Disclaimer: I own none of these game series nor the philosophy.
Creating—that is the great salvation from suffering, and life's alleviation. But for the creator to appear, suffering itself is needed, and much transformation. Yea, much bitter dying must there be in your life, ye creators! Thus are ye advocates and justifiers of all perishableness.
For the creator himself to be the new-born child, he must also be willing to be the child-bearer, and endure the pangs of the child-bearer.
Verily, through a hundred souls went I my way, and through a hundred cradles and birth-throes.
Many a farewell have I taken; I know the heart-breaking last hours.
But so willeth it my creating Will, my fate. Or, to tell
you it more candidly: just such a fate—willeth my will.
All feeling suffereth in me, and is in prison: but my
willing ever cometh to me as mine emancipator and comforter.
Willing emancipateth: that is the true doctrine of will
and emancipation—so teacheth you Zarathustra.
No longer willing, and no longer valuing, and no longer
creating! Ah, that that great debility may ever be far from me!
And also in discerning do I feel only my will's procreating and evolving delight;
and if there be innocence in my knowledge, it is because there is will to procreation in it.
Away from God and Gods did this will allure me; what
would there be to create if there were—Gods!
But to man doth it ever impel me anew, my fervent
creative will; thus impelleth it the hammer to the stone.
Ah, ye men, within the stone slumbereth an image for
me, the image of my visions! Ah, that it should slumber
in the hardest, ugliest stone!
Now rageth my hammer ruthlessly against its prison.
From the stone fly the fragments: what's that to me?
I will complete it: for a shadow came unto me—the
stillest and lightest of all things once came unto me!
The beauty of the Superman came unto me as a shadow.
Ah, my brethren! Of what account now are—the Gods to
me!— Thus spake Zarathustra, page 85- 86, Commons edition.
Seymour snorted as he tossed the book. It smashed against a wall and broke into pieces. The individual pages scattering on the ground from the cracked binder.
What foolhardy sentiment
He swiftly made his way out of the room. The casual distraction had annoyed him.
Preparations for a great harvest shall be made. This world will finally embrace sweet death as prophecized.
Innocence is the child, and forgetfulness, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a holy Yea.
Aye, for the game of creating, my brethren, there is needed a holy Yea unto life: its own will, willeth now the spirit; his own world winneth the world's outcast.
Three metamorphoses of the spirit have I designated to you: how the spirit became a camel, the camel a lion, and the lion at last a child.— Thus spake Zarathustra.
"But why?!" snarled Seymour, as another sword swipe slashed into his very core and began to destroy his connection to the new world. "You - you're going against prophecy! The very design of your own world! For what purpose do you fight against the decree of God Himself?! Why do you not see that I am saving humanity from suffering?!"
"I've fought to choose my path, regardless of the Score, before I met you and I'll do it again now," said the red-haired man, his green eyes gleaming with defiance. "As for the purpose? There is none. I'll tell you the same thing that I said to my former Master."
Seymour shrieked in pain as he shot the faux-human with an utterly loathsome glare. A purposeless life is the type that should be most willing to embrace the comfort of death!
"For my own existence, I will not lose," said the Scion of Lorelei's power. He used his very aura to blast away at Seymour's remaining body mass, "and now, you die!"
Seymour felt the excruciating pain as the 7th fonon blasted into his very core and erased him from the plane of existence. In death, he heard the faux-human's final words of farewell.
"Master Van told me that I had gained impudent wisdom, maybe he's right, but I stopped caring what he thought of me at that point. Once, the whole world wanted me to die, but I persevered. You really cannot rely on anyone to tell you what the right path is, you have to find it yourself and force yourself to choose." said Luke fon Fabre, "It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. It doesn't matter if anyone accepts me or not, because here I am. Life is enough for me and life is always worth fighting for."
"THE HIGHER ITS TYPE, always the seldomer doth a thing succeed.
Ye higher men here, have ye not all—been failures?
Be of good cheer; what doth it matter? How much is still possible! Learn to laugh at yourselves, as ye ought to laugh!
What wonder even that ye have failed and only half-succeeded, ye half-shattered ones!
Doth not—man's future strive and struggle in you? Man's furthest, profoundest, star-highest issues, his prodigious powers—do not all these foam through one another in your vessel? What wonder that many a vessel shattereth! Learn to laugh at yourselves, as ye ought to laugh!
Ye higher men, Oh, how much is still possible! And verily, how much hath already succeeded! How rich is this earth in small, good, perfect things, in well constituted things! Set around you small, good, perfect things, ye higher men. Their golden maturity healeth the heart. The perfect teacheth one to hope." - Thus spake Zarathustra.
"H-how?!" cried Seymour, as another slash of the damned metallic sword skewered his body, "how can a mere human being be this strong?! How can you not embrace the comfort of death?! Hasn't your life been nothing but pain, sorrow, and lamentable suffering?!"
"What would you know of my life?" said the man with the purple turban, his brown skin gleamed with sweat and adrenaline. His black eyes gazed at Seymour with an unflinching visage. "If you read-up on my life then you should know that -"
He cut through Seymour's body like butter. Seymour howled in pain as the critical hit cut another appendage off of his monstrous form. WHY?! How can a single man not be broken, like me? He's faced so much . . . doesn't he wish for the comfortable embrace of death? Doesn't he wish for eternal sleep? Doesn't he long to be with his parents?!
"- no matter what obstacle in my path, no matter how lengthy my suffering, no matter how painful my past, and no matter how much time stands still -"
He hacked another of Seymour's limbs off. Seymour hissed and tried to run but the King of Gotha sent a whirlwind spell at him and sent his body careening into the sky before being slammed harshly onto the ground. Seymour tried to ignore the touch of vertigo as the Loftinian landed another critical hit on his body.
"- I refuse to ever let that suffering define me! I refuse to allow myself to give up on my life! I refuse to see myself as a tragedy! I will endure, I will suffer more than ever, and I will overcome these feelings of self-hate, self-blame, anguish, loss, and aversion to achieve what I want in life."
"What?! How could you possibly be that stubborn?!" shouted Seymour, "What could be worth so much tragedy?!"
"My life satisfaction!" said the young hero, hitting Seymour with the killing blow. "Although I have suffered mercilessly, I have also been the result of my own choices. I have a loving wife, loving children, loving pets, a dear friend, a Kingdom that I chose to take the mantle of by becoming King, and an adoring public that follows my decrees. Indeed, I've suffered mercilessly, but I've used that experience and shaped that suffering into achieving my deepest desires. I define my own life!"
Seymour felt his link to the world slowly close and his essence was removed from the planet that he wished to bring death upon. He heard one last line before he knew no more and oblivion took hold of his mind.
"If I had to suffer through all of my mistakes and my choices, with nothing having changed, then I would gladly relive my life all over again. Eternally, if possible. My worst and best moments in life make me who I am. My life is worth suffering for!"
Unspoken and unrealised hath my highest hope remained!
And there have perished for me all the visions and consolations of my youth!
How did I ever bear it? How did I survive and surmount
such wounds? How did my soul rise again out of those sepulchres?
Yea, something invulnerable, unburiable is with me, something that would rend rocks asunder:it is called my will.
Silently doth it proceed, and unchanged throughout the years.
Its course will it go upon my feet, mine old Will; hard of heart is its nature and invulnerable.
Invulnerable am I only in my heel. Ever livest thou there, and art like thyself, thou most patient one!
Ever hast thou burst all shackles of the tomb!
In thee still liveth also the unrealisedness of my youth; and as life and youth sittest thou here hopeful on the yellow ruins of graves.
Yea, thou art still for me the demolisher of all graves:
Hail to thee, my Will! And only where there are graves are there resurrections.— Thus sang Zarathustra, page 108
Seymour entered a world without time. He felt reassured. Clearly, this world must want my salvation from sufferng . . .
He stopped as he spotted a shirtless young man with shaman-like tattoos, gleaming silver eyes that changed to shades of yellow and red, and spiky cone-shaped black horn jutting out of the back of his neck.
Seymour shuddered and felt fear vibrate through his body as the young man gazed directly into his eyes. Seymour felt a sense of foreboding as he detected malice, destruction, and a firm desire to selfishly cling to life waft over him in waves. He choked and then dry heaved as wave after wave of the young man's demonic essence could be felt from such a startlingly lengthy distance.
"Get lost," said the Demi-fiend, his eyes boring into Seymour's own. Seymour flinched and shuddered once more as those eyes held a uniqueness that he couldn't possibly fathom. "You and your pathetic goals aren't welcome in the cosmic war for life itself."
Seymour channeled his most potent and dangerous magicks as the Demi-fiend stared impassively. Seymour killed himself and shut himself out of the connection with the estranged world. He heard the demons behind the young man fill the area with uproarious laughter.
"To suffer is to live, it is suffering that brings the profoundest joys in life. Pain, regret, shame, misery, depression, and hate; to endure all of that is to endure the happiness of life. For only through self-surpassing, do we truly gain the greatest life satisfaction."
Seymour wanted to scream as those words were carved into his subconscious mind by the Chaos Lord.
Injustice and filth cast they at the lonesome one: but, my brother, if thou wouldst be a star, thou must shine for them none the less on that account!
And be on thy guard against the good and just! They would fain crucify those who devise their own virtue— they hate the lonesome ones.
Be on thy guard, also, against holy simplicity! All is unholy to it that is not simple; fain, likewise, would it play with the fire—of the fagot and stake.
And be on thy guard, also, against the assaults of thy love! Too readily doth the recluse reach his hand to any one who meeteth him. To many a one mayest thou not give thy hand, but only thy paw; and I wish thy paw also to have claws.
But the worst enemy thou canst meet, wilt thou thyself always be; thou waylayest thyself in caverns and forests. Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way to thyself! And past thyself and thy seven devils leadeth thy way! A heretic wilt thou be to thyself, and a wizard and a sooth-sayer, and a fool, and a doubter, and a reprobate, and a villain.
Ready must thou be to burn thyself in thine own flame; how couldst thou become new if thou have not first become ashes!
Thou lonesome one, thou goest the way of the creating one: a God wilt thou create for thyself out of thy seven devils! - Thus spake Zarathustra
Seymour laughed. At last! If this had been another failure, then I would have permanently been extinguished from existence. But now, now I can . . .!
"I am not giving up," said the vampire, he pulled his cape towards himself before enthusiastically parting his cape-wings in every direction and splaying his arms forth. "I shall keep my promise, whatever it takes!"
"Mr. Vampire! Please, consider taking my blood!" cried the Angel. Seymour sneered. Angels are suppose to remain pure. They're not suppose to be romantically involved! "I . . . I absolutely won't allow you to die! I don't care how many rules I break; I'll shove it down your throat, if the situation calls for it."
The vampire chuckled. "Thank you for the kind words, Artina. Worry not, I was just having a warm up. I am in no legitimate danger."
Artina's posture relaxed. She smiled at the vampire. Seymour scoffed. What an arrogant fool!
"Very well, I'll tend to Fenrich's wounds then," said Artina, using a healing spell on the bruised and groaning werewolf. Artina sneered back at Seymour. "You had me worried for a moment, I'm glad you're not a real threat."
"Are you deluded enough to actually believe him?" said Seymour, he laughed. "Such a tragic farce, you must be stupid to believe such boasts."
"Oh my, my, you don't know, do you? I feel a tad sorry for you." said Artina, she giggled. Seymour scowled at her. He was rewarded with a peculiarly predatory smile from the angel. "You're fighting Tyrant Valvatorez."
"Who?"
Seymour was about to say more when a thick layer of darkness enveloped the vampire and streaks of darkness blasted across various swathes of the area. Seymour was forced to dodge one such dark blast. Once they dissipated, a much leaner Valvatorez stood in front of Seymour.
Tyrant Valvatorez moved his hands in front of him. "Behold true power!"
A deeper darkness flowed in a hurricane-like wave around Valvatorez until a monstrous bat-like demon emerged from the darkness. Seymour gaped as Valvatorez revealed his true Demon Emperor form. Once the screeching wave hit the grounds to the side of Seymour, he realized it was over. The waves of demonic energy hit him just as the Demon Emperor's own burst of demonic power slammed into his body, causing his body to lurch and snap in a multitude of places all at once. Seymour's body became awash from a cacophony of sounds, unfettered demonic power, and intense pressure-pointed pain across the entirety of his monstrous form.
He evaporated into non-existence before his torn and bloody carcass hit the ground. The Tyrant's last words were the last that he would ever hear in any plane of existence.
"You thought you could kill me? Don't fuck with me! Only someone who has endured the weight of immense suffering; who has grown in the self-reflection of their own pain and matured from their suffering by being forthright with themselves about their own inadequacies and shame could hope to match me! Only a person who is working to resolve their own behavior through self-imposed regulation can hope to kill me!" Seymour heard the Tyrant say, "You, a being who gave up on their own life, who threw it all away, and perceives life as a painful nausea could never be able to kill or defeat me. Your nihilistic perception implicitly means never allowing yourself any dreams or expectations; how can such a state of mind and behavior ever be a threat to a proud and noble demon like me?"
Idly, Seymour recalled the only part of the philosophical novel that he liked but realized just how his own choices led to making his life a tragicomedy. Seymour knew and became no more.
THERE ARE PREACHERS of death: and the earth is full of those to whom desistance from life must be preached. Full is the earth of the superfluous; marred is life by the many-too-many. May they be decoyed out of this life by the "life eternal"! "The yellow ones": so are called the preachers of death, or "the black ones." But I will show them unto you in other colours besides. There are the terrible ones who carry about in themselves the beast of prey, and have no choice except lusts or self-laceration. And even their lusts are self-laceration.
They have not yet become men, those terrible ones: may they preach desistance from life, and pass away themselves! There are the spiritually consumptive ones: hardly are they born when they begin to die, and long for doctrines of lassitude and renunciation. They would fain be dead, and we should approve of their wish! Let us beware of awakening those dead ones, and of damaging those living coffins! They meet an invalid, or an old man, or a corpse—and immediately they say: "Life is refuted!"
But they only are refuted, and their eye, which seeth only one aspect of existence. Shrouded in thick melancholy, and eager for the little casualties that bring death: thus do they wait, and clench their teeth. Or else, they grasp at sweetmeats, and mock at their childishness thereby: they cling to their straw of life, and mock at their still clinging to it. Their wisdom speaketh thus: "A fool, he who remaineth alive; but so far are we fools! And that is the foolishest thing in life!"
"Life is only suffering": so say others, and lie not. Then see to it that ye cease! See to it that the life ceaseth which is only suffering! And let this be the teaching of your virtue: "Thou shalt slay thyself! Thou shalt steal away from thyself!"— "Lust is sin,"—so say some who preach death—"let us go apart and beget no children!" "Giving birth is troublesome,"—say others—"why still give birth? One beareth only the unfortunate!" And they also are preachers of death. "Pity is necessary,"—so saith a third party. "Take what I have! Take what I am! So much less doth life bind me!" Were they consistently pitiful, then would they make their neighbours sick of life. To be wicked—that would be their true goodness. But they want to be rid of life; what care they if they bind others still faster with their chains and gifts!— And ye also, to whom life is rough labour and disquiet, are ye not very tired of life? Are ye not very ripe for the sermon of death?
All ye to whom rough labour is dear, and the rapid, new, and strange—ye put up with yourselves badly; your diligence is flight, and the will to self-forgetfulness. If ye believed more in life, then would ye devote yourselves less to the momentary. But for waiting, ye have not enough of capacity in you—nor even for idling! Everywhere resoundeth the voices of those who preach death; and the earth is full of those to whom death hath to be preached. Or "life eternal"; it is all the same to me—if only they pass away quickly!— Thus spake Zarathustra