DEVIL MAY CRY: BLOOD OF SPARDA
Note: Some characters, places, objects, creatures, concepts, and ideas are drawn from the Devil May Cry games. Others are products of the author's imagination.
Introduction
The hammer hit the steel lying on the anvil and sparks flew. A few of the sparks landed on the exposed arm of the blacksmith. If the smith felt pain, there was no sign—no cry, no movement. Instead, the hammer fell upon the steel once again. Then it was lifted off the anvil and immersed in dry ice, then plain ice, then water. Each time, the steel hissed as its heat was drawn off.
The steel fell under the smith's unwavering gaze. Flaws were dealt with, weaknesses eliminated. The steady rhythm of metal on steel flowed through the smith's shop much as the sweat flowed down the smith's body. The hammer met the steel, the steel dove into the cooling liquid, the smith examined the steel, and the steel returned to the anvil. The cycle continued for several hours, much as it had days before. How long, the smith didn't even think about, concentrating on the task at hand.
The steel slowly took shape under the smith's patient care. It was as if the steel had remembered its true form and nature. The hammer only served to remove that which was unnecessary, the fire made stronger that which remained, the ice and water cleansed the steel of the impurities that remained.
After some time had passed, the smith raised the steel once again. This time, there were no errors that the smith's trained and unforgiving eye could detect. Satisfied, the smith plunged the steel once again into another barrel of water, this one special. It had been drawn from a sacred source and as the steel was submerged into the water, it seemed to be enveloped in blue and silver fire that illuminated its dark form.
Days passed. And then finally, the smith's work was done. No longer was it steel held in the gloved hand—or rather, it was steel but also more than steel. It was a sword, naked and awaiting the great battle for which it had been created.
The smith gazed at the sword. Truly, this work had been worth the time the smith had spent. Then the smith removed the protective mask that sheltered eyes and face from harm while working at the anvil. The smith's jet-black hair flew loose as the band that held mask to face was removed. Lips curved into a small yet satisfied smile.
In its blade, the smith could see faces—Father, Uncle, Mother, perhaps even Grandfather.
She was Cassandra, grand-daughter of Sparda. And now it was her time to battle the forces of Hell.