Die. Respawn. Repeat.

You were a painter once.

You saw the world in colors no other mantodean could. Close one eye, and the painting shifts—your sight was your pride. Your first love glowed in your sight, didn't she? Her carapace glowed with streaks of ultragold and silverine; to you, she was a living work of art.

And now that sight is gone. Struck permanently from the record that is your Firmament. You will always remember what you had. You will always know you can never have it again. How does that feel, I wonder, to have something so integral to your sense of self removed?

Even as you are now—reduced, lesser, a mere fragment of the sum of your parts—you remember the pain of that loss. How many loops did you spend trying to paint one of your old works? How many did you spend trying to capture that magic you lost?

How many before you let yourself understand you would never have that magic again? That you would forever have a hole within yourself?

Ah, but you filled that hole with other things, didn't you? You let yourself enjoy the viscera of combat. You took the mantle of the Sword, and blood became your paint. It was never a replacement, but it was enough.

Or do you not remember that?

It seems you don't. Alas, you are lesser than you were, even now. A pity.

But you don't think of it that way, do you? You like who you are now.