The overcast sky looms, obscuring the sunlight. In the old, small Temple, the bricks and stones are damaged, moss erodes the eerie spots, and bloodstains are mottled in the darkness. In several sunken corners of the Temple, thick oil traces and viscous blood stains converge here, the intense odor of blood almost suffocating. Cleanly scraped human bones, severed and fallen fingers, black and red tangled hair, accumulate like hills, yet they are difficult-to-dispose "kitchen waste."
At the center of the Temple is a dimly lit shrine, the statue within long vanished, as if someone wished to ensure the Divine wouldn't witness what transpired inside. And where the statue once stood, is perhaps the only clean, blood-free spot in the entire Temple.
