A flutter of uncertainty fills me as I make the decision to allow Ilka to speak. There isn't any other option; she is one of the most formidable characters of her time. Her untimely demise comes only from the weight she bore, carrying the hero's party on her shoulders. If not for her, they would have all perished. The silence in my room is deafening, disturbed only by the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. It's me who breaks it eventually. "Ilka, you may speak," I say, my voice reverberating in the quiet. But the room remains silent.

My heart pounds in my chest. "Why aren't you speaking?" I question, my gaze settling on the inert blade. Again, silence reigns. This is not the response I anticipated. I thought she would talk immediately, what is happening?

After what seems like an eternity, her voice suddenly rings out, heavy with confusion and bitterness, "I'm supposed to be dead." It's as if she has spent all this time contemplating her existence.

A sigh escapes my lips, a cocktail of relief and apprehension. "Hello, Ilka," I begin awkwardly, "I'm Kael."

A moment of silence fills the room again. It's as if Ilka is processing this new information. Then, a deluge of questions pour out, her voice echoing eerily in the room, "Where am I? Why am I here? I was stabbed, why can't I move my body? No... what's wrong with my body?"

I offer an awkward smile, knowing fully well she can't see it. Taking a deep breath, I answer, "Your spirit merged with the same sword that killed you."

Silence sweeps over the room once again. I can practically feel her confusion and anger radiating from the sword. I brace myself for the impending storm, conscious that her wrath could be as dangerous as her sword skills. The days ahead promise to be challenging, but I hope it will be worth it. I hope Ilka can assist me.

Her voice is strident and sharp, reverberating off the walls of my room. "Are you mad? Do you think I'm some gullible fool?" She spits out each word, accusing me of deception.

"Remove this blindfold! Let me go! I'm not certain what dark sorcery you used to bring me back but I need to fight in the war against demons with the hero," she continues, her words cutting through the silence. Her screams fill the room, causing me to drop the sword and cover my ears. The onslaught of her words feels as deadly as a flurry of sword strikes.

In the midst of her relentless tirade, I finally make the decision to yell back, "The war is over!" I pant heavily, and my outburst breaks her litany, plunging the room into silence.

"Stop playing me for a fool!" she retorts after a moment, "There's no way the war could be over. The hero is still too weak."

I sigh deeply, the weight of the situation pressing on my chest. With a calm voice, I say, "Four thousand years have passed since you died, Ilka."

Her laughter fills the room in response to my words, its eerie echoes mocking me. "You must be crazier than I thought, Kael was it? You must be insane!" she sneers, dismissing my words as sheer madness.

"Stop with your... nonsense!" Ilka continues, her voice wavering as she refuses to accept what I'm saying. "I died just yesterday," she mutters, disbelief palpable in her voice.

Sitting in silence, deep in thought, a daring idea strikes me. The sword is soul-bound to me; I can feel Ilka's spirit within it. If she is bound to the sword, and the sword is bound to me, then logically, Ilka should also be bound to me.

The idea is radical, and there's no guarantee that it will work. But I have nothing to lose. I pick up the sword again and lay my palm on it, trying to sense Ilka's spirit. I feel her presence, resonating with my own energy. I focus my mind to try and draw her out.

There's a flash of light, and suddenly, a tiny, glowing figure floats above my palm. A miniature version of Ilka. She is glowing in a dark red color. The woman who loomed so large in life is now a small, delicate wisp in death. Dammit, she's tiny, I was hoping she would grow to her original size.

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Ilka screams in horror when she sees her own condition. Her tiny form writhes in my hand, her face etched with fear. I try to calm her down, but the panic in her eyes does not abate. She looks down at herself multiple times, refusing to believe it.

"Listen, Ilka. You're bound to the sword. You can't leave it." I state, hoping to bring some semblance of calm. But my words only seem to cause her more panic. Her eyes well up with tears, and she looks up at me, her gaze cold and intense.

"What... what did you do to me?" she manages to ask, her voice filled with anguish and accusation. Despite the situation, I can't help but think that her tiny self looks cute, her pained gaze somehow making her seem more endearing. Hahaha, this is not the reaction I expected.

Overwhelmed by rage and disbelief, Ilka attempts to lunge at me, but in her new ethereal form, she has no idea how to navigate. Instead of flying, she falls, her glowing figure tumbling through the air in a rather comical display.

I can't help but chuckle, the situation is just too absurd. Here I am, dealing with a millennia-old spirit, and she is less threatening than I could have ever imagined. Before she hits the ground, I catch her, steadying her in my hand, my finger gently prodding her cheek. It's like poking a tiny, glowing marshmallow. Dammit, this little thing is adorable, I should've added this as a part of my novel, when I created the novel Ilka only talked through the sword and she never materialized as a spirit.

"Stop it! What do you find so amusing?" she yells, her tiny voice amplified by her indignation.

Wiping a tear from my eye, I manage to steady myself. "Well, Ilka," I begin, my voice still shaking from laughter, "I need your help. I want you to train me."

Her reaction is immediate and unequivocal. "No. I won't help you, no more importantly, why in the world would I help someone that did this to me?" she says, trying to push my finger away with her tiny hands. Her efforts are, again, more amusing than threatening.

I sigh deeply, disappointed but not surprised. I had anticipated her outright rejection of my request. "Ilka, listen to me," I say, trying to reason with her, "You are bound to this sword, and the sword is bound to me. We're stuck with each other whether we like it or not. Wouldn't it be better if we cooperate?"

But Ilka isn't having any of it. She crosses her arms defiantly, her tiny form giving off a sullen glow. "I said no, and I mean it. I won't help you." She said sticking out her tongue like a child would. I attempt to negotiate with Ilka, this girl is difficult to deal with, "Ilka, give me five good reasons why you won't help me."

She straightens her tiny form, a gleam of defiance in her ethereal eyes. "Five, you say? Well, for starters, you've taken my freedom. I was supposed to rest, not exist in a sword. Second, you reduced me to... this," she gestures at her diminutive form, "Third, you've brought me to an unknown time and place. Fourth, you have the audacity to ask me to teach you, without even showing me respect. And fifth," she points a tiny finger at me, "You're... you're not the hero. You're not worthy of my training."

I look at her, unimpressed by her barrage of reasons. I would like to say that I'm not at fault for what happened to her but I did write the story. But then, she straightens up, a cocky smirk on her tiny face. "But then again," she says, her voice oozing arrogance, "I can see why someone like you would beg for the help of 'The Great Ilka'. After all, I am one of the greatest martial artists in history. My name is known throughout the lands. People bow in respect when they hear my name."

A chuckle escapes me. Ilka, in her tiny form, boasting about her past glories is more adorable than threatening. She's like a little puff of smoke with an oversized ego.

"Is that so?" I say, my tone teasing. "Well, let me tell you, the greatest martial artist in history? There's no mention of 'The Great Ilka' in our time. Your grandeur, your glory? They have faded away with time. No one remembers you, Ilka."

She freezes, her red glow dimming. "What?" she whispers, her voice barely audible. "That's... that's impossible," she stammers, her tiny form wobbling.

"It's true," I say, a small smile playing on my lips. "You're forgotten, Ilka. You're nothing more than a relic of the past."

Suddenly, she falls to her knees, or at least what should be her knees in her current form, right on my palm. Her tiny shoulders shake as she mumbles, "No way... no way..."

The sight of the once formidable warrior, now a diminutive spirit, crumbling under the weight of my words is both tragic and comical.

But then, she recovers and quickly stands, confronting me with a fierce glare. "You're lying!" she accuses, jabbing a tiny finger at me. "You knew my name! You must've heard of me!"

I laugh, shaking my head. "I only know you because I found your name engraved on your tombstone next to the sword," I explain, "I didn't know who you were until I accidentally summoned your spirit."

There's a moment of silence as Ilka processes this information, her glow dimming even further. Her tiny form trembles, her world crumbling around her. Hahaha, I don't know why I was so worried, dealing with her is going to be easy.