Johnny made his way toward the scrap pile behind his father's workshop. His sharp eyes scanned the mound of metal refuse. He wasn't looking for a beautiful sword. He was looking for something that could destroy.
His gaze settled on a bent section of an old railroad track and a thick steel plate salvaged from a factory wall. Johnny ignited his father's welding torch.
CSSSSHHH!
His work came to a halt when a heavy voice called out from the workshop's back door.
"Oi, Johnny?"
It was Garrick, his father. He squinted, surprised to see his son standing there welding the scrap metal.
"It's rare to see you this quiet at home at this hour. You even helped out this morning," Garrick asked, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe.
"Usually, you'd have run off to the junkyard by now, playing tag with Taro and the kids from the next block. Did you guys have a falling out?"
Johnny didn't answer immediately. He looked down at his hands—the hands of a thirteen-year-old that were still smooth, uncalloused, and untainted by the blood of war. The name 'Taro' sounded foreign to his old soul, a faint memory belonging to this body's previous owner.
"No," Johnny answered curtly. His voice sounded deeper than usual, causing Garrick to raise an eyebrow.
"Then what? Making a new toy?" Garrick glanced at the pile of trash his son was inspecting. "If you need exhaust pipes, just take the ones in the corner. Don't use the good steel."
"I need something heavier," Johnny muttered quietly, more to himself than to his father.
Garrick chuckled, shaking his head at his son's behavior, assuming it was just puberty.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. Just watch your hands, alright? Don't weld your own fingers. I don't want to see any blood. I'm going to take a nap
Garrick turned and went back inside, leaving his son alone with his strange ambition.
With his father gone, Johnny's gaze sharpened again. Welding again
CSSSSHHH!
Sparks flew. Johnny wasn't crafting a sword with refined smithing techniques. He cut the steel plate roughly, then welded it directly onto the railroad track. He wrapped scraps of old seat leather around the handle to improve the grip.
Two Hour later, the object was finished.
It wasn't a sword. It was too big, too thick, and too heavy to be called a sword. It looked more like a crude slab of iron from Scrap with a handle. It was nearly as tall as Johnny was. It likely weighed between twenty and thirty kilograms.
Johnny lifted it. The muscles in his teenage arms tensed, veins bulging beneath his young skin. It was heavy. Far heavier than the Dragon Slayer if measured against his current body ratio.
But the weight... the weight calmed him. The pain caused by gravity's pull was the only thing that felt real to him right now.
Johnny carried it to an empty clearing behind a stack of used tires.
WHOOSH.
He swung it. The movement was slow. His balance wavered. Johnny's thirteen-year-old body wasn't ready to handle that kind of momentum.
"Weak," Johnny grumbled to himself.
WHOOSH.
He swung again.
WHOOSH.
Again.
Johnny continued to train under the dim glow of the Mako lamp. Sweat soaked his shirt. Blisters began to form on his hands. His breath came in ragged gasps.
But he didn't stop. He repeated the basic techniques: vertical, horizontal, and diagonal slashes.
Every swing was a prayer. Every ache in his muscles was an act of penance.
That afternoon, in the slum corner of Sector 7, the sound of wind being split by crude iron was the only music accompanying the rebirth of the Black Swordsman.