ASTRAL TALE

I

You've always loved the essence of war.

Corpses lying in the crimson ground, some lost their limbs with only red- still throbbing muscles, some with severe injuries in their head, head or stomach, some poisoned, some assassinated. Truly various types of murder.

This world is withering, is what you used to assume. Although at the moment, you take pride in thinking that this so called effect is more beneficial to you than you think.

The smell of deteriorating flesh that seems to spread infinitely on the battlefield is rather satisfying. Holding the skulls and puncturing the bodies of your enemies, and the way they pathetically beg for your mercy the moment they lost is absolutely ludicrous to you.

The way their blood spilled to your hand, the way you rip their flesh apart- it's the best feeling, especially when you're the one who gained victory.

Truly, you really don't understand the fact that they'd even dare to challenge you in the first place. You relish in the feeling of destruction and disintegration. The shrill cries of the bladework and screams from other people waft through the air and it's all music to your ears.

You've always loved the essence of war.

Until they're involved in the crossfire.

It was never supposed to happen, they were supposed to be safe from any danger, you could've been able to analyze it enough to organize a safety precaution and enough protection to keep them safe. Your meticulous calculations have never failed you, so why now?

You love the essence of war, of death.. Until it's something that you had no control over.

Victory courses through your veins as you stood atop a small hill, witnessing the way your opponents crumbled out of existence. there was nothing left behind and you can't believe you didn't think of this solution the first time because wow, you should never let them live for as long as they did.

You love the essence of death.. Until its their lifeless form you see, hiding amongst the rubble of a once beautiful and tranquil place. you gather them into your arms and frantically check for a pulse, refusing to believe the way their body was cold to the touch and completely limp.

You gather them into your arms and frantically check for a pulse, refusing to believe the way their body was cold to the touch and completely limp.

The world stops when you don't identify one.

You hate the essence of war.

You weep for what the world has stolen as you cradle them closer to your chest because maybe, just maybe, if you tried hard enough, your pathetic soul would have enough life to give to them. But alas, that's not how the world works and you weep for what you've lost.