Ken'ichiro's P.O.V:
I once despised the weak until I became one myself. All of us were helpless that night. Any one of us could have stood up, protested, shouted, fought back—but we did nothing. Frozen with fear, and for what? There were 60 of us, yet no one wanted to be the hero.
The room was dimly lit, shadows dancing on the walls as if mocking our paralysis. The blood, still fresh from the night before, formed a gruesome puddle beneath his body, slowly congealing. The whites of his eyes were still visible, a haunting sight that sent chills down my spine. His lifeless gaze was fixed on the ceiling, unseeing, as if frozen in the last moment of his terror.
Yamahra, a young recruit with a trembling voice, finally broke the oppressive silence. "Guys, we should really clean up the mess and remove the body," he said, his eyes darting nervously around the room.
A thought entered my brain, and I spoke before I realized what I was saying. "No, let's leave his body for all of us to see." My voice echoed in the stillness, and I could feel the weight of everyone's gaze turning towards me.
We were all strangers, brought together by a shared misfortune, yet in that moment, we were bound by our collective fear. What had happened to our courage? We outnumbered him, but our numbers meant nothing when the spirit to fight was crushed. Each of us had faced our own personal hells, and this latest horror had shattered what little resolve we had left.
Reflecting on it now, I realize that weakness is not always a choice. Sometimes, it is thrust upon us by circumstances beyond our control. And in those moments, we must learn to forgive ourselves and find ways to grow stronger from the experience. The memory of that night was seared into my mind: the cold sweat on my skin, the stench of fear and blood mingling in the air, the feeling of utter helplessness as we stood there, paralyzed.
"I will be the one to stand up, to protest, and most importantly, to fight back," I shouted, my voice breaking the silence and the spell of fear that had held us captive. The others looked at me with a mix of surprise and newfound hope, as if my words had lit a spark in the darkness. And in that moment, I knew we could face whatever came next.
"Hoist up his body," I commanded, pointing to the fallen comrade. "Let him become a statue of courage." We moved with a newfound determination, lifting him gently. He was no longer just a casualty; he was a symbol of our resistance, a beacon that would guide us through the shadows of our fear.
We placed him on a makeshift pedestal, high enough for everyone to see.
As we stood there, a quiet vow formed in our hearts. We would honor his memory by continuing the fight, by never allowing fear to silence us again.
In the end, weakness was not our enemy. It was a part of us, a reminder of our humanity. And as we embraced it, we discovered that within our vulnerabilities lay the seeds of our greatest strengths.
William Shakespeare had a saying on revenge:
"If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?"
They say revenge is up to the heavens to decide, and if we were to partake in such revenge, it's best to dig two graves. Well, 60 graves will not be enough for the wrath that burns within our souls. Each betrayal, each cut to our honor, demands its own retribution.
So let them talk of divine justice and the futility of revenge. I will walk this dark path with my head held high, knowing that each step brings me closer to the reckoning they so richly deserve. In the end, the grave I dig will stand as a testament to the lengths one must go to restore honor and peace to a wounded soul.
Bring it on Kaiser