A back ironed out as a silhouette of invincible pillar forever piercing the heavens above. A body forged out of wounds erased by the ravages of time; Strength unsurpassed even in the generation of heroes. A miracle among miracles; a soul having proven it's worth. World Executor; Heaven's Mandate; Adventuring Hero. Dungeon Survivor; Underworld Returner; Crowned Human God of Adventures. Blood --- that eerie red awful stench of iron. I miss it's ominous color and viscous texture. I desired it --- that reddish to blackish hues flowing coursing in my veins. To bare witness those crimson pearls of mine falling to the withered ground, feeding the earth of my vigor and essence. To bleed --- a remembrance of forsaken hopes and dreams. The burdens weighing on my shoulders forcing me to strive for greater heights. To hurt --- a wound foretelling the end of my hellish journey. I would obtained what once sacrificed in return for majestic power; tyrannical might, and divine judgment. To suffer --- a testament of my finale; closing in with death cloaked by time's ephemeral moments. Finally, this stale theater shall close its curtains. To be freed of my somber path of swords. Its heavy, crumbling yet sharped edged sneer of icy, silver light. He desired death. The unforgiving death. That death which all feared, he desire its coming. To embrace the shadows that hark the silent woes of life. A pitch black blanket of darkness, so cold and a unnerving numbness ready to devour him whole. Awaiting the day he closes his eyes at last; never to open them again for rondos of worthless years spent. I craved for the longing sensation of unendurable pain to torment me. He felt the numbness of victory and loss of failure; marching forward towards death every time. Unable to know pain like those before him and suffer like those around him. He could not shed tears of joy nor hope in the heat of battle. A coldness colder than the Northern mountains; icier than the frozen glaciers waiting for spring; his was a body and heart far resilient than steel. I continue to yearn for it knowing such remorse will never come. Clad in grimy armor, never chipped again and stained clothing, never torn; he could not sympathize with his weaker brothers and sisters. Forget empathy, his mind was a weapon knowing only to afflict torment, towards his enemies, be they the Denizens below the World, the Demon Lords, Demon Kings, and the Apostles of the Demon Gods. Even towards traitors in his group or race, once former comrades, sometimes friends, and rarely lovers, he would exterminate them all without hesitation with having shed not a single tear or face of remorse. My wish to bear the burdens of everyone I hoped to protect had become an adamant shell imprisoning my senses to rekindle my once lost humanity. He had become a weapon of his own undoing. Critical of danger and exhibiting viciousness akin to those of his slain, continuing to vanquish both foes and allies. Drunkenness no longer a poison but a remedy in his rare moments of rest. I could not bleed. My body no longer obeyed me. My will dissipating at every battle's notice. I could not die. My heart impenetrable and harder than any weapon forged throughout the ages. I could not dream. My soul lost in the echoes of my triumphant journeys. The mighty hero was he, forever tormented by the phantom scars after every brutal fight. Losing every piece of humanity as he live passed countless generations of remarkable adventurers. He could not age nor die in peace; time would not let him abandon the promise he made for the promise he forsaken in his youthful days past. What triumphant journeys! What adventures of yore! Worthless acts of my misguided intentions! Losing his sense of time and living far longer than most could dream, or dare to achieve by attainment or trickery. Nothing fresh of spirit could be obtained in his monotonous journey; covering paths of escape with more obstacles in the form of enemies, loose bonds of ruined past ties, and ardent tides of new blood enamored by his tales. Who said that? They? Him? Her? He could not remember their faces, not their names, voices nor colors. Their shapes strange and formed only embers of forgotten tragedies. I? Did I? Even his own voice sounded foreign to him. Unfamiliar facial expressions, unknown to the ages spent in the Underworld, he remained indifferent like his immortal-self. Fate predetermined every action I held and all my thoughts resulted in more loss of the individual self. My consciousness soon to be completely overrun by another me. He last vestiges near a moment's stillness. To be left like dust and driven away by the desert winds; nothing shall remain of his forgotten origins and futures.A me who is desired by the weak. A me who is feared by the strong. A me who is longer me. A me who was a wish; someone's wish; some people's wish, now corrupted with vain glory and tarnished honor. His wish corrupted by the wishes of others. His ideal of a wish to become someone great. To be braver than most, stronger than most; all made him broken now in his lonesomeness. He already moved on from this adventurous days, no longer a weak adventurer, no longer a young swordsman, no longer a frail mortal, just a hero of an eternal tragedy.