There are things that can be taught, and things that you have to learn. In theory, killing was simple. There are over a hundred ways to take a life. The mortal body is so fragile. Coiled beneath the delicate skin are literally hundred of veins carrying your life's blood. A dozen major organs can fail.

Dying is easy.

You're just a child when you take your first kill. All the theory in the world can't prepare you for the blood on your hands, still warm with life. You watch your target stare straight at you as they bleed out. This is the end. They go slack- just crumple into themselves like paper. They're gone, forever.

They're a killer, too. They have stood in your place, before. You try to justify what you've just done. You clean off your blade and finish the mission, like so many have done before you. "For the good of the village." But in the back of your mind, you know it's slaughter. You're never going to be the same. You're never going to forget that moment for the rest of your life.

Killing is corrosive.

It eats away at your soul. All those lectures in the academy, and all the practical instruction- they're nothing.

MURDER.

It's glorified murder. "The ends justify the means," they say. You go home to your family and you can't stand to look at them. What you've become is a monster. You can't look at the innocent, because the corruption inside you eats away at them too. All you can do now is spread pain.

But someone has to do it. So you suffer in silence, and live in darkness. You understand now that the world is a bad place, full of bad people. After all, you fall among their ranks.

Your own reflection disgusts you. You've killed families. You've destroyed futures. Each time hollowing yourself out, until the only thing left inside is misery. Their ghosts haunt your dreams. You die a little more each night. Only to pick yourself up the next morning and do it all over again. This is your duty. This is who you are.

The faces carved into the stone monument stare down at you solemnly. They are all the same as you. They understand that you're dead inside.

Those who've never walked this path idolize you. You stand among the ranks of the revered and honoured. Your dog-tags hang heavy against your chest when they look at you with respect and admiration. Inside, your screaming at them to look away. They have no right. They don't understand what you've sacrificed.

You never wanted this.

When you finally realized what being a killer meant, it was too late.

You walk the path of death and destruction.

You've learned how precious a gift life is and destroyed your soul to take it. You understand it all now.

You're not a hero.

You're not even human.