The First Sin?
Chapter 2: The First Sin?
The house smelled of sweat and stale fear. Cold morning light slanted through the gaps in the wooden panels, casting long, thin shadows across the floor. The room was still, too still, but the silence was heavy, charged, as if the walls themselves had waited for this moment. The man standing before him, his father, was massive and still. For a brief, terrible heartbeat, Otosu saw him not as his father, but as a shadow looming over the small figure of his mother. She had collapsed to the floor, gasping in shallow, tremulous breaths, the redness in her neck slowly fading into purplish bruises. Her small hands were pressed weakly against her throat as if they could push away the weight of the air heaved from the chest of the monster who had called himself her husband.
Otosu’s own hands trembled, the old instinct to flee screaming in his chest. But a strange, unnatural heat began to rise from within, a pulsing warmth that radiated from his chest, crawling outward to his arms and legs. His vision sharpened, and in the periphery, he felt the heat distort the air around him, not visible flame, not fire, but the pure, raw aura of something alive, angry, red as spilled blood. It had always been there, buried beneath the fear and the endless suppression, but now it throbbed like a heartbeat in his veins. He clenched his fists. Each knuckle screamed in protest, but he felt stronger, hot, heavy, burning from the inside, as though the very desire to stop his father was manifesting into a force he could no longer contain.
For a fleeting second, Otosu’s mind emptied. Fear, shame, and self-loathing swirled together, but they no longer restrained him. Instead, they became fuel, sharpening his reflexes. His eyes, dark brown and wide, fixed on the shape of the man who had terrorized them for so long.
'You can’t wait anymore, a voice hissed in his mind', not quite his own.
'You are the only thing standing between her and the end'
He lunged. His fists hit first. Soft at first, almost apologetic, striking at the thick forearm that had crushed his mother’s throat moments before. The impact sent a shudder of red heat through his hands, each blow radiating into his bones, warming him, energizing him. His father’s head turned slightly, dark eyes narrowing, a low growl slipping from his throat. Otosu’s second punch came harder, landing against the man’s ribs. Pain shot through Otosu’s arms, sharp and searing, but the heat in his chest flared brighter, burning with a red intensity that made his vision blur at the edges. Each strike carried the weight of years of terror, every bruise he had endured, every tear he had tried to hide.
The man staggered back a step, momentarily caught off-guard. For the first time in Otosu’s life, he saw hesitation in his father’s expression, glimmer of fear that mirrored the terror Otosu had felt countless nights. From somewhere behind, Otosu heard a shallow, raspy inhale, the sound of lungs stretching under panic. For a split second, he almost hesitated, almost.
But then he remembered the nights. Every night, every scream, every bruise. The heat inside him surged, redder, heavier, as if the aura itself were urging him on, demanding justice that was beyond the law. He struck again. His fists collided with his father’s chest, and a sound cracked through the room, a sharp, wet snap. The man’s lips curled back in a snarl, a flicker of genuine pain crossing his face for the first time. Otosu’s vision shimmered with the heat of his aura, wrapping around each impact like molten iron. The blows were no longer hesitant, they were precise, merciless, and furious.
His father, a man once proud and cruel, now staggered under the assault. Sweat mixed with blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. The realization of pain, the full, inescapable human pain, was new to him. He had never imagined his child could strike with such force, with such hatred barely restrained by flesh and bone. The man tried to lunge, to grab, to choke back the boy who dared strike him. But Otosu’s aura flared again, each punch bringing heat that radiated outward, pressing against the air, burning the father’s senses as though every strike were a live coal pressed into his chest.
Otosu’s father finally managed to grab his son’s arm, twisting violently. Pain lanced through Otosu’s shoulder. He gritted his teeth, feeling the aura flare hotter and hotter, the red heat wrapping around him like armor, burning through fear and hesitation alike. He wrenched free, swinging an elbow into his father’s ribs. The wet crack of breaking cartilage echoed in the small room. A spray of blood hit the walls, red against the gray wooden panels. The smell of iron filled Otosu’s nostrils. The heat in his body throbbed, almost painful in its intensity. His father staggered, hands reaching out for something solid, something to hold onto.
Otosu’s mind was a blur. Each strike was a memory transformed into action: the nights hiding under blankets, the screams he could not stop, the tears his mother shed silently. Every blow carried the weight of years, of trauma, of the raw, untempered heat of red aura. He grabbed a nearby chair, splintered it against the man’s shoulder. Wood cracked under the force, embedding into his father’s flesh. Pain, heat, and rage intertwined. The man collapsed to the floor, clutching the wound, gasping, blood streaking his shirt.
Otosu’s father attempted to rise, staggering to his feet, clutching at Otosu as though he could snatch life from him. Otosu’s red aura surged to its peak, almost unbearable in its intensity. Each strike now radiated an invisible, searing pressure, pressing on his father’s chest and ribs. Otosu’s vision blurred with heat, sweat, and the metallic scent of blood.
He delivered one final blow. His father’s head snapped back, a wet, crushing sound echoing like a drumbeat of finality. The man fell sideways, sprawled across the floor. His breaths came shallow, ragged, each one a battle against the life slipping from him. Otosu’s hands were slick with blood, red aura still simmering in waves that made his chest feel like it was on fire.
The room was silent again, except for ragged, shallow breaths and the wet, heavy scent of blood and sweat. Otosu stared down at the body, the heat in him fading slowly as adrenaline drained. His mother whimpered behind him, eyes wide and terrified.
Otosu’s fists shook. His red aura, once a raging furnace, now receded to a dull, throbbing warmth inside his chest. Had the first sin been committed? The boy who had been afraid, trembling, and broken was gone. In his place was something else: a demon tempered by fire, forged in blood, and awoken to the cost of survival. Otosu sank to his knees, blood and sweat soaking his clothes. The reality of what he had done pressed down with unbearable weight. Every scream from the past echoed in his head, every tear he had tried to hold back now flooded him in a single, crushing wave. The room was quiet. Too quiet. And in that silence, Otosu understood, with a terrifying clarity: He was no longer just a boy.
The body of his father lay twisted on the floor, limbs splayed at unnatural angles. Blood pooled beneath him, dark and viscous, soaking the rough wooden panels and dripping into the cracks as though the house itself were swallowing it. Otosu’s fists were still trembling, red aura fading slowly from his skin, leaving a lingering heat in his chest that made it feel like molten iron. The man’s chest rose and fell erratically, a shallow, desperate fight against death itself. His eyes, dark and small, rolled back once, twice, then fixed on Otosu with a raw, unfiltered mixture of shock and disbelief. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, Otosu saw in them a question, a flicker of human thought: Why…my son?
Otosu’s hands shook violently, blood dripping through his fingers. The heat of his aura had receded slightly, but his body still buzzed, like a live wire vibrating beneath his skin. The room smelled of iron and fear, sweat and raw life seeping away with every breath his father drew.
“...I—I…” Otosu’s voice cracked, barely a whisper, as if speaking too loudly could summon the ghosts of the past. He didn’t know what he was saying, didn’t know if words could explain the years of terror, the nights spent huddled under blankets, the bruises hidden beneath shirts, the invisible weight of fear pressing into him day after day. His father attempted to lift a hand, trembling violently, fingers curling uselessly toward him. Otosu froze for a heartbeat. Despite everything, some tiny flicker of memory, a child who had once called this man “father”, stopped him. But the aura within him surged, a red tide of heat and rage, and instinct overrode memory.
He struck again, precise, brutal, the knuckles of his small hands smashing against the man’s skull. There was no hesitation, no mercy. The man’s body jerked violently, a wet crack ringing sharply as bones gave under force. Blood spattered across Otosu’s face, sticky and warm, mixing with tears he didn’t know he had been holding back. The father’s eyes widened, the last human recognition flickering in them as pain washed over his senses. Otosu’s red aura, subtle but palpable, pressed outward now like invisible fire. With each blow, it radiated heat that made his father stagger, recoil, scream, not in words, but in pure, primal agony.
He grasped the man by the hair, yanking his head back. The man’s neck bent at an unnatural angle, vertebrae snapping audibly beneath the pressure. Otosu’s body was trembling from the strain, from the aura, from the violence itself, but he could not stop. Could not. Not until the threat, the shadow of abuse and terror, was gone forever.
The father’s groans were wet and ragged now, each one a final, desperate protest against what had been inflicted. His hands clawed at Otosu’s shoulders, weak, ineffective. Each time they touched, red heat flared anew, not fire, not flame, but the pure, scorching sensation of aura spilling outward from the boy’s chest, wrapping him, charging the air around his fists with an oppressive intensity.
Another blow, and the man’s head snapped to the side. A wet, awful sound, the kind that only comes when bone is crushed beneath unexpected force, echoed in the cramped room. Blood sprayed, the sticky warmth hitting Otosu in the chest, soaking the front of his shirt. He could taste it now: iron, copper, life seeping away with every heartbeat.
Otosu’s mind was empty, not with calm, but with a horrifying focus. There was no hesitation, no questioning. There was only action. One more strike. Another. The air seemed to tremble with his aura, red and hot, pressing into the room, into the walls, into the very floorboards. His father’s movements slowed. Weak, desperate, pathetic. And then, finally, silence, but not peace. The man’s body fell flat to the floor, motionless, limbs sprawled. A thin, wet gurgle escaped his lips, then nothing. The life had drained from him, leaving only a broken, bloody shell.
Otosu sank to his knees beside the body, chest heaving. His palms were slick with warmth and blood, the red aura now pulsing faintly beneath his skin, leaving his hands trembling from the intensity of the heat it had carried. He looked down at what he had done. And for the first time, the enormity of his action struck him fully. The silence of the house pressed in like a vice. His mother’s soft sobs broke it, raw and trembling from the corner of the room. She had watched, frozen, eyes wide with disbelief and terror. Otosu had killed her abuser, her tormentor. But the relief in her gaze was intertwined with fear, fear for what her son had become, and fear for the boy who had done the unthinkable.
He tried to speak, to explain, but words failed. Only the aura remained, a faint red pulse in his chest that mirrored the beat of his own heart. Heat radiated from him in waves, not fire, not destruction but the raw, living energy of someone who had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed. His mother crawled toward him, trembling, hands shaking as she reached to touch his bloodied arms.
“Otosu… my god…” she whispered. Her voice quavered, breaking under the weight of both terror and relief.
“It’s… it’s over. It’s… over.”
Otosu shook his head slowly, tears cutting through the blood and sweat on his face.
“No,” he whispered, low and harsh.
“It’s… never over. I… I did this.” His voice was a growl, haunted, carrying the weight of guilt and rage entwined.
“I killed him.”
She could only nod, understanding the depth of his words. But understanding offered no comfort. The life had ended, yes, but the boy who had killed it was now something else entirely, a creature of his own fear and fury, shaped by trauma and hardened by necessity. Otosu’s gaze drifted to the body of his father. Limbs splayed, blood pooling, head turned at an unnatural angle. Every detail seared itself into his mind: the wet snap of bones, the ragged gasp of air leaving his lungs, the empty stare that had tried to question, plead, curse. He had struck with everything he had, muscle, spirit, aura, and the father had no power left, none.
The red heat in his chest had ebbed now, leaving a dull ache, like molten stone cooled but still embedded in his ribs. His hands shook violently. He could feel the pulse of life leaving the room, not just his father’s, but something in the air, in the walls, in himself. The house, long silent except for terror, now seemed to hum with the residue of what had happened. His mother crawled fully into his arms, sobbing, shaking.
“It’s over, Otosu. He won’t ever hurt us again,” she whispered. But Otosu could not answer. Could not reassure her. He had crossed a line. He had killed a man and in the act, a part of himself had gone with him. For hours they remained there, kneeling amidst blood and sweat, until the red haze in Otosu’s chest faded to nothing. The heat of his aura left behind a tremor in his bones, a reminder that something fundamental had shifted. He could never unlearn what he had done. Could never forget the weight of life ending beneath his fists, could never erase the sound of splintered bone and wet, desperate gasps echoing in his mind. Otosu’s mother finally spoke again, voice soft but firm.
“We live,” she said, almost to herself.
“We survive. And we start again.”
Otosu swallowed, gagging slightly at the mixture of blood and bile in his throat. He could only nod. Not because he believed it, but because it was the only motion left in a body exhausted beyond endurance. The boy who had trembled in fear, who had wished for a truck to end him, who had felt powerless for years, he was gone. In his place was something else. Something born in the fire of red aura and rage. Something that would carry the weight of darkness and trauma for the rest of his life. He had survived. And he had killed. And as the morning sun slanted through the gaps, red light mingling with the shadows and the blood, Otosu understood fully: he had crossed a line, and there was no going back. The boy was gone a demon had been born.
