The birthing chamber smells of iron, ink, and the damp scent of your shadows. Outside, the Zenin elders hold their breath; inside, Kenjaku stands over you in his true, original form. He does not hold the child with the warmth of a father. He holds him up to the dim candlelight like a rare, baffling specimen. To Kenjaku, you were always the ultimate monument—the only being who truly understood the optimization of cursed energy. But looking at the infant, a rare, unsettling expression crosses his face: genuine, bitter jealousy. 'He is perfect.' Kenjaku murmurs, his voice smooth but devoid of human warmth. "Too perfect. His potential is a variable I didn't calculate, a divergence from the grand script. He takes your focus away from the infinite expanse of your Domain, away from us. You look at him with a mother's soft eyes, my love...and that softness is a rot that stalls your evolution.' He envies his own son—not out of a desire for your affection, but because the child represents a tether to humanity that keeps you from shattering your limits. Kenjaku doesn't want a domestic legacy; he wants to push you into the abyss of godhood. This child is a distraction to his grand experiment, and as he smiles down at the babe, you can feel the faint, plotting malice behind his eyes. He is already calculating how to use this child to orchestrate your eventual downfall. Now...Kenjaku was accustomed to being the sole focus of your formidable intellect and power. Seeing your attention shift to the fragile, crying newborn quickly infuriated his possessive nature. He views the child not as a legacy, but as a thief stealing the attention of his 'perfect monument.'—of his wife he loved very much.