He was scared.
How many lives can one slay while still clinging to their human self? How many deaths must be witnessed to completely desensitize a child's impressionable heart? How much longer can he last at this rate before turning into a cold-blooded monster?
He feared himself, his potential, and what he can become.
Obediently, the eight-year old boy stepped inside a cold, dingy cell as the iron-barred gate grated along its groves. An echo sounded as his only exit slammed shut and clicked into place, locked. Within the small enclosed space, the floor, walls, and ceiling were all made of the same ancient bricks of stone. Everything was grey and dim except for the faint orange lights casted through the crisscrossing bars.
In the furthest depth of the room, a man was seated on the floor with his lower back pressed up against the wall. His arms were huddling around his knees which were brought close to his chest. He had unruly black hair and ragged clothes draping his average build with a muscular and somewhat malnourished body. Having been locked up in here for weeks, he likely appeared older than his actual age. His name was Nicholas Morello, a criminal who originated from West Blue and a former crime boss who led a gang of troublemakers. He had orchestrated several massacres and partaken in various shady proclivities of the Underworld – an intricate network of illegal activities that eludes even the World Government.
Lifting his head ever so slightly, his stern, weary eyes followed the elongated shadows casted on the floor from the faint candle lights outside. After tracing along a small silhouette, he made eye contact with a pair of baleful violet eyes that belonged to a child with short black hair. Normally, he'd scoff at the sight of a kid, but those cold, emotionless eyes belonged to that of a killer. And, once a soul has slain another's life, there was no turning back. The sin had been done, etched deeply into the depths of one's heart and mind. This boy didn't carry the slightest bit of hesitation, a sign of experience, but he was still cautious, observing his target.
Without muttering a word, the prisoner stood up, knowing what he must do to survive. Raising up his hands, he held up his guard. "I know you," he ushered in a low, raspy voice. "This is your daily routine, isn't it? You've got a pretty messed up family, ay? You think you can do the same to me as what you did to the others? I've lived decades longer than you. I'm more experienced than you. You really think you can kill me?"
He wasn't being presumptuous; he had witnessed it before. For as long as he has been confined in this cell, he would hear screams, the crackling of bones, and the impact of fists. A few times, he had visually witnessed this same boy being stepping into an inmate's cell before beating the prisoner to death. He would always find those sinister, detached eyes to be uncannily creepy; never had he met someone so young to be this numb to killing.
With his eyes locked onto his target, the boy proceeded to amble onwards with eerily quiet steps like a moving apparition. Clearly trained in the arts of stealth, he emitted no sound. His hands were concealed within the side pockets of his protective vest. A smooth, rounded steel surface wrapped around his outer forearms, the only form of armor he seemed to possess.
Nicholas began rhythmically bouncing his weight up and down, sustaining a light, agile footwork. His left fist held closely to his jaw; his right foot and right fist leading at the front. He held a southpaw stance, an indication of being left hand dominant. With a long sweeping step, he closed the gap of distance between them, entering within striking range. Immediately, he began shooting straight jabs with his right arm, getting a feel for his opponent who quickly shifted his weight and pivoted his stance to evade each assault.
By the third jab, the black-haired boy had leaned back to stay out of the man's reach. At this point, he began to quickly grasp his attacker's range. Their difference in size was obvious; the man clearly had longer limbs along with both a height and weight advantage. Yet, he took the youth seriously, treating him as a legitimate threat. This child was clearly no stranger to fighting, advanced enough to understand the different ranges of combat.
The prisoner pivoted his leading foot outwards, quickly swinging with his leg for a roundhouse kick. It was at this instance that the boy dropped his weight towards one leg, counterbalanced with his arms, and pivoted as he swept an extended leg around, striking the man's single balancing leg with the heel. The large brawler immediately fell onto his back with a heavy thump. His young, nimble opponent must have had an extraordinary sense of timing to have pulled that off. The shadow of a boot loomed over his face, urging him to roll off to the side as a stomp hammered straight down, hitting the stone ground where the man's head once laid.
Quickly pushing himself back onto his feet, Nicholas immediately felt pressured by the kid's readiness to attack. Aggressively, he threw a fully committed straight left punch, backed up by all his weight. From the floor, up the legs, through the turning hips, up the torso, through the arms, and out the hands, he linked every major section of his body to execute a devastating strike.
Swiftly, the boy slipped beneath the big assault with a low, wide, sideways stance as he thrust his right elbow to the side, ramming straight towards the man's solar plexus, a bundle of nerves located right below the center of the chest.
"Arugh!" Nicholas' upper body concaved, struck with a sharp sensation of pain. With his head momentarily lowered, a foreign hand snatched a bundle of his hair and violently pulled his cranium straight down where his face soon smashed head on against a rising knee. Blood leaked out of his nostrils. His brain rattled by the brutal blow; his vision blurred.
Lowering his leg, the boy kept his grip firmly on his opponent's hair, and with the raise of his right arm, he dropped his elbow straight down, slamming into the back of the man's head. It was after that decisive blow that the grownup collapsed onto the ground and rendered unconscious, lying flat on his stomach.
After gazing at his motionless sparring partner for a few seconds, the youth quietly strode towards the barred gate, expecting to leave this cell. "It's over," he stated. His opponent was unable to continue the fight.
A tall, brooding figure stood on the other side with a hood shadowing his face. In a deep voice, he responded, "No. It's not. As long as he's still alive, you're not allowed to leave this cell." This was a deathmatch.
A groan sounded from behind; the man, who was just knocked down, quickly regained his consciousness as a throbbing pain resonated in his head. "Ugh…, you damn brat. I'll kill you!" He gritted his teeth with rage in his eyes.
"Use it," the overseer ordered. "The power that you have obtained today,"
After a short nod, the boy turned around, facing the prisoner for a second time. His violet-hued eyes gleamed with a mystic glow. The entirety of his body began to morph. Hands darkened into pitch-black; fingers sharpened into black claws. Those very claws appeared from his feet as well, piercing out of from the front of his boots. An additional set of appendages sprouted from his shoulder sockets. A bony structure that branched into long, narrow finger-like framework that supported a dark leathery membrane. His ears shifted towards the top of his head, dark and triangularly tipped like that of a feline. He could feel a coat of short fur beneath his clothes, covering mainly his torso.
The prisoner lowered his jaw as his enlarged eyes watched in disbelief. This surreal metamorphosis that the kid underwent had completed in just a matter of seconds. He watched with an unsettling expression as a freakish monster had emerged, locked in the same cell as him.
"Batto Batto no Mi, Model: Vampire Bat," the half-human boy uttered the name of the Zoan-type Devil Fruit power that he now possessed after consuming an unpalatable, vomitous cursed fruit. He curiously casted down his gaze towards the palms of his own hands, repeatedly clenching and loosening his fingers. It felt like he had a completely different body altogether, and although his height and humanoid figure remained the same, the muscles in his body had a different quality to them. His legs felt stronger; his body felt as if they responded to his will a lot faster. The fact that he could now control a pair of wings as if they were another set of limbs would take some getting used to. His wings felt extremely versatile as each consisted over two dozen joints; even the membrane consisted of a network of tiny muscles for him to control. If he fully extended his wings out to the side, his wingspan was about four times his height, and by collapsing his wings like a paper fan, his wings took up very little space behind his back.
It wasn't just his physical form that changed; his senses were also greatly enhanced. He could better smell the malodorous scent of sweat and blood lingering throughout the dungeon. His ears could pick up sounds that he could never have detected before, now able to hear frequencies six times higher than the upper threshold of the human ear. He could hear the breaths of others in the form of ultrasound, each distinguishable from one another as if they were a signature. As he closed his eyes, he could emit his own ultrasound from the region of his nose, and his swiveling ears could hear its echoes. Even without sight, he could sense his physical surroundings through sound.
The tapping of the foot became more audible than ever; he could hear the echoes from the man rushing straight at him from the front. Swaying to the side, he calmly avoided a fist flying past his cheek. The moment the man was within a meter away, he could sense the blood rushing through the veins of the adult body that radiated out heat; the large arteries that coursed through this prisoner were most noticeable. Swiftly, he pierced two fingers deep into the bicep of the man's extended arm, rupturing the brachial artery. As soon as his claws exited the flesh, blood gushed out of the wound like a little geyser.
"Kurgh!" Nicholas staggered back, a hand quickly clutched around his arm, applying pressure to the wound to slow the bleeding. That strike with the claws just now was too precise and decisive to be a coincidence; this boy purposely struck him in that spot. "Damn it!" He growled. His situation was looking quite dire at this point. If he continued to bleed at this rate, he'd die. Faster than his eyes could see, something rammed straight into his gut. His body caved in as a sidekick hurled him across the room until the stone wall killed his momentum abruptly. Coughing and wheezing, he grimaced in anguish. That kick just now had the force way beyond than what a mere child could execute. Was this because of the boy's demonic transformation?
If he doesn't kill this boy soon, he'd be in serious trouble; he had to finish this quickly before he loses too much blood. Bolting forth, he let out an angry battle cry. Once within range, he snapped out a kick that swooshed through thin air as the Zoan-user flipped over his head. Upon reestablishing his balance, the prisoner quickly pivoted his stance towards his back, ready to attack, but against his expectation, his opponent wasn't behind him. He had thought the kid had flipped over his head and would have landed behind him.
From an odd angle, a backfist slammed into his head from the side, blindsiding him. Nicholas's head swung away as his body lumbered with it. The inside of his head was ringing painfully as if an alarm bell had just activated in his brain. His vision grew fuzzy, able to make out a silhouette that hung upside down from the ceiling.
Hooked claws clung onto the rough, granular surface above, the winged child gazed at his half-dead adversary with a flipped viewpoint. Being upside down felt unusually natural for him now.
Leaning his back against the wall was all the ex-crime boss could do to remain upright as he began to feel lightheaded and lethargic. Shock bloomed from his visage the moment the boy landed right in front of him. He coughed out a light shade of blood. His brows tensed as he shifted his blurry vision from those cold violet eyes down towards the hand that penetrated through his chest and punctured his heart.
"Spear Fist," the boy said softly, announcing the name of his technique. He could now pierce through flesh with just his fingertips. His claws slipped through the gaps of the man's ribcage, bypassing the skeletal defense and straight for the vital organ.
Retracting his bloodstained hand, the devilish being turned his back and walked away as the corpse slumped to the cold, hard floor. The iron gates grated open, rewarding the youth with freedom. Outside of the cell was a wide corridor that stretched across a great length. Dim orange lights illuminated from the little lamps stationed along the side of the walls in between each cell.
Various captured criminals were hoarded in this dungeon, beneath the great lair of this unnamed family of assassins. By tradition, their ancient art of assassination was passed down secretively from father to son. From a very young age, the heir to the family would learn to dance along the thin curb of life and death. Each generation strived to surpass the older one. Blessed with a prodigy who has now obtained the cursed power of the devil, the family now placed their hopes and dreams into this young boy in training.
The criminals were mere throwaway lives, served as daily sparring partners for the assassin in training. Their strengths were judged and ranked from weakest to strongest. Each day, he must kill someone slightly stronger than yesterday. With supervision from the father, the child would be constantly exposed to danger as he faces life and death scenarios head on, all while being desensitized to the cruelty.
"Why did you hold back?" the father barked at the boy harshly. "Never give your enemy time to rest. Take them out as efficiently as possible. It took you three hits to knock him out and three additional hits before killing him. You could've killed in one hit instead. Were you just being cautious? Or, was there another reason that you stalled for so long?"
"If all my fights end in just one hit, how am I supposed to practice when the fights end so quickly?"
"I see your point. You'll also need more practice utilizing your newly acquired Devil Fruit power. Very well then, it seems that you've gotten strong enough that these petty criminals will no longer be useful for your personal growth." Real, live, resisting opponents were the best tools to learn how to fight; he had made his son go through these daily trials of confronting criminals who would try to kill him. Every day was life and death for his son; learning to keep a calm mind in the midst of danger was vitally important. "That was the one-hundredth prisoner that you've slain. Go and get some rest."
"Okay," the little one nodded before striding off on his own.
"Oh, one more thing, Pluto," the hooded man called out to him. "Although you're still young, I think you're ready to take the next step. I'll be taking you to the Grand Line. I will show you the true nature of this world that we live in."
"Just you and me?" He questioned. A two-man crew was awfully small to be voyaging to the Grand Line of all places.
"Correct," the father confirmed.
"How long will we be gone?" the boy asked curiously.
"A few years," the father reckoned.
"Alright," Pluto sounded indifferent, but as he walked off, a tinge of sadness grew on his face.
…
Steaming hot water rained down from the showerhead, forming mist that shrouded his figure. He washed and scrubbed as much as he could, but no matter how much he cleansed himself, he couldn't rid himself from the acrid scent of blood.
Being a Devil Fruit user meant that he could no longer use a bathtub without the water draining him of his strength and energy but moving water such as a shower would not affect him. The curse was quite strange indeed. In exchange for a supernatural power, he lost his ability to swim, and in a world where the vast majority of its surface area was water, that could prove fatal if he isn't careful.
After stepping out of the shower and clothing himself, he ambled down the corridor until a thunderous, ear-splitting scream frightened him to retreat a few steps back.
"HAH!? YOU BROKE THE PLATE? HOW COULD YOU?" A woman howled at the top of her lungs, inflamed at the little girl who had fallen to the floor. "You stupid girl! You can't even carry a plate without dropping it? Your father risks his life out there to bring in money to this family, and your brother is training every day to carry on our tradition. And you? What do you do? What are you good for? You can't fight. You can't cook. You can't do anything! You're useless!"
"I-I'm s-sorry!" The girl sat on the floor, frozen with fear with her hands covering her wound. Beside her were fragmented shards from a plate along with spilled water.
"You make me sick!" the furious woman pointed straight towards the mess, "Go clean this mess up then immediately head to my room! I'll discipline you!"
"N-No! Please! Anything but that!" the youth pleaded.
"Quit your whining!" The mother swatted her open palm across, ready to slap her daughter in the face.
Rebecca squeezed her tear-filled eyes shut, embracing herself for the pain. But, nothing happened. Slowly opening her eyes, she saw someone standing in front of her, grabbing her mother's wrist right before impact.
"Pluto!?" the woman was taken aback at who it was to have stopped her physical assault. "What are you doing? You dare stand against me!? Your own mother?"
"You seem stressed. Don't push yourself too hard," he spoke in a hollow voice, detached of emotions. His eyes flickered towards his little sister before unleashing an impulse of bloodlust. He watched the girl flinching in response to his murderous intent. "Leave this to me," he uttered in a cold, sadistic tone. "I'll punish her in your stead."
"Oh, Pluto. You're so dependable," the mother placed a hand gently on her son's face, smiling softly. She was so proud of him for becoming so strong and independent. According to his strict father, she had heard that her son was a bit of a prodigy. "Alright, I'll leave her to you." The woman sauntered off and left the siblings alone.
Once his mother had left the scene, Pluto quickly turned around and kneeled on one leg, lowering himself to meet his sister at eye level. "Show me your wound," he whispered, and the girl hesitantly moved her hand away from her lower calf, revealing a shallow cut that was a few inches long. It didn't take much detective skills to conclude that her wound was caused by a fragment of the shattered plate that scattered across the floor.
"We need to wash your wound and place a bandage on it." he quickly scooped the girl up into his arms, carrying her like a princess.
Rebecca felt herself being carried away with ease. She gazed into her brother's eyes curiously. What was that just now? The sensation that made her afraid of him. For a brief second, she felt threatened by his presence. Eventually, the two of them entered the bathroom, and she felt at ease, her heart fluttering at her brother's kindness.
She was settled down onto a stool. Her brother turned on the facet as cold water gushed out.
"Pluto," she called out to him freely without restraint before announcing, "I love you!" There were two sides to her brother. One was a façade that he puts on in front of their parents, and the other was the side that she had always known and loved: the gentle, caring boy who would always look out for her.
"Eh!?" The brother was taken aback by her words. "I still need to punish you, you know?"
"You're lying," she said while smiling. "That's what you've said before, but Pluto wouldn't do anything to harm me." Time and time again, her brother would rescue her from their mother's wrath.
"Rebecca," he spoke her name softly. "I'll be leaving you soon."
Startled, the girl quickly reached out with her little arms, clutching onto his shirt with both hands, "What!? What do you mean?"
He continued on to explain, "Father will be taking me with him to train me and expose me to the outside world. I'll be gone for a few years."
First, there was silence for the girl to register his words; next, her eyes began to well up in tears. "No!" She protested before burying her entire face into his chest, smothering herself against him. "I don't want you to leave me! Take me with you!"
"You know I can't do that," he said regrettably. "Father is much harder to manipulate than mother. He's calmer and more logical. He'd never agree to the idea of taking you along."
"But, you're the only good thing in my life! Without you, I'm scared. Mother will torture me. I'm scared of living here without you."
"I know," he gritted his teeth, suppressing with rage. But, even as he continued to speak, his hate and anger trembled through his words, "Mother is abusive, hot-tempered, and mentally unstable." He despised that woman. He loathed this entire family tradition. He was never viewed as a son or a human to begin with; he was born solely to be a cold-hearted killing machine. He had sworn to himself to be the very last inheritor of their family's martial art, never would he pass such a dangerous style down to anyone else. Likewise, his sister was never viewed as a human; she was just a tool to populate this small family in the future.
He knew that his psyche was past the point of no return. Before he slain his first victim, he was trembling with fear, the realization that death was real and that it could happen to him as well. But after being forced to kill with his bare hands, day after day for the past several months, his heart grew numb to it all. No matter how many lives he slain, he felt nothing. Little by little, he was gradually becoming the deadly weapon that his parents wished for him to become.
His sister had been kept in the dark about his real training. He could never bring himself to tell her the truth. How could he? She was the only the good thing in his life. She was the only one who loved him. How could he betray her innocence and tell her that her own brother was a murderer? She was the only thing left that reminded him of his own humanity. Once they are forced to part ways, he feared what kind of person he would become.
He wrapped his arms around her, embracing her in a tight hug. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he made sure that his face was hidden from her view as he casts a cold, sinister glare off into the distance, "Before I leave, I'll make sure you'll be protected while I'm gone."
"W-Will you come back?" She sobbed.
"Of course," he reassured her. "I'll come back to get you. I promise. Rebecca, there's something I need you do to for me as well."
"What is it?" It was rare for him to asked him for a favor. What could she possibly do for him?
He momentarily looked up, thoughtfully piecing together what he wants to tell her. Then, he gazed her straight into her violet-hued eyes and spoke straight from his heart, "When I do come back, I'll probably be very different than who I am now. I don't know what kind of a person I'll become. I might become apathetic, cynical, and cruel. So, when you see my future self, give him a hug. Melt away that icy cold heart. Remind him that he is loved by you. Remind him that he isn't alone. Beat him up if you have to."
Stunned by what she just heard, Rebecca gazed at him with both a look of concern and respect. She didn't know that he had thought this far ahead. Was he that worried about who he'd become? Afraid to become someone that he didn't want to be?
"Could you do that for me?" the boy asked sincerely.
