Morning sunlight streamed through the trees, painting long golden lines across the training ground. The wind carried the low hum of metal slicing through air — sharp, rhythmic, alive.
Hunnt paused by the entrance, listening. Every swing of Rogan's longsword carried a pulse, a measured cadence that resonated across the yard like a heartbeat.
He smiled faintly. He's found it.
When Rogan finally noticed him, he sheathed his blade and straightened. "Hunnt — good morning."
Hunnt nodded, then lifted the long-wrapped weapon resting on his shoulder. "Morning, Rogan. Working hard, I see."
Rogan grinned, still catching his breath. "Trying to, yeah. I don't want to lose this rhythm."
"You won't," Hunnt said. He lowered the bundle, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a gleaming new weapon — silver-gray with dark veins of bone running through its core. "Here. This is for you — Drakeshard Reclaimer."
Rogan blinked in surprise. "Wait, what? But I still have my sword."
Hunnt shook his head slowly. "No. That sword's already done its part. It's tired, Rogan. Waiting for you to let it rest."
Rogan frowned, confused. "How would you even know that?"
Hunnt's gaze softened as he looked at the battered weapon hanging from Rogan's back. "Because I can hear her," he said quietly. "She's been speaking for a while now."
Rogan's breath caught. For a moment, he wasn't sure if Hunnt was teasing — but the older hunter's tone carried no hint of jest. Hunnt's eyes were serious, almost mournful.
Rogan slowly drew his old blade. The metal was dull and worn. Each edge carried the memory of a thousand repairs — cracks sealed, chips mended, lines reforged until even the steel itself looked weary.
He ran a thumb along the edge, voice low. "This sword's been with me since I started training. My parents bought it for me before they knew I passed the hunter exam."
Hunnt stayed silent, listening.
Rogan's throat tightened. "I've broken it more times than I can count. Every time it chipped, I took it to the smiths, begged them to fix it. They told me to buy a new one, but I couldn't. So I kept using it. Then Chief Maerin taught me the basics of blacksmithing. I thought maybe if I repaired it myself, it'd stop breaking…"
His voice cracked. "But it never did."
He stared at the sword — every scar, every dent, every fracture a story of failure and persistence. His hand trembled.
For the first time, Rogan saw the truth. The blade was holding itself together out of loyalty alone.
A lump formed in his throat. "You've been fighting with me all this time, haven't you?" he whispered, voice breaking. "Holding on even when I didn't listen."
Tears welled at the corners of his eyes. "You don't deserve this. You've done enough. You can rest now… my friend."
As if responding to his words, a faint vibration pulsed through the weapon. The metal shimmered weakly, cracks widening along its edge.
Then, slowly — like a sigh — the sword fractured. Shards fell to the ground, glinting in the light before fading into dust.
Hunnt closed his eyes. He could hear it — a faint, grateful whisper echoing through his Haki.
Thank you.
Rogan couldn't hear it, but he felt something leave him — a warmth fading, a bond untethering.
Silence lingered for a moment, broken only by the soft breeze.
When Rogan finally wiped his eyes, Hunnt said quietly, "You did right by her."
Rogan nodded, voice trembling. "I… didn't realize how much she meant to me until now."
Hunnt waited until Rogan's breathing steadied, then held out the Drakeshard Reclaimer. "Then start anew. Orrin forged this blade himself."
Rogan's eyes widened. "Orrin? That stubborn old man? How did you get him to do it? Every time Lyssara and I ask for help, he just complains we lack the 'spirit of a blacksmith.'"
Hunnt smirked. "We speak the same language — grumbling and perfection."
That earned a small laugh from Rogan as he reached out and gripped the new weapon. The weight was perfect — balanced, responsive, alive. He drew it, letting the blade catch the morning light.
The first swing sang through the air, a low metallic hum that resonated deep in his chest. Rogan froze, eyes wide. "It's different… but right. Every movement feels… whole."
Hunnt nodded. "That means it's accepted you. Weapons like these — they choose their masters. And this one just chose you."
Rogan looked at the blade again, his reflection rippling along its edge. "Then I'll honor it."
Hunnt's expression softened. "Good. Then it's time you learn the next step — Spirit Flow."
---
The two moved into the clearing. Hunnt planted his sword into the earth, letting the blade hum faintly as he spoke.
"The longsword isn't just about strikes. It's about rhythm — your rhythm. Every heartbeat feeds the Spirit Gauge. When your weapon hums with that pulse, that's your signal."
He began demonstrating, his movements slow and deliberate.
"With every attack, your gauge fills. When it peaks — you enter the flow."
Hunnt's sword cut the air in a series of smooth arcs.
"Spirit I — diagonal slash.
Spirit II — upward strike.
Spirit III — spinning cross-cut.
And the Spirit Roundslash — the final strike. It completes the rhythm, raising your power and resetting your flow."
Each motion carried weight, yet no tension. Rogan watched carefully, trying to memorize the breathing and motion.
Hunnt stopped, turning to him. "Now, feel your weapon. Let the rhythm guide your breathing."
Rogan nodded and took position. His strikes began clumsy — too rigid, too cautious — but soon, the blade began to hum again, the rhythm returning.
"Good," Hunnt said. "Now you're feeling it. That's the start of Spirit Flow."
---
By afternoon, the next lesson began.
"Today," Hunnt said, "you'll learn Flow Awareness."
Rogan tilted his head. "Flow Awareness?"
Hunnt nodded. "It's knowing the state of your weapon — not by looking, but by feeling. Your Spirit Gauge tells you where you stand."
He gestured for Rogan to close his eyes. "Now. Breathe."
Rogan obeyed.
"When your gauge is empty — your movements feel heavy, your blade dull. That's the White state," Hunnt said quietly. "When you find rhythm — that's Yellow. Your blade sings. And when you reach perfect synchronization — Red — your attacks don't just move forward. They pull you forward."
Rogan nodded slowly, eyes still shut. He could almost feel the difference in his chest — the pulse of momentum, the weight of flow.
"Now," Hunnt said, stepping closer, "match your breathing to it."
He tapped the hilt of Rogan's sword.
"Exhale with every slash. Hold your breath when you chain the combo. And when the sequence ends — inhale again. That's the circle of Spirit Flow."
Rogan opened his eyes, drawing the Drakeshard Reclaimer once more.
He swung — one breath, one strike, one rhythm. The air around him seemed to shift, the blade whispering faintly with each cut.
Hunnt smiled faintly, arms crossed. "Good. That's it. You're not just swinging anymore, Rogan. You're listening."
Rogan lowered his sword, a calm smile breaking through his exhaustion. "I think… I finally understand."
Hunnt nodded. "Then remember this — a true hunter doesn't master his weapon. He dances with it."
The sun dipped low over Korvan Village, and the sound of Rogan's sword carried across the field — not as a cry of power, but as a song of harmony.