I was once a mercenary, a legend among them—someone who had lived through more battles than most soldiers could have heard of. Death and I hung out occasionally. The reason it didn't take me home with it was because I wasn't afraid of it. It tried its best but I was always looking forward to its next visit.

The thing with death is, the more you seek it, the farther it runs away. Its a stalker and that's how it prefers to stay.

In any case, my days as a mercenary and as a legend came to an abrupt end when the war ended. We lost. It didn't tarnish my reputation so much as it did the officials and the soldiers. The end of war however, bought me as little comfort as any other soldier.

What was my purpose anymore? There was nothing to fight for. Killing was now a crime. Those of us who didn't know any other way to live were now threatened by peace. Now, of all times, the situation seemed dire for us.

I was legendary not only because I had survived so many battles but also because of how I'd survived them. I entered my first battle with a rifle, just like my fellow fighters. They, however, left with a fatal wound in their gut, while I left with bloody fists.

A knife, a bayonet, a sniper, a shotgun—anything and everything that could be used to inflict harm on another man, I used. But all those weapons were inadequate. I needed a companion that I could always count on. Not worried by the rust, or running out of ammo, something that wouldn't weigh me down.

And what do you know, I found such a companion right by my side. I killed with my fists. If I looked like an inhuman monster doing it, I didn't care. My most trusted companion never once disappointed me.

But the glory days were behind me, and unbeknownst to me, I had been taking them for granted. Now that the war was over, those fists sought something more. For all those years of service, I couldn't let them down. I had to find something. However, as a law-abiding man, I couldn't think of hunting just anyone down. So I had to keep my fists under wraps. I kept them bandaged, so as to let them sleep.

But while they were asleep, I was overwhelmed by a terrible loneliness. I took to brothels which were as common as stray dogs.

One woman, two, three, more, the number kept on growing with my insatiable hunger. Women are delicate creatures. Despite all my love for them, I could not bear the thought of hurting them. If a thorn should prick them, I would feel compelled to burn down the whole field. Hence, despite all my love—or rather, in spite of all my love for them—I could no longer find refuge in any woman.

So then, I took to men. Men who could keep up with the search that I was on. Indeed, it was easier to move forward with my intensity. I discovered a new ecstasy but it didn't last long. After some huge adventures, it was evident that I'd grown numb to it all.

You could say the whole matter got as close as it gets to killing a person with your fists. But in the end, the pleasure of sex still falls short.

My fists wanted something more real. So then, I bid farewell to all my useless indulgence at the brothels and began on a journey to find the true Eros—something that could satisfy my soul, body, and fists.

I soon found my chance. A wanted poster for a rapist. With luck, or perhaps the divine grace, I much too easily found the wanted man in a tavern. There, without hesitation, I undid the bandages on my sleeping fists and beat him to death on the spot.

The satisfaction flooded through me in an insane rush. The man had died with the first blow but I let my fists fly as much as they wanted. The whole thing was a bloody mess and the coppers were soon called in.

I was restrained, but only because I let myself be restrained. The investigation began. The man was identified and amongst a lot of confusion, I was let go.

Seeing as fortune was smiling on me, almost guiding me down the journey I had undertaken, I had now found a new way of living. If I could find my fellow soldiers, I would have invited them to this road of salvation.

But since I was so busy looking for wanted posters, I barely had time to socialize with people and find any soldier among them. On rare occasion when I went to an inn to feed myself, I would find myself seated by a drunkard who'd once been a soldier. Seeing their too-far-gone situation, it was no use inviting them to my path.

It was disappointing. In the end, I traveled alone on the road I'd taken. It was nothing new. I had only ever had my trusted fists for companions. My road had been lonely from the very start.

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Soon enough, I developed a nose for hunting down the scum of the society. I killed them all. Sometimes they were discovered too late and no one would know who'd killed them. Other times, I managed to wriggle my way out of the investigations.

I had once again become a legend, quite like a Robin Hood. I was not so noble a symbol as he, but there were people who considered themselves safe as long as I was out there.

The whole matter was of little concern to me, however. My primary concern had been satisfying my companion. I felt not a sliver of hate for those I killed, nor was I out for glory. It was simply an opportunity for my fists. Those people that fell by my hand might have been on a similar journey as mine.

I might have been a villain or a hero in some people's eyes but all of it amounted to nothing for me. After all, I'd walked alone all this time.

And thus, the number I killed got higher and higher every day. The cops now were but cleaners of corpses that I left in my wake.

I wasn't hunted down anymore. Perhaps the world was beginning to fear me. No investigation was put in place for those I killed, since it was known I only killed the wanted criminals.

Many conjectured that I was looking for some great villain who'd wronged me. All sorts of stories were spun about me. Many labelled me as a vampire, or some other sort of blood thirsty monster, a vengeful spirit, a vagabond who was on a higher path, perhaps seeking to achieve some sort of divinity.

In truth, I was but a faithful companion, looking for the True Eros that could fill up the thirst my fists felt.

As the days went by, the world changed around me so that I could feel it centering in on me. All eyes were turning my way. Even in my wild chase for the True Eros, I could no longer ignore the world around me. It was overwhelming, a weight I wasn't ready to bear.

So during the day, I hid myself away and bandaged my fists to sleep. I only killed at night now, which gave raise to a new terror.

The more bodies piled up, it began to seem that those criminals had been the victims. And I was, after all, a monster. Those who had called me evil from the start were now walking with their chests puffed.

In the end, hiding during the day was no longer a choice, but a necessity. If I were caught, I could no longer continue my journey. And the thought of letting down my companion was the worst nightmare I could imagine.

As the fear spread among the masses and all sorts of tall tales began to be spun, I could no longer be ignored. The law decided that I was a rabid dog, indeed, that must be put down.

Perhaps the soldiers who knew me during the war, would have stood by my side in that time and called me a patriot. But they were long dead or too drunk to provide any testimony.

Meanwhile, the urge to satisfy my fists became more and more uncontrollable. Even with all my strength, I could no longer keep it in. Yet, the danger of being put down was lurking on the streets.

I gritted my teeth and bit my lips all day in hiding, tied up to a pole. When the night came, I broke myself free with such wildness that I begun to believe myself a beast, a monster, just like they called me.

The thirst of Eros grew like an aggressive cancer inside me. I could now smell the crime even before it happened. However, I always made sure only to kill once it had happened, since I was still sane enough to abide by the law.

Despite all my rampages, the satisfaction was beginning to fade more and more. No amount would sate the thirst. I now realized that I was missing something, although I couldn't tell what it was.

I found myself tearing at myself from inside and out when I was hidden away in the day. My grip on reality was beginning to loosen. I could hear my fists asking for more, whispering to me in strange words all the time. The voices could not be shut out. They weren't satisfied. And I could not betray them. I knew I had to do something.

The line between reality and my search for True Eros soon faded away. I realized I could no longer stay in hiding. Thus in my delirium, one day, I wandered out into the street in broad daylight.

The sight of people only made things harder. But I wasn't a dog yet. I wouldn't bite anyone without reason.

In fact, the thing that had been riding on my mind was the fact that I was missing something crucial. The biggest wall in my journey that I couldn't begin to cover if I couldn't even see it. I simply knew it was there.

Walking the busy street in my delirious state, a scream brought me back to reality. It was a melodious song to my ear. The beginning of the end. I thought I caught a glimpse of the wall.

There was alarm but no one seemed bothered enough to check what was going on. As for me, without knowing anything, I hurried towards the sound. It was a prostitute being forced by some man whose face was indiscernible to me. I didn't know what the disagreement was about, all I knew was that it was a scene of crime.

The woman pulled away but the man, laughing devilishly, wouldn't let go of her frail arm. It was in that moment, I could see, clear as day, the iron wall that stood before me.

I took the woman by her arm and easily pulled her out of the way, before launching myself on to the culprit who had yet to commit a crime. Without knowing, I was pummeling his face with my fists—an ecstasy I'd never felt rushed through every pore of my skin.

It didn't take more than three or four blows before his face was a bloody pulp. I'd killed an innocent man. I'd prevented a crime, only to commit one myself. That's right, for the first time in my life, I was a criminal.

All the while, the woman shrieked behind me. She was seeing the legendary terror with her own eyes. Who could blame her?

Yes. Who could blame her if, deathly pale with fear, she should pull a knife out of her little bag and stick it into the one who had saved her moments ago?

I looked down at my stomach and saw the tip of the knife sticking out. The woman had launched herself against my back, perhaps as a last ditch effort to end the terror.

It brought a smile to my face, the first and the last smile of my life. An unexplainable happiness, a wondrous feeling. At the end of my journey, I had finally found the True Eros in the tip of that knife.

The blood gushed out uncontrollably as she pulled away and ran away screaming. Was I the victim or the criminal? For all the love I had for women, I truly wished I was a criminal. But then, the final verdict wasn't mine to make.

I was down on my knees, with my fists beside me, finally silent and satisfied whole.

Now, you may ask what kind of satisfaction is there in killing? This True Eros I speak of, what does it mean? Let me show you my world so you can understand.

I was 8 when the mercenaries took me in.

I was 11 when I was fatally wounded in battle for the first time. I'd been stabbed through my liver. No one thought I'd live.

I was 16 when my right eye was slashed straight through by a bayonet. That year, I chose my fists as my companion.

I was 24 when the war ended.

I was 32 when a woman I'd saved, stabbed me through the back. And I went back to when I was 11. The starry sky I saw, for the first time. It had never been so clear. A frail kid that I was, I sat against the wall of the trench and watched the sky with blood trickling down into a pool around me. The trench was bedded with dead soldiers left and right. But the starry sky above me, all those lights that were so unreachable, burning with such great passion, it filled my eyes with a longing.

That longing that burned my heart that night and kept me alive back then, that made me stand stiff even when all hell broke loose, that longing grew over the years.

The blood is where I found trace of life. Every drop of blood was proof that I existed. The warmth of it was the reminder that a starry sky awaited somewhere far away, burning away, but filling the eyes of some child somewhere that hadn't known life until then.

And the longing it instills into the child's heart, that ever-growing longing—that is the True Eros.