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Durial
A few swings, a few dead. None remained under his might.
How had it happened? Mere moments had changed his life, and yet he struggled to recall them. He'd been sparring; he knew that. But what had happened next?
A light. Blinding. Something was wrong with the world he lived in, and suddenly, the rules changed. He was liberated. He was exhumed. He was free.
And with another blow, another one fell. He walked past. Sparring at a party, it had been. It was the one thing he loved most, and he often enjoyed fighting others--whether for money, or for entertainment. Or both. But why had he been there? Why was he doing this now?
Some great celebration, some great day. 666. Day of the devil. But the celebration hadn't been for the devil, and it hadn't been for him. It was a celebration of wealth, of triumph, of victory.
This day's massacre caused by one man's vanity. But it left one question still opened.
"I will stop you. This ends here."
He turned, looking upon his addressor. "It will never end, Murdock," he responded, though he knew it would. This man could strike him down, and he would.
He ran towards him. Why? Ending lives? Staining his hands? Becoming a murderer?
And as he was struck down, he had his answer.
Because he can.