The only color they had before their eyes was red. The only sound that was penetrating through their ear was clanking of swords. The sky was brushed into dark scarlet with the color of the setting crimson sun. The soft green grasses of the vast valley grew heavy as thick layer of blood were flowing like a stream over the field.
Concentration. All one needed was minute concentration in every step. Else there might be no chance to breathe again. Ignoring sound of one step might cost a sword stab your life. And he was concentrated. Every step, every clinking, every sound he was analyzing. Blocking every strike of sword by his shield and swift his sword minutely he was moving and moving. Finally he became the only person standing on the ground. He had a deep cut in his left part of chest, severely injured leg. Yet the joy of being the winner mitigated all those pains. Pointing his blood-drowned sword towards the red sky he screamed the winning roar.
He was tired after such a tiresome battle. He was thirsty, looking for a drop of water. But couldn’t find any. The only fluid that was flowing was warm blood. But he kept on searching. And instead he discovered something else, something he never knew existed before.
As he crawled down to every inches of the meadow for water he saw dump of numb, dead figures very closely. He found injured, cripple faces crying to breathe just for one more moment. More his saw those frozen wounded bodies more he became thirsty, and he searched more intensively and became more eager to quench his thrust.
All on a sudden his soul asked him a question, a simple question, “Do you think you are really a winner?” he was perplexed. Stopped for a moment. Looked at the darken sky. And replied to his soul, “No… I ain’t a winner, I win nothing. I just lose less than others.” Standing amidst the vast necropolis he first time discovered the feeling of pain, feeling of love. And finally he sipped a drop of salty warm water that was born from his eye.
