Early on, it was never too difficult. Fire one shot, one arrow, one javelin or spear in the mist of battle, no one notices a thing. The battle marches on, as does the war. Endless chances to kill, endless battles to fight. And, for years, endless wars to be fought.

I lost track sometime during the Middle Ages. How many I'd killed, that is. One campaign drifted together with others, and one life taken drifted together with many, many others. The monotony dragged on, and I felt no worse or better for it. My life revolved around the deadline, and I cared not for anything else. I was careful. I moved around, and I never stuck around after a kill. Or several kills, if the situation demanded it. War is war, and appearances had to be kept up.

The closest I ever came to the deadline was back in the Pax Romana, around the time I had made my deal. Security was tight in the city, so I had to look elsewhere. I finally found an old man, out in the woods, with about a week to go until the deadline. Until that time that was the worst I ever felt after a kill. War is war, I told myself for the first time that day. War is war.

During the Crusades, we sacked a Muslim city. I forget the name, not that it matters. They told us to kill everyone, but... I didn't know. The wall came down, we charged in, and I stabbed the first person I saw in the back. The figure was still only a silhouette against the dusty backdrop of the city to me, but as soon as they fell, I realized. Realized my second mistake. Staring back at me was the face of a young woman, no older than 30. She was terrified as she slowly died in my arms. For the second time in my life, I told myself: War is war.

Nazi Germany, 1942. I was stationed at a concentration camp in Southern Germany. Every day I watched the buses roll in, filled with people who never deserved to die. There was no battle here, only execution. I never felt as much pain as I did the moment I was ordered to kill the man standing before me, merely because he was unable to go on, because he had nothing left. I hardened myself and pulled the trigger. War is war.

Now I sit in my home with a woman I love, a woman I met exactly 364 days, 23 hours, 58 minutes ago. She found me before I could kill my last target, made me put the gun down. I never picked it back up. She knows my burden, knows the pact I made, and accepts me for it. The years have drifted together and I've forgotten much of what I've done, but I remember the important ones. The ones who didn't deserve it. I've vowed to end this war, at any cost. War is war, and I'm going to finish it. The last seconds tick off.