Assassin's Tengu Echo Greatsword glints like a midnight shard, its blade a ribbon of obsidian carved with spiraling runes that catch light and never quite relinquish it. The edge is razor-thin, almost whispering as it rests against a lantern’s glow, and the fuller hums with a quiet, cold music. The guard curls into a winged silhouette, feathers etched in silver inlay that shift when the blade moves, as if a bird momentarily takes shape from steel. The grip is wrapped in charcoal leather, slick with rain and oil, and the pommel bears a small bead carved to resemble a tengu’s watchful eye. It feels balanced and heavy in the hand, a weapon meant to carve fate with deliberate, practiced force. Lore travels with the sword as surely as its weight does. Tales say it was tempered by a renegade tengu hunter who bound a whisper of his own shadow into the steel, turning the blade into an Echo. Not a memory in a book, but a living echo that lingers in the metal and answers when the wielder’s breath sharpens. The blade remembers, so to speak, the cadence of every strike—the moment a guard breaks, the tilt of a neck, the tremor in an opponent’s stance. When drawn in a shaded alley or a rain-slick street, it seems to murmur a second possibility, a ghostly companion that waits for the right tempo to slip in and strike again. In practice, the Echo Greatsword asks for a certain discipline. A heavy, decisive swing, a patient pause, and then the echo answers with a swift, secondary cut that can catch foes off their rhythm. The weapon’s gift is a double-portion of pressure: the initial slash carves a line through armor and nerves, while the remembered strike follows to complicate an enemy’s timing. Its reach makes it a threat to single targets and surprised ambushers alike, and it rewards those who choreograph their steps like dancers in a narrow street. Players who lean into precise timing, weaving movement with force, often feel the blade’s guidance—the sense that the true strike arrives not just in the arm, but in the air that surrounds it. The blade’s story becomes part of the world it inhabits. In markets crowded with traders and rain-slick banners, the weapon hints at the hush of a hidden order—the tengu’s oath and the hunter who walked the line between living and whispering shadows. One dusk, a guard recounted how a caravan’s fate pivoted on a single decision to trust in the Echo’s rhythm, letting a pursuer overtake the march and then be stopped by the second, ghostly cut that followed the first. The tale travels with the blade, shaping how people see it: more than metal, more than a weapon, a folded moment in time that asks for a mindful hand. Price, of course, travels with value and fear in equal measure. At Saddlebag Exchange, where relics trade hands as surely as stories do, the Assassin’s Tengu Echo Greatsword drew careful glances and cautious offers. Its cost hovered around three gold, a price that felt like a bargain to some and a legend to others, depending on how much one trusted the blade’s whisper. For those who dared to listen, the sword rewarded patience: a cut that sings in the air, followed by an echo that completes the song, leaving a memory of a strike long after the physical blow has ceased.