It's a misconception that I hate men, you know.
What, just because I'm asking you by the million to think I don't like you?
On the contrary, it's just all that you're good for.
I don't mean that in a bad way. You die splendidly.
My darling little boys, I love you all for the blood you shed, your screams of pain, your absolute disbelief,
that I, a single beautiful woman, can butcher vast armies effortlessly and without a single shred of remorse.
You're absolutely helpless against me. You want to put an end to me, but you're powerless and insignificant.
It's shameful for you, isn't it? You're all so much taller than me, looking down at me,
until my blade bites into your flesh, bringing you to your knees, and then you're completely at my mercy,
bleeding profusely and lumbering, pleading for your life, pleading for mercy.
Your muscles don't help that much either.
You spend so much of your lives trying to sculpt yourselves into perfect physical perfection,
supremely confident in the belief that your strength will be enough to stop me.
After all, men are stronger than women, right?
You're almost indignant when your muscles fail and you're a fleeting moment of clarity before you die
that you've only been molding yourselves into perfect little pieces of meat for me.
And you train. Your whole lives are now spent training to be soldiers.
You drill for hours and hours every day, thinking it will keep you alive, but it doesn't.
However, it does make your deaths even more delicious for me.
Big, tall, well-sculptured men are fun to kill,
but when they've dedicated their entire lives to preparing to fight me, well, it's simply amazing.
Your entire lives hold up to that one moment, that moment when you face the goddess who tyrannizes your world.
You've dreamt about it for as long as you can remember, but in the end, you're just another body.
You don't even last a second. Each swing of my blade cuts down numerous lads.
Once a man falls on my feet, he's forgotten. I never knew his name, and I won't remember his face.
He existed for one reason, and one reason only, to give his life to me.
But even still, you fight on.
Generation after generation, driven by revenge and pride, you cling to the hope that you will still defeat me.
Is it delusional, or is it just your male arrogance that makes you think it?
Well, it doesn't matter much either way. The end result is the same.
Like I said, you end up on your knees, mortally wounded and looking up at me,
the fire of defiance sputtering out in your eyes as you plead for your life, praying to me for mercy as your life ends.
I do give you boys mercy, though.
Imagine living on and not having the honor, the privilege, of dying by my hand,
your blood anointing the body you lust after in the hour of your death.
I spare you all of that misery.
You're welcome.