It is quite simple, really. My father passed the sword on to me when he died, and for years I carried it around with me as I travelled the world, without understanding the power I had in my grasp.
When I turned 25, the sword came to life, and it told me that I was to continue my family’s legacy of being mercenaries for gods. The media started reporting that the serial killer known as the Demon Hand, who had been dormant for seven years, had returned.
The transactions worked on a ration of boons and mercies offered to me against each murder. I didn’t care whether the god I was working for was a good one or a bad one, or if the victims deserved it. I chose based on what was offered me.
When I came back home, I bought a penthouse looking over the ocean, and moved in there with my talking iguana and my musical chairs and all the other magical idiosyncracies I had now begun collecting.
I fell in love with this young man, my first meeting with whom was imbued with a serendipity that should have raised my hackles. After a year or so, he said to me, “Darling, I want to see where you live.”
I took him home, and as he surveyed the wonders in my house with awe on his face, I consulted the eye of the oracle and gazed at his potential future. So I killed him.