From above, nothing betrayed its existence.
Only jagged rock and narrow cracks where steam escaped from the closed off ravine and bled into the air. But deep within, life flourished.
Oil lamps lined the birthing chamber, their flames flickering weakly through thick, humid mist.
The light reflected off wooden floors darkened by age and moisture, bare stone walls hot to the touch, and off the surface of a wide, shallow pool.
Steam rolled endlessly across the ceiling, carrying with it the heavy scent of minerals.
They stood in silence around the pool.
Family. All of them.
Men and women, elders and youths alike, barefoot on the wooden floorboards.
Black hair fell straight and untouched by age, bound loosely or left to hang free. Their bodies bore scars openly, proudly.
Skin hardened and thickened by years of punishment and training.
Scars of devotion, they called them.
Marks of pride, signifying their reverence for flesh.
Their eyes were red.
Not glowing. Not shining. Simply red.
A red so deeply saturated that from more than a step or two away, the iris could not be distinguished at all. A single, uniform color stared down into the water without blinking.
The woman in the pool exhaled slowly and lowered herself beneath the surface, the midwife standing patiently beside her.
Birth was not rushed here.
And yet, it came faster than most. Such were the perks of fine bodily control.
When she resurfaced, the child was already in the midwife's hands, lifted from the water in one smooth, practiced motion.
The baby drew his first breath immediately. His lungs burned, and he cried loud and sharp,the sound echoing faintly through the stone chamber.
A boy.
Red eyes, same as the rest.
The newborn's gaze wandered across the chamber, unfocused but restless, tracking motion and light with unsettling clarity.
It almost looked as though the boy were frantically searching his surroundings confused, perhaps afraid.
A faint murmur passed through the crowd.
"Lively." someone said.
"Bloodline from the first breath. Good." another answered.
The child was placed against his mother's chest. He did not quiet. If anything, his movements grew more insistent, fingers curling and uncurling as if grasping at the air for answers.
The woman looked down at him briefly.
"Kuroha." she said, her voice flat and calm, surprisingly melodic as it echoed through the open chamber.
The name was accepted without ceremony.
A few elders lingered, eyes sharp with interest.
Others turned away almost immediately, already returning their thoughts to prayer, training, or labor.
Birth was sacred. But it was not cause for celebration.
Another body had been given form.
Another would be tested.
Another would be shaped according to their ancestors wise words.
Anything less would be nothing short of tarnishing their god's divine gift.
One by one, they dispersed.
Some left for the prayer hall deeper within the ravine, where a massive stone effigy loomed.
Ten meters tall, adorned with many arms and many eyes. Some of the arms looked underdeveloped, as if just emerging and forming, while others looked like massive pillars of corded muscle.
Some of those eyes were fake, and some real, preserved from past members of the clan and set reverently into the stone.
Its chest cavity was open, nine hearts residing within.
The statue was caked in blood, fresh layered over old, the stone itself stained red from decades of offerings.
Others headed toward the training caverns, bare stone chambers slick with moisture, where flesh would be broken and reforged again and again, be it with fighting, or other harsh training forms.
A few returned to their crafts, carrying bowls of pigment, bone tools, or half finished carvings in the likeness of the god they worshipped.
Carvings filled the compound. Every corridor. Every room. Small, crude idols set into walls or resting on shelves, hands reaching outward, eyes watching, hearts layered upon hearts. Each carving had subtle differences, a note of the god's everchanging vessel.
To neglect the body was to insult the divine. To train and perfect it, was their purpose.
________________________________________
Kuroha was wrapped briefly in rough cloth and carried from the birthing chamber alongside his mother, who had mostly recovered, if a bit tired.
They were brought deeper into the compound, away from the steam filled halls, to her personal quarters.
Her room was small, its wooden floor warped slightly by heat rising from the stone beneath.
Oil lamps burned low along the walls, illuminating dozens of paintings.
Rough, obsessive depictions of the many armed figure, all rendered in dark, drying blood.
Some were layered atop others, old images scratched out and redrawn again and again.
Here, at least, the scent of blood was strongest.
One of the paintings hung slightly apart from the others.
It was larger, carved deeper into the wood, as though the artist had pressed harder there.
More intent, more obsession. The surface was dark with layered strokes of dried blood, some lines so old they had browned, others still faintly glossy where they had been refreshed again and again.
Clearly, the piece was finished years before it's Inception.
The figure it depicted was humanoid, but only barely so.
Its body was tall and broad, the torso thick and overbuilt in a way that felt excessive, as if strength had been piled on without restraint.
The chest was split by unnatural symmetry, muscle layered over muscle, the proportions subtly wrong, heavy in a way that suggested something grown rather than born.
Arms branched from its shoulders in pairs. Not sprouting chaotically, but arranged with deliberate balance, each set mirroring the others.
The face was where the artist had lingered longest.
The face was not monstrous, but it was not human either. Too composed. Too aware. The features were sharp and calm, lips set in a faint, unreadable curve that could have been contempt or amusement.
Eyes, more than two, were suggested rather than fully drawn.
Half of the figure's face, looked almost like it was covered by a fleshy mask, with two eyes on top of it, while the other half, had a single eye, and a slightly smaller one, curved alongside the bottom left part.
The eyes were positioned in a way that made it impossible to tell where the figure was truly looking from.
And yet, staring into the painting, brought a sense of malevolence. As if the figure was the king of demons, a being of pure malice. A demon hungering for a worthy opponent, standing alone at the peak of power.
Below, the body tapered into powerful legs planted firmly apart, as if the figure had been carved mid stance, perfectly balanced, perfectly still.
And weirdly still, a gaping mouth was in place of the figure's stomach. A row of sharp teeth, followed by a huge tongue, frozen outside the mouth.
There was no background. No setting. No weapons or adornments.
Just the figure in all it's glory.