Crazzy

"The silence was the only constant companion of the boy who would later be called Madman. Not the comfortable silence that exists between friends, but that suffocating silence, brimming with emptiness. It was as if the world had forgotten he existed—a lapse in the collective memory. In the miserable village where he was born, people didn't have names; they only had roles. There was the Blacksmith, the Washerwoman, the Beggar. But the boy didn't even have that. He was Nothing."

"His mother, they said, was young and beautiful, but her beauty didn't save her life. She died shortly after childbirth, leaving him as an unwanted burden to a man who had already given up on everything. His father, whose face Madman could barely remember, was a constant shadow—drunken and violent. He offered no love, only a crushing presence, until one day, he simply disappeared. Perhaps he died in a ditch, or fled to another place where no one knew his misery. It didn't matter. He was gone, and the boy remained."

"In his early years, Madman was little more than a ghost in the village. He wandered through the alleys, observing the lives of others as if they were parts of a play. The Washerwoman beat clothes in the water while softly singing a sorrowful melody. The Blacksmith shaped iron with a hardened expression, sweating under the heat of the forge. Even the Beggar had a routine, extending his dirty hands to anyone who passed by. But Madman had no role in this theater. He was the invisible spectator—the boy no one saw."

"Hunger, however, did not ignore him. It was a constant presence, stalking him like a shadow. He felt as though his stomach were trying to devour itself, a sharp pain that kept him awake at night. It was during those late hours, alone in some dark corner, that he began to understand the cruel truth of the world: no one would help him. He was responsible for himself, and survival was the only thing that mattered."

"At five years old, he stole for the first time. It was a piece of bread carelessly left on a windowsill. He waited until the house's owner stepped away, and then, with bare feet making as little noise as possible, he grabbed the bread and ran. His heart pounded, his lungs burned as he hid in an alley. When he finally bit into the hard, cold bread, he cried—not out of guilt but relief."

"But relief was short-lived. He was caught by the woman, who found him and dragged him back to the house. She beat him with a wooden spoon, screaming about how "children like him" were the ruin of the village. The boy didn't scream or cry. He just looked at her with empty eyes, memorizing every word, every blow. When she was done, he stood up, staggering, and walked away without looking back."

"That experience didn't discourage him. On the contrary, it taught him a valuable lesson: pain didn't matter. As long as he survived, nothing else had meaning."

"By the time he was seven, Madman was a known figure in the village streets. He had become more skilled at stealing, quicker at escaping. But over time, he began to realize that food wasn't enough. He needed something more: power."

"It was then that he started observing the other boys on the streets. They formed small groups, child gangs that stole together and shared their spoils. Madman tried to approach one of these gangs but was rejected. He was too small, too skinny, too frightening. This enraged him. He decided that if he couldn't join them, he would destroy them."

"He started small, following the gangs from a distance, studying their movements. When one of the boys strayed from the group, Madman attacked. He didn't kill but made sure to hurt enough to send a message. Before long, the others began to fear him. They whispered about the "crazy boy," the one who attacked like a wild animal. He no longer needed a group. He was his own army."

"Madman didn't know the meaning of love or compassion. He saw couples in the village, mothers hugging their children, but it seemed as distant as the stars. He didn't know what he felt when he saw those scenes. Perhaps it was envy; perhaps it was disdain. All he knew was that love didn't exist for him."

"This absence shaped his view of the world. To him, everyone was a potential enemy. Even when he received occasional acts of kindness—a piece of bread offered out of pity, or a coin placed in his dirty hand—he was suspicious. Kindness, he believed, was just another form of weakness."

"By the time he was fourteen, Madman was more legend than boy. He was feared even by adults and by the gangs that ruled the village. But his reputation made him a target. On a cold night, while he slept in an alley, he was captured by men who worked for the underground arena. He fought, bit, and kicked, but he was overpowered. For the first time in years, he felt something close to fear."

"But when he was thrown into the arena, that fear vanished. He realized that this was where he truly belonged. The violence, the blood, the crowd's screams—it all made sense to him. He left behind the boy he once was. He became Madman, and Madman was all that remained."

"They took him to a place that seemed to exist outside the world. It was a dark, damp underground lit by torches that cast grotesque shadows on the walls. The air reeked of sweat, blood, and death. The cells were small, barely larger than animal cages. This was where Madman spent his first days in the arena."

"At first, he thought he might escape. He watched the guards, mentally noting the times they changed shifts. He planned and waited for the perfect moment. But his own frailty betrayed him. His malnourished body, worn down by years of street life, wasn't strong enough to scale the high walls of the compound. He fell, twisting his ankle, and was caught by the guards. As punishment, they left him without food for two days."

"In that cell, with hunger gnawing at his insides, Madman caught his first glimpse of what his new life would be. He watched as other prisoners were dragged into the arena, their expressions a mix of terror and resignation. Some screamed, begging for mercy. Others simply accepted their fate in silence. But they all came back the same way—dead."

"Madman wasn't afraid of death. He didn't know what it meant to truly live, so the concept of losing life didn't scare him. What intrigued him was the system. The arena seemed to have its own rules—a twisted logic that turned suffering into entertainment. He realized that to survive, he would have to adapt to this logic. He would have to embrace it."

"The gladiators of the arena were subjected to brutal training. Madman, young and smaller than most, became an easy target for the trainers. They mocked him, beat him to test his endurance, and pitted him against other prisoners in fights designed to humiliate him. But every blow he took, every wound carved into his flesh, only fed something inside him."

"In one of these sessions, a particularly cruel trainer named Garruk decided to test Madman's limits. He threw him into a fight with an adult gladiator, a man twice his size and weight. The fight was supposed to be punishment—a lesson. But Madman surprised everyone. He didn't win through strength but through cunning. He used the man's anger and recklessness against him, dodging blows and striking with precision. When the man fell, bleeding on the ground, Madman knelt over him and kept hitting, long after the fight was over."

"The other gladiators stared at him with a mix of fear and respect. Garruk laughed.

'Maybe you're worth something after all.'"

"The day of Madman's first official fight in the arena was marked by a storm. Rain poured in torrents, mixing with the blood on the arena floor. The crowd was frenzied, screaming for blood. Madman was shoved into the center, unarmed, with only his bare hands. Across from him, his opponent emerged—a burly man armed with a short sword. No one expected Madman to survive."

"But Madman knew this was his chance. He understood that if he showed weakness, he would be discarded like a sick animal. So he didn't just fight—he attacked with a fury no one anticipated. He dodged the sword's strikes, waiting for the perfect moment to counter. When he found an opening, he launched himself at the man like a wild beast, biting, clawing, using whatever means necessary to win."

"When the man's body fell limp on the arena floor, the crowd went silent for a moment. Then the roar began. They chanted the name the guards had begun using for him: 'Madman.' He stood in the center of the arena, breathing heavily, his eyes locked on the crowd. For the first time, he felt something akin to purpose."

"As the months passed, Madman became a legend in the arena. He didn't fight just to survive; he fought to dominate. With every victory, he drifted further from the boy he had once been. The deaths he caused didn't disturb him. In fact, he began to savor them. He saw the fear in his opponents' eyes as a reflection of his own hunger. The arena wasn't just a place of carnage—it was a temple, and Madman was its priest."

"But on lonely nights in his cell, he was haunted. Faces of the people he had killed appeared before him. Whispers of a lost childhood echoed in his mind. He shook his head to banish these thoughts, but they lingered, like ghosts trying to drag him back. He hated these moments of weakness, despised the memories that insisted on surfacing. So he did the only thing he knew how to do: he buried those emotions under layers of hatred and violence."

"The more he fought, the more the crowd adored him, and the more the arena masters began to notice. Madman was no longer just a tool for entertainment—he was becoming a symbol of the arena's brutality. But Madman didn't care about their plans or their schemes. For him, the arena was all that mattered. The blood, the screams, the power—it was his world now."