Tekken Fan Fiction ❯ Jakunen Mirai ❯ Pain is Painless ( Chapter 1 )

A/N: For those that have already read this story, you might find that this version of Chapter 1 may flow a little better; I've quickly revised it and edited all its spelling and grammar errors. I'll be doing the same with further chapters in the future in an effort to make this story more readable.

***

Nothing but the sound of a single man's breathing could be heard throughout the massive dojo.

Silence.

A few footsteps against the glimmering wooden parquetry floor, the sound of clothing ruffling, a knee connecting lightly with the glossy surface. A soft sigh, and the sound of a cigarette lighter being struck. The faint orange light illuminated the entire hall, which had previously been in blackness. The dim light cast shadows from the bloodstained pillars about the floor, away from the muscular figure holdings its source, crouched over a body, similarly sized, sprawled in an unnatural position, face up. The face of the only conscious figure in the hall could be seen; dripping with blood, covered in lacerations and bruising. A scar on each cheek was also visible, below dark, heavy eyes. The face, though it held its youth so well, seemed to age with sorrow, silent sorrow, unreadable to the average person. Assumed cold-heartedness marred the warrior's face, as he gently brushed the blood-covered raven tresses from the face of the younger man beneath him.

And finally power was restored to the building, illuminating every corner with blinding golden brightness. Further from the two, another body was sprawled on the ground. The body of a taller, but very much older man, who, judging by the vacant look in his wide-open eyes, and the stillness of his chest, was dead. Other than that, there was nothing else in the hall besides ornate, richly decorated wooden pillars, chandeliers hanging languidly from above, intricate wooden ornamentation on the walls, and a great sparse emptiness heaving above heavily polished timber flooring, to accompany the sickening, humid silence.

The survivor put the cigarette lighter into his trouser pocket - what was left of his trousers, after what had seemed to be a tremendous battle - and pressed two fingers to the younger man's throat.

Nothing.

He closed his eyes, holding his breath a moment. He averted his gaze as his eyes slowly opened again. He had achieved his ultimate goal, at the ultimate price. Finally, the man who had taken his life away from him too many times to count, his own father, was dead. And now, his legacy, his last living relative…his silent pride…was also dead.

Bravely, he looked down at the young man's peaceful but battered face. His eyes were closed, thank god, and he looked almost as if he were sleeping. But he knew better. The boy was dead. He had fought so bravely too, as a grudging ally, and a last hope. He'd never understood why the boy had hated him so much; he'd never even met him. It was the old man who'd tried to kill him, just as he himself had suffered beneath the torment of that cruel, heartless tyrant. The boy had been cursed with the same darkness as his own, since his very conception, and that alone was reason enough to hate. But higher up the bloodline, the old man had done damage to the youth as well; in the form of a gunshot wound that should have killed. But his dark gift had saved him, and implanted a hatred stronger than life itself in the young boy's mind. And to think, his father never did a thing to him, and became a target of that hatred.

The man sighed again and stood up. The scar on his chest seemed to emanate a pain tonight; but more of an emotional anguish than the physical pain that had caused it so long ago. The long, wide laceration - running from his collarbone to well below his belt line - had long since healed, but had left its mark on his body and in his memory, so he'd never forget. Never forget the old man's betrayal. The pain stung more tonight; stung with loss. He leaned down a moment, resting his hand on the boy's cheek. In a deep whisper, he made an eternal promise.

"His death was for you, Jin. Never forget this."

Since he was young, the old man's death was something he'd wished for his own conscience, for his own sanity. Now, it was for his son. His only son.

He turned, and walked silently out of the hall, leaving the two corpses as they were. The authorities could do what they wished. It was all over now. Before he exited the huge doors of the dojo, he turned to catch one last glimpse of the son he would never get to know. He drifted out of the dojo in a daze, almost in a trance. Outside, police amongst other officials had arrived in the wake of the disaster; he walked straight past them. In those assumed cold-hearted, icy eyes, one could almost see tears forming.

But that's absurd.

Kazuya Mishima never cries.