LIGHTNOVELONLINE Prologue: The boy who owned blood.
"Get up, brat!" A woman calls to the child sitting on the ground, his back against the overwhelming heat of the water boiler. Somehow, although his back was shining a crimson hue, he did not seem bothered by it at all. He's already become numb to the pain, long before he even touched a boiler for the first time. "You didn't finish your last job, did you!?" The woman doesn't even wait for him to stand before scolding him.
Ah... This is how he knew things would turn out. His mother, the woman scolding him, demanded that he use his skills to kill his father in cold blood. As much as he wanted to do it, the situation was just impossible. He couldn't complete the task in one day due to the security around the man.
He wasn't particularly sad or betrayed when his father and mother split up. No, it isn't that he wasn't sad, he just didn't know what it meant to be sad. The churning in his stomach was so similar to how it felt to be shot in that place. His eyes always burned during those times, like dry skin.
"I'm sorry," he says one of the few words he actually knows to pronounce in English. Whenever his mother acted this way, the only correct thing to do is apologize, which is why she taught him how to do such a thing at an early age.
Judging by her tight hand gripping his collar, she must not have accepted his apology. "To hell with your 'sorry', you useless fucker! We've built up enough money that we don't even need to work anymore, and you can't do one simple job!? You've been doing the same thing for 5 years now, haven't you!?" She pulls the child up from the ground, his feet dangling in the air so that she may see him eye-to-eye.
He could never understand what he did wrong, truthfully. Up until now, he has done everything right. He has killed who he needed to kill. He has burned what he needed to burn. He has fought who he needed to fight. So, the only question going through his mind is 'why'? The sensation of 'curiosity' is newfound to him. He discovered it after having so much free time now that his mother and father no longer needed him to commit vile, illegal acts.
It gave him time to think about the actions that he'd committed. Even as a boy who didn't know anything other than what his mother and father told him, he couldn't help but think about the world around him. At one point, he met a woman who stirred his inquisitiveness further. Although he did not know it at that time, she'd given him a sensation that he'd never forgotten; warmth.
By now, he's forgotten the woman's appearance, he now only remembers how they met and how their relationship ended. The warmth of a hug that she'd given him, and the thickness of her blood that covered him at that time. He'd always wondered why the woman hugged him, and at a point, he wondered why she'd crossed paths with his father, who his mother believed he was cheating on her with.
The boy is snapped out of his deep thoughts when his body is violently thrown to the ground. He feels a sharp pain in his back, but it isn't anything that he's unfamiliar with. In fact, his body has grown to adapt to any pain that it feels, which happens to get around the numbness of his nerves.
"Why the hell do I even need you anymore!? What purpose do you serve now!? Your father has gotten everything he's wanted, I've been left with a bloody weapon in hand!" His mother has become more deranged recently, he can tell. Her behavior is identical to the frantic behavior displayed by some of the men he'd chased down in the past. They always did the most trifling acts when they were cornered. Thrashing themselves around, spouting out words in hope of gaining 'sympathy', but he was unfamiliar with this thing at the time.
'Kindness' is something he was taught by the woman he killed. Her appearance was cloudy, tucked away in a memory so vivid that he loses himself in thought whenever he thinks back on that day.
"Do you think I owe you something, that you deserve to eat at my table!?" Her breath was blazing with alcohol, and her face was peach-colored. His mother was very obviously drunk, but these are not words that she held back from him before. Whether she was unmistakably drunk or unmistakably sober, this was like a routine act by now.
"Say something, you damn brat!" In an attempt at gaining a response from the boy, her foot crashes down into the child's chest. If this were anyone else, they'd be in a fit of pain, they'd probably be crying with tears streaming down their face from it. This child is someone who's grown used to the pain by now and only looks up at his mother with the familiar, lifeless eyes that she's come to know over the years.
"I can't believe you came from my womb, you coldblooded devil," her words are sharp and harsh, but hypocritical. 'I am what you've made me, mother,' the child thought. Even in his own thoughts, his words are slurred and he struggles to form a proper sentence in his own mind.
His mother's stomping becomes repetitive, she's repeatedly driving her heel into his body, testing the waters at a new place.
For some reason, midway through her beating, his mother has tears streaming down her face. He isn't hopeful enough to assume that she'd had a change of heart.
"If it weren't for you, those bitches wouldn't have stolen your father away from me!" The woman's eyes are hysterical, more beastly than the mightiest tiger's. Before he can stand, his mother sits down on his small body, pinning him down to the ground.
Weirdly, he could remove his mother at any time. Whenever he was ordered to kill a man, no matter how skilled he was, so long as he was alone—this child could take that man down—as a 7-year-old child, his physical abilities were nothing short of superhuman.
This makes this scene all the more curious. When he can break her bones just by squeezing her too hard, why is this child letting his mother pin him to the ground? She continues to shout as her tears drip onto the child's face. "Why were you born!? Why did I even have you!?"
'I do not know, mother. I'm sorry.' Even in his own thoughts, apologizing is what comes first. In this cold, harsh world, he has learned that submitting under the pressure of authority—namely his mother and father—is the greatest step you can take towards comfortability.
Without hesitation, a pair of hands take hold of the child's neck, squeezing with all their might. A ferocious look sprouts from the face of the boy's mother, her steadily flowing tears now becoming more of a waterfall. In a mixture of sorrow and rage, she strangles her son with her own hands. "This is your redemption, brat! For the innocent people you killed, this is your redemption! Sleep it off! Burn in hell! Cry! Apologize to me!" His mother's words were no longer making sense. The phrases she yelled out held a meaning that summed to little to none.
Instinctively, his body worked to defend against the assault. The blood circulation to his head has been cut off by the woman, but his superhuman strength has yet to be used.
His body jerks and thrashes on its own accord, but it is never enough to launch the woman off of him. It burns, worse than any flame that he's ever touched.
As if she is basking in the magnificence of his vulnerability, his mother tries to pry deeper into this treasure; she hopes to get a greater reaction out of him. "Look at you! You're the monster who ruined my life!? The monster who killed men, women, and children under the orders of that madman!?"
'And your own, mother...' Although he was lightheaded, he could still think of a perfect rebuttal to every word. A rebuttal that he'd never let his mother hear out of respect for her, the person who birthed him.
Even if his parents came to despise him, he would continue to share his 'love' with them, because he is indebted to them for bringing him into this world. That is what they've oftentimes told him.
At some point, he loses the ability to hear his mother's words. She continues saying more nonsense to him, taunting him and possibly spouting the greatest hypocrisies her spineless conscience can muster.
It isn't that he didn't deserve this, though, he certainly deserves worse than what he's receiving.
His body endures the tormenting pain of asphyxiation for far longer than any human can hope to understand. What amazes him more than the karma of his actions coming back to bite him so suddenly, is the sheer amount of strength and energy his mother could put into ensuring that he was strangled to the point of death—a feat that requires an unnatural amount of willpower
But she does it. In the last few seconds of his life, he sees her face turn from a deranged expression to a satisfied one, a smile that he has never seen before. Unlike every expression he's ever seen his mother wear, this one looks the most genuine. There wasn't a hint of the alcohol influencing the heartwarming, relieved smile that she cast in his direction.
Finally, everything can come to a close. His 11 years of living were worthwhile. He met a person who he could experience true warmth from and killed her. He slew many innocents, many of who were undeserving. He learned a few emotions from some of them, but he was still trying to grasp an understanding of those feelings. Most importantly, he let himself die as an act of 'redemption'. In his mind, something told him that he'd done wrong, and if his mother was the person who was showing him that, then he'd have no qualms.
What an interesting, unorthodox way of thinking he has. One moment, he's deciphering the true meaning of emotions and feeling rebellious, the next he offers himself up as a sacrifice so that his mother can gain the relief that she wanted. He served his purpose in this life, perhaps...
Everything goes white, a familiar warmth engulfs him.
He can hear her voice, the woman he'd met for the first time. His memory of her is foggy, but he can remember their chat since it was something he'd held dear.
"You're an unfortunate kid, you know that? You don't even know how you're feeling, let alone how other people are."
He tries to remember her face, he tries his hardest to remember every minute detail of her appearance.
Her hand ruffles his head as he looks up at her cluelessly. "Why?" The child didn't know many words at the time, so the only thing he can think in response to her statement is 'why'.
No matter how hard he tries, he cannot remember her face, only her voice.
"'Why?'"She places her hand on her chin, feigning deliberation. "Because you're both gifted and cursed, kid. You can't smile, you can't feel, but somehow you've been given something that humankind can only pray to have."
"The gods showed you kindness for your misfortune, so when the time comes, do you think you can return some of that kindness to other people?"
His feeble mind could barely understand her words back then, but somehow, he now feels like he can piece their meanings together.
Barely, her lips become visible, only to give him the smile that permanently warmed his frozen heart at the time. "I want to give you a present, but you'll have to wait for it, alright?" Although the memory barely went into full detail, the boy didn't need to worry about what was missing—because he never received that final gift from her.
A day after this conversation which is hazed in his mind, he took the woman's life. And when he took the woman's life, she did not frown or argue, nor did she hit him or hold resentment. As though she knew the outcome was coming, the woman just gave him a hug—she embraced him.
As he opens his eyes, the boy finds himself floating in a void-like space. It is not cold, however, rather it's particularly warm.
'...I wish I'd gotten your gift, miss.'
Left to his fate, the child drifts through the void, unable to see anything but the constructs that appear in his mind from his limited imagination.
The boy lost count of how many hours he'd spent, probably a number greater than he knew. He spent many days staring, the best thing he can do since he cannot sleep. The voices of the damned have become louder.
He has heard the voices of the many he's slain, their cries and pleas. He cannot describe the sensation he feels the more that their voices drown out his thoughts, maybe it's discomfort at best. Though, the boy feels like it's something much more.
There is a new sight that he's become used to seeing, however. In the distance, far away, a white dot became present at some point.
At first, the boy thought that it was just his imagination. He'd amused himself by thinking of many things, including the conversation with that woman, in his attempts at remembering her appearance.
After some time, the size of the light continued to grow. At some point, he was hearing more unfamiliar voices. These ones usually remained in the back of his mind, behind the screaming, vengeful voices of his victims. Unfortunately, he didn't recognize the language that the voice spoke. Was it perhaps one of the foreigners who he'd killed?
'I'm sorry to you too, stranger,' he thought, in a pointless attempt at communicating with this new voice. His apologies usually fell on deaf ears—since there was evidently no one else around. However, in return for his apology, he feels the usual warm change, subtly. After remaining in this void for so long, he'd grown used to everything; the blackness of the space, the warmth that it provided, the many different voices inside his own mind, and the constructs that he'd repeatedly envisioned to keep himself sane—not that it's possible anymore.
Over time, the voice in the back of his mind became more clear. It was certainly a female, foreign voice, speaking Japanese. He oftentimes attempted to communicate with the voice. In a weird turn of events, every time he moved his body, the warmth would change again, and the voice would mutter other words in Japanese.
It's a shame that he wasn't bilingual since the tone of the voice sounded different from the raging one of the others invading his mind. It's not that he wants to run from the victims swarming his conscience, but as guilty as he is, the young boy wishes to hear something new after countless days.
He eventually stopped paying attention to the light altogether. Whenever the warmth changed and the voice spoke, he was overtaken by a feeling of tiredness that he'd forgotten. If it were not for his fear of the voice going away—his fear that he'd be alone once again with the tears of the damned—he'd happily fall asleep for the first time in ages.
Then, once more time passed, the boy noticed that his conscience was getting smaller. The voices he once heard were becoming tuned out, left only with the Japanese voice that he could barely understand. The woman's voice always repeated one word each time, though, "Rimi."
'I do not know what a Rimi is, but I hope that you found it. I'm sorry for what I did to you.' His voice which once lacked emotion was now even brimming with drowsiness. 'It's selfish, right...? I killed you, but now I'm seeking you for comfort.' Again, that burning feeling in his eyes that he has not felt in eternity...
The boy was unable to fight the drowsiness any further. His eyes could barely stay open now, after so long. 'I don't think I can stay any longer, miss...' His thoughts slipped away, inch by inch. '...I hope that you too can forgive me. After so long...' His mind goes blank for a moment, but he manages to snap himself out of it. '...after so long, I understood her request for me to share my kindness.'
It burned, so badly, his eyes burned. There was not a liquid capable of taming the pain he felt in his eyes.
As his mind drifts away, he finally notices how massive the light has become. The entire void, which was once pitch black, was engulfed by its beautiful whiteness. Stars finally appeared, dotting the vastness that it created.
Unable to tame the sensation in his eyes, the boy can only lean back on one instinct for comfort. At the greatest sight he's seen, even before he died, the boy smiles.
Closing his eyes, he lets the light absorb him into itself.
The dream of that woman came to him one last time, it seems. He does not remember this conversation, though. Something made him forget it.
Her arms were wrapped around him, even as her blood pours down from her chest and throat, onto his body. Her hand strokes through his hair as he stares up in confusion. This is not his body; this is from her perspective. He was reliving the gruesome scene in her body.
What he hadn't remembered, the memory that he now understood was never his, was the image of the tears pouring down his face profusely as he stares up at the woman's paling face. "Don't cry, child," her hand brushes over his head, and slowly the tears stopped flowing.
"You aren't doing anything I don't want you to." The boy could not understand the scene playing out in front of him. Why did he not remember something so important? When has he ever cried? There hasn't been an instance in his life, not one, where he has cried. His body did not know how to.
"Your gift, I promise you'll receive it. The gift that you deserve, for the life that we gave you, all due to our own negligence."
A force pushes him out of the woman's body, actually, rather than being pushed something pulled him from within her.
Even if he tried his hardest, the boy could not find any way to move, forced to remain suspended in place. The woman turns around, something that he knows shouldn't have happened in his memory. He cannot see her full face, but the lower half of it is visible.
It is thanks to this like of concealment that the boy sees the smile spreading across her face, warming him for the last time.
The boy is tugged away once again, then everything goes black.
Not long after, however, the boy hears more chatter. Did he not finally sink into the abyss? Why have the vengeful voices returned after such a long time? They'd gone quiet long ago, for the Japanese woman.
Speaking of Japanese, that is exactly what the chattering sounds like. Something is holding him, much like the restraints he felt in the dream sequence of that woman.
He shivers at a disgusting coldness running over his body, a feeling that he has not felt in forever. It is such a sudden assault that it'd have knocked him over if he were standing. The chattering quiets down once he feels something wrapping around him, presumably to warm him up. He cannot say that it failed, but this warmness does not compare to the comfort that the abyss provided.
Though, the boy soon discovered that he was mistaken. Because unlike in the abyss, a warmth greater than anything he felt before engulfed him. It was comforting enough for him to finally open his eyes—the eyes he hadn't even realized he could use.
His vision is blurry at first, but he can make out a pair of arms, and a woman's chest. It took a lot for his vision to focus, if it were not for his past life experiences, he almost wouldn't have the patience to wait and concentrate. When he does, however, that is when he sees a familiar smile on a familiar face.
The purple eyes that'd convince you a galaxy was held within them, the cherry lips that curved into a smile that'd send butterflies to your stomach. The perfection of her blushing face carried her tender gaze down onto the child.
Now he remembers it, the face of the woman that he himself hadn't forgotten on his own, but was made to forget.
Her arms are holding his body, which has become smaller, to the size of a baby. Her eyes hold motherly contentment, pushing any of the grim thoughts he'd been carrying for all these years into the back of his mind.
Following his instincts, and his own soul, the child feels his toothless mouth open, and for the first time in so long, he cried.
