You stood bravely before the man that towered over like the mast to a ship. His body, lined with decadence that you could only view from a far and his stature was that of a man who watched fights but who himself knew not how. Along every finger was a ring with a jewel of such worth that it could feed you for a year and his hair was soft and stunk of whatever lavished bath soaps he decided to use this morning. Every inch of his fat, thoughtless and entitled body man you die a little inside, but tonight was the night. Tonight you had been tasked will eliminating him. It was no small task, but here you are, standing face to face with the beast that slaughtered hundreds like you, all in the name of senseless fun, or simple boredom.

You stepped forward with such intensity that most men would run of cowering, but not him. Not a inch moved, nor sweat dropped as he stood, ready for what may come. He bore resemblance to a man who would not go down without a fight, but not due to knowledge of his own strength, no, but from ignorance. Ignorance of what your capabilities. Ignorance that blinds a king to those who are truly superior. His hubris would be his downfall.

You stepped forward to meet one foot with another and looked up at him. He was much taller than you, and despite your reasonable distance, he was still a head above you. With a tap of your thumb, you brandish your sword, a tactic of small intimidation you learnt many years back. You've been in training to fight most of your life. Since you were but a child you were a fighter. Bread and raised to be the germ that, alone, takes down monarchs and businesses from the inside out. You're not just a killer, but a destroyer. You hid deep inside at an early age. Tasked with only a single task: to kill the King.

You stepped forward, he is now in arms reach. You reach your arm around to draw your blade. He still does not move. You wait only a moment for a flinch. He strikes. Not with a sword, or with any weapon, but with his hand, pushing your hard in the center of the chest, onto your back and onto the floor. You roll up, back onto your feet and see a large grin across his face. He can shove you around all he wants. He's the King. He owns you and everyone else. You might think that because you're a born fighter with nothing to your name, you can beat him. You can't. Those are not the rules here. He will always win. He's rich. He's well off. He can do anything he wants, because he is King.

You stepped forward, this time, with more force than before. You push yourself off of the ground and land, knee first, on his chest. The tower of a man falls on his back, with a thud, and you hold your sword out in front of you, pointed square in his face. All has come to this. The King as his guard. He dared not speak a word to you, but knew he didn't have to. Deep down he knew he has won. Kill him now and only another will take his place. Death does not bring an end, only a new beginning.

You stepped up, off of his body and struck the ground beside his head. What else could you do? If he does not die, you do. A new beginning, perhaps, but not when one side is so personal. This isn't who you stand for versus who he stands for. It is you versus who he stands for. You versus the corruption and lies that are born from men like him who believe that the world is a gift that is to be granted only to him. You die and while another may take your place, they do not understand like you do. They do not wish him dead as much as you. They will only do what needs to be done, not what has to be done.

You stepped away as the voice shouts, mocks, teases you for your mercy. It is in this that you begin to realise the truth. You are blinded by your own desire to kill a man who causes so much evil, when you yourself are built to destroy. Even lives of the corrupt are lives. You are not better than he.

You stepped back, a new-found clearness in your mind.

You step forward, beginning to run.

You draw your sword and force it deep into the King. His body goes from joyous to still in what seemed like an eternity. You could feel each moment of his life flash before his eyes before you draw the sword from inside him. He is dead. A life-time of drive and focus dedicated to only a single second. There was a thrill, but it didn't last. You look down at the blade in your, covered in blood and see yourself. A machine built to be no better than him. The only difference is the side you ended up on. How can you say you're any more deserving to live than him? Can you?

You step back and swing the sword out in front of you to glance over it one last time. You once again see your face, and quickly move the piercing silver away, shying away from the thought of yourself. You spin the blade around so that is points towards yourself. This would be your last mark.

"Rest in Peace"

We step back.