Masters Of The Bastards

Stranded in the waste of a world gone sour, a boy stood, his fists clenched, his eyes burning with a fire. The big bully, a presence of oppression, tried to keep him down, tried to claim supremacy. But the boy, he didn't care, didn't give a damn. He had his rage that lived in his heart and growled promises of violence.

The boy wanted to grow strong, to become a monster so fearsome that none would dare to cross him. He'd been beaten down, used and abused by those who swore they loved him. They had seized his soul, raped his innocence, all in the name of a god they claimed was above. But what god would allow such desecration? What god would sanction the breaking of a child?

Revenge had driven out any kindness that might have lingered in his heart. It left behind only a hunger for destruction, a need to tear down those who had torn him. The pursuit of retribution was a path to self-destruction, a road paved with the bones of his own humanity.

And love, that supposed liberator, was nothing more than a trick. A deception designed to lure more souls into the abyss. The evil of love, is that it is a lie, a mask worn by the devil to bring more children to his dark home.

I was the boy who stood in the ruins of his life, a monument to the cruelty of the world. I became a creature of rage and revenge, a prophet to the power of hate. And as I looked out at the wasteland that surrounded me, there was only the endless cycle of violence that would never end.

The rifle roared, a thunderclap that tore through the air, shredding flesh and bone, dropping soldiers, women, children alike. They were all complicit, all part of the vile machinery of oppression that had crushed my people, that had raped my mother and severed my father's head from his body. These children, born of the oppressors' would die on the stolen land they dared to call their own.

Grit crunching between my teeth as I peered down the barrel, my eyes locking with those of a boy, his face twisted in rage. At his feet lay the lifeless bodies of those I had just slain, his parents, I presumed. His gaze pierced me, and my heart quaked as I saw in him a reflection of my own shattered youth. The path of liberation and vengeance I walked was strewn with the same blood and brutality as the sins we sought to avenge. In the name of justice, we became the very monsters we fought against.