Hunter of the Dark Lands

The streets of Washington stretched out before Ray. The hum of passing cars, the laughter of children playing in front yards, and the distant bark of a dog, all of it felt out of place. He moved through it like a ghost.

Ray tugged his worn backpack higher on his shoulders as he rounded a corner, the old leather straps digging into his palms. He'd been walking for hours since leaving the school, the echoes of his bold declaration still ringing in his ears.

'Ma'am, I quit.'

He didn't regret it. What was the point of learning equations and grammar rules when the world was on the brink of collapse? Time was his enemy now, and every second spent in that classroom felt like a betrayal of the chance he'd been given...

The air grew cooler as he approached the outskirts of the city, where the buildings became fewer and farther apart. Here, the streets were quieter, with fewer cars and more trees. His destination loomed ahead, a small, one-story house with peeling paint and a sagging porch.

Ray pushed open the rusted gate with a creak and stepped onto the overgrown path leading to the front door. His grandmother's house.

"Ray? Is that you?"

Her voice came from the living room, warm and kind, but with a tone of suspicion.

"Yeah, Grandma," he called back, putting his shoes to the side, careful not to scuff the floor she always kept so clean.

In the living room, his grandmother sat in her favorite armchair, a knit blanket draped over her legs. She looked up from the book resting on her lap, her weathered face breaking into a smile when she saw him.

"You're home early," she said, her voice light but curious.

Ray hesitated. He hadn't planned how to explain his decision, but lying to her didn't sit right.

"I quit school," he said simply, walking over to the couch and sitting down.

Her smile faltered, replaced by a mixture of concern and confusion. "You... quit?"

Ray nodded, meeting her gaze head-on. "There are more important things I need to do."

His grandmother studied him, her sharp eyes searching his face for answers.

"What's so important that you can't stay in school?" she asked gently, folding her hands over the book in her lap.

Ray looked down at his hands, his small fingers curling into fists. How could he explain it to her? The looming catastrophe, the monsters, the dungeons, none of it had happened yet. To her, the world was still safe.

"I want to train," he said finally. "To get stronger. There's... a lot I need to be ready for."

His grandmother's brow furrowed, her concern deepening. "Ray, you're just a boy. What could you possibly need to be ready for?"

Ray clenched his fists tighter. "I can't explain everything right now. But you have to trust me, Grandma. I know what I'm doing."

She sighed, leaning back in her chair. For a long moment, the room was silent, the weight of his words hanging between them.

"I do trust you," she said at last, her voice soft but firm. "But even if you are bout to turn fifteen, you're still young. Whatever it is you're planning, always be careful. You're all I have left, Ray."

The ache in her voice cut through him like a blade. He looked up at her, his resolve hardening.

"I always will," he promised.

Her smile returned, faint but genuine. "Good. Now, come help me with dinner. You may have quit school, but that doesn't mean you get out of chores."

For the first time that day, Ray smiled, a small, fleeting thing, but real.

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*** 

Ray sat cross-legged on the cold wooden floor of his dimly lit room. His grandmother had long since retired to bed. Outside, the world was quiet, with only the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind breaking the stillness of the night.

His hands rested on his knees, fingers absentmindedly tapping as he stared at the faint beam of moonlight cutting through the room. His mind, however, was anything but still. Thoughts raced, fragments of memories from his past life mingling with the present, forming a web of determination and regret.

In his previous life, he had stood at the peak of humanity's strength, a hunter who had carved his name into the annals of history. The third most powerful hunter in the association. He scoffed bitterly at the thought. Third most powerful. For most, it was an accolade to be envied, but for him, it was a mark of failure.

"Third rank, after thousands of top-level hunters died all over the world," he whispered to the still air, his voice filled with disappointment.

He could still see it, even now—the blood, the screams, the devastation when dungeons all over the world broke out, the haunting silence that followed.

He clenched his fists tightly, nails digging into his palms. No matter how much power he had wielded back then, it hadn't been enough. His strength-based sword art had its limits. It was precise, overwhelming, and devastating, but it was not swift. He had been slow. Too slow to save the people who had mattered most to him.

But this time would be different. He had been given a second chance, and he would not waste it.

Ray's gaze shifted to the corner of the room where a wooden stick leaned against the wall, a crude replacement for the weapon he had yet to use. In his mind, however, the image of a katana shone clear, its curved blade glinting under the light of countless battles.

The katana.

A curved sword with a thin blade he saw an A-rank hunter using previously. She was from an eastern Asian country named Japan.

Now that he thinks about it... It was the weapon he should have chosen long ago. Sleek, swift, and unforgiving, it embodied everything he aspired to now. Unlike a broadsword or longsword, which relied heavily on strength, the katana demanded precision, speed, and efficiency. It was a weapon designed for those who sought to end battles in minimum strikes.

"A single strike," he murmured, his voice steady now. "That's all I need."

His previous sword art had been entirely his own creation, without any mentors or guide, forged through years of battles and desperation, to sufficiently work with his single skill, [Blink].

He named it, "The Octagon Sword Art". 

It had been strength-based, focusing on overwhelming enemies with sheer power. But even that had proven insufficient in the face of opponents like Daniel Roynar.

Daniel's flowing-style swordsmanship had been unlike anything he had ever encountered. It was elegant, almost hypnotic, like watching a river cascade into a storm. The techniques were interconnected, building momentum as the battle progressed. At first, it was defensive, as though the user were merely waiting, biding their time. But once the flow was established, it became an unstoppable tide of offensive strikes.

Ray exhaled slowly, shaking his head. He had always struggled against Daniel's style. No matter how powerful his attacks, they had often been deflected or absorbed into the flow. It was a frustrating realization, knowing that his greatest strength, his devastating offense was rendered ineffective by someone who could simply outlast him.

"But even the flow can be broken," he muttered, narrowing his eyes. "A single swift strike, precise and timed perfectly, is all it takes to shatter the dance."

That was the flaw in flowing styles. They required time to build momentum, and if their defenses were breached early, the entire structure crumbled. He had exploited that weakness in the past, when he and Daniel were both A-rank hunters, but never succeeded in defeating him.

Now, as he planned his new path, he knew he had to evolve. His future sword art wouldn't just focus on speed and precision,

It would focus on obliteration. 

The most powerful offense, as he had concluded, would always be the best defense. If he could end fights before they began, he would never have to fear losing anyone again!...

Ray leaned back, propping himself against the wall as he stared up at the ceiling. His mind was already mapping out the steps he needed to take.

First, he would train his body. Though mana from dungeons would enhance his physical strength naturally over time, he couldn't afford to wait. 

He was not able to change his physique in his previous life, because, at that time, the mana already hardened his body to fit his Sword style. But now he had a chance, a chance to alter his body as he saw fit.

Speed, agility, and swiftness would be his focus, as they were the foundation of his new style. He would start with basic exercises—running, sprinting, and footwork drills to rebuild his stamina and muscle memory.

Next, he would get a weapon. The crude stick in the corner of the room was temporary, a placeholder. He needed a katana, even if it was a simple, normal steel version. It didn't have to be made from Mana ore, just functional enough for slashing.

Finally, he would refine his techniques. He would break down everything he remembered from his past life, analyzing the strengths and weaknesses of his old sword art. This time, he would discard what no longer served him and focus only on what would make him faster, sharper, and deadlier.

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Ray closed his eyes, letting the silence of the night wash over him. His thoughts drifted to his grandmother, the only family he had left. She was frail, her health declining with each passing day. He hated seeing her like this, but he cherished every moment they had together. Because he knew, she didn't have much time left.

'She thinks I don't know... She has last-stage Lung cancer...'

Maybe that's why she did not object when I told her that I quit school?...

He stayed there for hours, lost in his thoughts. By the time dawn began to creep into the sky, Ray had made his decision. His path was clear. He would dedicate himself entirely to this second chance, to creating and mastering his new sword art and ensuring that when the world descended into chaos again, he would be ready.

This time, no one would be lost because of his weakness.

This time, he would be faster,

And, stronger...

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