Authors Note: As I have acknowledge time and time again every single time I wrote for this fandom, K*H*R belongs to the genius that is Akira Amano-Sensei. But whatever shenanigans I managed to place his characters in—well, that madness I claim sole responsibility for.

This story was born out of the idea that the members of the Underworld are doubtlessly viewed as being Sinners. It's also inspired by that vial of blood good ol' Talbot had with him during one of the manga's more memorable chapters. I didn't really know when i started this, that it would take me years to finish. February 12, 2013 was when it was first published. Like many other works I did for this series-it was a moment of impulse when I began it. Now, two years after, it is finally done.

It took me a long time to write for this piece because as I may have mentioned before—I try to never force the words to come. It's ultimately for the best since if I try and force them out, inevitably I end u with writers block and that's a pain in the ass, I tell you. It's what I laughingly call a "Labor of Love". It takes labor to make but you do it out of love. Still, though this story may not be as popular as my others, it is still very special to me because it opened up a whole lot of introspective imaginings—the kind I enjoy unfortunately. I've always like the idea of writing without the use of dialogues. It's more intimate that way, I suppose.

Well, here's to hoping I can work on the others as well. But before anything else I would like to acknowledge:

juz-a-reviewer , , Humanly Human , kilala2tail , Kuro-Sacchi , Kagehana. Tsukio , MzMilo, PhantomsWorkshop, ImploringIdeal , Nose , KLEIYH , Tansku94 , Anisthasia Zewi Contexz , Yuu, Natsu , Ellaina Fiore, Nuel, Freir DoodlingPlume , MisanthropicGoddess , feelnopain,Alicia Testarossa , nessa11997, SilverShadow123 and the Guest who mentioned to me the tidbit about "Gula" meaning sugar in Malay and to all the others who took the time and yielded a few moments of your lives to read this work, my eternal thanks to each and every one of you.

There's that. And here, is my final SIN. Thank you. *bows*

IRA

Wrath

Anybody can become angry – that is easy, but to be angry with the right person

and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way –

that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.

Aristotle

Definition: In its purest form, presents with self-destructiveness, violence, and hate.

Sawada Tsunayoshi has many fine qualities. He also has a host of questionable, objectionable ones. Those that know him best would tell you that his finer virtues overwhelm to a sufficient degree whatever inadequacy he displays—overt, obvious or otherwise. But the one thing that they would agree on—whether in a positive or negative light—was the fact that Tsuna seldom, if ever allows himself to be angry.

Truth be told, Sawada Tsunayoshi is hardly ever angry.

Not because he can't feel the urge to be but because he more than anyone else understood that anger has a time and place in the grand scheme of life. It was a lesson—hard-earned and learned through the years—but it was one he understood very well.

There were to date, only seven times Tsuna remembers wrath coming in contact with his life. In a lifetime surrounded by the threat and reality of wrath—it's little wonder that people find his admission surprising. What should've surprised them more was the fact that he remembers quite clearly each and every single contact with the emotion people called wrath.

The first time was when discovered it.

The second time was when he felt it.

The third time was when he recognized it.

The fourth time was when he understood it.

The fifth time was when he yearned for it.

The sixth time was when he despised himself because of it.

The seventh time was when he finally gave himself to it.

The first time wrath came into his life he saw his mother's tears.

That's when he realized the number of times he has witnessed her doing that—giving in to her loneliness, crying over his father's constant absence. That's the first time he knew of wrath and discovered its alluring, consuming kiss. Wrath held him immobile—silent and still—helpless as a newborn—unable to give aid to the woman who has been with him for as long as he could remember but he could feel the seductive call of it—asking him to give in, to let it fester inside him so that it could burn away the pain the sense of betrayal brought to mind, the disappointment and the confusion thrumming through his veins. He could recall clearly the cold, cloying feel of it lingering inside him, tainting his senses until acid seemed to burn through him.

The first time he knew of wrath he tried desperately to run away from it—clinging to obliviousness in the hopes that he wouldn't further mitigate the pain in his mother's gaze. The first time he knew of wrath he buried the truth of it inside him—not even allowing the vaguest sense of pain every time she would mention that man's name to come to the fore. Wrath was something he never wanted to feel—especially towards someone his mother cherished. And so even as his anger registered, he buried it under the vague blanket of unease and disappointment, assuring himself that he will never give in to its seductive, poisoned appeal.

The second time wrath came into his life was when he was awarded the label of No-Good.

That's the first time he actually felt wrath—felt its reality—watching helpless and trembling as he stood there on receiving end of a fist that came out of nowhere, knocking him back until he landed on his back on the dirt, disoriented and dizzy not just from the pain but from the disbelief and vague sense of loss. Bullying was something he had too intimate a relationship for him to ever allow himself to give in to anger. Bullying, after all, is just the manifestation of buried hurts and unspoken anger. Even at his earliest age he knew that much about wrath and so he was never prey to it. But he has never felt it so palpably before and now that he has—he could never—would never—forget it. That day, he didn't just gain a humiliating sobriquet—worse of all the things done to him was the loss of his innocence, his faith that things could be better—that he could be better if he just stood up for himself more.

The first time he felt wrath's unforgiving heat was also the first time he had stood up to the bullies who always took his things. And though it would take nearly a decade before he would do it again—he never really truly forgot that day. The pain and fear that lodged in him was like an unknown thorn that rips at you when you unheedingly plunge your hands through a rose bouquet, believing yourself safe—only to find out that safety was an illusion. He felt it was when he watched all those kids and teachers stand there silent and uncaring as others bullied him, branding him with a name that would take him two decades to walk away from and a lifetime to truly forget.

The third time wrath came into his life was when he stood in the middle of the woods as a sweet, innocent boy tried to convince him to leave so that he could remain safe.

The first time he recognized wrath was when he stood in front of a young frightened boy with empty eyes telling him that he should walk away because he was where he wanted him to be, thanking him for his compassion in allowing the boy to stay at his home, and saying that he was no longer in danger, watching as hope faded from those clouded, despairing russet eyes so like his own.

Watching those eyes become so lifeless and blank burned something fierce and protective inside of him even as his heart clenched with the icy hand of hopelessness that for a moment he lost in a sea of frustrated confusion and helplessness. For the first time in his young life Sawada Tsunayoshi allowed anger to linger in his mind long enough to acknowledge what it was and what it did to him. For the first time since he knew what anger was he allowed it space inside his heart and mind and just hated with a passion compounded by fear that he was too late—far too late to finally save anyone—least of all a young boy who never should've learned how to live in fear just because of his abilities, his gifts. Maybe that's the reason he fought Lancia without hesitation despite the man's frightening appearance. Maybe that's the reason he walked into the abandoned, dilapidated halls of Kokuyo Land without giving in to his usual terrified, cowardly self as he prepared to face an escaped criminal who made the monumental mistake of taking someone that's his.

The fourth time wrath came into his life was when he listened to the stories of his Mists.

He never doubted that men could be pushed beyond their limits—beyond what was right and moral and just—one only needed the right trigger—the right motivation and he would cross all sorts of barriers, all restrictions, all kinds of ethical codes. He understood that much if nothing else because somehow, somewhere deep inside him, he knows that he could just as easily be pushed into it if he allowed himself to give in to hate. Being bullied for as long as he had, there was no way he would remain innocent of hate. The difference was how people dealt with the hate that lingers inside of them. He knows it takes all of his energy to cool his, but it was a price he was all too willing to pay. He couldn't afford to do otherwise.

But that's because he also knew in his heart that such push-such drive to enact vengeance the way Mukuro did required the kind of hatred he couldn't possess. It was the kind that burned long and hard and deep. The kind that demanded payment—not just in terms of the flesh or of the mind, or even the heart—no, the kind of hatred that burned away everything demanded one's very soul.

He finally understood the ghosts that haunted and lingered in Mukuro's eyes—the reason and justification he clung to so that he could withstand ripping away everything of value in Lancia's life and use him as a puppet without remorse or regret—turning a man's life upside down and not be troubled by it, as unscrupulous and cruel as it seemed—to not hesitate as he cut a swat among his enemies even as he used someone innocent and blameless to do it. He even understood why Mukuro sold his soul to the very devil for his powers and why he willingly embraced the memories he gained as he walked every path of death known. Knew and finally understood that it was because whatever it that was done to him—to them and by extension, even to Chrome—all that would ever alleviate it in Mukuro's mind and soul was wrath. For the first time in his life, he understood what salvation there can be had in wrath.

The fifth time wrath came into his life he stood powerless as a child that called to his soul sacrificed herself to give him a chance for a better future.

The first time he needed wrath was when he saw Yuni willingly, willfully chose death over safety—gifting him with the promise of hope with those ethereal, fathomless blue eyes even as she walked towards certain demise, wrapped in the arms of the man that loved her beyond measure, choosing to sacrifice her life for the greater good—embracing her death with a smile and very few tears as she gave everything of herself to combat the kind of evil that spanned many, many worlds.

He yearned for wrath there and then—yearned and wanted and wished for the fullest measure of wrath in its purest, undiluted form because he knew even his anguish, his frustration, his tears, his despair—his broken, weeping heart just wouldn't be enough to feed the kind of flame hot enough to change the course of Fate—to right all the wrongs that Byakuran has wrought during his campaign of terror. He desired the kind of wrath that will not just sustain, but strengthen his flames, guaranteeing it will continued conflagration because his normal flames just wasn't strong enough to get the point across and avenge Yuni and compensate for the future she will no longer have.

He allowed wrath to burn inside him so that he could possess the kind of flame that will never be forgotten—the kind that will sear the memory of in the mind of a man that wanted to play god and never ever make him forget. The kind of flame that will pay for the future Byakuran that stole, the worlds he destroyed and the lives he trampled on. He needed wrath to hold his heart steady because otherwise anguish would consume him and he would have nothing else to return to.

The sixth time wrath came into his life he listened to the steady cadence of a heart monitor that reassured him that the body he was watching was still alive even as his eyes burned at the sight of the battered bloodied body of his fallen Rain.

For the first time wrath in his life, wrath didn't burn like an eternal blaze but rather wrapped him in an unforgiving frozen embrace and he despaired because of it. Its presence in his life brought him to his knees, tears of shame trailing down his face even as bowed beside the cold, clammy hand of a boy too young to be fighting for his life because he was in the wrong place , with the wrong person who had no compunction harming him because of a centuries-old grudge.

For the first time in his life Sawada Tsunayoshi despised his family's disgraceful legacy, humiliated by his family's bloodied, dishonored past because only its presence in both his and Enma's life could've wrought such devastating blow, marking them to be enemies—tainting their lives and their choices, their future ten lifetimes before either one of them even drew breath.

For the first time he despised wrath the way he did when he was caught inside Mirai Hibari's Sphere facing all those that came before bearing the name and mantle of Vongola. Hearing the endless wails and anguish of those whose blood were spilt and whose lives were stained and scarred by the Vongola name echoed all around him , deafening him to little else, scorching his mind, branding his soul until all he could do was add his own screams to the cacophony playing around him like some macabre, unforgiving symphony. For the first time he remembered wanting wrath even as he choked at the bilious bitter taint of it on his tongue—wanted it even as he despaired because what he was learning about his name and the blood flowing in his veins deserved the kind of wrath that would burn off everything else—every taint of Sin that clung to his very name, his very soul. He wanted to find the strength that would wipe clean every soiled, ruined thing that the Vongola stood for so that he could start anew—so that he, like his guardians, like Enma, like every and any child bearing a famiglia's blood could start to atone for nearly 400 years of grief, pain and misery paid for with blood and cruelty. He despised wrath even as he yearned for it right at that moment because he needed its cleansing flame to make things in his world right again.

The seventh time wrath came into his life was when he needed it to pay back the debt he owed to the man who gave him everything.

The first time he gave in freely to wrath he felt no regret, no pity, and no shame. The first time he yielded fully to the full and complete measure and power of what wrath could do when combined with his flames was when Kawahira or Joker threatened to steal away the man who gave him everything—his friends, his purpose, his place in the world. The first time he welcomed wrath into his very being, he could recall vividly not its unrestricted power, not even its consuming nature or its seductive possessive allure. All that he could remember when he finally allowed all that he was to embrace all that was in wrath was the sense of purpose the flames of His wrath brought to him. He welcomed wrath then, embracing it with open arms and eyes wide-open to the reality of what it would take from him and what it would be giving him in return.

Sawada Tsunayoshi allowed himself only one instance to yield to wrath. To change the way the world works. To right the wrongs on those that were carelessly, callously used and then discarded as if they didn't matter. To free seven hearts from a fate none of them wanted. To give his mentor the gift of a life without chains, without expectations, without sins to be paid for. The first time Sawada Tsunayoshi, former Dame-Tsuna, current Vongola Decimo allowed himself to give in to wrath—he did it with a clear, unflinching, lambent gaze and a soft, easy smile on his lips.