The sound of shattering steel rang through the workshop.
CRACK.
The blade split in two the instant it struck the training dummy. Metal shards clattered across the floor, skidding to a stop at Rizoma's feet.
The warrior holding the sword stared at what remained in his hand. Then his face twisted.
"Again?!" he snapped.
Rizoma stood behind his workbench, unmoving.
The warrior flung the broken weapon down. "You call this a weapon? It couldn't last a single strike!"
Rizoma's fingers tightened into fists, but no words came.
The man scoffed. "You're a disgrace to blacksmiths."
The door slammed as he left.
Silence followed.
Rizoma exhaled slowly and stepped forward. He crouched, picking up the broken pieces. The fracture line was clean. Too clean.
His hands trembled.
"…Why?"
He had followed every step. Every measurement. Every tradition passed down for generations.
"I forged it perfectly."
The words sounded hollow even to him.
With a sudden motion, he slammed the metal onto the table.
"WHY DO THEY ALWAYS BREAK?!"
His voice echoed through the house.
A small figure appeared in the hallway.
"Father…?"
Rizoma stiffened. For a brief moment, the rage in his eyes flickered. Then it disappeared.
"It's nothing," he said quietly, not turning. "Go back to sleep."
The boy hesitated, then nodded and disappeared into the darkness.
Rizoma remained still long after.
The broken sword lay before him.
"Normal steel… normal techniques…" he muttered.
His gaze hardened.
"They're not enough."
Days passed.
Then weeks.
The workshop grew quieter, colder. Rizoma worked less, thought more. He began listening—to whispers he would have once ignored. Rumors. Legends. Things craftsmen refused to speak of.
Power beyond craft.
One night, he traveled to a distant market town.
Lanterns swayed above crowded streets. Merchants shouted. Coins clinked. Life moved as it always had.
But something stood apart.
At the far end of the market was a black tent. No voices. No movement. Just stillness.
Rizoma approached.
Inside, an old woman sat behind a wooden table. Her pale eyes met his immediately.
"You look like a man carrying heavy frustration," she said.
Rizoma frowned. "What are you talking about?"
She chuckled softly. "You forge swords… yet they break."
His breath caught.
"…How do you know that?"
"Desperation has a scent."
Rizoma hesitated. Then something inside him gave way.
"My blades are flawless," he said, his voice low. "Yet they shatter like glass."
His gaze sharpened.
"I want power."
The woman studied him.
"What kind of power?"
"Power to create weapons that will never break."
For a moment, she said nothing. Then she reached beneath the table and placed an old book before him.
Dust rose as it landed.
"This chant calls a being born from fragments of existence," she said.
Rizoma's eyes narrowed. "A demon?"
She shrugged. "Names are meaningless."
He reached for the book—but paused.
"…What's the price?"
The woman's smile thinned.
"Power always requires a vessel."
Rizoma frowned. "Explain."
But she only leaned back.
"You'll understand soon enough."
Silence stretched.
Then slowly, he took the book.
That night, the workshop was lit by twelve candles arranged in a perfect circle. Strange symbols covered the floor, drawn with careful precision.
Rizoma stood at the center, the book trembling slightly in his hands.
"This will work," he whispered.
He began to read.
The words were wrong. Twisted. As if language itself resisted them.
The air grew cold.
The candle flames flickered violently.
Wind stirred where none should exist.
Then—
something formed.
Dark fragments drifted into the circle. Slowly, they gathered, twisting into a shape that did not belong.
A figure emerged.
Its body was made of shifting shards of darkness, never still, never whole.
It looked down at him.
"You called me."
Its voice was layered—whispers over whispers.
Rizoma swallowed. "Yes."
"What do you seek?"
"Power," he said. "I want to forge blades that will never break."
The creature tilted its head.
"A simple desire."
Hope flickered in Rizoma's chest.
"So you'll grant it?"
"I will."
Relief washed over him—
Then the creature continued.
"But not through you."
Rizoma's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
The creature turned its head slowly.
Toward the hallway.
Rizoma's heart skipped.
"No…"
A small figure stood at the doorway.
Shizuma.
"Father…?" the boy whispered.
Rizoma stepped forward instinctively. "You shouldn't be here—"
"I will use him," the creature said calmly.
Silence fell.
Rizoma froze.
"…My son?"
"Yes."
Shizuma looked between them, confused. "Father… what is that?"
Rizoma's thoughts spiraled.
No.
This wasn't what he wanted.
There had to be another way.
He looked at his son—small, fragile, unaware.
Memories surfaced.
A tiny hand gripping his sleeve.
A quiet voice calling him "Father."
The boy waiting at the door each night.
His chest tightened.
"…No," he murmured.
The creature said nothing.
Rizoma's gaze dropped.
Broken blades.
Mocking voices.
Failure.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His jaw clenched.
"Power always requires a vessel."
The witch's words echoed.
His breathing grew uneven.
If not this… then nothing would change.
He would remain weak.
Pathetic.
A failure.
Slowly, he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again—
something inside him had shifted.
"…Do it."
Shizuma's eyes widened. "Father…?"
The creature smiled.
"As you wish."
Its body shattered into countless black fragments.
They surged forward.
"Wait—!" Rizoma reached out.
Too late.
The fragments struck the boy—
and sank into his chest.
Shizuma gasped.
His body locked—
then collapsed.
"NO—!"
Rizoma lunged, catching him as he fell.
"Shizuma! Stay with me—!"
Silence.
Then—
a voice.
Low.
Ancient.
Smiling.
"From this moment…"
Darkness spread through the room.
"This child is no longer yours."
The candles extinguished one by one.
"He is mine."
The workshop was swallowed in shadow.
Rizoma froze.
His son lay in his arms.
Breathing.
But something else breathed with him.
Something deeper.
Watching.
His hands trembled.
"…What have I done…?"