He felt nothing. Death had come to him as a swift white blade. It was the fool who placed too much trust in the power wrought by his own hands.
However, he was not one to play the fool upon the stage of life. A role more suited to him was that of the wise man. Being of that role, the wise man, he had been sure to perfect the process which his plans would work before the initiation of them.
Like the dancer learning the steps before the performance he had practiced them time and time again until he was flawless, there was no reason for failure. The dance that he studied had been intricate and precise, but it had not included one element.
That one excluded element, having never seen the face of his calculations, set him out of step and the dance was stalled. Though the wise man was not one to fall upon missing a step. Soon he would succeed to his ultimate plan.
Tripping in the dance had only resulted in the loss of his fleshly cage. That cage was flawed, it was a creation of man. During the rancidly short time on the planet he'd not had the chance to perfect it in the balanced mixings of man, machine, and magic, yet that was how he would live.
Perfection was within his creation, the tri-fold making of the ultimate being, man, machine, and magic. Soon he would achieve that position and reign over all. The obstruction that had caused him to trip would not abhor him again.
This time he had the youth to make sure his steps were precise. A youth born of his own creation, the epitome of man, machine, and magic, his successor.
All that was to be done now was to wait. Contained within the oppressive binds of machine he would wait for the youth to come, and his time of power to rise.
