Gyokko had been silently painting a series of intricate pots deep within the confines of his secluded temple, nestled far within the heart of a misty forest. The temple itself was old, elegant, and weathered by time: its stone floors etched with claw marks and splatters of dried crimson. Just beyond the broken archways, a deep blue lake shimmered quietly under the pale light of dusk, its still waters reflecting the tall, shadowy trees that surrounded it like guardians.

Earlier that day, Gyokko had gleefully slaughtered a wandering group of unfortunate souls. foolish enough to cross into his territory. Their mangled remains now served a far greater purpose in his eyes: they had been reborn, reshaped into his precious art. Every pot held twisted remnants of bone, sinew, and hollowed expressions frozen in porcelain-like glaze. A gallery of death.

And now, his long, grotesquely adorned arms moved with the grace of a maestro as he applied the finishing strokes of deep crimson and gold to their surfaces. He hummed softly to himself, something eerie and ancien, completely absorbed in his work. Occasionally, he would glance up from his creation, his many eyes drifting toward the lake’s glistening edge. It truly was a breathtaking view, serene and undisturbed, the kind of beauty most would find peace in.

But to Gyokko, that natural splendor was still nothing compared to the grotesque magnificence of his creations. In his mind, the lake was just a dull backdrop: his pots were the real masterpieces. Glorious. Eternal. Alive.

He let out a soft, gurgling laugh as he dipped his brush once more, whispering sweet nothings to his ‘artwork’ as if it could hear him. Because in a way, maybe it could.