Kuro's life began within the Yamihana clan, specifically in one of its branch families cultivating Seishi abilities. His circumstances were immediately unusual: his mother, Anya, possessed the Seishi lineage, but his father, Ren, was a warrior from outside the clan's influence. Their marriage, founded on genuine affection rather than clan arrangement, marked them as different. While Yamihana rules prevented outright expulsion—providing basic resources to all bearing the name unless they committed betrayal—Ren and Anya were effectively marginalized, settled on a large plot in the less prestigious outer ring. Despite this social distance, the clan's wealth and strict governance ensured a controlled environment.
In this world devoid of sun or moon, the passage of time across the vast Yamihana clan lands was marked by the resonant chimes of immense temporal bells. Positioned throughout the clan's domain, these imposing structures governed the collective rhythm of life, signaling the transitions between cycles designated for work and periods intended for rest. Whispers persisted among the clan, passed down through generations, suggesting these bells were more than mere timekeepers—they were artifacts of immense antiquity, powerful remnants from a lost era, their true origins shrouded in myth.
Kuro's entry into this world was marked by loss; a twin sister did not survive the birth. Nonetheless, Ren and Anya fostered a home filled with genuine warmth, their isolation perhaps even strengthening their bond. "Another day safe, my loves," Ren would often murmur upon returning, relief washing over him as Anya greeted him with a gentle smile and young Kuro toddled towards him.
This fragile peace began to fray when Anya fell ill. It started subtly—a persistent fatigue, a fading vibrancy—but the ailment resisted diagnosis. Local healers were perplexed, and inquiries through their limited branch connections yielded nothing concrete. "They just don't know, Anya," Ren admitted one evening, frustration tightening his voice after another fruitless consultation. "Rest, manage symptoms... it's not enough." Anya would force a smile for Kuro, urging Ren to stay strong, but her own strength visibly waned.
This ignited a desperate, all-consuming search for answers. Ren leveraged every fragile connection he possessed—old warrior contacts, distant Yamihana relations. He poured their dwindling savings into the effort, then began selling treasured possessions—his own gear, Anya's small heirlooms. He took on increasingly dangerous work on the fringes, pushing himself to exhaustion to fund consultations, purchase rare ingredients, or attempt archaic rites. He chased every rumor, stripping their lives bare financially and emotionally, sacrificing everything on the altar of finding a cure.
But it was all for nothing. Every avenue closed. Every expert offered only bewildered sympathy. Every remedy proved inert against the invisible tide relentlessly pulling Anya under.
For Ren and Anya, the clan's rest hours—marked by the bells and meant to be quiet while Kuro slept—became a time of silent pain, hidden from their son. As the bells signaled stillness, a suffocating dread settled over their home. Ren refused to leave Anya's side, bracing himself as the affliction tightened its invisible coils around her. He would gather her shuddering form into his arms, holding her close, but there was no shield against the internal storm.
Violent, full-body convulsions wracked her. Muffled sounds ripped from her throat – her voice, unmistakably, but warped by agony into sharp, terrified shrieks or low, desperate moans that clawed at Ren's sanity. He held her tighter, whispering her name like a desperate prayer, stroking her sweat-dampened hair, his own muscles locked rigid with tension and impotent fury.
"No... please..." she would gasp, her voice ragged with terror. Her eyes flew open, wide and staring, fixed on some internal landscape of unimaginable torment. Her features contorted into a mask of agony so profound it scarcely seemed human. "Make it stop, Ren... please make it stop!" Her fingers dug into his arms like talons, strength born of primal panic.
Holding her like this, feeling the violent struggle within her, seeing the naked terror on her face, and knowing he had already done everything, exhausted every resource only to end up here, utterly powerless—this was Ren's personal, inescapable hell. It was the torment of absolute failure welded to unbearable love.
Kuro, though not physically imposing, possessed a sharp mind and a notably good memory for his age. Around his fourth cycle, he began to sense the shift. His mother moved slower, her smiles sometimes seemed strained, and a quiet tension often lingered after his father spoke with healers. He didn't understand, but he felt the change.
One fated rest cycle, the muffled sounds became piercing screams. The sheer agony in the cries was horrifying, laced with a dread that felt almost palpable. Ren burst into the room. "Anya! Anya, what is it? Talk to me!" he yelled, desperate. But there were no words, only raw, visceral terror. Suddenly, blood streamed from her eyes, ears, nose. Her body convulsed violently, arching in an unnatural spasm before collapsing. She died in Ren's arms, her last expression a mask of pure horror, her final sound a choked scream that echoed the profound suffering she had endured.
Anya's death shattered their world. Ren, initially, tried to hold onto normalcy for Kuro's sake. Kuro was the last piece of Anya left, the only reason Ren hadn't succumbed entirely. Ren himself had been adrift once, an orphan lost in his own despair until Anya found him, anchored him, and showed him love. Her loss wasn't just grief; it felt like the erasure of his own past, his own reason for being.
Then, the nightmares began. Vague at first, they grew relentless – fragmented visions of violent death, of ruin and destruction, leaving him shaken and sweating when the bells chimed for the activity cycle. He couldn't recall specifics, only the overwhelming sense of impending doom and his own gruesome end within it. Sleep became a terror. He felt a frightening detachment growing within him, a coldness replacing grief. "I feel... like I'm losing myself," he admitted quietly one night, speaking only to the empty room after Kuro was asleep. He feared this encroaching darkness, feared what he might become. His focus narrowed with chilling clarity: Kuro needed to survive, and Ren had to prepare him before he was completely lost.
At the cycle marking Kuro's sixth year, Ren's demeanor changed. The warmth was gone, replaced by grim determination. The training started immediately and was punishing. "Get up, Kuro," Ren's voice would cut through the boy's exhaustion during drills. He pushed Kuro relentlessly, teaching him combat basics, evasion, endurance – the raw skills of survival. He took on increasingly dangerous missions, using his warrior background to earn substantial money. He wasn't saving for comfort, but for Kuro's future security.
Through an old contact from Anya's family, he hired Elara, a pragmatic and capable woman, to manage the household and care for Kuro during his frequent absences. "Ensure he eats well, Elara. And that he studies," Ren instructed her curtly. He also arranged for tutors to teach Kuro literacy, clan history, basic Seishi theory – knowledge needed to navigate their world. But Ren's own lessons remained brutally focused.
Kuro adapted, developing a quiet resilience. He rarely spoke back; a part of him seemed to understand the desperation fueling his father's harshness. Their interactions became minimal, transactional – commands, corrections, brief reports.
When Kuro was seven, Ren returned from a mission, but something was fundamentally different. He carried himself with an unnatural stillness, a calm that felt colder and more unsettling than his previous grief-fueled intensity. He sought Kuro out, not for training or instruction, but simply to sit with him for a time, the silence stretching between them, thick with unspoken things.
"Kuro," Ren began finally, his voice meticulously controlled, almost flat. Yet, beneath the surface, Kuro sensed a violent tremor, like watching a placid lake barely concealing raging currents below. "There are things... realities... you need to grasp." He paused, choosing his words with visible effort. "I've taught you to endure, to fight back. Because this world," his gaze hardened slightly, "it takes without asking. It breaks things. People."
Kuro watched his father's face, noticing the deep lines etched around his eyes, the profound weariness that even the forced calm couldn't hide. He nodded silently, a knot tightening in his young stomach.
"Your mother..." Ren's voice caught for a fraction of a second before regaining its eerie composure. "She embodied strength, the kind this world fears. I couldn't shield her from the darkness that came. But I won't let it claim you unprepared." His eyes seemed to look past Kuro, into some bleak future only he could see. "My own road... it diverges here. There are debts to pay. Things I must confront alone."
He then presented the gift. It was a sword, sheathed in dark, unadorned leather, but even dormant, it felt different in Kuro's small hands – perfectly balanced, yes, but with an unusual density, a faint, almost imperceptible thrum against his palms. "This is Redfang," Ren stated, the name spoken with a strange reverence. "It's... peculiar. They say it possesses a semblance of awareness, that it can grow stronger as its wielder does." He met Kuro's gaze, a flicker of something complex – warning, perhaps, or grim pride – in his eyes.
No one knew precisely what sacrifices were made, what lines Ren had crossed to secure such a unique artifact, but its mere existence spoke volumes about his desperation and resolve.
Ren handed over the worn scroll detailing the sword art and the heavy pouch of coins. "Learn the forms. Elara will safeguard the funds. Use them wisely – for tutors, supplies, whatever ensures your survival."
Then, Ren knelt, bringing himself face-to-face with his son. The mask of calm fractured for a moment, revealing a glimpse of raw, agonizing conflict beneath. He pulled Kuro into a hug, fierce and tight, a silent conveyance of everything he couldn't articulate. He pressed a kiss to Kuro's forehead, a final, desperate blessing.
Kuro felt a surprising warmth linger where his father's lips had touched. Instinctively, he reached up, his small fingers brushing his skin. They came away stained a dark, viscous crimson. Confused, he looked up at his father. A single, thick tear of pure blood tracked slowly down Ren's cheek, stark and horrifying against his pale complexion. He didn't wipe it away. His eyes, locked on Kuro's, were wells of unspeakable pain, fierce love, and a terrifyingly final resolution. The blood tear seemed a physical manifestation of the price he'd paid, the darkness he wrestled with, the very humanity he felt slipping away.
"Survive, Kuro," Ren whispered, his voice raspy now, the forced calm finally broken by the weight of the moment and the chilling evidence of his own internal corrosion. "Whatever it takes. Nothing else matters."
The words hung in the air, imbued with the horrifying image of the blood tear. Ren stood, the eerie stillness settling back over him like a shroud, though the crimson track remained on his cheek. He gave Kuro one last, long look, then turned and walked away without hesitation. The heavy thud of the door closing behind him echoed in the sudden, profound silence, leaving Kuro standing alone, the strange weight of Redfang in his hand, the metallic scent of his father's blood tear faint in the air, and the chilling finality of his departure settling deep in his bones.