I can only remember the last time I died.

I was fighting a Cursed Knight on the stairs of the Rookery. I had been as stealthy as possible, slaying the soldiers on the lower levels one by one with a lone silent sweep of my Uchigatana. It took a long time to do it that way, slinking from one shadow to the next, waiting for an opening, and severing their exposed spines cleanly so they wouldn’t even twitch. It took time, but that was the only thing I had in excess.

As I climbed to the upper levels, searching for the Elusive Flame, something felt off. I experienced an atavistic memory triggered by a smell, the pungent odor of rotting lilies. Then I heard the swoosh of the greatsword and dropped to the ground face-first. The blow was too fast and too close to dodge or roll away. It almost worked. The sword bounced off the guard at the back of my neck and was deflected, but it bruised my neck where it had cushioned the impact.

I rolled away and straightened. I spat and lowered my face cover. It had moved up when I threw myself to the ground. But I didn’t want these monsters to see my true face. They didn’t know fear, that much I knew, but I sure as hell didn’t want them to know the fear in my face either.

I didn’t know if they communicated with each other. Their origin and customs were unknown. But I hoped that they in some way feared the lone shadow that stalked them every day and every night. I didn’t know if they respawned with their memories intact, but I hoped they did. I hoped they could remember their last death, just like me. To experience over and over the surprise and utter helplessness of reliving your death, without end.

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But the Cursed Knight, whether he had heard of the Last Knight or if he had fallen at my hands before, didn’t seem fazed at all. He had a place to guard and that was probably it. He didn’t have a mission. That’s why they couldn’t stop me. They didn’t understand that I had no choice but to keep going. Eventually, the laws of time and coincidence would lead me to my endgoal and I would be triumphant. Or so I hoped. That’s the only thing I had along with my patience, but mere hope was poor sustenance.

The Cursed Knight swung left and right, trying to make me tire myself with parries. There was no point in parrying a greatsword. It was too tiring and left you with no energy to counterattack. It was easier to dodge it. The trick was in rolling toward the sword, not away from it. And then striking from behind before the Knight could turn.

But this one time, I was too slow and the greatsword changed course in the middle of its flight, hitting me squarely and lodging itself in my ribcage. I gasped, shocked and shaken. The Cursed Knight put his foot on my elbow and pulled at the sword. It came out with a spurt of blood, the sword slipped from the Knight’s bloodied fingers, and I fell backward. Then I heard the Knight pick up the sword, sliding it across the floor, and I could barely sit up before his blow blinded me.

That’s how I died the last time. And I made a note of it in the attic of the Monastery, where the walls were covered with survival tips and the beasts could not reach.