Smoke no longer rose from the ruined homes, and the ashes that once floated like snow had finally settled into the dirt. The village was still — a resting wound rather than a dying one.
Inside the forge, fire glowed again.
Hunnt worked with a rhythm that was neither frantic nor slow; it was steady, deliberate. The sound of metal against metal echoed faintly across the hollow streets. Sparks leapt with every strike, lighting the walls for a heartbeat before vanishing into the soot-stained air.
The pieces of his armor lay arranged across the bench: black plates traced with glowing red lines, the veins pulsing faintly like living things. Each curve and edge had been shaped from the remains of Glisarin Ignis — tempered, polished, and reforged until no trace of the monster's rage remained. Where once it had destroyed, now it would protect.
Hunnt wiped his brow and smiled faintly.
The set was nearly complete.
He worked through the morning without pause, attaching the last pauldrons, hammering the joints, and reforging the gauntlets. When he fitted them to his arms, faint mirage flames shimmered along the edges — soft, not burning, dancing like reflections of distant firelight.
He whispered to himself, almost like a craftsman naming a child.
"Veilborn."
The word fit.
Black base armor, red and orange glowing through thin runic fissures; plates that caught the light like moving embers. It wasn't just armor — it was the story of what came after the flames.
Hunnt straightened slowly, letting the weight settle across his body. The metal didn't drag; it moved with him, lighter than leather, alive with heat that didn't hurt. He clenched his fists once, and the gauntlets hummed softly — the same vibration that pulsed when he focused his Observation Haki. The connection between body, will, and craft was seamless.
He stepped outside for air. The sun was rising higher now, pale gold bleeding into gray clouds. A few villagers were awake — mostly quiet figures moving between ruined homes, searching, building small pyres, digging shallow graves. The sound of shovels against earth echoed faintly through the valley.
Hunnt leaned against the doorway, watching them for a long while.
The armor's faint glow reflected in his eyes, and for a moment he thought of Ravenshire — the warmth of the forge, the laughter of his grandparents, the smell of pine smoke. He had forged this armor not for power, but to remember why he fought in the first place.
Behind him, the forge crackled softly.
Inside that dim orange light, the Veilborn Set waited — proof that something born of destruction could still become a shield.
---
Across the village, Alder sat near a broken well, his arms resting over his knees. His wounds were still wrapped tight, but he could breathe without wincing now. A few children passed by carrying buckets, offering him water; he smiled faintly and waved them on.
He hadn't slept much. The night before, his dreams were filled with flashes — the Glisarin's roar, the blinding heat, Hunnt's figure moving like a ghost through the fire. Those moments replayed in his head like scenes burned into his memory.
He looked down at his bandaged hands, still rough from years of holding a sword.
Hunnt's words from yesterday echoed quietly in his mind.
"If the Guild learns about this, they'll twist it. Power isn't for pride; it's for protection."
Alder exhaled.
He had lived long enough to know it was true.
He'd seen too many hunters chase fame, leaving villages to burn because no bounty was written for them. He'd followed the creed once himself — No Quest, No Reward — until it felt normal. That was the part that haunted him now.
He looked around the ruined square. Some villagers were still grieving over shallow graves. Others sifted through ashes searching for keepsakes, pieces of wood that hadn't burned, anything they could call their own again. A few just stared at the sky, as if waiting for something to change.
Alder's chest tightened.
If he had known these techniques, if he had that kind of strength earlier in his life — could he have saved more people? Could he have stopped more monsters, more fires, before they started?
He clenched his fists.
Hunnt was right — if every hunter had such power, arrogance would spread. But Alder also knew what it felt like to be powerless, to stand before death and wish for one more chance. There had to be a balance somewhere between control and compassion.
He rose slowly and looked toward the blacksmith at the far edge of the village. The glow from inside was faint now, only a whisper against the daylight, but the sound of metal still rang through the air.
"That kid doesn't stop," he muttered to himself.
Alder watched from a distance. Hunnt was still inside, adjusting his armor, testing the weight of each movement like a dancer learning a new rhythm. The fire's reflection danced across the younger hunter's face, calm and focused.
Alder found himself smiling.
For all his secrets, Hunnt's purpose was clear. He wasn't chasing glory — he was building something bigger, something quieter.
A wind passed through the village, lifting thin streams of ash into the air. Alder closed his eyes against it, listening to the faint sound of laughter — a few children playing by the well, their voices soft but real.
He opened his eyes again and whispered, "If I ever gain that kind of strength… I'll use it the same way. I won't look away."
He looked back at the forge, his expression steady now. The firelight glinted in his eyes, reflecting the same quiet resolve he saw in Hunnt. For the first time since the fight, the thought of rebuilding — not just the village, but himself — didn't feel impossible.
The villagers kept working around him, each small movement carrying the rhythm of survival. One man built a fence from broken planks; a woman gathered herbs for medicine. There were no orders, no rewards — only the will to keep living.
Alder watched it all in silence.
If power like Hunnt's could exist, then maybe it belonged with people like these — people who didn't wait for permission to do the right thing.
He adjusted the bandage around his shoulder and took one last look at the forge. "You're a strange one, Hunnt," he murmured. "But maybe the world needs your kind of strange."
He turned toward the remnants of the square, helping a few villagers lift a broken beam from one of the houses. His strength wasn't much yet, but it was enough. Every pull, every breath hurt — but the pain felt honest. It reminded him that he was still alive, still capable of giving something.
Behind him, the forge's glow dimmed to a steady pulse as Hunnt stepped out, his armor catching the light. The heat rolled off him gently, the faint shimmer of mirage flames curling at his sides. His expression was unreadable — calm, certain, already thinking ahead.
Their eyes met briefly across the street. No words were needed.
One had built, the other had decided.
Hunnt turned back toward the forge, finishing the last adjustments to his gauntlets. The etchings along the arms flared once, a soft crimson that faded as he flexed his hands. The metal no longer looked like it belonged to the world of monsters — it looked human, tempered by purpose.
The day carried on quietly after that.
By dusk, the villagers had built small shrines for their dead and shared what little food they had. Fires burned low, gentle and warm. Hunnt stood apart from them on the hill near the forge, watching over the valley as the sky bled into twilight.
Alder joined him a little later, limping but standing tall beside him. They didn't speak — they just looked at the horizon together.
Hunnt's armor glowed faintly in the dying light, its lines alive with soft orange fire.
Alder's voice came low, almost thoughtful. "Veilborn, huh?"
Hunnt nodded. "Fire reborn into a shield."
"Fitting," Alder said with a tired smile.
They stood in silence for a while longer, listening to the faint crackle of village fires below.
For now, there were no roars in the sky, no tremors beneath their feet. Just wind, warmth, and the feeling that, for the first time in years, the world might heal — even if only a little.