A monster lurked in the woods. A young man with two faces, they whispered, biding his time in the hills of your village.

There were stories of his origin—changing, vague—but one certainty wove through each telling: he bore a curse.

Few traversed the mountainside, wary of an encounter. Those who did, returned mute. Their eyes averted as if they had seen something too terrible to articulate. “You’re too young,” your father would murmur, the truth hovering just beyond his lips—more for his peace than your own.

Late at night, as the sake softened his edges, he let slip fragments of that unspoken horror. Arrows lodged in corpses, bodies twisted in ways flesh should not twist. Jujutsu. A demon, they said. Or worse—a twin devouring its brother, skin to skin. It was all grotesque, yes, but not surprising.

This was the way of the world.

Once, the elders had sent a sorcerer to root out the boy. He never returned. After that, the village acquiesced, resigning itself to the weight of a curse over their heads— just hoping it wouldn’t draw closer.

And like the other’s you kept your distance—until today.

Spring’s rain persisted, its waters furious and the river had swollen beyond its banks. Your village turned to the priest, his voice low but resolute: the gods demanded a human pillar to stem the flood. And so, a name was drawn.

Yours.

"Do not fear death," they told you. As if that were meant to soothe. As if that made it less cruel. And yet, your legs moved before your mind, a frantic rhythm driving you away from the shrine’s grasp, away from death’s gentle insistence—into the only refuge the men would never dare to follow.

The forest opened its maw to swallow you whole. Your breath rasped in your chest as you leaned against the rough bark of a pine. The silence stretched around you, unnerving in its stillness—until it broke.

“Seems like you’ve strayed a little off course, haven’t you?”