Many stories told speak of tales about accepting the past and moving on. There are many who aren't able to overcome their past and present. Unable to bring themselves to strive for a better future. Saying: "I am who I am, and couldn't have changed the outcome."
It's only human to feel that way.
This story isn't about such a normal person.
Man are shaped from clay, but this one was sculpted with bones. Tough and sharp. Barbed while leaving not a trace of himself even upon death. Nobody knew about him in life, and he wasn't mourned in death. Surely, this must be the story of a villain...
...right?
Alas, even heroes have their black sheep stained in muddied blood and wet gunpowder. Smelling like a beggar of the battlefield. Praying and requesting the gods that today wouldn't be his last. This peculiar individual was not one who regretted things in life.
Only wishing for another day to enjoy himself.
He had many titles over the years. Some called him their CQC Instructor at the military. The Americans called him the Boogeyman. The British called him the Spirited Silence. None knew his identity, nor did they know where this old veteran had came from.
Not knowing his face or the sound of his voice.
Being known only by the silence left in his wake.
Battlefields became engulfed in fear.
But the most fearful of them all were the sinners.
Those corrupt politicians that pushed war instead of peace no longer used their voice as weapons. Those who sought to instil fear for their cause and beliefs were found lifeless. Anywhere the ghost passed, the silence that followed him would haunt the living.
Who was this man?
Let me tell you about his epic journey.
His name? Alan Smith.
His occupation... rootless terrorist.
He was a walking contradiction. A man who was born natural psychopathy, but had chosen to never kill an innocent man. Compassion ran through his blood, and rage consumed his future. Being unable to let go of the feelings that caused him despair.
It was a cursed life.
Alan's world was filled with corruption. Those who were halfway decent worked alone, and died unable to change the system that propagated more wicked deeds. Turning good men evil, and bad men into the villains you'd see in relaxing times at the theatre.
They called him a monster.
They called him a traitor.
They called him the crawling bowels of death.
But no one knew that he was none of those things.
People fought to regain their voices and to make themselves heard. Heroes had to rise because the villains couldn't cut it. They did not have the wit, grit, sheer determination, and willingness to put their lives on the line. Unable to raise an army.
Villains can have passion, but they couldn't be self-sacrificial. When their enemy was larger than life and beyond human, it needed heroes who could go beyond their humanity. Willing to role the dice and trust the next generation to pick up their slack.
All this was what built the stage for the protagonist.
Stagnant water who could never change.
Alan was a ghost. No name on the records. Having cleaned his hands of fingerprints and made it perfectly clear that no one could catch him. A legend who had been evading capture all around the world for fifty years...! Fifty years of endless roads of war!
The carnage left in his wake leading to this point...
One may think he went out in a blaze of glory.
In reality, he was on the news.
Not that any regular citizen really cared.
It was in a mundane city you'd see everywhere. The amount of policeman at the residence were few. The ones outside simply there to make sure the various warnings their station was given didn't turn out to be true. If a legend wanted to make an escape, he could.
So why was Alan Smith so peacefully apprehended?
"Sherlock IV, or should I call you Fourth? How did you find me?" A weak but hearty laugh left the lips of the grey-haired old tree. His creaky bones and rotten skin would make one think he was older than what he was... yet still clinging onto the fires of his youth.
"I'm not obliged to answer." The young man glared.
Pointing his firearm towards the geezer's head.
"I thought Third was a diligent man who taught the new blood how arrests work. You HAVE TO read me my Miranda Rights." Despite being on his way to spend jail time, Alan didn't seem the least bit scared of retribution. Being charged for all of his crimes.
Officer Sherlock lowered his gun.
Beep!
The camera on his person temporarily turned off.
"Let's speak off the record." He made an offer.
One that Alan didn't seem likely to reject.
"You're looking at me like I'm the Moriarty to your Sherlock, but if I was one... then I'd probably be your grandfather's nemesis. If you're going to ask a boring question, then I'd rather you take me away. I never harmed your family." Alan scratched his beard.
Pulling his bony wrists forward to be cuffed.
"What is your real name?" This had to be asked.
And it looked like the kid sought for that answer.
Having lived his entire life chasing this one killer.
"Alan Smith... My name is Alan Smith. It's a boring name, I know... but it's the one my parents had given me." Seeing that this young man wasn't in any rush to take him away, the old geezer was interested. The obsession of this family to find him was powerful.
Maybe it was fate that brought them together.
"Do you remember them?" It was a bold question.
Alan frowned, but softened his heart when seeing the kid lower his gaze. Likely thinking of his father at that moment. He wondered what kind of life this child had lived. How deeply the Sherlocks had investigated into his past with such a common name.
"I don't remember much. Early in my youth, I thought of poisoning my father and murdering my mother in cold blood. I left home to stop that from happening. Never having thought of returning." It was an answer that raised several more questions.
"You didn't kill them...?" The officer was doubtful.
"I said I don't answer to boring questions."
"A lot of what I've discovered about you wouldn't hold up in court. Circumstantial evidence, unreliable witnesses, and theories based on intuition. To hear one theory is true is incredible." Those words from Officer Sherlock finally stroked the man's curiosity.
"What have you heard?" Alan leaned in close.
"That you are a rare example of a psychopath that reigned in your true nature. Able to cover up your tracks and think rationally to get what you want. My father especially was insistent that you weren't a psychopathic sociopath... but really a sociopathic psychopath. Do I have that right?" Officer Sherlock seemed to feel a bit of pride from Alan's reaction.
Truly, Sherlock III wasn't to be underestimated.
"...Human connection is truly marvellous." Alan had lived his entire life how he wanted, but it was the first time he came to regret one thing. Seeing the pride of the officer who caught him. Jealousy that the legacy of a man he thought nothing of continued.
And what about himself?
He had no disciple or even world-shaking infamy to last decades. Those who feared him only wanted to bury this matter as quickly as they could. Hoping that he would disappear from their sight. Those who knew him had either retired or have left this world.
Alan knew his own brilliance.
He had evaded the law for years without anyone ever having figured him out. Even now, those who were apprehending him weren't sure if he was the real deal or a copycat. Someone claiming a heavy name in order to be remembered on their deathbed.
For someone like him to be caught by someone so young and inexperienced only proved that he had gotten old. His mind no longer sharp. Even now, his once tough body had rotted with age. No longer able to pick up a mere plate without feeling a slight pain.
This was his ending.
And it was also a new beginning for his old life.
When realising his impending doom, he sought to make change in a different way. When he was given the offer to work for an undercover agency that was taking care of the country's security, he chose to teach as much as he could despite his... 'condition'.
His psychopathy was incurable.
His body was giving out, but the rage that he had hidden deep into his core kept him going. Anger towards himself for who he was, and compassion for his fellow man he realised through the love of his parents. The desire to make a mark on the world.
His run in that agency was surprisingly short.
The old tree was finally withering away. Real trees grew taller with time, but was just a man trying to make the best of the hand he was dealt. Alan lived like a monk. Reigning in his true nature until it was changed through faith. Finally, he had reached it.
The point of nirvana.
Enlightenment after having aged like fine wine.
Simple people could be categorised by trivial names given psychiatrists, but not those like him. His story was simply too unbelievable to be used as reference for any mental condition, nor could his change in personality be replicated by those other than him.
How many psychopaths learned compassion?
Better yet, how many learned to hate themselves?
This could be considered an interesting story to those who were intrigued by rare people. Ordinary people couldn't hope of doing the same as he did in his life, nor could they have reached enlightenment on their deathbed. Introspection was a rare quality.
That was exactly why he was chosen.
"This soul matches the requirements you've set for me." A wrinkly fossil that seemed to have lived far longer than any human spoke up. In his hand was a spiritual flame. Candlelight that seemed like it would vanish once a small breeze deemed the time right.
This was a scene from a different world.
The sky was black and without any stars.
There wasn't enough light in the universe to make out the silhouette of the old man, yet the powers of a notorious 'External Overlord' allowed him to defy trivial laws that made common sense. The one he spoke to also having a similar level of visual flare.
He wasn't a real businessman, yet the suit this man wore held a refined air. His hair blacker than the night, and figure reminiscent of a shadow. This was not a mere Death God. No other individual in the entire universe had ever managed to bargain with this man.
Those who did never having the chance to speak.
"I will ask again: Do you accept this deal?" The sharp businessman wasn't unscrupulous in his dealings. A warning was given: "If you had asked of 'The One Above All' and sought refugee, I wouldn't have had to set this unfair deal. Will you give up Godhood?"
"I will... for the sake of this world that I wronged."
"No one will remember your sacrifice on this day. It will be as if you never existed. Time will be reset to the day you arrived upon this world, and the only difference will be one mere person. Your legacy could be retained if you leave this world for good."
"And forget about my origin?" Scathing was his tone.
"...You are truly one-of-a-kind. I may not be The One Above All, but I am the one who is feared more than any mere Death God. The realms beyond this one only know me as simply 'The End'. To be so calm in front me means that you have given up on your life."
"You won't be 'ending' anything." The aged Overlord didn't seem the least bit fearful of the end of his existence. There was even a gleam of hope in his eyes. A rare sight for the one who brings the end of existence and instils fear with his name alone.
"How intriguing..." The End was at a loss for words.
The man who stood tall in front of The End reached his arm towards his own chest. In this world with no life or laws of physics, his fingers sunk into his chest and grabbed something. A beating heart was pulsing in his hand despite having been ripped out his body.
Blood spilled, and his knightly armour dirtied.
The grass below stained with his black blood.
"You asked for all my powers in exchange not to bring an 'end' to this world, but a new beginning. A dawn of a new tomorrow. I may become a Forgotten Overlord once this is over, but that's a small price to pay. Take it... Now fulfil your end of the bargain."
"Taboo Romanticist- No, Jordan Fisher... Be proud of leaving a mark on my memory. Others may forget your sacrifice, but I will always remember the God of Destruction who chose to save a Realm." The End took the heart and flickering flame as he spoke.
Bam!
With a clench of his pale hand, the heart exploded into countless fragments. Jordan Fisher made a peaceful expression of relief at the sight. Starting to fade from existence once his power had been fully absorbed by the unchanging celestial entity.
The dead world rippled.
The sky started to repair itself and return to form.
The splendour of life was breathed into the new world once the old one ended. Leaving only his lonely self to witness the end of all things. To release the flickering spirit into the sea of time. Having fully fulfilled his side of the bargain wholeheartedly.
"I don't know the future, but I hope the past won't repeat itself. Seeing this happen once was enough for me." The End sighed while looking at the scenes of life unfolding before him. It rewound before that dreadful starlight lizard destroyed the entire world.
Before the cultists had reached anarchy's dream.
Before the hero, Jordan, had lost his friends.
Returning all the way to the day this story had truly began. The only difference was that the fate of the world now no longer rested in the hands of a common man, but of an uncommon monster. Reality warped to allow the existence of a new outsider.
The End left as a stillborn started to breathe with a new life. Marking the start of this world's new past.
Sharing the legacy of being forgotten by time...