Berserker's Iron Sword sits on the workbench, catching the last light of the forge with a stubborn glow. Its blade is broad and heavy, the iron surface scarred by time and weather, the edge beveled to a brutal sharpness that promises a clean cut in a crowd. A fuller carves a pale ribbon along the steel, and along its spine a tangle of runes coils like smoke—faint, almost alive, shifting as you tilt the blade. The crossguard is sturdy, squared and blunt so that it can guard against a skewer of steel, while the grip is wrapped in torn leather, darkened by sweat and stories, with a brass pommel that catches a spark and holds it for a heartbeat. The whole thing exudes a warmth that lingers in your palm, as if it remembers every clash it has known. Lore says it was tempered in the furnace shadow of a besieged fortress, forged by a master smith who believed fury could be forged into form and kept for a worthy holder. In gameplay, the sword is less a rumor and more a promise. It carries a stat signature favored by bold play—Power, Precision, and Ferocity—turning each swing into a potential burst of scoring blows. Wielded by veterans who slide through ranks with a seeker’s hunger, it rewards aggression: landing clean hits tends to widen the window of opportunity, sharpening crit potential and making adrenaline hum in the wrists. When knocked into a frenzy, a swing seems to cut a path through armor as if the air itself were parting to let momentum through. Veteran duelists tell stories of walls of shields collapsing the moment the runes flare, of the blade speaking for the wielder with a voice that whispers, “go again.” Markets in the trading hubs are where the blade’s price lives and breathes. On a sunlit morning, I watched a traveler barter with a merchant at Saddlebag Exchange—an open-air stall where coins clink and rumors travel faster than coin. The Sword’s value floats with demand and enchantments; a clean, unenchanted Berserker's Iron Sword might fetch a tidy sum, but one rubbed with elder runes or etched with a victory story can climb. In my notes, the going rate for a well-preserved Berserker's Iron Sword rested somewhere in the golds—enough to make the choice feel weighty, not frivolous. The seller spoke in careful breaths about scratches that only add character, while the buyer pictured the next charge across a courtyard, feet driving into the stone as the weapon finds its mark. Beyond the price and steel, the sword becomes part of a larger story—the tale of a community that passes blades like heirlooms, of soldiers who remember battles by the sound of steel, and of a buyer who learns that a weapon chooses its owner as much as it is chosen. In twilight, the Berserker's Iron Sword glows with a memory of the moment when foes yield, and the city holds its breath while a lone fighter inches toward dawn.