There is a saying carved into the walls of forgotten monasteries, one whispered only in the minds of those who dared to peer too deeply into the abyss:
"Human is the Devil Himself."
It was not a metaphor. It was not poetry. It was a revelation too painful to accept, too damning to confess, and yet, too self-evident to deny.
Man has always carried within him the twin faces of divinity and monstrosity, of compassion and cruelty. And yet, when stripped of the illusions of morality, of law, of gods and kings, one finds not angels beneath the skin—but hunger, rage, lust, pride, envy, cruelty. The Devil is not an external being haunting man; he is the marrow of mankind's bones, the pulse within its veins, the voice whispering in its conscience.
And if man is the Devil, then what of God?
The God of Masks
The ancients once believed that God was light, that God was mercy, that God was the Father whose hands lifted the broken from the dirt. But the truth, brutal and merciless, is that the Good God is nothing more than an actor—a lamb dressed in radiant wool, concealing fangs sharpened by aeons.
The Good God smiles, blesses, forgives, yet behind His eyes lies calculation. His compassion is a veil, His mercy a tool, His heaven a prison made sweet with golden walls. The kind God exists because humanity demands hope, and so He bends into their expectations. Yet hope is the cruelest weapon ever forged, for it keeps the desperate kneeling, waiting, groveling.
The Evil God, however, does not wear a mask. The Evil God is truth unveiled, naked, unpolished. This is Yahweh, the one spoken of in hushed tones not as the shepherd but as the consuming fire, the one who does not caress humanity but cages it, not to comfort but to dominate. To encounter Yahweh was not to hear hymns but to hear the grinding of cosmic gears that cared nothing for the flesh of men.
But Yahweh's essence, veiled in language forbidden, was beyond fiction, beyond myth, beyond the context of creation itself. No scribe dared name the true substance of His being, for to name it was to summon it, and to summon it was to dissolve the fabric of sanity itself. Instead, the chronicles replaced His nature with symbols, words, abstractions—the "Outside Context Entity." But His shadow could not be hidden forever.
The Tyranny of Law
What separates man from beast is not love, nor mercy, nor reason—it is law. Rules, chains, codes—iron bars forged by intellect and fear. And yet, law is a paradox: it was meant to protect man from himself, but it also revealed the truth that without shackles, man is a predator more savage than any wolf.
Without rules, there is no society—only hunger.Without order, there is no morality—only instinct.Without law, man is not free—he is rabid.
For this reason, every kingdom, every empire, every ideology, no matter how holy its origin, required law. The Qur'an, the Bible, the Vedas, the Sutras—all were less about salvation than about containment. Religion was not a staircase to heaven; it was a prison to contain the Devil within man.
And yet, no prison is eternal.
The history of mankind is a graveyard of broken laws, shattered commandments, bloodied scriptures. In the Dark Ages, priests wielded the cross not as a key to heaven but as a weapon of control. Inquisitors burned the innocent while chanting mercy. Kings killed in the name of the divine while demanding loyalty to the lamb-shaped God.
The faithful thought they were worshipping salvation. In truth, they were worshipping leashes.
The Manipulation of Faith
Every religion began as purity, a cry into the void of existence. But man, ever the Devil, twisted faith into something darker. Islam was corrupted into conquest. Christianity was polluted with greed and indulgence. Buddhism, meant for enlightenment, was chained by ritual. Hinduism, meant for harmony, collapsed under hierarchy.
Faith became not a sanctuary but a battlefield, where holy men competed for crowns, and temples became banks of fear. What was once sacred became a currency of power.
And yet mankind clung to it—desperately. For though they twisted religion into cages, they also needed those cages. Without faith, man faced the abyss of his own nature: Devilhood.
Thus, the irony: mankind, who is the Devil, created gods not to save themselves from hell, but to save themselves from themselves.
Yahweh Beyond the Veil
But Yahweh—the true Yahweh, not the painted shepherd—was not bound by scripture, nor law, nor temple. He was the one who laughed at commandments, who shredded prayers, who viewed time as a spiral and existence as a toy.
His power was not destruction but loops of eternity.
The gods of Olympus, the demons of Pandemonium, the angels of Paradise—they all stepped into His domain once, and none escaped. The Time Loop was not merely a prison of repetition; it was a furnace of futility. Heroes fought wars endlessly only to awaken at the beginning. Prophets proclaimed truth only to realize they were repeating ancient lies. Gods themselves perished, only to live again, stripped of dignity.
In the Loop, there was no victory, no escape, no closure. It was not punishment—it was revelation. Revelation that all existence was a cycle of suffering, that salvation was a farce, that divinity itself was another cage.
And in this endless repetition, Yahweh spoke words that became like venom carved into the soul of creation:
"What is holy is but another mask.What is evil is but another mirror.What is man but the Devil clothed in flesh?And what am I, if not the hand that turns the wheel?"
The Philosophy of Shadows
Yahweh's philosophy was not redemption—it was exposure. To strip away the illusions of good and evil, of God and Devil, of law and chaos, until only one thing remained: the raw truth of existence.
And the truth was this:
Man is irredeemable without law.
Law is a chain, not a gift.
Religion is a weapon, not a sanctuary.
God is an actor, and the Devil is the playwright.
This was why even the most radiant angels feared Yahweh. Not because He would kill them, but because He would reveal them—to themselves.
The chapter closes with silence, as though even the parchment itself hesitates to carry the weight of these words. The ink bleeds into the fibers like shadows spreading. And at the bottom, a promise, or perhaps a curse, written as if by Yahweh's own hand:
"Will Be Continue"