Kuroha had learned to stop thrashing in his mother's arms.
At three years old, he was carried more often than he walked.
Not out of any real weakness, exactly, but because the clan moved through spaces too dangerous for unsteady feet.
Most areas were narrow stone paths slick with moisture. Passages that dropped into steam filled chasms. Corridors where the walls radiated enough heat to blister careless skin.
The clan never quite bothered truly furnishing the whole compound. Tempering of the flesh was their priority. No point hiding sections like these. If not tempering, they served as reminders to the stronger members.
Never turn compliant. Never admit weakness. Be weak. Never admit it.
Such sayings were pounded in their heads from youth.
So he stayed still and watched.
Today, his mother carried him toward the prayer hall.
He'd seen it before, but never like this. Never during a proper gathering. He was usually asleep for these, his young body needing lots of sleep.
________________________________________
The corridor opened into a vast chamber, and Kuroha's breath caught.
The statue loomed.
Ten meters tall, carved from stone so old it had taken on the color of dried blood. As if the color of their lifeblood had seeped so deep, it brought forth a sense of liveliness.
Like the statue itself was alive, observing.
The figure stood in the center back of the hall, surrounded by oil lamps that cast writhing shadows across its surface.
Arms sprouted from its torso in layered rings. Some were thick and fully formed, corded with muscle that looked almost real.
Others were thin, half emerged, as if the stone itself were still growing them. Kuroha counted twelve arms. Maybe more. The shadows made it hard to tell.
Its face was split. Not cleanly, but asymmetrically. Eyes clustered across the left side, some carved deep, some barely suggested. A few were real, and sent chills down Kuroha's spine.
Preserved and set into the stone with care. They stared outward with glassy patience.
The right side of the face bore fewer eyes, but a carved ridge ran down it, and even a miniature arm sprouted, holding one of the preserved eyes into it's tiny grasp.
The chest cavity was open, much how some of his mother's paintings had depicted their god, and distant ancestor.
The cavity was no hollow one, but deliberately carved to expose what lay within.
Nine hearts, each the size of a fist, nested together, each slightly different.
As if each heart had a separate beat.
The chest was stained darker than the rest of the statue, layered with so much dried blood that what once was pristine details, were nearly lost.
Kuroha stared, the sight nailing itself in his memory.
`Could i do that? Hold such power?`
The thought crept in unbidden.
He didn't know if it was awe or horror. Maybe both. But the question lingered.
Could his body become something like that? Could flesh truly reshape itself so completely?
He'd felt it before, if barely. That strange, instinctive awareness. A sense that his body was not entirely fixed.
That with enough focus, enough will, he could change small things. Harden his skin. Shift the density of muscle. Thicken bone.
He hadn't managed to do anything. A slight tension here. A dull ache there. But it was real.
The clan didn't have a name for it. They called it the divine gift. The blood of the ancestor.
Proof, that they were connected.
Kuroha had stopped asking questions aloud.
His mother set him down near the front of the hall, among the other children.
There were perhaps six or seven in total. Eight counting himself.
Two boys, both around five, sat cross legged with their hands resting on their knees. Their faces were blank, eyes forward. Not bored. Not distracted. Just still.
The others ranged in age from four to seven. All of them wore the same expression. Calm. Focused. Waiting.
Kuroha sat and tried to mimic them.
The hall filled slowly.
Adults entered in silence, taking their places in rows behind the children.
Men and women alike, barefoot on stone that had been worn smooth by decades of use. They moved without hesitation, each one settling into position with practiced ease.
The elders came last.
Seven of them, each walking with slow, measured steps. Their bodies bore more scars than anyone else, layered so densely that it was hard to find unmarked skin. Their hair was black, still. Their eyes were red, still.
Each must have been in their late nineties.
But their presence felt heavier. Their hair was just as black as Kuroha's.
Not one of their backs had bent with age. Even what must be the oldest by far, barely had a little gray at the sides.
When his mother had told him that elder Genzo had his two hundredth birthday just shy of his birth, he had been stunned. In what world was this guy over two hundred?
He barely looked like a man in his early fifties. Very fit man, mind you.
They took their seats at the far end of the hall, facing the rest of the clan. A line of silent judgment.
No one spoke.
The air thickened with heat and the smell of burning oil. Steam drifted lazily across the ceiling.
One of the elders rose.
An old woman stood up, elder Chisune, and stepped forward, turning to face the statue.
Her voice, when it came, was steady and low.
"Flesh is given."
The clan answered as one.
"Flesh is sacred."
"Blood is offered."
"Blood is acknowledged."
"Pain is endured."
"Pain is proof."
The rhythm built slowly. Call and response, each line spoken in perfect unison.
The words echoed through the chamber, layering over one another until it felt less like language and more like a pulse.
Kuroha stayed silent. He was too young to join the chant. The younger children were expected only to listen, to let the words settle into them.
The elder raised both arms toward the statue.
"We are born into flesh. We live through flesh. We depart of flesh."
"Blood thicker than water." the clan intoned.
"We are shaped by pain. We are proven by suffering. We are perfected through trial."
"Flesh unyielding."
"We honor the ancestor. We walk the path. We forge the sacred gift."
"Flesh divine."
The elder stepped back, and everyone bowed. While the elder bowed down till her head reached her knees, everyone sitting bowed as deep as they could, bending down and down, till they could no more.
Then, Another rose. A man this time, broad shouldered and scarred across the chest in deliberate patterns. He carried a shallow wooden bowl, dark with age.
He approached the statue and knelt before it.
From within his robe, he drew a small blade.
Without hesitation, he pressed it to his palm and cut deep. Blood welled immediately, thick and dark. He held his hand over the bowl and let it drip.
One by one, the other elders rose and did the same.
Seven cuts. Seven offerings.
When the bowl was full, the first elder lifted it with both hands and poured it slowly over the statue's open chest.
The blood ran down over the carved hearts, pooling in the crevices, darkening stone that was already black with old offerings.
The clan watched in silence.
When the bowl was empty, the elder set it aside and returned to her seat.
The chant resumed.
Softer now. Almost a murmur, as only the elders chanted.
"Flesh given. Flesh shaped. Flesh eternal."
As they did, specific Adults cut, and bathed the statue with their blood.
Not everyone did. Those that were allowed, were the ones that had grasped their gift well enough, that they had elevated themselves past a mere human.
If compared, each and everyone of them, had such tough skin and muscles, that a knife couldn't even leave a soft white mark on their flesh.
The ritual repeated. Over and over. A steady rhythm that filled the chamber like a heartbeat.
Kuroha felt it pressing against him. Not physically, but in a way that made his skin prickle.
He didn't understand the words. Not really. He was never really religious. Be it then, or now.
But he felt their weight. The sheer belief resonating within the people here. Each and everyone here believed wholeheartedly that this was truth.
This was devotion.
This was worship.
And he was part of it whether he wanted to be or not.
The chant faded slowly, trailing off into silence.
The elders remained seated. The adults bowed their heads briefly, then rose and began to file out.
Kuroha stayed where he was until his mother came to collect him.
She lifted him without a word and carried him back through the corridors.
________________________________________
The meal hall was smaller than the prayer chamber, but no less oppressive.
Long wooden tables made of Bloodwood lined the space, their surfaces worn smooth and darkened by years of use.
Oil lamps burned low along the walls. Steam drifted through the room, carrying with it the smell of cooked fruit and something sharper. Something bitter.
Kuroha was seated among the younger children again.
A bowl was placed in front of him.
He stared down at it.
The contents were thick and dark. Mashed fruit was something he recognized, quite enjoyed. If you got used to it, bloodfruit had quite the pleasant taste. Sweet and metallic, with a texture like overripe plums.
The clan even had slight varieties. Some of the trees grew small, round fruits similar in size to blueberries, while others had peach sized. More often than not, the latter.
But there was something else now.
Chunks of something equally red and fibrous floated in the mixture. They glistened wetly under the lamplight, slick with juice.
Mushrooms.
He'd heard the adults talk about them. Verdant shrooms, they called them. Dangerous to eat. Painful to digest.
But necessary. At least to them. Personally, Kuroha was not looking forward to eating something that could quite literally eat him from the inside.
Not like he had a choice. Either he ate, or was forced it down.
One of the older children, a girl maybe six or seven, was already eating without hesitation. She chewed slowly, deliberately, her expression calm despite the faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.
Kuroha picked up his wooden spoon.
He was tired. More tired than he should have been. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like he'd been awake for days even though he'd slept through the night.
It had been like this for as long as he could remember. A constant, dragging exhaustion that never quite went away.
The cherry on top however, was the migraines. They weren't as common, but when they happened, they were debilitating.
He didn't know why.
He stirred the contents of the bowl and took a small bite.
The taste hit him immediately. Sweet iron from the fruit, undercut by something bitter and faintly meaty.
The Newfound flavour was a improvement at least.
The mushroom pieces were somewhat tough, chewy, and they left a strange tingling sensation on his tongue.
He swallowed.
His stomach clenched almost instantly.
Not nausea. Not quite. But a deep, uncomfortable pressure, almost like his body was grimacing at having eaten something wrong.
Of course it would recognise a danger.
Kuroha took another bite, forcing it down despite making him gag, his body sending warning signals.
Around him, the other children ate in silence. No complaints. No hesitation.
Kuroha forced himself to keep going.
This was normal here. This was expected.
By the time he finished, his stomach felt like it was burning from the inside.
He set the spoon down and stared at the empty bowl.
`If this is everything this world has to offer, then I'm screwed.` little Kuroha thought, as another spoonful found itself in his mouth.
He'd pieced together fragments. A clan. A bloodline. Some kind of supernatural ability tied to the body.
But beyond that?
Nothing.
No mention of anything of importance outside. No talk of the outside world, and what it may hold. No names he recognized.
Just worship. Training. Pain.
And a ten meter tall statue of a demon they claimed as their ancestor.
Kuroha exhaled slowly and let his head rest against the table, and let out a burp as his mother ruffled his hair once, and picked him up, walking back to her room.