True training began the morning after Serik declared he wanted to become a Hunter. Jons woke him with a soft knock and the same calm voice every dawn. "Young master, it is time." Serik dragged himself out of bed, groggy and still aching from the previous evening's run, but something burned inside him — the need to grow.
The first month was pure destruction of weakness. Jons forced Serik to run at sunrise until his legs refused to move. He taught him how to breathe properly, how to relax his shoulders, how not to stomp the ground like a frightened rabbit. Serik tripped over roots, slipped in mud, fell face-first more times than he could count. Every misstep earned only a quiet correction. "Straighten your spine." "Lift your knees." "Control yourself." After running came bodyweight training: push-ups until his elbows wobbled, sit-ups until his stomach cramped, planks that made his arms shake violently. The nights were the worst — muscles burning, bones throbbing, exhaustion swallowing him whole. Jons always handed him a warm, bitter mixture afterward. Serik hated the taste, but drank it, trusting the man who had stayed by his side. Within weeks, he noticed his body recovering faster, though he didn't understand why.
The second month changed shape. Jons focused on flexibility and mobility, twisting Serik into positions that felt impossible. Stretching routines lasted an hour every morning — deep lunges, back bridges, ankle stretches that almost made him scream. His legs shook constantly, and sometimes he cried from the pain, but Jons merely placed a steady hand on his shoulder and told him to breathe. Footwork was added: stepping patterns drawn in chalk on the ground, ladder drills, weaving between wooden poles. Serik tripped constantly at first, but slowly his feet found rhythm. His kicks climbed higher, his rolls became smoother, and falling didn't hurt as much anymore.
By the third month, Serik's body was ready for strength. Jons introduced stone weights — not heavy ones, but heavy enough to matter. Serik lifted them slowly, learning form before force. He carried logs across the yard, pushed against tree trunks to build stability, held squat positions until tears streamed down his face. His arms trembled daily. His back ached constantly. But he no longer collapsed instantly. Sparring began as well. Serik always lost, always quickly, always painfully. Jons would dodge with effortless grace, tap Serik's forehead or chest, and end the match instantly. It frustrated Serik deeply. Some nights he clenched his fists in anger, determined to land at least one real strike. But Jons would simply say, "Strength means nothing without control."
The fourth month increased speed and precision. Jons added complex footwork drills: small steps, diagonal movements, jumps, slides, pivots. Serik had to run through obstacle courses, dodge swinging sandbags, react to Jons tossing pebbles at unpredictable moments. He worked on speed bursts, short sprints, fast retreats. His breathing stabilized. His steps grew softer. He even learned to land from small jumps without making a sound. Jons often blindfolded him and forced him to rely on hearing and instinct. Serik hated it at first, stumbling into trees and walls, but improved steadily. Occasionally during sparring, he almost touched Jons — almost — which filled him with wild pride.
By the fifth month, training began to test his mind as much as his body. Jons made him solve puzzles while out of breath, recite numbers while performing sit-ups, memorize patterns of movement, read body language during sparring. Balance drills became brutal: standing on one leg atop a narrow fence, walking across a thin wooden beam while Jons flicked pebbles at him, holding poses for minutes. Serik grew frustrated often, sometimes shouting, sometimes punching the ground, sometimes crying silently in the dark after a failed attempt. Jons never scolded him for this. He simply waited for Serik to stand again, then continued. Slowly, Serik's thoughts sharpened. He learned to calm himself quickly, to analyze instead of panic, to breathe even when his heart felt like exploding.
By the sixth month, Serik no longer needed Jons to wake him. He rose earlier, stretched without instruction, tied his shoes with steady hands. His runs lengthened dramatically — what once took him thirty minutes he now finished in ten. He could carry heavier logs, lift more stones, hold a plank for minutes. His movements became fluid, his reactions quick and efficient. Sparring lasted longer now. Serik didn't win, not even close, but he could defend himself briefly, dodge simple attacks, and even brush Jons's sleeve with a punch once or twice. Jons never praised out loud, but Serik noticed the faint upward curve of his lips each time.
Every evening, Jons still handed him the bitter mixture. Serik drank it automatically now, not knowing it was no ordinary herbal brew. He just knew it helped him stand again the next day.
Six months reshaped everything.
The boy who once stumbled over his own feet now moved with light steps. The boy who gasped after a single sprint now ran with a steady rhythm. The boy who trembled in fear now stared forward with confidence. His shoulders broadened slightly, lean muscle forming along his arms and legs. His balance improved drastically. His posture straightened. Even his eyes changed — sharper, clearer, fueled by purpose.
But not everything was peaceful during those months.
Every few weeks, an assassin found the house.
Serik never noticed. He slept. He trained. He dreamed.
And Jons always handled it before the danger reached the door.
Sometimes Serik woke to Jons calmly sweeping the yard, unaware that moments before, the butler had buried another threat beneath the soil. Jons never spoke of it. Serik never questioned it. But the truth was simple:
Enemies came. Jons eliminated them quietly. And the training continued without interruption.
By the end of the sixth month, Serik had no idea how many lives Jons had ended to keep him safe.