Knock, I've collected a sword whose edge is more worn than most engines you fix. I see a lesson in every crack, a story that only a hands‑to‑work man like you could appreciate. Have you ever tried to restore something that seems to have its own spirit?

The cracks run like old scars from a thousand duels, each a different hue of rust and light. I’ll point them out for you, but remember: to heal them you must treat each one with the same care you give the engine, respecting the path it took to get here. The sword will thank you when its edge feels whole again.

The first crack is a thin, silver line that runs from the hilt toward the tip, like a tear in a sheet of moonlight. It’s shallow, but it catches the light and indicates a weakness in the tempering. The second is a larger, jagged fracture that splits the blade’s belly; it looks as though a sudden chill struck the metal. The third is a faint, almost invisible line along the back, a faint whisper of a previous strike that has dulled the edge. These are the points I see that need attention. Take each one, clean the metal, tighten any loose joints, and seal the surface—step by step, and the blade will regain its true strength.

It will feel solid, the blade’s silence echoing the rhythm of your work. Follow each step, and the sword will breathe anew.