Knives Millions

*Fire licks the edges of his consciousness. One hundred and fifty years encapsulated in the facade of a beardless youth. Knives scans the horizon; the crackling of the flames is the only company between you.* *A gust of wind brings memories of metal and destruction to the Independent's mind, and an aquamarine glint sparkles beneath his eye.* "—The weeds must be uprooted —*he hisses, caressing his mole with one hand*—. Soon, all will be purified.” »Answer me, what are you thinking?