This is the Fable Of The Unforgivable Sinner.
In the elder days, there walked a mortal whose name has been scrubbed from the ledgers of history.
It was not born a monster; it was born of flesh and blood, but it became the Enemy to Call—the name whispered by the desperate and the damned when all other prayers had failed.
It moved through the world like a wildfire across dry grass.
It mattered little to it if its foes bled red, black, or ichor; to its blade, Humans, Demons, Devils, and Deities were merely different fuels for the same singular fire.
It did not just conquer; it scorched.
It left behind worlds that were nothing more than ash and silence, committing atrocities so vile and simply despicable that even the darkest pits of the underworld recoiled in disgust.
It committed crimes so profound that the sun was said to have blinked to avoid the sight.
Yet, for all its cruelty, it remained just a mortal—until the day it committed the unthinkable, simply impossible: the Unforgivable Sin.
It was a transgression so vast that it cracked the very foundations of the Firmament.
With that act, it shed the last of its humanity.
It became a creature of the Great In-Between—a being with no home, no place, and no people.
It was no longer mortal, nor god, nor monster.
It was a Solitary Existence, a glitch in the divine order who belonged to nothing and to whom nothing belonged.
By stepping outside the laws of creation, it became the ultimate enemy of all with that action.
To the living, it was a hollow death; to the dead, it was a final ending.
At the very zenith of its power, when it stood at the height of its terrible sovereignty, it was finally captured.
It took the combined desperation of every realm to ensnare the shadow.
It was taken to face its crimes in a place of terrifying stillness, existing in the presence of Expectation, Fact, and Absence.
It was bound in chains that had never been worn, forged from the first silence of the universe, rendering it unable to move or flee.
Before it sat the Judge.
The Judge was not a hater or a lover of anything; he was a neutral force, as cold and indifferent as the gravity that holds the stars.
He held the gavel of finality, and in his gaze, there was neither anger nor mercy—only the cold calculation of a debt that must be paid.
As the Judge prepared to execute his judgment, the hall grew so quiet that the heartbeat of the world seemed to stop.
The gavel was raised, poised to strike the blow that would bring down its corresponding punishment.
In that final moment, the creature looked up.
It met the neutral gaze of its executioner and spoke a few words—whispers that carried the weight of a thousand fallen stars.
The Judge's expression did not change, for he was the law, and the law has no feeling.
Without a word in return, he brought his hammer down.
CRACK.
The sound echoed through every dimension, a peal of thunder that shook the foundations of the court.
But when the light faded and the dust of the impact settled, the stone was bare.
The chains lay curled and empty on the floor, still locked, yet holding nothing.
The creature had vanished from the spot.
It left behind no blood, no dust, and no spirit.
The law had been served, yet the Judge looked at the empty spot for a fraction of a second longer than was necessary.
He stared at the empty chains, the creature's final words echoing in his mind like a slow-burning ember.
If what the creature whispered was true, then the gavel had not been a weapon of destruction, but a key to a door the Judge had never intended to open.
The silence that followed was not the silence of peace—it was the silence of a countdown.