Chapter 1:

Attempt 1: I have seen your death, it was painful.

Another WrighterFighter Enters The Ring!


I am an immortal being. Speak my name if you wish to die.
I grab my spear, a creation of magic. Created by I.

A wishful spear of none but hope. I speak to you soiled in rope.
I have seen your death, it was painful—painful indeed. I must not lie,

I have seen the endless number of ends to your life; each different in kind.
I speak your name,
Futile as it is. Your steel of knife: stronger than heart; less than tame.

A tame lion. Prideful: it stands tall and high.

I speak your futile name, you foolish peon. It is I who speaks and I who speaks alone.

What is it? What is it that hurts you so? You wish to know. My oh my.

A painful death awaits; to you who thinks you freely roam.
But no, you are soiled in rope. I must not lie.

A hundred deaths await. Each gruesome. Each painful.
I wish for you, the saviour, who wishes for me to loan.
A helping hand from a saviour you wish from, as you are frozen stone.

To reach out with your own hand is far better than reaching for another's pull.
But can you make it in time? Will your saviour come or end up leaving you in null?

I speak once again: you are to see to it that you reach home.
Unravel that rope you are soiled in. Let go of it. Find your own rope to climb.
Do not take that rope in which you mime.

Yes, for the deaths that await are not set in tome.

They simply are that on one end of a road.

A split road. One that speaks to you. Offers you. Deceives you.

Find a road you would never think to see with you and your puny mind too.

No saviour will always be there for you. See to it with your own eyes. Not with theirs.

One wrong move you slip from that fake rope. You may see one of those hundred deaths.

One right move. You get closer to success.

I wish for you, the futile being you are, to grab onto the right rope.

I wish for you, the futile being you are, to grab onto your own hope.

Perhaps you could become equal with that of your saviour. Your friend.

I grab my spear, a creation of magic. Created by I.
I cast a spell; I wish you not to die.

Yet again, I await; for you who is futile, to make the right decision.

For now, at this time, as of late, I give you this vision.

For I have seen your death. Every death. All of them. It was painful.

I shall see to it that you shall not meet your end as you did then.

I shall see to it that you do not become once again null.

If it is tens, hundreds or thousands of times. I shall call back to you, my lion.

I do not wish for thanks. I wish not for glory. I wish for the safety of my little peon.

My futile friend. A friend in need. I must not lie.

I am an immortal being. But one with a heart. Speak my name now if you wish to die.

But I do not wish that upon you. A saviour is not one to leave you on your own to survive.

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