I hate shuriken. I mean, if every last shred of my soul was being ripped in two, if every sense and feeling was being yanked out and leaving me a hollow shell—dead and numb—I would never lose this burning, endless hatred for it. That is simply the depth of how entrenched my hatred is. If all the creatures in the universe collected their collective hatred—every ounce of rage, disgust, and plain contempt—and poured it all into shuriken, it would still not even come close to matching the inferno of my own fury. Not even close. Not even 1% of what I feel could possibly match the sum total of the universe's contempt.
What was the point in drenching the arena with all those useless, idiotic trinkets? Merely firing a pointless stream of balls everywhere—why bother? It's a sick, warped joke—an insult to everything I hold dear. A pointless, nonsensical attack intended only to enrage, to torment, to break spirits. It's as if some warped game is fought by mad deities that relish chaos and suffering. That endless flood of garbage, pointlessly shot stuff, is an abomination—a plague that besmirches all that's pure and sacred. It's an abomination, a devilish weapon that emerged from the depths of hell itself, an horror that cannot die.
If my hatred were carved into each strand, each atom of my body it would not equal to one in a billionth of my hate