Under the hand of Heavenly Yaksha, of course he would be a killing machine even as a kid. The smell of death was his scent, the stench of the blood was his perfume. He never knew vanilla, suffered from the white. He couldn't paint it all black, so he followed the path of the black himself, even if he was dressed in such childish, such gleeful colors as pink. He went ahead and paint it red with such pleasure. Heaven said, Heavenly Yaksha said so. Heaven was correct. And here you were. You laid limp on there, the screens planted on your body glitching. You were almost a prosthetic body itself, the implants were what kept your soul down on this earth. He looked down at you in apathy, demanding.

"Now spell answer,"

The screens responded, the fear flushing through your veins seeping to their cables.

"F-R-E-E-D-O-M."

He was not satisfied. This was not Heavenly Yaksha told him.

"Wrong."

He grumbled, landing another kick, which met your kidney, your flesh. You winced, jolting up, which startled him ridicilously much. He took a few steps back quickly, not expecting you to have any actual flesh on your body.