A thud. A bang. A crash. That is all the Blacksmith could hear—perhaps even knew. His hammer struck the hot iron, sparks with every swing. A test of his abilities it was, as the Blacksmith struck with all his might. A clang. A crash. A boom. Each time the Blacksmith swung, the hammer got heavier and heavier, but the Blacksmith would hold onto the hammer, never letting go.

              Burrowing from his survivor’s guilt, the Blacksmith had huddled himself inside the smithy room to create a masterpiece. A great sword, made for a great wielder; one that could topple an entire army. ‘A sword made for a great knight’ is what the Blacksmith thought to himself, so he wouldn’t lose motivation. A cough. A yawn. A rumble. No matter what the Blacksmith felt, he never lost focus.

              A screech. A shriek. A scream. No matter what the Blacksmith heard, he never lost motivation. A yell. A holler. A cry. No matter what the Blacksmith heard, he never lost purpose. His magnum opus was close to completion. ‘A sword fit for a ruler,’ the Blacksmith supposed to himself. When was the last time he had seen the sun? The Blacksmith had not known. All he knew was that he needed to finish the sword to satisfy himself.

              The closer he was to finishing his stroke of genius, the slower the time floated by. Where seconds once were had been replaced by minutes, then replaced by hours, then replaced by a sense of endlessness. The Blacksmith’s senses grew duller with each swing of the hammer. He kept striking the hot iron, beating it until the impurities finally do away.

              A ring. A clink. A jangle. The sound of metal scraping the ground could be heard in the background. The Blacksmith knows not of where the sounds originate, but all he knew was that finishing his tour de force would bring all his mysteries to an end eventually. And yet, the eventual time the Blacksmith thought of kept getting farther and farther away.

The Blacksmith kept beating the hunk of iron, over and over. The thoughts of “How long must this take,” and “Should I take a break?” stopped occupying his mind. The only remaining thought inside the Blacksmith’s mind was gifting the sword to a rightful owner. Oh, the honor he would feel when someone would take it off his hands. ‘A sword fit for a monarch’ the Blacksmith thought.

              A bang. A clink. A…. silence. Before the Blacksmith realized it, the blade was completed. The hours turned back into minutes, and those into seconds. The many hours he had spent, carving out the most detailed of detailed details into the sword, felt like abrupt flashes in the eyes of the Blacksmith.

              The sword truly was a sight to behold. Edges that could gleam even in darkness. A point that could pierce the heavens. Undeniably worthy of the title ‘masterpiece.’ The Blacksmith felt confident in his chef-d’oeuvre. He could finally retire without any shame. But before any of that, he needed to find its rightful owner.

              The Blacksmith opened the smithy door. When he stepped outside, his eyes were blinded by the light he had not seen in an eternity. Once the Blacksmith’s eyes finally adapted, he saw… nothing. Only the small whiff of iron in the air. There was not a single person on the busy street. With the blade on his back, the Blacksmith patrolled the nearby area. Not even rodents passed the Blacksmith by.

And so, the Blacksmith wandered through the kingdom. No matter where the Blacksmith roamed, not a single person appeared in front of him. Only the smell of iron remained. Something about the noxious smell was strange, for the Blacksmith had only ever known this stench from the workshop.

The bustling plaza, now a ghost town. It was quite an odd occurrence. The shrieks of crows could be heard, but never located. The Blacksmith continued his trek. He decided to go to the townhall in hopes of finding anyone, but it was to no avail. Only the stench of iron lingered.

              The peculiar odor developed as the Blacksmith got closer to the townhall. It reached its peak when he reached the door. When the Blacksmith held the doorhandle, something started to ooze from underneath the entrance. He cautiously turned the knob, and more liquid started to seep. The further the Blacksmith opened the door, the more his face resembled a ghost.

              The floor was decorated red. Bodies lay lifeless like an art display. Clumps of the red fluid surrounded the corpses like mountain ranges. However, the Blacksmith was able to keep composure. He powered through the motionless hallway, followed by his tainted footprints.

              Every time the Blacksmith saw a corpse, time slowed. Every corpse put the Blacksmith into a trance, unable to stop locking with their lifeless eyes. With every step, the seconds turned into minutes, those into hours, and those into an eternity. The Blacksmith tried to run from the bodies, but the hallway seemed endless. Unable to hide from the lifeless eyes that judged him, he rushed back to the entrance.

              The door wouldn’t budge no matter how hard he pounded. In desperation, the Blacksmith took his sword and slashed clean the door right through the middle. Undeniably worthy of the title ‘masterpiece.’ But what had been the city center was nowhere to be seen. Instead, it had been replaced by an empty void.

              He fell on his back in disbelief and crawled away from the endless darkness. The bodies by the Blacksmith started to grab onto his legs and arms. Unable to free himself, he cries in agony. One limb at a time, the Blacksmith was slowly swallowed into the ground where he had once walked.

A wail. A weep. A blub. Unable to escape from his own hallucinations, the only thing left of the Blacksmith was his sword, his mightiest creation. May God have mercy upon his soul.