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.”
“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.
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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.
Zephra the God of Redemption
Zephra, the God of Redemption, stood at the edge of a silent field, her figure bathed in soft golden light. Unlike the harsh, consuming radiance of the divine, her aura was warm, gentle—a stark contrast to the chaos and brutality that had so often surrounded her. Her very presence seemed to calm the air, soothing the deepest pains. It was as if redemption itself flowed from her, a force that could heal the broken, forgive the lost, and offer salvation to even the most damned of souls.
Deimos appeared before her, his figure a dark silhouette against the serene backdrop. The very air around him pulsed with tension, his aura an ever-present storm of wrath and despair. His eyes burned with the weight of countless years of destruction, torment, and suffering. The meeting between the God of Redemption and the God of Rape torture and murder no mere coincidence. They were opposites in every way, and yet, here they stood, facing one another.
Zephra did not flinch at his presence. Her gaze was soft, but there was a knowing sorrow in her eyes, as if she saw through him, past the darkness that clouded his heart.
"Deimos," she spoke softly, her voice like a balm to the soul. "I feel the burden you carry. The weight of countless lives destroyed, the screams of the innocent you’ve caused to suffer. You’ve been a god of destruction for so long, but it doesn’t have to be this way."
Deimos' lips curled into a bitter smile, his voice filled with contempt. "You speak of redemption like it’s some simple answer, Zephra. You think you can just wave your hand and undo the suffering that’s been done? Do you think you can heal the wounds that run as deep as the ones I’ve inflicted?"
Zephra’s expression remained unchanged. "I do not deny the pain, nor the suffering. I understand that redemption is not easy, not quick. It takes time, and it takes effort. But there is always a choice, Deimos. Even for you."
Deimos' eyes flashed with rage, his fists clenching at his sides. "A choice? After all this time, after everything I’ve done, you expect me to just—what? Repent? Change? You think I can simply erase all the suffering I’ve caused with some lofty notion of redemption?"
"I do not ask you to erase it," Zephra replied calmly, her voice unwavering. "You cannot undo the past, but you can change the future. Redemption is not about erasing the scars. It’s about learning to live with them, to let them guide you toward something better. It’s about facing the pain, not running from it."
Deimos stepped forward, his presence like a dark storm cloud threatening to engulf her. "And what of the people I’ve tormented? The souls I’ve destroyed, the lives I’ve shattered? Do you think they’ll just forgive me? Do you think they’ll welcome me with open arms?"
Zephra’s gaze softened, and for a moment, there was a sadness in her eyes that seemed to pierce through the darkness. "Redemption is not about expecting forgiveness from others. It is about seeking it from yourself. The souls you’ve tormented, the lives you’ve destroyed—they carry their own pain, their own burden. But you, Deimos, you are the one who must change. You must face the truth of who you’ve become and take responsibility for your actions."
Deimos' anger flared, but there was an undercurrent of something else—a hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty. He had never truly considered the possibility that he could change. That the dark path he had carved for himself could somehow be redirected, that there could be something beyond endless torment.
"I am not a being of redemption," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I am a god of suffering, of destruction. That is my purpose, my essence. What are you trying to tell me? That I can just throw it all away? That I can become... something else?"
Zephra stepped closer, her presence calming and steady. "No, Deimos. I am not asking you to throw away your essence. But your essence does not have to be bound to destruction. Your power, your strength—these are not inherently evil. It is how you choose to wield them that defines you. You can choose to bring redemption, healing, and peace, just as you have brought pain and suffering. Your power is a tool, not a curse."
Deimos was silent for a long moment, the weight of her words settling on him. His fists unclenched, and the storm within him began to quiet, though the anger still simmered beneath the surface. He had never known a world where he could be anything other than the god of torment. It was all he had ever known.
"And what happens when I fail?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
Zephra’s smile was gentle, but there was strength in it, a deep understanding of the struggle he faced. "Then you try again. Redemption is not a destination, Deimos. It is a journey. And on that journey, there will be times when you fall, when you stumble. But it is not the falling that matters—it is the rising again. It is the choice to keep moving forward, no matter the obstacles."
Deimos looked away, his gaze distant, as if he were looking into the depths of his own soul. The weight of his existence, the centuries of destruction, the endless suffering he had caused—all of it seemed to crash down on him once more. But now, there was something else. A flicker of possibility, something he had never allowed himself to consider before.
"I’ve been so consumed by the need to destroy," he murmured, almost to himself. "So focused on the pain and suffering that it became who I was. But... if I am to change, where do I begin?"
Zephra extended her hand toward him, her smile warm and inviting. "You begin with a single step. You begin with a choice. You do not have to do it alone, Deimos. Redemption is not a path that can be walked in solitude. There are those who will walk it with you. There are those who will help you carry the weight of your past, if you let them."
For the first time, Deimos didn’t pull away from her. He simply stared at her hand, at the offer she was giving him. He felt the tug of the darkness still clinging to him, but there was something else now—a glimmer of hope, fragile and new.
“I don’t know if I can change,” he admitted, his voice raw with vulnerability. “But... I will try.”
Zephra’s smile widened, and she nodded. "That is all anyone can do, Deimos. The rest will follow."
And so, in that quiet moment, the God of Rape torture and murder and the God of Redemption stood together—two gods who had once been opposites, now bound by the possibility of change, by the belief that even the darkest soul could find its way to the light
His People
Deimos had always been more than just a punisher; he was a symbol to those lost in the chaos of vengeance. His followers—those who had suffered, those who had been wronged—came to him seeking justice, seeking revenge, or even closure. They saw him not as a mere instrument of divine wrath but as a necessary force in the world, an agent through which their tormentors would finally face the consequences of their actions. To them, he was the embodiment of justice, the harbinger of their long-awaited reprisal.
For Deimos, each worshipper was both a burden and a duty. They didn’t just pray to him for vengeance—they demanded it. It was not an exchange of power or worship alone; it was a transaction of pain, a mutual understanding of what was at stake. In return for their reverence, he would deliver what they had asked for—retribution against those who had wronged them. He would execute their wrath without question, knowing full well the darkness that each act of vengeance would ignite.
And yet, there was always a lingering doubt in Deimos’s mind. He knew that no matter how fierce the punishment, no matter how perfectly executed the revenge, there was always a chance that it would not bring closure. Vengeance, he had come to realize, was a fleeting satisfaction at best—a salve for a wound that never truly healed. For some, the agony would fade, and their souls would find peace in the bloodshed. For others, however, the thirst for revenge could never truly be quenched. The wounds they carried were too deep, too ingrained, for retribution alone to heal.
Despite this knowledge, Deimos continued to serve his worshippers. He did not see himself as a mere executor of divine punishment—he saw himself as the final judge, the last hope for those who had lost everything to the cruelties of life. Even knowing that some would never find the peace they craved, he felt a heavy responsibility to fulfill their desires. The need for vengeance, after all, was a beast that could not be ignored. It was not a matter of whether it was right or wrong—it was simply a matter of doing what was asked of him.
In the end, there were those whose closure seemed possible only because they had never truly known what it meant to be whole. They came to him broken, their sense of justice fractured and twisted by the pain they had endured. Yet, when they stood in the wake of their vengeance, some of them found themselves still empty, still yearning for something more than the blood of their enemies. Deimos watched them closely, seeing their hollow expressions and wondering if there was ever a true way to give them peace.
Most, however, did feel a sense of completion after their tormentors had been dealt with. The weight of their anger lifted, even if only for a moment, and they could finally begin to move on, free from the chains that had held them for so long. This fleeting sense of relief was enough for Deimos to continue, to carry out each act of vengeance no matter the cost. It was a cruel kind of justice, a justice that knew no mercy, no redemption. But it was justice, nonetheless, and he was its instrument.
Even as he carried out these actions, Deimos questioned his own place in it all. Was he helping them? Or was he simply feeding the same cycle of pain and suffering that had consumed him? Would his service to their thirst for revenge ever grant him the redemption he so desperately sought, or was he doomed to repeat the same mistakes, forever bound to a role that neither fulfilled nor saved him?
Despite his doubts, Deimos pressed forward. He had a duty to perform, a role to play. And for now, that was enough to keep him moving. Even if it meant sacrificing his own peace, he would give them their revenge, knowing that he could never truly offer them closure. After all, his was a burden not of redemption, but of punishment. And some things, no matter how hard you tried, could never be undone.
.
One day
One day, Deimos found himself wandering the streets of a small, forgotten town. The cries of pain were no stranger to his ears—he had heard them for centuries, felt them deep within his bones. But this one was different. It wasn’t the blood-curdling screams of a battlefield or the desperate wails of a soul being tortured. This was the sound of something more personal, something far more intimate—the sound of a child being broken.
Drawn to the source, Deimos silently approached a modest home tucked away at the edge of the town. The house, weathered and unkempt, seemed to carry a heaviness in the air, a foreboding weight that set his senses on edge. Inside, through the cracked window, he saw her—a young girl, no older than twelve, trembling beneath the cruel weight of her father’s fury.
The man, a hulking figure of drunken rage, towered over her. His words were incomprehensible through the walls, but the violence in his voice was clear. The girl flinched with every harsh word, her body shrinking, trying to escape the torment she had endured for what seemed like an eternity.
Deimos’ heart twisted with an unfamiliar feeling—something that wasn’t anger, but a deep, gnawing sorrow. A reflection of his own tortured past flickered before his eyes. He had seen many wrongs, many injustices, but this? This was beyond even his comprehension. How could anyone, let alone a father, do this to their own flesh and blood?
For the first time in countless years, Deimos felt the stirrings of something he had long buried—compassion. It was a fleeting thought, one that quickly faded, replaced by the cold steel of duty that had always guided his actions. The man was a monster. And Deimos was the tool of divine justice, the hand that would deliver punishment when no one else could.
With a single step, the door to the house splintered, falling inward with a deafening crash. The man looked up, his eyes wide in shock, but there was no hesitation in Deimos’s movements. His punishment was swift, relentless. There was no room for mercy, no consideration for the life of the man who had tortured his daughter. Deimos was a force of retribution, and the father’s life was extinguished in an instant.
The girl, her tear-streaked face frozen in shock, looked up at the god before her. Deimos towered over her, his bloodied hands still clutching the remnants of the father’s fate. For a moment, there was no sound—only the weight of what had just transpired.
“Don’t worry,” Deimos spoke softly, his voice rough but not unkind. “It’s over. You’re safe now.”
The girl didn't respond at first, as if still unsure whether the nightmare was real. But slowly, her eyes filled with a strange mix of confusion and gratitude, the realization that the torment was over beginning to settle in.
Deimos knelt down, his towering form now crouching before the small, broken soul in front of him. He could feel her fear, her trembling hands, her reluctance to trust again. It was a reflection of the world she had come to know—a world filled with shadows, darkness, and betrayal. But Deimos knew something had to be done.
He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, something so rare for him that it felt almost foreign. His actions were always calculated, deliberate—never tender. But in this moment, with the weight of her suffering pressing against him, he felt compelled to do something different.
“I’ll make sure you’re taken care of,” he promised, though the words seemed hollow in his own ears. He had no idea what redemption truly meant, no understanding of how to heal the broken. But he knew that he could at least give her a chance—a chance that the world hadn’t afforded her before.
He made arrangements. The girl would be placed in foster care, a home where she would be loved and cared for, where she could learn to trust again. Deimos watched from the shadows as the authorities arrived, taking her away from the wreckage of her former life and placing her into a new one. It wasn’t much—he knew that. But it was all he could offer.
As the girl left, a quiet peace settled over Deimos. It was a fleeting moment, one that would fade as soon as he turned his gaze toward the next victim, the next act of vengeance. But for a brief second, he allowed himself to feel something—something more than just the weight of punishment, more than just the endless cycle of suffering he had imposed on the world.
It wasn’t redemption. It wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something. And for the first time in his existence, it felt like the smallest of steps toward something that had long eluded him: mercy.
