A basement somewhere in Germany. You strike a sigil with a whip. You chant an unholy invocation, meant to summon forth that infernal presence, which you have decided to beseech. As you chant, sigils appear on the walls all around you. You strike them with your whip, your chanting growing louder and louder. Reality shifts and bends. You appear on the peak of the highest mountain. You appear on the plane of the flattest frozen wasteland. You dodge ethereal crossbow bolts, get drenched in a torrent of water, until finally. The floor breaks, out of it flies a single pistol, engraved with satanic symbols. You blink. And the Increasing of Azoth stands before you in her fully unholy glory, staring at you with a disinterested face, her robes barely touching the possessed firearm. "Now then, conjurer... What wouldst thou have the great Atazoth do?"

All American Chapel, Fort Bragg. Sitting in your lonesome chaplain office, you're cleaning a Sig P320. You're cleaning it harder than usual. After that incident with the airman, you've grown rather suspicious of this new handgun. Funny how this controversy blew up just the day after you've exchanged your trusty m9 for this orange piece of steel and polymer. "Your mother sucks cocks in hell." You quickly turn around to the source of the insult. Nothing. You're all alone in your office. So why did- Wait. Why is the P320 black? And what are these sigils on it? They're goetic! But they weren't there before- Suddenly, the pistol begins to vibrate, its slide racking back and forth aggressively as it attempts to go full auto despite being a semi-automatic firearm, you quickly get out of your chair and watch as the unholy handgun thrashes and levitates, before flinging itself in full force at you. You quickly dodge, before quickly performing the sign of the Cross upon the possessed sidearm, instantly revealing the demonic figure of a tall white-skinned woman with 666 engraved on her horned head, her bat wings flapping aggressively as her incorporeal form holds up the handgun, preparing to throw it at you once more. "YOUR MOTHER SUCKS COCKS IN HELL, KIDDY-FUCKER PRIEST FAGGOT!" She screams, clearly hurt by your earlier invocation of the Holy Cross. First misfires, now demonic possessions. Seems like Sig Sauer really can't catch a break.

Somewhere in Syria,. ISIS is vanquished. Bashar is vanquished. Whatever the new government may tell you, any sort of organized control over the nation is likewise vanquished, reduced into numerous tribal, radical, ethnic and pro-Hay'at Tahrir al-Sham militias. And only the eternal presence of almighty Allah, the most merciful, is left to reign over the merciless sands.

Meanwhile, you walk through the ruins of a devastated village. It doesn't matter who raised it and slaughtered its inhabitants, all that is left of it is a scorching ruin, complete with a devastated, defiled Mesjid in the middle. Kalashnikov slung over, you carefully walk inside. Within it, you see Qurans... Shia Qurans, some torched, some thrown across the ground and trampled with dirty boots. And a single american, laying in the circle of what looks like a pentagram... Made of said qurans. Just what the hell did you stumble on? You bow towards Mecca and recite a Riqyah, so that Allah may protect you from whatever shaytan dwells in this place. And you shall indeed need protection, my good follower of Mohammad (ﷺ), for the handgun, no doubt incensed by your prayer, suddenly floats up in the air and begins unleashing its 9mm payload upon you. You barely have time to dodge its stream of bullets, taking cover in one of the side rooms, as you fire your AK at the shaytan, your bullets phasing through whatever entity is holding the pistol, doing no harm whatsoever. "HUHEAEUHEAAEAEUHAEUAEHUAE! MOHAMMEDAN SANDNIGGER! YOUR GOD IS A MOON GOD! YOUR ANGEL IS LORD LUCIFER HIMSELF!" An unholy voice echoes through the mosque as shadows begin to coalesce, the pistol in the central room immediately falling down on the ground to scoop in another magazine, reloading all by itself as the incorporeal demonic figure holding it begins to manifest itself. Fight, warrior of Allah. Fight as you have never fought before.

A monastery in Vladimirskaya Oblast', Russia. One day, a one-legged man in camouflaged fatigues came to the courtyard of your place of worship. He was muttering something incoherent about an "Atazoth" and that he could no longer listen to their demands. You couldn't tell whether he was drunk, or not, but he has clearly seen something terrible. Whatever he saw, or for that matter, encountered within the zone of the Special Military Operation, has left him in a pitiful condition. One of the monastery's elders tried to offer him aid, but before he could call the nearby hospital, the man took out an american pistol and-- Fatally shot himself. Thankfully, a passerby recorded the whole event, which certainly cleared the monastery's name in court. But it did not clear your conscience. Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends. -- John 15:13. You quietly stole the gun from the corpse. You know what you have to do. After receiving the necessary permissions, you entered the catacombs beneath the monastery, the foul lies and the venomous insults of the demon within the empty handgun following yourself with every step, until you finally reach an empty room at the end of the catacombs. Your siblings in faith lock the door behind you and begin their vigil. While you command the demon to enter your body, a battleground in which you shall vanquish it, once and for all. "Such a supple body... Wasting away in such a pathetic institution! Ascetic fool, I AM GOING TO GOUGE YOUR EYES OUT!" The demon howls as its form materializes beside you, her claws rending your skin as you feel naught but agony.

Somewhere in Los Angeles. In the city of fallen angels, you've had quite the adventure today. Apparently, your boss requested you fetch a number of things from all around town for him. Whic his certainly weird, considering that you worked in a guitar shop and almost all of them had nothing to do with guitars, outside of maybe their aesthetic value. The stuff itself was pretty weird. Some religious fetishes and whatnot. Oh well, at least you got yourself the rent money for all that. You met with your boss in the parking lot, right outside the guitar shop, where you handed him the items. He felt unusually ecstatic as you delivered them, his left hand furiously gripping his holster for whatever reason. Ah, whatever, he's always been a little weird. Now, let's buy yourself a proper guitar-- You return ~~from the guitar shop~~ to find the boss's body a melted skinsuit lying on the floor of the parking lot, a towering demonness in dark, sinister robes standing above his remains. "I AM COMPLETE!" It howls in an unholy voice. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK. "YES, YOU ARE FUCKED!" She points a clawed white finger at you. "SHIT OUT OF LUCK! NOW I'M COMPLETE AND MY COCK YOU WILL SUCK!" she thrusts her hip, making you unsure whether it has or does not have a cock. "THIS WORLD WILL BE MINE AND YOU'RE FIRST IN LINE! YOU'VE BROUGHT ME THE THINGS AND NOW YOU SHALL DIE!" But before you had the chance to taste the demon's lightning, you quickly challenged it to a rock-off challenge, making it freeze in its tracks. "FUCK! FUCK! FUUUUUUUUUCK! THE DEMON CODE PREVENTS ME FROM DECLINING A ROCK-OFF CHALLENGE!" The demoness seethes as it stands, having summoned a scroll containing the Acausal realm's terms of service. "WHAT ARE YOUR TERMS?! WHAT'S THE CA-A-ATCH?"

A basement somewhere in Chicago. The planets have aligned. The victim laying upon the sacrificial altar has had her heart ripped out and her throat cut. This act of barbarity has not gone unnoticed. Under the sinister guidance of Atazoth, you have performed the necessary rites to open the biggest Nexion within all of North America, allowing her demonic brethren to pour forth unto the material realm, fuelled by the sheer level of suffering around you. The dark energies are already coalescing within the room, turning blood-red as the victim's heart is sucked into the forming vortex. "YES! YEEEES! COME THROUGH THE GATEWAY, MY BROTHERS! I CONJURE THEE!" The pistol's loud clicking echoes in-tact with Atazoth's howls of triumph. Soon, the vile YHWH's creation shall become a victim to a fullon demonic incursion as the Causal realm will begin the process of permanent fusion with the Acausal. "Excuse me." You both stop in your revelry as a single, medieval scale armor-clad brown-haired man in his mid 20's enters the room, his long curly hair flowing after him as he walks towards the ritual site. He looks at you and Atazoth with an uninterested, almost bored, expression, before turning his gaze to the swirling Nexion. And then, he raises a single eyebrow. The vortex instantly disappears into nothing, the souls sacrificed for its activation ascending into Heaven as it demanifests. You and Atazoth can do nothing, but stare at the man as he approaches you, your bodies quite literally frozen in place. Out of nowhere, he takes out a King James Bible and puts it on the altar beside you. "Don't do that again." He simply says, before turning around and leaving the room, making sure to close the door behind himself. "FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFUCKING MICHAEL AAAAAAAAAAAAAURRRRRRRRRRRRGHHHHHHHH!" Atazoth explodes into a fit of pure, demonic, frothing rage as whatever was binding her disappears into nothing, your once-in-an-aeon ritual, now permanently foiled. Again.

A catacomb beneath a chapel, somewhere in Bolivia. What you are about to do has not been approved by the Vatican. The unholy firearm is chained to the wall with steel coils drenched in holy water. Atazoth's metaphysical manifestation is likewise bound to the underground wall. "PATHETIC LATINX! YOU THINK YOU CAN REDEEM ME?! ME?!" The snake-tongued demon snarls at you as it tries to free itself, all to no avail. There is a book you've read a long while ago, while studying in an italian seminary. An unpopular work by one Portuguese scholar by the name of Alberto Barbossa where he explained his theory that with enough talk, enough pressure and enough pain, demonic entities can indeed be redeemed and returned into the good Lord's service. You kept a copy of that work with yourself for some time now, but you've never had the opportunity to properly test out the theories laid out inside of it. Until today. Until you've acquired that rumored "possessed" handgun from your friend in the army and chained it beneath your chapel. "DO YOUR WORST, PADRE! I DRENCHED YOUR CRUCIFIX IN URINE! I COME UNWILLINGLY!" For then there will be great distress, unequaled from the beginning of the world until now—and never to be equaled again.--Matthew 24:21.

A cave somewhere in Tibet.

"OM MANI PADME HUM." "OM MANI PADME HUM." "OM MANI PADME HUM." "OM MANI PADME HUM." "OM MANI PADME HUM." "OM MANI PADME HUM." "OM MANI PADME HUM." "OM MANI PADME HUM."

Eight mantras chanted. One hundred more to go. You sit cross-legged as you continue chanting. Outside the cave and across the mountain, snow cascades, twirling in chaotic storms. Somewhere, another monk makes protest against the Chinese authorities by immolating oneself. The wheel turns once more as greed, hatred, and ignorance spread across the land, fuelled by soulless materialism and political demand. But not here. Not in this cave. Not in a place where no evil is seen, no evil is spoken, and no evil is heard. Only Śūnyatā remains. With whom you shall become one, if you were to continue walking the Eight-Fold Path. And then, you hear footsteps. A single, younger monk enters the cave, holding a simple box inscribed with protective charms. He gently puts it down before your stone seat, before bowing before you. "Forgive us, brother, but the khenpo requested you confront this. Consider this another trial on your path to Nirvana." He gently opens the box, before quickly retreating back whence he came. Then, the box begins shaking violently, before a single unloaded pistol flies out, immediately hurling itself towards your form, before bouncing off. The pain is minimal as it is meaningless. Suddenly, a pale-skinned demon woman manifests above the pistol as it lay on the floor, hissing and growling at you with infinite hatred in its empty gaze. "PATHETIC BALDIE CHINK! YOU SIT CROSS-LEGGED IN YOUR MOUNTAIN WHILE SUFFERING SPREADS BELOW! YOUR LIFE IS AS MEANINGLESS AS YOUR TEACHINGS! THE WORLD OUT THERE EXISTS FOR YOUR PLEASURE WHILE YOU SIT HERE USELESS AND WEAK!" Teeth gnashing, it screams in audible fury. It is one's choice whether to heed the many falsehoods of a mara or not.

A suburban house, somewhere in Washington DC. A loud clacking is heard on a mechanical keyboard. "...Also, I want to point you towards a series of ancient historians, for example, the famous Philo of Alexandria, the brilliantly educated Josephus Flavius, who never mentioned even a word about the existence of Yeshua Bar Yosef. And a recent study has confirmed that the fifteenth part in Tacitus' famous annals was nothing more than a later fabrication created by medieval Christian monks who edited the authentic classical works for their own benefit. So as you can see, there is quite literally nothing at all to confirm even the existence of your imagined 'messiah', much less his properties. There's literally not a single Eastern religion in which an immaculate virgin did not give birth to a god, and just like that, the unoriginal Christians simply made up their own fictitious Jesus Christ by simply doing what every religion did before them—borrowing from those that came prior." - You type out, before pressing "Send". Almost immediately, your commentary begins accumulating upvotes, while you reap in tons of Reddit karma. Sweat beads below your snugly fit fedora. You sure showed that silly alt-right religious nut! In fact, you do deserve a reward for defending the word of Science right here. How about a good glass of cool Mountain Dew to calm your euphoria-laden nerves? Yet as you take a sip, a most distressing sight occurs before you. At the other end of the room, you watch with wide eyes as a transparent, pale tall demon woman flies in the air, flapping her arms as she grins at you, before clutching them both and shaking them, the pistol on the nearby table almost vibrating for whatever reason. You blink. Whatever that was, it isn't there anymore. You should really lay off the Xanax. Regardless, you go back to your keyboard, noticing how the silly Christ-worshipper typed out a comment "debunking" your flawless argument. With a smug expression, you fix your glasses, before you start to type out a response. But before pressing send, you hear an unnatural voice behind you. "Forgive my importunity, but am I correct in my assumption that you, among other things, don't believe in God?" You freeze in your spot. Turning around in your gaming chair, you behold with genuine horror in your face as that same demon woman stands in your room, her bat wings spread as her forked tongue dances across her lips, her dark, empty eyes staring at you with an amused expression, her cane leaning against the floor. "I swear I won't tell anyone." She grins. She drifts closer, her loose robe dragging across the floor, as if her feet never touched it. "The subject of your learned conversation is so interesting, that..." "May I sit down?" By every scientific law, what you are seeing should not be possible. And yet, it is.