The dawn came slow across the volcanic plains.
A dull red glow spread through the mist, reflecting against black stone and glassed sand. Hunnt stood at the edge of the plateau, bare-chested, bruised, his breath visible in the cold air. His body was tired, but not weak. It felt forged—each ache a lesson, each scar a page in his own creation.
The wind was calm this morning. For the first time in weeks, the land was quiet.
He closed his eyes and steadied his breathing. "Anchor to stand. Redirect to survive. Pulse to strike."
This was the final stage of his foundation.
The last piece of his craft.
---
Day 1
The air was thick with heat from nearby vents. Ash drifted through the light, turning the sky gray and gold. Hunnt stood motionless, feeling the faint tremor of the ground beneath his feet.
He lifted his right hand and stared at it. His knuckles were rough, his palms hardened. "Everything begins and ends here," he murmured.
He punched once.
The motion was clean but wide—the air whooshed, power scattering uselessly around him.
Another punch.
Another empty sound.
The strength was there, but not the focus.
He dropped his hand, exhaled slowly, and whispered, "Not through power. Through timing."
Hunnt shifted stance, adjusting the line of his hips and the direction of his breath. He inhaled deeply, drew his arm only halfway back, and struck forward in a compact motion—no swing, no muscle tension.
The sound changed.
A dull, quick pop rippled through the air, followed by silence.
Hunnt blinked once, sweat trickling down his cheek. Then he smiled faintly.
"That's closer."
---
Day 3
He spent the next two days repeating the motion thousands of times.
Each punch grew smaller. Each breath more controlled.
He learned to store power between beats, to gather force not in movement but in stillness. Anchor Step steadied his base, Redirect absorbed recoil. Pulse Drive was the release—the instant where everything met in perfect harmony.
By noon on the third day, the plateau echoed with rhythm.
Short, controlled cracks of sound rippled through the air, each one sharper than the last. Hunnt's fists no longer looked like they struck—they appeared where the impact happened, body and breath moving as one.
He wasn't hitting the air anymore. He was shaping it.
When the light faded, he sat cross-legged, breathing evenly, watching the dust settle. His shoulders burned, but his pulse was calm.
"Anchor, Redirect, Pulse," he said softly. "One body. One rhythm."
---
Day 5
The weather turned again.
Storm clouds returned to the highlands, spilling wind and heat across the plains. The air shimmered from the volcano's breath. Most would have taken shelter, but Hunnt stepped into the storm.
He had done this before. The difference now was that he no longer fought the wind.
When it struck him, his body shifted naturally—Anchor holding his stance, Redirect guiding the pressure past him. Then, between one breath and the next, Pulse.
His fist shot forward, compact and deliberate.
The air in front of him folded inward and exploded outward with a muffled thud. The sound was quiet but heavy. A circle of dust burst around his feet.
He struck again, and again.
Each punch carried the same sharp pulse, each step perfectly placed. His form was no longer a sequence of techniques—it was rhythm given shape.
By dusk, the plateau bore dozens of shallow impact marks, the stone dented and cracked where his fists had landed. Hunnt stopped only when his legs began to shake, the tremor running through his core like the heartbeat of the world itself.
He fell to one knee, gasping for breath but smiling faintly.
"That's what it means to strike through stillness."
---
Day 7
The storm had passed.
The plateau lay quiet under the morning light, scarred but peaceful. The world smelled of dust and iron, and the faint hum of heat from the vents made the air shimmer.
Hunnt stood again, slow but steady. His movements were different now—light, measured, precise.
He exhaled, stepped forward, and punched once.
The strike wasn't fast or flashy. It didn't need to be.
The air cracked in front of him like it had split from pressure. A ring of dust lifted at his feet, then rolled outward in silence.
He didn't follow up with another strike. He simply held his stance. The faint heat rising from his knuckles told him everything he needed to know.
It was complete.
Pulse Drive wasn't strength. It was understanding.
Power through control, motion through stillness.
Hunnt lowered his hands and looked around the training ground—the marks of his struggle, the fractured stone, the streaks of blood on the ground.
A week ago, every punch was a cry for survival. Now, each one carried intent.
He sat down near the cliff's edge, the wind brushing through his hair. The volcanoes smoked in the distance, steady and endless.
His breathing slowed, aligning with the rhythm of the land.
He could feel it now—his heartbeat syncing with the quiet rumble beneath his feet. The same pulse that drove his strikes existed in the world around him.
He chuckled under his breath. "Guess we're not so different, huh?"
For the first time since he left the Felyne village, there was peace in his expression.
Anchor Step had taught him where to stand.
Redirect had taught him how to move.
Pulse Drive had taught him when to strike.
Together, they weren't a style—they were him.
Hunnt leaned back, arms resting on the warm stone, eyes half-closed against the sunlight. The breeze was soft, steady, carrying the faint scent of sulfur and ash. It wasn't hostile anymore. It was calm.
He let himself breathe in silence for a while.
This was what mastery felt like. Not triumph. Not power.
Just quiet.
When evening came, Hunnt rose and dusted off his hands. The sun dipped behind the mountains, setting the world ablaze in red and gold.
He packed his few belongings, tightened his gauntlets, and took one last look at the plateau—the place where he had built his foundation, alone and unseen.
A small nod. "Done."
Then he turned and walked away from the ridge, the steady rhythm of his steps echoing faintly in the quiet air.
The training was complete. The Fist was whole.