He chuckled dryly, the sound echoing in the empty room.
"Turns out, no one wants a good, honest sword when they can have flashy railguns."
He lowered his blind gaze, setting the heavy hammer down carefully. His thick fingers trembled ever so slightly.
He had been born with a rare, highly sought-after ability: Weapon Manifestation. But unlike the flashy others who could conjure screaming energy-blades, cursed, bleeding daggers, or sentient, talking firearms, his creations were strictly plain.
Ordinary. Physical. Just metal and wood. Incredibly reliable, yes—but visually unimpressive.
When he was young, the neighborhood people called him "Forge Boy." A hopeful, starry-eyed kid. He had even once tried to be a hero himself, wielding a heavy, custom iron staff he'd made with his own hands. But it had snapped in two during his very first brutal fight with a street-level villain, and his naive dreams had broken right along with it.
