Not long after the ceremony for the maiden of the blade took place. Truly a magnificent event as would only take place once a century or so. A parade like no other was held in the capital, after almost an entire week of festive mood, things calmed down and went back to usual, well almost everything did. The king couldn't sleep because of the thought that plagued his mind. What if the blacksmith made another? Such a treasure could only be for his beloved daughter, he couldn't allow another one to exist. Days went by as the king thought of a solution but none seemed reliable. Perhaps due to insomnia, his mind deteriorated and darker ideas surfaced. Soon after almost two weeks of little to no sleep, the king's mind caved in. The only way to make sure the blacksmith could never craft another treasure was to make him unable to craft it at all, in other words killing him.

With the little restraint he had left he managed to come to another solution. He would cut the craftsman's hands. Satisfied he sent the order to an elite group of soldiers under his direct command, the black hand. As its name might imply this certain group works in the shadows and takes care of all the dirty work the king needs doing. No explanation was needed only the order, the black hand was a group that was trained almost from birth, to take action under the king at a mere whim and so they set out to accomplish their task.

After about two weeks of rest, the blacksmith was back at work. He still had to catch up to all the orders he had put to the side while working on his masterpiece. With a smile, he held his trusty hammer once more and began his work. Hours went by as he worked until it was time to close. He leisurely walked back to his house despite the darkness of the night. No real reason to worry about muggers or anything of the sort, after all, he was strong, not the strongest but strong enough to fend off those lowly pests.

As he walked the dimly lit streets while enjoying the cold breeze a chill ran down his spine for no reason, however, it gave him a bad omen. Not thinking to deep about it he continued albeit increasing his walking speed a bit. Not long after his heart seemed to be impatient, his instincts screamed that something was wrong but he couldn't figure out what it was. His pace continued to increase and by the time he was a few tens of meters from his house, it became jogging.

The lights flickered a little as normal candle lights would do from time to time. However, this only enervated him more, opening the door his heart sank to his stomach, a mixture of repulsion and anger filled his heart. In a swift move and with a heart-shattering scream he lunged sword in hand towards one of the men that were raping his wife's and daughter's dead bodies however he couldn't make it. Two men that were acting as guards intercepted him, and with relative ease took him on. Less than five minutes were needed for them to be done with the poor blacksmith as he watched as his loved ones were being desecrated.

Not long after but what felt like an eternity for the smith the men were done. Before leaving they made sure to cut off the smiths hands and with a hideous grin plastered on their faces one, presumably the leader spoke.

"The king sends his regards"

This was the final task given to them by their king, and now that it was done so were they. Leaving behind a destroyed family and house the black hand left and the only thing that remained were the sobs of the smith. After a while of holding the naked, desecrated bodies of his loved ones his grief turned into anger and hatred. His head felt slightly dizzy from the blood loss but that was the last of his concerns. He could somehow guess why this was done to him, and he was going to take revenge in the only way he could at the moment. Even if it was stupid or nonsensical he would carry it out, after all, that was all he had left.

Struggling with his stumps a healing potion was poured on the floor making a puddle. He jammed his stumps on it and drank the rest. This should at the very least slow down the bleeding enough for his plan. With haste, he tied a piece of cloth on both stumps and ran back to his smith, if the king didn't want him to make another treasure, then he would make one right now out of spite.

It didn't take long until he was back at the smith. The embers of the furnace were still hot, with trouble and effort he managed to reignite it and began his work. First, he embedded his trusty hammer on the still open wound of his right stump while tying as tight as possible. Next, he threw all the ingots he had left from the king's job into the furnace. Completely disregarding safety he took the ingots out however he could before hammering them into shape and throwing them back in. This process took around two hours as even filled to the brim with hatred, anger, and sadness his craftsman mind wouldn't allow a poor job. The result was something similar to Damascus steel. The properties of the metals wouldn't be able to shine as much as they could if the job had been done with the utmost care, however, that wasn't important at this moment.

With swift-unrefined-anger-filled movements, the hammer swung down on the piece of metal. Because of his emotions growing out of control, the smith wasn't able to hammer with precision, resulting in the metal twisting and bending into contorted and almost hideous forms. Blood dripped at a constant pace, falling on the almost white-hot metal evaporating with sizzling sounds while leaving black spots behind. The hammering continued nonstop and at some points, even the gems and wood was thrown in the mix for no good reason. The blood loss clouded his mind, his body moving out of muscle memory at this point, but the hammering never stopped nor it grew weaker, on the contrary, each swing held greater force than the last one.

After around ten hours he was done, or rather his body was. No more work could be poured into the hideous blade as its creator was crossing death's doorstep. With no strength left the smith collapsed, the abomination he created landing next to him. As he glanced at the blade an awful grin grew on his face as he hallucinated on the king's death by this blade. Soon after his chest deflated signalling the last breath this man would ever release. His grin became a calm smile as his thoughts drifter towards his deceased family. He wanted to ruffle his daughter hair again despite her protests, he wanted to hold his wife in a tight embrace once gain while whispering how much he loved her. He could only dream of the day they could meet again on their next life. A tear left his eyes as they lost their light.

Next to the corps of its creator laid the twisted blade, if it resembled any known weapon that would be a flyssa. Its black colour oozed wickedness. At its back, sharp crystals shone with a crimson red light. It pulsated or at least gave the feeling it did as no light reflected from its dark surface. Its edge, sharp like no other, threatening to cut anything or anyone, especially anyone, with a single swing. If the first blade he had created for the king was that fit for an angel, this one belonged to the most wicked of all devil.

The furnace was left unattended and soon the entire place caught fire. The smith was somewhat far from the town to prevent a fire from damaging other people's buildings in case one broke out. However, thanks to this the smithy was allowed to burn unhindered. When the fire reached its peak in temperature, rain began to pour almost as if mother nature wanted to finish the smith's work the rain drowned out the flames hitting the blade, tempering it.

A month after all this had transpired a well-known bandit group attacked the town. The ruins of the smith had been left mostly untouched as none wanted to clean up the mess nor was it necessary. The bandits were successful in their raid and began ransacking everything they could. Soon the leader discovered the ruins of the smith while having one of his leisure walks after a job well done. He began scavenging for anything valuable in the wreckage. He might be the leader but looking for hidden treasure was one of his favourite activities.

Not long after he found the blade. A chill ran down his pain, such a blade that could give even him the chills was worth keeping. Without a second thought, he took the thing, since it didn't have a proper hilt a simple piece of cloth was used to make a temporary one. With a swing, he confirmed its worth. A bit on the heavy side but its sharpness was amazing, truly a weapon worthy of him. With a large grin, he walked back, he was in an excellent mood for killing. The screams could be heard here and there as he took it upon himself to kill all the guards that had been captured. The once brownish piece of cloth quickly grew a deep scarlet red despite no blood ever touching it. The blade kept itself clean despite the numerous murders it had gone through as not a single drop of blood remained on it, almost as if it greedily drank it all.

Flash forward in time, and the bandit and his group made a name for themselves, even more so than what they already had. The group became known as the hell spawns, and they also founded the bandit association, an underground intelligence network worthy of fear. The bandit leader above all became known as the executioner as none that had ever raised a hand against him lived to tell the tale. However, those that surrendered without any resistance were spared, not out of goodwill but from a sensation that had taken root in his heart, almost as if the blade commanded him to.