Devourer of Sins

The old station was dead—utterly forgotten by time. Not even the wind bothered with it anymore. The air hung stagnant, thick with dust and disuse. Rust clung to every beam, chewing through iron like a slow disease. Vines curled over shattered bricks like veins on a decaying body, crawling with quiet purpose. The tracks hadn't cradled a train in over twenty years, but somehow, something else pulsed beneath them—something that felt disturbingly alive.

He didn't understand how he could sense it, but he did.

There was a rhythm beneath the ruin, a slow, steady heartbeat deep under the stone and steel. It reminded him of a beast, massive and ancient, breathing just beneath the floorboards, waiting for the right moment to rise.

The farther he walked along the crumbling platform, the heavier the air became. Breathing grew harder—like dragging tar into his lungs. Each step carried him deeper into something unseen, like pressing against a membrane stretched too thin between this world and something much older, much darker.

Then he saw it.

At the platform's far end, where the concrete surrendered to collapsed tunnels and yawning shadows too deep for daylight, there was a ripple. It wasn't quite visible, but it wasn't invisible either. It wavered faintly, like heat distortion—but colder, wrong somehow, as if reality had begun to stutter.

He reached out before he could think to stop himself.

The world didn't shatter. It didn't scream. It simply bent. Softly. Quietly. Like a page turning in a book too massive for human hands.

And in the next breath—he was no longer in the station.

It was cold.

Above him, the sky churned like a storm trapped in a glass dome, thick with black clouds slashed through with streaks of violet lightning. Mountains loomed in the distance, jagged silhouettes too sharp for nature to have shaped. The wind carried the scent of ash, scorched metal, and something deeper—something ancient. Beneath his feet, the ground was dark and glassy, cracked obsidian that pulsed faintly with internal fire.

But what chilled him wasn't the temperature, or the alien sky, or the sense of danger humming through every stone.

It was the fact that he didn't panic.

Inexplicably, he felt calm. Not safe—but… known. As if this place had been waiting for him. As if it recognized him.

He took a single step forward, and the earth responded. Each footfall echoed with a resonance that felt too intentional, too knowing, like the land itself acknowledged his return.

Then the voice stirred again, curling through his mind like smoke.

"Home."

He flinched. "Shut up," he hissed under his breath.

But the voice wasn't fading this time.

"You feel it now. Don't pretend. The others will come for you—the Watchers, the Reclaimers. But they're weak. They've forgotten. They don't know who you were… who we are."

He blinked, trying to shake the words loose. "We?" he said aloud, but there was no reply.

Only the wind.

He pressed forward, and as he walked, the world reshaped itself around him. Trees stood twisted and leafless, their gnarled branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands. Rivers of liquid silver cut through the land, glowing softly as they ran between shattered hills. Monoliths dotted the terrain, towering stones carved with runes that shifted when looked at too long, symbols that felt older than language.

He passed the remains of things he didn't want to understand—bones large enough to belong to titans, half-buried and fossilized. Statues of beasts whose forms defied logic, limbs twisted in impossible symmetry. Each step seemed to deepen the pull in his chest, dragging him forward through a valley that pulsed with memory.

And then—he saw it.

A throne.

It wasn't made of stone, or gold, or metal. It was made of souls—a thousand or more, writhing, screaming, their translucent forms woven together into a seat of agony. They twisted and convulsed as if caught in an endless loop of torment, forming a throne that pulsed like a living heart.

And atop it… nothing.

It stood empty.

Waiting.

Something inside him tightened. He didn't want to look at it. Didn't want to move closer. But his body disobeyed. Each step forward felt less like a choice and more like destiny tightening its grip.

Flashes came without warning.

Fire raining from a black sun.

The sound of cities crumbling beneath invisible weight.

Screams—his own voice among them, but twisted, deeper, ancient.

Then… a vision.

A memory that didn't belong to this life.

He stood tall, cloaked in black, a mask of bone hiding his face. At his feet, entire legions knelt—demons, dragons, humans, all bowing before him in perfect silence.

He had ruled this place.

And now, it welcomed him back.

But he wasn't the same. Not yet. Not whole.

He stumbled back, breath ragged. This wasn't a dream. It wasn't a hallucination.

It was a warning.

And he was no longer alone.

Turning to flee, he froze.

A figure stood in his path.

A girl—though she wasn't truly human. Pale skin shimmered faintly. Her eyes glowed like molten silver, pupils shifting like liquid metal. Long hair, white as moonlight, flowed without wind. Her dress moved like smoke, stitched from shadows that curled and shifted with every motion.

She smiled—and the corners of her mouth didn't stop where they should have.

"You found the gate," she said gently, her voice soft but echoing strangely. "Or rather… it found you."

He stepped back instinctively. "Who are you?"

She tilted her head. "A Messenger. A Remnant. One of the few left who remembers who you truly were."

"I'm not him."

"No," she agreed, her smile sharpening. "You're worse."

Her voice lilted like a lullaby turned sour. "Because you still think you have a choice."

Lightning cracked across the sky.

"You were born of sin, bathed in blood, and crowned in betrayal. The throne remembers. The world remembers. Your enemies remember. Only you have forgotten."

His fists clenched. "I'm not going back."

"You never left."

She raised her hand, and the earth trembled. Beneath his feet, the soil rippled, and dozens of eyes blinked open—eyes that were not human, nor animal, but something in-between. Each one stared at him, filled with knowing. With accusation.

"Soul fragments," she whispered. "Watching. Judging. Waiting."

He tried to speak, but his throat locked.

"Soon," she said, lowering her hand, "the realms will feel your awakening. Heaven will tremble. The Demon Courts will fracture. The mortals will pray—though it won't matter."

"I don't want this," he managed.

"But it wants you," she said, her form beginning to dissolve. "And it always gets what it wants."

Then—just like that—he was back.

The station returned in a blink, dull and lifeless. Light filtered dimly through the grime-streaked windows. A rat darted across the rails, and silence reclaimed the space.

But something inside him had shifted.

The part of him that once cowered in fear no longer trembled. It watched. Quiet. Patient. Like a dragon curled around the bones of kingdoms, waiting for the signal to rise again.

He walked home in a haze.

Didn't speak. Didn't eat.

That night, he stood before his mirror again. Opened the closet. Looked himself in the eye.

The reflection smiled.

He didn't.

Morning came wrapped in gray clouds.

The doorbell rang.

His mother answered it, hesitation clear in her voice.

A man stood outside. Neatly pressed black suit. Thin tie. Sunglasses, despite the gloom.

"I'm here for him," he said plainly.

"For who?" she asked, already afraid.

He stepped into view. "I'll go."

"No—wait," she said, grabbing his arm. "What is this? Where are you going?"

"It's okay, Mom," he said softly. "I'll be back."

But they both knew it wasn't true.

He didn't look back as the door closed behind him.

The car waiting at the curb was sleek, black, and utterly silent. Inside, the man didn't speak for several minutes.

When he did, his voice was flat. "You accessed it."

"Yeah."

"Did anything come through?"

"Not yet."

"Good," the man replied. "That buys us time."

"Time for what?"

The man's jaw twitched. "To clean up your past lives' mess."

The car slid into a tunnel beneath the city.

And then—vanished.