Deimos had once been a young man of twenty, a soul who ascended to Heaven with purity in his heart. His life had been a testament to selflessness: he gave his love, his time, his effort—everything to others. But the world was cruel. The more he gave, the less he received. Kindness was met with coldness; love was answered with betrayal. He poured out oceans of himself, only to be met with mere drops in return.
The heartbreak was unbearable. Each unrequited love, each act of treachery, forged an inferno within him. But Deimos clung to forgiveness, believing love could heal all wounds. He turned the other cheek again and again, but with every act of mercy, the emptiness inside him grew. Forgiveness became his prison.
When he finally ascended to Heaven, he expected peace. The endless golden streets, the radiant halls of paradise—they were supposed to be the reward for his devotion. But the hollow ache persisted. In this place of divine perfection, his desires—for vengeance, for indulgence, for wealth—were sins. They marked him as unworthy. God, in His all-knowing judgment, saw the darkness in Deimos’s heart and cast him out. The gates of Heaven slammed shut, and Deimos plummeted to the Fourth Circle of Hell.
In that hellish realm, souls labored under the crushing weight of their sins. But for Deimos, the torment of the Fourth Circle was nothing compared to the rage burning within him. Forgiveness was no longer an option. His wrath demanded release. Fueled by hatred and pain, he escaped the clutches of Hell and returned to Earth. No longer bound by morality, he vowed to enact his twisted justice upon humanity.
Deimos’s vengeance was merciless. He became a hunter of sinners, targeting the lustful, the greedy, the envious, and the proud. But his justice was not swift. He reveled in their suffering, believing pain was the only path to redemption. In the shadows, he became a legend, his name synonymous with terror.
The world soon gave him a title that captured his essence: the God of Rape, Torture, and Murder.
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TORTURE METHODS
Deimos’s dungeon was a masterpiece of horror. Each method of punishment was carefully designed to extract not only physical pain but also psychological devastation. He believed that suffering cleansed the soul, and he wielded cruelty like an artist wielding a brush.
THE BREAKING WHEEL
Deimos reserved the Breaking Wheel for the gravest sinners. He would bind his victims to the wheel and methodically shatter their limbs, each crack of bone echoing like a death knell.
“This is what your choices lead to,” he would whisper. “Broken. Pieces scattered, never to be whole again.”
THE RACK
For those who ran from their sins, the Rack awaited. Deimos stretched their bodies until muscles tore and joints dislocated.
“You thought you could escape judgment,” he’d sneer. “Now you’re being pulled apart—just like your soul.”
THE HERETIC’S FORK
The proud and arrogant faced the Heretic’s Fork, a metal rod forced between their throat and chest. Unable to scream or move, they were left hunched in agonized silence.
“You thought yourself untouchable,” Deimos would say. “Now even your voice is stolen.”
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BOILING
For those needing to feel their sins seared away, Deimos chose boiling. Victims were submerged in scalding water, their skin blistering and peeling as they screamed.
“Do you feel it?” he’d murmur. “This is the weight of your corruption.”
SKINNING
To strip his victims of their humanity, Deimos employed skinning. Slowly, meticulously, he peeled their flesh, leaving them raw and exposed.
“Layer by layer,” he’d taunt. “Until nothing remains but your truth.”
IMPALING
The prideful met their end on stakes. Deimos’s method was slow, the stake entering the body inch by inch.
“You climbed so high,” he’d say. “Now you’ll fall, piece by piece.”
RAPE
Rape was Deimos’s most dehumanizing tool. It was not about pleasure but domination—a method to strip his victims of dignity and identity.
“You controlled others,” he’d hiss. “Now I control you.”
SCALPING
For those consumed by vanity, Deimos tore away their scalps, leaving them disfigured and humiliated.
“Your pride meant everything,” he’d mock. “Now you’ll learn what it means to have nothing.”
EATEN ALIVE
The most grotesque of all, Deimos let his victims be devoured alive. Ants, vultures, dogs, or bears—he watched as they were consumed piece by piece.
“Do you hear them?” he’d whisper. “The gnawing? This is how you’ll leave this world.”
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THE LEGEND OF DEIMOS
Deimos’s reign of terror spanned decades. The stories of his atrocities spread like wildfire, whispered in fear by those who dared speak his name. Some saw him as a monster, others as a dark savior cleansing the world of its filth. But Deimos did not care. He was not driven by the opinions of mortals. His only companions were his rage and his unrelenting sense of justice.
His victims were not random. Deimos’s twisted sense of morality dictated his targets. The corrupt, the cruel, the selfish—these were the ones who found themselves in his dungeon. But as the years passed, his hatred began to blind him. Innocent souls were caught in his web, their suffering feeding his insatiable thirst for vengeance.
THE INNER STRUGGLE
As Deimos continued his crusade, a seed of doubt began to grow within him. Was he truly delivering justice, or had he become the very embodiment of the sin he sought to purge? Each scream, each broken body, echoed in his mind long after the deed was done. The line between justice and vengeance blurred until it was indistinguishable.
His dungeon, once a place of righteous punishment, became a mirror of his own torment. The cries of his victims mingled with the cries of his own soul. He realized he was not just punishing the wicked—he was punishing himself. Every act of brutality was a reflection of his own pain, his own emptiness.
Deimos’s once-pure soul had been consumed by darkness. The man who had given everything to others, who had sought only love and acceptance, had become a god of pain and suffering. And yet, somewhere deep within him, a flicker of humanity remained. It whispered to him, reminding him of the man he once was. But that flicker was faint, nearly extinguished by the storm of rage that defined him.
A LEGACY OF HORROR
Deimos’s name became legend, a cautionary tale whispered to children and feared by adults. His methods, his dungeon, his very existence—they were symbols of the darkest depths of humanity. To some, he was a necessary evil, a force of nature balancing the scales. To others, he was a demon, a monster who thrived on suffering.
But to Deimos, he was simply a man—a man who had loved too much, suffered too deeply, and fallen too far. In his mind, his actions were justified. The world had broken him, and now he would break the world in return.
Yet as his legacy grew, so did the void within him. He had become the God of Rape, Torture, and Murder—but at what cost? The cries of his victims, the blood on his hands, the endless cycle of pain—these were his only companions. And as he stood in the shadows, watching the world tremble at his name, he wondered if redemption was even possible.
Deimos’s story was not just one of vengeance. It was a tragedy, a tale of a soul consumed by its own pain. The God of Rape, Torture, and Murder was not born of malice, but of love turned to ash. And as he walked the earth, his footsteps stained with blood, he carried with him the weight of a thousand sins—his victims’, and his own.