Mighty Sword gleams on a bed of worn velvet, a blade of burnished silver with a central groove of molten red that seems to glow when the light catches it just so. The edge is razor-thin, as if the metal remembers every strike before it lands, and the guard curls upward like a falcon's wing, etched with pale sigils that catch your eye and refuse to release it. The grip is wrapped in old leather, smooth from years of weather and hands that tell stories of patrols and sieges, while the pommel holds a small black stone that seems to swallow the room's heat. Lore says it was quenched in dragon ash after a siege, tempered by a smith who spoke to the dead and listened as they recounted the battles where this blade learned to sing. In the heat of a skirmish, Mighty Sword doesn't merely cut; it answers a call. The prefix 'Mighty' isn't trivia but invitation: a creed that strength can be coaxed from a moment's breath, that steel can bend to a will sharpened by purpose. Wielders report the blade's hum in a crowded line, a resonance that nudges allies to close ranks and lets you punch through armor. The sword's magic, if one dares call it that, comes from a lineage: the chronicle of a mercantile guard who rode trade routes between smoky forges and wind-swept docks, a blade that learned how to guard as well as strike. To hold Mighty Sword is to touch a thread that ties campaigns together, a thread that tests whether a hero is defined by boasts or by an oath to protect those who travel with him. My finder’s route led me to the Saddlebag Exchange, where caravans pause and stories swap for coin. The stallkeeper's lamp threw gold on the blade, and the market's chorus—haggling and parchment—made the room feel like a living ledger. Prices rose and fell with every rumor: three silver to begin, then a negotiation that loosened when a courier arrived with news of safer passage. A chieftain's insignia served as collateral; a carved map in a wooden box as proof of a bargain kept. The clerk insisted the Mighty Sword’s value rode the tides of demand, that a bearer earns it as much as guards against the road’s treachery. By the time I stepped away, the coin heavier in my pocket and the blade heavier in my mind, I understood why such artifacts are valued: they carry the weight of journeys. Back on the road, the sword feels less like a weapon and more like a memory you can heft. It asks for a worthy path, one where every swing writes the world a little brighter, every guard a little steadier. The world turning around that edge keeps its own counsel, but those who listen can hear the echo of merchants, of battles, and of bargains struck at the Saddlebag Exchange—a reminder that Mighty Sword is not just steel, but a story made manifest.