The Birth of the Cursed Prince
"To be born among darkness isn't a choice. It's a sentence carved into flesh, an oath sealed with black blood."
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Deep within the Cursed Forest—where silence smothers even the crows' harsh cries—life itself is an insult. Rotten roots twist around bleached bones, and thorn-altars guard a bloodline that renounced humanity long before the gods abandoned it. The Ashida—black-blood killers—dwell in this abyss: a clan that breathes death and worships emptiness. Here, the sun is a lie. There is only the clank of chains, the stench of dried blood, and the whisper of knives that never rest.
In a cave at the deepest point of the abyss, lit by red torches that smelled of burnt flesh, the mother gave birth beneath a moonless sky. She did not scream. Her face—carved from cold—showed no pain, only purpose. The Ashida do not feel; they destroy.
A blind midwife, with red eyes flashing under pale white glints and fingers stained with blood, leaned toward the newborn. The child did not cry. His lids, barely open, revealed two cursed rubies blazing with inhuman fury. The midwife, driven by an instinct older than life, took a ritual dagger and sliced the infant's palm. Blood welled up—not red, but black, viscous as tar, burning like a fire that never dies.
The mother, hair white as bone and eyes red as embers, watched in silence. The midwife raised the blade, licked the black blood, and her lips trembled as she spoke the prophecy:
— Alicetroemeria, Mother of the Black Blood, has marked this child. He is Ayanato. The prince of darkness. The one who will bring ruin to the red-blooded.
Alicetroemeria did not smile. Her hands—nails sharp—closed into a hard fist.
— My son —she whispered, her voice a slow-slithering poison—. My knife with a name… soon you'll suffer like everyone else.
The Spring of Temperance
"Beneath a veil of opulence, childhood is forged in steel and blood."
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From five to nine, Ayanato grew in the zone of Temperance—one sector of Eden that looked like a dream compared to the rest of the Cursed Forest. Corridors of black marble gleamed under crystal chandeliers, and gardens of black roses breathed out a scent that almost covered the distant reek of blood. Maids with calm faces and precise movements served trays of perfectly cut ghoul meat, and Ayanato's clothes were fine royal silk—more a symbol than a comfort.
But even here, among all this luxury, the Ashida knew no childhood. Children didn't play. They prepared to kill.
At five, his mother summoned him to the grand hall, a vast space of high ceilings and stained glass that filtered an eternal red dawn. Her figure, wrapped in a dress woven of shadows, filled the air with a weight that made knees tremble.
— My son —she said, her voice syrupy as sweet poison—. Today you'll taste the heat of blood. Today you'll learn what it means to carry black blood in your veins.
In the center of the hall lay a man—an intruder caught in the forest. A ranger, with a useless revolver tied at his waist and eyes bulging with terror. His wrists bled beneath the ropes, and his breathing was a desperate rasp.
— I'll count to five —the mother said, her tone so gentle it cut—. If you don't kill him, I'll set him free. And if he kills you… you don't deserve my blood.
— One.
Ayanato ran, bare feet slapping the marble. It wasn't fear—it was instinct. He knew hesitation meant death.
— Two.
In the kitchen, knives hung like trophies, their blades shining beneath lamplight. His small fingers grabbed one, cold steel against his skin.
— Three.
The knife seemed to vibrate, eager to drink life. Ayanato tightened his grip, his heart beating with a calm he didn't understand.
— Four.
He returned to the hall—his eyes meeting the man's, then his mother's, then his own reflection in the blade.
— Five.
The man's throat opened like ripe fruit. Red blood sprayed the floor, mixing with the black that dripped from Ayanato's hand—cut by his clumsy grip. The man gurgled, his eyes begging in silence, but there were no screams. Only the wet sound of death.
Ayanato watched—expressionless—as life faded out. He felt no terror, no guilt. Only a void filling him from the inside.
— Well done, my son —his mother whispered, stroking his hair as if he were an obedient wolf—. Never feel pity. If you do, I'll tear your heart out with the hands that gave you life. Soon we'll repeat the test—and next time it won't be a bound human, but a ghoul ready to kill you.
The Hell of Diligence
"Where chains cut flesh, the soul learns not to feel."
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At ten, Ayanato's world changed. The false warmth of Temperance was left behind. He was sent to the sector of Diligence—a hell of damp stone, red torches, and chains that sliced skin. The corridors smelled of iron and rot, and the cells were packed with prisoners: discarded ghouls, defiant humans whose screams echoed like a shattered symphony. Here, food wasn't served.
It was earned with blood.
That day, the great hall of Diligence opened with a creak that froze the soul. The servants—broken bodies who served out of fear—fell to their knees as the mother entered. Her white hair swept the floor, untouched by the blood that seemed to seep up wherever she walked. Her presence was a weight that crushed the air.
The clan's children were lined up. Ayanato stood beside Himari—his sister with a blue eye, a forbidden color among the Ashida. Himari trembled, clutching Ayanato's hands, searching for an anchor in the chaos. He shielded her with his body, knowing those blue, too-human eyes were a sentence.
The mother spoke, her voice a blade that cut the soul.
— How many have you killed? —she asked, her red eyes scanning the line—. How many are worthy of black blood?
Ayanato lifted his chin, his voice steady despite the fear burning in his chest.
— Two thousand.
The echo of the number died in the hall. The mother smiled—but it wasn't approval.
It was a challenge.
Her eyes stopped on Himari, who kept her gaze lowered, her blue eye hidden behind messy hair.
The mother approached, her cold claws gripping Himari's arm and lifting her like a rag doll. Himari screamed—cried—stared at her mother in terror, her blue eye shining with a mix of sadness and resignation. The mother sniffed the air, her lips twisting in disgust.
— Abomination —she hissed, digging her nails into Himari's skin.
Blood spilled—red like human blood, not black like the Ashida. The color the mother despised. The color that branded Himari as different, as weak. Ayanato didn't think. He drew the dagger he always carried—a poisoned gift from his mother—and drove it into his mother's arm. One, two, three times, his voice cracking into a scream.
— Let her go! Take me instead!
The mother didn't flinch. Her flesh regenerated faster than Ayanato could cut it, black blood sealing every wound instantly. With a flick of her hand, she ripped Himari's body open from neck to belly as if splitting a broken cocoon. Red blood soaked the floor. Himari's tentacles—weak and useless—reached for something, anything, then fell limp.
Ayanato screamed, his dagger slipping from his hands. He lunged for Himari, trying to hold her, but her body was already nothing but ruined meat. Himari's heart rolled onto the floor—still beating—and the mother picked it up like a trophy.
— Red-blooded exist only to feed the worthy —she said, her voice calm as a frozen lake.
Kneeling in his sister's blood, Ayanato felt the world collapse. The mother grabbed him by the throat, lifting him as if he weighed nothing. She slammed him into a steel table—once, twice, three times—until his skull cracked and black blood healed him… just so she could break him again.
— Eat it —she ordered, pointing to Himari's heart, pulsing on an obsidian platter.
Ayanato shook his head, tears mixing with blood on his face.
— No.
The mother's fist struck him, and the world blurred into black and red.
— Eat it, or I'll make another one of your sisters die.
Ayanato trembled as one of Alicetroemeria's priestesses reached for the heart. It was warm—heavy—alive. He brought it to his mouth, the taste of iron and loss burning down his throat. He vomited, again and again, but the priestess forced him to keep going, claws digging into the back of his neck until nothing remained.
That day, Ayanato stopped being a brother.
Stopped being a child.
Stopped being human.
Protective Shadows
"In the twilight of loss, protection is an echo of what never was."
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At ten, after Himari's death, Ayanato lived to survive. The sector of Love was an eternal garden that meant nothing—just a gilded cage where days were measured in hollow songs and nights in nightmares of Himari.
Shinigami—his older sister, one of the Kurohanas of the Garden—was broken shadow trying to protect him, even though her own eyes held no light anymore. Shinigami's white hair fell like a curtain, hiding the scars their mother had carved into her skin. She didn't speak much, but when she did, her words were a desperate attempt to keep the clan from splitting apart.
— Hold on, Ayanato —she would whisper on the darkest nights, when the endless laughter of drowsy Kurohanas filled the air—. Someday… we'll get out of here, and maybe you'll find a new Himari who can smile without lies.
But Ayanato knew there was no way out. Every day was a battle against invisible chains—against the sweet songs of ghouls driven into madness, trying to drag him into the same delirium—against his own mind. He slept with a knife under his hand, dreaming of fire and blood, of a world where Himari still breathed.
But every awakening was a reminder:
The Ashida don't dream of freedom.
Only of death.
The Game of Cruel Exile
"Running away is just another game, and black blood never forgets its board."
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At seventeen, his mother summoned him one last time. Night was a black mantle, the Cursed Forest silent as an open grave. Ayanato waited at the edge of the sector of Diligence, his hands marked by scars black blood never fully allowed to fade. The mother's figure emerged from the darkness—white hair shining like a lighthouse of death, red eyes slicing through the gloom like knives.
— Ayanato —she said, her voice a hollow echo—. You have failed black blood. You are not worthy of my lineage.
Ayanato lowered his gaze, bracing for the final blow. But the mother laughed—a sound that froze blood, crueler than any scream.
— I could tear you apart right now —she continued, stepping close until her cold breath grazed his face—. But where would the fun be in that? I'll give you a game, my little broken knife. Run. Go. To the humans' world—to that worm-infested city called Tokyo. Kill them all. Devour the red-blooded. Bring me the head of the strongest… or don't come back. Only then will I forgive you.
Ayanato lifted his eyes, searching for a trap. But the mother extended a hand, and the air thickened. A black mist rose, smothering the forest's sky like an eclipse. The trees around them withered, leaves falling like ash. The ground beneath Ayanato's feet groaned, and he felt the weight of his mother's power—the same power that had destroyed Himari.
— This isn't an order —the mother said, her voice a whisper that cut—. It's a game. If you fail, I'll find you. I'll catch you. And I'll drag you back into madness.
Ayanato didn't answer. His legs trembled—not from fear, but from something impossible: the idea of escape, even if it was just another way to die. In silence, he thanked—not her, never her—but the mere chance to run, even knowing there was no shelter against the abyss.
He turned and ran, the sound of his broken chains echoing through Eden, where everyone wanted him dead… or worse. And his mother's laughter followed him, an echo promising the game belonged to her—only to her.
Tokyo awaited: a city of lights and blood, where the abyss could wear a different face.
But Ayanato knew, deep inside his shattered soul, that the Mother of the Black Blood had not let go of him.
The game had only just begun.