The gates of Greythorn opened just before sunset, and the noise began before the hunters even stepped through.
Children ran ahead of the procession, shouting names. Merchants leaned out from their stalls. Even the town guard stood a little straighter, as if victory itself had marched home in polished armor.
At the front walked Garrick Vale, commander of the Iron Fang Guild. His shoulder plate was cracked, his cloak torn, and dried blood streaked the edge of his blade. None of it made him look weakened. It made him look legendary.
Behind him, four hunters dragged the carcass of a scaled drake across the cobblestones. Its hide shimmered even in death, thick and metallic, resistant to normal steel. The creature's severed head bounced with each pull, jaws frozen half-open.
A clean kill. A high-tier hunt.
The crowd roared.
Kendo watched from the doorway of his forge.
Heat rolled off the furnace behind him, but he barely felt it. His hammer rested against his palm, still warm from shaping farm sickles no one would praise and kitchen knives no one would celebrate. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his arm and studied the drake's hide as it passed.
The scales were intact.
That meant the final blow had pierced cleanly.
His jaw tightened.
"Still staring?" a voice said beside him.
Rollo leaned against the outer wall of the forge, arms folded, broad shoulders relaxed. He had the kind of build people expected to see inside guild armor, not standing next to a struggling blacksmith.
"I'm studying the damage," Kendo replied.
"You're brooding," Rollo corrected.
Kendo didn't argue.
As the hunters passed, one of them slowed. A young spear wielder with a familiar scar across his cheek. The same hunter who had purchased a weapon from Kendo three weeks ago.
The hunter's eyes flicked toward the forge sign.
Then he smirked.
"Vale!" the young man called out loudly, loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear. "You should've seen the spear I used before upgrading. Bent like wet bark against a boar's hide."
Laughter rippled through the spectators.
Garrick Vale didn't stop walking, but his gaze shifted briefly toward the forge. It wasn't cruel. It was worse than that. It was dismissive.
Kendo felt every pair of eyes settle on him.
The young hunter continued, enjoying the attention. "Some people should stick to plows and horseshoes."
More laughter.
Rollo straightened immediately. "You nearly died on that hunt," he shot back. "Maybe it wasn't the spear."
The hunter's expression hardened. "You want to test that theory?"
Kendo stepped forward before the argument could grow teeth. "Enough."
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the tension.
The hunter shrugged, satisfied with the damage done, and returned to the procession. The scaled drake's body scraped across stone as it disappeared toward the guild hall.
The noise followed it.
Silence settled over the forge.
Rollo turned toward him. "You don't have to swallow that every time."
"It doesn't change anything if I argue."
"It changes how they see you."
Kendo let out a breath and walked back inside. The forge smelled of coal, oil, and metal dust. Tools hung in careful rows along the wall. Everything was in its place because that was the only part of his life he could control.
Rollo followed.
"You know why they mock you?" Rollo asked quietly.
"Because they can."
"Because you're still here."
Kendo glanced at him.
Rollo continued, "Most smiths who can't produce hunter-grade weapons leave town. You didn't."
"I can produce them," Kendo replied, more sharply than he intended. "They just aren't strong enough yet."
Rollo studied him for a long moment. "You believe that."
Kendo looked down at the blade cooling on his workbench. It had taken three days to complete. Balanced. Reinforced spine. Double-tempered.
Still not enough.
A sudden commotion outside interrupted the moment. Shouting. Urgent. Panicked.
Both men rushed to the doorway.
The young spear wielder stumbled into the square again, breath ragged, armor scratched. Blood seeped from a tear in his thigh.
"What happened?" someone shouted.
"Training yard," another hunter barked. "They tested the old spear against a hide sample. It folded."
The crowd's murmuring shifted from celebration to something sharper.
The hunter's gaze locked onto Kendo.
"You sold me that."
Kendo stepped forward slowly. "It was reinforced for F-tier beasts."
"It bent," the hunter snapped. "If I hadn't upgraded before the drake hunt, I'd be dead."
"You wouldn't have taken that hunt with F-tier gear," Rollo countered.
"That's not the point!"
The guild doors opened again. Garrick Vale emerged, expression unreadable.
He approached the damaged spear, took it from the young hunter's hands, and inspected the warped shaft. He tested the balance, then pressed the tip against a scrap of drake hide resting near the square.
The metal bent further.
The crowd watched in silence.
Garrick finally looked at Kendo.
"You made this?"
"Yes."
"You understand what hunters face beyond those gates?"
"Yes."
"Then understand this." Garrick handed the spear back without anger, without ridicule. "Weak weapons kill more surely than strong beasts."
He turned and walked away.
The words settled heavier than the laughter had.
The young hunter limped after him, supported by two others.
The square slowly emptied.
Rollo placed a hand on Kendo's shoulder. "You know he wasn't entirely wrong."
Kendo stared at the bent spear still clutched in the hunter's grip as it disappeared into the guild hall.
"I know," he said quietly.
The forge felt smaller that evening.
The fire burned lower than usual. Supplies were running thin. Orders had decreased over the past month. Hunters preferred buying from traveling smiths with better reputations, even if it cost more.
Kendo sat at his workbench long after Rollo left.
He picked up the remaining metal from the failed batch and ran his thumb across its surface. The composition was clean. The folding precise. The temper consistent.
So why wasn't it enough?
Outside, the celebration resumed inside the guild hall. Music. Cheers. Toasts to victory.
Kendo stared at his reflection in the half-polished blade before him.
He had learned from his father. Learned from books. Learned from trial and error. Yet every time hunters crossed into higher-tier territory, his weapons seemed to reach their limit first.
He tightened his grip around the metal until his knuckles whitened.
Somewhere beyond the walls of Greythorn, stronger beasts roamed.
Somewhere beneath the earth, rarer materials existed.
He felt it with certainty he couldn't explain.
If the surface iron failed, then he would find something deeper.
Outside, a wagon creaked past the forge, carrying the remains of the scaled drake toward the disposal grounds beyond town.
Kendo's eyes followed it through the doorway.
The drake's hide had not bent.
His spear had.
And for the first time, humiliation wasn't what burned in his chest.
It was hunger.
By morning, he would volunteer to help clean the remains.
And this time, he would not return empty-handed.