The muffled tone is stern, but it drips with determination. Delusional conviction carried with each word. The whole world stopped to listen. “Freewill among humans is a fleeting dream,” he says bluntly. “It does not truly exist. Is that not unfortunate? I believe it is unjust, a cruel joke from the higher beings that supposedly protect us. What are we other than puppets?”  

          Those words echo throughout the mind of his very own puppet, a being created under the very same belief he resented so. In their jet-black armor, they sluggishly walk through the battlefield tainted in cold blood. The voice continues playing with each agonizing step, the grass painting them red. The sun falls behind the mountains and disappears from the world. The sky fills with dazzling lights that give the scene great serenity, each star twinkling above the corpses of innocent gods. “We need not simply bow our heads to our malevolent deities. Oh, no, we can do so much better.” 

          “Do better?” a soft, young voice repeats. It’s familiar to the puppet. “But why? Don’t we… need rules? What could happen without them?” 

          “Greatness. On our own accord. Why must higher beings not only dictate our lives but enforce rules on beings they cannot be bothered to support? We need independence.”  

          Across the bloodstained wasteland, bodies remain cold and still. Lifeless, like the eyes of a puppet. And yet, they’re the only souls that remain. Beyond the sea of corpses, gazing at the beautiful stars, was a lonely man. Once a puppet, blood rolling down his cheek and fingertips, he felt alive for the first time. There was another wave, but one of great sorrow. Profound feelings filled his heart. Remorse danced in his eyes, and the cold winds wrapped around his body. It can’t be undone. Dragged his feet through the soggy lands, he spoke in a quiet, hoarse tone, but he spoke to the whole world in his vision, “I… I want to be my own being now.”  

          His words, to him, were a request, but the world heard it as a demand. The moonlight glistened on his soaked armor. He pauses and slowly reconnects himself with the world around him; a resounding unsheathing of a blade alerts him. He spun around quickly to the source with his fist clenched and a fighting stance prepared. Before he knew it, a large gash spread across his torso, spewing blood. His legs grew wobbly, and he couldn’t hold himself any longer. He fell to his knees in agonizing pain with a loud thump, and his armor clashed with itself because of how hard he fell. The smell of his own blood was rich and metallic. It felt as though life passed through his nostrils. He glanced up weakly with a confident grin, pressing his hand against the bloody wound, newfound joy danced in those once bleak eyes.  

          He slammed his fist on the ground and pushed his heavy body up. Blood gushes from the wound as he stumbles around, hardly able to keep himself from collapsing again. He and his opponent locked eyes, but he felt no fear. He enjoyed that intense pain, and he enjoyed feeling anything at all. Blood pours from his mouth as he lets out a powerful guffaw, his arms open wide, and his head reels back and faces the red sky. He gazes back at his opponent without a shred of fear within his excited eyes. He balls his hands into tight fists and mutters weakly to his opponent. “One more battle…” he sneers. “Let’s make this quick!”