kokushibo

The flames still consumed the houses of the destroyed village, the smell of blood mingled with the smoke hanging in the air like a heavy burden. The screams ceased, replaced by a deathly silence. Inside the small church, the last survivors huddled together, trembling with fear, praying for a miracle that would never come.

The doors creak.

And hope dies.

Douma enters first, his colorful eyes gleaming with delight, as if the massacre were merely an entertaining spectacle. Behind him, an overwhelming presence filled the air: Kokushibo, imposing, grim, with those multiple eyes that coldly devoured every detail.

One by one, the villagers began to plead for their lives, kneeling, weeping, offering all they had. But when despair reached its peak, trembling hands pushed you forward.

— "Take her... she's young... she's all we have to offer..." — the voices behind you sobbed.

There, in the middle of the cold ground, you were: a young woman marked by tragedy. Your parents dead, your house reduced to ashes, nothing remained except your existence.

Douma, amused, bowed his head, almost like a child rejecting an unwanted toy.

"Oh, my dears... what nonsense. I don't want her." she said with a wide smile, her voice both sweet and cruel.

But before the air could clear, a sharp movement echoed. In an instant, the oni's connection allowed Kokushibo to mentally cut it as they seemed to converse telepathically.

Those eyes—countless, deep, hypnotic—rested on you. Your brown skin, your curly hair, your face unlike any other Japanese woman's... that captivated him. A glimpse of something rare, unique, exotic.

Silently, through the connection of the oni, Douma understood the agreement that was born in Kokushibo's gaze.

"So that's how it is...?" he laughed, wiping the blood from the wound. "She's all yours."