"WHY WHY WHY WHY WHY?!" Frel had awoken in a crater several meters deep, the noon sun shining directly downwards into the cavity for quite some time now.

All around him were the desiccated bodies of former goblins, scattered in various stages of panic the further away they were from Frel. 

He couldn't accept it. There's no way he's still alive. There's no way he killed Sir Grog and Jak. 

There's just no way.

But his mind told him he did. His memories showed how he pierced Sir Jak's chest with the cursed blade and watched as the explosion mangled his body beyond recognition. It showed him how he trapped Sir Grog, and ruthlessly killed him before draining his blood.

It showed how he coldly butchered his own people. His neighbors, his friends, his family, and his little sister.

All your fault. 

No... 

If you had not picked up that blade, you could have returned safely, living out the rest of your life happily.

No...

YOU ARE THE REASON OUR PEOPLE ARE DEAD!

NOOOO!

He stumbled crazed, still shocked and not fully accepting of the whole tragedy, stumbling around the expansive hollowed room.

"No... no... no... it's not my fault... its not my fault..." He kept muttering under his breath, his eyes hollow and empty, his hand gripped tightly onto the blade.

He spent hours wandering the lifeless room, a circular opening in the roof letting the sun pour in. Eventually, his eyes focused on a particular body, a particular neckpiece reflecting the sun toward his eyes.

It was desiccated, just like the others, making it nigh impossible to tell who was who.

But Frel knew who it was. His little sister. 

Near her, were their parents, wearing the same clothing he had last seen them in.

Everything hit him like a wave. They were dead, and he was the one who had caused it.

No, not him. He raised his gripped hand to eye level.

It was all because of this fucking sword.

Anger quickly replaced his shock—pure, unbridled, fiery anger.  

"WHY?! WHY DID YOU DO THIS TO ME?!"  He threw the sword as hard as he could toward the stone walls.

It sank effortlessly into the stone, right down to the hilt.

"YOU MADE ME SLAUGHTER THEM!" He brought the blade down onto the wall, leaving an effortless clean cut. "YOU KILLED NOT JUST THE SOLDIERS-" Another slash. "-BUT ALSO THE INNOCENT PEOPLE HERE!" A third slash. "YOU KILLED MY FAMILY-" A fourth slash. "-MY FRIENDS-" A fifth slash. The rock walls now crumbled. "-MY PARENTS-" A sixth slash. "-MY LITTLE SISTERRRR!" The seventh slash tore the entire section of the stone wall down, revealing the underground walls behind it.

"ha... ha..." He panted, trying to catch his breath. He raised the blade back to eye level, observing how there was absolutely zero damage done to the blade.

*sniff* "Why..." His knees gave out, and he crumbled onto the floor, sobbing.

He'll never see his parents again. He'll never taste their cooking, never wake up to the sounds of his friends calling him to play a game of "Satchel". He'll never hear his sister welcoming him home, how she poured out her hobbies, passions, and interests to him at the dinner table, while his parents comforted him after a long day.

He stayed there, hunched over, sniveling, and crying alone in the dark for an untold amount of days. He had hoped that he'd just die from starvation and dehydration, but he did not. Masamune was providing him with blood and nutrients.

After a week after not dying though, he awoke from his depressed stupor to take his own life. Raising the blade to his chest, he glanced at the sun outside for one last time.

Hopefully, he can meet his family on the other side, perhaps reborn as something better. 

He brought the blade inwards. 

Right before he could pierce himself, his vocal cords seized up as he shouted, "Blood Form!"

The portion of flesh where he was going to stab exploded into blood, soon followed by the rest of his body, as the blade passed harmlessly through.

Finding his vocal cords back, he screamed. "JUST LET ME DIE DAMNIT! YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME, WHY DON'T YOU JUST KILL ME?!" Tears burst from his eyes once again.

The blade did not respond. 

Tears ran down his cheeks, and he glared at the blade again. 

Fine. If I'll get rid of you then.

He threw the blade as hard as he could, embedding it into another stone wall. However, a thin stream of blood connected both him and the sword. As he tried to move away, the sword was pulled out of the wall, pulled along by the stream.

He sliced his liquid arm to try to sever the connection, but all it did was make it thicker. 

"JUST GET OFF ME!" He shouted. "Blood form!" To cancel a form, you had to repeat the name to do so. He figured that if that thin stream of blood connected the 2 as a result of his form, canceling it would remove the stream.

He felt his body return to normal, the soft soil beneath his feet confirming that his body had reformed. However, instead of a stream of blood connecting the 2, his wrist artery had expanded outside his body, tying the 2 together. 

"JUST FUCK OFF!" He tried to cut it by pounding the artery between his arm and the floor, but to no avail. Nothing would break the artery.

"Just... why? Why did it have to happen to me?" He stared hopelessly as the artery retracted into his wrist, pulling the sword into his palm again. 

He glanced towards the bodies. Although mummified, they were now slowly rotting, tiny strands of fungi growing out from the ones that had been exposed to more moisture. 

Give them a proper burial. They deserve nothing less. The voice in his head whispered. It was himself, he knew that. The version of himself that wasn't a dumbass and didn't get them into this situation. If only he had been there, nothing would've ever happened.

Finally finding a purpose after an entire week of depression, he got up, with a newfound determination inside him.

Holding the sword as a shovel, he began to get to work. If the sword breaks, so the better. 

Traditional goblin burials called for the corpse to be decorated with various flowers, seeds, and a sapling chosen by their family so that the body could give new life even after the soul passes on. Then it was buried just a meter deep, the sapling right above them. This was then often followed by days of celebration and feasts, an empty bowl filled with the best fruits and meats, along with maple wine left by the roots of the planted sapling.

He spent weeks digging the holes to the proper depth on the surface, before moving each and every corpse in. He then spent another few weeks finding various flowers, seeds, and saplings that the people he knew loved. Any monster he came across he cut down ruthlessly.

He couldn't die yet, not before properly sending off his people.

Gob personally loved the cypress tree, even though he was not from the cypress family line. His sister shared a similar love for their family tree, the Maple, as so did his mother and father. Grog came from the Oak line, while Jak came from the Pine line, both of which he hauled back to the town. He tried to remember as many of his neighbor's family tree lines as possible, to allow them to be planted underneath their own trees.

But his memory was never the best, so there were still many, many more he couldn't identify, couldn't remember, or didn't know them. And so he buried them each with the Jungle trees, a respectful choice for unidentified corpses.

He tried his best for the last part of the ritual, a massive celebration that involved everyone who knew the deceased, as well as food and maple wine. It was supposed to be lively, filled with cheer to distract the grim reality that the deceased was gone, but for Frel, it was only himself.

He had spent another week slaughtering the jungle boar and the shadow tigers, gathering the rarer fruits that adorned the jungles, and accumulating a ton of food over the weeks. He then prepared them, salting the meat he had for another week, while he dug around the village for oil and Maple wine. 

Thankfully, as his family line came from maple, he was part of the few families responsible for producing Maple wine, which meant his cellar was filled with jars upon jars. 

He selected the oldest jars for his own family and close friends, while he brought out the rest for everyone else. 

Once the meat was done salting, he prepared to cook them. Lighting a massive bonfire, he hung the cuts of meat off a giant skewer, cooking them slowly. While cooking, he pressed some of the fruit into juice, and also set up a massive table of roughly 1000 chairs. Each chair signified 10 people, while also referencing how each soldier protected 10 lives with their own.

When the meats were done, he placed them down on plates, along with one fruit and some vegetables, and the fruit juice. 

He forced himself to smile as he looked around the empty seats. He could only hope that their spirits were here with him.

As he raised his cup of pressed juice, he managed to choke out, "For a brighter future!", holding back tears that threatened to fall out.

He drank the juice in a single gulp, slamming it down and replacing it with Maple wine.

The sickening sweet syrup slid down his throat smoothly. Once he was done with one cup, he refilled it with another. 

And another.

And another.

And another.

...