Blackblade Warrior
in
"Steel Soul"
A moment in Void God.
A figure strides. It is a cog in a machine; it is a freed man. It is nature taking its course, like this is the way the world was made to be. It is the reward fought so hardly to find. In life, this soul was no fighter. It was not brutal. It was not violent. A long time ago, a long time ago... Oh, what was it? Something mundane. More than that, something immobile. It, now the warrior, does not remember these times. Not because it has discarded them, but because there was nothing to remember. A silent life of working under the employ of others. Of feeling under the employ of the world's gaze. Of walking, ne'er to run, under the employ of mortality, which bound it to its hometown its whole life. It feels no shame or regret for that time. One can't mourn a life that never began. And as the clasping hands that bound it before weakened and ceded, it was allowed to be born. The warrior. Now, here, in this blasted realm, having thrown itself to the shadow trials in a test of if it was worthy of life, it lives. It lives, and it kills. Killing is a much less notable thing than living, it reasons. It was killed in the living world, and was granted its first true life as a result. Those killed in this place will walk it off sooner or later. ...Well. Except in one case. This blackblade is almost ready to indict that mortal blow for real, isn't it? A shame... it'll have to be replaced. This life hasn't had time enough to breathe to be willing to take that kill, and ascend further. The warrior injects its blade into the stone. The blood its spilled seeps into the dirt below. Long ago, the warrior wondered what forces had deigned for this place to be wracked with crimson earth, but now it knows. People like it did. There are no tears, as it turns to leave without lamenting the loss of its partner. There will be more. A million smiths, all crafting the same beautiful thing. It walks onward, certain. Not certain of a truth, moral, or goal. It is only certain that now, and still, it is alive. The war this warrior fights is not on another. It is the war of existence. The helmet's slits stare forward, forgetting the flesh within.