"Have you ever contemplated the nature of the devil?" David inquired, his voice steady as he faced the priest. The barrel of his gun, an ominous presence, was aimed unflinchingly at the priest's head. Despite his dire situation, the priest, kneeling and bound by fear, offered a twisted smile in response.
"My demise is merely a fragment of his grand design," the priest chuckled, his laughter tinged with a mocking tone that seemed to unnerve even the hardened David.
David's eyes narrowed. "You speak of plans and designs. Do you know, Father, that in the moment of death, I witness the soul's departure? It's a curious spectacle." His question hung heavily in the air, a dark curiosity shadowing his words.
"Then do it, child! Fulfill your devilish role and hasten my journey to the afterlife!" the priest retorted, his voice a mix of defiance and fear.
Instead of responding with violence, David withdrew the gun, the tension momentarily easing. He retrieved a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with hands that bore the scars and weariness of a life steeped in brutality. As he smoked, his gaze lingered on the priest, whose fear was now palpable, marked by the trembling of his knees and the telltale signs of terror staining his gown.
David Jackson, forty years old, a man devoid of family, friends, or trust, reflected on his solitary existence. His thoughts turned bitter as he considered his thankless service to Rocrary, a nation defined by its unrelenting thirst for conquest and expansion. From a nondescript beginning, Rocrary had grown into a formidable empire, swallowing territories and countries with a ruthless efficiency, fueled by its control over resources and wealth.
As the cigarette's ember faded, David glanced towards the monastery's windows, the light struggling to penetrate the gloom of the room stained with the aftermath of his actions. His eyes lifted to the cross above, and with a gesture of contrition, he traced the sign of the cross over himself.
"Father, when you reach the heavens, pray for me," David whispered, a flicker of remorse in his voice. The sound of a gunshot echoed through the monastery, a final act in this grim tableau.
"For I am but an agent of the devil's will," he murmured to himself, the weight of his deeds a heavy shroud upon his soul.