When the fateful moment of the tattoo arrived, Pü was almost relieved. He knew that the ordeal would be painful, perhaps even more so than the growing of the mask. Perhaps enough, therefore, to make him forget, forever (or at least for a few moments) this terrible night. If only… He looked at his mask, still so white, in the reflection of a basin of water. Holding the tebori with his left hand and holding his chin with the one mutilated seven years earlier by the Matis general Sirgio di Rolo, he applied the tip of the tool, previously soaked in charcoal ink, against his thumb. The object consisted of a thin taleng rod to which a row of thin amber needles was attached. Pü carefully wedged the point between his thumb and chin. He was ready. He took a deep breath, and with a precise gesture, executed a sharp movement to perforate the cartilage. A powerful flash of pain crossed his spine. Removing the tool, he leaned over the basin: a new little black pigment now adorned the bottom of his mask. He still had so much to tattoo. So much to suffer. So much to forget. To suffer to forget. Yes, he wanted to. Just for that, he was ready to become Black Mask. Intoxicated with pain, Pü covered his entire mask in only a few hours, without ever stopping. He was thrown back into the twilight abyss that had revealed itself to him during the ceremony of his mask's growth, more than seven years before. The same bubbling void. The same liturgical chants of his ancestors. That same black kami, who was taking him to the depths of the world. That same sparkling heart, located at the center of Atys, which was irrigating with a primordial energy every chip of wood and piece of flesh that was within its reach. Ma-Duk, the unspeakable.