"Can't you handle this a little more carefully?"
The familiar dwarf blacksmith gave me an exasperated look when I showed him the sword I'd brought back from the battlefield.
"I was careful. Otherwise, it would have already broken."
I answered, feeling a bit defensive.
"I've cut through dozens of goblin and ogre soldiers, clashed with magic spears wielded by demons, and scraped it against the claws of devils… and yet, it's still intact. I should be praised for this."
Both the blacksmith and I shifted our gaze to the sword laid out on the anvil.
Its blade was chipped and ragged, resembling a saw. It was also warped from repeatedly clashing with demon spears, and I had forcefully bent it back into shape on the field. The blade now rippled unevenly, making it hard to fit into its scabbard.
But it didn't break. That alone, I thought, deserved some recognition.
