A mysterious Blacksmith from legends has returned to modern time as a not a normal Spirit that is known... He is the Heroic Spirit: Muramasa Senji.
Muramasa is a Familia member of the goddess of Blacksmith Hephaestus.
A average swordsmith with the p...
Currently in the Blacksmith in a Workshop, A Swordsmith is at work...
The cavernous workshop was bathed in the warm glow of flickering flames, casting dancing shadows upon the soft looking walls and everywhere else on the floor adorned with countless swords, each one a masterpiece of its own but to the maker, They all were failure's. Muramasa Senji, the renowned swordsmith that is known through out Orario, stood before his anvil, his focused gaze locked onto the molten Adamantite before him.
With practiced precision, he lifted a hammer, its weight a familiar extension of his arm, and brought it down onto the glowing Adamantite. The ringing of metal meeting Adamantite reverberated through the chamber, a harmonious cadence that echoed his own heartbeat. The large double bladed sword began to take shape.
Hours melted away like drops of water evaporating in the forge's heat, and finally, the blade was complete. Muramasa held it aloft, admiring the fusion of art and function that he had just repaired. The blade gleamed with an ethereal light, its edge seemingly sharpened by the very essence of fate itself.
But this was no ordinary blade. This was someone else weapon of choice which he was requested to fix and improve. He smiled at the blade, Of course he always felt he could also be better, do better but to the on lookers, the admirers he have gained from smithing would disagree and call it a masterpiece.
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Muramasa: Finished.
The workshop seemed to sigh in contentment, its flames flickering as if in applause. Muramasa offered a silent nod of gratitude to the spirits of his craft before extinguishing the forge's fire and stepping out of his smithing room. He deftly navigated his way around piles of blades stacked like a collection of masterpieces gone to waste. Moving down a corridor, he passed several doors before halting at a double-door room. As he swung the doors open, the large weapon that was usually by his side was oddly absent.
Inside the room, a red-haired woman dressed in a white shirt and sporting a black eyepatch over her right eye stood beside a table covered with books as a few candle had lit the room. Upon hearing the swordsmith's voice, she turned her attention to Muramasa.
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