Chapter: The Birth of Aku no
Gimori sat still in his room within the upper sanctum of the Demon Tower, meditating in eerie silence. The faint hum of dark energy vibrated around him, the Aku no eye—hidden beneath his long black hair—slightly pulsing. Shadows coiled at the edges of the stone walls, whispering like ghosts of memories long buried.
But peace was an illusion.
A sudden surge of emotion tore through him like a blade, and Gimori flinched, his breath catching.
Flashback.
The air was lighter in those days. Softer. But Gimori's life had never been soft.
He was born in Wolvenville, a small mountainous town known for its proud lineage and deeply held traditions. But the people of Wolvenville prided themselves on beauty—physical, spiritual, and ancestral. Gimori was born an anomaly. A curse, they whispered. His features were twisted and uneven—his skin pocked and sickly, his eyes hollow and off-center, his head completely bald from birth, and his limbs awkward and thin. His cries as a baby were met not with warm embraces, but cold silence.
His parents, powerful warriors in the Aku clan, refused to hold him. He was named "Gimori" after a word in their old tongue meaning unwanted fate.
He grew up in shadows.
Strangers averted their eyes. Children jeered and threw rocks. Adults didn't bother to hide their disgust. "Monster," some would mutter. "Demon-born." "Curse child." But nothing cut deeper than his parents' rejection—he grew up without a single hug, a single birthday, or a single moment of affection.
Until he came into his life.
A scruffy mutt, more fur and bark than muscle, wandered into the outskirts of Wolvenville and took a liking to Gimori. He called him Saru, and for the first time, Gimori felt love. Every day after chores—after the bruises and bullying—he and Saru would head to the small meadow near the forest to play. It was the only time Gimori smiled.
Then came that day.
He was ten.
Gimori tossed a wooden stick far into the tall grass. Saru barked excitedly and dashed after it. As Gimori waited, a shadow fell over him. Five teenagers from a local gang—sons of warriors—stood over him, sneering.
"Freak thinks he can laugh now?" one said, cracking his knuckles.
"He's probably got lice from that mutt," another laughed.
They beat him savagely. Fists. Kicks. Spit. He begged them to stop, but mercy wasn't in their hearts. Saru returned, barking madly, sinking his teeth into one boy's arm in a desperate attempt to protect his master.
They turned on Saru.
Gimori screamed. Time slowed.
A rock. A broken stick. A snapped neck.
Saru fell.
Dead.
Blood pooled at Gimori's knees.
Then—everything stopped. The world froze in silence.
A golden light appeared before him. It wasn't blinding. It was gentle. Warm. A voice, impossibly ancient and filled with sorrow, spoke.
God: "I am sorry you've had to endure all of this, my child. I have watched your pain... I have seen every tear. But your time of suffering is over."
Gimori's body began to rise, surrounded by that light. His skin shimmered and healed. Pimples vanished. The burns faded. His malformed nose reshaped, and flowing black hair spilled from his scalp like a river. His face became angelic—almost divine.
But that wasn't all.
His left eye burned—glowing a supernatural shade of icy blue. A sigil etched into the iris. It radiated hate. Power. Wrath.
The first Aku no Eye had awakened.
Gimori lowered to the ground, now beautiful, radiant… and deathly silent.
He looked up at the frozen gang.
"Time to return the favor," he whispered.
The power surged. The entire meadow exploded in a wave of cursed wind. The trees around them splintered like glass. His voice twisted with wrath as wraiths emerged from the shadows, his will giving them shape. The teenagers screamed and ran, but it was too late.
That day, Wolvenville burned.
Weeks later, as Gimori built his tower of shadows far away, he tracked the five tormentors.
He didn't kill them himself.
Instead, he sent his personal Wraiths—creatures born from trauma, grief, and rage—to hunt them. They were dragged screaming to the peak of Mount Niranu, an active volcano, and dropped into the molten core one by one.
Gimori watched from above.
And for the first time, he smiled.
Back to Present.
Gimori's eyes snapped open.
The room around him pulsed with shadows. His chest rose and fell, and his smile had vanished. His fingers curled into fists.
"This world gave me no love," he whispered. "So I'll take everything it loves."
He stood, the floor around him cracking slightly beneath the weight of his wrath. The Aku no eye beneath his hair burned again.
"Saru," he said quietly, gazing into the distance, "I promise… they'll all feel it. Every single one."
He summons a wraith, "You, get me ten random people... I'm bored." The wraith froze knowing what he was about to do was incredibly wrong but he followed the order, "10 executionees coming up sir."