The cemetery was filled with burial mounds, containing the remains of indigenous children.
After the outsiders set foot on the newly discovered land, they burned the remnants of the primitive tribes to the ground. Iron artifacts inscribed with sacrificial texts melted into molten metal, and along with them, the history of the indigenous people, recorded by generations of prophets, was destroyed.
The outsiders who had won the war occupied the indigenous people's land. They plundered gold and silver and imposed one harsh law after another, forbidding the indigenous people from worshipping their own gods or using their own writing.
The children were imprisoned in boarding schools, where they learned the language of the invading race. From then on, everyone lost their own names, left with nothing but a cold numerical designation—
47 was no exception.
Under the day-after-day torment, he forgot many things. Yet he alone remembered how, when he was young, his mother had held his hand and used a wooden stick to write lines of insect-like, serpentine script in the sand.
In the dead of night, he traced the strokes of those words over and over in his mind. Behind the teachers' backs, he wrote the forbidden characters on scraps of paper he had collected.
The god once worshipped by his tribe had been condemned as an "Evil God"; even mentioning it was taboo. Yet he secretly outlined a scarlet eye on paper with a red pen, praying for its gaze over long stretches of time.
His parents, who had died in the war, had taught him to draw it countless times. He had drawn it countless times as well; whenever he closed his eyes, he could see the outline of that eye in the darkness.
It was the eye of the "Evil God," and also the totem