Firework Sword catches the morning light and fractures it into tiny stars along its blade. The metal is a deep, soot-dark silver, polished to a mirror that ripples when you tilt it. Along the spine run thin inlays of cobalt and gold that look almost like writing in a language of sparks, and at the tip a tiny, working fuse quivers as if a pulse lives inside. The guard curves like a crescent moon caught in a lantern glow, and the grip is wrapped in scarred red leather that smells faintly of rain and old trade routes. When it rests in your hand, the weight sits just right, and the sword seems to remember every calm before a fight and every cheer afterward. This blade was tempered in the smoke of a thousand fireworks, forged by pyrotechnists who believed a weapon should sing as well as win. It is said that at the crest of a great siege, a single spark—more emblem than flame—lashed across the blade, turning the weapon into a signal flare that guided allies through smoke and chaos. Since then, the Firework Sword has carried a reputation for spectacle as much as lethality: a weapon that demands a moment's pause to watch as a rain of colored embers blooms along the edge with every swing. Practitioners don’t just strike; they choreograph a brief, glowing show that can dazzle a crowd or terrify a foe into retreat, a reminder that war and wonder can share the same blade. In practical terms, the sword is prized for its aura on the battlefield. Its hits release a cascade of sparks that light the air, giving allies a moment to close or retreat. It pairs with burst builds, turning a strike into a mini-spectacle that buys time and momentum. The fireworks don’t crush numbers, but they shape the fight, giving the user a narrative edge—a flourish that reminds observers you chose the dramatic path. In battle or parade, it invites more than a hit; it invites memory to life. Market chatter adds color to the sword’s legend. On a bright morning I wandered toward Saddlebag Exchange, where a stand laid out a blade that glowed with a cool blue fuse today, its sheath catching the wind like a pennant. The price rolled from coin to coin in a seller’s lullaby—two, three gold, depending on who you asked and how many witnesses would vouch for the sword’s condition. A traveler with sun-bleached hair leaned in and murmured that the deal would swing on reputation as much as rarity, that knowing the blade’s past mattered as much as knowing its present. The Exchange isn’t just commerce here; it’s a stage where stories cross, and the Firework Sword finds another chapter in its ongoing performance. I left with the thought that this blade is less a tool than a memory in motion: a blade that finishes a duel and begins a story, a light blooming in the air and asking you to choose grace.