Under the endless expanse of the night sky, fire burned bright. The smell of charred flesh and blood lingered in the cold night air. Laughter and screams echoed through the darkness.
A group of purple-haired men sat around a campfire eating, drinking, celebrating. Dozens of bodies lay slain nearby. Spines broken, skulls crushed, organs torn and scattered. But away from the noise, one man stood alone.
Bare from the waist up, steam rose from his skin, blood painted his face and deep purple hair. His torso bore deep lashes and bite marks. Veins coiled like ropes across his arms and neck. His hands, slick with blood, hung at his sides. But it was his eyes -golden and fierce-that stared unblinking at the night sky, as if watching something or someone.
He tilted his head—not in confusion, but in curiosity. Then he grinned. His golden eyes burned even brighter. His aura flared—chaotic, primal. And then, he laughed. Loud and sharp.
The men around the fire turned.
"Something is coming," the man said, still smiling. "Enjoy the night! Because tomorrow everything will begin to change."
His laughter filled the air again. The others, still unsure, followed suit—raising their voices in wild, resounding cheer.
---
[Present Day – Village Hidden in the Leave, Uetsumi Clan Compound, War Shrine]
A boy with short purple hair stood alone in the corridor of the shrine. Behind him, the stone path had sealed shut. There were no torches, no lights—only the soft warmth radiating from the walls, pulsing faintly like a living heartbeat. Each step he took echoed through the quiet.
He did not tremble. He did not rush.
He was meant to walk this path.
The corridor curved and widened into a circular chamber—a temple of stone and silence.
Seven robed figures knelt in a perfect ring around a raised dais. Each wore black robes marked with a single red slash down the spine. None spoke. Their heads remained bowed, hoods deep.
At the center stood the Clan Head.
Uetsumi Kazuo
His presence alone altered the temperature of the room. His robes were unadorned. His long purple hair was tied in a ceremonial bun, held in place by a crown of old steel. His posture was unmoving—still as a mountain. His golden eyes, depthless and sharp, glanced once at his son then returned to the seal carved into the stone at his feet.
The boy stepped forward. He wore a plain robe. No headband. No weapons.
A small vial was placed before the boy by one of the hooded elders. The liquid inside was black—thick as sludge, origin unknown.
Kazuo raised his hand—not in greeting, but as a signal.
"Drink."
The boy knelt. Took the vial. No hesitation. He drank.
And fell backward instantly.
---
Blood. Screams. Carnage. Death.
They flooded his mind like a broken dam.
His muscles stiffened. His spine arched. A scream tore from his throat—loud, raw, and unrelenting.
Then silence.
He awoke.
Kirinji gasped as air rushed into his lungs. He choked, vomiting the black liquid—mixed with blood and other viscous fluids—onto the stone. His robe was soaked. His breath ragged.
He was still on the dais. Kazuo had not moved.
The seal at the base of the platform glowed now—no longer dormant, but alive.
Kazuo stepped forward, just once.
"You are Uetsumi now. Cleansed from all impurities of the human body. " he said. "Let all revere it. And let none disgrace it."
He turned, robes sweeping behind him like parting fog. The robed elders rose without a word and followed.
Kirinji was alone now in the circle of stone. The silence did not press—it waited.
He looked down at his hand. It trembled—not from fear, but from strain.
Then he stepped forward, running his fingers along the carved wall—the history of the Uetsumi etched in sacred silence. Scenes of battle, blood rites, and silent glory.
At the very end, a blank panel.
Waiting.
He paused.
Touched it.
Then turned, and began to walk away.