Deimos, the god of rape, torture, and murder, stood at the precipice of the cosmos, his blood-stained form contrasting sharply with the soft, divine light of Heaven. It was an eerie stillness that surrounded him, as if even the heavens themselves held their breath. The very fabric of space and time trembled in his presence, yet he felt oddly... disconnected. His godly stature, once a source of pride and fear, now felt hollow. The destruction he’d wreaked, the lives he’d shattered, the suffering he’d inflicted upon billions—all of it seemed meaningless in the grand expanse of the divine.
Having been banished to Hell for his unrelenting cruelties, Deimos had escaped time and time again, each time with a more profound understanding of the world’s horrors. He had seen the dark corners of human existence—suffering, despair, and brutality—and had reveled in it, carving his existence around these very notions. But something had changed. Something deep inside him had cracked, the weight of his deeds no longer fitting comfortably on his shoulders.
Now, in a moment of strange destiny, Deimos found himself face-to-face with God. His existence, both malevolent and tragic, had brought him to this singular point in time. And for the first time, he found himself questioning not the suffering of the mortals below, but the very fabric of existence itself—the divine design.
Deimos sat on a cloud, his posture lax, almost defiant. He had often looked down from the heavens at the suffering below, but now it was the voice of the Almighty he sought.
“God...” he began, his tone not the usual arrogant sneer, but one laced with genuine curiosity and bitterness, “Why did you let Jigoku live? Why did you allow him to kill 200 million people? Why did you allow him to start the Tori no Ichizoku, this godforsaken reign of terror?”
God remained silent, his presence radiating an unfathomable peace, untouched by the brutality and malice Deimos had inflicted upon the world. There was a quiet dignity in that silence, but it only fueled Deimos’ fury further.
“Answer me, God. Why did you let that monster live? Why didn’t you stop him before it was too late?”
The cosmos seemed to hold its breath as Deimos’ words hung in the air, unanswered. Deimos’ grip on his anger tightened, his hands trembling. The sheer weight of the souls he had caused to suffer seemed to collapse upon him in this moment. But there was something more—an overwhelming realization that had begun to gnaw at him from the inside out.
“Why did you let the innocent suffer? You knew that every person who met Jigoku would be scarred. You knew that some would turn into the very monsters they feared. Why didn’t you stop him?” Deimos’ voice was cold now, though laced with a deep, unsettling sorrow. “You allowed it all to happen, and now, the world is left with scars that will never heal.”
God remained silent.
Deimos stood up, his dark figure looming like an ominous shadow against the pure, celestial light. His once unshakable conviction began to waver, replaced by a maddening sense of emptiness. The feeling gnawed at him—the emptiness of his own existence, the futility of the suffering he had caused, and the lack of justice that seemed to permeate the very foundation of the world.
“Why did you let them suffer, God? Why did you let Jigoku burn entire nations to the ground, destroy millions of innocent lives, and create a legacy of terror that would last for generations? You did nothing. You sat there, silent in your divine throne, watching as humanity bled.”
He stepped closer to God, his face twisted with anger and confusion. His fists clenched as he spoke through gritted teeth, “You let people suffer, and you did nothing to save them. You allowed the trauma to infect the souls of millions. You allowed them to become twisted, just like Jigoku. Why, God? Why?”
For a moment, the air seemed to grow heavier, the silence more unbearable. Deimos could feel the weight of his own words pressing down on him, but still, God did not speak. The silence was suffocating, as if the Almighty was somehow beyond the questions of mortal beings, detached from the suffering that defined the human experience.
“I know why you’re silent,” Deimos muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. “It’s because you are the Almighty, and yet you allowed your people to suffer under the guise of ‘love.’”
The words left his mouth with a venomous certainty. It was a truth that had haunted him, a paradox that had gnawed at his existence. If God was truly all-powerful, then why did he allow such misery to unfold? Why did he let creatures like Jigoku run rampant, destroying everything in their path, while the innocents were crushed beneath the weight of fate? The hypocrisy of it all seemed unbearable.
“I know,” Deimos continued, his voice growing colder, more biting. “You say you love your people, but your love is nothing but an illusion. You allow them to suffer, to be born into a world filled with pain, and you do nothing to stop it. You stand by, letting them be torn apart, watching as they are twisted into versions of the monsters they feared. And when they break—when they snap under the pressure of the world you’ve allowed them to live in—you claim it’s all part of your ‘plan.’” Deimos sneered, the bitterness in his voice palpable. “What kind of plan is that?”
Deimos’ words hung in the air, a heavy weight of accusation. He had seen the suffering firsthand—the tortured souls, the broken bodies, the empty eyes of those who had been consumed by the very darkness God had allowed to fester in the world. And now, as he stood in the presence of the divine, he could not reconcile the two. How could the Creator of all things permit such suffering? How could He, in His infinite wisdom, allow such malice to exist?
Finally, God’s voice broke the silence, but it was not what Deimos had expected.
“Deimos,” God spoke softly, his tone calm, measured, almost sorrowful. “You speak of love as if it is an easy thing to understand. You speak of suffering as if it were the absence of meaning. But you do not see what I see.”
Deimos’ anger flared, his eyes narrowing. “What the hell are you talking about?”
God’s voice was steady, unshaken. “I do not protect my creation from suffering, Deimos, because suffering is a part of growth. It is through pain, through hardship, that my children are forged into who they truly are. I do not shield them from the darkness because it is the darkness that teaches them to rise above it.”
Deimos shook his head in disbelief. “That’s your excuse? You let them burn, let them suffer, so they can ‘rise above it’? You’re nothing but a cruel, detached being, watching as your creations destroy each other.”
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“I watch because I care,” God replied, his voice firm now. “I watch because my love for them is not about preventing suffering—it’s about offering them the strength to face it. The suffering they endure, the darkness they face—it’s all a part of their journey. It is not a punishment, Deimos. It is a test of their will, their resolve. It is only through overcoming the chaos that they can understand the true meaning of creation.”
Deimos clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “So, you watch as they become like Jigoku? You watch as they suffer under the weight of their trauma, turning into monsters? And you call that love?”
God’s gaze softened, a deep sadness settling over Him. “I do not condone the suffering, Deimos. But I allow it because it is through that suffering that true strength is born. There are those who will falter, who will fall to the darkness. But there are also those who will rise above it, who will become beacons of light in a world filled with shadows. It is through their choices that they will find salvation.”
Deimos stared at God, his mind racing. It was a response he hadn’t anticipated—an answer that unsettled him more than it comforted him. Was this truly the purpose of existence? Was suffering, in its purest form, a path to something greater? He couldn’t understand it, couldn’t accept it.
And yet, there was a part of him—buried deep within his twisted, broken soul—that almost believed God’s words. Could it be that the suffering, the pain, the chaos—could it all lead to something greater?
Deimos let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and cold. “You’re a damn fool, God,” he spat. “You think you can justify all this because it’s ‘part of the plan’? You let Jigoku kill 200 million people, and you call that part of a greater purpose?”
God did not flinch, did not flounder. “I do not control their actions, Deimos. I allow them to choose their path. Whether they walk toward the light or the darkness—it is their decision.”
Deimos stared at God for a long moment, his anger still simmering beneath the surface. And then, as if a heavy weight had settled in his chest, he spoke one final time.
“Maybe... Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s something beyond the suffering. But I will never forgive you for what you’ve allowed. Never.”
God’s silence was the only response.
Deimos's deperture
Deimos left Heaven with the weight of God's words still lingering in his mind. The silence of the cosmos seemed to press in on him, the unyielding light of the divine offering no comfort. His heart, once fueled by hatred and destruction, now churned with a mixture of confusion and fury. He couldn’t accept the answer God had given him. It was too simple, too cold. "Suffering is a part of growth," He had said. But to Deimos, it seemed like an excuse—a rationalization for doing nothing.
As he descended back toward Earth, the familiar, chaotic pulse of humanity drew him in. The world below was rife with misery, war, and corruption. People hurting one another, families torn apart by greed and betrayal. It was the perfect stage for Deimos to unleash his wrath. This was his domain. It was here that he thrived, where his pain and suffering had meaning. His purpose, as he saw it, was clear: to punish humanity for their weakness, to show them the depths of their own cruelty and despair.
Deimos landed in a city that had long been forgotten by history, where the forgotten souls of the broken and damned roamed the streets. The buildings were cracked and crumbling, the air thick with the stench of decay and despair. It was a fitting place for him to return to his work. His eyes burned with a familiar hunger, and his hands itched to wield the power of destruction once more.
He moved through the streets, unseen by the humans around him. They were too consumed with their own misery to notice the god of pain walking among them. Deimos watched them from the shadows, his cold gaze taking in the broken faces, the worn-out bodies, the lost souls who had become little more than shells of who they once were. He saw it in their eyes—the same emptiness, the same hopelessness that had once driven him to create suffering. But now, it felt different.
Deimos felt something stir within him, something he hadn’t felt in centuries. A flicker of doubt, perhaps. A realization that he had been doing this for so long that it had become his only purpose. He had punished humanity endlessly, torn it apart piece by piece, yet nothing ever changed. The cycle continued. Humans continued to create suffering for themselves, and he continued to feed into it. The madness of it all began to weigh heavily on him.
But then, as quickly as the thought surfaced, it was buried beneath the ever-present urge to inflict pain. He had a job to do. Humanity needed to be reminded of its place in the grand scheme of things. They needed to feel the weight of their own sins, the consequences of their existence. They needed to see that there was no escape from the hell they had created for themselves.
With a flick of his hand, Deimos conjured his tools of torment. He called upon the forces that had once been his greatest allies—chains of despair, fires of torment, shadows of fear. His power surged through the city, and the ground trembled beneath his feet. The humans below didn’t notice at first, their senses dulled by the numbness of their own suffering. But then, screams began to echo through the streets.
Deimos grinned, the familiar rush of power coursing through his veins. This was the work he was born to do. This was the purpose he had chosen, and he would carry it out with all the force of his being.
He struck first at the weak, those who were vulnerable. The old, the sick, the children. They were the ones who suffered most in this world, and Deimos made sure they felt his wrath. His chains wrapped around their ankles, pulling them toward him as the fire swirled around them. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh and the sound of tortured screams. It was a symphony of agony that filled the streets, a perfect echo of the pain Deimos had carried with him for centuries.
But as the carnage unfolded before him, something began to gnaw at Deimos once more. His smile faltered as he watched the faces of the tortured, their eyes filled not with fear, but with a strange, hollow resignation. They had become numb to pain, to suffering. The very thing he thrived on was losing its power over them.
He stepped back, watching as the flames began to flicker and die, the chains loosening. Something wasn’t right. The very people he had been punishing, the ones he had believed to be the source of all his misery, were not responding in the way he expected. They didn’t beg for mercy anymore. They didn’t cry for their lives. They just… endured. The realization struck him like a lightning bolt: they had become as broken as he was.
Deimos clenched his fists, his fury building once more. How dare they? How dare they become so numb to suffering that even his greatest tortures could not bring them to their knees? It was an insult to him, to everything he stood for. They had learned to live with the very thing he had created—despair, fear, and suffering. They had embraced it.
"Enough!" he roared, his voice echoing through the city, shaking the very foundations of the world. But even his rage seemed futile. The people below didn’t flinch. They didn’t even look up.
For a moment, Deimos felt the weight of everything—the millennia of pain he had caused, the countless lives he had destroyed, the endless suffering he had inflicted—crash down upon him. His purpose, his existence, seemed to be unraveling before him. What was the point of it all? What was the purpose of punishing humanity when they had already been broken beyond repair?
He stood in the midst of the chaos, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. He could still feel the pull of destruction, the call to continue what he had always done. But now, it felt hollow. The suffering he caused no longer brought him the satisfaction it once did. It was as if the very act of tormenting others had become meaningless in a world that had already been consumed by its own darkness.
Deimos stood there for a long moment, frozen in thought. Then, with a heavy sigh, he turned away from the scene of carnage. The city, once a playground for his twisted games, now felt like a graveyard—a place where even he could no longer find meaning in the suffering he had created.
He had punished humanity countless times before, but for the first time, he wondered if it was enough.