The cold morning air carried a biting chill as Breeze stirred from his restless sleep. Dawn had barely broken, but the city was already alive with the muted hum of early risers beginning their routines. Breeze lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling of his modest room, his thoughts consumed by the story from the book—a tale of rebellion, betrayal, and despair passed down by his ancestor.
"My father never told me why the bastions were built," Breeze thought, his brows furrowing. "He must’ve wanted to protect me—or maybe he ran out of time. He taught me how to survive, but the truth… that was something he couldn’t pass down. Maybe he thought I wouldn’t understand it as a child or was afraid I would blabber about it outside among the kids."
Rising from his bed, Breeze equipped himself methodically, his movements mechanical as his mind lingered on the book. It wasn’t just a history—it was a warning, a legacy. With a sigh, he grabbed an energy fruit the inn served and bit into it, savoring the burst of sweetness and the surge of vitality it provided. He’d need it for today.
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The training grounds of the Monster Society, usually buzzing with activity, were eerily silent at this early hour. Breeze had chosen to arrive before sunrise, seeking solitude for his training. The faint light of dawn filtered through the thick canopy of trees bordering the grounds, casting long, jagged shadows across the open space.
Breeze stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders, his breath visible in the chilly morning air. The silence was broken only by the rhythmic sound of his boots crunching against the frost-laden grass. This quiet was what he needed—a reprieve from prying eyes and judgmental stares. Here, he could focus without distractions.
He started with a warm-up, methodically stretching his limbs and performing flexibility drills to loosen his muscles. The stillness around him heightened his awareness of every movement, every breath. He could feel his heart beating steadily, grounding him as he prepared for the real work.
Once ready, Breeze retrieved his rope dart, the weapon’s metal tip gleaming faintly in the dim light. He visualized his targets—stationary logs he had set up the night before. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the rope dart whistled through the air, striking the targets' dead center. Each throw was precise, the weapon slicing cleanly through the wood before recoiling back to his hand.
He progressed to more challenging drills, using makeshift moving targets crafted from swinging branches tied with rocks. Breeze’s agility shone as he leaped and twisted, his acquired skill, Cat’s Nimbleness, allowing him to dodge and weave while striking each target with uncanny accuracy. The clang of metal against wood echoed through the empty grounds, a testament to his relentless dedication.
He shifted to his shuriken and kunai, throwing them in rapid succession at targets of varying sizes and distances. Each weapon hit its mark, embedding deeply into the wooden dummies. Breeze pushed himself further, simulating real combat scenarios—rolling, crouching, and leaping to engage his targets from unpredictable angles. The practice wasn’t just about hitting the targets; it was about adaptability, honing his reflexes for the chaotic nature of real battles.
The sound of his weapons and the occasional grunt of exertion were the only disruptions to the serene environment. Breeze had almost forgotten what it felt like to train without an observer. The solitude allowed him to experiment, to test the limits of his skill without fear of judgment.
“Are you trying to become an assassin?” a voice suddenly called out, startling him mid-throw.
Breeze froze, his hand gripping a shuriken tightly. He turned to see Captain Mark standing at the edge of the training grounds, his arms crossed and a bemused expression on his face.
“Captain Mark!” Breeze exclaimed, lowering his weapon. “What are you doing here this early?”
Mark stepped forward, his boots crunching against the frosted grass. “I could ask you the same thing. The grounds are supposed to be empty until sunrise. Didn’t want any witnesses to your assassin training?”
Breeze chuckled nervously, though his mind raced. “No witnesses, no distractions. I just wanted some peace to train in my own way.”
Mark’s gaze lingered on the scattered weapons and the cleanly struck targets. “Impressive. You’re clearly dedicated. But you do realize agility alone won’t always save you, right?”
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“I know,” Breeze replied, forcing a grin. “But I’d rather rely on speed and precision than brute strength. After all, what good is strength if you’re too slow to use it?”
Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “Terrifying logic. Just promise me you won’t put me on your hit list when you’re older, all right?”
Breeze’s smile faltered slightly. He could sense that Mark wasn’t here just to chat. There was an undertone to his words, a subtle probing that put Breeze on edge.
“Still,” Mark continued, his tone turning serious, “monsters aren’t like those wooden dummies. Many have shells or scales so thick that no amount of agility will help even their bare skins are as tough. And it gets worse the higher their rank. That’s why most hunters start with strength training before focusing on speed.”
Breeze bristled at the comment but kept his tone light. “Strength training isn’t exclusive to bulky guys, you know. Under this armor, I’ve got muscles to match anyone here. It’s just a bit chilly today, so I’m not about to strip down to prove it.”
Mark raised an eyebrow, then smirked. “If you’re so sure, let’s test that strength of yours.”
Mark disappeared for a moment and returned holding a stick that resembled wood but with a faint metallic sheen. “Try cutting this in half,” he said, extending it toward Breeze.
Breeze’s eyes narrowed as he studied the object. It wasn’t wood—it was a mineral he recognized from his travels with his father. It was deceptively tough, nearly impossible to cut cleanly without immense force. The realization sent a ripple of unease through him.
‘He’s testing me,’ Breeze thought. ‘Why? I’ve kept my abilities in check… Did my agility during the test yesterday make him suspect something?’
Feigning nonchalance, Breeze grinned. “A stick? Are you serious, Captain? Even a kid could chop this with a kitchen knife.”
Mark’s expression didn’t waver. “It’s not about chopping—it’s about how cleanly you cut it. Go on, show me your strength.”
Breeze nodded, gripping his kunai. He swung with deliberate effort, ensuring the blade barely grazed the surface. A faint scratch appeared on the mineral, nothing more.
“What is that?!” Breeze exclaimed, feigning shock.
Mark inspected the mark closely before breaking into laughter. “Impressive! Leaving a scratch like this proves you’re as strong as you say. My mistake for doubting you.”
Breeze relaxed inwardly, though his smile didn’t falter. “Glad to hear it, Captain. By the way, what is this thing? It looks like wood but feels like stone.”
Mark twirled the stick in his hand thoughtfully. “Petrified wood. It’s useless for most purposes, but we use it to gauge strength—decorative too, I suppose.”
‘He’s too casual,’ Breeze thought, watching Mark closely. ‘Is he trying to gauge my reaction?’
“Interesting,” Breeze said aloud, shrugging. “Anyway, I should get back to training before I cool down. Thanks for the distraction, Captain.”
“Of course. Keep up the hard work.”
Though Mark left him alone, Breeze couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every throw, every jump felt scrutinized. The training grounds, the soon-to-be perfect practice area, now felt oppressive.
‘I’ll have to change my plan,’ he decided. ‘Stick to basic drills here and save the advanced techniques for somewhere more private.’
After finishing his session, Breeze left the grounds and made his way back to the inn, weaving through the crowded streets. He kept his head down, avoiding the gazes of other hunters who often treated new recruits like prey.
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The inn was quiet when Breeze stepped inside, though one figure caught his attention immediately. Sitting by the hearth was a woman who appeared to be in her twenties. Her striking face was partially obscured by a cascade of silky black hair, though her sharp green eyes—so similar to his own—shone through with unmistakable intensity. Her poised demeanor exuded a sense of calm and maturity, yet she was none other than his infamous master.
Her notoriety wasn’t earned through deeds alone but rather shaped by the misconceptions of others. It was these misguided perceptions that had driven her to adopt the aggressive persona she carried now. The societal pressures and unfair judgment had pushed her—and perhaps many women like her—away from the traditional ideals of delicacy and refinement.
“Well, if it isn’t my hardworking apprentice,” she called, her voice laced with amusement. “Come, eat with me!”
Breeze hesitated. “I’ll be right back, Master. I need to wash up.”
Sayah waved him off, and a few minutes later, he returned, sitting across from her at the table. Her plate of food was untouched.
“Not hungry?” he asked.
Sayah shrugged. “Eating alone isn’t as fun. Now that you’re here, let’s dig in.”
They ate in companionable silence for a while, but Breeze’s relaxed mood began to shift. His eyes drifted toward a table in the far corner where two men sat, talking in low tones. Something about their conversation made his expression darken, the faint shadow of anger creeping into his features. His grip on his utensils tightened, and his breathing grew shallow. A fragment of their exchange reached his ears—just enough to ignite the simmering rage within him.
‘Did they just say that?’ Breeze thought, his mind racing. Each word he overheard stoked the fire of his fury, the calm he had cultivated slipping through his fingers.
Without warning, Breeze’s vision blurred, his eyes went full red, and a wave of anger surged through him. His hands tightened around his daggers until his knuckles turned white. He shot to his feet, his movements so sudden that Sayah barely had time to react.
“Breeze—what are you doing?” she called, but he didn’t answer.
In a blur of motion, Breeze crossed the room, his daggers flashing as he slashed at the two men. Blood spattered across the table as their cheeks and tongues were cut, leaving them clutching their faces in agony.
The inn fell silent, every eye fixed on Breeze as he stood over the fallen men, his breathing heavy, his gaze cold.