The mountains gave way to smoke and light.
Hunnt stood at the edge of the ridge, wind tugging at his cloak as he looked down upon a city built in defiance of the earth itself. Draconis—the volcanic capital of the western frontier—spread across the crater valley like an ember that refused to die.
Rivers of molten rock flowed between blackstone streets, casting a crimson glow that danced along metal rooftops and towering forges. Steam hissed from vents in the ground. Giant wheels turned above workshops. Every sound—the hammering of steel, the hiss of fire, the low hum of furnaces—blended into a heartbeat that pulsed through the entire city.
Hunnt took a deep breath. The air was thick with ash and heat, but to him, it smelled like home.
"Finally," he murmured, a faint smile breaking across his face. "Civilization."
---
By the time he reached the city gates, the afternoon sun had dipped low, turning the molten channels into rivers of gold. The guards gave him a curious look—a lone traveler covered in dust and wearing torn training clothes—but didn't question him. Hunters came and went from Draconis all the time. None arrived clean.
Hunnt passed under the archway, the world changing from wild silence to living noise. Smiths shouted prices. Carts creaked over blackstone. Sparks lit up doorways where weapons were born by the minute.
He paused only once, glancing up at the huge stone statue that stood in the city's heart—an ancient hunter raising his weapon to the sky, surrounded by swirling engravings of dragons. Beneath it, a phrase was carved into the base:
"In fire, we rise."
Hunnt chuckled quietly. "Guess that fits."
---
He didn't stop walking until the smell of soap reached him.
A modest inn sat tucked between two iron shops, its sign painted with a blue flame. Inside, the air was cooler, the noise distant. The innkeeper—a woman with soot-smudged hands and a kind smile—looked up as Hunnt entered.
"You look like you wrestled a forge," she said, handing him a towel before he even spoke.
"Something close to it," he replied, laughing softly.
After a quick exchange of zenny, Hunnt made his way upstairs, threw his pack onto the bed, and stepped into the washroom. The steam rose instantly as he turned the tap—hot water, real water, not rain or mist or river.
For a long time, he didn't move.
Then he stepped under it and let the heat wash everything away.
Weeks of dirt, blood, and ash slid off his skin. His muscles loosened for the first time in months. The scent of clean soap filled the air, and Hunnt closed his eyes, feeling more human with every passing second.
"This," he whispered, "I missed this."
When he emerged, the mirror showed a man he barely recognized—short hair damp, skin still marked with training scars, but his eyes were clearer now. The storm that once raged behind them was quiet.
He collapsed onto the bed after that, the mattress sinking softly beneath him. The warmth, the stillness, the faint hum of the city outside—it all blurred together until his mind drifted into dreamless sleep.
For the first time in months, there were no monsters waiting in the dark.
Only rest.
---
Morning came with light through the shutters and the muffled sound of hammers below. Hunnt stretched, joints cracking, then sat up and smiled faintly.
"Right. Back to work."
He dressed simply, his old cloak folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The next hours were practical—the quiet routine of survival.
He visited the market square, where hunters sold their spoils and smiths haggled over ore. Hunnt traded the remnants of his old battles—monster scales, herbs, and salvaged fragments of Apex hide—for a pouch of zenny that felt heavier than it looked.
The first thing he bought was soap. Then bandages. Then food.
The last thing he bought was armor—a simple, well-fitted leather set, nothing fancy, but flexible and durable. The smith who sold it to him nodded approvingly.
"Good choice for a traveler," the man said. "Light, quiet, and it won't melt you alive in this heat."
Hunnt smiled. "Perfect."
---
By late afternoon, he found himself seated outside a forge, eating a skewer of roasted meat while watching sparks drift into the molten light. The rhythm of the hammers reminded him of his own pulse—steady, patient, alive.
He'd spent so long listening to storms and silence that the noise of people almost felt unreal.
A pair of young hunters passed by, laughing as they compared weapons. A merchant shouted for customers. Somewhere nearby, a group of children ran through puddles of cooling lava water.
Hunnt's lips curved into a small smile. "The world keeps moving," he said quietly.
He leaned back, finishing his meal, then glanced toward the distant Guild Hall perched on the upper terraces of the city. Even from here, he could see the banners of the Hunters' Guild flapping in the sulfur wind.
"Maybe I'll check it out tomorrow," he muttered.
For now, the day belonged to peace.
He stood, stretched his arms, and turned toward the inn as the evening glow deepened. The red light of the volcano painted everything gold—the sky, the stone, even the people.
It wasn't beauty born from calm. It was beauty born from endurance.
Hunnt understood that.
He walked through the crowded streets with quiet steps, his new armor creaking softly, the weight comfortable against his shoulders. He didn't draw attention, didn't seek recognition. Just another hunter blending into the forge-light of Draconis.
The sound of the city grew distant as he reached the inn again. He paused at the doorway, looking back once toward the horizon, where smoke met the sunset.
"Not bad," he said softly. "Feels alive."
Inside, the warmth of the fire greeted him. He closed the door behind him, leaving the noise of the world outside. For tonight, the hunt was far away, and the wind finally quiet.
Hunnt sat by the window, the glow of the molten rivers reflecting faintly in his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would walk to the Guild Hall.
Tomorrow, he would listen to the world again.
But tonight—just tonight—he allowed himself to rest.
The storm had become still.
And for the first time in months, he was at peace.