5 Year Ago Before Fitran Murder Alfonzo

  That night, the ancient city gleamed under the flickering glow of oil lamps above the puddles, casting shadows that danced on the desolate streets. The air was thick with the stench of alcohol and blood, marking the fine line between life and death. Behind the ruins of a charred marketplace, a young man moved quietly, his eyes vacant—Fitran, the lord of the streets, whose name was whispered in fear and awe.

  No one knew where he came from. Stories of his parents or siblings left behind were never spoken. He seemed to rise from the darkness, young and fierce, molded by the hatred of the streets that gnawed at his soul. There was nothing more dangerous than someone who had learned to survive without ties, without memories.

  Two of his men trailed behind him, their breaths labored, weighing heavy on the stillness of the night.

  “Boss,” Silas said, his voice trembling. “The northern folk dare again. They've taken control of two corners of the night market.”

  Fitran halted, fixing a piercing gaze on Silas. “Dare? Or merely grow weary of waiting for an end?” His voice was hollow, cold as ice, revealing no trace of emotion.

  Silas swallowed hard, stifling the tremors that threatened to escape his body. “People are saying...” He hesitated, seeking the right words, “you're weak now, boss. No one understands why you always seem... like you're lost to this place. Have you truly forgotten who you are?”

  Fitran offered a thin grin, yet his eyes reflected a profound emptiness. “Before? What I know for certain: in this world, the strong endure while the weak become prey. Memory of what? A name holds no meaning if forgotten by time.”

  Gideon, one of his usually confident men, stepped forward with hesitant strides. “But boss... don’t you feel afraid? Don’t you remember who your enemies are? If they seek vengeance—”

  Fitran furrowed his brow, moving his hand as if to dispel the doubts that bound him. “Vengeance? That is their right, those shackled by the past. Look around you, Gideon. I live unbound, free from burdens, only with today. If they desire to approach, let them. This is but a game for those who do not understand the meaning of struggle.”

  Silas gazed at Fitran, his eyes searching for the understanding that eluded him. He remembered the harshness of life on the streets; the choices Fitran made could lead them to ruin. “But, sir, without the past, we lose our compass. What is it you seek in this darkness?”

  Fitran fell silent, his gaze blank as it pierced through the mist ahead, as if probing something unseen. For a fleeting moment, he felt a tremor in his soul—a yearning stirring from the depths, though it was merely a faint memory that troubled him. In the silence of this darkened road, he wondered if there were another way to continue this life. Beyond the struggle for survival, was there any hope left? Deep within his heart, the desire to be understood, to be loved, took shape, even if only in the fading shadows. On this path, who among them dared to unearth their own heart’s voice? Yet, there was no time for reflection—if darkness lurked nearby, they must prepare to confront the deeper horrors that awaited.

  Fitran shouted, his voice sharp and cold, shattering the silence. "Revenge? Revenge is not a chain for those unbound by their past. I live unburdened, without debts, and free from the memories that shackle me. Only today exists, and I still stand here. If they wish to approach, let them come." Though his words were resolute, an unspoken longing hid within the depths of his gaze.

  Silas looked at Fitran, his expression shifting to one of melancholy, pondering every word spoken. "You claim you bear no burdens, Fitran, yet your gaze cannot be concealed. Something lies hidden in your heart, does it not?" He stepped a little closer, his face heavy with concern. "Do you not yearn for anything at all? Family? Perhaps a brighter childhood?"

  Fitran exhaled deeply, his eyes fixed on the flickering flames of a small campfire beneath the old bridge, while the homeless huddled together in the darkness, seeking warmth. Shadows of the past flickered in his mind, demanding attention. "I am not a man worthy of longing," he murmured, his voice hoarse and laden with weight. "The frame of my life is constructed from shards of forgotten memories. What do you seek from me, Silas?" His voice trembled, reflecting the anger and sorrow that simmered within his heart.

  A scrawny boy approached, his gaze dim and filled with hunger. “Brother... what is your true name?” His voice trembled, capturing Fitran's attention. Behind the boy's eyes lay a sincerity that seemed to challenge the darkness of the world.

  Fitran regarded him for a moment, attempting to force a smile that barely touched his eyes. “That name is just a label. I am Fitran—and that is more than enough. There is nothing else.”

  The boy appeared hesitant, his brow furrowing in confusion. “But brother, don't you ever remember your childhood? Since then... has it all simply vanished?” Uncertainty was evident on his face, as if he were questioning a world too complex to understand.

  Fitran shook his head, his voice a strained growl. “Child, if you become too entangled in the memories of the past, you will lose yourself in this impatient world. Are you hungry? Take what you will, and ask no more.” He tossed a piece of bread toward the boy, then turned away, appearing slightly softer as he glanced at the other beggars who lowered their heads in respect each time he passed.

  No one can truly ascertain the origins of Fitran. Whispers in the shadows claim he was a former slave who escaped from a castle ruled by a cruel overlord, while others believe he is the embodiment of an evil spirit from the north, ensnared in a web of corrupt magic. Yet, one truth remains undeniable: these streets bend to his will, and every step he takes is fraught with peril.

  “Fitran,” Silas whispered, choosing his words carefully. “Do you not care about the future? Do you not desire to fight for something more meaningful?”

  Fitran's voice was low but firm. "The future is of no concern to me, Silas. The present is enough to keep me uneasy. In every battle I face, there is always magic that can create or destroy. And here I stand, unbound. My

  That night, the ancient city glimmered in the flickering light of oil lamps suspended over puddles, casting dancing shadows upon the empty streets. The scent of alcohol and blood permeated every corner, marking the thin line between life and death. Behind the charred ruins of a marketplace, a young man stepped quietly, his eyes hollow—Fitran, the lord of the streets, a name whispered in fear and awe.

  No one knew whence he came. The tales of his parents or siblings left behind were never uttered. He seemed to have risen from the darkness, young and fierce, shaped by the bitterness of the streets gnawing at his soul. There was nothing more dangerous than a man who had learned to survive without ties, without memory.

  Two of his subordinates followed behind, their breaths heavy, burdening the silent night.

  “Boss,” Silas said, his voice trembling. “The northern folks are bold once more. They’ve seized two corners of the night market.”

  Fitran halted his stride, fixing Silas with a piercing gaze that seemed to penetrate his very soul. “Bold? Or simply weary of waiting for an end?” His voice was hollow, like ice, revealing not a trace of emotion.

  Silas swallowed hard, suppressing the tremor that threatened to escape his body. “People say...” He hesitated, struggling to find the right words, “you’re weak now, boss. No one understands why you always seem... as if you've vanished from this place. Have you truly forgotten who you are?”

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  Fitran smirked faintly, yet the light in his eyes reflected a profound emptiness. “Once? ‘Once’ is merely a term for those who have lost. What I know for certain is this: in this world, the strong endure, while the weak become prey. Where are the memories? A name holds no meaning if time devours it.”

  Gideon, one of his subordinates who was usually filled with certainty, stepped forward with hesitant strides. “But boss... do you not feel fear? Do you not remember your enemies? If they seek vengeance—”

  Fitran frowned, moving his hands as if to dispel the doubts that bound him. “Revenge? It is the right of those shackled by the past. Look around you, Gideon. I live unchained, unburdened, only in the present. If they wish to approach, let them. All of this is but a game for those who know not the meaning of struggle.”

  Silas gazed at Fitran, his eyes searching for the understanding that had slipped away. He recalled the harshness of life in the streets; the choices Fitran made could lead them toward annihilation. “But, boss, without a past, we lose our compass. What do you seek in this darkness?”

  Fitran fell silent, his gaze empty, piercing through the fog ahead, as if examining something unseen. In that fleeting moment, he felt a tremor within his soul—a yearning that hooked from the depths, even though it was merely a faint memory that stirred. In the dark, desolate road, he wondered if there were another way to continue this life. Beyond struggle and survival, was there any hope that remained? Deep within his heart, the desire to be understood, to be cherished, took form, even if only as a shadow fading further away. On this path, who among them would dare to delve into the voice of their own heart? Yet, there was no time for reflection—if darkness lurked, they must prepare to face terrors yet deeper.

  Fitran snapped, his voice slicing through the silence like a sharp blade, cold and unyielding. "Vengeance? Vengeance is not a shackle for those unbound by their past. I live without burden, without debt, and without memories that chain me down. Only today exists, and I still stand here. If they wish to come, let them." Though his words were firm, a longing left unspoken lay hidden in the depths of his gaze.

  Silas regarded Fitran, his expression becoming melancholic as he pondered every word spoken. “You claim to be unencumbered, Fitran, yet your eyes betray you. Something lingers within your heart, does it not?” He stepped a bit closer, the weight of concern etched on his face. “Do you not long for something at all? Family? Perhaps a brighter childhood?”

  Fitran drew a deep breath, his eyes fixed upon the flickering campfire beneath the old bridge, where the homeless huddled together in the dark, seeking warmth. Shadows of the past flitted through his mind, demanding recognition. "I am not one who deserves to yearn for anything," he muttered, his voice hoarse and heavy with emotion. "My life’s frame is crafted from shattered remnants of forgotten memories. What do you want from me, Silas?" His voice trembled, a reflection of the anger and sorrow that lingered deep within his heart.

  A thin boy approached, his gaze dim and filled with hunger. “Brother... what is your real name?” His voice trembled, drawing Fitran's attention. Behind the boy's stare lingered a sincerity that seemed to challenge the darkness of the world.

  Fitran regarded him for a moment, striving to force a smile that almost never reached his eyes. “That name is merely a label. I am Fitran—and that is more than enough. There is nothing more.”

  The boy appeared hesitant, his brow furrowing in confusion. “But brother, don’t you ever remember your childhood? Since then... has all of it truly vanished?” Uncertainty was clear on his face, as if he were questioning a world too complex to grasp.

  Fitran shook his head, his voice sounding like a reluctant growl. “Child, if you become too entwined in the memories of the past, you will lose yourself in a world that is impatient. Do you want to eat? Take it, just don’t ask too many questions.” He tossed a piece of bread toward the boy and turned away, appearing slightly softer as he glanced at the other vagrants, who began to lower their heads in respect whenever he passed.

  No one can ascertain the origins of Fitran. Whispers in the dark alleys suggest he may be a former slave who escaped from a castle ruled by a tyrant, while others believe he is the embodiment of a malevolent spirit from the north, ensnared in a web of insidious magic. Yet, one thing is undeniable: the streets bend to his will, and each step he takes is fraught with peril.

  “Fitran,” Silas whispered, choosing his words with care. “Do you not care about the future? Do you not wish to fight for something more meaningful?”

  Fitran's voice was low, yet unwavering. "The future is of no concern to me, Silas. The present is enough to keep me restless. With every battle I face, there is always magic that can create or annihilate. And here I stand, unbound. My place lies among the shadows of others.”

  In the darkened alley, blood and fear formed an unspoken law, yet they breathed life into every soul ensnared within. "If you draw closer, I won’t hesitate to break your hands," Fitran threatened, his voice flat yet laced with tension. He observed the figure that dared to challenge him, prepared with thieves and stray fish that littered this squalid settlement.

  His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the fire of defiance burning within. Each day, he navigated the shadowy streets, moving from one brawl to the next, scavenging for scraps of food and pilfering coins left behind after the tumult. In the heavy silence of the dark night, he also gathered bits of metal—remnants of weapons discarded by his foes.

  “None of us were born from tranquility,” he murmured softly, gazing at the frail faces that had joined his realm: the cowards, the orphans, and the outcasts. “You know, they say life is filled with choices, but to me, that’s just empty words.” Without memory, without identity, he continued to add to the somber hues of this road, accompanied by his forsaken band.

  One night, as the sky stretched into darkness and the wind trembled as if sensing his presence, Silas stepped closer. “Boss…” His voice was faint, reaching out to a figure he often confronted within the demons of his heart. “Have you never considered who you truly are? If one day that memory returns to you, would you wish to be someone else?”

  Fitran turned, his gaze sharp as a lightning strike, reflecting the unspoken turmoil within his soul. “What does it mean to be ‘someone else’? Those born without a name are cursed, forever trapped in shadowy obscurity. No one will remember us, Silas, not even ourselves.” He spread his arms wide, revealing the scars of battles etched onto his skin, as if they were symbols of an unyielding struggle he endured.

  Silence enveloped the atmosphere for a moment, only interrupted by the sighing wind that shook the air. “But, Fitran… if you fear losing nothing, then what is it that you truly fear?” Silas inquired again, his eyes full of hope and sincerity.

  “I fear,” Fitran replied slowly, his voice growing weaker. “I fear weakness, becoming prey in this brutal world. In a place like this, strength is everything. Without it, we are but flesh waiting to be devoured by beasts.”

  Silas paused, a mixture of fear and respect swirling within him. He realized that behind every aggression and brutal act lay a human struggling against the loss of identity. Like a spell embodying the hierarchy of this world, Fitran sought to forge a bridge between the heavens and despair, though in truth, he was waging war against his own shadows. “Do you believe we can find meaning even without a name?”

  Fitran kept his gaze fixed ahead, not diverting his eyes. His voice lowered, soft like the whispers of a biting night wind. "Memories belong only to those who fear loss, Silas. As for me? I have nothing worth fearing. All I desire is strength, to not succumb as a prey." With an empty stare, he looked far into the horizon, as if to the sky he sought answers hidden among the clouds.

  Silas could feel the tension hanging in the air around them. His eyes were locked on Fitran, reflecting a confusing blend of fear and respect. "Perhaps we have never possessed anything truly valuable, yet we can choose who we become, can we not?" He struggled to find a glimmer of hope within the darkness enveloping his friend.

  Fitran bowed his head, his fingers tracing the edge of the rooftop as if sketching an unseen design upon its surface. "But what if my choice lies only between darkness and a deeper abyss? To be a king without a past is no choice, Silas. It is, in truth, a curse." His voice was thick with profound sorrow, weighing heavily on Silas with the weight of his words.

  One morning, as the sun's rays slowly pierced the darkness, Fitran stood at the edge of the rooftop, his silhouette blending with the deep shadows. "Look, the sun struggles to rise from the abyss. But I... I cannot do the same," he said, his voice trembling. He was almost reluctant to tear his gaze away from that gentle light, as if he were discovering a seed of hope long since faded.

  Gideon approached, his steps firm despite the heavy burden of often grim news. "Boss," he began, "a new group has emerged from the north. They wield weapons infused with magic. Shall we fight them?” The expression on his face revealed concern, not only for himself but also for those who remained.

  Fitran’s gaze was sharp, his cold eyes gleaming like steel. "In this world, strength lies with those who master magic, Gideon. But remember this one thing—" He paused for a moment, leaving the tension hanging in the air. "The truly powerful are those who can stand unwavering, without sacrificing their true selves." His voice was firm, yet beneath his words lay a hidden uncertainty.

  Gideon clenched his fists, restlessness gnawing at him. "But does that mean we will never be able to fight back? Are we destined to hide in the shadows of this uncertainty?" His voice was heavy with despair, revealing how fragile their hope was in this cruel and unfeeling world.

  Fitran leaped down, his body slicing through the thick fog. He felt the weight of the choices pressing upon him, and the entire world knew that the street king—born from the darkness with no mercy—had forged his own path. Not out of a desire for vengeance, but because this world had never offered him a true choice. In his heart, he grappled with unanswered questions about who he truly was, recalling the fragments of a past steeped in shadows.