As he sits upon his dusty throne while comtemplating the achievement of his own. How the struggle of adversity affects him greatly, the ones dear to him lost forever in the ocean of crimson blood, the ocean created by non other than himself. Such pain and misery, such glory and victory. The intensity of feeling when comrades battle for one cause. True liberation.
The dusk of sunlight ever growing weaker with the specks of dust losing light, he arises from his newly found throne and stands as tall as an undefeated mountain. His mighty sword of victory rests below his hands, scathed and bloody, piercing the ground for a final statement to all who watches, so true the battle worn armor that seems to wear him. The feeling of a never ending close to this war leaves him with not a finger to lift. The energy has all been dispersed to the correction of his newfound nation. His energy has been depleted as he suddenly collapses to the ground, leaving an echo of a new story unfolding through the nation.