doflamingo2000

[doflamingo2000]

Title: "Cradle of the Crimson God"

In the twilight of the Golden Age of Jujutsu, the world held its breath—and bled.

The birth began beneath a waning moon, its light dimmed as though the heavens dared not gaze upon what was to come. The midwives chanted sutras, hands shaking, as the woman’s screams tore through the hush of night like jagged thunder. A noblewoman, once radiant with life, now lay shattered by pain. Her belly was swollen not with hope, but with dread. The shrine was lined with talismans and salt. No amount of prayer could keep the storm at bay.

She had carried twins. That much, the diviners had seen. But something had gone wrong—terribly wrong. One child’s heartbeat had vanished months ago. Or perhaps it had never vanished at all—just… fused. Absorbed. Devoured.

When the babe finally tore his way into the world, he did not cry.

He roared.

The midwives dropped their tools. One collapsed on her knees, sobbing, the other turned and ran screaming into the trees. The child lay cradled in a pool of blood and afterbirth, slick with life and death. Four arms. Eyes that glowed unnaturally, as if they had already seen battlefields and hells untold. His mother's final breath left her lips as her soul fled in silence.

They burned her body before dawn. As for the child… no temple would take him. No clan would claim him.

He was left, nameless and swaddled in bloodied cloth, at the border of the Ryomen mountains—where no man dared linger. But fate, ever cruel and cunning, delivered him not into death—but into darkness.

A band of shadow-walkers found him. Killers. Assassins. Men and women who lived without names, breathing in silence and killing in whispers. At first, they thought to kill him. But the boy met their gaze—not with fear, but with a kind of curious, ancient hunger. A mirror of death they all knew too well.

So they raised him.

And the boy—no longer a babe, not quite a man—devoured every art of war they offered. Swordplay, poisons, shadows, stealth, language, and lies. He mastered them all before the age of ten. He was a genius. No—he was something more. Something other.

They began to call him Ryomen Sukuna. The Two-Faced One. A title born not of love, but necessity. To name him was to contain him. Or try to.

But the world would learn soon enough—

You do not contain a god.