The Huntsman Of Death:A Gamer's POV As Side Character

"Why should I care?" 

Why should it matter to me if the world goes to shit? 

What does it mean if I can't reach the true ending where all evils are liberated?

This isn't my own real world.

I don't have any lingering attachment to it…

So, what do I, now in the body of Lukas, truly want? 

Thrill… Strength… Life of bliss...Status...Power...

Yet, even with those thoughts, I couldn't find a definitive answer except the desire of revenge and hatred of original Lukas.

Revenge was what truly occupied my heart and soul to the point that it blinded me to everything else. Lukas's immense hatred for the ill omen and my fury against the guy who brought me here made it hard to see beyond the rage.

"Enough!" 

I slapped my cheek and stood up, shaking off the suffocating spiral of my thoughts.

"All these doubts are crucial, sure. But what's more crucial than this is to get stronger. Here I am, overthinking about the protagonist and main cast—who, for all I know, might turn out to be completely shitty people. Why waste time worrying about them." 

Assuming the worst, I set my first goal: obtaining a Class and an occupation. 

In this world, a Class wasn't just a title. It not only carved the path ahead for you but also granted a significant boost to your abilities. It was a foundation to build upon.

"Let's check my ranking." 

I muttered, pulling out the smartwatch. 

_____

Name: Lukas Star 

Age:17 

Department: Hunter Combatants 

Class: AB214 

Rank:18924/20000

_____

Looking at the panel in front of me, I nodded grimly. It was just as I remembered.

If you are wondering how weak are the ones ranked behind me, let me clarify: ranks 18000-20000 consist of Support Class students which mean they are noncombatants who pursue their talents by focusing on research, alchemy, blacksmiths, and all other specialities. 

My ranking among them just speaks volumes about how weak I am.

'This must be the reason why they dared to target me. Also, having a Star as the title was nothing but an ominous attraction for trouble.' With that bitter thought, I stood up.

The one who saved me really fucked up for good. 

Reflecting on my memories as Lukas and my own observations, one fundamental flaw stood out: I had been completely unable to control my emotions.

Emotions are always an integral part of life, adding vibrancy and depth to one's existence. However, they are also a double-edged sword, they could either imbue our lives with radiant hues or plunge us into darkness. It was the very essence of our human experience.

Especially the emotion of guilt and hatred, have an insidious way of consuming you.

The very reason why Lukas was unable to cope with the loss was because he thought that it was his fault that his mother ended up possessed and died. 

He thought that if he had awakened earlier just like the heirs from other noble families, things might have gone differently and so he blamed himself for being a late bloomer.

This feeling deeply harboured within him also lowered his self-esteem, but when I took over, all I wanted to do was crush and slaughter the one who had wronged me. But I was weak.

I couldn't act on my vengeance yet. Not until I became stronger. So before deciding to head out, I decided to familiarize myself with this body and its capabilities.

_____

The bustling noises in the academy settled down around me as the night fell, a time that I had been waiting for.

Shadows cloaked the corridors outside, and at exactly 11 PM, I slipped from my dorm room, moving steadily through the dark hallways and toward the training fields, taking excessive caution to make sure I didn't meet anyone.

The night air was cool as I stepped outside. After casting a glance around to make sure no one was watching, I noticed that the training field was empty—just how I wanted it to be. I made my way to the shooting range and slid my identification card through the scanner. 

[Lukas Star rank #### confirmed.]

A robotic voice echoed softly in the silence, and the gate slid open. 

Inside, the training hall was vast and futuristic, with sleek metallic walls lined by automated training dummies and targets. Bright lights hummed softly overhead, casting an almost sterile glow over the empty space, making the place feel cold and mechanical, like a machine built solely for efficiency.

I walked over to the weapon rack and picked up a bow. Its polished surface felt slightly unfamiliar in my hands as I adjusted to the strength and muscle memory of this new body.

By no means I was a novice. Back in my world, I had practiced archery, and swordsmanship, even mastered martial arts.

As I said, I was all rendered, not the best in the world but certainly, I was the best in my College.

And now, it was time to see what this body could do.

"Huuh!"

I nocked an arrow and aimed, feeling a strange disconnect, like a slight lag between my mind and body.

Drawing the bowstring back, and drawing the arrow along with it, I set my eyes on the dummy that was 100 meters ahead. 

"What a phenomenal eyesight," I muttered, marveling at the precision. "It's like a camera from a Samsung phone. The people of this world are really of a different breed."

The first few shots went wide, the arrows landing awkwardly off target. I gritted my teeth, letting the frustration drive me as I forced myself to focus and recalibrate.

Slowly, I began to settle into a rhythm. The bow started to feel like an extension of my arm as it started to mold itself into my grip. I drew back, aimed, and released. The arrow struck the target dummy's head with a satisfying thud. I shot again, this time it hit the heart, then again, targeting various points along the dummy's vital spots. Each hit was precise, striking areas that would be lethal in a real scenario. I kept going until the rhythm felt smoother, and my hands knew the weight of each draw and release as if it were second nature.

Once I felt comfortable with the bow, I walked over toward another section of the training hall—one designed for more advanced practice—moving targets. Stepping into position, I gave a voice command, activating the system. 

"Start sequence." 

Almost instantly, a disc-shaped object shot out from a hidden compartment in the wall, whizzing past so fast that I could barely register it. I blinked, momentarily losing track of it, then caught a glimpse of the disc whirring past me again, zigzagging unpredictably through the air. It was fast—faster than anything I'd been prepared for. 

My eyes darted, struggling to keep track of its movements, as I looked around the room to lock onto it. I forced myself to breathe and concentrate, tuning out every distraction but the movement of the disc. 

After a few tense moments, I began to pick up its rhythm, catching its movement patterns as it looped and twisted through the air. I began to anticipate its rhythm, watching its patterns.

Drawing the bow again, I timed my release. The arrow flew just as the disc sped past, clipping the edge of the disc and triggering a small flash of light as it registered the hit. Encouraged, I continued, watching and adjusting, trying to anticipate its movements.

Hours passed in this relentless repetition. Draw, aim, release, adjusting my timing with each shot—each cycle of the strike brought me a little closer to mastery. With every arrow fired, I felt more and more like I was beginning to own this body, to shape it to my will.

And with that, I continued practising for a few hours. 

After countless shots with the bow, my hands felt raw and my mind buzzed with focus and exhaustion. But I wasn't done yet. 

After placing the bow back on the rack, I headed to another part of the training hall—a smaller, dimly lit room designed for close combat practice. 

Here, a variety of weapons lined the walls, all carefully calibrated for different styles and abilities. My eyes settle on a dagger. Picking it up, I began feeling its weight and balance in my hand. 

The blade was sleek and well-balanced, the handle cold against my palm. I took a moment to adjust my grip, rolling my wrist to test the movement. Unlike the bow, the dagger felt more familiar, like an extension of my arm.

I started with a basic stance—raising the dagger in front of me as I tested a few simple slashes through the air. The blade cut through with precision, responding as though it were an extension of my arm, leaving an almost invisible arc in its wake. 

Lunging forward, I sliced diagonally, then pulled back quickly, spinning the blade in my grip. The motions were fluid, my hand reacted naturally as though the blade was made to fit. This was different—something about the closeness of a blade made every movement feel sharper, each swing a dance of instinct and calculation.

I tried a series of quick stabs, twisting the blade on imaginary impact, envisioning the target flinching with each strike. My strikes were steady, and my aim was on point. A part of me almost smiled at the familiar feeling—here, at least, I knew what I was doing.

But as I continued to move, I began to notice that something was off. 

Each time I lunged or shifted position, my feet dragged. My steps felt heavy, and clumsy. My balance faltered as I tried to pivot, my footwork falling just short of the fluidity I needed to execute the necessary strikes. I could feel the dagger flowing with precision in my hand, but my footwork was just a beat too slow, a fraction out of sync with the rhythm of my strikes.

"I understand now. My footwork is like a piece of shit," I muttered under my breath, glaring at the floor.

After a few more attempts, it became clear: my hands knew what to do, but my feet betrayed me.

Though I had the dagger skills down, my footwork was sloppy, dragging behind like an anchor pulling me off course. I stopped, catching my breath while staring down at my feet as if they were to blame. This wasn't going to work—not like this.

If I was going to make any real progress, I'd have to fix my footing and learn to control my body as seamlessly as the blade itself.

Straightening up, I tightened my grip on the dagger with renewed determination.

This is only the beginning....