A look back at the camp showed a scene much more out of hand than it had been when the two had started walking. The fire that had started had escalated into an inferno, swallowing whole the tents and charring the dead bodies, filling the air with the pungent odor of burning flesh. Along with the crackling of the spreading inferno are the screams of the bandits' jubilation. Exhilarated squeals and boastful exchanges of profanity litter the responses of the men who cornered a camp of military recruits, and in moments slaughtered almost all of the population.

The only two survivors, the young recruit and the man in charge of the camp, trudge through the fields, the miles and miles of grass that stood between them and the nearest pocket of civilization. Beating down on the two, the sun flashes it's bright rays, failing to brighten the darkened moods of theirs. A droplet of sweat drips down the brow of the man whose face isn't hidden behind a black mask, falling down to the ground as the perspiration continues to pool under the mask of the recruit. The sun, the sweat, even the events that had transpired earlier on in the day didn't faze him. Looking his master in the face, paying attention to only the look in his eyes, hearing the tone of his voice when he said the only phrase that's been uttered between the two of them today was what was choking the life out of him.

When the time is right, we will have our revenge.

The sentence echoed in his mind, repeating over and over again until it became the sole heir to his attention. His legs continues to move through no direct intervention of his own, just following the same pattern that's been repeated for what seemed like hours.

Left, right.

Left, right.

Left, right.

The pattern dug itself into the recruit's brain, forcing him to keep on moving forward. He walks forward, right into a hand pressing against his stomach, returning him to reality, and forcing him to stop brooding on the words spoken earlier. His eyes once again open to the world around him, he can see that the two of them have stepped under the protective cover of a large oak tree. Its canopy of branches and leaves shelters them from the sweltering heat of the overbearing sun.

Seated at the base of the tree, leaning his back against the solid trunk was the recruit's master. Without a word, he motions for the young man to take a seat beside him, which he does without so much as second thought. Turning his body to sit down, the recruit catches a glimpse of what had become of the camp. Charred, a black cloud of dust lazily blows to the west from the power of the light wind. A small fire still raged on, devouring the rest of the cloth of one of the outer most tents in its smoldering embrace.

Off in the distance, coming from the horizon is the faint semblance of a familiar sound. The galloping of horses, slowly getting closer and closer to where the two men had taken a siesta. The neighing, whinnying, and clammoring of hooves across the hard ground become more and more apparent, sounding more often and at much higher volume. Appearing closer to the tree with each second, the same horses and same riders that had been at the camp.

Both men stand up, preparing to take off into a dead sprint as the army of men on horseback come ever closer. The recruit takes a moment to look back at the advancing horde, only to realize how much of a mistake he had made. Feeling two hands clamp onto the back of his armor, and falling forward, a sudden force knocking him not only off his balance, but onto the ground. Rushed, scurrying footsteps are heard from behind him, moving away with each step.

Lifting his face from the dirt, a surge of dust splatters against his facemask, covering it in a brown ash. Hopping off the horses, the young man is quickly surrounded by the bandits. One of the men, standing dead center in front of the recruit, grabs him by the back of his hood and pulls him up to his knees. Staring into his mask, the bandit nods before shoving his head back into the dirt. That action is followed by the sharp feeling of being kicked in any and every opening that can be observed. After what felt like hours of suffering this agony, the young recruit's vision becomes like the color of his armor.

Black.

Andrew Aldway, the man who just last week on Madness had lost in a hard fought battle against Shawn Steele in which he did not come up victorious. The brutality of the affair was enough to pique the interest of this one, however not enough for it to use it as the end all be all of its gameplan. Physical scars heal with time, very much unlike the only thing this one is focused on. The emotional scars of Andrew Aldway after losing to this long time foe in the manner which he did was likely enough to completely fracture his psyche. This, is something that this one is quite familiar with.

This one however, is no longer suffering from those ailments to the degree that Aldway is dealing with his. The coping, the accepting is the hardest state to move past, and unfortunately enough the first one. Through his fractured mental state, we will hear him state that this one doesn't know what it is talking about in an attempt to keep the delusion alive. This one does not see it as he does, as it looks forward, sees the big picture. The big picture of this match, the only logical choice to emerge victorious in this contest.

This one.

Paradoxica.