Something Always Needs To Die For It To Be Reborn

In a secluded forest in Japan, there was a house next to a lake and a river. Any other time, the house would look like a slice of heaven with how in touch with nature it was. It wasn't a gaudy mansion nor a piece of brilliant, mind-blowing architecture. It was simple, and in it's simplicity was it's beauty.

A quiet house next to a lake and a river. Where the grass was green and untouched and the trees were untouched by the pollutants of humanity.

A place where the water was pure and clear and on a sunny day it would sparkle like diamonds.

In this place, there lifted a family of two. A mother and her child.

The mother wasn't average by any means. She was tall, strong and beautiful. She had the muscle lines of an Amazonian warrior and her black eyes were fierce like the eyes of a predator. But if you lined her up next to her son, you'd usually find your gaze lowering to the young child, Ken Miyamoto. He was above average in height for an 8-year-old, yes, but that's not why he'd gather your attention.

For just being in his presence would draw your eye to him, and not out of awe. It would be out of fear. A human's instincts have withered and died over the years of using technology and living in the safety of cities...and yet even then, even with a human's lackluster instincts, you'd feel it.

Ken wasn't an ordinary boy. He was cute in the way only children could be but even that wouldn't abate the fear a normal person would feel just by being near him.

It was the dark red eyes that did it. The dark red eyes and how they curiously looked at you, curious in the same way a wild Chimpanzee would be before it attacked you for meeting it's gaze. Ken didn't do this on purpose, and whether that made it worse or not is up for the beholder to decide, but if you fought through the fear with the thoughts 'It's only a child' or 'What can a kid do?'...you'd soon begin to rethink that if you spent any time observing him.

Ken had more strength than most adults.

He was born with an odd medical condition called 'Hyperion Constitution'. A condition that gave him incredibly dense muscles while also making them more flexible and resistant to impact/damage. Not only that, his bones are denser so as to match his herculean muscular strength. If you watched him, you'd see him killing animals with nothing but his bare hands and butchered, put over a fire and then eaten to feet his absurd metabolism brought on by his medical condition. And yet, despite this strength, he was now alone.

The clear lack ran red, his mother's corpse top-half held under the water. The quaint little house was destroyed and on fire. The small garden he and his mother tended to most mornings was gone, the plants crushed under foot or pulled up root and everything.

Ken had sunk to his knees, his dark red eyes dull and lifeless as he just stared at everything he held dear...dead and gone.

His muscles, usually brimming with energy and force, were limp like wet noodles.

All his strength had been useless against that man. That man who called himself his father. His red hair and eyes were burned into his mind, next to the words he'd said - "Come find me when you're strong." Ken's lifeless eyes grew fiery for a second before he bit his lip so hard he broke the skin, the blood that dripped from the cut joining the rest of the blood on his face. His body was covered in bruises, cuts and broken bones.

Ken hadn't sat aside as the man killed his mother. He'd raged and fought and tried to rip him apart like the animals he'd killed...and yet it didn't work. None of it worked. The man laughed at his efforts and slapped him away.

Yet Ken didn't stop until he couldn't move. Until so many bones had been broken in his body that nothing he wanted his body to do, could be done.

He sat there, in the aftermath of his life's destruction, and watched the spot where his mother lay, her body bobbing with the subtle motions of the blood-red lake. The image was burned into his mind, even more so than the act of her death--no, murder, itself. His eyes became fiery once more and with willpower you wouldn't expect in a child his age, he pushed himself to his feet. His bones cracked and screamed in protest, his muscles ripped and torn, begging to be allowed to rest...and yet he ignored it all.

Ken took that pain and held it tight. So tight it burned his hand. Part of him wanted to wallow in the sadness his mother's death had brought him but soon enough even that part of him was overridden by burning hot wrath.

He trudged, one broken step at a time, towards his mother's corpse. When he finally arrived at it, his bloody face was twisted in a scowl so foul, it would've turned most people pale. To see such hatred, such anger and malice, on a child's face would shock anyone.

Yet Ken bent over and grabbed his mother by her clothing, ignoring even more protests from his body, and picked her up and out of the water.

Her face was twisted in one of pain and Ken's face warped even further under the malevolent emotions swirling around in his mind. He held her soaking wet body and turned, walking toward the garden. He laid her down gently, so gently you wouldn't think the bones in his arms were basically jagged pieces held together by the barest hint of muscle that wasn't torn beyond function, and then got to digging a hole. His hands were bloodied, his fingers broken and mixes of purple and blue, and yet he continued digging.

Handful after handful, foot after foot...until he had a hole deep enough and big enough for his mother. Every foot of dirt only made his anger ever the more maddening but it had tempered the anger. Cooled it. He felt everything at the same level, maybe even more, and yet his face had gone blank.

He clawed his way out of the hole and then lowered his mother's body into the hole.

Pushing the dirt back into the hole until he was done burying his mother and then turned to look through the flowers that were still left over. He searched through all the ones he could find, searching for some that weren't destroyed...and then he found two of them.

A memory came to the forefront. A memory of his mother holding up a yellow flower and saying that was him, and then holding up a purple one and saying it was here. Then she planted them next to one another to show they'd always be next to each other, no matter what. The memory brought a tear to Ken's eye and the lone tear fell down his torn up and bloody face.

He didn't wipe it away, he didn't scream or cry to signal his sadness or anger. He just planted the yellow one above his mother and them stuffed the purple one in his pocket.

This way, they'd always be next to each other. Always.

At this point, Ken wasn't sure what to do. But he'd been into town with his mother once or twice and he knew the way there, so he thought that was the best way to go about it.

Though at that point, someone suddenly shot through the treeline and came to a physics-defying sudden stop. Ken spun toward them, lowering his stance and baring his teeth like an animal. His entire aura, which had been dull, underwent a complete change and became as wild and feral as his inside thoughts. His anger manifest in the real world as an oppressive air that flowed off of him like some sort of radiation.

The person who'd arrived was an old man. A tall old man who seemed about a foot taller than his deceased mother. His shoulders were broad but his back was slightly hunched, his gnarled and big hand clutched around a walking stick so tight his hand was a stark white.

He was bald but had a brilliantly large beard and long mustache, and his eyebrows were quite long too. His hair was as stark white as his scarred hand and his face was littered with scars. His black eyes were widened in shock when he noticed the recently dug grave, which was quickly replaced with rage and then replaced with a shocking coldness as he regarded Ken.

"Are you Miko's child?" his voice was rough and harsh, with a deep bass to it. When Ken didn't answer, instead choosing to growl like an animal, the man frowned beneath his facial hair, "Answer me, child. Stop growling like a pathetic beast!" he gave a bellow that sent a shockwave through the air and made Ken's resolve waver for a split second before he solidified it and made a split second decision:

Rush the old man.

He pushed his body beyond what he thought capable and rocketed to the old man, his small fist reared back behind his head. The old man gave a fed-up look and blurred before Ken felt his face get grabbed and slammed into the ground.

Surprisingly, it didn't hurt. He, for a second, thought he'd lost the ability to feel pain. But then he noticed the uncomfortable sensation of something resting on his diaphragm. He craned his neck despite the pain of doing so and so the man's walking stick firmly planted there.

"Are you Miko's child? Answer. The. Question," the old man, who was holding the stick, punctuated each question with a poke to Ken's diaphragm. Ken didn't answer the question and instead grabbed the stick, trying to move it or at least crush it under his grip. Yet the wooden stick didn't give a creak, let alone move. The pressure on his chest increased and the old man hunched over further staring into Ken's eyes, "You're beginning to piss me off, brat."

The walking stick came up and then slammed down but not toward Ken's chest. No, it was coming down toward his face. Ken, seeing this, quickly reached out to stop the stick but felt like he was trying to stop a mountain from falling onto him and his arms quickly gave way.

He thought he was going to die. His strength had failed him, yet again.

Thoughts of his mother's death, the man who killed her, the man who destroyed his life, flooded to the forefront of his mind. His heart slammed in his chest, it's intensity hurting but giving a vital reminder. Ken wanted to live. If he died...who would kill the man who's took his life away from him? His heart slammed again, even harder at the thought of the man getting away scot-free.

New strength surged through his limbs and the stick slowed until it stopped. But it didn't stop before of Ken. No, the old man looked down curiously at Ken's efforts and applied a smaller amount of force. Ken struggled against the ever increasing force until it stopped at the point where he thought his arms were going to give out again. He had no idea how he was keeping his arms up and how he was fighting back with so much zeal. All Ken knew was that his heart was beating so hard it hurt and he needed to use the energy it gave him before he exploded.

"Hm," the old man hummed to himself, "Despite looking like shit, you've still got some fight, huh, brat?" he lifted the walking stick away and walked toward the garden.

Suddenly, the strength in his body vanished and his heart resumed beating at it's normal strength and pace. Yet Ken wouldn't let that stop him. He forced himself onto his stomach and when standing up failed him, his legs being unresponsive, he began clawing his way after the old man who wanted to reach his mother's garden and grave. He wouldn't let anyone touch it. No one. No matter how strong they were and no matter how weak he was, Ken would never let anyone mess with it.

When the old man bent over to touch the flower, Ken spoke for the first time, "Don't you...dare...touch that...flower!" he croaked with his rough, torn-up voice from prolonged shouting and screaming from earlier, "That's my...mother's flower!" he bellowed as loud as he could and yet it only came out slightly above a whisper in volume.

The old man looked over his shoulder while half-lidded eyes, "So you are her child, after all," he sighed, turning back to the grave, "Why didn't you just say so, brat?" he shook his head but didn't reach for the flower again. Instead he took out some prayer beads and brought his hands together, muttering a prayer under his breath.

Ken stopped his crawling, surprised and confused. Why was the old man praying over his mother's funeral? His mother had homeschooled him and taught him a bunch of things. One of those things was what people do when they visit family members who've passed at their graves.

But what really caught his attention was how similar the prayer beads were to the one's his mother owned and used when she prayed to a picture of her own mother, Ken's grandmother, every year on the date she died.

He watched with curious eyes and when the man was finished, he got up, turned around and strode back over to Ken.

"I'm your grandfather, brat. I heard that bastard was coming here after my daughter but I was told too late and alas, I'm getting old...so I was late," he sighed and frowned, his wrinkles showing themselves even more than before, "But I still came anyway because I was aware she'd had a child some eight years ago. That'd be you," he stopped in front of Ken and reached for him. Ken tried to back away but a swift strike from the walking stick knocked him out. The old man sighed and picked the unconscious Ken up and put him on his shoulders, "Just as stubborn as Miko and her mother. I'm sorry I was late, brat," he whispered sadly to himself before blurring and disappearing once more into the treeline.

. . .

Ken slowly awoke and took in his surroundings. He was wrapped up in gauze and covered in plaster cast that held his bones in place. He felt like crap.

But even despite that, he tried to sit up. Just for a walking stick to slap against his chest and push him back into his lying down position. He looked to his right and saw the old man who called himself his grandfather.

"Stay down, you brat," the old man admonished before shaking his head, "Do you realise how hurt you are? It's easier to count what isn't injured than it is to figure out everything that's broken or torn. Kids these days are always fucking around when they shouldn't," he sighed before taking back the stick after he seemed sure Ken wasn't gonna try and move. "Got any questions?" he leaned against his stick as he sat once more and kept his gaze locked with Ken's.

Ken stared at the old man for a few moments before he spoke in a raspy voice, "...Why weren't you there?"

"I told you, brat," the old man sighed, his old eyes taking on a melancholic look, "I was told too late and I'm an old man. I can only move so fast," he gruffly said before closing his eyes for a few seconds and then reopening them with a more stern look, "Got any other questions?"

"No...Why weren't you there? Why weren't you living with us? If you're family, why not live with us? If you were there, you could've helped," Ken kept it up, his little face a mixture of confused and angry.

The old man sighed once more before leaning back into his seat, "Your mother and I...didn't get along. We loved each other, of course, but she despised my way of life. After your grandmother died, my wife, it only served to push us even further apart," he frowned, obviously upset, and continued, "It's one of my biggest regrets that I let her go as easily as I did, grieving over her mother or not. I should've put her before my own selfish grief." The room went silent and then the old man gave a grim chuckle, "And if I was there when 'he' came? It wouldn't have made too much of a difference. The man who came to that little house of yours is more like a natural disaster than a human being who can be reasoned with. I only tried to come because I knew that if I gave him a good fight, he might have left you two alone. Alas, I was too late for even that."

Ken stayed silent for a moment before he looked away from the old man and to the left where there was a window. It showed that it was the early morning, compared to the afternoon it'd been when they first met. He could faintly hear birds chirping.

"...What happens now?" Ken asked while still looking out the window.

"I'll look after you, of course," the old man scoffed, as if offended that Ken thought there was another option on the table, "I made an oath to your mother that I'd look after you, in recompense for being a bad father to her. But if I raise you, it ain't gonna be the cushy life you've lived up until now. I didn't train your mother as much as I should and I'm not making the same mistake again."

Ken was aware of what training was. He was also aware of how strong the old man was. So it instantly caught his attention...because if he wanted to kill 'him', he needed to be strong. Stronger than strong. He needed to be the best.

"...Training?" Ken piped up, turning back to look at the old man with a fire hidden deep in his near-lifeless red eyes.

"Yes, training," the old man sternly said before gesturing to himself, "I'm a swordsman. I and your mother, and by extension you, are descendants of Miyamoto Musashi. Hence our last name, Miyamoto. So, as is tradition, you'll also be a swordsman. But you'll be the type of swordsman who ain't useless without a sword." The old man paused for a second before looking inquisitively at Ken, "Say, brat, what do you think a swordsman should do to prepare for when he's in a fight and he doesn't have his sword?

It didn't take very long for an answer to come to Ken, his childish mind, twisted by rage and forced to mature well before it's time, "...If there's a risk of losing your sword, why not just become a sword? Use your arms like swords or your legs. Your mouth is kinda filled with swords called teeth, right?" he opened his mouth and pointed at the pearly whites inside. Ken closed his mouth and continued, "If you lose your sword, just fight with your body. Fight with whatever you can. Just fight until the enemy's dead."

The old man's aged cheeks trained and his lips split into a wide, almost savage smile and he burst out of laughing, "Bwahahaha! Oh, brat, you funny little boy!" he laughed long and hard, tapping his cane against the ground lightly as he did so. When he finally stopped, he lifted a hand up to wipe the tears from his eyes before he spoke up again, "Phew! Okay, brat, I'll help you forge your body into a sword. But you're still gonna learn how to use a sword! No grandson of mine isn't gonna be a Grandmaster Swordsman!" he slammed his cane on the floor once more before pushing himself up from his seated position, "Either way, the training won't be for a while. You need to heal. I'll sort out all the bad habits you showed me after you're in prime condition. Luckily you've got such a fast metabolism otherwise we'd have had to put the training off for a few months."

"Who was that man?" Ken suddenly asked and the old man paused, his expression souring upon even the slightest mention. His hands clutched around the top of his cane and the wood creaked and groaned under the force, the veins on the back of his hand bulging obscenely.

"That man was your...father," he spat out venomously but in a subdued enough tone, "I'm sure he told you in an attempt to wind you up but he probably left out his name. His name is Yujiro Hanma and he's the Strongest Creature On Earth. If you want revenge against him, you're going to need to become a monster, kid," he paused, letting the obvious rage and hatred for the man named Yujiro flood out of him in one big exhale. "But with your physique and the talent of two warrior bloodlines, plus my training, I'm sure you'll become enough of a monster to kill him if you put the effort in," he left it at that and left the room.

Ken lay there and closed his eyes. He burned the name 'Yujiro Hanma' right beneath the image of him in his head.

He'd put the effort in. Oh, he'd train until his bones creaked and his muscles whimpered for rest and then he'd train even further. Ken knew what he had to do and now he actually had the chance to do it. Strongest Creature On Earth? Ken didn't care. His father, that man, Yujiro Hanma, took away his happy life and his mother...so it'd only be fair if he took that man's life in return, right?

Ken knew it wouldn't be easy. But he was never one to give in to a challenge.

It just wasn't in his blood to do so.