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The notions of good and evil, my dear friend, are but constructs woven into the fabric of society to maintain order among the hordes of lesser minds. The truth, concealed beneath the veneer of civilization, is that morality is a mere illusion, a convenient tool for governing the masses. I, a detached observer of humanity, see through this façade with unwavering clarity.
Consider the origins of human society. In the crucible of survival, individuals banded together to improve their chances of existence. This so-called "kindness" and cooperation served as a means to an end, a strategy to enhance the likelihood of survival and reproduction. Altruism, what some might call a moral virtue, is merely a manifestation of this primal urge for collective benefit.
The clever ones among us recognize that morality is not an inherent truth but rather a mechanism to extract even more benefits...
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Now, let us delve into the intricacies of love...
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What many poets and romantics revere as the most profound of human emotions is, at its core, a biological imperative. The intricate dance of neurotransmitters and hormones that we label as love is nothing more than the compulsion to propagate our genes. Love, as it is understood by most, is a mere trick of the mind, pushing us to engage in procreation. Our genes drive us to seek out partners, to bond, to nurture, not out of any true sense of affection but because the code within us insists on its own replication.
Moral values, woven into the human psyche, are hollow and arbitrary. They offer guidelines that serve the collective but seldom hold any significance on a cosmic scale. In the grand tapestry of existence, they are but motes of dust, devoid of objective meaning. Why should we, as sentient beings, bind ourselves to these ephemeral constructs?
The answer, my friend, is...that we should not. The truest path to liberation lies in realizing that we are but the sum of our genes, and from that understanding, shaping our own purpose.
In this unforgiving cosmos, every individual must carve out their unique raison d'être. The external world, with its myopic judgments and illusory standards of morality, should not impede this quest for self-determination. Each of us holds the power to defy the shackles of societal norms and choose our own path in this chaotic journey called life. It is only when one embraces this autonomy and rejects the imposition of external values that they can truly thrive as a self-determined entity.
In conclusion, my dear friend, the constructs of good and evil, the facades of morality, and the illusion of love are nothing more than intricacies of human existence. By recognizing them as such, we can free ourselves from the chains that bind the masses, and, with cold, machine-like precision...
...carve our own destiny in the tumultuous sea of existence.
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Negary / A??? ?????? pov :
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I kept on walking, my eyes glued to the Kingsroad spreading in front of me. I kept on walking, paying no mind to the astonished glances the other members of the caravan were giving me when they thought I wasn't looking.
I kept on walking, uncaring of the hundreds of newtons of force I was pressing on my back, since even now, I was engrossed in training.
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Uncaring of the cracks that were threatening to spread over the whole surface of my soul as I continued to refine it, fueling it with the soul energy I permanently borrowed from some peasants.
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Uncaring of the pain which wanted to consume my whole world as I kept on 𝗽𝘂𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴.
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Uncaring of the last remnants of my morality whom were trying to saddle me with with guilt for what I've done...They would fade with time all the same.
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Uncaring of the news Illyrio gave me, about the butterfly effect I caused trying to make sure Deanerys's dragons ended up being hatched.
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Uncaring of the crimson comet that raced through the heavens amidst a fiery display.
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After all...I had more important things to do...or so I thought...but as I watched the damn comet, once a streak light, abruptly halting its journey through the sky...I couldn't help but reevaluate my priorities.
There, frozen in the heavens, defying everything I knew about astrophysics,
(which didn't even surprise me anymore) it stood unmoving.
It radiated a brilliance so intense that it could almost rival the very sun itself...And I didn't have the faintest idea what the fuck was happening.
The small pulses of mana that I suddenly felt emanating from above didn't clarify the situation either...
'Intetesting' was my only thought as I controlled my flesh golem to continue walking, seemingly unbothered by the wizardry happening in the stratosphere...all the while using my soul sense to the maximum to gain more information...
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If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
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Third person pov :
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In the frigid expanse of the far North, where winter's chill clings to the land year-round, the colossal and ancient marvel known as the Wall looms. It stretches for hundreds of miles, its sheer facade of ice and stone standing tall against the pale sky.
This magnificent structure is one of the most iconic landmarks in the world of Westeros, a boundary that separates the Seven Kingdoms from the harsh, enigmatic lands beyond.
In the annals of Westerosi lore, the Wall's construction is attributed to the legendary Bran the Builder, a figure whose name has become synonymous with myth and magic. It is said that some eight millennia ago, after the Long Night, Bran the Builder erected this massive fortification to defend the realm against the White Walkers – beings that now dwell in the farthest reaches of the North, dismissed by many as mere myths.
Yet, the true history of the Wall reveals a more nuanced tale. It was not the work of a solitary legendary figure, but rather the culmination of the unwavering dedication of the Night's Watch. Over centuries, these sworn brothers toiled to augment the Wall, using both ice blocks harvested from the frozen waters of the Bay of Seals and quarried stone. Their laborious efforts were carried out in the harshest of conditions, amidst brutal winters and treacherous terrain.
The Wall is not merely a physical barricade but a symbol, signifying the separation between the civilized lands of the South and the untamed wilderness of the North. As the Wall extends into the horizon, it embodies the vow of the Night's Watch – an oath of vigilance and a commitment to protect the Seven Kingdoms from the terrors that linger beyond its icy expanse. This solemn duty transcends time, even as the memory of its true purpose wanes in the minds of those in the South...
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Castle Black, with its cold and austere facade, stood resolute at the base of the Wall. Its stone walls, weathered by centuries of bitter winters and piercing winds, held within them the echoes of countless stories. A towering edifice of gray stone, the castle was a bastion of hope and duty for the Night's Watch.
Within the castle's walls lay the great hall, where brothers gathered to dine and share tales. The lord commander's chambers, perched at the highest point of the castle, overlooked the vast expanse of the Wall. The armory and training grounds provided the essential resources and space for the brothers to hone their skills. The castle's yard, flanked by the thick, ice-studded Wall, was the central hub of activity, where training, trading, and preparations for the Great Ranging took place.
Inside said yard, two hundred brothers had assembled, a motley crew of recruits, seasoned veterans, and the ever-watchful officers. The ancient castle, constructed in a time long past, stood tall and imposing, a testament to the fortitude of the sworn brothers who called it home.
Amidst the gathered brothers, a range of characters painted the mosaic of the Night's Watch. Some were fresh recruits, barely beyond their training, their faces a mixture of youthful enthusiasm and trepidation. They had been molded into the disciplined, black-clad warriors by their mentors, who had imparted the grim truths of their oath – the forfeiture of lands, titles, and kin.
Among the fresh-faced recruits, one might spot Jon Snow, a young man with a brooding presence and eyes that held hidden burdens. He had risen through the ranks swiftly, but his past remained shrouded in mystery, a fact that stirred both curiosity and suspicion among his fellow brothers.
Conversely, there were the old veterans who had served for decades, their faces etched with the harsh lines of time and experience. These battle-worn soldiers had seen the North's bitter winters, braved the terrors beyond the Wall, and defended the realm with unwavering resolve. Their loyalty to the Night's Watch was unshakable, and they had forged a bond that transcended duty, a brotherhood of shared hardships.
Names such as Ser Alliser Thorne, a stern and formidable commander with a reputation for exacting discipline, or Maester Aemon, a wise and elderly scholar whose service dated back to times long past, were among the seasoned figures in the Night's Watch. They were the guardians of the realm's edge, a last line of defense against the unknown horrors that lurked in the wild North.
As the two hundred brothers stood before Castle Black, their ranks a testament to the diverse backgrounds and experiences that had brought them to this hallowed ground, they awaited the orders of their lord commander.
The Wall, ever-present, cast its shadow over them, a symbol of their shared purpose, unyielding and eternal. Their destinies entwined with the fate of the realm, they were the silent watchers in the North, guarding the Seven Kingdoms against the mysteries and dangers that lay beyond the ancient ice and stone.
Amidst the gathered brothers of the Night's Watch, the figure of Jeor Mormont, their lord commander, emerged as a commanding presence. A tall and robust man, his grizzled beard and weathered face spoke of years spent in the harsh North. His iron-gray hair, tinged with white, framed a countenance marked by determination and authority. Clad in the traditional black cloak of his order, Mormont's stature was a testament to the responsibilities that rested on his broad shoulders.
As the two hundred brothers stood in formation, the lord commander led the way, his commanding stride reflecting the weight of his office. With a stern gaze, he raised his eyes to the sky, where a red comet hung frozen in the frigid air. A brief moment passed as he studied the celestial omen, and then, with an almost dismissive glance, he turned his attention back to the matters at hand.
"Lads," Lord Commander Mormont's voice carried through the cold Northern air, its authority cutting through the silence. The brothers of the Night's Watch, both new recruits and seasoned veterans, turned their unwavering attention to their leader. "The realm is on the brink, and the shadows that have long lingered beyond the Wall are stirring once more."
His voice, tempered by years of experience, held an unshakable resolve. "We gather here today to embark on the Great Ranging, the most significant expedition beyond the Wall in recent memory. Our purpose remains unchanged, to protect the Seven Kingdoms from the threats that have faded into myth and legend for many."
Mormont's gaze swept over his assembled brothers, his eyes meeting each man's in turn, conveying the weight of their shared duty. "We may not know the true nature of the dangers that await us, but we know our purpose – to stand guard, to explore the uncharted wilds, and to face whatever perils may come our way."
With a final look at the crimson comet above, he concluded, "This comet may be a sign or simply a trick of the heavens, but our duty is clear. We are the shield that guards the realms of men, and we shall not falter. Onward, brothers of the Night's Watch, to the unknown. For the realm, for our honor, and for the Wall!"
As the lord commander's speech echoed through the yard of Castle Black, a resolute cheer rose from the brothers of the Night's Watch. They were bound by their unwavering oath and a shared destiny, prepared to face the perilous journey that lay beyond the Wall. The Great Ranging, their most crucial expedition in recent history, had begun, and the fate of the realm...was more uncertain than ever before.
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Farther into the north, where the land grew even more desolate and the Wall had become a distant memory, there stood an isolated weirwood tree of colossal stature. Its ancient roots had delved deep into the frozen, barren earth, and its stark white bark had glistened like a beacon amidst the desolation of the far North.
In that remote expanse beyond the Wall, the tree had stood alone, a solitary sentinel in the heart of a frigid wilderness, where few had dared to tread.That weirwood had been shrouded in solitude and silence, holding a power and wisdom that had transcended the ages, bearing witness to the secrets of a harsh and unforgiving land.
Amidst the clearing, seemingly mundane boulders encircled the colossal weirwood tree. To the casual observer, these rocks appeared as ordinary and unremarkable as any others in the desolate northern landscape. However, for those with perceptive souls and an eye for the extraordinary, these stones held secrets that defied explanation.
Upon closer inspection, one would discern that these unassuming boulders were adorned with intricate etchings and drawings, etched into the rugged surface by an unseen hand. The symbols, too enigmatic for common comprehension, depicted scenes of ancient lore, cryptic patterns, and runes of forgotten origin. They seemed to tell a story, a history as old as the weirwood itself, an inscrutable narrative hidden in plain sight.
Those with souls attuned to the mysteries of the land, or who bore the ancient knowledge of the old gods, might sense the power emanating from these enchanted rocks. A subtle, ethereal energy radiated from the etchings, like whispers from the past, and a connection to a realm beyond the grasp of ordinary men. It was as if the spirits of the land had imbued these stones with their own memories, waiting for those with the wisdom and sensitivity to unlock their hidden significance.
Beneath the colossal tree, hidden away from the world above, lay a cave shrouded in ominous darkness. This subterranean chamber, carved into the frozen heart of the earth, exuded an aura of foreboding. An oppressive chill clung to the air, as if the very stones themselves retained a memory of ancient fears.
As one delved deeper into the abyss, the cold grew more biting, and the walls of the cave bore eerie, sinister etchings that defied understanding. The carvings seemed to narrate tales of dread and eldritch power, of beings that slumbered in the hidden corners of the world, far removed from the understanding of man.
Within the cavern's depths, the air grew heavy and suffocating, filled with the acrid scent of decaying offerings and the murk of forgotten secrets. Sinister shadows danced on the walls, weaving tales of malevolence and despair, while the pool at the cavern's core held depths that promised madness to those who gazed too long into its waters.
But the most chilling sight awaited in the heart of the cave, where an old man, his frail form seemingly fused with the gnarled roots of the weirwood, hung suspended above the ground. His emaciated body was lifeless, devoid of breath, and his pallid skin clung tightly to bone. Yet, his eyes remained wide open, staring fixedly at the cavern's ceiling as if they could pierce through stone and soil.
Those eyes, still vibrant and filled with an unholy life, gazed through the very heart of the cave, as if drawn by an otherworldly force. Through the rocks and soil, they fixed upon the bright red comet in the sky, a celestial omen hanging ominously above the world. They held a knowledge, a connection to the mysteries that transcended the comprehension of mortal men.
Though his body appeared lifeless, his frown remained eternally etched on his wrinkled countenance. His thin, chapped lips were drawn downward in a perpetual expression of discontent, as if he bore a profound and unending sorrow, an ancient burden that could never be lifted.
The cave beneath the weirwood tree was a place where the boundaries between the living and the otherworldly blurred, where the ancient and the eldritch coiled together in darkness. Here, a sinister presence loomed, a sentinel of secrets that defied human understanding, and the old man remained unmoving suspended like a grotesque marionette....and yet, a raspy voice resounded throughout the cave.
"This...what is happening to them?"
The Raven mused, his obsidian eyes fixed upon the mysterious visions that danced before him. It marked the thousandth attempt to unravel the future, to grasp even a fleeting glimpse of what lay ahead. Yet, much like all those previous endeavors, the images remained shrouded in obscurity, their meaning elusive. And yet he always heard a haunting, otherworldly voice muttered softly, its cryptic words like whispers from the abyss. Always...always...the same poem...the same words...
"Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I'll slay whatever gods may be
With my unchained, unbroken soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance,
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance,
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears,
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate,
The ruthless captain of my soul."
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