Where Everything Found His Peace
In a world fractured by unending conflict and shattered alliances,
Where entire cities had become ruins,
Where the air was thick with dust and the pungent stench of fire and death,
Stood one man—his form barely visible against the devastation.
His face was hidden behind a mask,
A mask that had once shielded him from the horrors of war,
Now a part of him, a symbol of who he had become.
Beneath it, his eyes held nothing.
The uniform, stained with blood and soot,
Carried the weight of countless battles, countless lives.
He stood alone amidst the ruins of a world that had long since forgotten the meaning of peace.
The wind, carrying the faintest sounds of distant sirens, seemed to whisper of the end—
But he felt no fear, no sorrow.
Not for the soldiers he had led.
Not for the lives he had taken.
Not even for the person he had once been—
The idealist who had fought for a world that no longer existed.
The mask had become his prison,
A barrier between him and the world he had once believed in.
It shielded him from the pain, from the memories of the man he had been before
The war had turned him into something else.
And now, as the stars above glimmered cold and indifferent,
He finally understood: The peace he had fought for had never been real.