Dragonworld: The Drive For Power

Part 6: Willpower

Willpower

At the edge of Unicorn territory, on the rundown patch of a disused road, a lone figure was sitting. Bleeding from the side, surrounded by the corpses of two men he had just killed, his mind was in contemplation.

His thoughts flashed back to the time he had passed his test of manhood. Well, passed. Technically, he had cheated, but technically he also brought back a head. So he had fulfilled the criteria.

He remembered how sitting in the boat, on the way back home, he had ruminated on how to take this. Was he a warrior now? Or wasn't he?

In the ceremony at the main Dragon clan castle, he was conferred his warrior sword. Etched on it, were the markings of a dragon. Only real warriors, ones who had passed all the required examinations and assessments, could have one.

He got it. Thus, he was a warrior. However, in his mind, this was always tainted. Not anymore. He had drawn blood. He had killed his attackers. He was a true warrior now. No one could dispute that. Not even his doubting mind.

Often, it is your own mind which is your greatest enemy. It creates obstacles, casts doubts, and trips you up at the worst of times. Pafe would often struggle, battling the little man inside his head, at every turn.

His greatest inner weakness had always been his self-doubt. Growing up, he would alternate between periods of confidence and crushing self-doubt. His distrust in himself, coupled with an intense feeling of loneliness, often sank him into heavy bouts of depression.

The best way to defeat the inner voices of self-doubt is to have proofs of achievement to shut them up. Pafe would often try to create these proofs, challenging himself on different tasks. Sometimes this worked in quieting down the little man inside his head. Sometimes it didn't.

There was no longer any doubt. Pafe was a warrior. He could stand with confidence and state the fact. 

"I am a warrior," he mumbled under his breath.

In his society, a warrior is at the top of the food chain. This status is earned, with sweat and blood.

It's not to be taken lightly. It's a privilege, but also a duty. As a warrior, you make a pact between yourself, your fellow warriors, and the rest of the people. You are sworn to fight, and to protect.

Pafe could finally claim this status without any doubt in his mind. His fighting prowess had earned him a place in this special class. The way he dispatched his attackers, filled him with pride.

Yet, he also found himself in a predicament. Wounded, without provisions, he was in a bad place.

He looked around. His pack, his axe, his bow and arrows, they were all gone. To his delight, he found his water bottle lying down on the road, and there were pieces of bread and some cheese scattered about. They must have fallen out of the pack as the robbers grabbed it.

Pafe forced himself up, and collected all the things he could find. Making a rudimentary sack out of his torn up coat, he put them all inside, and slung it over his shoulder.

His body was in tatters, bleeding, hurting all over, it was barely functional. It was his mind that was pushing him on. He has to continue. There are no other options. He must make it out.

He started walking. Shuffling his feet, he resembled a walking corpse more than a man. With each step, his brain got more hazy. The pain in his side grew worse. The torture was overwhelming. A sudden pinch in the back shot up an agonizing burn up and down his leg, which then completely enveloped his body.  

Unable to move, Pafe collapsed to the ground. Every fiber of his body seemed to be protesting against the strain it was being pulled through. The world blurred around him as he clutched at his side, fingers digging into the soil as if anchoring himself against the waves of torment.