Memories were no longer mere images… they were slow bleeding inside Kravos' mind. Between one note and another, the old gate in his memory opened, and from it came that child. He walked to the market in tattered clothes, then stopped at a corner. He placed his hat in front of him and began singing with a broken voice.
The sunset cast shadows over the faces of passersby, but no one stopped. More than that… the street kids started laughing. They threw leftover fruits and rotten tomatoes at him. He paused for a moment, looked up at them with tearful eyes. Yet… he smiled. He tried to continue the melody, convincing himself that his voice still held meaning.
Then he saw a man at the far end of the street. His father. Standing there with a face that betrayed nothing… no pride, no anger, no sadness. Just emptiness.
He approached with heavy steps, each one tearing a note from the child's lips. When he reached him, he said nothing. He grabbed the boy by the collar and dragged him across the ground under the gaze of the people around.
The child cried, trying to explain, whispering with a trembling voice:
"I was just… singing, father… just singing…"
But the father did not hear. His fists moved faster than words. His kicks came more often than breaths. In a moment that would never be forgotten, they reached the kitchen. The father threw his son to the floor, opened a drawer, and pulled out a sharp metal fork. He looked at him with eyes full of disgust and said in a low, heart-shredding voice:
"I will end this voice… forever."
He lunged at him. The child screamed. His scream was not a plea for life… but his final melody. The fork pierced his neck… the pain was a fire consuming the sound, yet strangely… he bled, but he did not die.
In that instant, Kravos heard his childhood voice whispering inside his head, now amidst the battlefield:
🎵 "He wanted to silence me… but he turned it into a curse that will not be quieted." 🎵
The boy's scream was the last sound ever heard in that house. There was no more light. Only the echo of his father's angry steps as he left the room, leaving the door open. Young Kravos lay on the wooden floor, trembling, his small hands trying to touch the wound on his neck.
Yet the fork remained lodged there, cold and metallic, blood slowly pooling around it. He tried to breathe, to scream, but no sound came… only a faint whistle, as if the wind mocked him inside his throat.
After a few minutes, the father grabbed the child's foot and dragged him outside, throwing him into the street as one throws something worthless. The child fell onto the gravel, blood mixing with dust. The sky above was gray, and people walked by as if they saw nothing.
He wanted to cry, but no tears came. He lifted his head with difficulty, looking at the world he had hated since birth, and tried to say something… anything… but all that came out was a hoarse note, short, trembling between breaths, followed by a broken sigh.
And so… his new voice began. A voice not for singing… but for bleeding. The scene closed on young Kravos' body lying in the street, the fork still in his neck, as if it were the first string of a song no one understood.
Kravos slowly raised his hand to his neck, his fingers brushing three small vertical scars. Those old wounds pulsed faintly, as if remembering the pain more than he did.
Meanwhile, Ann watched him, moving on the tips of her toes, her eyes following every detail—his vacant gaze, his incomprehensible silence. But she had no time to ask. The fight wasn't over yet. She stepped forward, clenched her fists tightly. The air around her thickened, as if something was being pulled from within her.
She moved in a flash, her body splitting into two shadows at once. Dust rose from beneath her feet, light reflecting off the shurikens she launched during her strike, while her second body—or reflection—lunged from the opposite side.
Her next strike seemed like an echo that could not be traced, as if she were in more than one place at the same time. Yet Kravos, amidst his broken singing and hoarse voice, lifted his eyes to her. The smile that returned to his face this time was not mocking… but the smile of someone who had faced death before and no longer feared its repetition.
Kravos spoke in a fragmented voice, each breath fading with his words:
"Thank you… for hearing… my voice at last."
He did not retreat, did not raise his arms to defend himself, only smiled quietly—a calm smile unlike the one he had at the start of the fight, but the smile of someone who found peace at the peak of pain.
Ann's fist struck hard against his face, the air quivering as her knuckles hit his cheekbone, echoing across the arena. Kravos fell to the ground, his thin body finally slackening, blood mixing with the tears streaming onto the cold floor, yet that small smile remained on his face… like an unfinished melody.
Silence reigned for long seconds. Ann slowly raised her fist, sweat dampening her hair. She said nothing, only looked at him for a long moment before turning away calmly.
Then the referee's voice finally rang through the arena, announcing:
"The winner: Sarutobi Ann!"
Cheers erupted from all sides, the crowd roaring in admiration, surprise, and excitement. Ann stood there, breathless, still processing what had happened, yet the heat of victory surged through her veins like fire.
At that moment, Ken was seen returning to the front rows with quiet steps, holding a new pack of cigarettes. He passed some onlookers who gave him curious glances, but he paid no mind. He calmly opened the pack, placing a cigarette between his lips without lighting it yet.
He stopped before the arena, lifting his eyes toward Ann as she waved lightly to the crowd, and exhaled silently, breaths without smoke.
When Ann returned from the ring, she found herself standing automatically beside Ken and Akio in the front row, without planning it. Akio clapped enthusiastically, waving his hand with childish excitement, while Ken remained silent, staring at the arena with calm eyes, neither impressed nor bored.
Ann turned to him for a moment, smiling lightly:
"I wasn't that bad, was I?"
Ken did not answer directly. He lit his cigarette calmly, then looked at the gray sky above the arena, speaking in a low, indifferent tone:
"The crowd's cheers mean nothing… they'll forget the winner in five minutes."
Ann stopped smiling, while Ken exhaled slowly, his eyes never leaving the sky. She stared at him, his ash-gray eyes reflecting the light, his calmness strange. For the first time, she noticed his sharp handsomeness… features perfectly sculpted, flawless.
It was like the princes in stories, yet with a coldness that made approaching him difficult. After a moment of spacing out, Ken slowly lowered his head, meeting her eyes directly. Her breath caught.
He spoke in a calm tone, devoid of curiosity:
"Is there something?"
Ann blushed immediately, looking away quickly:
"N… no! Nothing!"
Then she muttered internally, struggling to swallow her tension:
'He's so handsome… damn it!'
The next clash in the arena roared, swords striking, filling the air with an unrelenting metallic rhythm. Akio turned to Ken with a wide grin, as if he had known him for a long time.
He stood confidently beside him, talking nonstop:
"Did you see that strike, Ken? Amazing, right?! I'd have done the same if I were him… or maybe not, I'd make it even more thrilling! Heh, what do you think?"
Ken didn't respond at first. He just exhaled quietly, eyes fixed on the arena. After a moment, he said in a tone lacking any interest:
"You talk too much."
But Akio didn't give up, smiling as he continued:
"I fill the silence. You're too quiet. By the way, we're a team now… at least temporarily."
Ken raised an eyebrow without turning:
"A team? Who decided that?"
Akio laughed softly:
"Me. No one else dared."
Beside them, Ann observed quietly. She didn't intervene, but she couldn't ignore the strange contrast between the two:
The talking volcano (Akio) who never stops, and the frozen mountain (Ken) who only speaks when necessary.
She studied them for a while, silently analyzing:
'What a scene… one lives life loudly, the other as if afraid someone might hear him. Yet… I don't know why I feel they'd make good friends!'