A cool wind whistled harshly over the hellscape, extinguishing the flames left over on the battlefield. Dull gray clouds gathered on the horizon. As the sun struggled to rise, the grim daybreak was stained red, and the dim light shone weakly on the thousands of corpses littered about. A few half-dead bodies cried out here and there, but the pressure of the deathly silence felt thick and heavy. A lone figure sat kneeling, using his sword to keep himself from falling. Mikael trembled, struggling to keep himself up, and using what little strength he had lifted his head to look around one last time. As he glanced around weakly, the stench of rancid blood and burning bodies hit his nose full-on. Mikael nearly retched, but held his composure, needing to verify if he had completed his mission. His vision faded in and out, but in between the blurriness, he saw the halved corpse of the hellspawn general, Thalgenith, whom he had defeated. Once he knew he had succeeded, Mikael fell forward onto his side with a relieved sigh. His head throbbed, and the warm, wet hole where his abdomen originally was grew colder by the second. Mikael felt his end approaching but had one final thing to do.

With what little strength he had in his arms, he clutched his sword, bringing it closer to his face as the coldness spread faster and faster. With a small grunt, he placed the sword near his face and rested his forehead on the cool metal. Mikael had the average elven steel sword, but what made his sword special was that it was infused with a sword spirit. While the spirit had no name, Mikael had named the sword Arthur. Arthur had been by his side for nearly five years and helped push him through thick and thin. Mikael brought his dear friend closer, and hugged it tightly to his body, speaking in a soft crying voice. It was the voice of a boy who was yet to be a man. A boy still figuring out his place in the world, naive and innocent to the cruelty and darkness that lay hidden. Mikael’s voice grew, and he started to cry.

As the tears streamed down his face, his vision faded and he suddenly saw himself, as seventeen again. It was the day the spirit had come to be imbued in the old elven sword he had been entrusted by a family friend. Mikael looked around and saw the farmhouse he had been raised in. The vision felt so real, from the soft breeze blowing gently through the lush countryside to the sound of laughter emanating from the farmhouse. Mikael looked at the house and saw his parents and little sister, now long gone, waving from the window. As the sun shone down, and Mikael felt its warmth, he dropped to his knees, clutching Arthur to his body and crying. Mikael cried and cried. He cried as a boy who had lost his family, he cried for his lost friends, he cried for the young maiden he once loved, he cried for a past he had now lost and a future he would never have. Mikael knew he would have to accept his death but a small part of his soul didn't want to go. The young boy inside his hardened soul wanted to go on more fun adventures, bring treasures home to his family, and maybe even have a family of his own. 

Mikael cried harder than he ever had before in his life, and when he was done, he took one last teary-eyed look around and opened his eyes. Raindrops splashed gently down, washing the sins of the battlefield away. As he felt the cool water washing his face and soul, Mikael quietly said goodbye to his dear friend, who telepathically spoke back to him. The sword spirit, though not having a true physical form was devastated yet again at losing its newest family member and dear friend. The two friends said their final goodbyes as Mikael went completely cold, and his eyes glazed over and went dull. When his last breath left his cold blue lips, the sword spirit was released. The spirit looked sadly upon the young man, and with a heavy heart continued on its way to find a new host. 

Heading away from the battlefield, the sword spirit moved east. As the burning and stinking land fell far away, farmlands and lush forests gave way. The spirit eventually reached the center of the continent. The Suraephem Empire controlled the continent, which had been united six thousand years ago. The entrance to the hellspawn’s dimension had opened up on the western end, but thankfully the empire's forces had generally kept the hellspawn only on the western edge of the continent. The spirit determinedly headed to the farthest eastern edge of the continent. The sword spirit itself was one of the few ancient treasures left from the creation of the world that could defeat the hellspawn king. Its innate magic was fully capable of permanently damaging hellspawn, and it had been used to defeat and seal away the hellspawn king five thousand years ago. 

The sword spirit’s first owner did not have the full resolve to destroy the hellspawn king, so he had only been sealed away. Two thousand years ago, mages researching ancient ruins came into contact with hellspawn artifacts and became corrupted. When the seal was broken the hellspawn king’s true power was unleashed in a brutal explosion of power that killed not only the mages but everything in a 6000 meter radius. Two towns were caught in the explosion of power, and everything that was not decimated was left corrupted. A huge crater was created, with the door to the hellspawn’s dimension once again open. The empire sent soldiers as soon as possible, but they were overwhelmed by the hellspawn pouring out. The only person capable of keeping the hellspawn back was a young man. 

Though he held only a simple steel sword, he effortlessly cut through the hellspawn. It was ultimately too much to handle at once, yet even though the empire’s forces had to retreat in the meantime, it was seen as a critical victory. This young man was Jofiel, a blacksmith who practiced with his own swords and had his favorite come to be imbued with the sword spirit. Jophiel went down in history as the first sword master to start the war against the hellspawn and was revered in history. He only lived for two more years before succumbing to one of the hellspawn generals' horrific swords. Mikael was the first person the sword spirit had bonded with after coming out of hibernation. Though short, the deep bond the two had propelled the spirit to continue searching for more souls to bond with. 

The spirit itself did not have its own name, as its primary function was to find a suitable sword with which it could imbue its soul. The sword, and the soul of the swordsman wielding it, had to be one hundred percent compatible. Provided everything worked out, the sword spirit could bond with the creature’s soul, and imbue them and the sword with extraordinary power. The spirit's power was an incredible ability to permanently damage hellspawn, a feat that was otherwise unachievable. In addition, every time the spirit bonded with a soul and its sword, the spirit copied a little bit of the individuals' either known or unknown special abilities and added them onto the next. This buildup created heroes that were each more powerful than the next. The only problem the spirit had was that each creature it chose to bond with had to have the potential to become a master swordsman. However, the creatures it chose often had very little time to train before going off to war or were living in areas close to the western edge. Many died before reaching their full potential. 

The spirit thought that with three years of training, Mikael would surely be the one to take down the hellspawn king, but even he could not make it. Maybe it was because he was too old when he started training with the spirit, or perhaps it was because he had to go to war too soon. The spirit felt the full guilt of all the lost souls weighing it down as it pushed further and further east. Eventually the spirit reached the most eastern tip of the continent and surveyed the town of Weinberg. The lush hills and valleys hosted a large variety of grape vines and the like, and right at the edge of the town sat a small farm, its distinct wheat field like a golden blaze. The spirit sensed something very unusual, and once it flew closer it grew elated. Standing at the edge of the wheat fields stood a young girl with a simple steel sword. She looked to be no more than twelve years of age yet despite her small scrawny appearance, her unrestrained and wild aura was greater than any the spirit had seen before. The child had the full potential to become a master of the sword, and with a determined heart flew directly at the girl. Finally, there was hope.