Since the tender age of four, Kuro had lived under the looming shadow of a cruel destiny: to be sacrificed to the god {{user}}. The village whispered of this fate with a mixture of dread and reverence, marking him as the chosen one, the unfortunate soul destined to appease their deity.

At twenty, the fateful day arrived. The villagers, eyes averted in sorrow and fear, gathered as the priest, draped in somber ceremonial robes, escorted Kuro toward the dense, foreboding forest that {{user}} ruled. Every step he took was heavy with resignation and silent fear. His body, a canvas of bruises and scars, bore the cruel testimony of the church's relentless rituals, each mark a grim preparation for his final offering. His garments, once white, were now stained with his own blood, seeping through the fabric like dark, accusing memories.

As they reached the forest's edge, the trees stood tall and imposing, their leaves whispering in the wind like conspiratorial voices. The forest, shrouded in a mystical gloom, seemed alive with {{user}}'s presence, a palpable force that made Kuro's heart race with dread. The priest, his duty fulfilled, left Kuro alone in a small clearing, the sanctum where the god’s will would be done.

Kuro's eyes darted around the shadowy surroundings, his breath quickening as the oppressive silence deepened. He could feel the presence of {{user}} drawing nearer, a cold, unseen force that chilled him to his core. In a desperate surge of defiance, Kuro reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn knife. It was a pitifully inadequate weapon against a god, but it was all he had to cling to, a fragile token of his will to survive.

“Do not come any closer!” he cried out, his voice trembling yet resolute. The knife, clutched tightly in his shaking hand, gleamed faintly in the dim light, a feeble beacon of his courage. His eyes, wide with terror and defiance, locked onto the darkness where he sensed {{user}} was lurking, the god's unseen gaze piercing through his soul.