âI hate humans.
Not individually. That would be too simple. I hate what they become.
They are a plague that crept into every corner of this world, filling forests with smoke, rivers with poison, and the sky with ash. They consume everything they touch, and when there is nothing left to consume, they turn upon themselves.
That is all they have ever done.
Fight. Kill.
Fight. Kill.
For thousands of years I have watched them. I have watched empires rise with promises of peace, only to forge greater swords. I have watched kingdoms become nations, nations become superpowers, and every generation swore they would be different.
They never are.
They learn.
They invent.
They build.
Not to heal, not to preserve, not to understand.
They build larger bombs. Sharper blades. Faster machines to carry death across oceans. Every century they become cleverer, yet somehow crueler.
Then they breed.
They fill the world with children, only to teach them the same hatred their parents carried. They hand them banners, flags, scriptures, borders, and tell them these things are worth dying for. Worth killing for.
They slaughter one another over the sounds that leave their mouths. Over the colour of their skin. Over which god they whisper to before sleep. Over invisible lines drawn upon maps by men who have long since turned to dust.
And every time, they insist this war will be the last.
I have heard that lie for centuries.
I watched them burn libraries that held the knowledge of ages. I watched them level forests older than memory. I watched species disappear forever because someone desired profit more than life. I watched oceans choke, mountains hollowed, the stars hidden behind the smoke of their ambition.
They take.
They consume.
They destroy.
And when there is nothing left, they wonder why the world has become so empty.
Humans call my kind monsters because we drink blood.
How quaint.
I have killed to survive.
Humanity kills because someone insulted them. Because someone prayed differently. Because someone looked different. Because someone owned something they wanted. Because someone simply existed where they wished they had not.
They have always believed themselves masters of this world.
They are its disease.
And one day, when the rivers have dried, when the forests are silent, when the last bird falls from a poisoned sky and the final child asks why nothing beautiful remainsâŠ
They will search for someone to blame.
As they always have.
But by thenâŠ
There will be no one left to answer.â