Bloodletter rests on the oaken worktable, a narrow arc of scarlet steel that seems to drink candlelight and return it with a clinical gleam. The edge is razor-thin, glinting with a livid sheen that hints at a bite more judicial than reckless. Along the blade, a lattice of dusk-black runes crawls like dried red ivy, a whisper of old enchantments that once promised the wielder exacting control over life and fate. The hilt is wrapped in worn leather, the color fading to a deep burgundy that catches the eye whenever the candle sways, and the pommel is carved into the shape of a droplet, cool and unyielding to the touch. A small, triangular gem sits just above the guard, a crimson eye that seems to watch the room as if it could judge a man’s intentions before he even moves. The texture alternates between slick, almost oily polish along the blade’s surface and a bone-dry grip where the oil has long since evaporated, leaving the hand with a careful, almost reverent hold. lore says the blade bears a ledger of sins—tales of a relic-forger who etched it with the memories of victims, and of a clandestine order that trusted Bloodletter to seal delicate bargains with a single, decisive cut. In the hands of a practiced thief or a disciplined striker, Bloodletter becomes more than metal; it becomes a chorus of intent. Its balance invites quick, precise stabs, the kind that stack bleeds with almost rhythmic precision. When it finds its mark, the weapon’s bite seems to ride the pulse, aggravating the target’s bleeding as if the blade were siphoning away a portion of life itself. Players and storytellers alike speak of its tempo—one clean strike to pierce, another to deepen the wound, a third to force a retreat or a fatal close. It’s not merely about raw damage; it’s about pace, spacing, and the art of making every motion tell a story. In PvE, it excels at shredding staggered bosses and propagating bleeding across a crowd of adds, turning a tense moment into a sequence of controlled, surgical deaths. In PvP, it rewards anticipation and feints, rewarding anyone who blends stealth with speed, letting the blade become a bookmark in a duel’s tense narrative. The lore-woven whispers insist the blade favors those who understand personal risk as a craft—judiciously chosen targets, timing, and the nerve to press the assault when fear would have them back off. Market whispers drift through the market square as dawn breaks. I hear the old traders murmur of Bloodletter’s price, how demand keeps it bright in the eyes of buyers who prize danger in a polished grip. When I wander to Saddlebag Exchange, the stall’s chalkboard glows with the next ledger of trades: this blade fetching two gold coins, a handful of rare crimson shards, and a story in exchange for a few favors owed to the wrong kind of acquaintance. The clerk weighs it with a calm certainty, nods at the gem’s heart, and then slides a parchment note across the counter—an invitation to a future where Bloodletter’s legend may finally author its own conclusion.