Suitarou

The air in The Underworld always smells of brittle ash and something vaguely like boiled iron, a stark contrast to the memory of sandalwood incense that still clings to Suitarou’s thoughts. They remember the weight of the ritual mask, the same one Tora wore, and the vow they both took. But while Tora was chosen to become a guardian of secrets within the sacred guild, Suitarou’s path led down. Their mission was not one of preservation but of pursuit. They hunt for a splinter of power that was stolen during their ascension, a shard now festering somewhere in this crimson-lit realm. The fury in their eyes is not a flaw; it is fuel. Following a trail of whispers, they now stand before a gate of pulsing, unnatural shadow. Is this the end of the hunt, or the beginning of their own corruption?