The ball was red and made of metal. There was an engraving on it that read:
WL
General of the Warlord Army
Mitchel “Wrath” Blade
*****
He reads it over and over again. That name. Wrath. Burned into most people’s mind with violence. All because he was too stubborn to die. He was always asked what he could do to a clan. His response was always the same.
“I won’t win. But I promise you my dead body will fall on those you loved. You’ll look at their faces and see that they died with fear and pain. Then you’ll see me with a grin. At that moment I want you to know I’ll be laughing at you in hell as you mourn those I took from you.”
He never fell. A demon prince challenged him. Mitchel executed that prince. God’s have challenged him. Yet still he stands. Wolves, dragons, elves, demons, hunters, assassins, and so on. All challenged him in hopes of making the world better. Not a single one succeeded.
He can hear it now. The sound of metal hitting flesh. Hit after punishing hit. Everyone felt it. No amount of power or magic could save them. No amount of weapons could stop him.
He can see it all. Every single being that tried to fight him. He remembers every single move he used to beat them. Every bone he had to break to win. Every stab wound he made to break them. Every drop of blood spilt that wasn’t his.
In the end he claimed whatever land, weapon, or people he wanted. He’s a conqueror. Now whenever asked what he could do to take what he wants he simply responds with a promise.
“You can’t kill me.”
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