Strong Iron Sword of Corruption

Strong Iron Sword of Corruption rests heavy in the palm, its blade a dull, merciless gray that drinks torchlight and turns it to a cold glitter. The steel is pitted from long use, yet the stone-clean edge remains razor-thin, like a thread drawn taut across a wound. Along the fuller, sigils tunnel through the iron—simple runes at first glance, but when you tilt the weapon they bloom into a soft, crimson glow that crawls along the length as if the blade remembers every strike. The guard is iron as well, squat and practical, wrapped in worn leather that has begun to crack at the seams. The pommel bears a single black stone, flickering with an internal ember that seems to pulse with your breath. Its texture shifts from cool to almost warm, a sensation that hints at a hunger lurking beneath the surface. Lorekeepers swear it was tempered in a shrine where guilt burned away and the metal learned to savor the fear it inspired. They tell of a captain who once used it to bargain with spirits of the ruined fort, turning a losing siege into a grim victory by coercing the will of the men who stood against him. The sword, they say, remembers the price of every victory, and it demands a careful hand. In use, the Strong Iron Sword of Corruption does more than cut. Wielded by someone who understands its appetite, it strings a thread of shadow across the battlefield: each strike leaves a trace of corruption that lingers on the foe, a slow burn that gnaws at their resolve while the wielder feels a faint, borrowed vigor. It is not merely a weapon but a conduit for a darker kind of power—one that feeds on fear, on guilt, on the sudden, bright clarity of battle that comes before retreat. For those who know how to coax its whispers, it turns ambush into certainty, charge into momentum. The sword does not merely sever; it unsettles the ground beneath a fight, tilting morale as easily as a gust tilts a banner. Prices drift through markets like moths around a lamp, and the Saddlebag Exchange is no exception. I watched a rough-hewn trader haggle over the Strong Iron Sword of Corruption as others hovered, mouths tight, waiting to learn the next rumor. The price moved on the breath of the courtyard—one moment a solid claim of three gold, the next a chase after a dozen silk sacks and a tale of recent carnage, depending on which pocket boasted the bravest lie. In the end, the negotiation settled on a fair, if wary, exchange—the sword changing hands with a soft clink of leather and metal, as if signing a consent to walk a dark corridor for a while longer. Walking away, the blade settled into its new grip like a tale resuming after a pause—the world darkened a fraction, the road widened, and the echo of a distant bell seemed to answer the sword’s unspoken question: who will carry the weight next?