Shadow of Crown

Aren slowly began to regain his composure after the chaos on the street. His face was smeared with blood, his body marked with wounds, yet inexplicably, he felt a surge of happiness. For the first time, he felt truly alive. The intensity of that moment, the thrill of violence—it was something he craved to experience again.

As he walked home, his steps grew heavier; the pain from his injuries didn't dampen the strange excitement bubbling inside him. His mind replayed the fight over and over—how effortless it had felt, how the void inside him had been momentarily filled. Each hit, each scream, had given him something. But what, exactly?

When he arrived home, Aren wasted no time. He stripped off his blood-stained clothes and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His body—slightly muscular, the result of his mother's insistence on a healthy lifestyle—now felt foreign to him. He hadn't trained for strength, not really. Yet here he was, standing in front of his reflection, feeling... power.

He traced the muscle lines on his back and arms. His mother had always pushed him to go to the gym, take swimming lessons, and maintain a balanced diet. He had never cared about any of it. But now... now, it all seemed to make sense. Maybe, all along, his body had been preparing for something. For this.

Stepping into the bathroom, he let the hot water cascade over his skin. The warmth soothed his wounds, but the happiness, that thrilling spark, began to fade with each drop that washed away the grime and blood. As the dirt disappeared, so too did the surge of life he'd felt on the street.

The warmth dulled the joy inside him, replacing it with a familiar emptiness. By the time he stepped out of the shower, he felt cold, ordinary, insignificant. Facing the mirror again, his expression was flat. Hollow. Everything had returned to how it was before the fight.

He stared at himself, searching for something—anything—that might help him feel again. But all he saw was the same lifeless reflection. The happiness had been fleeting, and now it was gone, leaving behind the same numbness that had haunted him for as long as he could remember.

"What should I do?" The thought echoed in his mind, over and over. The need to feel alive, to break free from this suffocating void, consumed him. That's when the idea struck him. Fighting. Maybe there was a way to regain that feeling, but this time, he could control it.

He rushed to his computer, heart pounding with a new kind of urgency. "Maybe I should learn to fight," he thought, quickly searching for martial arts. After a few minutes of scrolling through options, something caught his eye: Krav Maga.

He clicked on a video, and a man's voice filled the room.

"Hello! Today, I'll give you a brief introduction to Krav Maga. Developed for real-life self-defense, this system originated in Israel and focuses on practical, straightforward techniques to protect yourself from attacks. It's simple, quick, and highly effective. You don't need complex moves to defend yourself—you just need to react instantly to threats.

Krav Maga is not just about defense. It's also about offense when needed. You strike the most vulnerable points: eyes, throat, groin. The aim is to incapacitate your opponent fast, giving them no chance to fight back. No mercy. You use the strongest parts of your body—your elbows, knees, and head—to deliver devastating blows. It's about neutralizing threats as quickly and brutally as possible."

Aren leaned back in his chair, eyes locked on the screen. This was what he needed. Something primal. Something that didn't ask for control or hesitation—just raw power and survival. And maybe... maybe it could give him that feeling again.

He glanced at the calendar. Three weeks remained before school started. He had time. Plenty of time.

Week 1

Aren's alarm went off at 6 a.m., sharp. For the first time in a long time, he felt a purpose pulling him out of bed. Training began with simple stretching, followed by basic Krav Maga techniques: defense blocks, strikes, and takedowns. Each movement, though new, felt natural, as if his body had been waiting for this kind of challenge.

By the end of the first day, his muscles ached, but he welcomed the pain. It reminded him of the fight, of the high he was chasing. He pushed himself through two sessions every day—morning and evening. By the end of the week, the soreness had dulled, but the numbness in his mind remained.

Each time he looked in the mirror after training, he saw no change in his expression. His body was growing stronger, but his soul still felt empty. Yet, he kept going, convinced that somewhere in this relentless training, he would find what he was searching for.

Week 2

The second week brought more intensity. Aren woke at the same time each day, pushing himself harder with every session. His movements became sharper, faster. He started imagining real opponents during his drills, simulating attacks and counters with an unseen enemy. His reactions improved, his strikes became more precise, but the mirror never lied. His expression stayed the same—cold, detached, indifferent.

Yet, with each passing day, he could feel something shifting inside. The fight scenes he played out in his head felt more real. He was no longer just learning to fight. He was preparing for something bigger.

Week 3

As the third week approached, Aren felt ready. His body was honed, his instincts sharper than ever. But the emptiness still lingered, gnawing at him. That night, as he walked through the dimly lit streets, he heard raised voices ahead. A few blocks away, two men were arguing, their tones growing more hostile by the second.

Aren's pulse quickened. The tension in the air was palpable. Without thinking, he melted into the shadows, observing from a distance. One man suddenly lunged at the other, fists swinging wildly.

Aren felt the familiar itch—the hunger for chaos. His body moved before his mind had even made the decision. He rushed toward them, catching the first man off guard with a sharp elbow strike to the throat. The man crumpled, gasping for breath, his eyes wide with panic.

"What the hell?!" the second man shouted, stumbling backward in shock.

Aren barely heard him. His mind was already locked into the rhythm of the fight. The second man swung at him, but Aren sidestepped easily, driving a knee into his gut before delivering a precise kick to the throat. The man fell, choking, clutching at his neck.

In the midst of the violence, Aren felt it again—the rush, the thrill. The emptiness inside him began to fill, the void retreating as the chaos consumed him. But it wasn't enough. Not yet.

One man still stood, trembling as he watched his companions fall. "Back off!" he cried, but Aren stepped forward, pulling a knife from his pocket. The glint of the blade ignited a spark of excitement inside him.

The man lunged at him in desperation, but Aren dodged, slashing the knife across his arm in one swift motion. Blood poured from the wound, the man's scream echoing through the quiet street.

For a brief moment, Aren felt the void disappear, replaced by pure, unfiltered joy. But as the final man crumpled to the ground, the happiness began to slip away, like sand through his fingers.

The last thing the man saw was the dark crown emblem on Aren's hood as he disappeared into the night. The thrill was fading, but Aren knew now what he needed to feel alive. He needed more fights, more chaos. Only then could he keep the emptiness at bay.

As the screams of his victims echoed in his ears, a smile flickered on his lips. He craved that feeling again. And again.