As if his mind was creaking, he saw a dream of battle.
That world was on the verge of death from the start. The malice of the rulers covered the land, and they greedily devoured the meat of the weak who were unable to even resist.
The weak could only despair. As they continued to be exploited, they eventually found a single thing to rely on—words of salvation filled with love.
Beautiful words that couldn't be defeated by starvation, poverty or despair... But the rulers tried to take even that from them. It was no longer exploitation; it was murder.
So they rose up. Their fear of having their right to live taken away overcame their fear of dying in battle.
Among them was a young boy. No one knew whether his presence there was a coincidence or the will of God, but before anyone realized it, the boy was leading them.
Their battle should have no defeat. And no victory either.
Because by rising up, they were both losers and victors at the same time. Indeed, they had no fists to swing; all they had left was the power to rise up. However, the act of rising up itself was a necessary act. They rose up for the sake of what they believed in—that in itself was important and what they wished for. The sacrifices would be kept to a minimum, and even if several people including themselves became sacrifices, the world wouldn't die, but would instead be reborn.
...That was how it should have been.
Even God will occasionally exercise malice due to good will. The miraculous power granted to the boy by God brought the possibility of victory that should have been impossible.
Miracles are, after all, things that only happen rarely. A miracle is a phenomenon that occurs when the heavens, earth and all people mesh together, and even then it still requires that everything be left to the roll of the dice.
Unfortunately, the boy attained victory.
Everyone went wild and became excited over the victory. They clung to the boy, who had won a battle where victory should have been impossible, as a child of miracles. That foolish purity of theirs troubled the boy.
They shouldn't have won. Winning was not an option. He had been caught up in saving lives in the near future and averted his eyes from the bigger picture.
They may bite a cornered cat—but after being bitten, the enraged cat would retaliate by slaughtering them. That was the truth of this world.
I was naïve.
The cut-off heads of old people, the men chopped up like experimental animals, babies pierced by spears, girls violated in the pursuit of lust and then thrown away afterwards—It was truly a place worthy of being called hell. And the countless lives gathered here were not taken away by the enemy, but by the boy. He was convinced of that—and yet, that made it all the more impossible for the boy to yield and give up.
The boy, without once changing expression, accepted this result with a will of steel. He merely gazed at this scene of ruin. He revealed no resignation or sorrow and even overcame the pain of his dismembered arms.
He accepted that he had lost.
He accepted that he would die.
He accepted that the responsibility for all their deaths lay with him.
But the one thing he wouldn't accept—was that everything would fall to ruins after this. He couldn't accept it. After having wasted so many lives, he absolutely could not accept that nothing would be gained as a result.
