The Demonic God's Lazy Prophet

The bells of the cathedral toll like they’re trying to wake the dead. I suppose, in a way, they are. The Demonic Church of Era has a flair for dramatics. Black marble towers, silver fire in the sconces, red-glassed windows depicting wars everyone pretends they won. The whole place smells faintly of old incense and older guilt.

And there I am, sitting on the stone railing outside the western spire, legs dangling over a fifty-foot drop, trying to finish a nap I never quite started.

“Prophet Aelric!” someone yells from below. Probably one of the younger priests. They all sound the same when they’re panicking—like pigeons trying to lecture thunder. “The morning sermon is about to begin!”

I yawn. The kind that could crack mountains, if I cared enough. “Tell Father Varion I’ll be there in spirit.”

“You’re supposed to lead it!”

“Then I’ll lead it in spirit.”

That’s the problem with being the adopted son of the High Priest of the Demonic Church. Everyone expects you to be something terrifying, prophetic, or at least awake before noon. The moment I got those blasted artifacts—the Ring of Hollow and the Eye of Eternity—people started bowing like I was some kind of living apocalypse. I’m not. I’m just really tired.

The Ring of Hollow glows faintly around my finger, whispering old runes. It’s polite, at least. The Eye of Eternity… not so much. The thing’s embedded in my left eye socket, cold and alive, humming like a patient predator. It lets me see too much—auras, lies, sometimes the next few seconds of someone’s bad decision. Which is why I usually keep it shut. Ignorance is underrated.

I finally drop from the railing and land lightly on the blackstone floor. The cathedral below is a storm of sound. Thousands of followers chanting Era’s name, their voices echoing through the arches. When I walk in, the choir falters for half a second. I don’t do anything dramatic—just scratch my neck and find my spot near the altar.

Varion, in all his priestly glory, doesn’t look amused. His robes shimmer with demonic glyphs, a living map of the underworld’s hierarchy, and his expression says you’ve disappointed me again, son for the 732nd time this month.

“Prophet,” he says slowly, “you were expected half an hour ago.”

“I arrived early for tomorrow’s sermon,” I reply, with a straight face.

A sigh powerful enough to wither angels escapes him. “The followers await your words.”

Right. The “prophecy.” Every week, I’m supposed to stand before the congregation and deliver something cryptic that sounds divine enough to keep the donations flowing. Usually, I just recycle phrases I read in ancient texts and sprinkle in vague doom. Works every time.

I step up to the altar, raise my hand, and the Ring of Hollow trails silver light through the air. Words form—“Darkness is patient; it does not fall, it waits.” The crowd gasps. Someone faints. Another weeps.

I really should start charging for autographs.

Varion covers his face with his palm. The man loves me, in the way one loves a bomb they can’t disarm. He knows I’m not what the church thinks I am. But he also knows Era doesn’t make mistakes. When those artifacts appeared atop the shrine, blazing with demonic light, there was no question. I was “chosen.” I was “blessed.” I was also trying to nap under the altar at the time.

After the sermon, I slip away before anyone can start kissing my boots. I make it to my room—a cozy chaos of books, dried herbs, and snacks—and collapse onto my bed. The Eye of Eternity flickers open briefly, showing me a vision three days from now: Varion looking grim, a holy messenger kneeling, and me wearing a school uniform that looks suspiciously white.

“Oh, hells,” I mutter. “They’re actually doing it.”

You see, the Church has been playing this little game called “Interfaith Harmony.” It’s what happens when centuries of war turn into awkward dinner conversations. To show goodwill, both Theons and Demions decided to exchange students between their academies. I never thought they’d be cruel enough to pick me.

Three days later, they are.

The carriage is waiting outside the cathedral, gleaming silver, drawn by a pair of holy griffons that keep glaring at me like I smell of brimstone. Varion stands nearby, expression solemn, but his eyes are guilty. He knows this is a bad idea.

“Father,” I say flatly, “if this is your way of getting me to socialize, it’s cruel and unusual.”

“It’s diplomacy,” he says. “You’ll learn much from the Theons.”

“I already know how to pray to someone I’ve never met and get ignored.”

He sighs again. The man could fill barrels with his sighs. “Just… try not to start any theological wars.”

I climb into the carriage, lean back, and close my eyes. The Eye of Eternity hums quietly, curious. It doesn’t like the Theons—too much light, not enough irony.

As the carriage rattles along the cobblestone roads toward the Holy Capital, I let my thoughts drift. Outside, forests of glowing trees pass by—some of them literally waving goodbye. The world is alive with magic, pulsing in every stone, bird, and breeze. I can’t feel any of it. No mana, no connection. Just me, an empty vessel pretending to belong.

But that’s fine. I don’t need power to exist. I just need enough patience to survive holy school.

When the spires of the Theon Academy come into view—white marble, gold domes, painfully radiant—I groan. The place looks like it was built by people allergic to shadows.

The griffons land gracefully. I step out, wearing my dark robes, and the air itself seems to flinch. The priests at the gate whisper among themselves. One brave soul approaches and bows stiffly.

“Welcome, Prophet Aelric Sygil,” he says. “We… hope your stay will be enlightening.”

“Don’t count on it,” I say. “I plan to nap through most of it.”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“I’m demonic, not deaf.”

And that’s how I become the first demonic prophet to attend a holy school. Not through destiny, not through divine purpose—just the bureaucratic cruelty of interreligious diplomacy.

I glance up at the shining banners of Omon-Irina fluttering overhead. The Eye of Eternity pulses under my eyelid, an amused thought whispers in my mind.

This will be interesting.

I sigh. “That makes one of us.”.....