Devourer of Sins

The next morning, the city stirred like a restless sleeper caught between dreams.

Birds still sang. Cars still rumbled across cracked roads. And people moved with their usual purpose—coffee in one hand, deadlines in the other. But beneath it all, something else moved. Something silent. A tension that couldn't be named but slithered between alleyways and under floorboards, coiling itself into every breath the city took.

By the window, he stood still. The mask was gone, and his face wore no expression. Sunlight edged along his jawline like a hesitant touch—unsure if he was someone worth warming. His reflection stared back, not with malice, but with depth. A depth that hadn't been there before. It was as if something behind his eyes had peeled away a veil—revealing not just thought, but memory. Not just life, but what lingered underneath it.

The mask, buried beneath rotting wood and rusted nails in a forgotten warehouse, no longer needed to be worn. Its power had taken root. It hummed beneath his skin, threaded through marrow and blood, vibrating with every breath he took. It wasn't a thing he carried anymore. It was part of him—ancient and insistent.

He could feel everything now.

The breath of every soul within reach.

The flicker of spiritual auras moving like candlelight across the city.

The lies people told to survive the day.

The tiny fears they buried under laughter.

And still, there was no joy.

No thrill.

The hunger didn't dance the way it once did. The old cravings—the chaos, the carnage, the burn of conquest—they were still there, but muted now, softened by something deeper. He'd thought it was death that made him a monster once. But no. It had never been death.

It was hunger.

Not hunger for blood or power. But hunger for the whole.

For identity.

For peace.

For the parts of others that made them complete.

And here he was, trying—however poorly—to live like he wasn't the thing that nightmares knelt to.

Later that morning, while the city wore its distractions like perfume, he stepped out of the apartment. Kids ran through the street ahead, chasing a rubber ball through puddles and dust. When it bounced toward him, he caught it reflexively and knelt to hand it back.

A little girl—five, maybe six—took it from his hand slowly, her eyes fixed on him with that strange blend of curiosity and instinctual fear children hadn't yet learned to suppress.

"You're scary," she whispered.

He didn't flinch.

Didn't deny it.

Just gave a small nod and moved on.

That afternoon, the air thickened with humidity, like the city was holding its breath. He walked toward the outskirts, to the place where the mask lay hidden—and found someone waiting.

A man, dressed in rags like a prophet exiled by his own god. Blindfolded, leaning on a crooked staff carved from something too pale to be wood. He stood near the alley like he belonged there. Like the city had always known he'd arrive.

"You're late," the man said.

"I didn't know we had an appointment."

"You didn't," came the response. "But he did. The version of you before you ever woke up."

He studied the man. "You're from the Upper World?"

"Higher." The blind man grinned, showing perfect teeth. "But not here to fight. Just… observing. Checking the balance."

"Balance of what?"

"Sin."

His eyes narrowed. "You reek of heaven, but your voice crawls like something from a pit."

"That's because Heaven isn't what you think," the man replied softly. "And Hell? Hell never lies. That's what makes it unbearable."

They stood in the silence for a moment—one weighing, one waiting.

"You've started to feel it," the man said finally. "The change. The hunger shifting. It isn't about murder anymore. It's not about blood. You've begun to crave… meaning. The essence of people. What makes them them. You feel it when you look at them. You wonder what it would be like… to eat that."

He clenched his fists, jaw tight.

"Don't worry," the man said, laughing gently. "You've resisted. That's more than most can claim."

He took a step forward, voice lower now. "The Realms are stirring. All three. Converging again. It's happening—the alignment. First time in ten thousand years."

"And?"

"It's waking things. Old things. Even older than you."

He didn't like the sound of that. "What do they want?"

The man's smile faded. "You."

A long pause followed.

"They want to judge the Devourer."

The laugh that slipped out wasn't born of amusement. It was cold and bitter. "Judge me? Who gave them that right?"

"You did," the man whispered. "When you shattered the Seventh Seal and claimed the Hunger Crown."

He blinked. That memory hadn't returned. Not yet.

The man tapped his temple. "You will. When the sky bleeds and the stars start to scream."

He turned, robes brushing against the alley floor.

"What's your name?" he called out.

The man paused at the end of the path. "I don't have one anymore," he said. "Names are for people who still believe they can be saved."

And just like that, he vanished.

No sound. No shimmer.

Just absence.

That night, the dreams returned—but they weren't dreams.

They were visions pulled from the bone marrow of a past too heavy for memory alone.

He stood atop a mountain of corpses. Angels with shattered halos. Demons leaking shadow. Beasts turned to stone mid-scream. A world torn open and laid bare, trembling in the aftermath.

And at the center of it all… himself.

Younger. Stronger.

Wearing the mask. Holding a weapon forged from screams.

The sky above groaned—and then opened.

Not metaphorically.

A mouth.

A real one.

The size of a continent, framed by runes and lined with teeth made from collapsed stars.

Its tongue was a void that ate light, and it swallowed the battlefield whole.

Everything—vanished into its hunger.

When he jolted awake, his hands were trembling. The pillow beneath his head was soaked—not with sweat, but blood. His ears were ringing with whispers. And the walls of his room seemed to be breathing.

"Feed…" they whispered.

"Feed…"

"Feed…"

He stumbled to the sink. Splashed water on his face. Looked up at the mirror.

His reflection didn't move. Didn't blink.

It just stared.

Then it smiled.

By sunrise, the rumors had already taken flight.

Far to the north, near the rim of the Upper World, an entire fortress-city had vanished. Not destroyed. Not razed. Gone. No blood. No wreckage. No survivors. Just... absence.

The city had housed a Hero-in-training—one anointed by the Sky Temple itself.

Some said it was divine punishment.

Others whispered of a demon king returned.

A few claimed they saw shadows with mouths devouring the dawn sky.

He knew the truth.

It wasn't him.

It was one of the others.

One of his three thousand.

His shadows.

His children.

His sins made flesh.

They still moved by instinct.

Still hunted.

And he hadn't told them to stop.

Because somewhere inside…

He didn't want them to.

Not yet.

Not until he understood what was coming.

Not until all the memories returned.

That evening, as the sky blushed with twilight and the city lights flickered on one by one, he sat on the rooftop again. Watching. Listening. Feeling.

From the kitchen window below, his sister called to him—homework spread across the table, pencil tucked behind her ear.

He went inside. Pretended everything was fine.

They had dinner together.

He made a joke. She laughed.

His mother smiled—tired, but real.

And for a fleeting second, it felt like maybe, just maybe, he could keep this life stitched together.

This tiny, fragile thing.

But far beyond that home, beyond the sky and stars, in a place where sound could not reach and time held its breath…

The First Mouth began to stir.

And through the void, across all the realms, it whispered to its master:

"We are hungry."