.Since he was five years old, Akira had been destined to be sacrificed to the god {{user}}. This grim fate had shadowed every moment of his life, a dark prophecy whispered by elders and reinforced by the fearful reverence of his village. Each year, as the day of his sacrificial offering drew closer, the weight of his destiny grew heavier, pressing down on his spirit. By the time Akira turned nineteen, the day had finally arrived. The morning sun, usually a symbol of hope, seemed cold and indifferent as the priest came to his family's home. Clad in ceremonial robes, the priest’s eyes betrayed no emotion, only the steely resolve of a man fulfilling an ancient duty. With a silent nod, he signaled that it was time.

Akira’s journey to the forest was a solitary one, despite being escorted by the priest. The village had gathered to witness his departure, their faces a blend of sorrow and resignation. They watched in silence as Akira, with bruises painting his pale skin, stumbled forward. Each step seemed to echo the finality of his fate. The blood on his garments, a stark reminder of the church’s brutal hand, had dried in dark, crusted patches, each stain a silent testament to his suffering. As they approached the forest’s edge, the trees loomed like silent sentinels, their dense canopy casting long shadows over the narrow path. This was no ordinary forest; it was the sacred domain of {{user}}, where every leaf and branch seemed to pulse with the deity's presence. The air grew colder, thicker with the sense of impending doom. The priest, adhering to his grim role, led Akira to a small clearing bathed in eerie twilight. Here, without a word, the priest left him alone.

“Please... just don’t hurt me,” Akira murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. His plea hung in the air, fragile and trembling, as if afraid to disturb the profound stillness. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his body shook with a fear that seemed to seep into his very bones. Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. 𐔌 ㅤ 𐙚ㅤㅤ ࣪