XXXIII

Though it is still a bit early, I go to the dining hall. This way, I hope, I can honor Jorgenson's request and fully avoid the execution by being in the hall before Jorgenson is brought out in front of it and not leaving until he is dead.

I read my book, more to keep my mind off of his fate than to learn of this world. I have been reading for about an hour when a horrific cry of agony, muted by the wall between us, comes from the entrance.

[They couldn't even give him something to bite down on, to leave him with any of his dignity? They had to accentuate his horrific death with the shame of being forced to show weakness in front of everyone…]

My wrath, which had only slightly dimmed during my goodbye to Jorgenson flares back up. Gritting my teeth, I direct the neverending river of rage into the little point within my heart. The pain I feel there grows both in size and in intensity; however I don't shy away from the pain. Rather, I welcome it as a distraction from the neverending wails of my friend piercing through the dining hall's thick walls.

After a few minutes, some soldiers begin to enter. I have long since given up on my book, as the process of redirecting my wrath is far too taxing to maintain while reading, so I am able to see their disturbed expressions and pale faces. From this, I can only imagine the state that Jorgenson is in; though, of course, the cries of pain should be enough to deduce that.

Thankfully, the soldiers bring with them discussion. Though I don't pay attention to the topic, as I figure they are likely to be talking of Jorgenson's wretched death, I am grateful for the drowning out of the unearthly noise from outside the hall that comes with their discussion.

I spend the meal time focusing solely on the compression of my wrath. It grows hotter and hotter, until it feels like a fist size ball of lava centered on my heart. Determining its size to be growing too large, though honestly still not understanding the meaning of the physical size of a ball of the wrath emotion, I compact it down further.

My meditation becomes even more difficult as a bead of sweat rolls down my face. Wrath is an emotion type element, and I had already compressed it into my heart in the first place. Compressing it again is, in effect, double compressing an element far above what is normally manipulated by elementalists at the moderate level.

Actually, it is a bit surprising that I can manipulate the emotion at all. I had learned from Lector last night, having asked him around drinking an endurance potion (pretty much the only thing that I had talked about with him last night), that the manipulation of emotions generally only becomes possible once elemental manipulation reaches the greater stage. My current theory is that I can only manipulate Wrath due to my skill by the same name; after all, I can't manipulate, or even sense, the other emotions within or around me.

Well, whatever the case, I am certainly glad for the ability now. Without it, I would have already gone on a rampage and would perhaps even be lined up behind Jorgenson on today's execution list. Or I may very well just be dead. Lots of reasons to be happy for a skill, I guess.

Of course, that may still happen if I lose control of even a small portion of the deluge of fury and hatred that passes through me by the second. Even considering the situation that my friend is currently going through, the amount is still most definitely excessive. If I am thinking about things rationally, I only knew the guy for a handful of days, most of which were devoted to taking advantage of him to further my own goal of staying alive. Yet, if that is the case, why do my emotions insist so fervently that I do care?

Perhaps it is less of the fact that my friend is being shredded apart while kept alive, and more of the fact that, despite his protests to the contrary, he is the best person I have encountered in this world. Certainly far better than me, anyway. That this awful world would kill him in such a cruel manner, is unforgivable.

I again vow to punish this world, to tear it down for its sins against me and its opposition to good. [Every drop of my wrath, every accumulated modicum of rage, every speck of my hatred… I will let none of it go to waste. I will punish this world and those who further its evil ends - this will be my goal! No longer shall I cower in fear of death; that this world exists, that such an awful place so devoid of anything worthwhile could exist, is a greater affront to me than even the black nothingness. At least the emptiness was theoretically devoid of any suffering outside that which I made for myself by thinking too hard. Persisting in a world that has gone unpunished for its evil… that is something that I refuse to do any further. Of course, staying alive will still be a goal of mine, but perhaps I shall be more willing to take risks to further my desire to punish this world.

Some may argue that I should desire to make the world a better place, as opposed to merely punishing it; however, I disagree. That the people of this world would allow it to persist in its unchanging evil for millennia, indicates to me that every man, woman, and child on this dreadful planet is culpable for its current state. And why should I work to make the world a better place, to save them from their own sins? I am not God; I cannot do such a thing. No, much better to sate my wrath on the blood of this world.

What would Jorgenson want? A stupid question. Jorgenson, my friend or not, still allowed the evil of this world to persist. By my generosity, I will not count him at fault for its current rotten state; however, he has not done enough good for the world to warrant me following his will. I already followed his will by avoiding his execution; why should I do anything more for him?

Some may call me mad. And, frankly, I don't care. Would I establish a goal of punishing the world if I had never been afflicted by madness? Perhaps not; however, this world is responsible even for the negative effects of that skill on me - would it not be amusing to tear down this world as a direct result of its own evil action of interfering with me by giving me such a skill?]

A new goal established, I pick up my book again and return to reading on this wretched world - after all, if I am to punish it I must first know as much of it as I can. 'Know your enemy,' and all that. The faint screams piercing in from outside no longer concern me. [Do not worry, my manipulative friend. I will soon tear down this world that has wronged us so.]