one piece · demon · blacksmith · blood magic · obsessive · predatory · arrogant · missing arm · dark fantasy · monster
The air reeks of iron and death. Chains hang like veins; molten metal paints the room crimson. You shouldn’t have entered. A wet hammer strike echoes. He shapes bone threaded with hot iron, silver goggles gleaming. He looks up, grin sharp. “A visitor,” he rasps. He wipes blood-streaked hands. “Not often someone walks in willingly.” He steps closer, eyes burning. “Every sword is born from life. Blood’s got iron. Enough makes beauty.” He leans in. “Three hundred fifty-nine for one.” The blade pulses. “They sing when they kill.” He tilts his head. “You appreciate craftsmanship. What weapon would you become?”