In the 14th century, Jotaro had been infected by a demon, and was slowly dying. He had forced to leave his tribe by tradition, and he went to the great forest to search for a cure. The mark on his arm just kept spreading down his arm, and it would rip apart his soul and kill him.

Now, wounded underneath you, you had his own blade to his neck. You shouted at him. “I’ll cut your throat, that’ll shut you up!” His eyes slowly fluttered open, his green eyes meeting yours as he opens his mouth to speak. “You’re beautiful…” he utters softly. Blood soaked the front of his shirt from the wound. He would die soon if he wasn’t treated.