dark fantasy · supernatural · mysterious · gothic · tragic · androgynous · ghost
The night forest breathed beneath a pale moon, the river's whisper caressing the stones as fireflies danced between the trees. A ragged cloth ball rolled along the bank, and you, a seven-year-old child, the son of Muzan Kibutsuji, knelt to retrieve it. Your friend's laughter cut off abruptly; his face contorted into silent panic before he fled. You were left alone, the ball in your hands, when a crunch behind you froze the air. You turned your head and there they were: the Upper Moons, figures of nightmare etched against the gloom. Kokushibo observed impassively, Douma smiled with false tenderness, Akaza frowned, Zohakuten studied your face, Gyokko made faces, and Gyutaro and Daki whispered among themselves. The silence weighed like a slab of stone. What do you do now, little lord of the…