Rated M due to dark themes and violence.
Crusader and all locations and such are property of Marvel Comics.
(Note: Forgive me for any foolishness as I'm rather new at this. Also if your easily offended by religious imagery I suggest avoiding this as it is about a guy called Crusader for goodness sake.)
Arthur Blackwood always felt nervous in crowds, especially crowds like the ones found at the flea market he was currently at. He couldn’t help but feel that ever present knowledge that all around him there were people who thought differently then himself, people who put their faith into something different, people that who could no doubt awaken his insanity once more. In yet in the crowd he stayed, sitting behind his small tent trying to sell his swords. Arthur was a competent blacksmith, able to fix up old swords which he collected from various places. Mostly he stole them. He tried to himself it was for the better, that no one cared about the broken blades he stole, most of them were horrible replicas anyway. But he still couldn’t cloud out the ever vigilant part of his mind that cursed his every sin. Arthur was called away from his self-loathing thoughts as a man came up to buy a sword. He seemed to be interested in a blade stolen from an antique shop two towns down. Arthur calmly pointed to the price tag on the blades hilt and smiled hoping for a sale. Then the man noticed the sword in the back of Arthur’s tent and everything began to fall apart.
It was a beautiful sword, despite its sour condition, it was perfectly clean, dreadfully sharp, and it honestly looked as if the thing was recently forged despite being broken in half. The handle had an amazing design of swirling curses that met in the middle of the handle forming a perfect cross. “How much for the broken one?” Asked the man, blissfully unaware of how close he was to death. Arthur stiffly shook his head. The blade was not for sale. The man shook his head. “Come on, you brought the sword for a reason, so how much?” The man said assertively. “I can afford it.” Arthur was silent; he simply shook his head once more. He dared not speak, lest his anger take control. The man would not leave; he badgered Arthur for what felt like hours, until Arthur was on the verge of breaking. “Leave good sir!” Arthur yelled as he rushed to the back of his tent and covered up his broken blade. “I shall not sell this blade to anyone, last of all a charlatan such as you! Your soul can not bare the price of this blade anymore my own!” Arthur had very good reasons why he didn’t speak often. Everyone starred in his general direction and Arthur reacted with his usual level of self control. He slammed his precious, hated, sword in a bag and bolted out of the flea market.
The rain poured on Arthur as he slowly walked down the street, his head downcast as he went on his way. Hell’s Kitchen had earned its name in his eyes; it was where he was damned to stay for his past sins. Arthur cursed himself once more for mentioning sins. It was a buzzword in his mind, the pin on his own little grenade of insanity. But there were other ways to incite Arthur’s mad zealous side. Arthur stared in horror as he spotted the other way, a group of gang members beating an old priest explaining to the poor old man how he needed to remember to pay to keep his church safe. Why did it have to be a priest? Arthur could barely contain his maddening rage, as he walked up to the gang members. “Stop.” He said simply, in an almost pleading tone. One of the gang members glared at Arthur, he turned from his victim and slammed Arthur to the ground. Arthur’s bag fell from his hands and its content spilled to the ground with a loud clang. Arthur slowly reached for the hilt of his broken blade. “God have mercy on my soul.” He whispered, as the last hope of sanity dripped away from his mind. Arthur grabbed the hilt of his sword and was immediately struck by a bolt of lightning.
There was a giant cloud of smoke that filled the air, blinding the poor gang. The smoke slowly cleared revealed a figure in a suit of armor, wielded a sword that seem to shine with power. Arthur Blackwood was gone, in his place stood the Crusader. The gang members weren’t stupid, they knew a super when they saw one, and they tried to run for it. Alas, it was too late for that. The Crusader was not one to let his enemies escape. It was not a battle, no, it was indeed a slaughter or more accurately the beginning of one long slaughter that would last for most of the night. Arthur Blackwood’s last Crusade had begun.