My enemies stiffen as I casually stroll into their camp, alone. I ask for that which they have taken away from me. My words are soft and quiet, yet they are a veiled threat, the quiet predeeding the storm. My request is met with resistance, which is what I expected. I slowly remove my whetted sword.
My enimies lie stiff and in peices at my feet as I causally stroll out of their camp. Their leader, satan, glares at me with a face full of hatred, anger, and death. His blood soaked eyes asking "why did I let him live, why"? Without giving him a second glance I reply to him..."You are not my kill".
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