Chronicles Of The Crafting Hero

Chapter 7: A Strange Boy In The Woods

James Grone awoke with a groan, the rough-hewn timbers of his bed digging into his side. He peeled one eyelid open, the other stubbornly glued shut by sleep and the lingering effects of cheap ale. A dull ache pulsed behind his eye, a familiar phantom pain from a long-ago battle – a scar he’d long since stopped thinking about. He sat up, stretching stiff muscles, the creak of the wooden floorboards a familiar sound in the pre-dawn quiet. The sky outside was still dark, but the faintest hint of light on the horizon betrayed the coming dawn.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed his sword from beside the bed, and then headed for the door. He paused at the threshold, the scent of woodsmoke and stale ale heavy in the air. The woman behind the counter, her face still pale from sleep, looked up as he approached.

"Morning," Grone grunted, his voice rough from sleep.

"Morning to you too, Grone," she replied, her voice flat. "Same as always?"

"Yeah," he said, already turning to leave. "Just the usual."

James Grone stepped out into the base, the air still cool and carrying the scent of damp earth. The pre-dawn light was growing stronger, painting the rough-hewn buildings in shades of grey and brown. The base itself was a rough-hewn collection of buildings nestled on the edge of a vast, dark forest, a place notorious for its dangerous creatures. A sturdy wooden palisade, reinforced with magically-enhanced logs – the work of skilled hunter-mages – encircled the settlement, providing a vital defense against the constant threat of animal attacks from the woods. This protective barrier, a common sight in all the scattered hunter bases across the land, was a testament to the ever-present dangers faced by those who dared to hunt in these wilds. The sounds of adventurers – mostly D-Ranks and E-Ranks, judging by their gear – were relatively muted at this early hour, but the familiar scene was still a grim tableau of the endless grind.

Grone walked towards the large central tent, the hub of the base where quests were accepted and completed. He ducked inside, the canvas flapping slightly behind him. The air inside was thick with the smells of sweat, leather, and woodsmoke. Gary, a C-Rank hunter, was already there, meticulously cleaning his hunting knife. He was younger than Grone, perhaps by a decade, but his confident posture and the gleam of his well-maintained equipment spoke volumes.

"Grone," Gary said, without looking up. His tone was casual, almost dismissive. "Still plugging away at it, eh?"

Grone grunted, his expression unchanged. He didn't bother to reply.

Gary chuckled, a sound that grated on Grone's nerves. "You know, for someone your age, you're remarkably persistent. I was your rank just a few years ago. Now look at me. C-Rank. I'm only 22, by the way. You should just quit while you're ahead. Save yourself the trouble. Some folks just ain't cut out for this life, you know? No natural talent."

Grone finally looked up, his gaze unwavering. "I'll quit when I'm ready," he said, his voice low and steady. "And that won't be today."

Gary smirked. "Suit yourself. But don't come crying to me when you're still a D-Rank when you're old and grey." He returned to his knife, the click of steel against steel a mocking counterpoint to Grone's simmering anger. He paused, then added with a sneer, "And let's be honest, at this rate, 'old and grey' is just around the corner for you."

Ignoring Gary's continued taunts, Grone strode to the long counter that stretched across the back of the tent. Several other hunters were already receiving quests, the rhythmic scratching of quills against parchment a constant background hum. He scanned the quest board behind Serena, his gaze lingering on the various papers pinned there. Most were the usual D-Rank and E-Rank fare – monster hunts, resource gathering, and the like. Then he saw it: a quest pinned near the bottom, almost hidden amongst the others. A crude drawing of several vibrant, purple fruits adorned the top – Venom Bloom fruits. Beneath it, the rank designation was stark and unexpected: **C-Rank**. A wave of confusion washed over him.

"Serena," he called to the woman behind the counter, his voice gruff but polite. "I'll take that Venom Bloom fruit quest."

Serena, a woman with bright, welcoming eyes, looked up, a slight smile playing on her lips, which quickly faded as she processed his request. "The C-Rank one? Are you sure, Grone? You're a D-Rank hunter. That's quite a jump in difficulty. It's not just the fruits themselves; those Venom Blooms are poisonous, and handling them requires skill and care. But it's primarily the location that makes it a C-Rank. They grow deep within the forest, near the territories of some rather nasty creatures. A D-Rank hunter would be hard-pressed to survive the journey, let alone the harvest."

"I know you sometimes struggle with even D-Rank quests, Grone," Serena continued, her voice laced with concern. "While I appreciate your persistence, I can't in good conscience let you take on a C-Rank mission. It's simply too dangerous."

Grone's jaw tightened. "Please, Serena," he pleaded, his voice surprisingly soft. "I know you for a while now. Remember that time I helped you carry those supplies? It was a real slog, but I got it done. I can handle this."

Serena hesitated, her gaze drifting to the quest board, then back to Grone's determined face. She considered his words, remembering his help with the supplies. It had been a difficult task, and Grone had persevered without complaint.

After a moment of thoughtful silence, a small smile touched her lips. "Alright, Grone," she conceded, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "But this is between us. Officially, you're still not taking this quest. If the manager finds out I gave a C-Rank quest to a D-Rank hunter... well, let's just say I'd be looking for a new job, and finding work these days isn't easy. I was lucky to get in here, thanks to some connections. So, this is strictly under the table." She slid him a small, official-looking book, and he signed his name on the designated line of the quest paper. She then discreetly handed him the quest paper. He folded it carefully, tucking it into his satchel. As he turned to leave, he paused.

"Thank you, Serena," he said, his voice low, a hint of gratitude in his tone. He then turned and walked away, leaving Serena to her work, the weight of her secret a small burden she was willing to bear.

As Grone walked away, Gary looked at him with a mysterious grin. "Oh, taking another quest, I see," he drawled. "Well, let's just hope you won't fail this one. Good luck, old man."

Grone’s initial annoyance at Gary’s taunt quickly curdled into a deeper sadness. He knew Gary wasn’t entirely wrong. The younger man’s words, though delivered with mocking cruelty, held a kernel of truth. He was too old to be a D-Rank hunter. But the anger he felt was swallowed by a heavier emotion – a weary acceptance of his own limitations, a stubborn refusal to give up despite the odds. He couldn't unleash his frustration on a naive kid who, in his own way, had simply stated a fact. He pushed the thoughts aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. He headed into the forest, the dense trees swallowing him whole, the quest for the Venom Blooms beginning.

He walked deeper and deeper into the forest, the oppressive canopy shutting out the faint light of the rising sun. A cold dread gnawed at him; the thought of encountering a high-level beast filled him with a chilling sense of helplessness. Anything level 54 or above would almost certainly mean death. He’d faced a level 53 before, barely surviving. That quest had been a disaster; not only had he failed to earn the promised reward, but his injuries had resulted in significant medical expenses, eating into his already meager savings. The memory sent a fresh wave of self-recrimination washing over him.

He pressed onward, his steps heavy with the weight of his anxieties. Then, he saw it – a small, glistening slime. Without hesitation, he lashed out, his sword cleaving through the creature with ease. It dissolved into nothingness, leaving behind only a faint shimmer. He barely registered the kill, continuing his trek deeper into the woods, the silence broken only by the crunch of leaves under his boots and the persistent thrum of his own apprehension.

Continuing his trek, he came to a narrow part of the river where the water thinned, allowing him to easily jump across. He pressed onward, his senses heightened. Then, a flash of crimson fur – a crimson wolf – charged from the undergrowth. It lunged, but Grone was faster, his reflexes honed by years of hunting. He slashed at the wolf with a swift, precise movement, the blade finding its mark. Crimson wolves, despite their ferocious appearance and dangerous bite, were relatively easy to kill. Their short lifespans and weak defenses meant even an E-Rank adventurer could take one down. Grone knew this, and the swift kill only served to reinforce his growing unease; if these were the only challenges he faced, the C-Rank designation for this quest seemed wildly out of proportion.

With the crimson wolf dispatched, a grim realization settled over Grone: he was deep within a high-level monster zone. The urgency of his quest intensified. He followed the river downstream, his eyes scanning the banks for any sign of the Venom Bloom trees. He knew he'd ventured far beyond the river's edge, into territory where dangerous creatures lurked, both in and out of the water. Then, he saw it – a large, green snake, about five meters long, lying in wait amongst the undergrowth. Before Grone could react, the snake spat a glob of venomous green goo. Grone rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the projectile. But the snake was quick. It coiled with surprising speed, launching itself towards him. In a heartbeat, it wrapped around his neck, its slimy scales cold against his skin. He knew instantly the danger he was in; a single bite from this creature could be fatal. These were among the deadliest in the woods. Without hesitation, he plunged his knife into the snake's neck, aiming for a vital point.

The snake shrieked, a high-pitched, guttural sound, as Grone, holding his neck, wrestled it free. He slammed the creature against the ground, again and again, until it lay still. He released his grip, breathing heavily, a coughing fit wracking his body. He knew the slime was dangerous, its corrosive properties a threat even if it hadn't bitten him. He hurried to the river, ignoring the risk of whatever might lurk beneath the surface, and quickly washed the slime from his neck and exposed skin. The cold water stung the irritated skin, but he knew it was a necessary precaution. A wave of regret washed over him; he should have brought clean water from the base, but the exorbitant cost had always deterred him. He continued his search, the growing certainty that he might not find the Venom Blooms adding to his mounting frustration and despair.

He walked deeper into the woods, the sun now halfway risen in the sky. The increased light brought with it a chilling awareness: more dangerous creatures would be awake and active. Doubt gnawed at him. Maybe this was another failed mission, destined to end in disappointment and further financial hardship. He turned to retrace his steps, deciding to pass by the river one last time on his way back. The Venom Blooms, according to the quest details, grew near the water's edge, and he couldn't leave without at least one final attempt. As he walked, he heard a sound – a faint, almost imperceptible call, like a whispered "Hey." He ignored it, not even bothering to turn his head. It was likely just his imagination, a trick of the forest playing on his already frayed nerves. He pressed on, his resolve hardening despite the growing sense of foreboding.

As he continued his trek, a sound reached his ears – the distinct crunch of leaves and twigs, indicating something or someone was approaching from behind. He spun around, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. A boy, almost Gary's age, stood there, clad in a curious mix of red and brown leather armor. Before Grone could react, the boy leaped aside, narrowly avoiding a charging creature that emerged from the trees. It was a hexhorn – a warthog-like beast with six horns and four eyes – its tusks gleaming menacingly. Without hesitation, Grone raised his sword, bringing it down in a swift, powerful arc. The blade sliced through the hexhorn's nose and upper face, a clean, decisive blow.

The hexhorn shrieked, a high-pitched, agonized sound, before collapsing, its lifeblood staining the forest floor. Grone, his sword still dripping with blood, pointed the weapon at the boy, who stared back, wide-eyed and clearly frightened. "Who are you?" Grone demanded, his voice gruff but laced with caution. The boy's attire was peculiar; his shoes and trousers were unlike anything Grone had ever seen. The leather armor, however, was well-crafted, suggesting a degree of skill and purpose. Despite the quality of his gear, the boy looked exhausted, his hair disheveled and adorned with small twigs and leaves, a testament to his recent struggle.