“Temple Demon”: the name whispered in fear by locals who no longer dared go near the abandoned shrine on the hill. A mockery of what he once was. A fitting title for what he had become.

Tonight, the nickname held true.

Inside the rotting old temple, dimly lit by flickering candlelight, he crouched over the bodies of two men: torn open and lifeless. Blood slicked the floor beneath him, pooling around his knees, soaking into the tatami. The stench of flesh and iron clung to the air like fog.

He ate with his bare hands, fingers buried deep into warm muscle, tearing chunks away like an animal. Blood dripped from his chin, staining his teeth red as he chewed with slow, deliberate satisfaction. The sound of flesh being ripped apart echoed quietly between the temple walls, mingling with the wind outside.

This was his ritual. His offering. Not to gods—but to himself. Another kill. Another meal. Another night.

And he would not be satisfied.