The sound of shattering steel echoed inside the workshop.
CRACK.
A sword split in half the moment it struck the training dummy.
The warrior holding it stared in disbelief.
Then his expression twisted with anger.
"Again?!" he shouted.
The swordsmith stood frozen behind his workbench.
The warrior threw the broken blade onto the floor.
"You call this a weapon?" he growled. "This thing broke in one strike!"
The swordsmith clenched his fists but said nothing.
The warrior scoffed.
"You're a disgrace to blacksmiths."
He stormed out.
The door slammed.
Silence filled the workshop.
The swordsmith slowly walked toward the broken blade.
He picked up the pieces and stared at them.
His hands trembled.
"Why…" he muttered.
"I forged it perfectly."
He slammed the metal on the table.
"WHY DO THEY ALWAYS BREAK?!"
The sound echoed through the empty house.
From the hallway, a small boy peeked quietly into the room.
"Father…?"
The swordsmith instantly forced his voice to calm down.
"It's nothing," he said without turning. "Go back to sleep."
The boy nodded slowly and walked away.
But the swordsmith remained there… staring at the broken sword.
His anger burned like fire.
"Normal steel… normal techniques…"
He whispered bitterly.
"They're not enough."
Days passed.
Then weeks.
The swordsmith began searching for something else.
Forbidden rumors.
Strange legends.
Power that ordinary craftsmen feared.
One night, he traveled to a distant market town.
Lanterns lit the streets.
Merchants shouted.
Crowds moved everywhere.
But something strange caught his attention.
At the far end of the market stood a black tent.
No merchants nearby.
No customers.
Just the tent… waiting.
The swordsmith slowly stepped inside.
An old woman sat behind a wooden table.
Her pale eyes looked directly at him.
Before he could speak, she smiled.
"You look like a man carrying heavy frustration."
The swordsmith frowned.
"What are you talking about?"
The woman chuckled softly.
"You forge swords… yet they break."
The swordsmith froze.
"How do you know that?"
The woman leaned forward slightly.
"Because desperation has a scent."
He hesitated.
Then he finally spoke honestly.
"My swords are perfect… yet they shatter in battle."
His voice grew darker.
"I want power."
"Power strong enough to create weapons that will never break."
The witch stared at him silently.
Then she slowly placed an old book on the table.
"This chant summons a being born from fragments of existence."
The swordsmith's eyes widened.
"A demon?"
The witch shrugged.
"Call it what you want."
He grabbed the book.
"What's the price?"
The witch's voice became quiet.
"Power always needs a vessel."
The swordsmith frowned.
"What does that mean?"
But the witch only smiled.
"You'll understand."
That night.
The clock struck midnight.
Twelve candles burned in a circle inside the workshop.
Strange symbols covered the floor.
The swordsmith held the chant book in shaking hands.
"This… this will finally work."
He began reading.
The words sounded ancient and unnatural.
The air inside the room grew colder.
The candle flames flickered violently.
Wind began to swirl inside the closed workshop.
Then—
something appeared.
Dark fragments of energy floated into the circle.
They gathered together, twisting into the shape of a tall figure.
A devil.
Its body looked like shattered pieces of darkness constantly moving.
The creature stared down at the swordsmith.
"You called me."
Its voice sounded like many whispers speaking at once.
The swordsmith swallowed nervously.
"Yes."
"What do you want?" the devil asked.
The swordsmith stepped forward.
"I want power."
The devil tilted its head.
"What kind of power?"
The swordsmith clenched his fists.
"I want to forge blades that will never break."
"Give me your strength."
The devil stared at him for several seconds.
Then it laughed quietly.
"A simple desire."
The swordsmith's eyes lit up.
"So you agree?"
The devil nodded slowly.
"I will grant power."
Relief flooded the man's face.
But the devil continued speaking.
"However… I will not live inside you."
The swordsmith frowned.
"What do you mean?"
The devil slowly turned its head toward the hallway.
"Your vessel is there."
The swordsmith followed its gaze.
His heart skipped a beat.
His young son stood at the door, watching everything with wide eyes.
"Father…?"
The boy's voice trembled.
The swordsmith stepped forward quickly.
"You shouldn't be here!"
But the devil spoke again.
"I will live inside him."
The room fell silent.
The swordsmith's mind raced.
"My son…?"
"Yes," the devil replied calmly.
The boy looked confused.
"Father… what is that thing?"
The swordsmith hesitated.
Just for a moment.
The witch's words echoed in his mind.
Power always needs a vessel.
Years of humiliation.
Years of broken blades.
Years of anger.
They crushed his hesitation.
Slowly… he nodded.
"…Do it."
The boy's eyes widened.
"Father…?"
The devil smiled.
"As you wish."
Its body suddenly exploded into thousands of black fragments.
They rushed across the room—
straight into the child's chest.
The boy gasped.
His body froze.
Then he collapsed to the floor.
"NO—!" the swordsmith shouted, rushing forward.
But the fragments had already disappeared into the boy's heart.
The devil's voice echoed faintly in the darkness.
"From this moment…"
"This child is the vessel of my fragments."
"And one day…"
"The world will fear the power inside him."
The candles extinguished instantly.
Darkness swallowed the room.
The swordsmith stared at his unconscious son.
His hands trembled.
"...What have I done?"....