The Warrior

When humans first began dotting the Earth, they lived in peace with each other. Farms and crops sprouted and grew, cities were built, and harmony existed within every being. But when the flower of peace blooms, so must the weeds of violence. Suddenly across the lands, bandits, raiders, and barbarians sprouted. Not being able to get what they wanted through work, the hateful spirits had turned to combat and stealing to take what they desired. Among the newly warring lands, many rose up to heed the call, whether it was to fight against the stealers or to join them. Among the forces repelling the thieves, there was a Warrior. The Warrior fought in the wars for the peaceful people of the land, turned soldiers. Over the many years of the war, the Warrior shed much blood, killing many with their sword. Every night as the Warrior slept, they would try to convince themselves that their murders were justified; that the many fallen were condemning themselves to death by their actions. And every day when the Warrior awoke, they would fight the accused, killing even more. Soon, the ghosts of the dead would come to the Warrior in dreams, haunting the Warrior's nights. Guilt piled up on the Warrior's shoulders like a plow on an ox. One day, the Warrior and their allies journeyed to a city under attack by looters. When they arrived, the Warrior set out to slaughter the enemy once again. The first enemy the Warrior came across was a bone-thin robber, looting a farm. The Warrior easily overpowered the sickly bandit and was about to execute them when the bandit pleaded for mercy, explaining that they were only stealing because they were starving and had to eat. The souls of the many who had been murdered swarmed around the Warrior's feet, pleading with them to give the damned a chance at redemption. But their pleas fell on deaf ears. The sword of the Warrior plunged into the chest of the bandit, staining it red with blood. When the Warrior pulled the sword out of the corpse, the red blood began to eat away at it, tattooing it with a dusty red pattern. Since that day, every sword on the Earth, when not taken care of, rusts, showing the weapons as what they are; instruments of bloodshed.