The world isn't scared of monsters, it's scared of people who face them and become something worse!
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'Why do I do this?'
The thought had barely entered Eighty Seven's head when his knees buckled. Down he went, face-first into his own cart, crushing a day's worth of backbreaking labour beneath him.
Ore scattered across the dusty ground, one particularly sharp chunk kissed his forehead-opening up a little gash. Blood dripped down his cheek, and for a brief second, the world around him went fuzzy before clearing out.
"You mad bastard!"
The same cunt who'd just introduced his fist into Eighty Seven's face roared, satisfied with himself.
Any sensible man would've stayed down and rubbed his jaw. Apologised, maybe. But then, Eighty-Seven had never been accused of being sensible. His crimson eyes burned with the kind of life that the quarries usually crushed out of a man within the first month.
He wiped the blood off his cheek. Grabbed an ore chunk still warm from his blood. And up he came in a single fluid motion, swinging the rock like he was born to it.
The big man's eyes went wide-but it was too late for any thoughts!
-Crack!
The ore hit the bone. Hard to say which broke first-the rock or his skull. Both, most likely. His eyes rolled back, and down he went, joining his friend on the ground. The friend with the pickaxe through his palm, still whimpering like a kicked dog.
Silence descended into the underground pit.
Eighty-Seven stood in the middle of it all, blood dripping steadily from his split scalp.
The other miners had formed their usual neat lines like good little slaves waiting for their daily slop. But now, they were all watching.
"He's started again," someone muttered. "Captain's going to give us the speech."
"Why do the new bastards always poke the mad dog?"
"Did no one tell them? Stay away from that bastard. Simple."
Despite their voices, no one seemed to mind the fight. Rather, it seemed as if they were enjoying themselves. Who could blame them? In the pit, where they didn't even know if they could ever see the sun again, this was the only type of entertainment they had.
"You wanted my ore, didn't you?" Eighty-Seven stepped over the unconscious man, boot squelching in something wet. "Come on then. Take it. Lost interest already?"
There were three men left, now looking at Eighty-Seven like he was a ghost.
"He's just a boy," one of them said. "Hit him all at once."
They rushed him, all at once.
The fat one reached him first-of course, not because he was fast but because he was the nearest. Eighty-Seven had a mouthful of blood from that first punch. Waste not, want not. He spat it right in Fatty's face, watched the man flinch and blink.
And up came his knee, right between the legs.
-Crunch!
Something definitely broke. The fat man's hands shot to his groin, face going pale as milk. His eyes found religion real quick-saw heaven, hell, and everything in between.
Every man in earshot winced while Eighty-Seven just grinned.
"You fucker!"
A boot caught him in the shoulders, and he went down, rolling.
The remaining two came at him with boots and fists, kicking him from all sides.
Eighty-Seven curled up, protecting his head with his hands. It seemed like it wasn't his first time in this position. The kicks continued for a few seconds before one fool got too close.
Eighty-Seven opened his mouth and bit down on his leg. Hard, sinking his teeth into the man's unwashed skin.
"Ahhhhh! Get him off! Get him—"
Eighty-Seven released his hold before the others could kick him in the head, rolled sideways while they fussed over their bleeding friend.
His hand found dirt, a good amount of it. They came again, and he blew grit right into their eyes.
Blind men make easy targets.
Eighty-Seven grabbed the nearest one, spun around him like a monkey on a stick, and planted himself on the man's shoulders. Sitting on him in a perfect position!
He raised his elbow high and put his whole body into it.
Down it came!
The scream that followed could've woken the dead - Hell of a sound in these underground tunnels. The watching miners roared their approval - they were truly beginning to enjoy this now.
The last man was still rubbing grit from his eyes when Eighty-Seven picked up a head-sized chunk of ore with a bit of struggle.
The man opened his eyes just in time to see it coming down.
-Thunk!
And then there was one. The original screamer, pickaxe still piercing through his palm, trying so hard to be quiet now.
"You!" Eighty-Seven walked toward him, slow and casual. Blood dripped from his knuckles, but that was the last thing he seemed to care about.
"Didn't you want my ore? It's all here, waiting for you."
The man still tried to crawl away, even with a pickaxe nailed through his hand. The pointless struggle irritated Eighty-Seven more than it should have.
So he silenced the effort with a kick to the groin.
"You wanted my ore?" Eighty-Seven asked, settling onto the man's chest. He picked up another chunk of metal and tested its weight. "Here. Take it."
He brought it down on the man's face.
"Take it all."
Again.
Blood soaked his hands. Warm and slick. But Eighty-Seven didn't stop.
He punched. Again, and again, and again.
The man stopped moving, stopped screaming-he had found the mercy of unconsciousness. But Eighty-Seven didn't seem like he had any thought to stop, until a scream resounded, that is.
"What the fuck is going on here!"
Eighty-Seven looked up from his handiwork at the elevator descending into the underground and grinned his bloody grin.
The Guard Captain was finally here!
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Volume 01 - Sura's First Breath