Peter’s hands were stained red. The fight had gone on for weeks and he had had no chance to rest or bathe himself.
Falling to his knees, Peter gasped for breath. It just kept coming, the evil, the darkness. Why wouldn’t it stop. He was the youngest fighter in his squadron, a swordsman who could also fight well with any other form of weaponry well. He had always been overlooked at the fighting school, and many enemies chose to run past him as if he wasn’t even there. His allies knew he was there though. They watched as he attacked the enemy forces, sometimes killing five or ten by himself. There was something about Peter, they all thought, he had leadership qualities, he was brave, and he was modest.

Peter was perfect.