"Kill them! Take out their organs—they're corrupt!"
The fat man's voice thundered like a war drum through the fragile silence of the home. His beard was thick and greasy, his face bloated with heat and hate. Behind him, others moved like insects swarming a corpse—sharp tools in hand, masks twisted by greed.
Parents screamed in hope that someone would save them, but,
No one came.
Their cries were swallowed by the cracking of wood, the shattering of glass, and the wet, sickening sounds of flesh being torn. Laughter echoed through the house.
A world was being destroyed for profit.
Organs—harvested.
Jewelry—ripped from trembling fingers.
Their home teetered on the edge of being burned down.
"Oye! Listen, recheck the house thoroughly!" one of the looters barked.
The scavengers scattered through the house, desperate to find anything of value.
In the farthest corner, a terrified child crouched inside an old, rusty wardrobe, praying no one would find him. He thought it was a game—hide and seek.
The shadows outside flickered red and orange, the scent of blood and burning cloth curling through the cracks.
The boy clutched his knees to his chest.
Tried not to cry.
Tried not to move.
Tried not to scream.
The boy's trembling thoughts:
"Who are these people? What kind of game are they playing with my parents?"
"Why is the floor so red? Why does my stomach hurt like I want to throw up—but I can't?"
"It's just a trick… right? A scary game to make me come out of the cupboard… right?"
He didn't understand death.
But he knew—deep in his bones—that if he made a sound, something worse than death would find him.
The footsteps came closer.
Heavy. Unhurried, Like death is approaching him slowly.
"Hey! You idiots didn't check this old wardrobe!" a thin man yelled. "There could be something valuable inside!"
The door yanked open.
Light stabbed into the child's eyes.
A large man crouched down to the boy's level, his face twisting into a crooked smile. His eyes gleamed with something far too calm for the chaos around him.
"Oh? There's a little one too," he said, voice soft, like a lullaby dipped in venom.
"What's your name, kid? Don't worry… we're friends." His smile was sickly sweet.
"My name is… Kira," the boy whispered.
________________________________________________
That frightened child was long gone.
In his place stood a monster named Kira.
The mysterious girl's breath caught as she met his eyes. Horror coursed through her veins.
Mysterious girl's thoughts:
It's not possible.
No one told me he was like this.
He's on a completely different level.
I can't even touch him.
Not a single strike landed.
Nothing worked.
What do I do?
What do I do, what do I—?!
Mama… What would Mama do in this situation?
Come on, think. Think, you monkey—THINK!
This was life or death.
(She thought of an idea that would decide the fate of all three of them.)
Is this right? Is this the right move…?
What if I fail? What if I die?
...
But what if he dies?
It's worth trying!
______________________________________________
The girl stood up, fists trembling, eyes locked onto Kira. Blood trickled from her lip, but her spirit hadn't broken—yet. The atmosphere was growing heavier with every instance; darkness was increasing, and it was slowly becoming nighttime. A voice came out of the darkness-
"I—Rina, age six—am going to use my ultimate weapon against you!" she shouted, voice cracking with fear and pride.
"You're not leaving now!"
She kicked upward, snatching the twin blades off the floor with a flash of motion. They spun in her hands like twin crescents of defiance. In a heartbeat, she began revolving around him—fast, unpredictable, childlike chaos sharpened into calculated intent.
And then—she lunged.
A sharp cry.
A blur of steel.
Kira didn't even blink.
With calm, cruel precision, he stepped forward—not back—and in a blink, caught her by the wrist mid-slash.
Speed. Outclassed. Instantly.
Before Rina could react, her feet left the ground.
BOOM.
He slammed her face-first into the dirt, the world cracking beneath her like her courage.
Dust exploded. Her body bounced once.
Silence spread through the room.
Only Bhagya's labored breathing remained, as if he were the only one alive.
Kira glanced at Rina's crumpled form, scoffing.
"Tch. This is boring."
He tilted his head, voice dripping with mockery.
"See, you little shit? That sword style of yours is trash."
He saw Bhagya with a side eye, pointing his sword toward Bhagya and Vishnu, and said: "You know what's funny? While you're busy seeing the city view, I sold that precious horse of yours, Devadatta, to Slaughterhouse. I wonder what its face looked like when they cut its throat. Probably just like yours—helpless."
Bhagya: "Huh? You… killed Devadatta? That can't be true. How can you do this?" Bhagya keeps his hands filled with blood on his eyes to escape what is happening! He cried, he sobbed, but no one was there to listen to him and help him.
Then Kira suddenly smiled, seeing Bhagya's hopeless face, and when he was done, he turned the direction of his sword towards the mysterious girl. He crouched slightly, raising his sword, like he was enjoying every second of it.
"Let me teach you how to wield a real blade." He said with a big smile.
He saw the roof of industry, and then his tone shifted—sudden, sharp, as if addressing someone else entirely.
He looked up.
"You're here… aren't you?"
The words echoed through the blood-soaked ruin like a warning bell.
Bhagya, still slumped in the corner, blinked weakly.
"Who… who is he talking to?" he whispered, hoping someone—anyone—would save him.
Kira smiled, that same cold grin that didn't belong on a human face.
He spoke to the roof, voice calm but laced with threat.
"Are you coming down… or should I come up?"
There was no fury—only inevitability.
With a breath, Kira split his weapon—the double-edged destroyer—into twin blades.
He spun.
Once.
Twice.
Then faster—like a human top, steel flashing in the dim light, wind howling with each rotation.
And then—
BOOM.
He launched upward, carving through the roof in a clean, brutal arc.
The attack shredded the exact panel of wood where the mysterious man had been standing—not by chance, but by calculation.
Kira wasn't aiming at a structure.
He was protecting his profits.
He knew exactly where the man's boots had landed.
Exactly where to cut—to stop anyone from interfering with the organs he planned to sell.
CRASH!
The roof split open as Kira's spinning slash tore through the wooden beams.
A figure dropped down hard, hitting the ground with a thud that echoed across the ruined space.
Dust puffed up.
The man didn't flinch.
He stood immediately, calm as ever, and casually brushed off his coat.
A brown overcoat—clean, pressed.
Neatly tucked shirt and formal pants.
A low-brimmed detective's hat, dark goggles over his eyes, and a simple mask covering the lower half of his face.
The air shifted around him.
Mysterious Man (calmly):
"You're better than I expected, Kira."
Kira (scowling):
"I didn't ask for a review."
His voice dropped, sharp and cold.
"I want answers. Why did you kidnap the boy?"
The man adjusted his collar slightly.
Mysterious Man:
"Why didn't you ask that of the two you killed?" His tone carried mockery.
Kira (snapping):
"Don't play games with me. They didn't even know why they were doing it. But you…"
He pointed his blade at him.
"You're the mastermind. I saw it in their eyes—confused, terrified. Puppets."
Mysterious Man (unshaken):
"Do you have any proof?"
Kira's aura flared. His grip on the blade tightened.
Kira (furious):
"Huh? What did you just say? You asked me for clarification—and now you're questioning my rights in front of my face?"
"How dare you question my rights and authority?" he screamed… then said softly, "Fine."
His eyes burned with rage.
"You're going to die here. May your soul rot in peace."
To be continued…