The Birth of the Monster

The Birth of the Monster

That night, while the world lay drowned in darkness and other children slipped into innocent dreams, Suf—a four-year-old boy with eyes that burned for knowledge—remained awake. His tiny fingers flipped through the final page of "Codex Tenebris," Volume 1, a psychological manga that dissects the human soul's shadows. For Suf, the book wasn't mere fiction; it was a mirror—reflecting a world masked in paradox and cloaked cruelty.

Suddenly, a violent knock shattered the silence. Suf froze. It mirrored a scene he'd just read. Instinct screamed: Hide! He darted behind the wardrobe, his heart beating like a caged bird.

His mother burst in, frantic eyes scanning the room. When she spotted him, her relieved smile was like a flicker of light before the storm.

"Quiet, my love," she whispered—her voice a wind carrying news of death.

Suf obeyed. Through the wardrobe's crack, he saw his mother collapse like a marionette with snapped strings, crimson blooming from her stomach—painted like an expressionist scream across death's canvas.

Logic whispered: To move is to die. So he remained still, eyes wide like a philosopher grasping the absurdity of life.

That night, Suf watched as his parents were buried alive beneath a massive banyan tree—roots coiling around their corpses like a primordial hunger reclaiming its own. He clenched his fists, nails digging into flesh until blood spilled—but no tears fell. The grief was too vast for ordinary sorrow.

When the murderers left, Suf ran to the grave, stared into the fresh wound of the earth. Then, and only then, did he cry—his voice shattering the night like glass.

"Why?! Is this world truly just?!" he screamed—his cry echoing into the silent sky, defying a mute heaven.

"I swear... I will kill whoever took them from me."

The next day, the murderers returned—this time with masks of concern. Their faces, polished by lies, feigned compassion. Media swarmed around Suf; their cameras, cold eyes of wolves.

And when Suf remained silent—a statue robbed of its soul—they exploited him.

"Look! He's reading a book about psychopaths!" one of them sneered, pointing at his manga.

In a heartbeat, the boy became a villain. The flames of accusation spread like wildfire across dry grass. They called him "Demon Child," pelting his frail body with hate—the very stones that should have struck the true culprits.

So Suf fled—vanishing into the shadowed veins of the city. He lived beneath bridges, beside a ragged old scavenger whose fate echoed his own. But even that sanctuary was stolen. One morning, Suf found the man lifeless, lips blue and foam-touched—poison had played its final note.

Emotionless, Suf dragged the corpse into the forest, offering it to the wild as a sacrifice for his survival.

From trash piles, he salvaged survival guides. His first fire flickered like a fragile soul. A rusted pot became an altar where he cooked cockroaches, snakes, and maggots—hell's cuisine forced upon him by an indifferent world.

At first, his stomach rebelled. But hunger is a cruel tutor. Eventually, he ate with blank expression, a machine fueled by hatred.

He trained. His frail frame became a weapon, honed by pain. Every blow he received, he endured. Every insult, he recorded. The world taught him one law: Endure or perish.

Then, a sliver of fate—his mind, brilliant beyond years, allowed him to disguise himself and pass an elite academy's exam with perfect scores.

"A genius child!" exclaimed the examiners.

Yet his tattered clothes were a banner of rebellion in a sea of luxury uniforms. Laughter from other children cut through him like blades.

Then came Ariana.

"Who are you?! Go away! I trust no one!" Suf snarled, eyes wild like a cornered beast.

But she simply smiled, a sunbeam melting his frostbitten heart.

"I just want to protect you," she said—her voice, a forgotten lullaby.

Suf analyzed her—movements, tones, even the rhythm of her breath—like a scientist dissecting hope. When she offered him a piece of bread, his defenses crumbled.

They became inseparable. Ariana was his light.

But the world is never kind.

During a snow-covered day, as Suf tasted happiness, the bullies returned. Their snowballs hid rocks—fate's smiles concealing knives.

Ariana fell. Blood ran like a scarlet stream upon the white.

"I don't want you to become a monster..." she whispered, breath fading.

Her words lingered—like a blade lodged in Suf’s heart.

And in that moment, Suf transformed.

With cold precision, he slaughtered them—twisting necks like bottle caps. Their blood painted the snow, an expressionist mural decipherable only by those touched by hell.

He cradled Ariana’s corpse home, etched a message in blood upon the wall—a manifesto against a world that failed the innocent.

Then, beneath the bridge once more, he reopened "Codex Tenebris."

"Humans are not rational beings. They are puppets of fear and words."

Suf smiled, like a student who had mastered his final lesson.

"Very well, Teacher... I shall carry your dream."

The world created a monster—and that monster would deliver its reckoning.