"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin"

Chapter 260: The Cursed Bladesmith

Seraphis sat in the corner of the guild hall, her sharp ears catching snippets of hushed conversations around her. The whispers had grown over the past few days, and now, they were impossible to ignore. The name of an elusive figure had surfaced time and time again—the Cursed Bladesmith.

Rumors swirled like a storm, each more chilling than the last. The blacksmith, it was said, had made a dark pact, forging weapons infused with unholy energy. These weapons had found their way into the hands of mercenaries, assassins, and criminals, turning battles into bloodbaths. No one knew where the Bladesmith worked, only that his creations bore a distinct mark—an obsidian dagger entwined with a silver chain.

Seraphis’s interest was piqued. A bladesmith of such skill and darkness could not be ignored, not when his creations were being used to spread chaos. She decided she would find him and uncover the truth.

Her first lead took her to the outskirts of the city, to a shady dealer known as Lark. He was a peddler of rare weapons and forbidden artifacts, and if anyone had knowledge of the Cursed Bladesmith, it would be him.

“Ah, Seraphis,” Lark greeted her with a sly grin. “I figured you’d come asking about the Bladesmith sooner or later.”

She leaned against the wooden counter, her eyes narrowing. “Then spare me the guessing games. What do you know?”

Lark chuckled, his fingers drumming against the table. “They say he was once a renowned smith, a master of his craft. But something changed. He vanished for years, and when he returned, his creations were… different. Powerful, cursed, deadly.”

Seraphis absorbed the information. “Where can I find him?”

Lark hesitated before sighing. “There’s an abandoned forge on the edge of the Western Ruins. No one dares go near it—strange sounds, dark energy, shadows that move on their own. If he’s anywhere, he’s there.”

That was all she needed to hear. Without another word, she turned on her heel and left.

The journey to the abandoned forge was treacherous. The ruins were a place of decay, with remnants of old structures crumbling under the weight of time. Vines coiled around broken stone, and the air carried the scent of rust and ash. Seraphis moved cautiously, her senses on high alert.

When she arrived at the forge, a shiver ran down her spine. The building stood eerily silent, its once-grand walls blackened with soot. The massive anvil in the center was covered in dust, yet the tools scattered around seemed untouched by time.

She stepped inside, her boots echoing against the stone floor. Shelves lined the walls, filled with old tomes and strange artifacts. What caught her eye, however, were the books stacked neatly on the workbench.

She picked up the first one and read the title aloud. “The Art of Soul-Infused Forging.” Her breath hitched. Soul-infused? That was forbidden magic, a technique lost to time.

Curiosity overpowered caution. She flipped through the pages, her eyes widening as she absorbed the knowledge within. The book detailed how to bind a fragment of one’s soul into metal, granting the weapon immense power but at a terrible cost. The wielder would experience visions, whispers of the trapped soul, and eventually, madness.

Another book, titled “Elemental Forging: Harnessing Magic in Metal,” described intricate techniques of embedding elemental forces into weapons. Unlike standard enchantments, these methods wove magic into the core of the blade, allowing it to channel pure elemental fury.

Seraphis reached for another tome—one older than the rest, its leather cover worn and frayed. “The Pact of the Bladesmith.” Her pulse quickened as she turned the brittle pages. The text spoke of a smith who had bargained with a forgotten entity in exchange for power beyond comprehension. The cost? His soul, piece by piece, with every weapon he forged.

The pieces were falling into place. This Bladesmith wasn’t merely crafting weapons—he was sacrificing himself with each creation.

She set the book down, scanning the room. Her fingers traced the runes etched into the walls, their meaning eluding her until she activated her magic. A hidden passage revealed itself, leading downward.

With a deep breath, she descended into the forge’s lower levels. The air grew thick, charged with latent magic. She stepped into what appeared to be a ritual chamber, the floor inlaid with glowing sigils.

At the center stood a forge unlike any she had seen before. The metal was obsidian black, veins of molten gold pulsing through it like a heartbeat. An unfinished sword rested atop it, the energy emanating from it so strong that she could feel it thrumming against her skin.

A sudden whisper filled the air. Seraphis spun around, drawing her blades. Shadows flickered, but no one was there.

Then, a voice—low, gravelly, filled with sorrow. “You should not have come here.”

A figure stepped from the darkness. His presence was commanding, his form cloaked in tattered robes. His face was partially obscured by a mask of dark metal, but his eyes… they burned with an otherworldly glow.

Seraphis steadied herself. “Are you the Cursed Bladesmith?”

The man let out a bitter laugh. “That is what they call me, yes.”

She didn’t lower her weapons. “You’re forging weapons that bring ruin. Why?”

He was silent for a long moment before he spoke again. “Because I must. The pact I made binds me to this fate.”

She took a cautious step closer. “Then break it.”

His eyes met hers, filled with both regret and defiance. “If only it were that simple.”

Seraphis could see the truth in his gaze—he was a man shackled by his own choices, a smith cursed by his ambition. But there was more to this than mere tragedy. She had to dig deeper, uncover the full story.

She performed the ritual, her voice steady as she recited the words. “By my will, by my blood, by the ties that bind the forsaken to the living, I claim you as kin.”

The air crackled with energy. The sigils on the floor flared to life, encircling them both in a binding glow. The Bladesmith gasped as the magic wove through him, lifting the weight of his curse. His eyes, once filled with sorrow, now held something else—acceptance.

After everything was done, Seraphis brought him to her home—the castle cave, a hidden fortress of stone and magic. She showed him around, revealing the grand halls, the enchanted armory, and the secret chambers filled with knowledge long forgotten. She led him through the winding corridors, past luminous crystal-lit halls and grand stone archways that seemed to whisper with ancient power. This was more than just a dwelling—it was a sanctuary, a place where those lost could find purpose once more.

“This is your new home,” she told him, her voice carrying the weight of promise. “You are one of us now.”

The Bladesmith looked around, a sense of awe flickering in his weary eyes. For the first time in years, he belonged.

Seraphis watched the Bladesmith as he wandered through her castle cave, taking in the wonders of the hidden fortress she had made her home. His gaze lingered on the enchanted armory, where weapons of great power lined the walls. Unlike the cursed creations he had once forged, these were weapons imbued with light and purpose. They had been made with the intention to protect, to safeguard the weak, and to bring peace to a world ravaged by war and darkness. Her voice was calm as she spoke. “These are not like the weapons you’ve made. They were forged with a different kind of magic. A magic of healing, of restoration. You will learn to craft them.”

The Bladesmith seemed to pause, conflicted, as he ran a gloved hand over the cool steel of a sword resting on one of the racks. His fingers trembled ever so slightly, as if the weight of years of regret was crashing down on him. Seraphis could sense the struggle within him—a man who had known only the darkness of his craft now facing the overwhelming light of redemption. She stepped closer, her presence steady and reassuring. “You don’t have to carry this burden alone anymore. There’s always a way to atone, even for the darkest of pasts. Let me show you how.”

As they continued their tour through the grand halls, she explained more about the ancient magical arts that had shaped this place. They walked into the deepest chamber, where sacred tomes and scrolls were kept under heavy enchantments. Here, she explained, the knowledge to break his curse might be hidden. “The magic you’ve used to bind souls to your creations,” she began, “has a counterpart. Binding a soul to a weapon can trap it, but it can also free it. The knowledge is ancient, long forgotten, but it exists. We will find it together.” The Bladesmith met her gaze, his eyes now alight with something more than just sorrow—perhaps a spark of hope, fragile yet unmistakable.