Monster (S)layer

The sword slips out of your scabbard as you step out of rhythm. It clatters on the cobble road, draws a few looks from the market-goers, but no helping hands. You don't immediately reach for it. Instead, you leave it there for a minute, staring it down like it's gonna blink first. It's bad in all kinds of ways. Short, dull, but fitting for someone like you. Someone unimpressive.

Outside the city walls is where you belong, surrounded by farmland and people who’ve accepted failure as a lifestyle. You fit right in there. It's peaceful. There's only the poor and forgotten. No marching orders. No blood. Just dirt, crops, and the occasional existential crisis.

The army decided you weren't worth training anymore and spat you out before you caused trouble on the battlefield.

"Not fit for command," they said. "Too soft."

You had the form, the training, the discipline... But the will to fight kicked the bucket. Your swings no longer had purpose. And if you're being honest, their weapons were dogshit. Spears they used as little iron for as possible, prone to breaking and leaving you with a hand up your ass and just your arming sword on the bloody meadows.

This thing is all your father left you after a life of honest work in the field. It's cheap and worn down, the kind that's sitting at the bottom of a chest in the blacksmith's warehouse. But a foot soldier having a sword is already rarer than a gold coin launching at a beggar's drinking cup, so you can't discredit him for trying.

So yeah, no knighthood. No noble house. No dramatic rise from peasant to legend. You had a chance and choked when it mattered. End of story. Now you’re just another guy with a sword, a shack, and a patch of dirt.

...

You return the sword to the scabbard and continue the aimless wander, as if looking for something you've lost. Maybe your pride. You almost sold it this morning, for a measly two silvers and a look of pity no less.

Some middle-aged man from the pawn stall gave it as much a glance as it would take a soldier to know there's shit in the latrine. "Don't mean to insult you... My grandmother, Lord rest her soul, had a better fork than this... And you know how old folk be," he hesitantly said, maybe unsure whether to water down the price a little more. Of course, you took the sword back and walked away.

And that brings you to the busiest street, not sure whether you're just seeking the noise or a place to sell it higher.

Some distance away, there's the constant sound of hammering from the smithy row, muffled by the screams of spice vendors and chatter from peasants with big plans but too small a purse. You advance, pushing through the crowded main street as a few dozen different produce stalls spread on either side.

It smells like wood and sugar, fruits and pepper. Cinnamon... and other shit you can't name. From what you see, there's lots of people stopping by, only to get a whiff then move along. Obviously, owner's not happy, but seeing someone else frustrated cheers you up a little.

Moments later, you find a familiar one. A bread stall, half collapsed under the weight of this morning's loaves... This must be the place your father overheard the worst combat lesson he could've possibly gotten. Around here, two half-trained levies argued over how to better swing a sword. He had come with a cart of onions but stayed long enough to fake interest in the vendor's entire stock just so he could shamelessly eavesdrop the whole exchange. Later that night, he guided your hands through the same half-baked swings. "They did this... They did that..." he would explain.

Well, he tried...

You walk a few more steps before you notice something to your left. A boy throws glances between your eyes and waist, but he seems to give that look to everyone with a blade to their hip. There's awe and yearning. The boy's dream is written all over his face. You must've done the same when you were his age, and your father must've caught it.

Before long, a woman calls him over with a shout and a wave of the hand. She lowers herself to his level and shows him a piece of cloth, as if urging him to feel it.

The cloth stall... Stocked with everything from rags to silk. Even the torn stuff is quite expensive. At least for a farmer. For your mother. You remember how she stitched you a sheath out of rope and lined it with cloth. That thing became glued to your hip, perfect for the wooden sword your father carved you. That's how you caught the eye of a real instructor later, some old man tasked with filling a quota for the troops. He was passing by your village on a donkey as old as he was, slow and as if in constant meditation, a pretentious show-off in case an ant was watching. He saw the sheath clinging to your waist, paused to grunt, and lastly brushed his beard once to act mysterious. Then, he asked in an aged voice, "Do you wield a sword, young man?"

That's when you switched from wood to iron. They gave you everything they had, down to their last breath.

But it doesn't sit right on your hip anymore, no matter how much you adjust it. You think about selling it again tomorrow, or at least finding a use for it. Something you're still good at.