It opened its eyes.
Blood on its hands. How was it even possible for blood to be on hands that are already themselves made of blood? It mattered not to it. It was in a trench. It was in the air. It was in the bullets. It was in the bombs being dropped from planes. It was in the pilot who beat his wife whenever he was home. It was in the teenager who lied about his age to be enlisted and fight for his country.
Humans disgusted it. When animals killed, it was with purpose. Humans were a disgrace. It wished it could destroy every single one of them.
It lifted itself off of the ground. It heard a scream of terror behind it. It was in the scream of terror. It was in the bullet fired at itself that passed through its body and penetrated the skull of the soldier across from it.
It turned its sharp angled head a full 180 degrees on its thin, boney neck. It turned its body, and its legs, and began to walk toward the terrified soldier that had shot at it and killed his comrade in the process.
Its metal boots left deep imprints in the dirt. The blood of the soldier splashed across its dark, pointed armour. Painted the walls of the trench red. It left the soldier's body unrecognizable.
This is what it lived for.
Its true name was Violence, though it went by many names. Its name was War. Its name was Cruelty. Its name was Abuse. Its name was Fear. It was known as the Violent Tormentor, as the Vengeful Tempest, and as its most recently adopted name, Drakul Veilgrasp.
Drakul formed its blood hands into sharp, dry claws, and climbed its way up and out of the trench. No one was left alive within.
It began to walk toward the opposing side of the battlefield, and stopped.
The air was cool against its head. It looked up directly at Sol, the star of this system. It suddenly knew that, after countless millenia, it was time.
Time for it to reunite with its children.
It stepped to the side, and was inside the opposing trenches. It tore each soldier limb from limb, before leaving.