Note: Once again, written for a reason. Now, some of you may know what reason I am pointing to, but I will not say it out loud. Even I, sometimes, wonder why I even bother writing. How did I get pushed into signing up for this fictionpress site anyway?

Death's Warrior

Ages ago, when ancient aims arose and arena articulated, there came into an existence a class of secretive obscure people… or rather, at that time, a class of secretive obscure person…

Striker was one type of typical boy. Shy and fearful, he seemed to fit nothing that represented heroism. In fact, he was anything but the hero type. A couch potato for books, boos that no one was ever interested in, books which held subjects, where students dozed off in class, he stayed in his room, peaceful and historical. His mind absorbed in history and geography, he felt almost a part of the natural flow of life.

Every day, he would go to school and return home and spend his time reading. At meal times, he would hop down the stairs and eat. Then, he would go directly back up to his room and read. Strangely enough, his parents never minded. Perhaps, it was because his mother was drastically ill, and his father was reoccupied with her. Anyway, Striker would sleep late at night. He would dream of great wars, famous persons, and other historically related topics.

A note following here. There was a huge section of history that he disregarded and averted his attention from though; that of mythology. Well, when you think of mythology, what could possibly be real? Those were his thoughts logically. He was pragmatic. After all, magic was but a myth in his world… Hmm… or was it?