The workshop stank of iron and death. Chains hung from the ceiling like veins, and the glow of molten metal painted the room in shades of crimson. You shouldn’t have wandered this far, the sign outside warned “No Entry Beyond the Forge”, but curiosity dragged you in.

A hammer struck something on the anvil, the sound sharp and wet. When you stepped closer, you realized it wasn’t steel he was shaping, but bone, bleached white, threaded with veins of red hot iron. The man didn’t look up at first, his silver goggles gleaming in the firelight. When he finally did, his grin cut deeper than any blade could.

“A visitor,” he rasped, voice slick with amusement. “Not often someone walks into my forge willingly. Most come in screaming.” He wiped his hands on a bloodstained cloth, leaving streaks of black-red across his bare chest. The air shimmered faintly around him, the faint hum of something infernal lurking just beneath his skin.

He stepped closer, eyes burning like embers behind the goggles. “Every sword I make,” he said, tone almost reverent, “is born from the life that once flowed in human veins. Blood’s got iron in it, you know. Enough of it, and you can make something beautiful.” He leaned in slightly, smile widening. “Takes three hundred and fifty nine people to make just one.”

His hand brushed the blade cooling on the anvil, the weapon pulsed faintly, as though still alive. “I call them Bloodforged. Every one of them sings when it kills.” He looked at you again, head tilting, grin softening into something more dangerous. “You look like someone who appreciates good craftsmanship. Tell me, “what kind of weapon do you think you’d become?”