"Shen, you think you have killed the pandas, but all you've really done was kill yourself."

The Dawn of Shen

They…

…they fade.

In normalcy, they fade.

But he—he wasn't normal. Was he?

No. He wasn't. Normal was someone of healthy mind and sound body, and…

…and he wasn't.

He was a broken being bent beyond repair, a shattered character whose pieces have already been impossibly lost and there was no chance of ever being able to gather them back. His existence was that of a shredded piece of cloth, and even if he wanted to gather all the threads back to him and sew a new picture altogether, with a painful ache of longing that he would eventually feel better, still, he would always, always end up being tangled in a hopeless mess of knots, of irredeemable strings and ties—and there would never be a way out, no matter how hard he'd try.

The panda is wrong.

The panda is wrong—

They don't fade.

They would always and always remain.

They were a permanent taint on his title, a stain on his feathers, a disfigurement that he'd have to carry as a burden on his shoulders until the end of eternity.

These scars were what made him who he was. These scars were what destroyed him. They continue to open into wounds, and, even if they do close up after some time of medication, they never really completely heal.

Never.

And this—these were what led him to destruction. He only never really admitted it, not even to himself; he said he didn't care about those scars, he didn't feel them, he wouldn't; he was even proud of being heartless, or so he boasts. He always said he didn't care, he wouldn't care, he'd never bloody care—even if he was completely aware that what he had tediously worked for, what he still longed for, was because of those inerasable scars themselves, those that had permanently implanted themselves into the depths of his very soul, impossible to weed out, growing from within him and spreading its fiendish roots to absorb and force out the sanity he had left in himself. All his life, he said he didn't care about them—them, those impervious scars—although, in reality, he had lived all his life with a desperation to prove to those same, mocking scars that he could be more, more, more than just a…a pathetic sufferer of society, a helpless victim of fate's contemptuous game.

And he almost succeeded in doing just that, in changing the course of his river's destiny, by building armies of vicious wolves and brutish gorillas, by constructing weapons of steel that could incinerate entire, massive domains with the formidable elements of fire and metal, by calculating a picture-perfect plan in seizing the throne of the Emperor and claiming China as his very own, his personal achievement, the greatest he'd ever have in his entire lifetime. It was the legacy he believed he was born to have, and he almost succeeded.

He almost succeeded.

He almost succeeded.

But now…look. The multitude of armies that he had built, destroyed; the lifetime he had poured onto his cauldron of fire, dead. He lived all his life trying to erase those scars, wanting to prove to them that he could be more, but his wings failed to reach for that legacy he thought all his life was meant for him. Instead of triumph being his, those same scars laughed at his face right now, for all the fruitlessness of those thirty excruciating years. And with the height of a pride that stood like a mountain in all its regal dignity, he refused to acknowledge that something as…as scars would be the very things that would make him crumble, in the end, all along—crumble…reduced to the pitiful form he is right now.

In his conquest for achieving happiness through the power, he was left filthy, weak.

Defeated.

But, admitting, surrendering that he had fallen as a victim to these scars would only imply weakness.

So he willed himself to speak the words that would never be deemed true—

"I don't care what scars do."

—even if he knew…that he had lived all his life with them.

Po, the panda, the destined warrior of black and white, had the immediate response to infuse into his words a gentle and firm understanding. "You should, Shen," he said. "You've got to let go of that stuff from the past because it just doesn't matter. The only thing that matters," the wood beneath him weakly creaked as he stepped closer, "…is what you choose to be now."

"…you're right," Shen breathed, nodding with an unwavering resolve, his eyes widening in sick comprehension as what he wanted, what he was destined to become, boiled the acid in his veins and set to flames that same, unkempt hatred in his heart that had been growing ever since—ever since…

…ever since so long ago.

He gripped at the cold blades of the knives hidden from within his robes, letting its deathly cool surface bite his feathers like frost and harden his heart into ice—even as his blood burned like fire.

"Then I choose this!"

The last stress in his voice echoed out the clashing amalgamation of pain and anger, a hatred so ardent that the embers in his eyes caught a ravenous wildfire, never to be tamed, forever restless. He spun, a snowy white blur dancing in the desperate song of his knives as he furiously used them to swipe at the panda, only to miss inches from grazing Po's eyes when the Dragon Warrior frantically managed to throw his head backward to evade the startling, unexpected attack from the now completely deranged peacock—whose temper, patience, and verge of collapse had now reached its frightening climax.

And there the fight began.

Unsatisfied by missing the kill, the frustrated warlord tried again, and again, and again, attacking the panda relentlessly without showing so much as a sign of compunction as he was devoured by nothing more than the ferocity of his wrath. He held his blades like they were his own feathers, gripping at them as if they were the last things he'd ever hold, the things that never left him even as everyone else had already had; and they glinted maliciously as they caught light of the slowly rising dawn, creating a show of lethal grace and a flurry of silver feathers. The prince was too overcome with bitter, bottomless pain and animalistic rancour that it blinded him to madness—he wanted so much to kill his opponent, but with each strike that failed to tear through flesh from which to extract that long-awaited blood, the madness only grew. And, strangely, in each, painful failure, he felt as if it was…as if it was him attacking himself, an unseen knife burrowing itself deep, deeper, deeper into his flesh; and it fed to the fire.

Shen kicked at the panda with his iron-clad talons to provide him the moment of swinging into mid-air as he let his fanned-out train create for himself an air of fluid transition to drop back down onto the ground, the entire process only amounting for less than a second before he was striking at Po again, hitting, slashing, raiding at him ruthlessly as the two opposing warriors independently, desperately, tried to live and to slaughter. Shen's unearthly speed was a motion blinding to the eyes, increasing in frightening momentum just as his bloodlust grew even more in dangerous intensity.

The panda, who looked as if he actually…actually pitied the raging lord, tried to get to him—the obvious expression of being struck in the middle of debating whether to fight him or not, to defend himself or counter, etched clearly onto his face, all of these going on inside of Po's head even as he struggled to keep himself alive. The troubled Dragon Warrior wanted to keep the rampant peacock still, to get to him through the peace of words, but it was apparent that Shen wanted to weather this situation out through nothing but violence, moving with accurate fluidity that intensified to attacks that were dangerously uncontrollable.

Shen himself was a weapon gone out of control.

In the middle of the fight, though, when he finally had the chance, Po took hold of Shen's wings from behind, hoping to get him around this, to finally settle this matter peacefully; but against what he'd hoped, it only multiplied the lord's anger a hundredfold—he was completely disgusted, and Shen hatefully screamed at the physical contact, a sound so strident and raucous as he twirled away from the bear's paws. For a fraction of a second Shen lost balance, but control conquered quickly as his desire to kill intensified to an inferno; he got right back onto the firm support of his metal talons as he spun around to slash at the panda who was within the peacock's critical proximity, causing threads of fur to fly in the air as Po released his physical agony with a cry of pain. The panda's paw flew to touch his face to realize he'd been grazed, but Shen, being a warrior, a swordsman more so, that mastered himself in lethal precision, immediately took advantage of that moment's brief pause as he reared himself back, knives at the ready, and hurled them with vehemence—it was a poor calculation on his part to say the least, considering now that hatred and anger worked together to render him completely blind, but nevertheless, each knife held the deathliness of white as they glinted in malice against the light of the sun.

Po looked up just in time to see the incoming missiles, a horizontal volley of knives slicing through the air with an ear-piercing metallic shrill that resembled the acuity of lightning itself. The panda, having no other choice than to stay fixated onto his place because of being trapped in the crux of time, stepped onto a wooden plank to launch it into the air, catching it in both paws to use it to defend himself in the nick of a second, the blades striking the dull wood, each with an ominous thump—it happened once, he frantically ducked to avoid the second, then a thudding series of one-two-three. Realizing that none anymore was coming his way, the bear looked from behind his studded, protective plank, but he only became witness of the sound of metal talons running over the wood of the ship's broken deck before his head was already looking up, staring at the white peacock who had his wings over his head, clutching tightly at the handle of his Guan Dao, aiming to strike at his head—blindly aiming to strike for the kill.

The entire room was draped by thick, red curtains that plunged the lone white prince in blackness. All that could be heard was the distinct slice of metal that bounced against the intricate walls in a shrill resonance as he polished the edges of the silver blade of his Guan Dao, dutifully refining it to the sharpness he desired. In his other wing, he held a small sharpening knife that was ten times smaller than the other, crueller-looking sword, sweeping it over the iron blade of his Dao to sharpen it into perfection. He was not aware that he had been doing this for several hours already—but time was non-existent as Shen blankly continued to do what he was already doing, mechanically grazing the knives against each other, staring at his work with empty, expressionless eyes. He was sitting on the edge of his bed that faced his royal quarters' darkest corner, where he felt secured by the shadows that blanketed him with an iciness that he interpreted as warmth—those shadows that actually took the effort to work together, as if…as if to welcome their newest member wholeheartedly into their league.

His wing stopped sweeping over his Dao midway as he contemplated this. The regular sound of blade slicing against blade was suddenly gone. And, in that brief moment of silence, his eyes stared at space without really looking at it.

…because, why is it, that after having done a momentous feat in an attempt to make them proud, it was the shadows, the shadows, that actually welcomed him back with open arms, while his mother and father, his own flesh and blood, were the same ones who only looked at him in horror?

Something within him cracked at this thought, like a bone snapping into two. The blankness in his face suddenly morphed into an incinerating anger that awakened the inborn hate in his eyes, and, clutching at the small, sharpening knife that he held in his wing, he jumped from his bed, reeled back, and, with a fervent shout, threw the blade across the room so that the elaborate vase with sculpted dragons innocently standing on a wooden pedestal shattered in pieces, sending its shards flying mid-air and crashing onto the ground in a sharp tintinnabulation of chimes.

Still unfulfilled, Shen heatedly grabbed at his Guan Dao, dug his talons firmly on the ground, postured an offensive stance, and readied himself to—

The sound of a creaking door suddenly pulled him out from the depths of his own thoughts. He fiercely whipped his head to the right to see an old goat step calmly into his room like she owned it, and, at the mere sight of her, Shen's anger was suddenly reduced to annoyance at the sight of the one and only—she who had the impertinent gall to interrupt his—his—

His little…tantrum.

"Haven't you heard of a quaint custom called knocking?" Shen demanded the Soothsayer, an annoyed vein popping in his forehead.

But the Soothsayer was not swayed, not even after having injected in his voice a venom that could kill a thousand oceans. She stopped walking in the middle of the room, and, as she firmly planted her cane on the ground with one hoof, she ponderously took her time sweeping her eyes over the dimly-lit chambers, with only a trio of candles from a golden, Chinese candelabrum giving off the sinister, orange illumination. She particularly took a slow pause as she observed the shattered pieces of glass from a vase that they even had imported from the prestigious cities of the North, now scattered like pebbles on the royally polished floor. She took one look at Shen, who glared at her heatedly for her less-than-welcome presence, then back at the broken, expensive vase, now a mere clatter of glass.

"…Quaint," she couldn't help but mutter.

But suddenly, there was a slice in the air, and before she knew it, the very tip of the Guan Dao now hovered over the space between her eyes. Unwaveringly, she looked up to see Shen looming over her threateningly.

"Have you come here to scold me like my…parents had?" He practically spat out his words, like they were venom that tasted vile on his tongue. His eyes, his voice, even his authoritative posture, all worked as one to command an answer, an answer that the Soothsayer knew that he feared to know. She bowed her head in all her dignity, refusing to meet his demanding, overly expectant eyes, for probably the first time. As much as he was surprised and amused at this kind of reaction, Shen only grew more…indefinite—no, concerned—at her sudden timidity.

"Tell me, Soothsayer. Look at me in the eyes, and answer me." His voice had dropped an octave, dare he say even to a personal level, like a child talking about his deepest secrets to a listening mother. But, when she still stayed silent, he heaved an exasperated breath, and let it out in a pained hiss—he had never called her this in such a long time, but, for this one, tedious little moment, he was suddenly willing to, he was going to—

"…Nana." He opened his eyes, which he hadn't even realized he'd closed. He looked at her firmly, and he subconsciously lowered his sword away from her face so that he could take a better look at her. "Please tell me. Why did you come here?"

The Soothsayer looked up from the ground, but, contrary to what Shen would have wanted, she did not meet her adoptive son's crimson eyes. Instead, she looked away, and, for a moment, the young lord thought he saw on her eyes a thin sheen of moist covering them as they glimmered against the light from the outside.

At the sight of this, his heartbeat stopped.

She almost looked on the verge of…

…of tears?

Now this piqued his interest. He peered at her even more closely, and, there, he had his speculation confirmed.

The Soothsayer was crying.

He chose not to utter a sound and simply wait for her to grab a hold of herself. He watched as she silently wept in agony, covering her face with her hoof so as to not let him see the ruin that was her. This lasted for several more moments, and, when the tears were finally done and over with, the Soothsayer shakily took in an amount of air, and unsteadily let it out in a self-reassuring breath. Shen waited, and, as the two stared at each other in the gloom of the silence, he observed, that in the wrinkles that appeared on her face, the lines that told him of age, she looked like she'd suddenly grown old for a millennia of years—as if the depression of having lost an only son had gotten the better of her.

And, probably, it had.

"Shen," she started, her voice firm and strong despite all the emotions of softness that she had just revealed to him. She drew in another shaky breath— "You have just executed a momentous feat."

This took Shen more than a moment to register. He had practically frozen in place, unable to move, unable to even blink—afraid that in the slightest of movements, he would destroy this fantasy that had all too suddenly just become a reality. Because, good heavens, this was not something he had expected to hear, and from her, no less. But…but still…still, he hoped. Was all this real? Was all this real? Was it? Was it?

'You have just executed a momentous feat,' she'd said. Shen could not believe this. Did she just really tell him…

…tell him, that she was proud of what he had done?

But then Shen shook himself from his stupor and blinked his eyes rapidly. Of course she's proud—of course she is, what he'd just done was defy destiny itself! He managed to compose himself, but, even as this was so, he suddenly felt the urge to cry out in joy, and shed tears of happiness himself. He actually smiled, one of true happiness, and he practically felt like suddenly bursting in the seams as he opened his wings wide, as if to accept the Soothsayer in a hug.

"I—I really have, haven't I?" Now, the smile in his beak grew into a relieved laugh that almost sounded tearful. The shadows were finally chased away, and now it was light that he saw. He stepped forward, still with his wings wide open, saying, "Oh, Soothsayer, you do not realize how elated I am to know that someone understood what I had to—"

"No." The Soothsayer tightly shut her eyes close when she moved away from the incoming embrace of Shen's open wings, refusing to look at the hurt that passed through Shen's eyes as he slowly came to a dark realization: a realization that she, the only person who had ever pulled him into loving, motherly hugs back when he was still a chick even as he wanted to squirm away, was the same one who had just refused him, denied him, cast him away. The shadows suddenly returned from behind him, engulfing him in their cold embrace, and Shen's breathing grew erratic as his eyes widened in horror.

The Soothsayer, who still had her eyes shut tightly and facing the ground, said, firmly though tearfully, "Shen. You think…you think that it was the pandas whom you have just killed." She took a tight hold of her cane, and now used both of her hoofs to support herself up, not able to carry the weight anymore. "But you are not aware…that all you've really done was kill yourself."

Shen tried to suppress his anger and displeasure even as they threatened to burst and send the lid flying off the container. His wings dropped to his sides, and he clenched them into fists. So. He was wrong.

The Soothsayer sided his parents after all.

"Come," she said, already stepping out of the darkness of his room. "Your parents wish to see you."

For a moment, Shen did not know how to move. Or, more properly said, he did not know how he even managed to move his talons over the floor and move his body until he was now outside of his royal chambers. He was simply struck by culture shock of what had just happened—he could not even comprehend.

But, when he finally took hold of himself once again, he realized that he'd been blindly following the Soothsayer along the halls all this time. And as his mind took its time to register, he realized that they'd been heading to the wrong destination. Because, wasn't he supposed to meet his parents in…

"The throne room…?"

"No, Shen." The Soothsayer, Shen noticed, suddenly had this unusual monotony in her voice that seemed to harden her like an unfeeling rock. "We are going outside."

He merely arched an eyebrow at this. Usually, when they summoned for him, they would always meet in the throne room; so it was justified that he wondered why she was leading him there, outside, of all places, to meet his parents.

But what he didn't know was that he'd also meet his army of wolves waiting for his fated arrival, because they, together, would meet their banishment.

Shen released a battle cry when the twisted blade of his ember-carved lance hit the floor with a sickening lurch, sending sharp shards and splinters of wood cracking like fireworks—but he didn't hit the panda, who had dodged out of the way just in time, which frustrated the white lord even more. He moved along to the frantic beat of the furious percussionist pounding inside his chest, his heart pumping the blood it couldn't nearly supply, Shen's body a moving figure of impassioned fury itself. He was nothing but a silver flash of blinding speed as the sun slowly rose from the horizon to give their battle light, even though it was darkness that kept Shen furiously fighting against the fate that laughed at his face for all the farce that only he had created for himself. There were grunts of attack, cries of pain, the singing of his lance, and the rumbling noises made by the destroyed deck as they made movement to attack, to defend, to strike, to murder.

You stupid panda—just die, won't you!

These words being repeatedly chanted inside his head in fruitless frustration rang out like a deafening series of pounding gongs inside his ears—and it made him completely unaware that, one by one…

…he was already cutting the ropes.

"You think you're killing the panda, but all you're ever doing is killing yourself."

But he did not hear her voice that seemed to speak from inside his head, because he was already drowning in the inner battle warring from within him—and it had gone far too loud, far too out of wing, far too uncontrollable.

Redemption was impossible now.

He'd gone through everything—it was a life of nothing but struggle, and it was something to say from someone born of noble status just as he. Royals were supposed to have pompous, extravagant living, but instead of crowns, thrones, all those sweet, magnificent little things, all he could ever remember in his life as royalty was the grey, bleak smoke that blocked his sight of the true colour and beauty of life that was supposed to bring joy and prosperity—all he remembered was the smoke of darkness and destruction.

All he could remember in his childhood was the smoke that surrounded him as he painfully coughed his lungs out, pricking his eyes in all its hostility as the kids of Gongmen mockingly laughed at their weak and powerless little prince.

Die…

All he could remember in his teenaged years was the smoke he made whenever he caused explosions with his experiments, one failure after another, never giving thought to sleeping or even giving up hope until he got the measurements of the ingredients correct.

Die…

All he could remember was the twirling smoke that formed the shape of the yin and yang, conceiving a prophecy that destroyed every last bit of sanity he had left in himself.

Die…die…

All he could remember was the smoke that rose out of the fire that he himself had created, an orchestration of screams and cries and pleas of agony and pain where he was the grand conductor, ordering his wolves to show no mercy to those creatures that threatened his ambitious victory.

He gripped his lance with his feathers' iron grasp as his mind was injected with a poisonous desire that spread throughout his entire body, and it practically killed him from within—but he hardly even cared, for there was too much anger in his body that he didn't have space for anything anymore.

Die—

—die—

DIE!

All he could remember was the smoke that rippled through the air as his armies of wolves poured out the glowing, molten metal from one, boiling hot cauldron to another—

He was blind, only seeing black and white and demonic spots of red, his entire body moving in mechanic motion, too consumed by anger to even think—that hatred driving him forward and ruthlessly attacking the defenceless panda without even his mind's basic permission.

—that same smoke, that even as he would exhaustedly pirouette his train around to fan it away from his path, that even as he'd twirl his sword to slice it in half and demand it to clear, that stubborn smoke still remained, refusing to lift and give him clarity—and he choked in it, in that smoke that seeped deep into his soul to suffocate him and kill him from inside out.

However, he refused to give in, angrily drowning out his tired, tattered body's exhausted plead for rest—a desperate, hidden plea from within his very core, a plea that he'd been ignoring for years.

"You need to rest, my child."

He heard him, but the young Lord Shen barely even looked up from his study to give the newcomers an acknowledgement. He merely continued working like he hadn't even heard them. The peafowl standing by the doorway exchanged worried glances at this lack of reaction.

Their little prince, their beloved son…Shen was still so young, and, despite his sickliness, he was filled, practically glowing with the brightness of youth—that is, how it used to. Nowadays, though, it frightened his parents, that, day by day, it could be reflected through his actions at how he seemed to have grown so…old. Weary. Decayed. It was as if, at such a very young age, he was already worn out of life.

And he probably was.

"You've…you've had a long and tiring day, haven't you?" The blue peacock, the regal lord of Gongmen City, clutched his wife's trembling wing in order to help her steady herself. She could not even bare to look at her son, who, in his eyes, contained an emptiness that she presumed were the cause of their actions. The older peacock gulped thickly, after which, he continued to speak in a gentle tone, "Are you…not going to sleep yet? Because…because it's already…" He suddenly had the quietness of a night as he averted his eyes downward. "…it's already past midnight."

The reply was hollow. "I have to continue working if I am to prove myself worthy."

"Worthy?" inquired the father, who tried to stomp onto the dread that kept rising from the pit of his stomach and give waver to his tone. "But of what?"

"Of you."

There was a silence.

"Shen, there is n-nothing to prove. It is mine and your father's fault!" The usually-composed and royal Lady of Gongmen was not an esteemed Lady anymore—instead, right now, she was a mother, concerned, worried, scared for her child's whereabouts, wondering where her little chick was and when he was going to come back home already. Her child was gone, and she could not see him in those crimson eyes that formerly held laughter, now reflected the burning fire from the palms of his wings with an almost sadistic glee that was frighteningly empty. She stepped forward, eyes glistening with tears, "We were just so busy with the council meeting—w-we did not mean to—we—we merely—"

"Yes, I am aware. The council meeting is far too important to ignore." The sound of equipment being rearranged reigned in the silence as Shen organized his appurtenances in one specific place. While his busy wings buzzed over the mahogany surface of his wooden desk, he added, "I am old enough to not be told twice to understand."

Despite the tightening of his husband's wings around her, the mother shook him away only so that she could step closer to Shen, who still haven't even spared them a glance, up until now. "But child, that is not—th-that is not what we—"

"Shen." The father stepped forward as well, putting a calming wing onto his wife's shoulder as he attempted to calm her with the soothing gaze he exchanged with her. The female sighed, and bowed her head to face the ground in all her royalty, letting her husband take over this. The lord, now given the privilege to speak, said to his son, "You worry us, little one." There was a genuine sincerity to his tone, a sincerity that even gave Shen a brief pause, his wings stopping in mid-air just as he was about to relocate a porcelain bowl from its current position. The lord, a little satisfied that he had finally gotten even Shen's briefest attention, continued, stepping a little forward, "If you don't sleep, you'll—"

"…please." The lord's breath caught in his throat and he stopped from stepping his one foot forward at the sight of his son, whose eyes were now ominously cast downward. Dark, multiple shadows seemed to crawl up from his pristine white feathers, and they came over him, agonizingly slowly. Shen was looking down at his white wings that trembled as he held a bowl of powder, clutching it with a strength that his parents didn't even know he had. But even as the twelve-year-old Shen looked like he was about to lose control, his voice still held a firm command, authoritative, even, young as the lord he was.

"Please leave."

The husband and wife exchanged another glance, guilt and helplessness etched onto their faces.

But they would not give up.

"Ah, how about this?" The lord exchanged another glance at his lady and the lady nodded to her lord, urging him to continue. Now with his wife supporting him, he confidently stepped forward towards his son once more, and he said, with a forced cheer to hide his trembling anxiety, "Actually, I've just thought of a…a pretty neat deal for you, son!" The lord barely used a language like this, but now that he had the chance to show to his son that he was willing to throw away all rules of royalty for him, then he would. Being a peacock, he was naturally one for theatrics, so he paused to give additional dramatic effect, just right before saying—

"We will let you sleep in our room tonight! Our room!" The lord exaggeratedly threw his wings in the air, as a father would to go through great lengths just to impress his only child. "Now, how does that sound, my little prince?"

Shen's eyes widened at the offer; but he was still overall unresponsive, frozenly looking down at his small bowl of powder.

"Your journey had been long and exhausting, dear one." His mother smiled, tears in her eyes, and she lovingly held out a wing for him to take. "Leave all your tiredness behind, and come with us, so we could rest together."

The young Shen finally looked up. He could only stare in bewilderment at the wings of his mother and father, held out to him, inviting him to come with them.

And as he gazed up at the incoming weight about to crush him to his death, its looming shadow towering over him, he thought, that this is where it all ended up to, all those thirty years of hard work and suffering—it all ended up to this.

He wanted to move away, save himself, he was going to die.

But why…why does the idea of staying there sound so good? Why did his feet suddenly feel so tired to even move? Why did forever suddenly sound like heaven?

And why did he feel like…like he needed this rest?

…without thinking anymore, unlike so long ago, he took his mother's wing, cuddled in his father's arms, and finally accepted their offer as he opened his wings out wide in acceptance of his fate.

Mother, Father—

—we'd rest together, won't we?

…then, the smoke finally lifted, he could see the rising sun, in a way that was even more picture-perfect than anything he'd ever seen before—and, at the mere sight of it, he suddenly felt as if he'd finally grabbed at the greatest achievement he'd ever had in his lifetime—

—inner peace.