In the shadowy depths of the night, a blood-red mist ascended from the earth, carrying with it the acrid stench of scorched flesh. The anguished cries of people echoed through the forest, their wails reverberating across the land. A monstrous figure—no, a man—dragged another man whose entrails trailed grotesquely across the grass. With a brutal, savage expression, the man hurled the lifeless body onto a growing pile of the dead.
A child knelt on the ground, fists clenched tightly, his small body marked with bloodstains and bruises. His eyes, filled with defeat, stared at the man before him. Tears streamed down his face as he cried and wailed, yet there was no trace of regret in his expression—only pain and despair.
"Live…"
It was the final word the child heard from his father before witnessing his beheading. A burly man, his body covered in strange, unrecognizable tattoos, stood over the child with a mocking grin. As his father's blood splattered across the child's face, the boy, trembling with rage and grief, hurled a fistful of sand into the beheader's eyes. With weak, unsteady legs, he forced himself up and lunged at the momentarily blinded man. Grabbing his father's fallen knife, the child slashed it across the man's neck. The tattooed man, his eyes now bloodshot, clutched at his throat, yet his lips curled into a smile, as though death was the ultimate mercy he had longed for.
With a heavy thud, the man collapsed. The child stood there, breathing raggedly, his small frame trembling. He gazed up at the fiery, burning sky and let out a hollow smile. Kneeling, he stared at the bloodied knife in his hand. A dark thought crept into his mind—to end his own life, to escape the unbearable pain. But his father's last word, "Live," echoed relentlessly in his ears, a haunting reminder that stayed his hand and kept the blade from his throat.
"Live…"
The child whispered his father's final word, his voice trembling with despair. "Tell me, father, how can I live alone? Should I abandon everything—my honor, my humanity—just to survive?"
His eyes swept across the horrifying scene before him. His tribesmen were being dragged like animals, women were being violated in front of their helpless husbands, and children were being slaughtered without mercy. The air was thick with the stench of blood and the sounds of suffering.
A dark resolve hardened within him. His small hands clenched into fists, his tears drying as a cold, unyielding determination took hold. "If becoming a beast is what it takes to survive," he thought, his heart turning to stone, "then so be it."
In that moment, the child's innocence was extinguished, replaced by a fierce will to endure, no matter the cost.
In a world consumed by chaos, where the lines between normalcy and madness blurred, the kneeling child became an anomaly. Some of the raiders glanced at him with fleeting curiosity, their eyes narrowing in confusion. Yet, in this twisted reality, his stillness was so abnormal that it was, paradoxically, accepted as normal. To them, he was just another fleeting spectacle in the carnage—a momentary pause in their rampage.
They didn't care what the child did. His existence was insignificant, a trivial detail in their grand design of destruction. For now, they allowed him to live, not out of mercy, but because his presence amused them, adding a strange flavor to their enjoyment. But their indulgence was fleeting, bound by time. Once their allotted moment of pleasure expired, they would return to their true purpose: enslaving other tribes, expanding their power, and feeding the insatiable hunger of their own kind.
The child, kneeling amidst the chaos, was nothing more than a brief distraction in their eyes—a small, inconsequential figure in a world where cruelty reigned supreme.
As one of the raiders approached the kneeling child, his eyes fell upon the lifeless body of a tribesman, a shallow but fatal wound marking his neck. The raider sighed, his gaze shifting to another man nearby, this one beheaded. He quickly pieced together a story: his tribesman must have killed this beheaded man before meeting his own end. It was a simple conclusion, one he accepted without question. The thought that the small, bloodied child before him could have been the killer never crossed his mind—it was too absurd to even consider.
The raider's attention returned to the child, who was now doing something strange. The boy stabbed his own right hand, wincing but not crying out, and used the blood that welled up to draw a crude eye on his forehead. The raider tilted his head, puzzled but intrigued. It was an odd, almost ritualistic act, but in the midst of the chaos, it seemed like a bizarre form of entertainment.
With a shrug, the raider decided to let the child continue. After all, it was amusing to watch, and in this world of madness, even the strangest actions could pass as normal. He stood there, a faint smirk playing on his lips, as the child painted his face with blood, unaware of the dark resolve burning behind the boy's eyes.
As the child completed the eye on his forehead, his lips moved in a faint, incoherent murmur, too soft to be understood. Using his own blood, he etched intricate marks across his shoulders, torso, abdomen, and neck, each stroke deliberate and haunting. Once finished, he slammed his head to the ground, prostrating himself before an unknown entity in fervent prayer. Slowly, he lifted his head, arms spreading wide before clasping together as if in desperate supplication.
Tears of blood streamed endlessly from his eyes, staining his face and transforming his vision into a world drenched in crimson. He turned his gaze upward, locking onto the moon—a moon that now burned with a blood-red glow, his own Crimson Moon. In that moment, the child's reality shifted, as though he had stepped into a realm where blood and shadow reigned supreme.
Time seemed to stretch and then freeze entirely, the world grinding to a halt. From the stillness emerged a figure cloaked in black, his movements deliberate and haunting. With each step he took, a river of blood trailed behind him, its crimson waves flowing endlessly, as if bound to his very presence. The air grew heavy, charged with an otherworldly energy, as the cloaked figure drew closer to the child.
"Thousands of years have passed since last I was called upon. Tell me, Child, why do you present a life to me, the God of Death?"
The self-proclaimed God of Death gazed at the child with a faint sense of amusement. After countless millennia, this was the first summoning to which He had chosen to respond.
"Perhaps you do not fully grasp what you have done, but you called upon My name, and I have answered your prayer—a prayer that offered a soul to me, the soul of the dead."
The self-proclaimed God of Death began to circle the child, the river of blood surging and spreading around him, forming a suffocating bubble that enveloped the boy entirely. The child thrashed and struggled, trying to swim free from the crimson tide, but no matter how hard he fought, he could not escape the blood that held him captive.
The self-proclaimed God of Death let out a dark, echoing laugh, thoroughly amused by the sight of the child struggling, nearly drowning in His River of Blood. For a moment, He was so entertained that He nearly forgot why He had come to this land and responded to the child's desperate prayer. With a snap of His fingers, the River of Blood erupted, drenching the child in crimson and leaving him gasping for air, his body stained and trembling.
"Tell me, Child, what is your name?"
The child gazed up at Him, his eyes shadowed with fear, and in a voice so faint it was almost inaudible, he whispered.
"Before I prayed to you, I abandoned my name..."
The child met the gaze of the God of Death directly, his eyes steady and unwavering, showing no trace of fear.
"I don't have a name…"
The self-proclaimed God of Death let out a deep, resonant laugh. Even He, a deity, bore a name, for all things in existence were defined by one. Yet this child had cast his aside, choosing to live without an identity—a fool's path, akin to not existing at all. To be nameless was to be forgotten, to fade into oblivion, to become one with the abyss.
The self-proclaimed God of Death let out a weary sigh, His gaze sweeping across the chaotic scene before Him. The humans around Him had descended into savagery, their actions beastly in this gruesome Festival of Blood. It was a grim spectacle, yet one that served as the necessary condition for His descent into this world.
"Now that I am here, speak, Child—what is it you wish to trade? But heed this: I accept only an equal exchange."
The child stared at the self-proclaimed God of Death, his expression filled with confusion. He knew nothing of this "Trade," and even if it required an equal exchange, he had nothing of value to offer.
"As the God of Death, I deal only in souls. Typically, I claim the soul of those marked by Death itself."
The self-proclaimed God of Death gazed at the child's body, suggesting that it is the child's soul he desires.
"But you're not dead yet. Since this is my first descent in a thousand years, I will make an exception for you: you can either offer the souls of your deceased family or the soul of someone you have killed with your own hands."
The self-proclaimed God of Death glanced at the child with mockery, alternating his gaze with the beheaded body before him.
"What will happen to the Soul that I will trade to you?"
The self-proclaimed God of Death smiled and said nothing.
The child lowered his head, a smile spreading across his face.
"I wish... no... I'll trade a Soul in exchange for my Life."
The self-proclaimed God of Death paused, momentarily stunned, then burst into maniacal laughter, locking his gaze directly into the Child's eyes.
"Isn't it ironic to call upon Me, the God of Death, to grant you Life? Why not seek the God of Life instead? But no matter, the Trade is complete. I will grant you the power to live... though living indefinitely is not mine to decide. Even I, a God, cannot control Fate—not even Fate itself."
As the self-proclaimed God of Death moved toward the beheaded man and raised his arm, the Child intervened, stopping him.
"It's not my father's soul that I wish to trade."
The child pointed to the dead man lying beside his father, clutching his own neck.
The self-proclaimed God of Death stared at the Child, stunned. Even he, a God, could hardly believe that the child had offered another man's soul. There was only one conclusion: the Child was the one who had killed the man.
The self-proclaimed God of Death glanced at the child, then at the dead man. He raised his arm, clenched his fist, and pulled something out of thin air. The dead man rose—no, it was his soul that rose, while his lifeless body remained on the ground. The soul of the dead man stared at the child mockingly, as though he were still alive. Before he could lunge at the kneeling child, black chains coiled around his arms, legs, and neck. The chains turned red, and the sound of sizzling flesh—no, a sizzling soul—filled the air, accompanied by the man's agonized wails. The soul frantically tried to tear the chains from his neck, but no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't break free. Slowly, the soul was dragged toward the self-proclaimed God of Death, screaming, laughing, and shouting in desperation. Despite his violent thrashing and resistance, the chains held firm, pulling him inevitably into the River of Blood beneath the God. The ravings faded, and a serene silence settled in their place.
"At last... a sinner's soul has joined My Kingdom after a thousand years..."
The self-proclaimed God of Death rested His hand on the Child's temple.
"The price has been paid. As the God of Death, I bless you, a Child with No Name..."
The Child's body froze, and moments later, uncontrollable spasms wracked his frame. The Mark of Death, which he had painted on his body using his own blood, began to sink into his skin. Gritting his teeth, the Child was overwhelmed by unbearable pain and a searing, burning sensation that consumed his entire being. The irises of his eyes started to stain with blood, and his tears of blood reversed as if they had never fallen. Gasping for air, weakened and trembling, the Child collapsed with a thud, slipping into unconsciousness.
The self-proclaimed God of Death turned away, a mocking smile curling on his lips as he spoke.
"The path you choose... I will await it. Whether you become my enemy or succeed me will depend on your Fate..."
"Let this world dye with Crimson, and you... My Blessed, will dye it for me..."