Bab 3: not a welcoming world
Weakness—unbearable and overwhelming—gripped the boy's entire body.
It did not come from the muscles, as it does after long fatigue, but as if it were imposed from without, paralyzing every cell of his being. He could feel nothing but this suffocating infirmity that clouded his mind. He could not open his eyes, move a finger, or make the slightest movement.
Then a disturbing feeling overwhelmed him after realizing that he couldn't breathe. It was as if his mind were trapped in a lifeless body, devoid of vitality.
Suddenly, his chest heaved, and air surged into his mouth, caressing his lips and tongue before flooding his lungs. It was the first real sensation he'd had in hours. A deep, overwhelming joy surged through him as the breath filled his lungs, then gently escaped. Slowly, the numbness began to dissipate, and his skin came alive to the feel of his clothes—shorts, a t-shirt, and slippers. He realized he was lying on something hard and cold.
With each passing moment, his senses crept back, one by one, until his hearing returned. But instead of the comforting sounds of nature he might have hoped for, he was met with a dissonance of terror—screams filled the air.
The most vivid were those of women and children, which were ringing out to him from distant corners of the area. Among them he could also distinguish several men's voices, laughing and shouting like wild beasts.
Allen opened his eyes. Above him stretched a wooden ceiling with a huge hole, through which he could see white clouds in the blue sky, and the sun's rays penetrated inside, caressing his face.
Turning his head, he surveyed the room. It was humble—poverty lingered in every corner. The furniture was worn, the walls peeled with age, and the floor and ceiling were fashioned from rough, weathered boards.
He stood up and approached the shattered window, seeking a clearer understanding of his surroundings. What greeted him was a nightmare made real. Bodies littered the road, and dirty, ragged men brandishing guns and blades were forcing their way into homes, leaving destruction and terror in their wake.
Allen instantly grasped the horror of his predicament, the sinister nature of the men, and the peril that loomed over him. Instinctively, he ducked down, pressing himself against the cold floor, careful to remain unseen by any wandering pirate's gaze.
His heart pounded frantically in his chest. His mind, once a sanctuary for reason, was now a frenzy, thoughts flitting about in chaos. He was aware of a grim reality. These men were pirates, ruthless fiends who brutalized anyone they deemed unworthy of their favor.
He was well aware of the gravity of the situation he was in. His chances of survival were slim: these pirates were ruthless in killing anyone they didn't like.
"What… What do I do? Damn it…" A whisper, no louder than a breath, escaped his lips.
He knew nothing of this place—this forsaken village that lay under the shadow of terror. Where is it located? On the Grand Line, in the New World, or perhaps on a remote island drifting in one of the great oceans? Who are the pirates, how strong are they? And where were the marines, those protectors of world order?
The questions circled like vultures, but no answer came, only the mocking silence of the unknown.
He crouched low and began to crawl toward the room's exit, careful to stay out of sight from the window. Once he was within arm's reach of the wooden door, he gently touched it and slowly started to open it.
The door was old. He pressed his hand against it, gingerly coaxing it open, though the aged hinges protested with a creak that clawed at his nerves.
Swinging the door open, he cautiously crept into the hallway. The interior resembled the room he had just left, but here the walls were painted a dull gray, and unfamiliar potted plants rested on pedestals.
Creeping forward, Allen moved with the care of a hunted animal, mindful of the creaky floorboards that threatened to give him away with each step. He stole glances into the adjoining rooms, eyes darting nervously until he found what he sought—the kitchen. He made his way toward the table, his eyes locking onto a modest kitchen knife lying abandoned upon its surface. Grasping it tightly, he turned back, retreating to the safety of the doorway, where he crouched low once more, positioning himself out of sight from any prying eyes that might pass by the window.
"Ho-uh," A long, shuddering, heavy sigh escaped his lips.
Leaning forward, his hands pressed against his knees, Allen bowed his head in a desperate attempt to steady his spiraling thoughts.
"Satoro Gojo... I can't feel anything. Did he forget to give me the powers? Damn it, how am I supposed to survive?" Allen thought, frustration and fear mixing in his mind.
He raised his hand in front of him and focused his gaze on it. He was inhabiting the body of a boy, no older than sixteen.
'Hmm, how is it supposed to work? Negative emotions, how am I supposed to turn them into energy? ' Allen began to ponder. He remembered the workings of cursed energy from the manga Jujutsu Kaisen perfectly. Now, he fully grasped Gojo's words. There's a world of difference between theoretical knowledge and practical application
Closing his eyes, Allen forced himself to summon memories steeped in rage and sorrow. His face twisted, contorted by the sharp edges of those recollections, each one an attempt to conjure the elusive cursed energy.
'Damn it… this isn't working,' he cursed inwardly, frustration clawing at him.
Suddenly, a door slammed open, the noise reverberating down the hallway. The door slammed hard against the wall, sending shockwaves through Allen's trembling body. Laughter followed—coarse, brutal, and filled with malice. His heart seized in his chest, pounding with wild intensity. His breath came in shallow, erratic bursts as panic welled up inside him.
Gripping the knife tightly, he strained to listen to the approaching footsteps.
"Hey, who's in there?" barked a rough voice. "Do me a favor and hand over all your money, nice and quick, and I promise I won't have to slit your throat!"
"Come on, show yourself with the money, and no one gets hurt!"
Allen squeezed his eyes shut, summoning every ounce of strength he had left to still the storm raging inside him. His pulse pounded in his ears, but he willed himself to remain silent, calm—even as fear gnawed at the edges of his mind. Each sound of the pirate's footsteps was like a needle piercing the boy's nerves.
"As you wish. Heh-heh-heh..." the pirate mumbled again, ending his speech with the sound of a broken vase he threw off the nightstand.
The pirate continued his looting, rifling through the rooms, snatching up whatever pitiful valuables the house could offer. The jangle of stolen goods filled the air, a grotesque symphony of greed as they were stashed away in a small, worn black bag. Allen could hear the footsteps growing nearer, the pirate's heavy boots inching toward the kitchen, where he now crouched in the darkened corner, hidden behind the door.
Two more steps and the pirate crossed the threshold. His shadow spread across the floor like a looming nightmare. Allen saw the rough outline of the pirate's shoulder so close that the smell of sweat and blood burned his consciousness. He froze, his body paralyzed by fear. Allen had never killed a man before. But something dark and familiar awakened inside him, an echo of his childhood when his grandfather had taken him hunting. He remembered stalking the beast, pulling the trigger, and watching the life fade away. But this... this was different. The weight of the task ahead pressed down on him.
With a sudden dash, he lunged at the pirate and swung his knife. Although he wished he could slit the man's throat immediately, the difference in height and size, combined with his inexperience, made him reconsider. Instead, he aimed for the chest, plunging the knife deep and puncturing the man's lung.
"Bastard! I'll kill you, you are fucking dead!" the pirate roared, his voice a bellow of rage that reverberated off the walls.
Allen tried to pull out his knife and inflict another wound, but the man landed a hard blow with his hand right in his face smashing the kid's nose.
The boy staggered backward, still holding the knife sticking out of his chest. For a moment the blow knocked the spirit out of him.
"Son of a whore!" - The pirate hissed, his voice boiling with rage. Blood spurted from his lips as he clutched the knife lodged in his chest, but even in this wounded state, his hand gripped Allen's wrist tightly. The bag of stolen goods slipped out of the pirate's hands, forgotten, and after reaching for the hilt of his sword.
Allen's eyes locked onto the gleaming blade as it began to slide from its sheath, the deadly curve of the steel catching the light. The sight of it sent a cold shock through him, a whisper of death that seemed to crawl along his spine. The pirate was moments away from drawing the weapon fully, from delivering the final blow that would end his life.
But Allen's gut was against that fate. He didn't want to die. He needed to live. He had to live.
He could feel it in his bones, this primal, desperate need to survive. It roared through his veins, burning like fire, a surge of fury and fear that demanded action. Without thinking, he swung his free hand, driving it into the pirate's face with every ounce of strength he could muster. To his shock, the impact was far more powerful than he had anticipated. The pirate's head snapped back, his eyes rolling as he staggered, his legs buckling beneath him. He crumpled to his knees, dazed, momentarily subdued.
But Allen did not pause to consider what had happened. He could not afford to. The taste of blood was in the air, and survival was the only thought that consumed him. With a brutal yank, he wrenched the knife free from the pirate's chest. The blade, slick with blood, caught the dim light as he brought it down again—and again. He struck with the frenzy of a cornered animal, each thrust of the blade fueled by fear and adrenaline. He no longer counted the strikes—he didn't need to. He only knew that the pirate's body grew still beneath him, the life drained from it, blood pooling on the floor in dark, glistening rivers.
Allen stood over the corpse, breathing in short gulps. His hands were bloody, his heart still pounding in his chest, and adrenaline coursing through his veins like poison. He had killed a man. But he was alive. There was no doubt about that. He had killed and in so doing had saved his own life.
Status Power Mingguan
-- Peringkat
Power 
-- Power
stone