It was in the middle of a war.
But no one knew why it began.
Not the soldiers who marched blindly into smoke and gunfire.
Not the mothers clutching photographs of sons they would never hold again.
Not the children trembling in dark cellars, wishing the bombs would stop.
Not the old man who stared at his fading memories like a fading light.
No one.
We, the people—just flesh and breath—were told to fight, to run, to die.
But why?
Why did the earth soak so much blood?
Why did the skies burn and fall silent?
Was it for land?
What soil is worth so much suffering?
Who needs land scorched and silent, stained by those who once called it home?
And when the smoke clears, who remains?
Only the leader, and his loyal dogs.
And what does it cost?
It costs life.
Was it for colour?
What madness teaches us to see a shade of skin as a reason for hate?
Why do we wear such blindness like armor?
What did it buy us?
Hate.
Fire.
More graves than names to fill them.
And again—
It costs life.
Was it for God?
What god demands the blood of another believer?
If your god begs for slaughter, is it truly God, or the Devil cloaked in scripture?
We burned temples.
Bombed mosques.
Flattened churches.
And still, He stayed silent.
And what did that silence cost?
It costs life.
Was it for pride?
A fragile, poisoned crown we place on our own heads.
To prove we are better, braver, stronger than those who already lie dying.
We kill to protect it, bleed to defend it.
But when pride stands tall, it's always on a pile of corpses.
And what does it cost?
It costs life.
Was it for vengeance?
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—until all that’s left is bone and dust.
One loss begets another, endlessly.
In our hunger to punish, we forget why we hurt in the first place.
We let anger become our god.
And what did that fury cost?
It costs life.
Was it for power?
The cruel illusion of control over others, over fate.
Power that demands blood as currency.
We build empires on ruins and call them nations.
We send children to die in our names and call it leadership.
And what does that crown truly weigh?
It costs life.
With this war, humanity edged closer to extinction.
Cities once vibrant now lay in ruins, their streets silent but for the ghosts of laughter long gone. The faces I saw in my travels—hollow-eyed, weary, lost—told stories words never could.
And I know—there will be another war.
Because those who survived this one…
are the ones who started it.
We, the architects of death, still breathe.
And when we clash again—
it will be with sticks and stones.
Because we’ve destroyed everything else.
They don't even remember how to build a tent.
They only remember how to kill.
But not how to shelter.
Fools.
All of us.
His breath rattled like rusted metal.
Each word he spoke weighed heavier than the rubble crushing him.
And I stood there.
Silently.
Listening from the shadows.
Because I wasn’t just a passerby.
I was the one who started the war.
The war was over.
We had won.
The world bent its knee before my command.
But I wanted to feel the joy of my people.
I wanted to see their grateful faces.
So I stripped my name and rank, dressed as a common man, and wandered through what was left of the cities we destroyed.
I walked through streets scarred by conflict, walls scorched black, homes shattered and silent. Every corner held a memory I wished I could forget, but could not. The scent of ash and loss was everywhere.
And then I saw him—
a man barely breathing, half-buried in dust and memory.
Speaking to no one.
And to everyone.
I don’t know why I stayed.
But I listened.
To every broken word.
And in those words, he tore apart everything I built.
"I was loyal," the dying man whispered. "Too loyal. I worshipped him—the leader. I swallowed his lies and called them truth."
He coughed, blood blooming at his lips. His hands shook with memory.
"I was a soldier. I brought death. Not to enemies. To innocents."
His voice grew quieter, darker.
"I murdered children. Held a blade to a boy who offered me bread. Shot a mother holding her infant. Watched the light leave their eyes and told myself it was war. It wasn’t war. It was slaughter."
His stare was fixed on something beyond the ruined ceiling.
"I thought we were the righteous. But we were dogs set loose by wolves. We killed because he said so. And I obeyed, again and again, until nothing human remained in me."
He tried to inhale, but it sounded like drowning.
"Now, in these last moments, I see their faces. The ones I buried. The ones I burned. They wait for me on the other side."
He looked toward the sky, not with hope, but with fear.
"And if there's a god... He won't open any door for me. Not after what I've done."
And then he died.
Not with anger.
Not with peace.
Just emptiness.
And silence.
I walked away.
But his words stayed with me like ghosts—
still ringing in my ears.
Years have passed.
They celebrate me.
Statues rise in my honour.
Books tell my story.
Children learn my name as the man who led them to glory.
But when night falls,
and the cheering stops,
and I am alone with the truth—
I still hear him.
Not screaming.
Not accusing.
Just whispering.
"It costs life."
And I…
I can never forget it.
Because I know now—
This war didn’t begin for the people.
It began the moment my ego was bruised.
And it ended only after I buried the world to satisfy it.
The truth?
I won the war.
But I lost my soul.
And every night since…
I die again and again.
For me, I wasn’t meant to overhear this—
but perhaps the world needed me to.
I believed we had won, thought my followers shared that hope.
But in his dying breath, I heard the truth no one else dared admit:
that only my loyal dogs saw this as victory, while for the real people,
it was the quiet death of everything they ever were.
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