He looked utterly disheveled, his hair a mess, his face smeared with gunpowder, dust, and blood, staring at the crowd with a cold, sinister expression.
He always felt that he should have died in the first cycle, so that he wouldn't have to see everything that happened in the future, and wouldn't have to face endless vomiting of blood and nightmares. Every time he was thrown into it, it was the same place, the same despair.
But now, he doesn't want to die at all.
Now, the prisoner of time is filled with nothing but rage.
Why can't it ever end?
Bamke stopped what he was doing, exhaled, and thought how tired he was. But there was nothing he could do. Once he got to this church, which felt like his mother had died, he had to be absolutely certain that he was capable of enduring the past. He had no chance to waste.
They were separated only by a small patch of battlefield, littered with charred or blood-soaked remains, bearing the marks of gunfire and the carcasses of mutated monsters and over a hundred followers. The flames hadn't completely died down, scorching this scarred space.
At such close range, Bamke could clearly see his face—a thin, arrogant face covered in wounds, yet not a single hair was out of place amidst the chaos.
He looked at himself from behind the flames, just as Andre had looked at him in previous cycles of reincarnation, self-righteous and arrogant, as if the outcome was already predetermined.
Behind them, Joey grabbed a broken bottle and threw it. The glass shattered in the middle of the hall, creating a burst of flame that briefly obscured the man's face.
This is the last time; it's time to end it.
He thought.
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