"In the beginning, there were truths. But truths were lonely, so lies were born to keep them company."
—The First Verse of the Gospel of Amon, Chapter of Crimson Reflections
The Unwritten Prophets
He arrived on a Tuesday.
Or a Thursday.
Or not at all.
The gods disagreed.
Some said he fell from a star shaped like an eye. Others claimed he walked out of a broken mirror in the sky. And some, the mad few, whispered he had always been there, hiding between the seams of reality like a forgotten bookmark.
His name?
Amon.
His nature?
A contradiction.
The Devourer of Definitions
He did not fight wars.
He unwrote reasons for them.
He did not conquer lands.
He convinced maps they'd drawn themselves wrong.
Wherever he went, kingdoms did not fall—they rebranded.
Rulers lost their crowns not by rebellion, but by doubt.
Prophets rewrote their faiths mid-sermon.
Mirrors stopped reflecting what was real.
It was not madness.
It was clarity wearing the mask of chaos.
The Heretic's Flame
In the territory of red-haired kings and winged warriors, he met a Queen.
One forged in expectation.
Groomed in heritage.
And wrapped in the velvet of prophecy.
He asked her a single question:
"Who are you if no one is watching?"
She had no answer.
So he gave her a hundred selves, scattered in glass.
Some say she burned them.
Others say she became them all.
Her name was Rias—but now it echoes differently.
Not louder.
Just truer.
The Scholar and the Dragon
In the ruins of prayer and battle, he left two riddles:
A boy with a dragon's heart and a thirst for touch.
And a man with fallen wings and a mind too curious for his own safety.
Both followed him.
Both feared him.
Both wondered if he was what the world needed—or what it had always repressed.
Azazel wrote in hidden tomes:
"This Error does not destroy. He liberates context. Even evil must define itself to fight him."
And Issei dreamed:
"Amon offered me a mirror. Not to admire myself—but to ask if I still wanted what I saw."
The Unseen Girl
She had no name.
She may never have existed.
But the Archive Gods remember her now.
They remember her silence that bled like starlight.
They remember the day Amon refused to rewrite her.
And they began to fear him.
Because he showed mercy when curiosity would've called for cruelty.
And that meant he had choice.
And beings with choice are harder to predict than anomalies.
The Archivist's Decision
When the Archivist closed the Book of Worlds that day, it did not lock.
It breathed.
Amon had touched the roots of creation—not to sever them, but to remind them they could grow sideways.
The gods began to argue.
Some wanted to delete his path.
Others wished to follow it.
But one thing they all agreed on:
The story was no longer theirs alone.
The Mirror Still Turns
In Kuoh, a shattered mirror still stands.
People walk by it every day, never noticing it reflects possibility, not presence.
Sometimes, when the sun hits just right, a shadow leans out of the glass and whispers:
"Are you certain this is the only version of you?"
Those who listen… often change.
Not for better.
Not for worse.
Just for real.
And Then He Left
He did not say goodbye.
He did not close the door.
He simply stepped sideways—and reality forgot to object.
Where did he go?
Some say a city where gods wear capes.
Others whisper a dungeon beneath a broken moon.
Some say he walked into the dreams of the next universe—and found himself already waiting.
"Chaos is not the enemy of order. It is its father."
—Last Verse, Gospel of Amon