Chapter 3: Lessons in the Dark

"It's better to walk a thousand miles than to read a thousand books, for true wisdom comes from experience. And remember, every journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." — Anonymous

※※※※※※※※※※※※※※※※※※

Shibuya's restless hum filled the night, neon lights flickering in the rain-slicked streets.

The city never truly slept, yet in moments like this, it felt hollow—just a stage for ghosts wandering in search of purpose.

Belial walked briskly, his breath uneven, his ribs still aching from the earlier beating.

His mind buzzed with exhaustion, but there was no time to stop.

He just needed to find somewhere safe—somewhere he could disappear.

Then, something caught his eye.

A man slumped on a nearby bench, shoulders heavy with despair, a shadow of Belial's own hopelessness.

At first, it was nothing unusual—Shibuya was full of lost souls.

But something about this man made Belial hesitate.

His face, lined with deep worry, his eyes hollow, as if burdened by an unbearable weight.

His long, unkempt hair was tied back with a worn-out hair tie, his ragged clothes barely shielding him from the cold.

Belial had seen this look before—on his own reflection in store windows.

For a brief second, their gazes met.

And in that fleeting moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

Two lost souls drowning in the same abyss.

The man let out a tired chuckle.

"Oh. You're the kid who always sits here. Sorry for taking your spot."

He shifted, preparing to stand, his small smile tinged with sadness.

Belial blinked.

"Huh?"

For a moment, warmth flickered inside him.

A tiny, fragile connection in his otherwise isolating world. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold grip of reality.

Swallowing hard, Belial rasped, "Hey... you alright?"

The man didn't answer, his gaze fixed on the ground.

A pang of empathy jolted through Belial's chest.

Even in his own misery, he still held onto one thing—kindness.

No matter how small, it had always been his way of pushing back against the darkness.

A tiny defiance against a world that had never been kind to him.

Without thinking, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cheap calorie bar.

It wasn't much.

But it was something.

"Here," he said, holding it out. "You look like you need it more than I do."

The man stiffened.

Belial hesitated.

Up close, he realized the man was a foreigner

—his sharp features and lighter skin tone hinted at an origin far from Japan.

The man's expression flickered between confusion and something else

—something wary, almost fearful.

For a long moment, he simply stared at the calorie bar as if it were a foreign concept.

Then, hesitantly, his trembling fingers reached out.

"...Arigato!" he mumbled, barely audible.

Belial managed a small smile.

Maybe—just maybe—there was still good left in the world.

Maybe, despite everything, there was still a chance for him to belong somewhere.

Struggling to find the right words, he clenched his fist in what he hoped was an encouraging gesture and said in broken English,

"Fighting!"

But the reaction he received was not what he expected.

The man misinterpreted his gesture as a sign of challenge rather than a plea for understanding.

The man's face twisted. His eyes darkened. His breath hitched as his fingers curled into fists.

A cold chill ran down Belial's spine.

What?

"What did you say?" the thug growled, stepping closer, his body tense with aggression. "You think you can just come here and throw around words like that?"

Belial's heart raced. "No, no! I didn't mean—"

"Shut up!" the thug snapped, cutting him off. "You think you can fight me? You don't even know what you're asking for."

Belial raised his hands defensively, panic rising in his chest. "I'm not looking for a fight! I just—"

The man lunged.

Pain exploded through Belial's body as fists rained down on him.

He barely had time to shield himself before he crumpled to the ground, his breath knocked from his lungs.

The blows were brutal, relentless—not just an attack, but an outpouring of something much deeper.

Anger. Grief.

Desperation.

Belial tasted blood on his lips, his vision swimming.

He tried to curl into himself, his arms instinctively wrapping around his head as the onslaught continued. He wanted to fight back—but his body refused to move.

The distant rumble of traffic mocked him, a cruel reminder of how indifferent the world was to his suffering. No one would help him. No one ever did.

As the man's fists slammed into him, a whirlwind of memories crashed over Belial.

His father's voice, sharp and unrelenting:

"You're a loser, Belial. You'll never amount to anything."

He had spent his whole life searching for a place where he mattered. Where his passion wasn't mocked. Where he wasn't just another disappointment.

In the digital world, he was something. There, his victories meant something. His skills had value.

But here?

Here, he was nothing.

He coughed, blood pooling in his mouth. His body convulsed with pain, yet somehow, he found the strength to look up.

The man now stood over him, fists clenched, his face contorted with regret.

...Cough cough

Belial spat out blood and forced himself to speak. His voice was weak, but his words carried a surprising conviction.

"How unexpected… for you to be so strong despite not having a profession."

He coughed again, then, with the last bit of strength he had left, clenched his fist and whispered, "Fighting."

The words hung in the air, thick with irony.

The man stiffened, his expression twisting—pain, frustration, shame all flickering in his gaze.

For a moment, he seemed to grapple with the weight of Belial's words, the misunderstanding dawning on him too late.

Belial barely noticed. His body was giving out, but his will refused to break. He could see the thug's fists trembling, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction as realization washed over him.

"You… you, I thought you were trying to provoke me?" the thug stammered, his voice a mix of disbelief and regret.

Belial nodded weakly, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I just meant… to encourage you."

The thug's eyes widened, the anger draining from his face as he processed the truth. "You weren't trying to fight me at all," he murmured, the weight of his earlier aggression settling heavily on his shoulders.

Belial's heart raced, sensing the shift. "No, I just wanted to say you're stronger than you think. You can fight your battles."

The man's expression softened, the shame of his misunderstanding evident. "I… I didn't realize," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

In that moment, the air between them shifted from hostility to something more complex—an unspoken understanding. Belial's body trembled, but he held his ground, refusing to let his spirit falter.

"Just remember," he said, his voice steadier now, "fighting isn't always about fists. Sometimes, it's about knowing when to stand up and when to let go."

The thug stared at him, the weight of his own choices reflected in his eyes.

"Yeah… I think I get it now."

"I'll keep that in mind. Maybe it's time I start fighting for something better."

The thug nodded slowly, the weight of their confrontation lifting. 

With that, the tension between them dissipated, leaving behind a fragile but genuine connection forged in the heat of misunderstanding.

Belial could feel his strength waning, but the shift in the thug's demeanor gave him a flicker of hope.

The thug's expression shifted from confusion to concern as he noticed the pallor of Belial's face. "Hey, are you okay? You don't look so good."

Belial managed a faint smile, though it felt more like a grimace.

"I'll be fine. Just… take care of yourself. You have the potential to be better than this."

The thug's eyes widened, realization dawning on him.

"Wait, you're not—"

"Just promise me you'll think about it," Belial urged, his voice barely above a whisper.

"You can change your path."

The thug nodded, urgency creeping into his tone.

"I will. Just hold on, okay? I'll get you help."

Belial felt the darkness closing in, but the thug's determination sparked a flicker of warmth in his chest.

"You're stronger than you know," he murmured, before the world around him began to fade.

In that moment, their connection became a lifeline, a reminder that even in the face of despair, understanding and compassion could bridge the gap between two very different lives.

Belial barely noticed. His body was giving out, but his will refused to break.

'I'm not done yet.'

Belial slammed his fist into the ground, his breath ragged.

"I'm going to be the best," he whispered. "No matter what."

Then—

The world around him blurred.

A deep rumble shook the ground.

The truck's headlights cut through the night like a blade, blinding him with their fury.

The roar of the engine, a deafening crescendo, filled his ears, growing larger and larger as it bore down on him.

And just before everything went black—

A strange tingling sensation shot through his fingertips.

It wasn't just pain.

It was something else.

Something awakening.