Time and time again, they struck him down with every kind of amunition they could craft.
Time and time again, he dodged their bullets, took steady their blows, picked himself up from their bomb-blasts, staggered on with the shrapnel still in his skin.
They exhausted their artilery; soon they were doing no more but throwing jagged rocks at him.
He's bloodied, he's bruised, but he is ever moving on.
Not once has he complained about his wounds; to him, they are the punctuation marks of his life.
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