I prayed for three days.
Every dawn, I got up in Roen's empty room and went to the forest behind the village. I sat by the stream at the forest's entrance, closed my eyes, regulated my breathing, and calmed my mind. It was exactly what I had done in Korea. The only difference was the speed.
The air of another world drank in my prayers. No, it was the air that seeped into me first. Some nameless energy flowed into my body along with my breath, and with each passing day, I could feel my vessel growing wider and wider.
On the morning of the third day, I opened my eyes.
It worked.
I knew by instinct. It was what my shaman mentor had taught me. “When the vessel is ready, the body knows first.” My body was telling me now. It could hold at least one.
I washed my face in the stream and headed down to the village.
That ghost was sitting on the temple roof.
In the same spot as three days ago. He was perched there in armor, looking down over the square. The scar across his face was clear even in the morning sunlight.
As I entered the square, the ghost turned his head.
She came again. The woman who could see him.
I stopped in front of the temple and looked up at the roof. A few villagers passing by saw me. A strange eastern woman standing there and staring up at empty air. The whispers started again, but I paid them no mind.
“What’s your name?”
The ghost’s eyes widened. No one had asked him his name since he died. No—in fact, he hadn’t spoken to anyone since he died.
His mouth moved. No sound came out. But I heard him. Ghosts weren’t heard with the ears. I sensed their words.
Kallen.
“Kallen.”
I said his name aloud. The ghost’s body trembled. I knew how much it meant to a ghost to have someone call its name.
“Mr. Kallen, I have a favor to ask.”
The ghost looked down at me, his eyes split evenly between wariness and curiosity.
“Lend me your strength. In return, if you come to me, you’ll be able to move again. You’ll even be able to hold a sword.”
Kallen’s eyes changed. It was the word sword that had gotten a reaction. He had been someone who wielded a sword in life. Someone who still couldn’t take off his armor even in death. The promise that he could hold a sword again stirred emotions that had been frozen for decades.
But the ghost shook his head. He meant to ask how he was supposed to trust me.
I smiled. It was a rather peculiar smile.
“Then I’ll show you.”
I sat down on the steps beside the temple. I placed both hands on my knees and closed my eyes. I drew in a deep breath.
This wasn’t a prayer. It was a summons.
I opened the vessel inside me. An empty vessel. I was inviting Kallen into it. Opening a door. Telling him, You can come in.
Kallen felt it. A door open to him. A warm, vivid, irresistible invitation.
The ghost hesitated. One second. Two.
Then he jumped.
From the roof.
Into my body.
Death came.
It wasn’t the sensation of being cut by a sword. It was the sensation of dying from a sword wound.
My neck. From the left side of the neck to the right collarbone, cut through in a single stroke. Cold metal parted flesh, severed tendons, and struck bone. Blood spurted out. I tried to breathe, but there was no throat. Air leaked through the wound.
A scream burst from my mouth.
No sound came out. My throat had been cut. In Kallen’s death, his throat had been cut.
Pain. Fear. And fury.
Kallen’s final emotions poured into me. He had died on the battlefield. He’d been cut from behind while protecting his comrades. When he turned around, it had been one of his own men. Betrayal. The last thing Kallen had seen was the sword of the person he had protected.
Tears streamed from my eyes. They weren’t my tears. They were Kallen’s.
Three seconds. It felt like three years.
Death ended.
I collapsed forward on the steps and caught myself with both hands. My breathing was ragged. Sweat drenched my entire body. I touched my neck. There was no wound. Of course there wasn’t. This wasn’t my death.
But the sensation remained. The coldness of my throat being cut. The emptiness of air escaping. And the fury of being betrayed by someone I trusted.
“...Ah.”
I wiped away the tears with trembling hands.
“So that’s how you died.”
There was no answer. But I could feel something inside me. Kallen was there. Inside the vessel. Quietly, perfectly still.
He was shocked. Shocked that there was a human who had accepted his death.
I stood up. My legs were shaking. One of the villagers passing by asked, “Are you all right?” I nodded. I wasn’t all right, but I said I was.
I opened my right hand and examined it.
The sensation was different. There was no sword in my hand, but it felt like I was holding one. The angle of my wrist, the strength in my elbow, the axis running from my shoulder to my waist. The memories of the swordsmanship Kallen had etched into his body over a lifetime now overlapped with my muscles.
I swung my empty hand once.
The wind split apart. A short, sharp gust. For a swing without a sword, the trajectory was far too precise.
Several people in the square stopped. Their faces showed that they weren’t sure what they had just seen.
I lowered my hand.
“...Thank you, Mr. Kallen.”
A very faint emotion reached me from inside my body.
Confusion. And a tiny bit of warmth—the first in a very long time.
I smiled, my face still streaked with tears.
The first soldier arrived.