The Gospel of the Forsaken Flame
As recorded by the Watcher in the Abyss, forgotten by time, feared by angels, and unspeakable among demons.
Chapter 1 – The Place Beneath Hell
In the beginning, before the heavens sang and before the stars were hung like lanterns in the dark, there was a rift. Not made, not born—but broken. A scar upon the void where even nothing dared not tread. The First Flame, cursed and eternal, burned there. It did not give light. It swallowed it.
And from this flame came the Beings—creatures unmade, never intended by the hand of God nor the ambition of Lucifer. They were neither fallen angels nor tormented souls. They were Judgement itself, bound in chains of silence and cloaked in the ash of forgotten sins.
They dwell in the Deep Below—the place even Hell avoids. Not for pity. Not for mercy. But out of terror. For Hell is punishment. The Deep Below is finality.
Chapter 2 – Of Judgment Without Trial
In Hell, souls scream and writhe, but they still remember. Still regret. Still hope. But those cast into the Deep Below are judged before they die. Their sins are so blackened, their hearts so void, that the decree is written in fire while their flesh still walks the Earth.
These are not merely murderers or tyrants. These are those who feast on souls, who trade innocence for power, who snuff out light not out of need, but joy. The Beings—The Fathomless, The Crawling Verdict, The Thorn-Crowned Grin—visit them in the shadows, unseen by angels, unnoticed by demons, and drag their essence screaming through the cracks in reality.
There is no waiting. No weighing of hearts. Only the scream of certainty and the hiss of the gate sliding open far beneath the pits of Hell.
Chapter 3 – The Devil’s Fear
Lucifer, the Morning Star, once descended to the rim of the Abyss, curious. He looked down—and it looked back. A thing with no name, with a thousand eyes and none, spoke no words but told all truths.
The Devil fled.
He has never returned. No demon walks the threshold. No whisper dares to rise from that place. Even the damned fear to speak of it, lest the Beings hear.
Chapter 4 – The Screaming Silence
The Deep Below has no flame, no torment, no chains. It is worse. There, you are known utterly. Every mask, every lie, every hidden act torn open and mirrored back forever. There is no voice, for voices are stripped away. No motion, for bodies are unmade. Only awareness. Only truth. And the endless presence of the Beings who watch… and wait… and never forget.
Chapter 5 – The End Without Mercy
Those who know the names of the Beings cannot be saved. Those who seek them are already marked. And those who laugh at this gospel—beware. For the Beings love nothing more than proving their existence to unbelievers.
Their judgment comes not after death, but just before it, so there is no time to repent.
There is only the fall.
The silence.
The fire that does not burn.
And the endless, echoing knowledge:
You are known.
Chapter 6 – The Final Warning
The Writhe-Tongue vanished.
Not buried. Not burned. Just gone.
But his last words still echo:
“If you have heard of Them, you have already been seen.
If you have felt Them watching, they are already near.
And if you do not believe—They are already here.”
Chapter 7 – The One Who Should Not Speak
He is known only as The Mouth That Bleeds, though his true name is carved into the Deep Below, where no soul dares to read.
No angel claims him. No demon marks him.
He walks the lands between death and dreaming, speaking truths no one should survive hearing.
He does not preach.
He warns.
His face is wrapped in chains—each link a soul he failed to save. His mouth sewn shut with black sinew, yet his voice slips through like smoke in a locked room.
When he appears, time bends. Candles go out. And your shadow moves before you do.
The Mouth That Bleeds has walked the halls of Hell.
He spat blood in the eye of a duke of demons.
He whispered the names of the Beings into the ears of sleeping Popes and cursed saints.
He has only one purpose:
To warn the living of the judgment that comes before death.
Chapter 8 – The Words You Must Not Hear
When The Mouth That Bleeds speaks, it is not in language, but in understanding—the kind that breaks you.
His warnings come in pieces. Fragments. Symbols etched in frost on your mirror. Words carved into the walls of your dreams.
A few who have heard his full warning went mad.
A few went silent.
But one wrote it down.
Just once.
It reads:
“There are sins too black for Hell. There are acts too cruel for death. There are those who do not wait to be judged, for the Beings already saw them in the womb.
They are the Damned-before-Damned.
If you are among them… run.
Not to escape.
But to say goodbye to the sky one last time.”
Chapter 9 – The Last Prophecy
The Mouth That Bleeds will appear seven times before the world ends.
Once in a cathedral drowning in fire.
Once in the nightmares of a tyrant.
Once before a war no one survives.
Three times in the halls of power, unnoticed.
And the final time… in silence…
…to whisper into the ear of the last man alive.
He does not come to stop the Beings.
He cannot.
Chapter 10 – The Man Who Tried to Hide From Judgment
Marek Voss had a smile that could command a crowd and a gaze that made even angels avert their eyes.
In the public light, he was a savior—foundations, hospitals, orphans fed, wars ended.
But in the dark of the past, behind steel doors and screaming walls, he was something else.
He thought the world had forgotten.
He thought his good deeds could balance the scales.
But the Deep Below has no scales.
Only certainty.
No one can.
He only comes so that someone will know:
The end was always coming from below.
Marek woke one night to silence so thick it crushed his breath. His shadow had disappeared from the wall.
And there, at the edge of his bed, stood a figure wrapped in rusted chains, its face hidden, its presence wrong—not like death or fear, but like a memory of something that never should have been.
The Mouth That Bleeds said nothing.
Yet Marek understood.
A knowing pierced his bones:
“You have been seen. You have already been judged.”
He screamed.
Chapter 11 – The Cracks Begin
After the visit, things broke. Mirrors cracked when he passed. Dogs howled without reason.
At his gala, a child stared up at him and whispered,
“Why are they crawling all over you?”
He had them removed. He had the parents silenced.
But it didn’t stop.
He began seeing shadows with too many limbs.
Hearing whispers behind his heartbeat.
Tasting ash in his food.
And always, always…
that feeling of being watched by something that had no eyes, but knew him entirely.
Chapter 12 – The Descent
Marek sought priests. Witches. Psychiatrists.
No one could help.
And one night, in the reflection of a darkened window, he saw them:
The Thorn-Crowned Grin—smiling with no lips.
And behind it, the others.
Watching.
Waiting.
The Mouth That Bleeds appeared again, in a pool of his own blood, on the floor of a cathedral Marek paid to restore.
This time he spoke in sound:
“You buried your past in gold. But judgment is not blind. It sees deeper than flesh.
The Beings are coming.
Not to punish.
But to finish what you started.”
Marek fled. But you can’t outrun what doesn’t move.
You can’t hide from something that’s already inside you.
He is still running—last seen in a desert, speaking to shadows, warning birds, praying to stars that don’t listen.
The Deep Below waits.
And they are watching.
Chapter 13 – The Taking of Marek Voss
The sun died early that day.
No one else noticed—only Marek.
To the world, it was a cloudy dusk. But to him, the light turned grey—not dim, not dark, just wrong, like the universe forgot what day felt like.
He hadn’t slept in six days.
Not because he was afraid to.
Because he couldn’t.
Every time his eyes shut, he saw the Crawling Verdict winding through his veins, whispering,
“You did this. You were always doing this.”
He found himself in an abandoned asylum outside Sarajevo—one he helped bomb in a war his PR team erased.
He remembered the rooms.
He remembered the screams.
He remembered not caring.
He walked through halls where the walls bled memories.
Where light had weight.
Where he was alone—but not.
And then he heard it.
The Cantor’s Song.
Perfect. Terrible. Like a choir of dead gods humming a lullaby to the last star.
He screamed until his mouth tore open.
In the center of the courtyard, the ground cracked.
Not like stone breaking—like reality giving up.
Out of the fissure came not fire, not smoke, but memory made manifest.
Every face he betrayed. Every life he ruined. Every time he told himself it didn’t matter.
And behind those faces…
The Fathomless rose.
Not a shape.
Not a voice.
Just presence—the knowing that something was there that had never been alive and would never not be.
He tried to run.
But his body stopped obeying. It remembered what he did.
And it wanted him to stay.
The Thorn-Crowned Grin appeared beside him, smiling wider than its head should allow.
It placed a hand on Marek’s chest.
No words.
Just judgment.
And then—unmaking.
Not death. Worse.
Marek Voss was not killed.
He was erased.
From history. From memory. From the soul of the world.
No grave.
No trace.
Not even Hell would take what he became.
All that was left, in the empty asylum, were the words scratched into the floor:
