At the age of Twenty-two, I, Yu Kanda, had completed all the goals I'd set out to do, and thus was no longer necessary. After all these years, I was now considered useless. Finally.

The war was over, and what was left was easily comparable to Hell.

Things were burning. Civilians were screaming. The scent of death was thick in the air.

Those people, my comrades, were all around, breathing heavy. Some had tears in their eyes, while others barely even had the strength to stand. In the dirt some lay, sobs wracking through them.

Lavi stared blankly down at Bookman beside him, just sitting there. Lenalee cradled Komui close, her grip like iron. Marie held Miranda in his arms, letting her cry herself out. Link's face was grim. General Klaud had her head in her hands, Timothy's body strewn nearby. Krory was bawling like the baby he was. Teidoll sat by Chaoji, who wasn't moving.

And the list went on.

Messy white hair.

So much had been lost, too much sacrificed just so we could win.

A pentacle-tipped scar.

I gritted my teeth.

Grey draining from grimy, hollow cheeks streaked with tears.

My fists clenched, knuckles turning white from the strain.

Closed eyes that I knew to be silver.

I let out a slow, shaky breath.

Torn rags that could now barely pass as clothing.

And it hurt.

Humanity's most willing, pitiful martyr.

It really hurt. Fucking Hell it hurt. My chest felt like it was being squeezed in some shitty vice.

What had we ever done to deserve this?

We'd played our parts. We'd done what was asked of us. We'd fought His war. So why couldn't we have been given this one thing? Where was our happily ever after? Hell, I wouldn't have cared for all that, if only we could've just lived.

It would've been hard, and stupidly painful, but we'd earned at least that much. We deserved it after all we'd been through, after what they'd made us go through.

What we'd been given, however, wasn't even close to that.

Heartache. Regret. Hopelessness. Hate. Grief. Numbness.

My hand was crumbling, along with the rest of me. In this final battle, I'd used up the very last of my lifespan, drained myself of everything I had.

There were fresh corpses everywhere, coupled with blood and gore and whatever other crap composed the human body, all of it from non-combatants, comrades, and Noah alike. It was all the same. When you really got down to it, there weren't all that many differences between us.

Just as our side had suffered heavy casualties, there's had, too.

There was sorrow here, too.

People would be calling for their loved ones, blindly seeking out for somebody, anybody, anything that could grant their foolish wish. But those that died would never again return as they once would have.

There'd been only one person left able to resurrect the dead, one person with the power to bring back those long gone, and he was here, lying at my feet, bruised and broken with my katana running him though.

Not that he would have tried. And even if he had, it wouldn't have changed a thing.

"I kept my promise."

And never before had I wished so much that I hadn't.

"I told you I'd be the one to kill you."

But I'll be joining you soon, Beansprout.