The Futility of Mercy

Mercy, a concept I once thought was a virtue, now seems like a weakness to me. As I walk the path of vengeance, I've come to realize that the only language the evil understands is the one spoken in blood and steel. I've seen the worst of humanity, the depths to which people can sink when given the chance. And I've come to understand that the only way to stop them is to end them. The memory of my family's slaughter still haunts me, a constant reminder of the price of mercy.

People often ask me why I don't show mercy to those who beg for it, why I don't spare the lives of those who tremble before me. They don't understand that to me, mercy is a luxury I can no longer afford. My family's death has left a void in me, a void that can only be filled by the destruction of those who took everything from me. I'm not a monster, I'm a man consumed by a singular purpose: to make the world a darker, more brutal place, one where the likes of Zog can't hide.

I know some might say that I'm a product of my environment, that my hatred is a result of the trauma I've endured. But I know the truth. I'm a product of my own making, a creation of the rage and anger that burns within me. And I wouldn't have it any other way. For in this darkness, I've found a sense of purpose, a sense of self that I never thought possible. And I'll continue to walk this path, no matter how twisted it may seem, until I've claimed my revenge and brought Zog to his knees.