The Twilight of a Commander Without an Army
Under a stormy sky, where lightning dances to the rhythm of madness, stands a solitary commander, a living emblem of obstinacy and unbridled ambition. With the ardent gaze of someone who has chosen destruction as his faithful companion, he prepares to cross the threshold of the irreparable, well aware of the silent betrayal that winds through his ranks.
De profundis, from the darkest abyss of the soul, rises the cry of an angelic creature who has rejected repentance as one rejects an enemy. “Forward!”, he commands with a voice like thunder, to an increasingly reluctant team, horrified witnesses of an endless descent into abjection.
His are hands that don’t tremble, eyes that don’t cry, a heart that knows no remorse. “More madness!”, he exclaims, and his madness is a fire that consumes every shred of reason left. “More wickedness!”, And his wickedness is an abyss that swallows up every light of good. He knows he has little time, he knows resources are scarce, but in his distorted mind, this is only an accelerant for his destructive ardor.
He doesn’t look for excuses, he doesn’t invoke justifications. His is the path of chaos, a deliberate choice towards annihilation. Like an archer who draws his bow knowing that the arrow will bring only destruction, so he aims at his targets with malicious precision. His every order is a blow to the heart of humanity and the entire creation, his every strategy, a labyrinth of pain and desperation.
Around him, the team falters, divided between duty and horror, helpless witnesses of an announced self-destruction. Yet, the commander does not give up. In him, the desire for power burns stronger than the need for acceptance, the thirst for victory eclipses the fear of loneliness.
De profundis, in the depths of the abyss, his figure stands out as a warning, a dark symbol of what happens when ambition gets out of control, when leadership turns into tyranny. Without regret, he moves forward into the twilight of his days, a king without a kingdom, a commander without an army, but never without his inner flame, that perverse spark that drives him to defy the Almighty.
And so, on the last page of a story written with the ink of madness, the foolish commander approaches his twilight, not with the timid steps of someone seeking forgiveness, but with the triumphal march of someone who has chosen to embrace his abyss until the end. last, fatal breath.