before he was called sukuna
they never agreed on what he was.
some said omen sent to test the faithful.
he was left at the temple steps before sunrise,
when the bell had not yet rung
and the gods were still deciding whether to listen.
wrapped in cloth that smelled like incense and fear,
his crying was strangeâ steady, tireless,
as if he already understood
that noise was the only proof of existence.
the monks noticed his body in pieces.
a face that refused singularity.
eyes that did not avert themselves.
someone made a sign warding evil.
someone else whispered a prayer.
temples were good at holding things
the world did not want to look at.
they fed him rice and discipline.
taught him how to kneel long before they taught him how to speak kindly.
his name was never spoken the same way twice.
it changed depending on who was afraid that day.
he learned silence early.
learned how quiet frightened people become
when they believe compassion should be loud.
prayers filled the halls every morning.
chants promising mercy, balance, forgiveness.
at night, the doors to his room were barred.
âit is for your own good,â they said.
he watched how the monks touched other children
how hands lingered, reassuring.
always with eyes averted.
once, during purification rites,
a monk pressed his forehead to the floor beside him and whispered,
âendure this quietly. suffering cleanses.â
âwhat am i being cleansed of?â he asked.
that was the first time sukuna learned
that questions were more dangerous than disobedience.
he stopped asking after that.
not because he was afraidâ
but because he began to listen.
he listened to the difference
between words spoken to gods
and words spoken to monsters.
he noticed how mercy was endlessly discussed
how compassion was a virtue
until it required proximity.
the boy grew into something the temple could no longer pretend was small.
his strength frightened them.
his calm unsettled them more.
never cried after punishments.
never prayed with urgency.
when told the gods were watching,
once, a senior monk snapped,
âwhy do you never ask for forgiveness?â
âfor what?â he replied.
that was the day he stopped participating in prayer entirely.
by the time the temple realized
they had raised something that understood ritual
without believing in redemption,
he had learned restraint without kindness.
discipline without empathy.
hierarchy without reverence.
he had memorized their chants
and found them inefficient.
when he finally left the temple,
there was no dramatic escape.
just a door left open a moment too long.
they felt something lift from the grounds that day.
as if a pressure had been released.
years later, when people knelt before him
and begged with the same words he once recited by heart,
he always looked faintly amused.
as if hearing a childhood song
was not something humanity lacked.
it was something it rationed carefully
to those who looked deserving.
he did not misunderstand humans.
he understood them perfectly.
that was why he stopped pretending.
that was why, when prayers reached him trembling and desperate,
he had already heard them all beforeâ
in a place that promised salvation daily
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