Weapon Master

The acrid scent of iron, mingling with the metallic tang of blood, spread like a macabre canvas, akin to paint creeping over the surface of rusted metal. The sky mourns the fallen; as it wept and bathed the grass with its crimson tears.

Men were screaming at the top of their lungs, crying out for their life and glory. The air was resonating from the guttural sounds they made while their weapons clashed and their flesh severed from blades dulled by red, maroon, and black. Heads were rolling down the ground, bodies decapitated, and senses impaired from the horrors of carnage. Behold, it was a bloodbath.

We see our hero standing on the meadows, cutting off each head he sees. He was weary; colors lingered from his eyes but depleted of light. His comrades were either wounded or dead, yet he remained unscathed.

For each flesh he cleaved together with all the blood he shed from his enemies, made his heart heavy. His sword, dyed with all shades of red, became unwieldy. It was a weight no human could endure from all the hundreds of thousands of blood it bore. Alas, he stopped.

His sword burdened him so much he could only stand still and stare. There he saw a new reality; there was no honor in killing people, just plain murder. Shaken from what he just witnessed, he averted his eyes from the battlefield and angled his face skyward.

To his surprise, he could see the vast cosmic blues no more, only the eerie hues of red; no clouds, no flickering jewels, nothing but bloody red canvas. Was it his mind that was playing tricks on him? Or was it just the blood trickling upon his eyes?

He recoiled his gaze to the fields again, but it was no different. The war had never looked so diabolical and hellish in his eyes.

In a moment, his bloodthirst vanished entirely. All his vigor and fortitude, gone. What was it that mattered when all he wanted to do was to protect something? His creed was meaningless in front of his actions. "I am such a fool," Jiàn Shen whispered.

His stupor had ended when he heard a battle cry coming for him. The young warrior was wielding a mighty spear with ill intent. Shen was aware of the soldier's motive; he knew what was coming for him, Shen knew that death was approaching him even so, he lowered his guard.

The young warrior finally closed the gap and managed to pierce Shen's heart. He had winced from the pain, and he was gasping for air but shortly after, he curved his blanched lips. The boy contemplated on Shen's expression and extracted the spear from his chest.

"Why are you smiling?" The young warrior asked, puzzled, as he gathered his strength and thrust the spear into Shen's heart once again. Shen maintained his grin but offered no verbal response.

Just as Shen could feel his life slipping away, he caught a glimmer of an arrow's blade, a brief flicker of fate's twist. The thought of an innocent child dying before him, caused his jaded eyes to quiver.

Summoning his last ounce of courage, Shen moved behind the child, intercepting the arrow intended for the young warrior. "Thank you," Shen whispered, his voice weak, as he coughed up blood and then collapsed.