After the incident with graverobbers i came to realize that i was dead for 2 centuries, i was in a modern world, a world which had evolved while i had stayed the same, and i was lost in this world, no goal to work toward, nobody left to enact my vengeance upon, all i knew was that morrowind was still standing even after 2 centuries, apparently swords and bows were replaced with gunpowder and revolvers, and once a bright and green kingdom was now charcoal and ash, the sky and the streets reeked of charcoal and smoke, it was in this moved on world that i came to know that there was someone like me. Someone who was from the same era as me…

  Lucius moved through the graveyard with methodical purpose.

  He gathered clothes from the corpses of the grave robbers—a shirt here, trousers there, a jacket that would serve to cover his naked body. The fabric was stained with mud and worse, but it was better than nakedness, better than vulnerability. As he dressed, he kept one of their revolvers—a tool he did not understand but could no longer afford to ignore. The weapon felt foreign in his hand, heavier than a sword of comparable length, but he secured it at his hip anyway.

  Then he turned to Sable's grave.

  With his own hands, he returned the rusted longsword to the coffin. The blade lay across the skeletal remains like an offering, like a prayer spoken in steel. He worked to restore the earth, pushing soil back into the pit with deliberate care, treating the ground with a reverence that the grave robbers never would have understood. It was not perfect—the grave would never look untouched—but it was as close to peace as he could offer his brother now.

  He stood before the restored grave and bowed his head.

  No words came. Words seemed obscene in the presence of the dead, inadequate vessels for what lived in his chest. Instead, he simply remained motionless for a moment that stretched beyond time, honoring the man whose final command had set all of this in motion.

  Give them hell, Lucius.

  Then he turned away.

  As he began to make his way toward the inner reaches of the kingdom, something shifted in the air above the graveyard. Ash began to fall.

  Not snow. Not rain. But ash—fine particles descending from a sky that held no visible source. The ash settled on his brown overcoat, accumulating on the shoulders, turning the fabric white with its accumulated weight. His dark hair—matted with blood and rain and earth—began to look white as the ash settled into every strand, coating him in the color of cremation and endings.

  He continued walking.

  The ash fell heavier now, as if the sky was shedding the remnants of something that had burned. With each step deeper into the kingdom, the ash continued to fall, until Lucius looked less like a man and more like a ghost—a specter walking toward some destination only he understood, leaving footprints in ash that the wind would soon erase.

  The graveyard faded behind him.

  Ahead lay the kingdom—fractured by war, destabilized by execution, ruled by a king who was nothing more than a puppet dancing on the strings of something far darker. Ahead lay Gazer, the name written on a worn chit, the force that had orchestrated the deaths of his brothers.

  Ahead lay vengeance.

  And Lucius, half-alive and half-dead, covered in the ash of a world that seemed to be burning itself to cinders, walked toward it with absolute certainty. The revolver at his hip was a tool he did not yet understand. The clothes he wore were borrowed from corpses. But his purpose was crystalline, undeniable, eternal.

  The ash continued to fall, painting him white with the color of endings.

  The air reeked of charcoal and molten iron.

  As Lucius walked deeper into the kingdom's interior, the smell grew stronger, more acrid. He understood now why the grave robbers had been so methodical in their excavations. Bones were currency in this world—burned and ground into charcoal, a commodity that fed the forges and foundries that kept civilization grinding forward. The dead, it seemed, had one final use in this age.

  He had nothing.

  No money. No destination. No connections to the world that had moved on without him. He understood the fundamental truth that pressed against his chest: centuries had passed. The Brotherhood was dust. Sable, Chyros, Lanze—all of them were ancient history now, their enemies long since turned to ash and memory. Those who deserved death had already received it, their souls long departed to whatever gods might welcome them.

  The vengeance he carried burned with no target left to strike.

  So he did what survivors do: he adapted.

  The revolver at his hip was worthless as a memento but valuable as currency. He approached a blacksmith's forge, drawn by the sound of hammer on metal and the glow of heat that painted the world in shades of orange and red.

  The blacksmith was a massive man—bald, muscular, with skin that had been darkened by decades of proximity to flame. His apron was blackened with soot and char. His mustache stretched across his face like a dark banner, a single feature that dominated his otherwise unremarkable appearance. When Lucius approached, the man did not look up from his work. He simply continued pounding his hammer against a heated piece of metal, each strike releasing sparks that danced into the air like dying stars.

  "Ten copper is all I can give," the blacksmith said, still not bothering to glance at his customer.

  "How long will it keep me afloat?" Lucius asked.

  The hammer continued its rhythm—clink, clink, clink—the sound of metal being shaped into something new. "With a low-end inn and bare minimum sustenance? I think a week. But no promises."

  Lucius considered this. "I will take eight. Can you tell me how this thing works?"

  The blacksmith stopped mid-swing.

  His hammer hung suspended in the air, poised above the anvil. Slowly, he turned to look at Lucius, and his face wore an expression of absolute confusion. "You don't know how this works? And yet you carry this around?"

  Lucius said nothing.

  The blacksmith set his hammer down on the anvil with deliberate care and approached the counter that separated his workspace from the rest of the shop. He extended a weathered hand, and Lucius placed the revolver into his palm.

  The blacksmith examined it with the precision of a man who understood weapons—rotating it, checking the mechanisms, testing the chamber with professional familiarity. After a long moment, he looked back at Lucius with something like resignation.

  "So you killed someone to get your hands on this," he said. It was not a question.

  Lucius remained silent.

  The blacksmith's expression shifted into something between amusement and respect. "Fine. Keep your secrets. You're giving me two coppers—that's enough for me." He set the revolver down and began to explain.

  His voice took on the tone of a teacher addressing a particularly slow student. "This is a revolver. The cylinder here—it rotates. See? Six chambers, each one holds a round. When you pull the trigger, the cylinder advances, aligning a new chamber with the barrel. The hammer strikes the primer, the round fires, and the projectile travels down the barrel with force enough to penetrate flesh and bone."

  He demonstrated the mechanism—showing Lucius how the trigger worked, how the hammer functioned, how the rotation happened in sequence. His calloused fingers moved with practiced ease across the weapon, explaining the mechanics with the patience of someone who had done this before.

  "You aim here," the blacksmith continued, pointing to the sights. "You squeeze the trigger slowly and deliberately. Six shots before you need to reload. Fast enough to be dangerous. Quiet enough to be deadly. Better than a sword in most situations, worse in close quarters."

  He slid the revolver back under the counter and counted out eight copper coins, sliding them across the wooden surface one at a time.

  Then he looked up at Lucius with sharp, assessing eyes. "You don't look around from here. Are you from somewhere else?"

  Lucius nodded slowly.

  The blacksmith's mustache twitched in something that might have been a smile. "So how come you don't know what a revolver is? This weapon's been standard for decades now."

  "I came from far away," Lucius said quietly. "There are no weapons like this where I come from."

  The blacksmith studied him for a long moment, then returned to his work without pressing further. Sometimes, he seemed to understand, a man's origins were a door better left unopened. He picked up his hammer and returned to the heated metal, resuming his rhythmic pounding as if the conversation had never occurred.

  Lucius pocketed the eight copper coins and turned to leave.

  Behind him, the sound of hammer on anvil continued—the relentless rhythm of creation and destruction, the endless cycle of transformation that characterized this world. And in his mind, the mechanics of the revolver began to take shape, another tool added to his arsenal, another way to deliver the vengeance that still burned beneath his skin, even if its original targets had long since turned to dust.

  Lucius reached the door of the forge, his hand already moving toward the frame when the blacksmith's voice cut through the sound of his own hammer.

  "If you want work, I can hire you," the man called out. "I can give you a weekly wage—enough for a decent living."

  Lucius stopped mid-turn. He pivoted slowly, facing the blacksmith once more, his black eyes studying this stranger who had shown more practical kindness than most people in kingdoms.

  "Why help a stranger?" Lucius asked.

  The blacksmith continued his work, hammer rising and falling with mechanical precision. "Curiosity is what gets the best of me. And I'm curious now. I'm not being nice for free, you know. I want a payment."

  "I just pawned what I had," Lucius said flatly. "What more do you want?"

  "I don't want your money. I want answers to the questions I would ask time to time." The blacksmith paused, finally looking at Lucius directly. "I think that's a win-win for you. What do you think?"

  Lucius considered this. In his vast experience—stretched across centuries in ways he could not fully articulate—he had learned that everyone wanted something. This man's price was merely conversation. It was almost refreshing in its simplicity.

  "So when can I begin?" Lucius asked.

  The blacksmith shouted toward the back of the forge: "Bran!"

  A man emerged from the interior shadows—someone in his forties, dressed in simple clothes with a hat that made him stand out from everyone else, a traveler's hat worn by someone who had seen other places. He was lean, the kind of lean that came from decades of honest work rather than deprivation. His eyes held the sharp awareness of an innkeeper who had learned to read people quickly.

  "What mate? What d'you want now?" Bran asked, his accent carrying the lilt of someone from the eastern settlements.

  "I want a room for our friend here," the blacksmith said, gesturing toward Lucius. "He'll be paying you six coppers now for the monthly rent."

  Bran looked at Lucius with open displeasure—the expression of a man who had seen too many drifters with empty pockets claim to have money. "You really got that much on ya?"

  Lucius withdrew the copper coins and showed them without ceremony.

  Bran's expression shifted into something resembling acceptance. He took the coins and gestured for Lucius to follow. "Well then, welcome inside, I suppose. Try not to burn the place down or steal the bedding, yeah?"

  The inn was modest—dark wood, low ceilings, the smell of stale ale and old bread. Bran led him to a small room on the second floor, sparse but clean. A bed. A small table. A window that overlooked the street below.

  "That'll do for ya," Bran said, and returned downstairs.

  Lucius took in the room with a single glance, understanding immediately that this was all he needed. Shelter. Stability. A place to exist while he determined his next move.

  When he returned to the forge, the blacksmith handed him an apron similar to his own—dark leather, stained with the accumulated grime of countless hours of work.

  "Go see your room and come back," the blacksmith said. "The order is large and I need help. You don't have any luggage, so you don't need to rest now, do you?"

  Lucius shook his head and pulled the apron on over his borrowed clothes, adjusting it until it sat properly. The movement was automatic, the muscle memory of a man who had worn such garments before, in another life, in another age.

  "So what am I gonna call you?" Lucius asked as he returned to the forge's heat.

  The blacksmith looked up from his work, and for the first time, something that might have been a smile crossed his weathered face.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "I am Seris."

  Seris's hands guided Lucius through the motions with patient repetition. Hammer here. Strike there. Feel the metal's resistance. Understand the temperature through sound alone.

  Seris watched from across the forge, observing as Lucius shaped metal with increasing confidence. After the third piece came out nearly perfect, the blacksmith nodded with something approaching admiration.

  "Seems like you have done this before," Seris said.

  Lucius continued pounding, each strike deliberate and measured. "Yes. I have. I used to forge swords for myself back in my village. But making these complex shapes does require some skill."

  Seris nodded, accepting this as a simple fact. "So you used swords in this age? At your village? Sounds like a place that's still not seen advancement."

  "One can say that," Lucius replied, and returned to his work.

  The days settled into routine. They hammered triggers and chambers. Melted metal and poured it into molds. Filled and ground and polished until each piece approached perfection. The work was meditative, repetitive, the kind of labor that allowed the mind to wander while the hands remained productive.

  It was during one of these sessions—as Lucius was grinding a particularly intricate chamber piece—that Seris asked the question that hung unspoken between them.

  "So why did you come here? To this shithole?"

  Lucius hesitated. His hands continued their motion, but something shifted in him. The question required honesty or silence, and he found himself choosing a path between the two.

  "Back in my village, my friends and I were part of a group," Lucius said quietly. "They were executed by our chief, who was being poisoned by somebody. I was the only one left alive. So I set out for vengeance against the chief and the person who was corrupting him."

  He paused, letting the hammer fall still.

  "But midway, something happened. And I ended here, hoping to find a new direction for life."

  Seris set down his own tools and looked at Lucius with an expression that held both respect and something deeper—recognition, perhaps, of a man who had carried weight too heavy for mortal shoulders.

  "So what happened to your vengeance?" Seris asked. "No more?"

  Lucius took a deep breath that seemed to come from somewhere far below his chest. "The ones who fell to the hands of evil are gone now. I can't do anything to bring them back. And as for my vengeance..." He looked at his hands, at the calluses and scars that marked them. "I let it go. Because I knew it would make me hollow."

  His voice dropped even lower. "My brother asked me to give them hell. But look at me—I became selfish and denied his last request so that I could live in peace. That's the truth of it. I abandoned my oath for comfort."

  Seris was silent for a long moment. Then a slight smile crossed his weathered face—not mockery, but something closer to understanding.

  "That's not bad," Seris said. "Sometimes you gotta be selfish. Always being there for someone makes one hollow, and that hollowness remains until one dies. Better to let it go than to carry it into the grave."

  Lucius looked at the blacksmith, and in that look lived a question without words.

  Seris simply returned to his work, hammer rising and falling once more, the sound filling the forge with its rhythmic certainty. And in that sound, Lucius found something unexpected: not absolution, but something close to it. Permission, perhaps, to be human enough to fail those who had asked everything of him.

  The hammer fell.

  And the forge continued its endless work, transforming raw metal into tools of precision and death, indifferent to the moral weight carried by those who wielded them.

  Lucius's hammer stopped mid-swing.

  The metal he had been shaping fell silent beneath the blow that never came. His hands froze in place, suspended in the moment between motion and rest. Around him, the forge continued its work—the crackle of flame, the distant sound of other hammers falling in rhythm—but Lucius existed outside of it all, existing only in the space where a name had been spoken.

  Gazer.

  The same name. Written on worn parchment. Whispered by a dying man in a graveyard. Carried through centuries like a curse that refused to be lifted. And now, spoken casually by a blacksmith in a forge, as if it were nothing more than idle gossip about the politics of kingdoms.

  "What did you say?" Lucius asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Seris looked up from his own work, noting the sudden stillness in his new employee. "I said our king, Saber, it's said that sometimes stewards hear a name from his chambers. Someone named Gazer. They say he gives the orders—what to do and what not to do. Some even say the king is just a puppet."

  Lucius set down his hammer with deliberate care.

  "Tell me more," he said.

  Seris shrugged, returning to his work. "It's just a rumor, really. Whispers in taverns. But it seems kind of odd, don't it? If this Gazer had that much power, why would he choose to hide in the shadows? Why not rule openly? Why pull strings instead of sitting on a throne?"

  The question hung in the air, unanswered and unanswerable.

  Lucius stood motionless, his mind racing through connections and possibilities. Two centuries had passed. Empires had risen and fallen. But Gazer remained. Still hidden. Still pulling strings. Still corrupting those who sat in power, just as he had corrupted Primus all those ages ago.

  The snake had simply found a new head to sit upon.

  Lucius simply stood there, staring into the flames of the forge, watching the metal glow orange and red and white as it heated toward transformation. In those flames, he saw the execution square. He saw Sable's severed head. He saw the graveyard and the grave robbers and the pale woman with blue eyes.

  He saw everything that had driven him across centuries to this moment.

  The hammer fell once more, and Lucius returned to his work. But something had shifted inside him. The peace he had been building, the new life he had been constructing in this forge, suddenly felt like a house built on sand—temporary, fragile, destined to collapse under the weight of obligations that refused to die.

  Gazer was still alive.

  The vengeance he thought he had abandoned was not abandoned at all. It had simply been waiting, sleeping, biding its time until the name could be spoken once more and the hunt could resume.

  Lucius began to learn about revolvers in earnest.

  It was no longer a matter of curiosity or survival. It was necessity. If he wanted to enact his vengeance, if he wanted to hunt down a shadow that had hidden itself for centuries, then he needed what this new age had to offer. He needed to understand the weapons that had replaced the sword. He needed to master the tools of a world that had moved on without him.

  Perhaps it was nature's course. Perhaps he had failed to kill Gazer back then because the time was not right, because the weapons he wielded were insufficient against an enemy who operated in shadows and whispers.

  And now, knowing that Gazer was still alive—still pulling strings, still corrupting kings—meant something else entirely.

  It meant Gazer might be like him.

  An immortal.

  Someone who had survived the passage of centuries not through lineage or legacy, but through sheer, impossible persistence. Someone who had cheated death just as Lucius had.

  This realization brought with it a cold, dark hope. If Gazer was immortal, if he shared the same curse of endless existence, then perhaps... perhaps he held the key. Perhaps in finding Gazer, in confronting him, Lucius might find a way out of his own unwanted immortality. The best-case scenario was not just vengeance—it was release. It was the possibility of finally, truly resting.

  So Lucius studied.

  He spent his days in the forge, not just shaping metal but understanding it. He learned the mechanics of the revolver intimately—how the cylinder rotated, how the hammer struck, how the rifling inside the barrel spun the projectile for accuracy. He learned about calibers and grain weights, about effective ranges and stopping power. He learned to disassemble and reassemble weapons until his hands moved with the same automatic certainty they had once used to wield a katana.

  He practiced firing whenever he could, finding secluded spots outside the city where the sound of gunshots would not draw attention. He learned to aim not with his eye but with his instinct, transferring the discipline of swordsmanship to the mechanics of ballistics. He learned that a bullet, like a sword thrust, was merely an extension of will.

  The days turned into weeks.

  And with each passing day, Lucius became less of a blacksmith's apprentice and more of something else—a predator adapting to a new environment, sharpening his claws, preparing for a hunt that had been paused for two hundred years but never truly abandoned.

  Gazer was out there.

  And Lucius was coming for him. Not with a sword alone, but with the very weapons this age had forged. And perhaps, at the end of it all, he would find not just justice for his brothers, but peace for himself.

  The forge became Lucius's laboratory.

  What had begun as learning evolved into creation. Seris watched with growing unease as his apprentice moved beyond the standard designs, beyond the conventional weapons that the kingdom's armories produced. Lucius worked late into the nights, long after Bran had closed the inn and the city had settled into sleep. He bent over the anvil with singular focus, reshaping metal with a precision that transcended mere craftsmanship.

  It was obsession given physical form.

  But before the obsession came clarity. Lucius had lacked direction when he arrived in this new world—a man pulled from sleep, thrust into a century not his own, carrying only rage and confusion. Now, everything had changed. Now he had what he had been searching for: a clear goal. A direction. A purpose that burned with the same intensity it had in that execution square centuries ago.

  Gazer was alive.

  The name alone was enough to crystallize everything. All the wandering, all the uncertainty, all the attempts to build a new life in a forge—they had been merely a prelude to this moment. This was his direction. This was his reason for persisting through impossibility.

  And so Lucius had ventured beyond the kingdom's borders—into the deep forests where predators still roamed and civilization had not yet imposed its order. He had sought out ore that the local smiths dismissed as unusable. Brusnium. A metal that defied conventional understanding, twice as hard as steel yet twice as flexible, twice as heavy yet somehow lighter in the hand than its weight should allow. It was an ore that resisted traditional forging, that pushed back against the hammer with an almost conscious resistance.

  But Lucius persisted.

  He had heated it. Cooled it. Tempered it through methods that Seris had never seen, drawing on knowledge from an age before this one, from a time when different tools and different understanding had shaped metal into weapons of terrible beauty. The ore seemed to respond to him in ways it resisted others, as if recognizing something kindred in the man who struck it.

  The result was a revolver unlike anything the kingdom had ever seen.

  Eight chambers instead of six. A barrel a full foot in length—longer than conventional designs, making it unwieldy in close combat but devastating at range. The caliber was 7.2mm—shots that only the kingdom's best repeaters could fire, and even then, those rifles would break after extended use. The metal of the revolver itself was brusnium, dark and lustrous, catching light like oil on water.

  When Lucius presented it to Seris for the first time, the blacksmith actually stepped back.

  His face went pale. His hands trembled slightly. "What... what is this?" he whispered, not reaching for it, as if the weapon itself might be dangerous in proximity.

  "A revolver," Lucius said simply. "For myself."

  "This metal," Seris said, his voice carrying genuine fear. "Where did you get this? And why... why would you forge something like this?"

  "Because it was necessary," Lucius replied. He held the weapon up to the light, examining it with the eye of someone who had spent a lifetime understanding the relationship between form and function. "This will do what I need it to do."

  The implications hung unspoken between them. Seris understood, in that moment, that his apprentice had been preparing for something far larger than simple survival. The casual curiosity about Gazer had transformed into something active, something purposeful.

  The revolver felt perfect in Lucius's hand.

  The weight was substantial without being burdensome. The balance was impeccable—the long barrel providing stability and accuracy while the design allowed for quick draw and rapid fire. The brusnium absorbed impacts that would have cracked lesser metals, responding to use with a durability that suggested it could fire thousands of rounds without degradation.

  He loaded it with ammunition crafted specifically for its caliber—rounds that he had personally assembled, understanding that generic ammunition would be insufficient for what he intended. Each round was a small miracle of precision, a tiny projectile engineered to do exactly what he commanded.

  Seris watched from across the forge, understanding now that his apprentice was not simply learning a trade. He was building himself into something new. Something that this age had not yet encountered.

  "How long?" Seris asked quietly.

  "How long until what?" Lucius replied, though he knew exactly what the blacksmith meant.

  "Until you leave. Until you go after what you're really after."

  Lucius held the revolver before him, feeling its weight, understanding its potential. "Soon," he said. "I need to be ready. I need to understand this weapon as completely as I understand my sword. And then..."

  He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.

  The forge fell silent except for the crackle of flame.

  The most astounding part of the revolver was not its barrel length, nor its caliber, nor the brusnium that composed its frame.

  It was the trigger.

  Seris discovered this when he attempted to fire the weapon during one of Lucius's demonstrations. The blacksmith, curious and confident, grasped the revolver and aimed it toward a target. He pulled the trigger with the casual ease of a man who had handled firearms before.

  Nothing happened.

  He pulled harder. His finger tightened. His hand began to shake with exertion. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Still, the trigger would not yield. It was as if the weapon had locked itself, as if it refused to fire for anyone but its creator.

  "What is this?" Seris gasped, his hand trembling from the effort. "It won't—I can't—"

  Lucius took the revolver back without comment. He raised it, aimed it at the same target, and pulled the trigger with apparent ease. The shot fired with a thunderous crack that echoed across the forge, the projectile striking its mark with devastating precision.

  "The trigger," Lucius explained simply. "It requires force."

  "Force?" Seris repeated, still breathing heavily from his failed attempt. "It requires... It requires a man's full strength. Both hands. And even then, it barely yields."

  "Yes," Lucius confirmed.

  Seris understood then. This was not merely a design flaw or an engineering quirk. This was intentional. This was philosophy forged into steel and brusnium.

  The weapon was humanized.

  Despite being engineered to obliterate anything in its path, despite being crafted from a metal that transcended conventional limitation, Lucius had made the trigger require a decision. Not an accident. Not a careless motion. Not the casual squeeze of a finger that could end a life with no more thought than swatting an insect.

  To fire this weapon, one had to commit. One had to exert will. One had to use every ounce of strength and determination to pull the trigger and accept the consequences of that action.

  It was a weapon that demanded accountability from the one who wielded it.

  "Why?" Seris asked quietly. "Why would you make it so difficult?"

  Lucius held the revolver, understanding its weight in more ways than one. "Because," he said slowly, "a weapon should never be easy to use. A weapon that fires with a simple touch becomes the tool of cowards and the confused. A weapon that requires decision becomes the tool of those who understand the cost of violence."

  He looked at Seris with black eyes that seemed to contain centuries of understanding. "I have learned that taking a life should never be casual. It should never be thoughtless. When I fire this revolver, every shot must be a choice I make consciously, deliberately, with full understanding of what I am doing."

  Seris nodded slowly, understanding in that moment the true nature of his apprentice. This was not a man seeking vengeance through chaos. This was not a killer without conscience. This was something far more dangerous: a man who understood the weight of every action, who demanded accountability even from himself, who had transformed a weapon into a moral statement.

  "You're going to kill someone," Seris said. It was not a question.

  "I don't know," Lucius replied without hesitation.

  "Then why make an abomination like this?."

  "I don't know if I want to kill him or not, I can't decide until I stand face to face against him."

  Seris looked at the revolver one final time, understanding now that in his forge, in the company of his apprentice, he had forged not just a weapon but a judgment waiting to be delivered.

  The trigger would require a decision.

  And when Lucius finally pulled it, the choice would be absolute.

  Honestly when i made that revolver, i was happy, it was like when i first forged my sword, that katana that i loved dearly, it had blue mune and a fine sharp edge, it was like my dream had been forged by me, but that happiness was short-lived, as I ended lives with my manifested dream and same was about to happen with my revolver. I think to some extent seris knew who I was after, he knew maybe what kind of man I was or maybe I had fooled myself thinking that I really left my vengeance in that grave. But that name was the spark that ignited my vengeance again, and this time I wasn't about to let anyone stand in the way.

  Without direction the lion might dance in circus,

  But when he smells blood, he remembers his purpose.