The forge of Korvan burned hotter than it ever had before.
Even from outside, the villagers could feel the heat pouring from the smithy — a pulsing, radiant warmth that shimmered through the streets like sunlight trapped in stone. No one dared to approach too close. When Hunnt forged, it was said that even fire itself bowed to his will.
Inside, the world had become a storm of flame and steel.
Hunnt stood bare-armed before the furnace, his breath slow and steady, his body slick with sweat. The light of the forge painted his face in shades of gold and crimson. His eyes reflected it all — calm, unwavering, patient. Before him, laid across the anvil, were the last materials he would ever forge for himself.
Smolderfang. A fragment of the Crimson Tyrant's fang, still pulsing faintly with molten energy.
Ashen Wing Scale. Light and resilient, harvested from the Ashen Matriarch's molten wings.
Obsidian Carapace. Hardened remains of Vulcarion Basal shell, unbreakable and dense.
Furnace Core Shard. A crystalized heart from the volcano itself — burning with eternal heat.
And finally, the most personal of all — the recycled fragments of Hunnt's original gauntlets, scorched and cracked from countless battles, now waiting to be reborn.
Hunnt looked over each one with quiet reverence. Every piece carried memory — every fracture a story. The old gauntlets had shattered in the fires of Vulcarion Basal. They had shielded his allies, endured monsters, and broken through despair. Now, they would rise again — stronger, sharper, eternal.
He inhaled, lifted his hammer, and whispered to the flames,
"This one's for the path I chose."
---
The first strike fell.
CLANG.
The entire forge shuddered.
The Smolderfang cracked under the impact, scattering glowing shards that Hunnt immediately caught with his tongs and pressed back into the heat. Armament Haki rippled down his arms, coating them in dark steel light. His blows grew faster, sharper — his will guiding every strike as if he were carving his own soul into the weapon.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The flames danced in rhythm with him.
The molten fragments of Smolderfang merged with the shimmering scales of the Ashen Wing, creating veins of molten gold through the black base metal. Hunnt added the Obsidian Carapace next, every strike ringing out like thunder. Sparks showered around him, coating his arms and shoulders in burning dust.
Hours passed. Sweat and soot mixed into streaks along his skin, but he didn't slow. His hammer sang a song only the forge could understand — one of will, rebirth, and purpose. The Furnace Core Shard pulsed in the fire, and Hunnt struck it once, twice, then a third time — each hit embedding the fragment deep into the center of the metal.
When the glow finally dimmed, a new shape emerged on the anvil — sleek, brutal, and alive.
A hybrid weapon:
Half gauntlet.
Half hammer.
Its body was obsidian-black with crimson veins running through it, the color pulsing faintly like the steady rhythm of a living heart. The right arm was streamlined, made for precision strikes; the left arm — heavier, thicker — carried a mechanical hinge along its wrist. When Hunnt pulled the lever, the gauntlet expanded outward with a deep, metallic thunk, transforming into a hammer head shaped like a draconic jaw.
The weapon shifted back and forth between its two forms seamlessly, like it had been waiting its entire life to move that way.
Hunnt's eyes gleamed. "Infernal Drakebreaker," he said softly, the name leaving his lips like a vow.
It was more than a weapon — it was the culmination of everything he was.
The fist of a warrior.
The hand of a smith.
The will of an Eternal.
---
He wasn't finished yet. The weapon might have been his arm, but the armor — the armor would become his spirit.
He turned toward the second workbench, where another set of materials waited: scraps of cooled metal, shards of scales, pieces of Furnace Core plating. Hunnt began laying them out one by one, his movements methodical.
This armor would not simply protect him. It would embody his endurance — a bridge between light and heavy, a hybrid form forged for both combat and craft.
He began with the Obsidian Carapace, heating it until it softened just enough to be reshaped. Each plate he reforged with the precision of a surgeon — lighter in the joints, denser along the torso. Over that, he layered the Ashen Wing Scales, giving it flexibility that would allow him to move like wind through flame. From the Furnace Core Shard, he drew molten metal that he wove into thin channels along the armor's edges, forming faint red veins that glowed like embers.
Finally, he reached for what remained of the Smolderfang, grinding it into powdered ash. He sprinkled it across the armor's surface, sealing the cracks with a mixture of oil and volcanic resin.
The forge hissed as Hunnt quenched each piece in molten oil.
When he lifted it from the vat, the armor shimmered — black and crimson, veins of gold flickering under the light. The weight was perfectly balanced, heavy enough for defense but flexible enough for movement. He'd done it — he had created something that existed between worlds. Not heavy. Not light.
A perfect equilibrium.
Hunnt set the chestplate down and engraved its name across the inside lining:
Eternal Veilborn.
He smiled faintly. The name carried both remembrance and rebirth — a nod to his past, and the resolve that now bound him eternally to the path of the Wanderer.
As he fitted the final plate, he pressed the Eternal Mark into the left gauntlet of the armor. The emblem burned into the metal with a bright white glow — a triangle enclosing a clenched fist. It pulsed once, then dimmed, leaving behind a faint black outline that blended perfectly with the metal.
To an outsider, it looked like nothing — an aesthetic flourish.
To those who knew, it meant everything.
The forge fell silent.
---
Hunnt stepped back, staring at what he had made.
The Infernal Drakebreaker rested beside its twin — the Eternal Veilborn. Together, they radiated presence — a quiet, controlled strength that filled the room. The weapon hummed faintly, reacting to the residual energy of his Haki. The armor glowed along its seams, as if it too were alive and waiting for him.
Hunnt removed his gloves and brushed a soot-stained hand across the gauntlet.
"I started this path alone," he murmured, "but now, I walk it with others."
His gaze drifted across the forge — to the rack lined with the creations of his companions.
Kael's Wyrmflare Tempest.
Alder's Obsidian Dragonheart.
Seren's Aegis of the Infernal Wyrm.
And now, his own Infernal Drakebreaker and Eternal Veilborn.
Four forges. Four flames.
The rebirth of the Eternal Wanderers.
Hunnt extinguished the fire with a pull of the bellows. The flames died down into embers, but the forge still glowed faintly, breathing like a living thing. He hung the hammer on its hook, letting the silence settle.
The glow of the weapons cast long shadows on the wall, forming the shapes of hunters standing side by side — a reflection of what was coming.
Hunnt looked at his reflection in the steel of his gauntlet. His voice was quiet but firm.
"The forges of the old world are gone," he said.
"But this one — this fire — will never die."
He stepped away from the anvil, the echo of his boots fading into the stillness. Behind him, the Infernal Drakebreaker gleamed faintly — not merely as a weapon, but as a promise forged in spirit and flame.
The final creation of the founder.
The hand that forges.
The hand that strikes.
The will that endures.
And thus, the last forge of Hunnt — the Eternal Veilborn — was complete.