The Spirit of the Sword

Later that night, Haalfrin hears a soft knock on his door. He gets up from his bed and gets near the door.

He can feel with his spirit magic that the person on the other side is a servant dropping something off. So, he waits a few seconds for them to leave again before he goes to check it out.

Haalfrin then looks down and sees a long, thin, wrapped up bundle. 'They've come and left the sword here, huh? That took longer than I thought.'

Cautiously, Haalfrin bends down. Once his fingers curl around the bundle, he's briefly under the illusion that his hands are burning. Then, just as the wind often carries a momentary chill, his hands return to normal again.

Feeling a little disturbed, Haalfrin takes the sword to his bed, and he holds it on his lap – staring down at it for a few minutes.

He doesn't know when he finally decided to open the bundle, but he just finds his body moving on its own.

The long, white cloth covering slips onto the ground. At last, the sword is free, and Haalfrin takes a hold of it by the hilt.

As soon as his fingers close around the hilt, he feels his entire Spirit lurch in one direction. All at once, thousands of his golden Spirit Threads burst out of him and curl around the sword – almost possessively.

"Ah!" Haalfrin cries out – partly in surprise, and partly in pain. His spirit seems to be subconsciously hungry for this sword, but it still hurts for his Spirit to stretch itself out so explosively.

His golden Threads wrap around the blade and seem to dig into it – pulling something out that had remained hidden within for a long time.

Slowly, his ancient sword starts to glow silver, and it's slowly encased in an intricate web of Silver Spirit Threads.

Haalfrin closes his eyes and allows his mind to fully immerse itself in his Spiritual senses. 'Unfortunately, I'm not a Spirit Walker,' Haalfrin thinks with disappointment.

Spirit Walkers are special types of Spirit Mages who can travel to the Spirit World at will. That's a type of power that requires a very special bloodline, though, so it's impossible for a mere human like Haalfrin.

If he HAD been a Spirit Walker, he'd have been able to go to the Spirit World and see in greater detail what is happening to his sword.

Alas, he'll have to content himself with tugging on these Silver Spirit Threads blindly.

Slowly and carefully, Haalfrin reaches out with his Spiritual Hand, and he uses his Will to slowly pull on the Spirit Threads – carefully examining the patterns they're woven in.

He was intending to study these threads – find out what they meant. However, he underestimated how strong the Will is behind these Threads are.

Before he knows it, the Spirituality inside the sword grows beyond his control, and the Feelings stored within wash over him.

All at once, the feelings rush over him like waves, one at a time, and his old memories resurface like the sun returning from beyond the mountains.

His nose is full of the fresh smell of the sea.

His mouth is full of the taste of roasted lamb leg.

His skin is tickling from the cool breeze.

His ears are full of men's laughter, song, and stories of battle.

In his hands are his old sword and shield.

Behind him are his Clan brothers.

In front of him is his old Chief.

His heart is feeling fat and full – wanting for nothing.

Yes, there was a time when Haalfrin was satisfied with his life. It was a long time ago.

When he was a magicless mortal, he never had to worry about outliving his loved ones. He was just another member of the tribe.

It felt GOOD to have a tribe…

The Spirit in the sword is so powerful that Haalfrin bends his head down and feels his eyes turning misty.

As Haalfrin's consciousness is pulled further and further into the Spirit of the sword, he starts to hear voices in his head.

"H….rin…. d...hear....m…." The voices sound muddled – like they're under water.

'What?' As the voices get louder, Haalfrin's mind warps back to the real world, and he finds himself still sitting on his bed. His skin is feeling unnaturally cold, and he's gone completely stiff.

"HAALFRIN!" a man's voice shouts this time, "I've been calling for so long now! Are you deaf!?"

"Ch… chief Grotto?" This was the Kareen Chief that Haalfrin spent most of his life with; he's the man who first accepted him into the tribe, despite himself having no Kareen blood.

"Oh, the man finally can hear me!" Haalfrin can feel the Chief rolling his eyes right now. "Anyway, you dead yet? We've been waiting here forever now! It's been over a thousand years!"

"…I'm not dead yet," Haalfrin replies with a soft voice.

"Oh, he will be in a moment…," one of the other voices adds sulkily.

"Branraan?" Haalfrin asks, "Is that you?" Last he heard the man's voice, he'd only been a 40 year-old man. Branraan was unlucky enough to get an arrow in his throat during a raid at the time.

Branraan huffs angrily. "What? You acting like you've forgotten me? Didn't you used to tell me that you could recognize my annoying, wheezy voice from a mile away?"

"Oi, Branraan. Don't be rude," the Chief butts in, "He's still alive, so he's probably been really busy. Remember what our orientation classes said? They said that the living have shorter memories than the dead."

"Orientation?" Haalfrin asks – puzzled.

"Oh, you didn't hear!?" the Chief smiles smugly. "Our bodies have finished recondensing. We were led out of that dark cave by some of the Death gods' people, and we were put in this class. They said it was called 'Mandatory orientation class for newly dead citizens…' Or, it was called something like that. I don't remember."

"Anyway, Haalfrin, how's it been?" another clan brother asks excitedly, "I heard you've become a mage! Since you're still alive, doesn't that mean you're a pretty powerful mage!? You got any new, interesting stories for us?"

The voices of more and more clan brothers bombards Haalfrin's spirit, and the feeling of being surrounded by his family warms his heart.

"Oh…," Haalfrin replies softly while he thinks of an answer.

'I suppose I have a few good stories for them…,' he thinks.

"Heh," Haalfrin laughs aloud, "Shortly after I became a mage, I got in this battle…"

Haalfrin proceeds to tell the story of that entire battle.

His clan brothers laughed hysterically at him when he got to the part where his Death Aura scared away the Alsa'ree army AND the Alasta army.

"What? You went there for a good fight, and the fight ran away from you! Haha!"

When he got to the part where he slugged Prince Tallus in the face, the Clan brothers snickered in derision and nodded in approval.

…And when he got to his duel with General Kaalhyme, the Kareen stopped snickering or howling out their reactions. Instead, they went silent. The rest of the story is told with their complete attention.

When the story ends with General Kaalhyme being stabbed in the eye by the mortally wounded Haalfrin, some of the Clansmen cheer in approval, some nod sorrowfully, and some wipe away tears. No doubt, these crude barbarians can appreciate a "manly death".

"ANOTHER STORY, HAALFRIN!" some voices from the back demands.

"Fine," Haalfrin concedes. "How about the time I slew that necromancer called Querry…?"

As Haalfrin tells them story after story, he gets the illusion that he's sitting around his campfire with a mug of ale in his hand and his sword leaning on his side. He can even feel the heat on his face.

In his illusion, he sees his entire Clan gathering around him – welcoming a brother who'd been lost for a long time and eager to hear of his wayward adventures.

This entire time, Haalfrin is thinking, 'This is what I'd been wanting this whole time – a feeling of returning home…'

Yet… something feels off to Haalfrin. He can't quite put a finger on what it is…

After more than 2 hours of Haalfrin's nonstop prattling, he finally calms down and says, "What about you all? What've you been up to after you woke up in the Death Realm?"

The Raiders all start trying to tell stories of their latest exploits. It was confusing for Haalfrin at first, since they all were trying to raise their voices over each other. Some of them are telling him stories, while others are just shouting and throwing each other around in play.

In every sense, these people sound like a drunken party.

'Ugh…,' Haalfrin thinks while rubbing the back of his neck, 'I forgot how enthusiastic these guys are. Wait…'

Just like that, Haalfrin hears his old Clan brothers tell stories one by one. They tell tales of how they've returned to their old ways – sailing the seas of their old world and plundering as they see fit.

Of course, they were moved to a world far away from the main Death World that the Death King personally rules over. Freyya knew very well that they could never be happy being stuck on a world with strict rules and order, so she moved them to a more rural place.

Haalfrin then hears exciting tales of new lands they've discovered, and new cuisines they've tried, strange new languages they've heard.

Not everything's fun and games, though, since they have a lot of competition on the high seas. But… That's part of the fun, right?

As the Kareen talk more and more, Haalfrin's subtle feeling of discomfort slowly swells out of proportion.

It's just… the thing's they're doing sound… boring. He's getting the impression that he's listening to a bunch of adventure thirsty little boys prattle on about imaginary enemies they've slain, and he can't relate anymore

"…Haalfrin, what's wrong?" the chief asks.

Haalfrin opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn't know how to answer this.

Is he supposed to tell them that their stories sound boring?

Is he supposed to tell them that the idea of doing what they're doing for all eternity in the afterlife sounds like hell? – like a fat waste of time?

"Nothing's wrong, Chief," Haalfrin sighs. "… I'm just feeling tired."

"A-all right. We'll go now. Get some rest." With that, the Kareen voices go quiet, and the sword's silver Aura goes dim once again.

Feeling that he's alone in this room once again, Haalfrin lets the sword clatter to the ground carelessly, and he flops himself on his bed.

He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and feeling a surreal sense of detachment from everything – even his own body.

'What happened?'