The firmament is like a cover.
You walk forward, holding a parasol as red as blood.
The village is submerged in a sea of corpses, chunks of bodies lie at your feet. You walk while digging meat from the bodies, slowly stuffing it into your mouth.
This year you are seventeen. A sudden Red Sun descended, burning everyone to death.
You still remember just now, the scene where your family desperately stuffed you and many other children of the same age into the basement, giving you all the chance to live.
In the basement, you and the children endure the pain of losing loved ones, holding hands, singing the song of the Dawn Goddess, convinced that the benevolent Mother Goddess will protect them.
"Kritchens, Kritchens.
You speak of divination. Instructions descended from High Dimensions.
And who then carves this silent adage into marrow.
Knight, Redeemer, Orderly, Chantor, Angel and Loksa…"
Then,
In the children's singing, you heard "pop-pop" sounds.
