DISCLAIMER: ¡Kinnikuman Nisei/Ultimate Muscle no es mío!

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I apologize in advance if everybody had a bit of a hard time reading the previous chapter. It seems that since the last time I posted anything here, started a Nazi-like character policy.

This chapter came out rather fast, didn't it? That's because I have chosen to post chapters revolving around a certain scene, rather than writing several parts into one huge body of text, mostly because of the site's character filter. That makes it a bit difficult to place horizontal lines or anything else that could vaguely hint a change of scene.

Also, by writing one scene chapters (Just like Tom Clancy, if you think about it) I get to post constantly and thus motivate myself to keep going; moreover, I guess this method would make the fic easier for you guys to read. Nevertheless, if you prefer the fic's previous multi-scene format, I'm open to suggestions. Don't forget to leave your reviews whenever you can, too!

A Sonata for The Fallen

Chapter 2: When Souls Bleed
By MexMarco!

To Mantaro, the small, lime colored room looked the same way he had left it before running away that fateful day, or at least that's what the perspective from his bed could offer. Even when all the previously scattered notebooks and magazines were placed in their respective bookshelves, the bed was tidily fixed and the Prince's CD library was thoroughly organized in long, transparent plastic racks set besides his multifunctional sound system, the air breathed there was dry and almost burning, regardless of the impeccable cleaning work done by the skilled maids. The reason behind this thick sensation of unrest was beyond physical; the stagnancy of the air didn't burn the hog prince's lungs as much as the memories that floated through the extensive river of his afflicted mind. He was fully aware that the injuries had healed. The doctors told him that over and over like the cacophony of a damaged record; however, those cuts, now turned into scars, still bled profusely, like a raging river. With the remains of a traumatic experience replacing the stream of crimson blood, Mantaro tried his best to mend the wounds of his pride while trying to get used to his former lifestyle of wealth and spoils, away from the hardships of Chojin training and the responsibilities as a representative of his adoptive nation.

The heir sat on the edge of the bed and chuckled loudly. He couldn't believe he actually missed all that.

When he came back almost a week ago, he never thought that his absence would have such an impact in the lives of everybody he met. Meat and his father had spent several nights following his vague trail; his mother had gone through a period of stress that put most of her health at risk, and his friends constantly contacted the Palace, awaiting any news about the runaway Prince. Now with his return everyone had gone euphoric, going as far as planning welcome parties for him; it was good for Mantaro to know someone cared for him in the slightest, even if they feigned it at some point.

Dressed in a plain white t-shirt and light blue jeans, the Prince calmly stared at the ceiling, resting his head on his knees. Months ago, he would be at his school desk, pretending to study while reading naughty magazines to get away from his teacher's boring lectures about topics that were as trivial as night and day, or black and white. Nevertheless, back then, there was no one who would truly understand him as his Seigi Chojin partners would: With Wally, he shared his love for food; with Terry, he finally established a bond that went beyond the formalities of rivalry or royalty; with Meat, little by little he began to respect the sport that gave his family such reputation; and with Dik… he never really got to know him well enough, but he always thought those horns were awesome: Too bad he couldn't say it, since everybody would think he was gay.

Deep inside, Mantaro found it really ironic how he had begun to value everything he had upon the realization that he was about to lose it. After all, he brought great disgrace to his family; even when his parents would still congratulate him for his outstanding effort, the empty spot in the great Wall of Fame, glaring at him as if it had eyes of its own, felt otherwise. Whenever he closed his eyes, the Muscle Prince would feel a huge, menacing and accusative finger point at him discriminately while shouting curses that practically made him weep blood. Silently, through his musings, he wondered if this unknown sensation clutching at his chest was that of ultimate defeat.

Closing his eyes and exhaling deeply, yet very slowly, he ruffled the tuft of hair protruding from his mask's forehead and finally stood up. The repulsive odor that sneaked into his nostrils lured him to smell his armpits closely while tugging at his sleeve. The thick layer of sweat smeared into the fabric, as well as the dry, rotten stench that came out of his underarms punctually announced it was time to take another shower; after all, these were the consequences of barely maintaining his hygiene during the past weeks.

He stood firmly in front of his drawer -a tall, piece of furniture made out of fine mahogany- and began to browse through the heaps of recently washed clothes in search of a clean pair of boxers. Eventually, when his arm was buried past his wrist, he felt his hand come in contact with an unknown, solid and heavy object that he pulled out rather reluctantly for further inspection. The rectangular piece of metal felt cold and deadly in Mantaro's grasp, but the he was determined to find out what it was.

The now illuminated object let out intense platinum flares from its chromed surface, forcing him to narrow his eyes. Clad in red leather, the KIN insignia sewn on it diligently, a sheated pocket knife that was given to him by his uncle Ataru rested ominously on the palm of his hand. When the Prince fixated his eyes on the shiny metal surface of this gift, everything around him faded away like a shadow, receding to the hunger of the advancing darkness. His expression solemn, intense and focused, Mantaro fiddled with the knife's handle without a trace of fear or even curiosity, something strange and never before seen in a coward like him.

After removing the safety lock from the side of the handle, a soft clicking sound preceded the appearance of the sharp, highly polished blade. The Chojin Prince looked at his own warped reflection on the piece of steel with a serious look, focusing mostly on its edge, which seemed as if it could cut through diamond like a knife on hot butter. Afterwards, he gently pressed his index finger on the blade and aimed the reflection, now sullied by his fingerprint, at his masked face with evident disdain. The hog Prince then proceeded to chuckle, admiring how the thin print embedded with the distorted image of his face manifested the current state of his soul: Segmented, deformed and scarred.

Mantaro's thoughts kept revolving around the knife, circling and feeling it in a deadly embrace, when somebody abruptly knocked on his door. The sudden sound made the Chojin gasp loudly and almost choke, as if his heart had crawled up his throat. The shock had been so strong that his arms stiffened and his hands cramped, dropping his uncle's gift in the process.

"I've come to bring you your washed undergarments, sir." A squeaky, asexual voice was heard behind the door.

Mantaro growled and quickly eyed the opened drawer. Indeed, he had no clean briefs. "Yeah…" He said with annoyance, picking up the pocket knife from the red, carpeted floor. "Would you please leave them by the door? I'll take care of that in a few minutes."

Outside the room, the fat butler grimaced and followed his master's instructions. He could only imagine the worse when he dropped the bundle of washed underwear on a small table right next to the door and left as quietly as he had arrived. "Have a great evening, sir." He mumbled.

The Prince replied and bid his anonymous butler farewell with a curse as sharp as the blade he carried in his hand.

Strangely to him, the euphoric sensation, that intense, foreboding trance he had fell into the last time he was in possession of the short blade, was nothing else beyond a blurred memory. He hesitantly placed the pocket knife on top of the drawer and resumed his previous activity, wondering if the mysterious figure that was his uncle would be at the library by the time he finished taking his shower; Mantaro had a lot of questions he felt Kinniku Ataru had answers for, questions that surreptitiously appeared during that silent encounter with the red blade.

He didn't know that the knife had pierced deep into his soul.