Bruised and battered, Shane walked dazedly with a limp in his gait. A majority of his body was covered in blood, of his and his enemies. His breath was staggered from the two broken left ribs, and each time he shifted his weight onto his left leg, the pain should have pulled a sharp breath from him. Oddly, the male mage seemed to be impervious to it, breathing loudly in short breaths from his mouth. He waded aimlessly towards the center of the field, and came across a lone rock. He stared at the rock for a few seconds, as still as a corpse before turning around slowly and resting himself on it.
He looked around him on the ground, eyeing a pack of cigarettes and an open matchbox with its individual matchsticks strewn all over the ground. Dropping forward on his knees, Shane dropped the pistol in his right hand and fumbled around in the blood-stained grass and finally got a hold of the cigarette pack and the matchbox with a few matchsticks still in it. He didn’t even care to get back up to his previous sitting position, simply just rocking himself back and sat on the wet grass, with his back to the rock.
It took a few tries and he finally got the cigarette to light up, taking in a deep puff before blowing it out slowly. The cigarette seemed to have the effect of waking him up, restoring some semblance of consciousness to his lifeless eyes earlier. His expression was one of immense exhaustion, mentally and physically. Fresh tears began to roll down his dirty face, mixing with the crusted blood, as he continued smoking. There was no sob, no cry. Just plain despair, pure anguish.
For as the smoke of battle cleared, one could see the young mage sitting in the middle of a battlefield, what was once a small village. Littering every inch of the ground, be it dirt or grass, were corpses. Villagers violently cut down as the old and young tried to escape, as the young tried to fight back. And without mercy, each and every one of them were killed. Some were slashed multiple times, their corpses mutilated beyond recognition. A portion had huge indentations in their heads or chests from bone-crushing blunt blows. Some of them had even used pistols, erasing life with a gesture as simple as pressing down their finger. And others were decapitated. Blood stained the entire ground, the smell of so much blood nauseating.
Even when he sat down now, his pants were soaking up the blood splattered on the grass. Dotting the piles of the villagers’ corpses were the dead bodies of the monsters behind the slaughter. The slaughter had been led by four of them, four hulking monsters warped beyond human recognition, four magically modified beasts to spearhead the massacre on this very village. And a group of twenty men, armed with swords, spears and battle hammers, to make sure that none had escaped.
It was only two hours ago that the battle had started. Two hours ago when everything in his world was still aye-okay. When he was confident in his own abilities. Before everything went to hell.
He had originally received a letter, prompting him to find this small village in the middle of nowhere. It hadn’t specified anything else other than the location of the village, the time and signed by someone calling himself the Lord of Anarchy. The first time Shane had heard it was during the job in Rose Garden, where he had been tasked with stopping the Castle Killer, a ten-feet tall monster, an inferior version of the four that had participated in this battle. A shadowy figure had appeared behind him when he successfully took down the Castle Killer, warning him, threatening him.
And when he had received the letter, Shane had rushed to the village as quick as he could. He arrived just as the four monsters led the brutal charge in the village, while their human accomplices started fires, destroyed buildings and slaughtered. Shocked, the mage from Aurora had leapt directly into the fray. He had gone for the monsters first, throwing caution to the wind. There was no way he could shepherd the villagers to safety while the monsters and killers roamed. Making a hard decision, Shane decided he would save however many he could by neutralizing the threats.
He charged in, and fought, blow for blow with the monsters, taking too long to finish them off. He had fought with abandonment, knowing that time was against him and every second he slowed down were lives lost. With each monster he faced, Shane’s degree of concern for his own safety dropped, to the point that when it was the last monster left, Shane had completely thrown out all ideas of defense. He fought like a monster himself, attack for attack, unyielding until the last of his enemies were on the ground.
And when the frenzy of the battle, the adrenaline pumping through him, had subsided, the silver-haired mage could only look around. To realize he had saved no one. It was deep blow to his psychological being, as he ran around the entire village despite his injuries, shouting out to the villagers for anyone alive to respond. The sense of despair, as if two hands choking him, was slowly suffocating him as he flipped one body after another. Again and again the young mage was faced with the brutality of the slaughter, until Shane finally broke, kneeling on the ground as he flipped the corpse around, knowing well enough that what was waiting for him was another wound-riddled corpse. Underneath the corpse was a gun, loaded, unused. Shane picked it up, took a good long look at it and there he had stayed, kneeling on the ground, expressionless until something in him prompted him to get up and move.
Thunder rumbled across the dark skies above him, and it took no longer than two seconds for the downpour to arrive. Shane continued to smoke his cigarette, ignoring the heavy rain. His cigarette slowly extinguished in the rain, still held between his index and middle fingers on his left hand. His right hand inched towards the pistol he had dropped, reached for it and then grabbed it. He pointed the gun at himself, thinking. Contemplating. Was this it? He had called himself a superhero in training, a growing confidence in his skills and abilities as he completed the most dangerous of jobs one after another. And yet, here he was, a superhero in training failing to do save a single life.
He was interrupted by a sudden groan. Turning his head slowly to the left, Shane watched as one of the killers struggled to get up and did so successfully. Their eyes met as the killer looked around him, and without hesitation, grabbed his sword, charging at Shane. Without so much as a flicker of doubt, considering his dislike for firearms, the silver-haired mage turned the gun on the lunging man and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot, loud as it was, was muted in the roar of the pouring rain. And as his fingers had pressed down on the trigger, the charging killer shot right in the forehead, dropping to the ground without any resistance, the fog in Shane’s mind cleared up. He dropped the gun from his right hand and loosened his fingers holding the cigarette. Who had said a superhero was needed to save lives? Being a superhero wasn’t his end goal, it was to uphold justice. He had rigidly stuck to the means, instead of the end, limiting himself. There were so many paths to choose from, and he had only gone down the path of the superhero because of his previous life. Where he hadn’t experienced the dark side of his old world.
The means to the end is only meaningful if he did manage to reach the end. With a sudden burst of strength, Shane pushed himself off the ground and stood back up. Looking at the gun on the ground, Shane took a deep breath, wincing in pain from the broken rib. He then shifted his gaze so that he could see clearer around him, to look at the corpses littering the ground. To burn this image into his brain, to remember this failure, take it as a lesson.
The Lord of Anarchy had intended to kill him. And if he managed to survive, to use it as a warning. And Shane was sure that with him still being alive, there was definitely more to come. It would take a very radical change to what he had believed in all this while if he ever wanted to completely destroy this Lord of Anarchy. And change was what this very battle had forced from him.
He looked around him on the ground, eyeing a pack of cigarettes and an open matchbox with its individual matchsticks strewn all over the ground. Dropping forward on his knees, Shane dropped the pistol in his right hand and fumbled around in the blood-stained grass and finally got a hold of the cigarette pack and the matchbox with a few matchsticks still in it. He didn’t even care to get back up to his previous sitting position, simply just rocking himself back and sat on the wet grass, with his back to the rock.
It took a few tries and he finally got the cigarette to light up, taking in a deep puff before blowing it out slowly. The cigarette seemed to have the effect of waking him up, restoring some semblance of consciousness to his lifeless eyes earlier. His expression was one of immense exhaustion, mentally and physically. Fresh tears began to roll down his dirty face, mixing with the crusted blood, as he continued smoking. There was no sob, no cry. Just plain despair, pure anguish.
For as the smoke of battle cleared, one could see the young mage sitting in the middle of a battlefield, what was once a small village. Littering every inch of the ground, be it dirt or grass, were corpses. Villagers violently cut down as the old and young tried to escape, as the young tried to fight back. And without mercy, each and every one of them were killed. Some were slashed multiple times, their corpses mutilated beyond recognition. A portion had huge indentations in their heads or chests from bone-crushing blunt blows. Some of them had even used pistols, erasing life with a gesture as simple as pressing down their finger. And others were decapitated. Blood stained the entire ground, the smell of so much blood nauseating.
Even when he sat down now, his pants were soaking up the blood splattered on the grass. Dotting the piles of the villagers’ corpses were the dead bodies of the monsters behind the slaughter. The slaughter had been led by four of them, four hulking monsters warped beyond human recognition, four magically modified beasts to spearhead the massacre on this very village. And a group of twenty men, armed with swords, spears and battle hammers, to make sure that none had escaped.
It was only two hours ago that the battle had started. Two hours ago when everything in his world was still aye-okay. When he was confident in his own abilities. Before everything went to hell.
He had originally received a letter, prompting him to find this small village in the middle of nowhere. It hadn’t specified anything else other than the location of the village, the time and signed by someone calling himself the Lord of Anarchy. The first time Shane had heard it was during the job in Rose Garden, where he had been tasked with stopping the Castle Killer, a ten-feet tall monster, an inferior version of the four that had participated in this battle. A shadowy figure had appeared behind him when he successfully took down the Castle Killer, warning him, threatening him.
And when he had received the letter, Shane had rushed to the village as quick as he could. He arrived just as the four monsters led the brutal charge in the village, while their human accomplices started fires, destroyed buildings and slaughtered. Shocked, the mage from Aurora had leapt directly into the fray. He had gone for the monsters first, throwing caution to the wind. There was no way he could shepherd the villagers to safety while the monsters and killers roamed. Making a hard decision, Shane decided he would save however many he could by neutralizing the threats.
He charged in, and fought, blow for blow with the monsters, taking too long to finish them off. He had fought with abandonment, knowing that time was against him and every second he slowed down were lives lost. With each monster he faced, Shane’s degree of concern for his own safety dropped, to the point that when it was the last monster left, Shane had completely thrown out all ideas of defense. He fought like a monster himself, attack for attack, unyielding until the last of his enemies were on the ground.
And when the frenzy of the battle, the adrenaline pumping through him, had subsided, the silver-haired mage could only look around. To realize he had saved no one. It was deep blow to his psychological being, as he ran around the entire village despite his injuries, shouting out to the villagers for anyone alive to respond. The sense of despair, as if two hands choking him, was slowly suffocating him as he flipped one body after another. Again and again the young mage was faced with the brutality of the slaughter, until Shane finally broke, kneeling on the ground as he flipped the corpse around, knowing well enough that what was waiting for him was another wound-riddled corpse. Underneath the corpse was a gun, loaded, unused. Shane picked it up, took a good long look at it and there he had stayed, kneeling on the ground, expressionless until something in him prompted him to get up and move.
Thunder rumbled across the dark skies above him, and it took no longer than two seconds for the downpour to arrive. Shane continued to smoke his cigarette, ignoring the heavy rain. His cigarette slowly extinguished in the rain, still held between his index and middle fingers on his left hand. His right hand inched towards the pistol he had dropped, reached for it and then grabbed it. He pointed the gun at himself, thinking. Contemplating. Was this it? He had called himself a superhero in training, a growing confidence in his skills and abilities as he completed the most dangerous of jobs one after another. And yet, here he was, a superhero in training failing to do save a single life.
He was interrupted by a sudden groan. Turning his head slowly to the left, Shane watched as one of the killers struggled to get up and did so successfully. Their eyes met as the killer looked around him, and without hesitation, grabbed his sword, charging at Shane. Without so much as a flicker of doubt, considering his dislike for firearms, the silver-haired mage turned the gun on the lunging man and pulled the trigger.
The gunshot, loud as it was, was muted in the roar of the pouring rain. And as his fingers had pressed down on the trigger, the charging killer shot right in the forehead, dropping to the ground without any resistance, the fog in Shane’s mind cleared up. He dropped the gun from his right hand and loosened his fingers holding the cigarette. Who had said a superhero was needed to save lives? Being a superhero wasn’t his end goal, it was to uphold justice. He had rigidly stuck to the means, instead of the end, limiting himself. There were so many paths to choose from, and he had only gone down the path of the superhero because of his previous life. Where he hadn’t experienced the dark side of his old world.
The means to the end is only meaningful if he did manage to reach the end. With a sudden burst of strength, Shane pushed himself off the ground and stood back up. Looking at the gun on the ground, Shane took a deep breath, wincing in pain from the broken rib. He then shifted his gaze so that he could see clearer around him, to look at the corpses littering the ground. To burn this image into his brain, to remember this failure, take it as a lesson.
The Lord of Anarchy had intended to kill him. And if he managed to survive, to use it as a warning. And Shane was sure that with him still being alive, there was definitely more to come. It would take a very radical change to what he had believed in all this while if he ever wanted to completely destroy this Lord of Anarchy. And change was what this very battle had forced from him.
[1475 words]
