One Who Desires Death

"When I stare into the abyss, why does it run from me? I thought it was meant to stare right back... what exactly am I?" - A lost soul.

-50 Years ago-

Amidst the ruins of a once vibrant city, where shattered buildings stood as haunting monoliths, a deadly dance of contrasting forces unfolded.

The sun, obscured by smoke and dust, cast an eerie glow upon the desolate streets. The air tasted of desperation and defiance as two warriors emerged from the shadows, their gazes locked in a battle-born determination.

The first combatant, dressed in an all-black suit, exuded an aura of darkness and mystery. His every movement oozed lethal precision, muscles coiled with controlled power.

His name whispered through the wind as Zarkel Bloodthorn, a master of stealth and deadly techniques. His eyes, obsidian orbs devoid of mercy, scanned the wasteland with calculating focus.

"We're all that's left, it seems," Bloodthorn sounded through the broken-down city.

Opposite him stood a figure adorned in a pristine white karate outfit, a symbol of purity amidst the chaos. Radiating an aura of serenity and discipline, this warrior embodied the path of righteousness.

He was known by all as Arson "son of the white flame," he possessed an unyielding spirit, tempered by years of rigorous training and a deep understanding of honor. His piercing blue eyes burned with unwavering resolve.

"Oh he still speaks, I was beginning to think you had gone mute," Arson spoke with a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"Hmph" Zarkel let out a subtle sigh. "Only those who I have deemed deserving shall be graced with my words, you of all souls should know that."

"So you really want to claim that "title" huh? brother," Arson said as he tied his black belt firmly around his waist.

"I'm no brother of yours, for how long do you plan to hold unto the past?"

"Till you come back to your senses you fool, now brace yourself... I'm not going to hold back on you," Arson said with determination in his eyes.

"That's right, to hold back means death," Zarkel warned.

As they took their stances, the ruins trembled beneath their feet, as if sensing the impending clash.

Bloodthorn moved with silent grace, slipping through the shattered remnants of buildings like a shadow. His movements were a symphony of deadly elegance, barely discernible to the untrained eye.

"SWOOP... SWISHH... SLASH," His limbs flowed seamlessly, launching calculated strikes like venomous serpents, seeking to bring his opponent to his knees.

White flame, a beacon of righteousness amidst the wreckage, radiated a calm intensity. His body moved in perfect harmony, his muscles a testament to his unwavering discipline.

With each breath, he channeled the power of ancient martial arts, his techniques infused with grace and unyielding strength.

"BAM... BAM... CLASH," His strikes were swift, yet precise, carving through the air with a melodic ferocity.

"SWISHH... BAM... SLASH... CLASH."

Their blows were a ballet of destruction, a choreographed symphony of blows and counters. The sound of fists meeting flesh reverberated through the desolate streets, a percussion of pain and resilience. Dust danced in the air, clinging to the sweat-drenched bodies of the warriors.

"You better not die on me," Arson managed to let out amidst a combination of attacks.

Zarkel, a master of deception, struck with lightning speed, aiming for vital points, each strike calculated for maximum damage.

"I wish I could say the same, you self-righteous roach," Zarkel responded as he doubled his speed.

His movements blurred, leaving afterimages of malevolence in his wake. He weaved through the chaos, his strikes a blend of viciousness and cunning, exploiting the smallest openings in his opponent's defense.

Arson "Son of the white flame", embodying the essence of purity, parried and countered with fluid grace.

His strikes were like brushstrokes, precise and deliberate, redirecting the onslaught of darkness with unwavering serenity.

He moved with a supernatural calmness, anticipating Bloodthorn's every move, countering with a devastating combination of strikes and throws.

The clash of their powers created an aura of elemental conflict, the clash of yin and yang. Sparks of energy crackled in the air as if the very elements had awakened to witness this battle of opposing forces.

Their movements left trails of destruction in their wake, crumbling structures and shattered glass bearing testimony to the intensity of their clash.

As the battle reached its crescendo, fatigue began to weigh heavily on the combatants. Beads of sweat mingled with dust, tracing paths down their battle-scarred bodies.

Their breathing grew ragged, yet their spirits remained unbroken, fueled by unyielding determination.

With one final surge of power, the warriors launched themselves at each other.

Bloodthorn's strikes became more desperate, fueled by a relentless desire to bring down his virtuous adversary.

The White flame, resolute in his convictions, met each blow with unwavering resolve, countering with righteous fury.

And at that moment, as their fists collided one final time, the echoes of the past and the hopes for the future resounded through the ruined city.

As the dust settled, both warriors stood, bloodied and bruised, but unbowed. They locked eyes one last time, and in harmony, they both fell to the battle-scarred floor.

-Present Day-

*BEEP... BEEP*

Cars honked relentlessly from both sides of the busy highway, their cacophony forming a language understood only by those behind the stirring wheel.

It was a Monday morning, and the world moved like clockwork. Students, salarymen, and even the beggars by the subway had taken their positions, each striving to navigate through the day.

Amidst the hustle and bustle, a young boy named Kiran had reached his breaking point. Standing on the rooftop of a towering skyscraper, he gazed down upon the city below.

His voice barely a whisper, he mused to himself about the monotonous existence of humanity, how everyone bowed their heads, following trends rather than their own hearts.

"We are trapped in an endless loop, blind to what lies before us," Kiran murmured, drawing closer to the edge of the roof. He believed that, at this moment, he was invisible to the world.

"I wonder if anyone would notice my absence. If even a single tear would be shed," he pondered, his eyes scanning the busy streets below.

But his self-doubt soon snapped him back to reality. "What am I thinking? No one would miss a lonely worm like me, someone who has given up on life," Kiran chastised himself, shaking off his momentary daze.

With his arms outstretched, feeling the cool breeze against his skin, Kiran declared, "Perhaps in my next life, I'll be reborn as a bird and maybe then I'd find true freedom."

Unbeknownst to Kiran, an older man stood atop a neighboring building, observing his every move.

A cigarette perched between his fingers, the man couldn't help but wonder what a young boy like Kiran was doing on a Monday morning. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, captivated by the scene unfolding before him.

"This wouldn't be the first time I've tried to off myself," Kiran quietly spoke to himself as he let his mind wander into nothingness. The weight of his existence burdened his every thought, suffocating him with despair that seemed unending.

For as long as Kiran could remember, he had never felt pain. The concept of pain was a mystery to him, an enigma he desperately sought to unravel, but to no avail. It was as if he existed in a world devoid of the sensations that most took for granted.

In his relentless pursuit to understand what pain felt like, he had delved into the darkest recesses of his mind, searching for answers. But the darkness only grew deeper, and the answers remained elusive.

And so, he found himself at the precipice of life, staring into the abyss, contemplating the one thing he believed might grant him the answers, he sought the cold, long arms of death.

It wouldn't be the first time he had tried to kill himself. Memories of his previous attempts haunted his every waking moment. Once, while wandering through a desolate kitchen, his eyes locked onto a long, sharp knife. It seemed to call out to him, beckoning him to end his torment.

"Will this cut it?" Kiran had thought to himself as he pulled the knife out of its holder. The glimmering blade reflected his distorted reflection, as if mocking his futile endeavors.

Feeling the sharp edge of the knife, a flicker of hope sparked within him. "Yes, this should do just fine," he said, his voice barely audible in the silent room.

Without hesitation, Kiran plunged the knife toward his gut, desperate to feel something, anything. But as the blade made contact with his skin, a metallic sound filled the air.

*CLANG*

To his astonishment, the knife shattered upon impact, leaving him unscathed.

"I guess this won't do, huh?" Kiran said, his voice tinged with disappointment, as he gazed at the shattered remnants of steel scattered on the cold kitchen floor. It was yet another reminder of his peculiar existence.

"What exactly am I?" Kiran questioned, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and despair.

With a heavy heart, he turned away from the shattered blade and began to walk, his footsteps echoing through the empty corridors of his mind.

Over the years, Kiran had tried to commit suicide in various ways—hanging, poisoning, a gun to his head at point-blank range, and countless more.

Each time, he had hoped for release, for a glimpse into the realm of pain. But fate, or perhaps some twisted cosmic force, had denied him that release.

And on this very day, standing atop a towering skyscraper, Kiran made his decision. He would leap into the void, defying the laws of gravity, in a desperate attempt to beckon the chariots of the Reaper himself.

As he stood on the edge, the wind howling around him, Kiran's eyes gleamed with a strange determination. There was a flicker of hope amidst the darkness, a belief that this final act would unveil the truth he had so fervently sought.

With a deep breath, Kiran closed his eyes, ready to embrace the unknown. The world faded away, leaving only the deafening silence of his thoughts.

And then, in a heartbreaking instant, Kiran let himself go. Plummeting toward the ground at an alarming speed, he descended with an unwavering determination, as if fate itself guided his descent.

"Here I come, elusive rider of the gray horse," Kiran whispered, closing his eyes, surrendering himself to the hands of destiny.

Approaching the cold tarred street he whispered to himself, "Farewell world, Kiran has logged out."

"SPLATTT!!!!!".....