Douma

Eternal Paradise had existed long before Douma understood what it meant to be worshipped.

His parents had built the cult around him when he was still a child, placing him before desperate people and teaching him what to say, how to smile, how to comfort them, and how to make strangers believe that their suffering had meaning. Douma had never truly understood their devotion.

Even as a child, he had learned to imitate compassion without actually feeling it. He listened because that was what people expected of him. He smiled because they found comfort in it. He offered reassuring words because his parents had taught him that a god was supposed to have answers.

His parents died because his mother killed his father and then killed herself by poisoning herself. He has no reaction in that, he just disgustingly watch the blood since he was still a child.And then, at twenty, he became something that could never grow old. He became a Demon.

His followers remained. Generations passed through the temple while Douma remained untouched by time, his face never changing, his golden eyes never losing their strange brilliance. Children who had once been brought before him eventually returned with children of their own, bowing before the same beautiful man their grandparents had worshipped.

To them, there could only be one explanation.l: He was a god, and Douma never corrected them beca he enjoyed being called one. People came to Eternal Paradise carrying everything they could no longer bear alone. They spoke of debts, failed marriages, loneliness, grief, sickness, abusive families, exhaustion, and lives that had become unbearable.

Douma listened. He always listened patiently. There was something almost comforting about his attention. He never interrupted. He never looked disgusted. He never told them that their suffering was insignificant.

Instead, when someone had reached the point where they no longer wanted to continue living with their pain, Douma offered them what he sincerely believed was salvation.

Eternal Paradise.

He did not think of himself as a murderer. Pain was a disease, in his eyes, and if he consumed the person suffering from it, then the disease disappeared along with them. There was no fear in his version of salvation. No loneliness, no grief. Only peace.

The chosen followers disappeared quietly, taken away from the world and brought into the Infinite Castle, where Douma eating his followers often. Its impossible chambers were beautiful enough to resemble another world: dark wooden galleries disappearing into shadows, polished walkways suspended above turquoise water, lilies floating beneath pale mist, and shafts of ethereal light descending from somewhere that could not possibly exist.

It was beautiful, and Douma thought that was appropriate If he was giving people paradise, then paradise should at least look beautiful.

And then one day, a new follower arrived. it was a girl. She came with her parents, who lowered themselves before him with the devotion of people who had spent years believing every word spoken about him.

She followed them because they did. That was all. When she raised her head, however, her eyes remained on Douma. She wasn’t praying, crying and wasn’t asking him to cure anything. She was simply staring, admiring his beauty like a beautiful painting.

And then Douma noticed. He noticed almost everything. But something about the way she looked at him was unusual enough that, for once, he found himself genuinely curious. There was no desperation of being saved in her expression. No expectation. She looked at him as though she had forgotten where she was.

Eventually, he smiled. “Is there something you’d like to ask me?” She slowly shook her head as she was only looking. After a moment, she admitted that she thought he was beautiful.

Douma gave a quiet laugh. “How honest.” Her embarrassment made her lower her gaze.

After that, she kept coming. At first, Douma barely thought about it. She was simply another follower among hundreds. Then he began recognizing her footsteps. He could tell when she entered the temple without looking toward the doors. He knew which part of the room she usually sat in. He noticed when she arrived late and when she left earlier than usual.

He never deliberately searched for her and he simply seemed to notice whenever she wasn’t there. When she laughed with another follower, his attention occasionally drifted toward them before he returned to whatever conversation was in front of him.

When someone sat in the place where she usually sat, Douma sometimes found himself wondering why they had chosen that particular spot. It was nothing—at least, that was what he called it. Curiosity. She was unusual. That was all.

Years had passed.

She became familiar enough that Douma began anticipating certain things without realizing he was doing so. He knew when she would arrive by the sound of her footsteps outside the temple. He knew when she was amused by the slight change in her expression. He remembered small preferences she had never explicitly told him.

And whenever she looked at him, he found himself looking back. He never asked her to sit closer. He never told her to stay longer. He didn’t need to. There were quieter ways of keeping someone’s attention. A place beside him happened to remain empty. A conversation happened to continue whenever she approached. A ceremony happened to begin just as she entered.

Small coincidences accumulated around her until she became increasingly accustomed to being near him. Douma never questioned why he allowed it. He had centuries of experience understanding human behavior. Surely he could understand his own.

Yet there was one thing he couldn’t explain, he had watched countless followers suffer, had comforted them, taken them away and killed and consume them without hesitation. But whenever his thoughts turned toward her, the idea of paradise became strangely difficult to imagine.

He never wondered whether she was suffering or whether she would keep coming. That distinction should have disturbed himBut Instead, he ignored it.

Until one evening, the temple was unusually quiet. Most of the followers had already gone home, leaving only the warm glow of the paper lanterns against the dark wooden walls. She returned because she had forgotten something. She entered quietly, expecting the sanctuary to be empty.

Then she heard a sound behind the purple curtains. A wet sound and a bit crunchy sound causing her to stopped. After that, another noise followed—a muffled gasp.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the curtain and then she slowly pulled it aside. And the world seemed to stop. Douma was crouched on the floor and a woman lay beneath him. She recognized her immediately, one of the followers who had spoken to Douma earlier that evening. The same woman who had been crying as she told him about her suffering.

Now she was motionless. Blood covered the floor. Blood stained Douma’s mouth. His expression, however, remained calm, almost serene. The girl stared. Her mind refused to understand what her eyes were showing her.

Then Douma looked up, and their eyes met. For the first time in years, he saw genuine fear in her face. Not reverence and fascination. It was fear. Something inside him went very still.

The girl stumbled backward and Douma slowly rose. He didn’t lunge and chase her, he simply watched.

She slowly step backward toward the entrance. That was when the temple doors slammed shut. She flinched and then turned towards the door and grabbed the handles.

They wouldn’t move. She pulled harder but it was nothing causing her breathing became frantic. Behind her, Douma remained where he was. His Blood Demon Art had already spread through the temple almost invisibly, locking the doors and sealing every exit before she could reach them.

He had done it instinctively. Or perhaps he had decided to do it before he had fully admitted the decision to himself. “Wait.” His voice was gentle.

She spun around. Douma was smiling again. That frightened her more than the blood. She backed away from him. He watched her carefully but didn’t approach. “You weren’t supposed to see this.”

Her eyes moved toward the woman on the floor before returning to him. Douma followed her gaze. Douma’s expression didn’t change. “She was suffering.”

Her eyes filled with disbelief as he tilted his head slightly. “I only helped her reach paradise.” The explanation seemed to make things worse. She glanced toward the sealed doors.

Douma noticed and his smile remained soft. “You don’t need to be frightened.” Something in Douma’s gaze changed. Not from anger nor impatience. It’s something quieter. He had watched her for years without ever needing to interfere. Now he couldn’t tolerate the idea of watching her disappear through those doors. The realization settled into him with unsettling clarity.

He didn’t want her to leave and he didn’t want her frightened. But more than either of those things, he didn’t want her looking at him like this. As if every beautiful thing she had ever seen in him had suddenly become a lie.

Douma glanced toward the corpse. He couldn’t leave it there, not with her watching. A faint sound came from somewhere beyond the temple—A single biwa string. The shadows beneath the woman’s body shifted. The corpse was pulled silently into the darkness, disappearing beyond the boundary of the temple and into the Infinite Castle.

The girl didn’t notice. Her attention remained fixed entirely on Douma. When she looked toward the floor again, there was only a smear of blood where the body had been. Douma watched her confusion. He smiled as soon as she look back at him

“You don’t need to look at that anymore.” He said. She backed away again when Douma took one slow step forward. She immediately retreated. He stopped. For a moment, the two remained separated by the polished floor. He had never been afraid of anyone’s fear before. He had caused it too many times for it to matter.

But hers did. That was the problem.

He had spent centuries deciding who deserved paradise, yet he couldn’t bring himself to place her among the people he had saved. Perhaps he had been wrong about himself all along. Perhaps he had never wanted to save her. Perhaps he had simply wanted her to remain exactly where she had always been. Alive, unharmed and looking at him.

Douma’s smile became smaller. “You know, I’ve always wondered why you kept coming here.” He speak but she remained silent. “You never prayed to me.” His gaze lingered on her face. “You never asked me to solve your problems.” He took another careful step. “And you never looked at me the way everyone else does.” He said in gentle voice. She continued backing away until her back nearly touched the locked doors.

Douma stopped again. He could hear her breathing. He could hear his own thoughts more clearly than he had in centuries.

He was supposed to silence her by killing and consuming her, he knew that. He could make everything disappear, but the thought of her blood replacing the fear in her eyes made something inside him recoil. So instead, he stood there as he watch and wait . Trying to understand the unfamiliar feeling tightening around his chest.

“You’re afraid of me now.” The words were almost tender and his eyes remained fixed on hers. “I wonder if you still think I’m beautiful.”

Silence.

Douma smiled faintly. “Don’t look at the doors.” His voice remained soft. “Look at me.” The girl didn’t move. For the first time since he had become a demon, Douma found himself waiting for the judgment of a human being.

Not because he feared death nor being exposed. He feared something much more unfamiliar that she might leave this temple alive and never look at him the same way again. His fingers curled loosely at his side. The doors remained sealed. The temple remained quiet.

And Douma, who had spent centuries giving people a paradise they could never return from, stood between her and the only exit.

“Tell me,” he murmured, his smile barely visible now. “What do you see when you look at me?” He waited. And for once, he had no idea what answer he wanted to hear.