A field of rotting corpses stood in front of him, and the fresh smell of blood fill his lungs. The cold embrace of the spirits whom lives were lost brushes against his face. The bitter tastes of such a horrifying victory fill his mouth. He only feels the frozen metal in his hand which he used to kill the innocent and the corrupt. Nothing but an endless field of slaughter sat around him. A thousand screaming voices, filled with pain filled his ears, though there was not a sound to be heard.
There was nothing left. The warrior's he fought beside are now all laid dead at his feet, the general he so highly admired now gone from this world, the family he had loved so much, resting for all eternity, the woman he loved so much, among his family in the heavens, and the land he fought so furiously to protect, now filled with the bodies of millions. Nothing.
He dropped to his knees, and as he did, Flashes of the kills he had done come rushing back, every being now into eh netherworld because of him filled his head with grotesque images of their own deaths, their cries of agony filled his head.
Roaring laughter burst from his lips, he had gone mad. His laughter stretches across the battlefield, awakening the dead, who one by one stood up with their weapons in their hands, and walked to him. He could no longer think, nor did he want to, his only task left was to laugh, for nothing else seemed right to him. He laughed at the no longer living world he had helped to create, he laughed at his lose, and he laughed at his own insanity.
Each of the corpses stabbed into him, and he finally meet the cold embrace of death. He rests his eyes and was welcomed to the fiery realms of hell.
But the corpses where not the ones who had murdered him, no, they were just figments of his own madness, for he himself was the one who committed the deed.
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