He fought. For days turned into years without name and, it seemed, without end, he fought. For his dinner. For his survival. For revenge against the demons who had put him in this position.
He lived and he died and he lived again, a thousand times before he lost count, never suffering the one blow that some part of him yearned for to free him of the burden of this existence. For it couldn't be called a life, not truly, when all there was to it was the endless killing and maintenance of his body.
And then one day there were fewer demons. The ones that remained were less, somehow, weaker than their brethren he'd only faced with difficulty.
And he knew that something had changed, but he didn't know how much it had changed.
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