I Can See the Sword’s Memories

Chapter 2: The girl ran toward the starting point (2)

Saeorin realized he was alive. He could feel the biting wind of the frigid tundra, and the cold of his body slowly growing numb.

As his sense of touch returned, so did his hearing, smell, and sight.

“Ah…!”

He inhaled sharply, like someone who had held their breath for far too long. His lungs, which had collapsed, expanded beyond their limits, causing his chest to swell.

The first thing Saeorin did upon rising was to survey his surroundings. He had fallen in battle against an enemy; it was only natural to check for threats.

However, there were none. The area was eerily silent and utterly devastated. He was the only survivor.

They’re all dead…

He stood and scanned the area. His gaze fell upon the lifeless bodies of his siblings, now cold and still.

Then, his eyes caught sight of a corpse that felt strangely familiar. Though he recognized all his siblings, this particular body gave him an unsettling sense of looking into a mirror.

Saeorin slowly approached the corpse.

Its hair was white—like snow blanketing the ground. In their tribe, only three people had this hair color: himself, his sister, and their mother.

Saeorin frowned. His mother and sister were women, but the corpse before him had a clearly male physique.

No… it can’t be.

Despite his denial, Saeorin turned the body over. The stiffened, lifeless corpse felt unnaturally heavy.

The face of the corpse was revealed. Rigid from rigor mortis, the expression was frozen, but Saeorin recognized it all too well.

The corpse’s face was his own.

His breathing quickened. Saeorin panted, his hands trembling as he touched his own body.

The arms that had once been muscular were now frail. The scar across his chest from the sword strike was gone. His face felt smaller, and his body was adorned with an unfamiliar array of trinkets.

It was then that Saeorin realized the truth.

This body was his sister, Saeran’s.

It was incomprehensible. Why had he awoken in his sister’s body after his death?

“Saeran… Saeran… are you there?”

He touched his face as he asked the question. But no answer came. The unfamiliar yet familiar voice emanating from his throat sent chills through him.

At that moment, he sensed a presence behind him. It was light yet weighty, faint yet distinct—a feeling hard to describe in words.

Saeorin quickly turned around.

There stood a wolf as white as snow. It was unlike the ordinary wolves of the tundra. It showed no hostility, nor did it flee.

Instead, it circled around Saeorin, exuding a faint sense of warmth, almost as if it felt affection for him.

Then, in an instant, the wolf dissolved into the wind. Saeorin realized that it was no ordinary wolf but a spirit.

It must see this as Saeran’s body.

He was breathing and seeing the world through his sister’s body. It wasn’t an impossible thought.

After a brief hesitation, Saeorin began to move. Standing idle here wouldn’t erase the danger that had come upon him.

For now, he worked hard to move his small, unfamiliar body and began organizing the surroundings.

The first thing he did was build graves for the fallen tribespeople. With the untrained body of a young girl, he couldn’t create proper graves.

Instead, he covered them with snow and erected a simple marker made of intertwined branches at the village entrance. It was the best Saeorin could do at the moment.

Saeorin gazed at the solitary marker he had erected. It bore his name. Even though he was still alive, he had carved the marker because Saeorin’s body was no longer among the living.

Then, what was he now? The whereabouts of the soul that should have belonged to this body remained unknown.

He began to wonder if he was losing his mind.

For now, Saeorin moved for survival. He gathered the food that remained intact and the weapons still usable. After all, he had to survive—he couldn’t let his sister’s body perish as well.

“This is the limit.”

After gathering the necessities, he left the tribe. Staying within the tribe’s ruins would have been more practical for survival; the walls and roofs, though damaged, could still shield him from the biting cold.

However, he couldn’t stay because of the other tribes. The White Frost Tribe had suppressed other tribes by force for generations, extracting food and women as tributes. Their resentment must have reached its peak by now.

If the other tribes discovered the White Frost Tribe’s downfall, Saeorin could imagine all too clearly the fate that would befall his sister’s body.

He could not allow his sister’s body to be defiled.

“She must have used some kind of shamanic spell.”

As he trudged through the snow-covered plains, Saeorin thought about his sister. Saeran had been praised extravagantly by the tribe’s shamans—clearly capable of spells deeply entwined with the soul and body.

After leaving the tribe, Saeorin made a small cave his shelter. Though his once-strong body was gone, his knowledge and accumulated experience remained.

“I have enough food for now; I can survive for the time being.”

Immediate survival wasn’t an issue, but the future was uncertain. How would he endure the harsh tundra with such a fragile body?

Perhaps he would need to leave this land where he had lived his entire life. Beyond the vast mountain range lay foreign lands, warmer regions free of snow, where survival might be easier.

***

Saeorin’s life in the cave began. He rationed his food carefully and set traps outside. 

Though it relied heavily on luck, it was the best hunting method available to his feeble body.

The only game he could realistically catch were snow rabbits. However, even that was too challenging initially.

His body was untrained and not fully grown. His limbs were shorter, and his physique unsuited for hunting.

Furthermore, everything he had mastered over a lifetime was gone. The way he walked, breathed, and concealed his presence—all the movements ingrained into his body—had vanished.

So, Saeorin started training again, beginning with how to breathe. The White Frost Tribe had modeled all their techniques after the predators that thrived in the tundra.

The Breath of the White Stoat.

The stoat was a cunning hunter, adept at silencing its presence and erasing its scent. At times, it would boldly reveal itself to intimidate stronger foes. The White Frost Tribe had incorporated these traits into their unique skills.

“Hoo…”

A soft breath escaped Saeorin’s lips, forming a white mist. As his lungs compressed to their limits, the fresh blood that coursed through his body slowed to a halt.

With blood circulation ceasing, his bodily functions gradually diminished. Saeorin maintained this shallow breathing state for as long as possible.

It wasn’t difficult—it was like retracing a path he had already walked. The knowledge hadn’t disappeared; it was just a matter of familiarizing his body with it again.

After mastering his breathing, Saeorin practiced walking. Keeping his breathing shallow, he moved with steps so light they barely touched the ground.

The Step of the Frost Wolf.

Combining silent breathing and noiseless footsteps, Saeorin glided through the dark cave like a ghost. 

He repeated the actions until they became second nature. Even while eating, he maintained the stoat’s breath.

Late at night, just before sleep, he talked to his sister.

Leaning against the cold cave wall, he spoke to no one but himself.

“Today, I relearned how to breathe. If you ever return to your body, it’ll feel strange at first.”

“Walking too. No one will sense your approach.”

Of course, there was no reply.

After mastering breathing and walking, it was time to train with weapons.

Saeorin looked at the weapon he had brought with him. He had always used a spear, but this time, he had chosen something else.

The cold steel could effortlessly slice through thick hides. It was a weapon known as a sword.

Saeorin had never used a sword in a hunt before. Yet, he was confident. He had long known what his true talent was.

He stared at the sword, its metallic scent mixed with the faint odor of oil. It was the sword of his father, the former chieftain.

The sword was crude—not a remarkable masterpiece. Yet, having been wielded by the chieftain for countless years and soaked in the blood of many, it exuded an eerie aura.

A small hand gripped the blade.

“Ah…”

He could see it. Saeorin couldn’t help but let out an involuntary gasp of amazement. How could he not? The countless memories etched into the sword revealed themselves to him—the battles his father had fought and the thoughts that had driven his swings.

Hunts for survival, murders for the tribe’s sake. That was how his father had lived his entire life. Efficiency over elegance. Surviving to strike down the enemy’s neck was his sole priority.

When the blood-soaked chieftain wielded the sword, death unfolded in silence.

Straight lines and speed.

The crude, direct swordsmanship sought only the fastest possible strike.

It was a technique enhanced by the Breath of the White Stoat. The wielder held their breath until the moment of attack, then explosively surged their heartbeat to flood their body with blood.

Shhkk—!

Saeorin mimicked the swordsmanship from the memories, executing it just as he had seen. But it felt awkward. Clumsy. The technique, as performed by his delicate hands, was incomplete.

The sword slipped from his weakened grip and fell to the ground.

“Hmm…”

There was still a long way to go. Saeorin sighed, rubbing his sore wrist.