Instead of going to his bookshelf, Bishop walked into his bedroom. I followed to watch him open a second bottom in a chest for clothes and pull out a huge, old tome.

It had thick parchment pages and bound in leather almost grey from cracks and time. But like the house we were in, it was well-kept and held no trace of dust where I could see. Bishop held it as gently as if it was his baby as he passed it to me.

"I remember every word of it. Nevertheless, please, be careful, my lord. The pages are fragile. Not all that's written in the book is prophecies—part of it is Prophet's diary, so I think you will find the answers you seek there, but I will be glad to hear any questions you might have. Do you want anything else while you read? Refreshments?"

"Bring me any sweets you have in this house, and something to drink."

While Bishop, looking ecstatic to be able to follow my commands, scrambled to get me food and pulled Yvenna with him to help, I sat in the main room to read in relative peace and quiet. Soon to that was added a neatly arranged plate of cookies and some herbal drink, after which Bishop promised to get me more cookies if I wanted to.

I began to really like this guy. Risha's baking goods were better, but she wasn't as eager to follow my every whim. Yvenna wasn't that reverent either, but she mostly did what she was told, too.

Reading while crunching cookies, while a smell of more of them baking came from the kitchen, was the best way to read. But soon the contents of the book engulfed me so much that I forgot entirely about the rest of the world.

⠀⠀

The Prophet's life was pretty ordinary until he grew into a man, besides for the nightmares that plagued him more and more often as he grew older. His father was a simple shoe-maker, and the Prophet was supposed to follow his steps.

But eventually, the nightmares became too much. The Prophet understood that there was no way to hide from them, and more—that it was simply a wrong thing to do. They weren't mere nightmares; they were visions, and they wouldn't leave him until he writes them down and shares them with everyone who would listen. To prepare them for the upcoming apocalypse.

Most considered him to be a rambling madman by then—and as a note put on the pages, written by another's (Bishop's, probably) hand told me, the visions certainly did a thing to his mental state. That didn't make them any less true.

Some, though, believed. One of such people was Bishop—"a nice young boy, so respectful to me, unlike all these fools". He became the Prophet's most devoted follower, and brought more people into the fold, something that made the Prophet feel much better. They supported the Prophet's living until the last entries in the diary, where Prophet expressed his biggest regret and relief. Regret to die before his prophecies came true, relief about the same thing.

The bastards that called themselves gods weren't involved with the making of these prophecies at all, as far as I could tell. Were they aware of them or not, was another question. If yes… then wouldn't it be a reason for them to come after me in the first place, back in Hell?

Then, I read the prophecies themselves. A description of a vision, to be more precise. There was only one. The rest were just interpretations of what it could all mean.

[On the lake of a river of fire stood dozens of people, naked as the day they were born, with their faces moved by anguish. I was one of them, tormented so much that there was no place for 'me' amongst pain.

Suddenly, a void opened in the air, darker than the darkest night, deeper than a bottomless abyss. From it jumped out dozens of monsters, each so horrible and unnatural that there are no words to describe them, and that my mind refused to even comprehend what they were.

And with them came the man, so glorious and bright, that even the torture I was in felt less in his presence. He led another man with him by hand, one that looked just like any other youngster. The Shining One then spoke, and each word embed itself in my mind like it was branded with a hot iron.

"The ability I gave you, and this soul protection I added just in case, should be enough. I'd gave you more, but then I think you'd explode even with my protection. You are just a human, after all. Still, I think you will do fine. I hope you will finish your task before the gods break the world irreparably—I came to like it as it is. Even if you will have to eat half of it to save the other, Devourer, it will be worth it. But I'm wasting words… I guess that comes after not talking with anyone for so long. I doubt you will remember this conversation anyway, and eventually even demons are bound to notice all this chaos."

The young man opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn't utter a sound. Then the Shining One let him go and walked back into the void that closed behind him, leaving the monstrous creatures to tear at us all. One of them spotted me, and in great fear, I ran—but it reached me in a single jump, and I could remember no more.]

All of this. Devourer. That was me, right? Who else? Who else had that ability? Who else reached the Wheel of Reincarnation without forgetting the last piece of themselves?

But why, why, why couldn't I remember any of this? My memories of the beginning of my life in Hell were so blurry, but surely I would've remembered something like that. The Prophet remembered it, and he was just a soul that probably reincarnated right after.

Someone chose me. Who and why and should I try to kill them, too, after I'm done with my revenge?