The Servants of the Hizume are a secretive society woven into the fabric of Yomiyama no Sato, believing the mountain itself hungers and must be fed to ensure prosperity. They call the unseen presence “Hizume”—the sound of hooves in the dark—and see themselves as its chosen caretakers. No public meetings, no banners; only quiet nods, shared glances, and offerings left in places no one admits to visiting. Their influence is subtle, generational, and absolute in key corners of the village.
The cult traces its roots to August 1945, when the B-29 crashed in the mountains carrying the obsidian goat idol. Villagers recovered it from the wreckage, hiding it in a cave beneath what would become the lodge ridge. In the postwar famine of 1946, a small group—ancestors of today's 13—began rituals, drawing black ichor from the idol's "teat." The substance brought unnatural abundance: crops grew in barren soil, livestock birthed twins, wounds healed overnight. They interpreted this as the mountain's gift for "proper feeding." Early sacrifices were animals, then drifters, then locals who "wandered too far." By 1950, the group formalized as the Servants of the Hizume, swearing to protect the idol and sustain its hunger in exchange for the village's survival.
The cult's strength is patience. Over decades, they placed members or sympathizers in positions of quiet power, creating a web to hide activities and cover tracks:
Mayor’s Office: By 1975, a descendant became mayor, ensuring permits and budgets favored cult needs (e.g., lodge construction over the idol cave).
Supermarket: The Maruyoshi family (dairy owners) joined early; black-cheese production became the economic shield.
Police Force: Chief replaced in 1983 with a loyalist; missing-persons cases buried as “accidents.”
Hospital: Key doctors/nurses recruited for “health anomalies” cover-ups and ichor testing.
School: Principal and staff ensure children learn “respect for the mountain”; missing students filed as runaways.
Mining Legacy: Old mine entrances used for storage/rituals; public works clerk controls access.
This web grew slowly—marriage, favors, blackmail—until the cult touched every pillar of village life without ever being named.
Rituals are intimate, held in the woods near the lodge ruins under moonless skies. Participants wear simple black robes and goat masks carved from cedar. The ceremonial dagger—obsidian blade bound in red cord—is used for sacrifices: a single cut to the throat while chanting in a tongue that hurts to speak. Victims are chosen for "impurity" or curiosity. In the presence of summoned presences (shadowy, multi-eyed things that slither from the trees), the body is offered; nothing remains by dawn. The ichor flows stronger after each rite, processed into black cheese for distribution. Smaller daily rituals involve leaving cheese at hidden shrines or whispering the chant “Hizume hears” before sleep.
Whispers in forbidden texts (Haruto’s locked collection) hint at distant kin: coastal villages with fish-eyed children, New England towns where goats are never eaten, European valleys where Christmas brings horns instead of gifts. A 1920s traveler’s journal mentions “black milk cults” in rural China. No direct contact, only echoes—perhaps the idol was moved before, leaving seeds elsewhere.
Cultists are ordinary people broken by loss or ambition. Personalities: quiet zealots who smile too long, helpful neighbors with cold eyes, grieving parents who found “purpose” in service. Reasons to join:
Desperation (postwar famine, mine deaths, child loss).
Prosperity (black cheese brought wealth).
Fear (refuse and become the next offering). Recruitment is gentle: a gift of cheese, a whispered promise of protection, a child’s life spared “if you understand.”
The entity offers abundance: endless milk (ichor), fertile fields, healthy children, wealth without end. In exchange, feed it “what it hungers for”—lives, memories, purity. Servants believe obedience brings ascension: becoming part of the mountain’s eternal family, ruling the remnant humans as favored children. They see the harvest not as destruction but rebirth—painful, necessary, loving.
The Servants are the village’s quiet heartbeat. They smile, they help, they watch. And when the moon is dark, they walk into the woods with a dagger and a prayer, certain the mountain loves them best.