He marched with honor, medals earned,
Yet in his heart, dark embers burned.
For empire’s gain, a ruthless creed,
He fought and killed with lethal speed.

Each life he took, a silent toll,
A fragment lost within his soul.
Haunted by what eyes could not see,
His mind a war-torn memory.

Returned to streets of cold disdain,
Where empty stares met hidden pain.
Betrayed by those who sent him far,
To fight their wars and bear their scar.

With molten rage that would not cease,
He pursued the source of this disease.
Those who profit off chaos and war,
He hunted down to settle the score.

Merchants of Death, their blood-soaked treasure,
Fed endless conflict to fuel their pleasure.
He struck them down without remorse,
To shatter cycles, change the course.

Yet in the fog of fading light,
A dead man’s voice cut through the night:
“Does vengeance cleanse, or merely feed
The very beast you swore to bleed?”

Though flesh may heal, the mind remains
A prison forged in iron chains—
An anti-hero, lost and torn,
By war’s dark shadow, ever worn.