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They say his blood runs a different colour than their mortal selves. Who is he to deny? His family, their servants and all that visit the estate kneel at his feet, tell him that he is the One, and he believes them. When he bleeds none of them dare touch it, they know they are beneath him. They simply wipe it up as he wanders through the halls, the holy liquids dipping from his wrist as he stares straight ahead.
“Young Gojo,” the man ahead of him says, voice monotone. “What happened to your wrist?”
Satoru shrugs, “The blade fell from the shelf.”
The man sighs. “Go to the clan head, they’ll call someone to patch it up.”
Satoru nods, and walks off. The blood still dripping off of his wrist, the big cut across his wrist still sluggishly pumping out the fluid.
They say his blood runs a different colour than their mortal selves. Satoru doesn’t think he can agree. Not when it just looks red.