The sword swung down toward his head. Blood dripped from the blade, crimson droplets staining the ground. It looked as if the sword had been raised not just against him but against countless innocent lives.
A deaf man fell to his knees, trembling, his eyes wide with fear. He clasped his hands together and begged, his voice cracking:
"Please… please help me! Spare me! I don't want to die yet… not like this… not in silence!"
Tears mixed with the dust on his face, his desperate cries echoing in the suffocating air.
But the man who held the sword only smirked, his cold eyes reflecting cruelty.
"Pathetic. Weaklings will always remain weaklings. Do you know why? Because they lack strategy. They lack intelligence. They lack the will to make a plan. Without that, you're nothing but a card in someone else's deck waiting to be played, discarded, or burned."
The blade hovered above the man's neck, glimmering under the pale light.
"This world doesn't spare the foolish. If you can't control the game, then you are the game. Remember this, before your final breath."
The man's scream was swallowed by the shadows.
And so begins the story…
Mind and Flesh: A War of Two Souls