Devourer of Sins

The sky hadn't changed, but the world beneath it had.

In the days following the collapse of the Tower of Recollection, silence settled over the forgotten city like a thick blanket. The spires of glass and bone had crumbled to dust, vanishing as all forbidden truths eventually do. Yet, the tremor it sent through the three realms lingered, refusing to fade.

They were no longer invisible.

The moment the demon accepted the Third Truth, something ancient stirred in the Heaven World. A presence, long dormant, blinked awake, its awareness sharp and keen.

A whisper spread through temples and thrones, crossing vast distances with an almost predatory swiftness.

"The Devourer has returned."

It began with a star falling from the sky.

Or rather, what appeared to be a star.

He stood in the courtyard of their quiet home, sword resting against the wall, his children engaged in their daily exercises nearby. The light streaked across the sky—too fast, too sharp—then suddenly halted, suspended mid-air, burning with a divine, golden intensity.

From it descended a figure wrapped in silk and sunlight.

A celestial cultivator. One of Heaven's chosen.

The figure landed gracefully on the worn stone path, barefoot, his eyes glowing with the light of a higher plane.

"Kam—"

The demon's gaze snapped sharp. "Don't speak that name."

The celestial hesitated, his posture shifting with a subtle formality. He bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the demon's command. "Apologies, Devourer."

The children froze in place. His wife appeared in the doorway, her hand already resting on the hilt of her concealed dagger.

The celestial raised both hands in a gesture of peace.

"I come in peace. To speak, not to fight."

He waited. The demon said nothing.

"I bring a message from the Heaven World. The Council knows of your reawakening. Of the Third Truth."

Still, the silence stretched.

"And they… are curious."

The tension between them was palpable, a quiet storm ready to burst.

The celestial moved with the grace of one who had never been touched by war. His skin was perfect, his robes immaculate, untouched by the wear and tear of travel. The light around him wasn't just an aura—it was a perfection forged from layers upon layers of cultivation.

He glanced at the children, their eyes wide with curiosity and caution.

"Your son. The boy of fire. Heaven is watching him now."

The demon stepped forward, his shadow falling long over the path. "He is not for you."

"Perhaps not," the celestial acknowledged. "But if the Council decides otherwise—"

In the blink of an eye, the demon was upon him, blade at the celestial's throat.

"You'll find," he said, his voice like cold stone, "that your council's 'determinations' mean nothing here."

The celestial didn't flinch. His eyes remained calm, unfazed by the threat.

"You would draw blood on Heaven's envoy?" he asked, his tone soft, almost mocking.

"I've already drawn blood on Heaven's gods."

For a long, tense moment, neither moved. The only sound was the soft breeze ruffling the demon's cloak.

Finally, the celestial took a step back, lifting one hand in a slow, deliberate motion. A scroll unfurled in the air between them.

"A summons," he said quietly. "Formal. Your son is invited to the Temple of Dawn in the Upper World. He will be tested. If found worthy, he may ascend."

The boy, his curiosity piqued, stepped forward, confusion clouding his face. "Ascend? What for?"

"To rise above your lineage. To become more than your father."

A faint muscle twitched in the demon's jaw. He could feel the weight of the words, the unspoken promise beneath them.

The boy looked up at him. "Is it… a trap?"

"No," the demon said, his voice low. "It's worse. It's temptation."

That night, as the stars shone cold and distant overhead, the family sat together in the quiet warmth of their home. The boy stared at the scroll in his lap, its golden glow pulsing with a rhythm that seemed to echo his own heartbeat. His sister sat beside him, her eyes shadowed by a quiet wariness.

The silence stretched until their mother finally broke it, her voice soft but steady. "Do you want to go?"

The boy hesitated. "I don't know," he whispered, his fingers tracing the edges of the scroll. "It sounds… amazing. But…"

He glanced up at his father, searching his face for some clue, some sign of what to do.

"You're afraid," the demon said gently, his eyes softening. "Not of the world. But of what they might turn you into."

The boy nodded, and the demon could see the conflict within him. A hunger for power. A fear of losing himself.

The demon moved closer, sitting across from him, his body weary with the weight of countless battles. For the first time in days, he seemed smaller—not weak, but tired.

"They'll offer you strength. Knowledge. Power beyond what I can give," the demon continued, his voice low and steady.

The boy leaned forward, his eyes intense. "Then why do you look so sad?"

"Because they don't give it freely. Nothing from the Heaven World comes without a price."

The boy's gaze softened. "What did they want from you?"

The demon looked up, his eyes distant, haunted by a past he could never outrun.

"My soul. My loyalty. My silence."

The boy swallowed, the words heavy in the air between them. "And did you give it to them?"

A grim, distant smile curled at the demon's lips. "I gave them hell instead."

By morning, the boy had made his decision.

"I want to see it," he said quietly. "Not to join. Just… to see."

His father didn't argue.

Instead, he opened his palm—and a shadow surged from it, twisting, folding, taking shape. A cloaked figure materialized before them, kneeling in respect.

"You'll take him to the edge of the Upper World," the demon commanded, his tone final. "You'll guard him with your life."

The shadow nodded once, a silent promise.

"Only the edge," the boy said, his voice firm. "I don't want him following me the whole time."

"He'll keep his distance," the demon replied, his gaze hardening. "But if anything threatens you, he will tear through their realm without mercy."

The boy turned toward his mother, who had stepped forward, her expression unreadable. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers warm against his skin.

"You're letting him go?"

"I'm trusting him to come back."

The journey began in silence.

The boy, cloaked and hooded, rode beneath pale skies. The Upper World shimmered on the horizon, golden clouds drifting like palaces suspended in the heavens. Along the way, other travelers passed—pilgrims, adventurers, lost souls seeking purpose.

Some recognized him. Few dared approach.

When he reached the gates of the Temple of Dawn, the light above pulsed once—and the gates opened, unbidden, without a word.

He walked through.

Inside, time bent.

Endless stairs stretched upward, floors shifted like liquid, and voices echoed in riddles that seemed to come from everywhere at once. Figures moved without walking, their forms blurry, ephemeral. Teachers without names asked him questions that made no sense.

"What is strength if it cannot save?"

"What is guilt without witness?"

"If you had to kill your father to save the world, would you do it?"

The boy said nothing. He just kept walking.

Until he reached the highest chamber.

And there, seated on a throne of starlight, was a child.

Or something that looked like a child.

Eyes older than death. A smile carved from stone.

"You are the fire-born," it said, its voice a soft echo of something ancient. "Son of the Devourer. And perhaps… something more."

"I'm just me," the boy said, his voice steady, unwavering.

The being leaned forward, its eyes burning with the weight of countless ages.

"Not for long."