The sword glows blue in my hands. The archaic symbols of the nether realm gleam with diluted passion, and I gaze with longing at my reflection in the weapon, comforted to see myself clad in dark mail, shrouded in a haze of shadow and malice. The blade is weightless in my arms. Both majestic and beautiful, the dark sword is a part of my being that I had long since forgotten, yet one that is so very dear to me. I had felt naked without her touch.

The devils gather stalwart at the front of my line, they're faces twisted and their hearts filled with great blood lust. They are my subordinates, but they are not my brethren. I care nothing for their fate. We serve the same God, that I cannot deny, but we are not of the same making. That which flows through my veins does not flow through theirs. I am the instrument, the incarnate will of the devil king. The favor I hold, as a son, and as a martyr, is beyond their comprehension. This fate was always meant for me. I do not exist outside of this purpose.

I look upon my former comrades from across the transparent floor of the ancient seal, as our forces prepare to engage one another. I see in their eyes they do not wish to destroy me, though they know now there is no other way to achieve their ends. So many steps had I taken, without vision and without knowledge, alongside their caravan. I recall even now the soft breeze of the wind, as we traversed the grasslands of the west, and the warmth of the sun upon my face. I recall my many talks with Sir Peter beneath the stars, while the fire of the camp grew dim, and all others had departed for sleep. We spoke of wisdom and of knowledge, and of Volcanon's divinty.

I felt bliss in those days. There was no great burden on my shoulders. I was free to go as I wished, to obtain empirical knowledge of Paramecia, and of those I now seek to destroy. Do I regret ever having felt this bliss? Having undertaken such a journey, even at the price of my dignity? No, I daresay even now, as I prepare to slaughter them, one by one, that those moments remain precious to me. For the duration of my long existence, a commodity I no longer conceptualize in years, I had known nothing apart from this life, a cyclical occurrence of death and avarice. Loss of memory offered me another path, one I would have never known, had I not stepped forth from the boundaries of my limited perception. By walking this other path, I came to appreciate the value and beauty of my life as a destroyer. Creed himself once told me, as we spoke over one of our many games:

"He who spends his whole life on a single road, content and certain, without turning to see another, is condemned to life without foresight. One can measure nothing, if he has nothing with which to compare it. Only those consumed by arrogance and foolishness believe they have obtained the answer to a question without searching for it in many places, for there are many facets to the world, just as there are many facets to the mind. To step forward, is to step away."

I find it somewhat comical now, that I, the greatest and most powerful of my father's servants, a greater devil, should be reduced to a meek boy stricken by blindness. I appeared no more than a child to their eyes, helpless and ignorant. I had become a mockery of that which I had been before, the strength and pride of my blood suppressed. And for many days I walked alongside the forces of light, speaking, and listening to them, without knowledge of my true self. When I remembered the past, it was as if I had awoken from a great sleep, as though my consciousness had been renewed. The strength and nobility that had once flowed through my veins came alive again, and as I sat across from Creed, the dark aura of my father surrounding my body, I was reborn in the black celestial fires of malice, and I remembered my undying love for shadows.

It was then I first had the opportunity to recollect my duel with Volcanon at the foot of Bedoe. How empowered I felt, as the dark energies flowed through me, and I laughed in the face of their God. He looked at me with wrath, and brought down from the heavens his will, striking me with vengeance. Had I not been partially protected by my father, my form would have been destroyed, and the consciousness would have been lost somewhere between the void and the requiem. Yet, even in defeat, as the lightning crashed about me, and I fell into my sleep, I am grateful to have fought him. I am grateful to have sought the destruction of a God. I have long desired such chaos.

I watch them now from afar, for the battle is now joined, and I would not attack my foes out of turn. My troops are frenzied, their lustful desire to inflict pain has been invigorated, and a red light gleams across that which is now a killing field. Bowie's army does not tarry. They meet my servants with bravery and valor, traits I had long observed in them when once I was part of their caravan. There is a great clash, and a synthesis of sword, lance, and flame unfolds before my eyes, the energies of war erupting in an array of beautiful destruction. The struggle lasts for many moments, the breaking of light and shadow, until finally I step forward and draw my own sword.

The tide has turned against me, the resolve of the devils weakening in face of Bowie's stalwart advance. I am not concerned. The outcome of this battle is not one that will be determined by the actions of my subordinates, nor those under the command of my great enemy. The two of us stand apart from our hosts, and the end of the conflict rests upon our shoulders. Perhaps a part of me knew, even when I still traveled alongside him, that we would someday meet in this fashion. Unconsciously, I sensed what it was that dwelled within me, just as I sensed the light that dwelled within him. Dualism, that too is beautiful.

He steps towards me, but no words are exchanged. The black soldier that stands before him is an alien thing, one that hardly resembles that blind boy who once walked at his side beneath the trees, and across the hills, content to hear the voices of the spirits in humble serenity. I see that he is troubled, and that his hand does not easily point the sword at me. Yet I feel he knows now that Oddler is no more, if ever he existed at all, and that there will be no escaping this bloodshed.

I save him the trouble of attacking, granting him the moral high ground he requires to engage me in combat. My blade cuts through the air with malice and precision, leaving behind wisps of dark haze. He raises his weapon, the reincarnation of the chaos breaker, and defends.

His instincts are exceptional. Only once before had I witnessed such a demonstration, witnessed such heroic virtue engraved in a man's eyes. Why is that I wonder? How could the two be so very much alike? Even in Max, I did not see that which I have seen in them, this humble radiance, this dormant fire. It is beyond even my ability to articulate. But alas, I must discard such nostalgia, for Ian is dead, and though Bowie bears his eyes, I must destroy him. I cannot afford to be hindered by compassion, nor empathy.

The sounds of battle intensify, and the climax draws near. The dying screams of my troops do not trouble me, for I see and feel only my opponent. We strike at one another, and speak to another only through our swordplay. I have fought and killed heroes before. I have murdered them in battle, and I have slain them in their sleep. Yet still, I cannot help but think I would feel shame, shame if I were to have acquired my victory from some other means apart from this. I feel the need to fight and kill in the fashion of a warrior, rather than an executioner. I have been both and I remain both, yet now it seems unethical to kill him in a dishonorable form. Why has that thought crossed my mind? Why now, do I feel twinges of moral dilemma erupting in my mind, questioning ethics even in the heat of battle, whilst our blades meet? Why did I not kill him from afar while my troops waylaid him, let loose the destruction from my gaze and achieve victory? Have I become soft?

We dance. Our blades of light and shadow become entangled in this waltz, and their clashing resonates throughout the halls of the ancient seal. We fall into a trance, hypontized by the marred beauty of war, our minds held captive by the dying embers of battle. I fight him well, I do not hold back. Yet do why I feel as though I cannot slay him? My purpose, it remains the same, the same as it was when I first came vaulting into existence from the ashes of my father's hand. I must destroy this hero. They die daily, martyred for their bravery. It is what makes them into legends. In essence, I am doing this man honor beyond that which we he will ever know.

At last, we embrace the falling action upon the stage. He strikes. I cannot evade. The light travels through my gut, and the blade wrenches in my spine. I feel it pierce me through the back, and stand now on legs that struggle to support my weight. He pulls free his weapon and I feel myself fall freely to the ground. My remaining servants are slaughtered, and those I once traveled with crowd around my decaying form. It happens so fast, my mind struggles to conceptualize.

What is this weakness, that which has wrought my death, and led to my grave? Why do the moments I spent walking amidst the wood keep returning? Why cannot I rid myself of these demons in my head? I once had power, power so vast that few could fathom. I once wielded dark flame and brought ruin down upon the the lives of men. Where is my power now? Where can I find it? Why do the hills seem so beautiful?

Bowie, he looks at me but does not speak. His eyes, those that reminded me of Ian's, bear sorrow. They grieve for me. Why do they grieve? We were companions once, but the boy they knew was false, and he has been murdered. I killed him with my own two hands, and I watched the life fade from him, as it fades now from me.

Creed, what was it the old fool spoke to me? That day I finally defeated him in chess. He looked at me, as his king fell. We sat quiet for many moments, and than he said: "One can only know salvation through the death of a dream. One must watch that which once gave them purpose, wither and decay, until all that is left is the ruptured corpse of memories. It is there, amidst the silence and despair, that one can find salvation, for truth lies not in our dreams, but in the passing of dreams."

My malice...it has been relinquished. I longer feel her touch upon my heart. That from which I spawned has fallen into dissolution, and my purpose is lost. I am glad at least, that I have seen mountains, for the road we traveled was a pleasant thing to walk upon. I long now, for rebirth.