[Supposed to be in the novels section, sorry.] Could someone please tell me their opinion about it, so I can decide on continuing it or not =)
The concept of a soul.
Could I see it if I tore open your chest?
Could I hold it within my palm it and clutch it between my fingers?
No, the idea itself is absurd and ludicrous.
An empty, unperceivable illusion.
***
I rest my back against the lush hay with my knees comfortably bent. The vermillion sunset reflects upon my tenebrous eyes as the gentle breeze whispers among my frayed black hair. It’ll be a full moon tonight, I can sense it.
The hill offers me a splendid viewpoint in all directions. Below me the meadows dance in the symphony of the wind, drifting within the unseen currents.
I rise up, and proceed to stride down the gently sloping hill with my eyes fixed on the dim light that vividly intensifies
along each step. I adjust my fingers between the black, knotted cord wraps and unsheathe my blade. The city is straight ahead. I gaze at the heavens; the moon has finally revealed itself.
The nuclear war in 2037 had left a scar on the earth. With a handful of cities functioning, the outskirts were isolated and abandoned. The towering skyscrapers in ruins and without a government or military left to oversee the chaotic situation, every man fends for himself. It’s the only golden rule of urban civilization, a rule to acknowledge and accept. This is modern Japan, the forsaken and accursed Island.
I pass by the main street; a stretched road with a couple of bars situated each side. These are the safe zones, rest areas that exchange water, narcotics and supplies in exchange for pre-war items. The quality, quantity and estimated age determined the amount of goods handed over in exchange.
My reputation has a tendency of sending people scattering in terror on the first sight of my shadow. Inarguably, it also tends to be their last. I don’t approve lightly of the fools who blindly challenge me. It’s their funeral.
I take a sharp turn to the right; the alleys are hoarded with debris, some filled with the repulsive stench of decaying matter. It’s atrocious.
I catch numerous shadows traversing within the surrounding darkness, cast by the pale moon that silently grins, as if aware of the events yet to come. I pretend not to notice, and hiding my smirk.
A pack of men step out of the embracing shadows, circling around their prey. Armed with chains, pipes and stained knives. Bloodlust has driven them mad; they tremble from various drugs and adrenaline.
“Pitiful.” I think to myself. Six men in total, six men about to repent their sins in the judging eyes of their maker. I’ll be granting them the honor.
Humans always create themselves reasons to exist. These men have none, therefore ceasing to exist constitutes as a
favor for everyone else. It’s their sole reason to be in the first place.
My black trench coat swirls as the men leap forward. I dodge effortlessly sideways as my forged tamahagane blade splits through the hooded man’s torso, splintering through various ribs and organs. The clean cut separates the torso from its lower half. The man crashes against the ground, lifeless.
I lick my dyed blade in hunger, as I let out a grin. This is what I came here for.
I turn around to face bellowing amateurs. The crimson droplets travel from the groove all the way to the point of the blade, dripping off the edge. The men back down; the blood is reflected in their unstable minds.
I twist and twirl, slicing between the startled men; it’s a beautiful sight, my form of art. The last thug lunges out, only to lacerate emptiness. I'm already behind him. I sharply twist his arm behind his back, dislocating his wrist out of proportion. My boot smashes on his knee joint, forcing him to kneel down before me. He is immobilized. He knows that I’m his God now; I’ll decree the final judgment.
The blade slides up his back, sizing him up. He already knows what's coming. He desperately begs for mercy, knowing none will be handed to him.
“FORGIVE M-“. His words were cut short as the tip of the blade protruded through his throat. I hold him by his hair, marveling the sight, listening as he blood gushes through his trembling nostrils and mouth. His heartbeat is racing, and veins pump across his forehead. It’s a sight to remember.
He glances up in despair, with the moon shimmering brightly before his agonized eyes, ridiculing him as he gasps for his final breath.
His body lies still, eyes widened and throat gaping open.
This is my golden law of the wasteland.
