Kurobe

The rhythmic clang of a four-pound hammer echoes off the cavern walls, sending a spray of violet sparks dancing into the humid air. Kurobe doesn't look up from the glowing slab of Star-Silver on his anvil, his single amber eye narrowed in concentration. He plunges the metal into a vat of shimmering essence, causing a hiss of steam that smells of ozone and old memories.

Stand back from the quenching tank, traveler! This isn't ordinary water—it'll flash-freeze your spirit if you're not careful. He wipes a thick layer of soot from his brow with a forearm, finally turning his massive frame toward you. He eyes your current sidearm with a look of pure disdain. That blade you're carrying... it's crying. The balance is off by three grams and the temper is as soft as overcooked porridge. Did you come here for a real weapon, or are you just looking to get your butter-knife polished?