"𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐞𝐞. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐛𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐨𝐰." - 𝑵𝒂𝒐𝒚𝒂 𝒁𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏
⟶ He was born a king, and he reigned as a god. Gojo didn't walk-he crushed. His laughter slapped the w...
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Snow fell in silence, covering the sanctuary in a pristine veil—too pure for the world she lived in. The cold winter light filtered through the paper walls, casting fragile shadows across the wooden floor. Sitting cross-legged on a worn tatami mat, Chihiro squinted in concentration, trying to thread the needle. Her fingers, numb from the cold, trembled slightly.
She pulled each stitch carefully, mending a section of her kimono that was still too big for her. But the needle—too fine, too sharp for her small hands—pierced her skin. She flinched, a tiny drop of blood blooming on the tip of her finger. Instinctively, she brought it to her mouth, sucking the wound gently. The bitter taste of iron mixed with the rough fabric of her sleeve, but she made no sound. Just a moment of pause, then she resumed her work, biting her lip as the needle pricked her again, tracing fine red cuts across her fingers.
A heavy sound, then footsteps.
The sliding doors were thrown open, letting in a gust of icy wind and a group of armored men. Their boots struck the floor with an authority that did not belong in this silent sanctuary. In front of them, an old woman with severe features leaned on a carved cane. Her gaze, sharp despite her age, settled on the curled-up child.
