forearms. The gust twisted past him in a spiral, scattering ash into the air. Another followed. He stepped into it, turning at the waist, using his elbows and shoulders as points of redirection. The motion was circular, unbroken.
The plateau became a dance floor between him and the storm.
Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating his silhouette—fluid, grounded, unyielding. For every surge of wind that tried to throw him off, he gave it a path to follow. For every impact that sought to break him, he turned it into rhythm.
It wasn't grace. It was survival through understanding.
At one point, a chunk of rock loosened from a nearby ridge, crashing down behind him. Hunnt didn't look. He felt the air pressure shift—the weight of the rock falling—then stepped aside without hesitation. The boulder smashed into the ground where he'd stood seconds earlier, shards of obsidian scattering at his feet.
He looked down at the debris, heart steady. "Redirect," he said softly. "Even the land can't stop you if you know how to move."
---
Day 7
By the seventh day, Hunnt no longer trained—he existed in motion.
The wind came and went, but he flowed naturally with it, his body anticipating each change before it arrived. There was no conflict anymore. The storm and he were part of the same rhythm.
He didn't rely on sight now. His Observation Haki extended outward instinctively, reading the faintest shift of pressure, the tiniest intention of movement in the air. He could feel the flow of the world through his skin.
He struck forward once—slow, steady. The recoil bent around him, carrying him into another step.
Every motion was effortless. Every exhale felt alive.
He understood what this form was about.
Redirect wasn't about avoiding power—it was about understanding it.
He remembered the lessons of the past weeks: balance through Anchor Step, movement through Redirect. And now, he could feel the third waiting within him—the pulse, the strike, the culmination of both stillness and motion.
Hunnt looked toward the horizon. A faint orange light shimmered from the volcanoes beyond, casting long shadows across the plateau. The air hummed softly around him, no longer violent, but attentive—as if it, too, had learned to listen.
He spoke into the wind, voice low but firm.
"Anchor. Redirect. Next is impact."
The storm settled. Dust rolled along the edge of the ridge, drawn toward the setting sun.
Hunnt sat cross-legged and closed his eyes. The breeze brushed his hair, gentle now, not defiant. His heartbeat slowed, matching the pulse of the air. The world seemed to breathe with him.
Another week had ended.
The next one would forge the strike that completes the circle.