Chapter 21:Kiyo's Monologue

Kiyo's P.O.V:

"When I say this, don't get soft on me. Just open your damn eyes. Look around. Look at the boys raised by their mothers. What do you see? Most of them are fat, weak, confused about who they even are. Some of them are gay, most of them got woman tendencies—they move like their mothers because that's all they know.

You ever wonder why Lucifer got kicked out of Heaven? It wasn't because he was soft. Nah, he got cast out because he refused to stay in line. He had pride, ambition, power—and that made him dangerous. Heaven doesn't want dangerous.

I'll take it a step further—have you ever wondered why certain individuals seem to have their heaven on earth? Money, power, influence, charisma—it's like everything bends to their will. You think that's by chance? Hell no. That's because they took it. They didn't sit around waiting for a handout or a blessing; they earned their kingdom by clawing for it, bleeding for it, and breaking anyone who stood in their way.

You think comfort breeds that kind of dominance? Nah. Comfort keeps you docile. These men—the ones who own this world—they've been through fire. They've tasted pain, rejection, humiliation, and come out sharper, colder, harder. That's the price of greatness: sacrifice. You gotta kill the softness in you to rise.

The world doesn't hand out crowns; it waits to see who's bold enough to take one. You want to survive? Then stop waiting for Heaven to save you. Heaven's for the dead. Down here, it's survival of the ruthless.

I trained 100 recruits. Boys who had no place in this world until I gave them one. I broke them down and rebuilt them—mind, body, and soul. Their training wasn't just about strength or discipline. It was about stripping away everything soft, everything human. We put them through hell: acts so gruesome they'd haunt a weaker man. But that's the point—you don't survive in this world with a conscience.

I watched them as the training broke them. One by one, they became what I needed them to be: unthinking, unfeeling, obedient. Perfect soldiers. But out of 100, only one stood out.

It was during a training session we filmed. I've watched that tape so many times I can recite every frame. The others? Their eyes were blank, hardened, ready to do what they were told without question. But my son? He was different.

I watched his eyes as they took in every cruel act, every test designed to deaden the mind. He didn't flinch like the weak. He didn't freeze like the scared. But he also didn't go numb like the rest. His eyes—they questioned. They burned. He was fighting a battle the others couldn't even comprehend. While they gave in, let themselves be consumed by the brutality, he was holding onto something deeper.

That's what separates the ordinary from the extraordinary. It's not just strength or obedience—it's the courage to endure the horror, to question it, and still press forward. My son didn't survive the training because he was the strongest. He survived because he refused to lose himself. He stood alone, not just against the training, but against the madness of it all.

That… is what sets the rare apart from the many. And that's why the world doesn't hand out crowns. It waits for the ones willing to take them, without losing the fire in their soul.

By all means, you can be gay, homeless, ugly, an angel, or a devil—it doesn't matter. None of it matters. The only thing this world respects is power: the power to question everything, to challenge yourself when no one else will, to be disciplined when everyone else is weak. To survive, you must be self-reliant. To thrive, you must take what's yours with no hesitation, no remorse.

The world doesn't owe you anything. It doesn't care about your pain, your dreams, or your fears. It's a battlefield, and you either rise to take what's yours or get trampled underfoot by someone who will. You need the heart to destroy every obstacle in your way, the mind to see through every lie, and the will to do whatever it takes to make it.

Kiyo's voice softened but carried no warmth as he leaned closer to Rumi, trembling beneath the steel barrel pressed against her lips.

"That's where true freedom lies," he murmured. "In the destruction of comfort. In killing the things that tether you to weakness."

Rumi sobbed, her wide, tear-filled eyes pleading for a shred of mercy. "Please… don't do this," she choked, her voice cracking under the weight of her terror.

Kiyo stared at her for a long moment, his voice calm but laced with venom. "You think your tears mean anything? You think your begging will stop what needs to be done? Weakness begs. Weakness clings. But weakness dies, Rumi. And you—you are his greatest weakness."

Her breath hitched, her body trembling as his words cut deeper than the steel barrel pressed to her mouth.

"You've coddled him, sheltered him, made him soft," Kiyo growled, his voice rising, trembling with restrained fury. "You think you've been helping him, but all you've done is drown him in your comfort. This world doesn't forgive failure."

Her sobs turned to muffled gasps, terror reaching its peak as Kiyo leaned closer, his eyes burning with cold fire.

"My son deserves to lead. To survive. To dominate. And I'll be damned if I let you keep him chained to your weakness. He needs to know—comfort doesn't protect you. Comfort kills you. And if he's to become the man this world demands, then you… you can't be part of it."

Her lips quivered, a silent plea in her eyes. But it was too late.

The gunshot shattered the air, loud and final. Her body crumpled to the floor, blood pooling beneath her lifeless frame.

Kiyo stood over her, the smoking gun still in his hand, his breath steady despite the weight of what he'd done. He looked down at her one last time, his voice low and filled with cold resolve.

"You can't teach a boy to be a man. A man is forged in fire, not in the arms of a mother who lets him hide from it. He'll hate me for this, but he'll survive. And that's all that matters."