In my previous life I was pulling a wall, in this life I am pulling a sword. Cordelaine rode an old horse, dragging a knight's sword that was taller than a man, and walked slowly in this wasteland where steam and magic were intertwined. He lived for a long time, so long that people around him came and went, so long that he himself couldn't remember how far he had traveled.
You can always meet interesting people on the road. There are theorists who squat under the miner's lamp and write pamphlets, there are people who step out of the mud to carry the world on their shoulders, and there are also figures from the old days who retreat to isolated islands and refuse to bow their heads. He became friends with them, helped them fend off pursuers, drank with them, and even slapped the table and said, "This is wrong, I won't do it." When he couldn't speak anymore, he stepped aside.
The waves of the times are coming, and anyone who stands there will get wet. All he could do was when those people turned around, they found an old friend standing behind him, waving to them.
Someone asked him what he wanted to do after living for so long.
He thought for a while: "I hope I can still walk when they call me to drink."
