After all the long years of contemplation that accompanied me throughout my life, I finally arrived at a conclusion so simple, that it feels almost embarrassing that it took me nearly a lifetime to realize it.
Humans...
Those ridiculous creatures steeped in denial are master hypocrites. They have built their entire civilization upon a fragile illusion, the illusion that evil is something foreign. With fervor, they stitch together fantastical labels—Demons, Devils, Evil Spirits, Dark Influences—and then drape them like cloaks over every vile act they commit.
A primitive and absurd self-defense mechanism. They are so terrified of their own shadows that they invent monsters out there, somewhere beyond themselves, to contain all the darkness that in truth rests comfortably within their own chests.
It is the most elegant abdication of responsibility, is it not? By treating evil as an external entity, they can slash, destroy, and betray while still preserving their innocent expressions and the hearts they believe to be pure.
They are trapped within the naïve dogma that humans are fundamentally good, such that acknowledging the existence of a black hole within their own souls would be an unbearable psychological torment.
No one wishes to look into a mirror and find something repulsive staring back. So they choose denial. They choose to lie to themselves, then call it the whisper of the devil, some even call it acting for the greater good.
They are too cowardly, too ashamed, to admit that they choose to be evil. Yet at the same time, too arrogant to acknowledge goodness.
Once, I too was shackled by this collective lie.
Every time the urge came—every time these hands trembled to strangle the screaming lives of unruly children, or to silence the empty prattle of self-righteous elders, or to watch the light fade from a woman's eyes who… ah, never mind—I was tortured by the guilt they had planted within me. I fought myself, believing I was sick, cursed, possessed by something that was not me.
How foolish I was.
Now I understand. And this understanding is the purest happiness I have ever known. Humans know. Oh, they know very clearly when they commit evil. They understand the consequences, they feel that small whisper of resistance in their hearts, and they do it anyway.
Just as I do.
Evil does not require a narrative, nor a bleak, blood-soaked motivation. Sometimes it is born from a fleeting, surging impulse. To feel absolute power over another being. To cross a boundary simply because one can. To fill the void with the raw sensation of another's suffering. It is a choice.
And herein lies the most shuddering irony: in this regard, humans are lower than even wild beasts.
A beast kills because it is hungry, attacks because it is threatened, or defends its territory to survive. When the threat disappears, it stops. Its instincts are purely for survival.
But humans? Look at us. We can torture without threat, destroy without need, betray without our lives being at risk. We do it for pleasure. For boredom. For ideology. For ego. For sport.
I almost pity those demons and monsters. For centuries they have been slandered by humanity, made scapegoats for sins that are entirely human, as if evil were something alien to this species.
In the end, the most terrifying creature on this earth is not one with claws or fangs, but one that smiles warmly and possesses an infinite capacity to justify its own cruelty.
Funny, is it not? That this conclusion comes from me—the one they branded as a "Devil in human form," "the worst villain in history." They turned me into a symbol, refusing to acknowledge that I am human just like them, precisely as they have always done.
It took me decades to truly accept this truth. Perhaps I had known it all along, yet only now do I understand it with perfect clarity.
This is my enlightenment.
This is my liberation.
I am what I am. I choose. I am responsible.
And in that acceptance, I found an immeasurable peace.
— The final page of Malachiel Noire's diary.
.
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Azariah slowly closed the worn leather cover. The soft clap of the binding broke the silence of the room, sounding like a gate being lowered for the final time.
Then came the stillness.
The stillness seeped in. It crept out from the closed pages of the book, slipped into his ear canals, and descended straight into the core of his thoughts, hardening there.
Azariah stared blankly ahead. Then, without realizing it, he murmured, "Humans… are far more terrifying than that. War for the sake of stability and peace. Dismissals for the sake of efficiency, just to survive the competition."
He did not even realize he was speaking. The words flowed like a reflex, like something that had long been festering and was now leaking out through an unguarded crack. Only when a sharp pulse struck his temple did Azariah jolt.
It felt as though a sledgehammer had slammed straight into the center of his skull—a sudden, piercing pain.
Azariah winced, one hand clutching his head as his body bent forward. His breathing grew ragged, his vision trembling.
"What… what did I just say…? Why did I suddenly say something like that?" he muttered in confusion. The words felt foreign on his tongue, yet strangely familiar, like an echo from a dream he could not fully remember.
His headaches came often, but never this severe, never accompanied by alien phrases spilling unbidden from his own mouth.
"Damn this cursed body," he cursed through clenched teeth, waiting for the wave of pain to subside.
Slowly, the agony dulled into a heavy throb behind his eyes. He drew a long breath, trying to steady himself.
'It must be from reading the thoughts of that madman,' he thought, convincing himself.
Once his breathing steadied, he lifted his gaze back to the book on his desk. Its worn cover seemed to stare back at him.
Malachiel Noire.
The name alone was enough to make the hair on many people's necks stand on end. He had been a storm of darkness that once terrorized the continent, the architect of countless massacres whose tales were still whispered. A monster in human form.
Fortunately, three years ago, that figure had finally been stopped. The villain was killed by the Kingdom of Emberith.
More precisely, killed by Alexander Theo Do Rentus, the King of Emberith. His uncle.
That was why this book could be in his hands now.
And as someone born into a royal family that worshipped the Sun as the source of all purity, reading the contents of this diary felt like a silent betrayal.
He should have felt disgust, anger, or at least an urge to burn the book. Yet what he felt instead was a strange tremor. A disturbing resonance. And most horrifying of all, somehow and for reasons he could not explain, a small part of him agreed with the madness written within.
That realization tightened his chest. Azariah quickly looked away, as if the book's cover could stare back and lay bare his thoughts.
He carefully set the book down on the desk, then removed his glasses.
The world around him instantly dissolved into a sea of blurred colors and indistinct shapes. His room, despite the blazing sunlight outside the window, was designed to block out light. Thick curtains, layered walls—everything kept the space in a cool, constant shadow.
In his blurred vision, he reached for the hem of his tunic—a loose garment of plain white fabric—and gently wiped his lenses.
As he cleaned them, his nearsighted gaze drifted toward the large mirror above his desk.
A thin, vague figure was reflected. When he put his glasses back on, the world sharpened, and so did the figure.
Azariah Vladys Di Randal.
His skin was extremely pale, white like fine porcelain never touched by the sun. His hair, a faintly shimmering pearl white, spilled long and unkempt down to his thighs, like milk poured carelessly. His eyebrows and lashes were also white, a striking contrast to his silver-white irises, almost like crystals of ice. His facial features were flawless and delicate, with a soft jawline and thin lips tinted a pale pink.
He was very handsome, yet his beauty transcended masculinity—he was beautiful. A rare, ageless, androgynous beauty. Many women in the palace would look utterly ordinary beside him, dulled by the strangeness and purity of his nearly inhuman palette.
Once he was sure his glasses were clean, he looked into the mirror again, his unusual eyes staring back with a blank expression.
Then, in his mind, he uttered a single word: 'Mantra'. Before his eyes, in the air, a beam of golden light appeared, forming elegant letters as though carved from sunlight itself.
<---------------------------------------------------->
Name: Azariah Vladys Di Randal
Patron: Goddess of Sun
Race: Human
<---------------------------------------------------->
Azariah stared at the floating text, his eyes unblinking. He gazed at it for a long time, as though sheer willpower alone might change the words displayed. But nothing changed.
This 'Mantra' was a blessing from the Grace of Heaven and Earth. Every sentient being possessed one, a brief representation of the soul and its potential.
What he waited for, what he dreamed of every night, was a change in that text. If one was Awakened, their Mantra would evolve. A list of Skills, Levels, and Powers that transcended ordinary humans would appear.
The Awakened could command elements, strengthen their bodies to impossible degrees, heal fatal wounds—become the heroes the world needed to fight the monsters of the Abyss.
Azariah desperately wanted to be one of them. He longed to feel that power flowing through his veins, to prove that he was more than just a pale body confined within this dark room.
But that hope had nearly faded.
The age of awakening was usually between twelve and sixteen. Azariah was already twenty. His window had closed tightly shut.
He was a noble of the Sun Kingdom who could not step out into sunlight and who possessed no power whatsoever to prove his worth.
He dismissed the Mantra display.
The golden light faded, leaving the room in a gloom deeper than before.
Silence engulfed him again.
This time not the silence from the book, but the silence of his room, of his stagnant life.
Then, suddenly, a voice bloomed within the hollow of his own mind. A woman's voice, clear and warm, smooth like silk brushed against the ear, carrying a calm reassurance that felt intimate.
[My dear, you have not left this room for nine years. Are you not bored? Do you not wish to go out… and touch the grass?]
The voice whispered, filled with understanding and sweet promises.
[I can give you the power you desire.]