It was dark, pitch black. Where am I? Where was I last? I died. Am I still dead? A light so dim, yet so blindingly bright to me appeared in a vertical line. The line grew wider and wider, all until the stone slab above my coffin was completely removed. I removed it, I lifted it, without even willing it. And my body continued to move until it was outside of the crypt.

It was night, but there was a full moon. And a little girl in front of me. She clutched a black book to her chest as if it were the last thing she had left in this world. I've heard stories of this, I imagined the possibility, but I never thought it would happen to me.

Tears streaked down her cheeks. She choked the words out. "Please, save my papa!"

I looked around. That seemed to be permitted. In the distance, there was a raging fire. It engulfed a village. My body willed itself to move in that direction. It started as a walk, and then it became a full on sprint. My armor and sword were still on me. They clanged as I ran. It felt somewhat nostalgic, charging into battle. But this time was different. There was no fear, no excitement. I would not die. I was already dead.

In the village center, a man was tied to a pillar, below him was a pile of branches and twigs. Surrounding the man was a retinue of five knights dressed in identical white tabards with the symbol of the order, a dragon. These bastards again.

One of them was about to set the man on fire when another saw me.

"What have we here?" he declared. The others turned around, to me. "I knew it! I bloody knew it! A necromancer!" He wasn't wrong. But this is going too far, to kill so many for the one.

I tried to speak but I could not. My body moved itself, closer to the man on the pillar.

"Step back, foul abomination!" They blocked my path and aimed their swords at me.

I'm going to enjoy this.

I stepped forward once more. They then spread out and surrounded me. A common but effective tactic.

The first to swing was the crier. It was a long drawn out motion. It was easy to intercept and swat away. His sword flew out of his hand and onto the ground behind him. As he stood dumbfounded, with his arm still held up from his initial attempt to attack, I charged forward and slamming the flat end of my blade into his chest. He flew backwards and fell to the ground.

Fighting with swords and armor was tricky business. Swords were slashing weapons, likely only to bounce or break off of the steel plates of armor. What I need is a mace.

Four left. I was constantly darting my head left and right, watching for who would make the next move.

One shouted to their fallen comrade, "Oi, get up, Ornstein!"

Ornstein was writhing on the ground with an arm held up against his chest.

"Damn it!" There was a tinge of fear and frustration in his voice, as if he was unable to accept what had just transpired, as if he never could have imagined it in his wildest dreams. It was a restless, defiant shout. He charged at me in a fury with his sword held back, ready to swing.

But before he could, I stepped forward and slashed at his held up wrist.

"Aughhhh!" He dropped his sword, knelt down, and clutched his wrist with his good hand.

It was by no means possible to cut his hand off through the armor, but he wouldn't be able to use it for at least a week.

Seeing their dwindling numbers, the rest lost all control and attacked. Their motions were stiff and their stances were nonexistent. These men were either new recruits or wildly inept. The battle was tedious. No one was going to die because of the protection our armor offered. It was just a beating. I would simply keep on hitting them with the flat end of my blade. And on the rare occasion when they would hit me, I wouldn't feel it at all. I mean, I could feel that something hit me, but no pain registered.

The last one still conscious begged, "I give, I give! Please, don't kill me!"

I knocked him out. I had no intention of killing them once I realized how little fight they actually had in them. But what happens if I leave them alive? What are the chances they come after the girl? Would they know her father had a daughter? They were able to find the father somehow. Can I take the chance?

Systematically, I removed the helmets of each knight and slit their throats.

Someone stood in the corner of my vision. I turned my head. It was the girl. How long has she been there? She looked at all the dead men, horror mixed with panic in her eyes. Then at the man tied to the pillar, her father, with eyes of relief, of joy. Intent on releasing him, her father, she threw her book aside, rushed past the dead, and started undoing his ropes.

Once free, he began to fall. He could not stand. His daughter dutifully rushed underneath to catch him. But before she could attempt to bear the weight, my body rushed over and caught him . I could not tell if that action was voluntary or not.

He lay resting, his back against the very bonfire that was meant to kill him. He still breathed, but was unconscious. There were bruises and cuts all over his body. Blood streaked down him from head to toe.

"Papa, wake up!" she implored while clutching his hand with both of hers. I wanted to tell her that he needs his rest, that she should leave him be, but I could not.

His eyes opened slowly. His voice was coarse and quiet. "Maggie, is that you?" The space between the words was long, as if it took all his might to utter a single syllable.

She tightened her grip, inched closer to his face, and said excitedly, "Yes, it's me, Papa!"

He looked at me. "My god, you've done it. Where I always failed." He looked back at her. "You need to run, get out of here. They'll come for you."

She said with pure intention and nothing else, "What about you?"

"My sweet girl, I cannot come with you. My journey ends here. Travel east from here, in the direction of the graveyard, follow that road until you meet an inn. There should still be some money in the hut. If it's still on fire send in your friend. If it's done burning then still send him in, it could collapse at any second. If there's no money there then search those knights. I know death is scary. I know that. But it's not the end." He took one last, long breath. "I'll always be with you." And like that, he lost all of his strength, his hand slipping from his daughter's grasp, his neck falling to his side, and his eyes, closed.

I couldn't see her eyes, as I stood beside her, vigil. But her head did not move. I don't think she could process what just happened.

"Wake up, Papa! Wake up! Please, please wake up!" She gripped onto his shirt with both her hands, buried her head in his chest, and began to cry and wail, endlessly. "No, please, please, please. Don't leave..." I could do nothing but watch.

It was hours before she would leave that spot.

In the end, she returned to her home. It was burned to a crisp, the walls and ceiling did collapse. I doubt there was anything left. She had me search anyway, though. I found a jar filled with mostly copper coins, and some silver.

When we returned to the town center, she just stood there, motionless, as if she was unsure of what to do next. Perhaps she wanted to bury her father, give him a proper rest, but she also wanted to respect and heed his last words. Perhaps she was debating whether she should pilfer from those knights of the order. On one end it was sacrilegious to steal from the dead, but on the other, they practically killed her father.

She turned her head to me, tilted it upward until her eyes reached mine, and said, "loot them." I had no qualms with it. It was only natural to use whatever you could, as weapons and shields were liable to bend and break during the heat of battle. And Some men would always compare and gloat over who had obtained the greatest treasure afterward. Ah, those were the days.

We couldn't carry any of their weapons or armor, so all that happened was the money jar got a little, no, a lot fuller.

And then we did as her father instructed, we traveled on the east road. She continued to clutch the black book against her chest. And I held the jar. As we passed my crypt, she stopped. Then she entered it and left with a helmet in her hand. She raised it up, at me. I took and equipped it. It would be best if people didn't know I was what I was. After a while of walking, she started to slow down. I wanted to tell her I could carry her, but I could not. After another hour or so of walking, she collapsed. She was still breathing. Must have just been tired. It must have been a long night for her. I knelt down, scooped her up, cradled her in my arms, and continued to walk. That seemed to be permitted. She still held that book against her chest. It was the last thing she had left in this world.