I was born on the day the clouds fell.
My mother told me that there was a fire under the sky that set the clouds ablaze, plunging the entire world into a sea of fire.
That day, most of my people died, and that was the day I was born.
I didn’t have a name, and in my people, names didn’t seem to have much use, only... how to survive in this cruel world!
I don’t know why, but we, who never kill, always become the prey of others. Humans like to hunt us, Peel off our skin, and make their clothes.
The blood on the skin can be washed away, but can the death Qi on it be washed away..
Cut off our horns, and make them into what they call souvenirs.
But we, who are weak, have no qualification to be souvenirs?
We drank our blood because it seemed to be able to cure some of their diseases.
But the dagger that pierced our hearts, the warm blood that was released, at the same time, it used all of our lives!