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It is said that after war has ended, when soldiers are no longer needed, their weapons are reshaped into the tools of civilisation. Great war-hammers are forged and reshaped, becoming the tools of smiths and house-makers; axes are shortened and made heavier, becoming the tools of lumberjacks and carpenters; daggers are sharpened and re-handled, becoming the tools of cooks and artisans. All weapons that can be turned to tools must be; all those that cannot must be melted to scrap and remade, for a weapon serves no purpose but violence.
One wonders then, why is the weapon of the hero so often a sword?
A girl has wandered the frozen wastes of the north for years uncountable, her divine blade singing with the blood of creatures of nightmare. Now, her crusade is over; the Demon King lies dead, and humanity has moved past the horrors of their past. Her feet take her south to a land she cannot recognize, filled with people she does not know and sights unfamiliar to her eyes.
But worry not, heisbollah. The story is not yet over. A story of humanity may yet spring forth.