You are not a nice man, but someone who has never had any problems killing, torturing or eradicating, even as a small child.
(You never were a child, though, but once upon a time, you were young.)
There’s not even a goal with all the bad things that you do, not some displaced sense of honor, of joy, of duty. You do it because you’re good at it.
(And young people are impressionable, easy to reshape and form into something else.)
You can’t even recall a time you’ve not been good at it, so it’s not hard to connect the empty spaces in your memory with how you have a hard time feeling and an easy time destroying. And you do note the way some of your teachers look at you, the way their eyes show both pride and fear and awe.
(But young people grow into old people, people who are not quite so easy to leash.)
And as you age, you start to think and question, more and more and more. You still can’t really feel anything other than apathy, but you are able to discern right from wrong.
(The things you do have always been wrong, but where the young boy couldn’t really tell, the old man can.)
You still don’t feel any remorse, but somehow, it doesn’t really matter. You kill and you kill good, but you don’t really care so much for killing on behalf of them.
(They made the boy into something hard and cold, and you resent them for it, in a way.)
You don’t care for the rebels either, but then again, you don’t really care for anything. But your sword is there and the leader is there and it’s so damn easy.
(Killing is what you’re good at, after all.)