As I usually did, I woke up shortly after sunrise. After brewing my morning tea, I watched the fog roll in below me.

I've been eking out an existence here in the mountains for the better part of five years now. It's quite a peaceful life, living above the clouds. It's not an easy one by any means, with lots of manual labor and walking. But, it's not a life I live by choice.

My journey to the mountains started but two decades ago. It is what I consider my dark past. Back then, I was young, naive, and rash. Everything that is typical of a young man of my age. The main difference between any other person was one: power.

Why such an abstract idea was ordained to me is beyond me. In my mind, there was no distinction between any solider in our regiment. We were all brothers, fighting as men, living like family. We lived in the moment. We were joyous and amiable. It was, as simple as it was, living life as a dream.

Early on, our commander was killed in action. I do not remember much of the incident since we were not close as a unit yet. In lieu of him, I stepped up to lead the unit until a replacement could be found. We were amidst one of our many meaningless wars, and all our men were already tied up all of over the nation, so they appreciated me taking the lead for the moment.

Fortunately for me, there were plenty of other commanders who were willing to train me on the job to get me up to speed. While they were at their busiest, no less. I will always be thankful for their kindness while being surrounded by the malice of warfare.

They said I learned quickly, but it constantly felt like I was an imposter, a shell of who out to fill my position. Nonetheless, I applied my learnings to the battlefield, and I slowly yielded results. I was promoted slowly tot he head of a regiment, where I stayed for a long time. Every solider was part of our family, and there was nothing we could not do together. Within reason, of course. I trusted my soldiers to act, and I took care of the heavy lifting for them.

With all things beautiful, however, this was bound to be destroyed.

One of the commanders under me was crucial to any operation I undertook. I could trust him with any small task, and he would see to it that it would be completed by my standards. We were close friends, too. When I drank (which was not too often), he would always tag along. He was a lightweight, so he would get all woozy far before I could. But, gee, I loved him for how funny and witty he was, especially when drunk.

One fateful day, however, an earrow pierced through his body, stabbing his lung. I was the one who rushed out and carried him back to the field hospital. I personally always stayed from the field hospital since it was filled with carnage and the scent of blood. I could not bear to say in there, but I stpped foot inside to aid my friend. He coughed blood, I wished him good health. He was treated, I stood outside his tent.

Every moment ate at me. Slowly, my mind melted into a blind, irrational rage. I I funneled it into my tactices, moving brashly and with confidence to thrash every corner of my enemy's army. I pushed my regiment to its limit, and then some. I knew deep down, though, that this was not sustainable. Especially after I learned that my friend had passed away.

I could not even bring myself to run the most basic of drills, so I knew I had to take an indefinite leave. That was something the higher-ups would not dream of considering. As a result, I turned to something I never would have dreamed of considering. I deserted. I walked by night and hid at day. At last, I arrived in the hometown of my recently passed friend. I wandered about until I found his familial home. They had just recieved the news and they answered their door with thin lips and in dark robes. Out of pity, they took me in while I looked for my next abode.

In my short residence there, I rediscovered civilian life. I often spent hours in peace, training my body and mind. It was about at this time when I had my first attempt on my life: a masked man, armed with a knife, nearly shanking me while I enjoyed a bowl of noodles at a street stall.

I knew in that moment that I belonged elsewhere.

For many years, I was constantly on the move, moving further and further from civilization. Every time, an assassin would come after me.

My current abode is my coup de grace. I hope that I can live the rest of my days here. Already, I have discovered the wrong in my ways od old. Living in isolation, far from the malice of warfare, is blissful.

My only grievance is that I'll never see my friend's giddy, drunken smile.