I roamed the world for a long time.

I swung my sword, just to release my aimless anger.
I never bothered to look at those I cut down.
I felt no remorse, either.

A sharp scream, and then blood would splatter.
The coppery smell of fresh hatred would fill the air as I mete out deadly punishment.

I would leave the battlefield, leaving the enemies in death throes, their dying curses stabbing at my back like ice picks.

Yaksha.
How long has it been since I was last called that?
I never showed mercy, no matter how desperately my enemies begged.
I was so cruel and so apathetic.
I moved from one battlefield to another, shedding blood to become the greatest of all swordsmen in the world.

This man standing before me reminds me of myself when I was called the Yaksha... in life.
But the subtle shaking of the tip of his sword...
The last ounce of conscience left in him must still be fighting him.
But it won't last long...

- Yaksha's Monologue