Third Person POV: Pokkle

“You’re kidding me, right?!”

Pokkle was born and grew small. However, above anything else, he was short-tempered. Poise had never been one of his qualities. It wasn’t the man’s fault, to be honest.

The man was born and lived in the countryside. Not that the Kukanyu Kingdom was a developed area, to begin with…

His tribe wasn’t concerned with material possessions. They weren’t occupied with lots of things as a matter of fact. Before he even learned to walk, speak, and read coherently, the boy was bestowed with a bow. When he was old enough to run, herd cattle and goats, he realized that people had names.

When he didn’t fulfill his herding duties, or run after beetles, he was kidding around with suspicious birthday gifts. But now that he thought about it, it was more practice than pure play.

It was during his first “gig” that one of his relatives would be sensible enough to make him notice what he had been dangerously polishing.

It would be the day that he would gain both a name and a social rank. Had he been molded in the usual fold, forget his newfound aspirations, he would have just wished to see another day.

Putting dreams over basic needs when you were frozen stiff in front of a vicious leopard was somewhat of a reckless endeavor, according to his cousins.

One fateful afternoon, he learned one of two things.

First of all, names were not to be taken for granted; their meanings were necessary, no matter how uncouth they sounded.

Pokkle was talented with bows but wasn’t exactly a sitting duck. He was titled as such due to the unnerving nature of his hunting style. Contrary to common belief, being a sniper meshed well with superior stamina, dexterity, and stealth.

The second thing he learned was that people tended to adapt and morph into their surroundings. Very much like the rest of his clansmen, he liked to be around animals even if he didn’t exactly enjoy murdering them for sports.

However, quirky the lad was, though, he was compelled to pick up the arts of slaughter since he didn’t relish turning into a goat.

Time passed, and he took what he was taught a bit too literally. The more time he spent around predators and cold iron, he realized which of the two was more lethal.

As he grew up a bit too creative, healthy, and bored, either for the “sacred woods” or the Paprika Mountains, every sunset, the bald uncle who loved to rant in tall grass kept recounting legends of beasts of old. He was doubtful at first, but each time he went to sleep and remembered about “dragons” and “wyverns,” he was entranced and unable to sleep.

When bears stopped being a challenge and he spent more time watching them eat salmon than killing their offspring, he eventually left for the city.

The second time he went to the library, he met a girl named Ponzu. She had a background oddly similar to his and had ventured to Zaban city for the same reasons. The two of them met, trained, talked about literature and mythological beasts when they didn’t sell all sorts of furs to generous patrons.

A year had passed, and their skills became difficult to hide when they met the locals Balda and Pekuba. Those two weren’t really animal enthusiasts but were interested in their little operation. They also happened to have connections in the world of “hunters.”

When they were shown some shocking footage, Pokkle realized that the world he lived in was still smaller than his deceiving frame. He was always a bit doubtful about those flame-spitting lizards, but his skepticism was put to a stop after he met the boy named Gon.

That underground showdown was random, but the invisible force he felt had to count for something.

He had thought that he had seen a lot already. But the world seemed to have another plan for his eyes today.

His shaking beliefs were subject to change now and then. Though, for someone who grew up glued to wooden bows, he had a firm conviction. The end of his pointed arrows was a depiction of that creed:

‘In front of Cold iron, struggles were futile!’

Imagine the man’s shock when that nosy, pink-haired jester decided to attack and pierce the fellow who claimed to be a hunter examiner the next second.

*SWOOSH*

The air was pierced surgically, no... Pokkle felt the movement after the man, or in this case, the creature was riddled with cuts.

The weapons, if cards could be labeled as such, lodged themselves inside the man’s flesh, who then morphed into an ape-like humanoid. The state of its eyes, its abnormally long tongue, spoke volumes as for its current health.

Dead, dead beyond saving. Also, in such a gruesome and impromptu fashion.

Before it could even finish its accusatory sentence and corroborate its allegations, the monkey’s antics were put to a clinical stop. All life left its ridiculous, if not comical limbs due to the unfortunate situation it was forced in. Not even a wince was allowed before its last breath was robbed away from it.

“Holy fuck!”

When Pokkle stared at the pink-hair monster, he understood what he had gotten involved in. The mad lad had proceeded with his dissonant and unruly extermination. This time he had taken things to another level or even dimension.

“What’s the meaning of this?” The examiner grabbed another set of the same abolishing trinkets with absurd ease and questioned with authority.