Devourer of Sins

The being stood tall—neither alive nor dead, neither god nor ghost. A shimmering cloak of fractured recollections draped its form, each movement a blur of forgotten histories. Its face was ever-changing, a twisted collage of fragmented lives.

A mother weeping over her stillborn child.

A tyrant, grinning as cities crumbled.

A boy, no older than seven, clutching a bloodied knife.

The demon stood before it, sword drawn, his resolve unwavering. His children stood behind him, eyes wide with the weight of what was to come. His wife's hand gripped the hilt of her soul-bound dagger, a silent promise to protect.

The embodiment of Memory's gaze fell upon them, its voice shifting with a thousand tones, young and ancient, kind and cruel. "You carry too many lies," it said, each word echoing with the burden of time. "Let me free you of them."

The demon did not blink.

"I carry them because no one else will."

"You carry them because you fear who you were."

"That fear keeps the world safe."

"Then show me."

With those words, the ground beneath him vanished.

He fell—not through space, but through time. Through the layers of self.

And then—

He stood within the confines of a familiar home. The carpet was soaked in crimson, bodies sprawled across the floor, eyes frozen in terror, mouths agape in silent screams.

And in the center of it all, a young boy stood, trembling, a faint, unsettling smile on his lips.

It was him.

From a life long past. His first memory.

His first massacre.

The boy's voice echoed in the empty room. "No one even screamed. They never knew it was coming."

The demon stepped forward, his gaze never leaving the child.

"I remember you," he said, his voice rough with the weight of recognition.

The boy's head tilted, innocent curiosity dancing in his eyes. "Do you hate me?"

"No," the demon said after a long pause, the words thick with regret. "You were broken. You never had a chance to be whole."

"You didn't try to stop me," the boy accused.

The demon lowered his gaze. "I didn't know how."

The boy's expression twisted, a sneer forming on his face. "Liar. You liked it."

The demon closed his eyes, the truth of those words gnawing at him.

"…Yes. Back then, I did."

Outside the memory, the embodiment of Memory observed, its form a flickering presence in the shifting dream.

"To move forward, he must confront every sin he ever buried," it intoned, its voice like the turning of pages.

The girl flinched, her voice trembling as she asked, "Why are you doing this to him?"

"I do nothing," the embodiment replied. "He chose to face me. And he carries the power to consume truth—but not without understanding it."

The boy's fists clenched, flames flickering over his knuckles, his thoughts darkening.

"If he breaks—"

"He will become what he once was. Or worse. The Devourer, reborn without restraint."

The words hung heavily in the air. The children remained silent, their confusion mingled with a quiet fear.

Inside the memory, the scene shifted again.

Now, the demon stood in a prison cell, his world reduced to the cold, unyielding stone. He had spent a year there, waiting in silence. The guilt had seeped into his bones like poison.

Across from him sat his mother, her eyes wide with terror, her hands trembling.

"Why did you come?" he asked, the words empty in the vast space between them.

"I wanted to see if you were still my son," she whispered, her voice cracked.

He couldn't meet her gaze.

"And what did you see?"

She stood, slowly moving toward the bars that separated them.

"I saw a boy who thought he was a monster. And maybe he was."

She reached toward him, her hands trembling, desperate.

"But I also saw tears in his eyes."

The memory shattered. The prison walls crumbled, fading away like dust in the wind.

The scene changed again.

Now, the demon stood on the edge of a rooftop, the wind biting cold against his skin. The city stretched out beneath him, indifferent to the pain that had led him here.

He remembered the words he had spoken, as if they had been carved into his soul: "I want to go to hell."

And then… darkness.

He turned slowly, his soul hovering in the void. Confusion clouded his thoughts. He was fractured, unrecognizable.

A faint glimmer of power pulsed in his chest.

Gluttony. The Devourer. Even then, it had been there, feeding, growing.

He stepped toward the younger version of himself, his voice barely a whisper. "You didn't die."

The boy looked up at him, eyes filled with sorrow and emptiness. "I should have."

"No," the demon said, a touch of regret in his tone as he placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You were meant to live. Not as punishment, but to protect those who come after."

The boy vanished. In his place stood the demon's current reflection—wounded, unforgiving, and burdened.

In the real world, the tower began to glow.

The family watched in stunned silence as memories poured down its spire like a reverse waterfall, images flashing across the city's glasslike streets. Each flicker carried the weight of a forgotten past, a buried truth.

A low rumble sounded, reverberating through the air, and the embodiment of Memory staggered back, its form rippling with disbelief.

"It cannot be," it whispered, the realization settling over it. "He accepts it."

The light from the tower grew brighter, overwhelming in its intensity.

And then—

The demon stepped out.

His sword resting across his back.

His eyes, weary but resolute.

But whole.

"I am not proud of who I was," he said, his voice steady, "But I will not run from him anymore."

The embodiment of Memory paused, its face unreadable. "You understand now."

He nodded. "Enough to move forward."

"Then take this," it said, extending its hand. From its chest, it drew forth a shard—a glimmering sliver of silver truth. "The Third Truth. Yours to carry."

The shard floated toward him, and as it touched his skin, it melted into him. He staggered, the impact of the truth rippling through him like a wave crashing over a shore.

The world trembled.

Suddenly, every being across all three realms remembered something they had buried. A face, a mistake, a moment of shame.

The weight of memory crashed down on the world, pressing it into the earth.

As the light from the tower began to fade, the embodiment of Memory's form flickered.

"Only nine more truths remain," it said, its voice growing softer, distant.

"Will they all test me like this?" he asked, his voice low.

"No," it replied. "Some will try to kill you."

And then it was gone.

The silence that followed was thick, oppressive.

The demon stood in the aftermath, his chest rising and falling with every breath.

His children ran to him, and his wife, eyes wet with emotion, embraced him. For a brief moment, there was peace—a fragile, fleeting thing.

But even as he held his family close, he knew it wouldn't last.

Something stirred in the Upper World. A Fourth Truth.

One born not from memory, rage, or guilt.

But from ambition.

And it wanted his son.