Outside of a little hut, six year old Netzteil, son of a peasant, stood. It was midnight, and flames surrounded him the soon-to-be orphan. He stood in the midst of the fire, oblivious to everything except what was happening in front of him. It was his father. The nobles were taking him away, along with all of the hundreds of others. His father struggled against their might, but his hands were bound, and his mortal body was no match for the iron rod. Everytime he struggled, they swung their weapons into him. In the end, he fell to the ground unconscious, and the dignified nobles were disgusted with him. They were forced to stoop and pick him up. Netzteil could no longer suppress his rage. They had taken away everything, their land, their money, their lives. They could not, they would not, remove his father. He picked up a small stone, and threw it at the noblemen. It him one of them on the cheek, and the crimson dripped out. He winced in pain, and turned towards the boy. But he was gone.
Ten years later, Netzteil stood in front of 3000 of the poorest men in the state. He was ten minutes away from the start of a war. He looked at all of their proud faces, he saw the anger in their eyes, and he shouted at the top of his voice.
" We are the sons of injustice, the offsprings of hate. We are also the gifted men of this earth. But our talents have been stolen from us by those who are unworthy. They are leeches, they feed on our blood till we have nothing to offer them. Then, they murder us. But not any more. Our Revolution has begun, and it is our time to destroy them. It is time for us to rule over them with iron fists. Do not stop until every last castle is plundered. Their pride, their nobility, shall be raped by our fury. We are the voice of a Revolution, and this voice shall be heard by every single one of those rich bastards. And they shall tremble upon hearing our footsteps when they put their ears to the ground. They shall beg for death, but we shall torture them further, slowly ripping out their organs, but keeping them alive to feel their pain, our pain. It is time for a new dawn. It is time for our day. Now, my brothers, CHARGE!"
They did exactly as he commanded. They had taken everything they could lay their hands on. Their ploughs,tools of peace, had been smelted and recast into swords, weapons of war. They plundered, they looted, they choked, they hung, they impaled. They released 50 years of anger in a single day. The nobles never stood a chance.
Six months later, the village was burning again. This time, however, the nobles were being thrown into the flames. Netzteil stood on top of a stack of hay, wearing a large crown that did not fit his head. Beside him, bound to a crucifix, was a noble. Netzteil held a blade. "Now, my brothers, this is a man who cared not for our suffering .Yet, he asks us for pity. You want my pity, you little scum?" And he slashed his knife across his face, a sharp, swift motion. A red line appeared, and it grew thicker and thicker, finally covering his entire left eye. The noble screamed. It was a scream of agony, a scream that represented everything he and the others had been feeling the past few months. It was not a human cry, for humans could not feel such pain. It sent a chill up Netzteil's spine. It was a cry he found very similar, something he had heard many times before.
Suddenly, a stone was thrown from the crowd. It hit Netzteil on the face. He turned around, his eyes red with anger, but it was too late. The little boy was gone.