“Well, aren’t you interesting,” he murmured, and tossed the blade up in the air, catching it on a finger. It balanced perfectly. “Very interesting. This is fine work.”
“You honor me, Sukuna-sama.”
“I do,” Sukuna agreed, looking down. The man didn’t look up. There was a slight tremor in the arms. A cold sweat, building on the back of the neck. Easy to see with the man folded to the ground.
“Are you afraid?”
A swallow. A shaking.
“Yes,” the man admitted, “but I’m fine with fear if I make better blades because of it.”
Sukuna laughed. “I like you, smith. Your name?”
“Munechika.”
Sukuna would remember it.
“Finish preparing the blade,” he ordered.
There was a gulp. Loud. But the man’s hands didn’t shake as he reached for his tools, the sword, taking the flat edge of wood to clay, and then to the blade.
Sukuna settled back and watched.
The man— Munechika— was careful. He didn’t rush. A thick layer across the spine, the body. Little rivulets down, to the edge. Like ribs, reaching for the open air.
“It will take a while for it to dry, Sukuna-sama.”
“It won’t,” Sukuna corrected, and opened the gaping maw of his flame. It unfolded into his hand, a painting of heat and sharp divinity.
The man took a sharp breath, looking up. Sukuna would forgive it.
He opened his palm, and the flame licked out, drying the clay in an instant. He didn’t heat the blade, not yet. He was interested in a blacksmith, not a pile of char.
“Get ready,” he ordered, and so the man did. A set of tongs clamped the tang, and then the man held out the blade. An offering from penitent to god.
Sukuna drenched it in flame.
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stormborns
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