I don't own the characters that I took from the original stories, I only claim ownership on the
Characters and storytelling that has been invented and added by myself.
If you happen to find any grammatically incorrect phrases, or just have some ideas to improve
what I do here, feel free to message me.
Also be aware that my work might continue content that is not fitted for younger audiences or
might even offend members of certain minorities, genders or communities. If you are not okay
with that, please don't continue reading. Parental advisory is advised.
Autors Notes: I just recently felt like reading this, just a little bit of backstory behind the legendary sword Alita wields.
Enjoy and remember to leave a nice comment ;)
The blacksmith pulled the red hot steel out of the flaming furnace. The heat emitting from it caused some sweat to drip from his forehead. Small blue flames flickered around the metal. Inside his hand the metal was heavy. He had gotten old, too old for this. But he made this promise to create one last weapon. He slapped the steel rod onto his anvil, sparks sprayed all around him, burning little parts off his beard. His left hand kept the glowing metal in place while he grabbed the huge hammer with his right. It went far up into the air, then it fell down onto the metal.
Again and again the hammer hit the steel, forming it further and further. From the rough edges of the rod he slowly created a beautiful slightly bent shape. A sharp pike developed around the upper side of the rod before the steel was too cool to work it any further. He put the hammer back down and grabbed the steel rod with both hands. Back into the yellow flames it went, once again he had to wait. It didn't take long and the metal was glowing red once again. His huge arms grabbed the rod and slammed it onto the anvil. Back on it with his hammer;
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The metal bent underneath his powerful strikes, forming a sharp edge on its one hand side. Elegant, smooth, perfect. At this point he held an almost finished weapon in his hand. A perfect blade, worthy of a true warrior. He shoved the blade deep into the barrel of water next to him. Steam emerged, water hissed as it vaporized. For a few seconds he didn't move, enjoying the sounds of fire behind him and the moving water in front of him. Enough time went past, he pulled the weapon out of the vat again. Where there had been glowing metal, there was now a dull, dark surface. It was not nearly close to being done or being perfect yet. He slammed the weapon onto his workbench, pulled out grindstones and started working the sword. First the backside, smoothed until it was perfectly silvery. Then the two sides. A little bit of a pattern of lines occurred as he shoved the grindstone over the hard metal. Now finally the cutting edge. This was the most important part. The old blacksmith moved the grindstone slowly along the edge, creating a sharper edge, sharper than almost anything he had ever seen. There it was. Perfectly sharp, just waiting to cut anything in pieces that came in its way. Now the handle. He grabbed a piece of fabric he had prepared just for this. The black material felt soft underneath his fingers, a huge difference to the rough, hard metal. The black material laid around the handle perfectly, sticking to it without leaving a single gap. Then it was almost done. The blade was ready. It was the best weapon he had made so far. And there was not going to be a better one. He turned the pike towards his heart. Everyone had to die someday. But only few got to decide when and where. Happiness and pride were the last thing he felt as his own blade cut through his heart, draining his blood, ending his thoughts forever.
Long after the blacksmith died, his blood was wiped off the blade. It had left its own pattern on the perfect steel. Not only that, the steel had also hardened way beyond any known metal. That pattern and its mere indestructibility making it unique, the people gave this weapon its name:
The Damascus blade. After the first man that died to it.