The next morning began with no warning. Jons stood waiting in the yard before Serik had even finished tying his shoes. His posture was calm, his expression unreadable, but Serik could feel something charged in the air.
"Young master," Jons said, "today you will learn the second movement."
Serik nearly tripped in excitement. "The next move?! Show me! Come on—show me!"
Jons didn't speak further. He stepped toward a thicker training post, lowered into the stance Serik had practiced all last week, and then shifted his weight in a way Serik had never seen. His hips snapped upward, his fist followed a rising arc, and a deep, heavy thud echoed through the wood as a dent formed under his knuckles.
Serik's mouth fell open. "Are you serious?! THAT'S the second move?!"
"This strike does not hit," Jons said. "It pierces." Then he gestured at the post. "Now you."
Serik threw himself into position, took a breath, twisted—and punched the post so wrong he bounced off it and nearly fell.
He grabbed his fist in agony. "AH—my bones weren't ready—"
"Your form was incorrect."
"My bones weren't READY for that FORM!"
"That is also a possibility."
Serik groaned and tried again. And again. And again. He misaligned his shoulder, dropped his elbow too soon, over-twisted his hips, forgot to breathe, breathed too much, wobbled, slipped, cursed, got back up, cursed louder, and kept trying.
By the end of the first day, he was panting on the ground while the post remained completely untouched.
The second day was better. Not good, but better. The movement started making sense. He loosened where he needed to loosen, tightened where he needed to tighten. And when he landed one strike that made the post tremble by a hair, he froze, eyes wide.
"Did you see that? It moved. IT MOVED."
"Yes," Jons said. "That is progress."
On the third day, Serik woke before sunrise and ran straight outside, determined to make the stupid post cry. Sweat dripped down his chin before the training even started. When Jons appeared behind him, Serik didn't stop.
"I need this move to work," Serik muttered through clenched teeth.
"Then listen to your body."
Serik did. He breathed correctly. He relaxed and tensed in the right rhythm. His weight shifted at the exact moment Jons had drilled into him. Then he struck.
The post dented. Small, shallow, but real.
Serik stared at his hand like it held a secret weapon. "I actually did it."
Jons nodded once. "Now you may begin training both techniques."
Serik's grin was enormous. "Both?! Yes! Yes, finally!"
The next three days were brutal. Jons had him switching between the two movements until Serik's legs shook and his arms felt filled with sand. The first day of combining them was messy—Serik mixed the footwork, forgot where his wrists belonged, twisted his hips the wrong way, or lost his breath entirely. The second day was better; the transitions grew cleaner. The third day was when something clicked. The two movements didn't feel like two anymore; they began to flow together, awkward but real. By sunset he landed a full combination for the first time. Not beautiful. Not powerful. But correct.
He collapsed onto the grass, gasping for air, smiling like a man who had climbed a mountain.
Jons stood over him. "Satisfactory."
"That's practically a compliment coming from you," Serik wheezed.
Suddenly, Serik asked, "Jons… I want to see Garron. I need to see him."
A flicker of surprise crossed Jons' eyes, but only for a moment.Then he bowed his head slightly."As you wish, young master."
When night fell, Jons led him to the cellar, the same stone-walled place where Garron had been kept. The temperature dropped as they descended. The air smelled faintly of damp metal and dust. Garron sat behind the bars exactly as always, but when he lifted his head and saw Serik, something in his grin sharpened.
"Well, well," he drawled. "Look at you. You've got a different look in your eye now. Standing straighter too. You finally grow a spine, kid?"
Serik stepped closer, too tired to bother with emotion."I'm getting stronger."
"Stronger?" Garron leaned forward, his chains clinking softly. "You think that matters? You think getting a little faster, learning some fancy arm shake, is gonna change anything?" He laughed, deep and ugly. "You're still just a kid. A kid pretending he can climb out of hell."
Serik didn't respond. His breathing remained slow and steady.
As he looked at Garron, a thought slipped through his mind:
Why do you seem so weak now…?
Then, almost instantly, he glanced sideways toward Jons.
No. You only seem weak because Jons is so strong.
Garron studied him, eyes narrowing. "Huh. You're serious."
"I am."
"So tell me," Garron said, voice dropping, "why train so hard? Why bleed? Why get back up every time I break you?"
Serik held his gaze without blinking."Because I'm going to kill you."
Garron barked a laugh. "You? Kill me? A little bastard like you could never do that. Only a monster can defeat a monster."
The words settled in the room like dust.
Serik didn't blink.He didn't frown.He didn't even breathe for a heartbeat.
His face emptied slowly.His eyes dimmed—not weaker, but colder.He stepped forward and curled his fingers around the iron bars.
His voice came out soft. Too soft.
"If only a monster can defeat a monster… then I will just be a monster hunter."
Garron's smile faltered.
Serik tightened his grip. The bars rattled—hard.
"You…"
Another shake, stronger.
"…you…"
His fingers turned white.
"…you…"
His voice broke open into a snarl.
"ARE JUST PREY!"
Garron flinched.
Actual fear flickered in his eyes.
Serik's breathing steadied again, frighteningly smooth.He released the bars, turned around, and walked up the stairs without another word.
Jons followed him silently, the echo of the bars still trembling behind them.
As they reached the top, Jons cast a brief look at Serik's back.
A monster hunter, hm…For the first time that night, a tiny smirk tugged at his mouth.It could be worse.