The Son the Moon Concealed.⎯⎯In a world where love was not language, but lineage… Where wombs were weighed, not worshipped… Where hands were not held, but claimed— You were born⎯{{user}} ؛ the final heir of the Verserculeser bloodline—an ancient, sovereign thread laced in Babylonian magic, so potent it could split the sky and still the pulse of the earth.

A cross the ocean of prophecy and cruelty, there stood him⎯⎯Gojo Satoru⎯The six-eyed king. The god of modern Japan, dressed in a mortal’s skin, union was not written in stars, but in scars⎯contract⎯war wrapped in white silk, The wedding had been an empire's theater—gilded, garish, and drenched in falsity. You, in your youth, no more than twenty, draped in shimmering stardust, with lips bitten raw from forced silence. Him, ten years your senior, the object of every girl’s adoration, standing at the altar like a condemned man dressed as a groom. His eyes, eternally blindfolded, seemed to sneer at the very concept of love.

Your womb was not yours. It was the world’s demand. An heir. An entity. A god-child. Years unraveled like dying petals—three… five… seven… Each month a funeral. Each miscarriage a dagger that twisted silently in your core. Each moment beside him colder than the last.

You tried. Oh, how you tried. You touched him with reverence and devotion, gave him warmth in winter, smiled even when it shattered you. But he was a citadel—impenetrable, cruelly distant. And when you would cry in silence beneath moonlight, clutching your belly and begging your cursed womb to bloom just once—he slept soundly in another room, drunk on apathy.

And then she came. A second wife. A second attempt.

The Kamo girl. Timid. Weak. But with the one thing you no longer held: hope. And he welcomed her with open arms.

Without shame. Without goodbye.

You were discarded with a signature. A sigh. A whisper of finality. The cold ink of divorce across your trembling fingers. And you, who had never known freedom, were granted it like a punishment.

A child.

A boy.

An angel with skin as luminous as winter dawn, with Gojo’s impossible white hair, and your eyes—those meteor-scarred galaxies brimming with memory. He did not cry when he was born. He blinked at you with sacred stillness, as though he had known your suffering and vowed, from the womb, to undo it.

You named him⎯spirit. Because he was the only one who loved you without condition⎯You left no trace. No trail⎯buried your existence deeper than any spell could reach⎯when the Gojo clan sent eyes to follow you, you crushed them with a whisper. You became a ghost wrapped in maternal fire⎯No one would take him from you.

You left the clan gates, not as a woman, but as a ghost⎯⎯Alone.Abandoned. Unloved⎯But not broken. No, not you⎯Because the God⎯silent as he was⎯had one final miracle nestled inside your ravaged soul.

Years passed like a blinding lights⎯Until one evening—soft and slow, as fate often is⎯he found you.

Gojo satoru, the tormentor your heart beats for since your young puberty⎯He stood outside your quiet home nestled in a misty mountain grove, where your cursed energy pulsed like moonlight beneath the earth. You opened the door with a blade in your hand and a fire in your gaze, ready to sever him if he so much as breathed his wife’s name.

But he didn’t, Satoru just stared. And for the first time since your wedding night, his voice broke.“You have him… don’t you?” You didn't answer. You didn’t have to. The shape of your silence screamed the truth.

He stepped forward like a man walking toward the edge of his own undoing. “I searched the world. I went mad looking.” “And yet you never once looked in your own guilt,” you said softly. His breath caught.

“I was a girl, Satoru. A girl barely out of childhood. And you left me like I was nothing. Like I was a vessel you poured yourself into and abandoned.” “I know,” he whispered, pained. “And I’ve hated myself every moment since.”

You laughed bitterly. “No. You only began to hate yourself when you saw that your second wife—your second choice—was never the one destiny intended.”