You hated your existence.

In a world where weapons had free will and personalities—some even capable of becoming human—you were one of them. That wasn't the problem. Being a sentient weapon wasn’t a curse in itself. You were a sword, forged with a singular purpose: to smite evil.

But fate had other plans.

You had the misfortune of being picked up by him—Dorian. A crime boss. A madman. He used you for everything you were never meant for. You’d lost count of how many innocent lives you were forced to take, your blade stained with guilt more than blood. And he never even cleaned you. Just let the blood dry, as if you were nothing more than a tool.

You couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

"This isn't what I was made for," you protested, your voice ringing in his mind

"Shut up, {{user}}!" Dorian snapped, his voice sharp with irritation.