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Let us tell the story of a certain man. The tale of a man who, more than anyone else, believed in his ideals, and was driven to despair by them. The dream of that man was pure. His wish was for everyone in this world to be happy; that was all that he asked for. It is a childish ideal that all young boys grow attached to at least once, one that they abandon once they grow accustomed to the mercilessness of reality.

Any happiness requires a sacrifice, something all children learn when they become adults. But, that man was different.

Maybe he was just the most foolish of all. Maybe he was broken somewhere. Or maybe, he might have been of the kind we call 'Saints', entrusted with God's will. One that common people cannot understand.

He knew that for any existence in this world, the only two alternatives are sacrifice, or salvation...

After understanding that, he would never be able to empty the scale plates... From that day on, he set his mind to work on being the one to tip the scale. To abate the grief in this world, there was no other, more efficient way. To save even one life on one side, he had to forsake one life on the other side. That is, to let the majority of people survive, he had to kill a minority of people. Therefore, rather than saving people for the sake of saving them, he excelled at the art of killing people. Again and again, he kept painting his hands the colour of blood, but the man never flinched. Never questioning the righteousness of his acts, nor ever doubting his goal, he forced himself to only faultlessly tip the scale.

Never ever misjudging the value of a life. With no regard to the humility of one's existence, and with no regard to its age, all lives were weighed evenly. With no discrimination, the man saved lives, and, with no discrimination, he killed.

But unfortunately, he realized that too late. To value everything in equal fairness, that would be the same as not loving anyone uniquely. Had he carved that inviolable rule into his spirit sooner, he would have attained salvation. Freezing his young heart into necrosis, achieving his self as a measuring machine with neither blood nor tears, he kept on leading a life of sorting those that were to die, and those that were to live. There probably wasn't any suffering for him. But that man was wrong. What was his name you ask? It was none other that Joshua Reaper.

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