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There was no need for a conscience. Even when he was a young boy, any thought of having a little voice in his head that told him right from wrong was nothing but a fatuous notion, something that made his eyes inwardly roll. When he got older, he recognized that it was because he didn't need something intangible standing in his way, for there to be a need to make an enemy out of himself.

After all, wasn't he supposed to trust himself above all others?

That was why, immediately after he vomited up his lunch in a rain-spattered alley-way, he swore with every fiber connecting muscle to sinew, blood to bone that he wouldn't be weak.

With every step out of the physical and mental shadow, a well-dressed young man entered the spotlight of the lamp-lights, clutching a black notebook as if it was an extended part of his body. There was no one around, his mind considering that he was truly god, a god that had created the cracks in the pavement, the rain washing away any rot that had stained his perfect Garden of Eden. Any human that he passed by after that brief solitude was blessed, anyone who appeared hard-working and virtuous. He witnessed sin of course, as it would be present until he acted upon his new volition.

His eyes blazed with not hell-fire, but heaven-fire that night, his pen making quick work of the lines and pages of the Death Note, an instrument of death he would sharpen until even the sound of its unfurling would make wrongdoer's tremble in his wake. Heart attacks, random acts of medical anomalies. Or perhaps, his mind considered with a smile, an act of god?

Gods never could develop a sense of feeling or attachment to a specific someone, but the world entire. With every swipe of his pen, he cradled the sphere of the world in his palm, creating an amity of peace, a new world order that would save humanity from itself. Nuclear wars, injustice on the righteous and turning a blind eye to those committing crimes punishable for would be no more.

With every breath, he knew that sin was breathing its last. He would fight with blades, with his own fingernails if that was what it took to make his vision a reality. Emotions and feelings were what brought mere men to their knees; he would use his mind only, acting with a firmly-placed sense of judgment, something that he had been thinking about and feeling ever since he escaped the grasp of ignorance.

The world was rotten, the world was unjust. But with his mind, with a sentience that was otherworldly, he would set it right as not only the Prince of Death, but the God of Life, the God of the New World.

He placed his crown, his instrument of death away, turned off the light, and dreamed of a world of action, a place that he would forge by himself; he would not be deterred.