The sun dipped low over Stonewick, casting long shadows across cobbled streets. The riverside town should have been lively—the smell of roasting pork drifted from a market stall, the baker's bell rang, and the ferrymen argued about oars as usual. But no one laughed.
Every villager's gaze was locked downward as a column of Miners marched through town. Their iron boots struck the road in a rhythm that silenced even the birds. Polished pickaxes gleamed against their backs, and the insignia of crossed steel over a star shone on each chestplate.
The townsfolk had learned: silence kept the Miners' eyes moving. Silence kept homes from burning.
A child sneezed. His mother clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him away.
The squad halted at the market. Their captain, a broad man with a scarred jaw, eyed a stall stacked with apples.
"Protection levy," he barked. "Half your stock."
The vendor's hands shook as he handed over baskets. "Y-Yes, sir…"
The captain smirked. "And a little extra—for my boys' trouble."
That was when someone laughed.
Not a snicker of fear, not nervous chatter—an easy, rolling laugh that didn't belong in Stonewick at all.
Heads turned.
A traveler strolled into the square, hands behind his head, whistling a tune off-key. His dark jacket hung loose, tied lazily at his waist. His hair caught the evening light, and his grin looked completely out of place in a town this afraid.
"Half their stock? You guys must really hate pies," he said, stopping at the stall. "I mean, what's a town without pie? That's basically a crime."
No one breathed.
The vendor looked like he might faint. "P-Please, stranger, don't—"
But the traveler only leaned casually against the cart. "Name's Hunter. Hunter J. Craft. And I don't like bullies with bad appetites."
The word Craft dropped like a stone in water. People flinched, whispering as though the name itself might summon trouble.
"Craft…?"
"Can't be…"
"After all these years—"
The captain squinted. "Craft, eh? Never heard of you. But you're sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."
Hunter tilted his head. "Oh, I thought it belonged in my face."
The soldiers moved first, shoving villagers aside to surround him. One drew his blade, pressing it against Hunter's chest.
Hunter looked down at the weapon, then back up with a mischievous grin. "Careful, pal. Pointy things make me sneeze."
The soldier growled and swung.
Hunter's hand snapped forward.The swing met his palm—
—and the soldier flew backwards as though struck by an unseen hammer, smashing through a fruit cart. Apples rained down around him.
Gasps erupted from the villagers. Someone whispered, "That… that's Knockback!"
Hunter cracked his knuckles. "See? Sneezed."
Another charged. Hunter sidestepped, his body blurring as if carried on a burst of wind. He tapped the man's chest with his fingers— Knock Punch—and the Miner shot back, armor clanging as he collided with a wall.
The captain cursed and raised his axe. "Enough! Cut him down!"
Hunter only sighed. "You guys are exhausting. And I just got here."
He clenched his fist, blue fire flickering along his knuckles— Soul Fist. When he punched the ground, a wave of heat and force rippled out, sending crates tumbling and soldiers sprawling.
The villagers froze. The market smelled of smoke and cracked stone. In the middle stood Hunter, brushing dust from his shirt, looking more annoyed than dangerous.
The captain staggered to his feet, trembling. "What… what are you?"
Hunter winked. "Just a traveler. But if you ask nicely, I'll autograph your armor."
The soldiers dragged their injured and retreated, muttering threats of reports and reinforcements.
When they were gone, the square remained silent. Every villager stared at him like he was something from legend.
Finally, Hunter stretched, yawning. "Well, that was fun. Anyone know where I can find dinner around here? Preferably somewhere with pie?
Later, Hunter sat cross-legged in the deserted market, a half-eaten loaf of bread in one hand, laughing with a group of kids who had snuck out past curfew.
"You really punched the ground and they all flew like chickens!" one boy exclaimed, wide-eyed.
Hunter grinned. "I didn't punch the ground, the ground punched me back and begged me to share."
The children burst into laughter. For a moment, fear lifted from Stonewick's streets.
Then one girl tilted her head. "Mister Craft… why does everyone look scared when they hear your name?"
Hunter froze for half a heartbeat, then smiled again, softer this time.
"Because names are heavy things. Mine just… makes people expect more than I've got."
The girl frowned. "That's silly."
"Exactly," Hunter said, tossing her a piece of bread. "So let's not worry about it."
Later that night, villagers whispered around Hunter's table at the inn.
"They say the Miners are holding someone at the outpost."
"A swordsman. Carved through a whole patrol before they chained him."
"Carries two blades… one in each hand. Lightning itself bends to him, they say."
Hunter chewed thoughtfully, pretending not to listen. Then he smirked.
"A walking thunderstorm, huh? Sounds shocking. Maybe I'll swing by."
The villagers stared. "You can't be serious—"
But Hunter had already kicked back his chair, laughing at his own joke
Far above Stonewick, in a candlelit office of blackstone, a Miner officer dipped his quill into ink. He wrote swiftly:
> Suspicious traveler sighted.
Name: Hunter J. Craft.
Displayed abilities consistent with forbidden enchantments.
Potential connection to the Old War.
Recommend immediate surveillance and possible capture.
The officer sealed the letter with the Miner insignia and pressed it into the hands of a courier.
"Take it straight to Central Command," he ordered. "A Craft walking is no small matter."
---
And so, while Hunter laughed over bread and jokes in a quiet inn, the world had already begun to close in around him