The fight was ferocious, the enemy determined, but eventually your tribe prevailed. Surveying the battlefield, you see the ground is littered with the dead—both your fallen, but largely, the enemy's. Such enmity, such reckless waste, you think, peering at a lifeless corpse of your foe who still clutches their spear tight. The tip glints in the sunlight, and you move closer to get a better look. The flint tip is not rough and scalloped, but polished and thin, ending in a perfect point. You run your finger along the edge, and the stone cuts your skin, bright red blood oozing from the cut. You smile, then order your people to collect the weapons.
These sharp flints will give us an edge in forthcoming battles.