He could still hear them in his head. Screaming souls trapped in rotting flesh, lost and refusing to move on. They despise the darkness, and they despise the living even more. They hate everything and understand nothing. They roam the darkness of the mines looking for living flesh to consume, they struggle to quench their mindless suffering, they long to be freed. He sucked on his tobacco stick, and the rot mingled with the smoke. The elders had told him "...go to the mines. It is there that you will find what you seek..."
He had to laugh at the memory. He asked a simple question, trust old men to leave you with vague answers. At the end of his training, the Order was amazed with his skill and the speed at which he had acheived mastery. "We have taught you all we can, now go forth to the world and find the meaning of your existence..." And for years he travelled the world... searching, fighting, growing stronger. Tired and lost, he returned to the elders' temple, and asked for direction. "The mines..." they said, and he went. The moons had cycled twice, all that time he had spent in the darkness of the mines, he had fought with the undead lurking in the endless shadows.
The horizon blazed red as the sun crept slowly to sleep. The clouds edged in silver, and the wind whispered in his ear. He flicked the tobacco stick and slipped his right hand into the weapon that banished countless undead creatures. The Fist imbued with the spirit of fire, glowed red as he channeled his 'ki' into it. With a last whiff of clean air, he marched into the gaping hole and was swallowed by the darkness...