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Eternal life. The academic and colloquial definition of immortality. Lasting fame. A subsidiary definition. The quality or state of being immortal. An inefficient but nonetheless true derivative. All satisfactory exposition of the life of one with prolonged life. Were one to seek out detail pertaining not to the state of one’s being, desiring that of philosophical or spiritual descriptors, religion must be referenced. A state or condition free from both death and decay. A religious diagnosis meant to solidify belief in the immortal deities one must impress. Immortality. Reflection: Scholars, priests, and common man alike complicate the definition. In all cases of the word, immortality is such: the lack of mortality.
As such, what is mortality? Birth to death, states the common man. The state of being subject to death, states the scholar. The time in which the spirit may grow in a physical body, states the priest. Reflection: mortality is to face one’s death. In all such cases, mortality is such: one must die. If immortality is life and mortality is death, then we must ask, what becomes of those who live on after death? Martyrs of religion. Representatives of purity and sin. Once denizens of crypts and tombs. To live after death, what can that mean?
The lack of immortality is mortality, and the lack of mortality is immortality. Oversimplifications. Lack of understanding. Concepts based on the beliefs of humankind. A more proper definition of mortality would be: the permanent termination of the soul. As such, the proper definition of immortality: lack of or impermanent termination of the soul. This was a definition made from experience. The definition of someone who had lived through life and death. As “The Immortal,” Sugimoto Saichi had plenty of time to come to this conclusion. He’d had plenty of time to come to many conclusions. When one had a long life filled with undeath, they had plenty of time to think about such things. In fact, he’d thought about so many things it was difficult to remember all the conclusions he’d come to.
Sometimes he’d recall vague lessons disconnected from their memories. It used to bother him, but lately he didn’t find himself caring. In all honesty, he hardly even thought about it. Over time his memories had become nothing but those little nuggets of knowledge. If he could not remember them, there was no need to miss them. Maybe it had been a coping method developed long ago or maybe it was simply his mind deteriorating with age.
It was dark, as it always was, in his cave. Even if there had been cracks in the for light to shine through, the cave—his lair—was located deep underground. He’d spent years carving the winding rocky labyrinth. However, it was not crude or primitive. It was his base of operations, his home, and thus he’d made it look like one. Each room had been planned and intricated chiseled with magic to look appealing. There was no reason not to. He hadn’t wanted to go insane looking at a blank stone wall. Rather than a home, it would have been a prison.
That had been his intention long ago, at least. It was to be his home, a place he could collect himself after the end of another life. That was what he’d told himself. Now, after living here for at least a lifetime, he was ready to admit it truly was not that different from a prison. And, just like those in a prison—who could say if he was the guard or prisoner—he had a daily regimen to follow.
Each morning he promptly woke without need of a sunny alarm. On the ceiling above him were small twinkling stars that, if not for the looming encapsulation of slate, could make one believe they were looking at the night sky. At his waking, it took mere moments for the starry sparks of light to spin and fizzle into many small suns. Bits of various light became solid gentle sources to help guide him through his space. He hardly had any need for the light. With routine being, well, routine, and with eyes capable of seeing even in the most pitch black, light was unnecessary. Nonetheless, it was a habit, a part of the routine he’d started long ago. Would it truly be a routine if he didn’t stick to it?
There was no need to dress or make the bed—sleep was something he’d long forgotten—so he’d float his way into the next room. His lair was not laid out like a regular house. Each room was different in size, but they ran in almost a straight line, connected by short rocky hallways. Most of the rooms varied in size, made to fit whatever he’d intended their use to be long ago. As he left one room, the small suns once again descended into a starry night sky. The room he entered then formed its own small suns from the lights that illuminated its ceiling. This would happen each time he left one room to enter another.
Such casual magic was testament to the impressive skillset eternity granted. To The Immortal, it was hardly even a party trick. Sugimoto Saichi had spent years developing and perfecting this magic. At first, he’d needed to chant spells every time he wished to use and dispel the magic. After some decades, he’d only needed a flick of the wrist. Now, the magic was second nature. It took no thought and no energy. How long it had taken for him to get to this state was unknown. While he passed days like normal in this rocky lair, he did not keep track of them. To keep track of days, months, and years was pointless to someone like him. There was nothing for him to do with the information even if he did track it. He probably hadn’t intended to stay in his lair for this long, but who could say just how long it had been. Time was relevant only to those who needed it.
The next room, larger than the first, had likely once held order. He did not remember the purpose of the room and he doubted cleaning it would remind him. Under piles of trinkets and clothing and other junk, traces of furniture could be seen. The leg of a chair. The edge of a fraying carpet. He paid it all no mind. Even with so much in this room, there was nothing there. He wasn’t sure why this room had been connected to the room he used to sleep in. He did not know the importance of it. Only on occasion would he spot the importance of the items inside this room, although they too were soon forgotten. Each item likely held a story, had a meaning, but he did not try to recall them. If he knew, then he knew. If he did not know, then he didn’t.
His routine only differed day by day in this area. He’d always take the same steps—float along the same path—but what caught his eye and what he recalled wasn’t always the same. At least, something was telling him it was never the same. He used to walk this path. He used to walk on no particular path. Now, his feet rarely touched the ground, choosing to devote himself to the simplicity of memorized magic to make him float. This too, like the tiny lights, was something he no longer needed to think about. This was simply what he did. This was simply who he was.
It was a simple knife this time. The young lover, poor and cold, needing to hunt day in and day out for wife and child. A canister next. The war-torn soldier, with dirt under the nails of bloodstained hands, wondering if he’d die in the trench of thirst or a bullet. Finally, a large curling brittle stick. An old Shaman, wise beyond his appearance, offering magic shows and life lessons to the lonely children on the streets. Each item had a story. Each item meant something to his memories. Each item no longer meant something to him.
He never stalled, never stopped. The flashes of recognition were brief and never enough to stop him. As time passed, the memories that existed vanished and any remaining emotion to tie him to an object faded. They no longer held purpose in his life, and he thought it was benevolent that they were allowed to stay in this room. There was no point in keeping useless things; however, some things were so useless there was no point in throwing them away. Relics of old lives and eras simply collected dust in this room.
On his routine went. The lights spread apart, and new ones gathered. This next room was multi-purpose, functioning as bathroom and kitchen. Some may have believed it unsanitary, but when a being needed neither excrete nor eat, there was little point in thinking such things. The utensils and stock of food—his magic meant any item could become non-perishable—laid untouched on one half of the room. Their existence indicated he must have once found joy in cooking or eating. He had no memory to prove it.
On the other side of the room lay the next step in his routine. A bathroom had been fashioned on this side, with a thin rock divider to offer privacy. He’d either expected guests or wished to keep some semblance of human life when creating it. He could not tell which. It may have been both, for making this a part of his routine could hardly be a habit left from one of his many lived. In some, he was sure he hadn’t owned a house let alone a bathroom. He’d even guess that some lives left him ever wandering.
Reasons aside, he’d continue the morning routine. That was his way. As he got closer to the stone basin protruding from the wall, he twirled a single finger. Small droplets of water formed in the air around it, growing bigger and bigger like the lights by the ceiling. The droplets, now big enough to form a small stream, began flowing towards the basin. It was a slow and smooth rhythm, like a worm burrowing through the earth. Bouncing through the air, the stream stopped just short of making contact with the wall and began circling around itself until it was no longer a stream, but a thin oval of water floating by the wall above the basin. One of the miniature sun lights dispersed and spread itself around the water disc, providing just enough light to create a mirror like surface in the water.
Magic wasn’t rare, but such gentle mastery was. Most used their magical abilities to fight and get ahead in life, which was what must be done with something as volatile as magic. To use it in one’s daily life like it was no different from taking a breath was rather audacious. People would have been both awed and perturbed by this. He did not dwell on it. There was no point in it. Now that he had a functional mirror and filled water basin, he could continue his routine.
Decomposition is odd. In the context of mortality, it makes complete sense. Life had left one and thus one’s form shall decay. In the context of immortality, it was odd. To live an eternal undeath meant one was neither alive nor dead. Having died once or twice—or an insurmountable number of times—meant the body should wither. Still living despite these deaths meant the soul continued on meant the soul still lived within a form. Thus, how could one determine just how the body should decompose? Should it remain young and fresh? Should it shrivel and wither?
The answer to this was simple. With extended undeath, it was only natural for a body to age as it would with those still alive, but it would not decompose to that of the corpses who were blessed with permanent death. Even so, this could easily be offset by a little care and maintenance. Magic in particular made it easy to retain whatever appearance and whatever state of decay one wished. Once, he had done so. Now, he felt no need. He splashed some water from the basin on his face. Magic instantly dried it. Hands braced on the basin, he gazed at his reflection in the watery mirror.
The biting chill of a harsh winter. Heavy, shivery breaths from chapped blue lips. Silence of the wilderness. The snap of a twig and a dusting of snow from a branch lightly touched. A crunch in the snow, careful, cautious, followed by another crunch. Pale tingly fingers gripping onto the smooth wooden handle.
He took a breath.
A Drumline. Rat-tat-tat. A single drum. Bum. Another drum. Bum bum. More drums. Bum bum bum. A marching chorus of drumming heavy boots on ash-stricken mud. Bum bum. Smoky air, but no coughs. Dreaded silence. The never-ending drums. Bum. Formation. The drumming won’t be broken. Bum bum. A loud bang. An intense heat. Stumbling. Bum bum bum. The smell of iron and sulfur, of blood and powder. A series of cries. Bum bum. The marching drums continue. They will not be interrupted. Bum.
A breath.
Cheerful laughter and warming smiles on sunken dirty faces. The warmth of a fire and wonderful company. A light in the dark. It flies, it flits, it spreads its fiery wings. It sparkles and it fizzes. A kiss of cool night air and it gets whisked away. More laugher of cold but warm children. A rumbling feeling. A louder, older laugh joins the mix. They wave goodbye. They descend to the streets, with no wings of light, but hearts full of warmth.
The water of the mirror trickles into the basin below and as the surface begins to swirl, it once again becomes droplets and once again becomes air. His routine here is done. A crash and a clatter sound from a room he has not been to yet. It was followed by voices. This was not a part of his daily routine. Unhurriedly, he floated his way towards the sound. It was the foyer.
“Is this it?”
“It should b—good lord is that the sky?”
“But we were underground…”
There was confusion and awe in the voices that spoke, all mesmerized by the stars on the ceiling sky. Only one voice held fear.
“That’s not the sky—”
He’d entered the room. It was almost completely barren, the stone hearth in the middle the only thing to give it personality. Where a thick stone door had once stood was now a dark and gaping hole. His visitors, all young and of the living sort, stood near this entrance. The starry lights shifted, but none moved to become a bigger star. There was no need for his visitors to see his sorry state of a home—a lair.
“Oh lord they’re moving! Why are they moving?” One yelled.
“It’s magic! This must be the lair!” One called back.
“Is it here? Is it here?” Another cried.
They must have no fear, bursting in and yelling in a stranger’s home. They must have been boldly idiotic to do such a thing in his home. He was not upset—he’d long forgotten how to be upset—he just wished they hadn’t interrupted the routine he so punctually abided. Without the order of his routine, he thought he may lose himself, whatever that was. He’d grown tired of this charade—even though it had yet to begin—and in an instant all light snapped together. One large ball of sunshiny light. Three young visitors desperately covering their eyes. A twitch of the finger.
A stream of fire erupted from beside him and towards the visitor who possessed the most mana. Before it could hit, another visitor jumped in front of the person. This new visitor had been lurking just outside the door. Rather than the shrieks of someone burning alive, there were the shrieks of fire searing steel. The new one had used a mana infused shield to block the attack. It was no big deal. He had not needed his surprise reprimand to hit.
“It’s The Immortal!” One who recovered from the light had shouted.
The Immortal. That was what they called him now. He knew he’d gone by many names, but this was a new one. He vaguely recalled the last time he’d gotten visitors. The name hadn’t been that short then. If they said he was The Immortal, then that was who he’d be. The only issue, was that these new people wished to take up more of his time. They didn’t recognize the benefit of ending a conversation quickly.
“We finally face the evil creature living under this mountain!” A sword was pointed in his direction—it wasn’t a threatening declaration. “You shall taste my blade and perish before its holy light! It is most unholy to prolong your life with nefarious magic, and we shall make the world right. No longer shall you plague these people of their lands. You will be slain by me, and you shall case to exist, your legend passing with you.”
He did not know what they meant. He had never slighted them, nor had he slighted anyone who may be living nearby. They had no reason to hate him so. Then again, these visitors always had one reason, a silly reason. They believed he should no longer live. It was silly, really, for he was not alive. They said he was alive when he should be dead. That was an unholy, evil act. Yet, he was neither alive nor dead. He simply existed in his eternal state in between life and death. Such was the life of an immortal, the immortal. He truthfully had little reason to fight. He did not fear death for who could fear something they’d never face? And thus, battle pursued.
He remained rather unphased while sending various magical attacks in their direction. All they could do was defend. It wasn’t that he didn’t care, because frankly he had no emotions to care or not care with, he just didn’t think anything of this situation. It was not a part of his routine, but it happened enough. He could recall a few other instances in which he was attacked. It didn’t matter.
It wasn’t until he paused—for he wondered a little too hard how long this would take—that they were able to make an attack. He felt the cool metal, now warmed by a magical blaze of fire, slice at his face. The injury looked bad, the undead flesh and bone melting from the searing heat of the blade. To anyone else, this would be a tragedy or frightening. To him, it was exhilarating. He could feel himself heating up, searing, burning. If he still had blood in his body—another thing he was unsure of—he knew it would be boiling and running wild through his veins. No longer did he feel nothing. He felt rage. It was electrifying.
He was The Immortal. He had once been The Immortal Sugimoto. In the beginning he had just been Sugimoto Saichi. He’d lived thousands of lives and died thousands of times. He’d met people. He’d learned things. He’d fought. He’d raged. He could be whoever they wished him to be, but the all familiar rage reminded him of just who he should be. It reminded him of who they wanted him to be. The switch had flipped.
No longer were his attacks half-hearted. No longer did he fire aimlessly. No longer would he not care about the outcome. He would fight. He would survive. He would thrive. He was serious and calculating, like a soldier at war. He was patient, knowing that each strike could be his last, like he was hunting a great beast. He would cast magic quickly and with flair, like a wise man performing a show. This heroic party could certainly feel his rage, for they now defended like their lives depended on it—because they did.
Parry. Parry. Shield. Defend. Parry. Thrust. Between Sugimoto’s attacks, they’d thrust their own weapons, magic or sword. While he was smart and he was driven to survive, he didn’t dodge every attack. Sometimes, taking a hit was better than avoiding it. With the stab of a sword into his side, he could send a particularly nasty spell at short range. With the sting of electricity shooting through his shoulder, he could reflect attacks off the magic in the air and back towards them. He was The Immortal not because he lived forever, but because he could never die. He had been such even before they’d named him such.
And yet, this innate passion was his downfall. He had the power, the lifespan, the stamina, but this earned him an unwavering confidence and unwavering confidence meant unseeing arrogance. It meant a sword in his thigh, a spear in his heart, and a ball of electrified water aimed at his head. It meant a phantom pain—for he had long lost his sense of pain, even in his rage-fueled state—coursing through his body. It meant feet on solid ground. It meant vision fading, mind blanking. It meant the end. And yet, he still felt his rage. He couldn’t tell what emotion fueled his rage as his consciousness faded.
The visitors were beat, panting, and bleeding. Their energy was spent but their bodies relaxed as they saw his body hit the ground. He felt himself smile. He was thrilled. He was alive. And that was it. That was death.
His eyes opened. The stars were small, tiny, and sparse in the sky. He was among them. He was no source of light nor a void of dark. He existed, but he was unseen. This was the state of a soul, an unfathomable piece of pure energy. He had no body, but that was not an issue. His body had not been lost, for the body was nothing if not a house for the soul. With a little magic, he would become a being again. In what he knew was mere moments, he found himself on the ground, looking at the little stars above. They twirled and their light strengthened. He rose. He felt no pain.
The foyer was bigger than it had once been. The walls were no longer as beautifully smooth and intricate as they had once been. They were rough and sprinkled with soot and ash. One body had been traded for four on the ground. His fingers snapped. The floor, now uneven, cracked and crumbled so that the corpses may become one with it. They were the fertilizer to its soil. With a wave of his hand, the walls smoothed. A twist of the finger and the walls were clean. Aside from size, the foyer was back to how it usually was, or at least how he assumed it was.
He lingered a moment, not to mourn or reminisce or feal, but to recall just where he’d left off in his morning routine. The unexpected visitors had caused him a large delay, but it did not matter. He’d just continue his routine. He’d just move on. There was no need to dwell. It meant nothing. With time, he may get visitors again. For now, he would not think of it. If he were to have no past, there was no need to think of the future. He would simply keep being.
He was not dead—nor was he alive—because there was always something to keep him going. To survive meant to always have a way to survive, a way to keep oneself from dying. He needed not live in his current state, but it was a fact that he would never die. He was, after all, The Immortal.