The cold, hard ground was my first memory. A constant, empty ache in my tummy was my companion. I don't remember smiling. I don't remember laughter, or warmth, or a kind touch. There was only the blur of shimmering light and strange powers—Blessings, I learned later—that drifted past me like colorful ghosts. Their eyes just slid away, or worse, they looked at me like I was something dirty on the pavement. I didn't know why they did that, why they whispered "monster" or "freak." I just knew their stares made my chest feel tight and small, like there wasn't enough air.
I was hungry, always hungry. My limbs felt heavy, each movement a Herculean effort. One day, lying sprawled on a grimy street, my vision swam with the shimmering heat rising from the cobblestones. Then I saw it: a piece of bread, discarded, half-eaten, but still bread. A lifeline. I couldn't feel any strength in my body, but the gnawing emptiness in my gut propelled me forward. I crawled, dragging myself inch by agonizing inch, my fingers trembling as they finally brushed against the stale crust.
Before I could bring it to my lips, a shadow fell over me. A boy, no older than myself, with eyes glinting with a malicious satisfaction, kicked the bread away. It skittered across the ground, landing in a puddle of muddy water. Then, a blur of motion, a sharp pain, and I was on my back, the boy's foot stomping on the ruined bread, then on my chest, my arms. He kept kicking, and I could only curl into a ball, tears silently streaming down my face. My cries were swallowed by the indifference of the bustling street. Adults, wrapped in their dazzling Blessings, paused to watch, their faces impassive, some even offering words of praise to my tormentor. "Good work, young master!" one called out, his voice rich with approval. "Show the freak his place!"
Freak. Monster. My name, given to me by the world, was Akuma. Demon. I don't know when I got this name, but as long as I remember, everyone called me this. I didn't understand why they hated me. I had no one, no memory of anyone who ever loved me.
In this world, Blessings are everything. They manifest as extraordinary abilities: control over fire, manipulation of gravity, bursts of superhuman speed, the power to heal with a touch, or shatter stone with a thought. Everyone possessed these powers, or so it seemed. They were the very fabric of society, granting respect, money, and love. The Blessed Ones were the beacons, revered figures whose every move was celebrated. And then there was me. No Blessing. No power. Just Akuma.
My lack of power wasn't just an inconvenience; it was a brand, a mark of impurity. The world saw me as a flaw in their perfect, shimmering tapestry of abilities. I was a defect, an abomination. While other children learned to conjure flames or levitate pebbles, I was learning to dodge stones and anticipate the contempt in people's eyes. My childhood wasn't filled with games or innocent wonder, but with the constant, gnawing fear of the next blow, the next sneer, the next empty stomach.
I lived in the shadows, a ghost haunting the edges of a vibrant, powerful society. Scraps of food, often spoiled or scavenged from overflowing bins, were my meals. Broken-down shanties, abandoned alleyways, or under bridges served as my makeshift homes. The cold was my blanket, the hard ground my bed. The city, a dazzling spectacle of powerful individuals using their Blessings for commerce and entertainment, was a cruel, glittering prison for me. I watched them, their faces alight with confidence, their movements fluid with power, and a dull ache settled in my chest. Not envy, not exactly. More like a profound, echoing loneliness.
The day of the bread, when the boy kicked me and the adults praised him, something inside me shifted. The pain was familiar, the hunger a constant companion, but the utter indifference, the outright approval of my suffering, ignited a spark. It wasn't a spark of rage, not yet. It was a spark of something colder, harder: a dawning realization that no one was coming to save me. There was no divine intervention, no hidden power waiting to awaken. If I wanted to survive, truly survive, I had to rely on myself.
I didn't know how. My body was weak, my spirit battered. But the image of that boy's sneering face, the adults' approving smiles, burned into my mind. I couldn't fight back then, but the thought, a fragile, desperate whisper, formed: I will.
My first attempt at "training" was clumsy, born of desperation. I started with simple things. Instead of simply lying down when exhausted, I tried to stand a little longer. Instead of just crawling, I forced myself to walk, even if it was just a few stumbling steps. I began to observe the Blessed Ones. Not their powers, but their physical forms. They were often strong, agile, honed by the very nature of their abilities. I couldn't wield a Blessing, but I could learn to move, to be silent, to endure.
My days became a relentless pursuit of physical resilience. I ran until my lungs burned, my legs screamed. I lifted whatever heavy objects I could find – discarded bricks, heavy pieces of scrap metal – until my muscles shook with fatigue. I learned to climb, scrambling up crumbling walls and over fences, driven by the need to escape, to find new scavenging grounds, or simply to get away from prying eyes. Every bruise, every scraped knee, every aching muscle was a testament to my burgeoning defiance. It was a brutal, self-imposed discipline, with no one to guide me, no one to praise me, only the constant, unforgiving weight of my own weakness.
Whispers of the Unblessed Path
As the months turned into years, a stark truth became undeniable: while the Blessed Ones relied on their inherent abilities, often neglecting their physical selves, I was building a foundation of pure, unadulterated human strength. My senses sharpened. I could hear the subtle shifts in footsteps that indicated an approaching threat. I could see the faintest movement in the shadows. My body, once a source of constant pain and weakness, was slowly transforming. I was still small, still gaunt, but there was a wiry toughness to me, a quiet resilience that belied my years.
One cold, unforgiving night, I found myself cornered by a group of older boys, all with minor Blessings. One could make his fists glow, another could briefly enhance his speed. They saw me as an easy target, a way to amuse themselves. This time, I didn't just curl up and cry. My heart hammered, but a strange calm settled over me. I moved, not with a Blessing, but with instinct honed by countless close calls. I dodged a glowing punch, slipped past a burst of enhanced speed, my movements fluid, unexpected. They were powerful, yes, but clumsy in their reliance on their gifts. I wasn't fighting them; I was simply not being hit.
It was a small victory, a temporary escape. They eventually cornered me, and I took another beating, but something was different. I had seen a flicker of surprise in their eyes, a momentary confusion when their Blessed attacks didn't immediately land. That night, as I nursed my wounds, a new thought took root. What if my lack of power wasn't an absolute weakness? What if, in this world obsessed with abilities, the absence of a Blessing could be its own kind of strength?
This thought, a dangerous heresy in a world of the Blessed, became my secret. It was a seed of possibility in a desert of despair. It was the first time I imagined a path for myself that wasn't defined by what I lacked, but by what I could become. The world still called me Akuma, the demon, the unblessed. But perhaps, just perhaps, I could be something more. Something they couldn't possibly imagine. My journey, the journey of the lone warrior, had begun, forged in the fires of neglect and the chilling silence of a world that didn't want me.