Songs of Kotoamatsukami
Prologue – The Council of the Gods
Takahamagara.
The high seat of eternity blazed with the brilliance of suns uncounted. Golden clouds folded into one another like vast curtains of silk, and the air was alive with hymns sung not by mortal throats but by the voices of creation itself. The chamber of the gods, vast as a world yet still confined to the infinite, shimmered with orbs of fire and rivers of star-light streaming across its endless pillars. Thrones—each wrought of constellations, each a monument to its occupant's divinity—were raised in a perfect circle.
Upon them sat the kami. Their forms blurred between majesty and terror, beasts and flames and storms coiled around their outlines, for they were not bound to a single shape. They were the principles of existence clothed in semblances that mortal minds might dare to comprehend.
At the heart of the circle, seated upon the throne of the blazing dawn, was Amaterasu Ōmikami. The brilliance of her radiance made the golden chamber itself seem pale; her very presence bent the air like heat on desert stone. Her hair spilled into the cosmos like an ocean of burning ink drifting through water, each strand weaving suns into being. She leaned forward upon one hand, her fist pressed against her cheek. When she spoke, it was not merely words—it was judgment.
"This council," she declared, her tone both weary and absolute, "has been long delayed. Let the hearings proceed."
The chorus of lesser celestials hushed. Light dimmed. For across the chamber, in chains forged from the bones of starlight and the threads of time, stood a figure who seemed to drink in all radiance around him.
Kotoamatsukami.
His robe was the shade of void, lazily billowing though there was no wind. His hair was darker still, the black of secrets never confessed, of nights without moons. His eyes gleamed with a serenity more terrible than rage, for within them dwelt the certainty of death itself. Bound though he was, he stood tall, his presence warping the silence.
He smiled faintly, and his voice drifted like a funeral hymn.
"To die is to live.
He who fears death… fears eternity."
The chamber shuddered with murmurs. Some gods scowled; others turned their eyes away. For though he was a prisoner, his words pressed against their immortal hearts like cold iron.
Kotoamatsukami raised his head, gaze sweeping the gathered thrones.
"Ah, the bliss I feel," he whispered. "Even now, at the mention of death, you tremble. Why? If not because this universe is broken, why does fear cling only to the end, and not to the birth that begins the journey? Why do you honor the path… but revile its destination?"
His laughter was soft, almost tender, but it unsettled like a dirge.
It was Tsukuyomi, lord of the moon, who answered. His voice was serene, as calm and luminous as the night sky. "You twist truths into poison, brother. You wield the Flow of Death not as a keeper of balance, but as a thief. Even the gods can be slain by your hand. Even eternity trembles at your touch."
Beside him, Susano'o thundered with the roar of a storm tide. Lightning sparked in his mane of hair, his wrath uncontained. "Not only that! He dares create a world apart—an echo of Jōkai itself—where his authority is sovereign. A world of graves, shadow, and silence!"
Kotoamatsukami chuckled, chains rattling softly as though in agreement. "And what, dear brother, separates your godhood from mankind's petty kingdoms? Did you not too shape realms, erect laws, and demand worship as tribute? You called it order. I call it chains. Greed, envy, hunger—these are not mine alone. They are the marrow of all who breathe."
The chamber grew tense.
One by one, the gods began to raise their hands in solemn silence. The motion was clear—banishment. Judgment. His power would be torn from him, his divinity sealed away.
Amaterasu closed her eyes for a breath, then spoke. Her words rolled like fire across parchment.
"Kotoamatsukami. You who defied the harmony of Takahamagara, you who drenched eternity in despair, you shall be struck from our seat. Your authority severed. Your name cast among mortals. You shall walk as flesh, bleed as flesh, and when you die you shall be bound not to return, but to descend into Jōkai as one marked for its depths. This is the decree of the council."
Light surged. The air split with the sound of chains unraveling into brilliance. From Kotoamatsukami's form, threads of blackened divinity were ripped free, condensed into a sphere of trembling light—an orb held beyond space and time, untouchable. His robe peeled away into ashes. His once-resplendent aura collapsed into silence.
Yet through it all, he smiled.
"Ah… fear," he breathed, voice echoing like a dying bell. "How sweet you taste. How faithfully you cling to life. Once more, I shall wander among you. Once more, I shall preach the peace you dread to hear."
And with that, he fell.
Through the golden skies of Takahamagara, down into the fractured veil of mortality. His descent streaked across heavens like a black star.
The chamber was silent, yet uneasy. The gods, though victorious, felt no triumph. For though he was cast down, Kotoamatsukami's words lingered, whispering like a chill across eternity.
Chapter 1: To Be Reborn
The village of Tsuki lay nestled in the shadow of the mountains, its rooftops silvered by moonlight, its silence deep as though the stars themselves had paused their vigil. Yet beneath that calm, whispers had long passed from mouth to mouth, from hearth to hearth, of a child yet unborn.
For three years, Yuna carried him.
Three years of swelling belly, of hushed fear, of wondering what curse or miracle lingered within her womb. Three years in which the midwives muttered prayers, and the old men spat salt into the soil to ward away demons. Three years of waiting, while her husband Shizuru bore the weight of gossip and dread upon his shoulders.
And now the hour had come.
Torches burned low as Yuna was carried into the small birthing chamber. The scent of herbs filled the air, bitter and sharp, clashing with the copper tang of blood that already seeped through the mats. Sweat gleamed on her skin, her breaths short and ragged. She clutched her swollen stomach, her eyes glazed with both pain and something far deeper—fear that lived in her marrow.
Shizuru knelt beside her, gripping her hand tightly, whispering, "Just a little longer, Yuna… just a little longer, my love."
But she was not listening. Her gaze had gone distant, as though staring into a night only she could see.
Then silence. A silence so heavy the air itself seemed to collapse.
And then—
A tear.
The sound was wet, unnatural. A cry rose, but not hers. Not the mother's.
Horrified screams filled the room. A midwife dropped the cloths in her trembling hands. Another stumbled back, pressing a palm against her mouth. Shizuru, heart racing, shoved past them, his feet slipping against blood.
And there he saw it.
Yuna lay limp upon the mattress, her body split open from within, her life already gone. In the pool of her blood lay a newborn child, slick and crimson, crying with a voice so sharp it pierced through marrow. His tiny fists clenched, his black hair already clinging like strands of ink to his forehead.
But it was not the ordinary cry of a child.
It was a wail that seemed to echo, a cry that stretched into the unseen, rattling lantern flames and chilling every soul within earshot. It was the cry of death made flesh.
Shizuru froze. His knees gave way beneath him, and he crumpled beside the blood-stained mattress. His hands shook, reaching not for the child but for his wife's lifeless form.
"No…" His voice cracked, breaking into fragments. "No… Yuna… my Yuna…"
The child's cries did not cease. They only grew louder, as though mocking, as though proclaiming a birth no one had prayed for.
Shizuru turned, his face contorted with grief and terror, staring at the infant. His voice was hollow, strangled.
"W-what… what are you?"
No answer came. Only the wail of the newborn, drenched in his mother's blood.
The midwives whispered furiously, crossing their hands in warding signs. One muttered, "This is no child… this is an omen." Another whispered, "A curse of the gods." None dared to touch him. None dared to draw near.
And so the child lived, unblessed, unwelcomed, born of death.
---
Sixteen years later.
The boy grew into a young man, his presence as unsettling as his birth. His name was Yuno, though many in the village would not speak it. His hair was as black as coal, his eyes deep and hollow, carrying shadows even in daylight.
On the evening of his sixteenth birthday, Yuno entered a small, decrepit house. The smell of stale sake choked the air. His father, Shizuru, slumped in a chair, clutching an empty cup with trembling fingers. His once-proud frame had withered into bitterness, his spirit eroded by grief.
Yuno walked silently to him, placing a fresh bottle of wine upon the table.
Crack.
Without warning, Shizuru shattered an empty bottle and slashed it across Yuno's face. Blood streaked down the boy's cheek.
"Why?" Shizuru slurred, eyes red and furious. "Why won't you speak? Sixteen years—sixteen years, and not a word! You came into this world drenched in her blood. You took her from me! You took everything!" His voice cracked into a broken laugh. "And today—today of all days—is the day you cursed me with your birth."
Shizuru grabbed another bottle and hurled it at his son. The glass shattered against the wall.
"I have no gift for you… bastard!"
The room fell silent.
Yuno stood still, blood dripping down his cheek. Then, slowly, his lips parted. For the first time in sixteen years, his voice rang out.
"But I have a gift for you."
Shizuru froze. His drunken haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by horror.
Yuno stepped closer, kneeling before him. He placed a trembling hand upon his father's cheek, his touch oddly gentle. His dark eyes softened, filled with something that should have been love—but behind it lay eternity itself.
"Thank you," Yuno whispered, his voice calm, tender. "Thank you for raising me all these years. I'm sorry for the pain I've caused you. Truly… I am. So now… let me give you a gift that will last a lifetime."
Tears spilled down his face as he smiled.
And then—
Death.
It came without warning, without flash or flare. One moment Shizuru breathed, the next his eyes rolled white, his skin drained pale, his soul severed. His body slumped lifelessly, as if emptied of all flow.
The air grew heavy. The lamps flickered. Outside, the skies darkened, clouds gathering as though mourning—or heralding.
In that silent room, the son wept as he cradled the corpse of his father. Yet upon his shoulders, unseen chains broke, and unseen doors opened.
For death no longer drifted as a concept.
It walked the earth.
It breathed as a man.