Beel | The Demon That Corrupts Through Desire - YouTube
Transcripts:
They said his name could not be spoken in the same breath as prayer. Yet it was whispered in every place where power met temptation between the lips of kings and in the silence of lovers. In the old tongue they called Beiel, the worthless one. But those who truly knew his nature called him something far more dangerous. The demon who destroys through desire.
The chamber was lit by candles that did not flicker. Circles of ash covered the floor, pulsing faintly with heat. A single voice began the invocation. Not a chant, but a question. What do you want most? The air thickened. Shadows lengthened. The mirrors turned dark. And then came the sound.
Not a roar, but a slow exhale, as if the darkness itself were breathing. The figure that stepped through was not monstrous. It was beautiful, unbearably human, the kind of beauty that made the soul ache with recognition. His eyes reflected not flame but choice. Beiel did not command submission. He offered freedom the crulest kind. Freedom without restraint, without consequence, without worth. He asked for no blood, only agreement.
Those who looked into his face saw themselves freed of morality and mistook that void for divinity. He never raises his hand against you. Never needs to. whispers. Until your desires grow louder than your conscience, until you forget which voice is his and which is yours.
The ancients said he was the first lawless one, the architect of corruption, the god who taught mankind how to smile while descending. And if his name survives the fire, it is because he never needed to burn you. He only needed to teach you how to enjoy the flames. In the oldest tongues, words were not tools. They were spells. Each sound carried the taste of creation, the breath of the divine still clinging to its edges.
And when a word was spoken in hatred, it did not merely condemn. It birthed what it named. Thus was born the word bial without worth, without yoke, without master. It began not as the name of a being, but as a verdict. The ancient Hebrews used it to describe those who refused the law of the covenant, the ungoverned, the disobedient, the men who bowed to no yoke.
In the Deuteronomic texts, the sons of Beiel were outcasts who tore at the boundaries of order, drunk with the illusion of freedom. They were not demons. Yet they were men who had forgotten to fear God. But language is never static. Each time ble was spoken, it gathered shadow. The way smoke gathers where light is weakest, the word began to thicken, to hum with something more than meaning. It became presence.
The prophets, trembling in their deserts, started to speak of Beiel, not as corruption, but as a corruptor. The absence of God began to take on form. In the scrolls of Kuman, found buried in the caves of the Dead Sea, Bale appears no longer as a metaphor, but as a monarch. He is the prince of darkness, ruler of the sons of corruption.
It's the great adversary who leads the armies of deception against the sons of light. The text calls him the angel of hostility, the spirit who rules over the pit of deceit. Yet even here, something strange lingers. He has never cast as creator or destroyer, his divider. His reign is one of separation. The tearing of the sacred bond between will and conscience, word and meaning, heaven and earth. In apocalyptic thought, division is the beginning of death.
To separate what was one is to undo the harmony of creation. And so Bio became not merely the lawless, but the unbound, the embodiment of freedom that forgot why boundaries existed. The priests feared him because they saw in him not monstrous rebellion, but beautiful independence. In a world built on obedience, nothing was more dangerous than the idea that holiness could exist outside the law.
The earliest mystics warned that Belelliel's kingdom was not built on fire or fury, but on inversion. He mimicked the divine hierarchy. Where God ruled with command, Beiel ruled with choice. Where heaven demanded obedience, he offered liberation. Yet the liberation he offered was hollow. A mirror turned toward the self until it devoured its own reflection.
The book of Jubilees and fragments of the war scroll speak of beial commanding legions of spirits, each representing one of the sins that make man forget his origin. Pride, lust, greed, not as vices, but as echoes of divine attributes twisted by isolation. His angels do not tempt, they reflect.
They show the human being what he already desires until desire consumes remembrance. By the time of the second temple, Belelliel's name had already crossed from theology into cosmology. He was no longer a metaphor for moral decay. It was a principle of existence, the necessary shadow of divine order. In the dualistic world of early apocalypticism, everything holy cast an opposite.
If there was a messiah of light, there must be a messiah of darkness. Bil became that shadow messiah, the anti-order through which order defined itself. And yet beneath every condemnation, the echo of admiration remains. The word balia al without yoke carried in it the seed of the forbidden longing that would later define western thought, the dream of autonomy. To be without yoke is to be free. Freedom once tasted can never again be fully surrendered.
The theologians tried to bury the paradox, but mystics saw its flame. In the hidden schools of Alexandria and the desert monasteries of Syria, Bil was whispered about not as an enemy, but as an inevitability. The part of God that had to fall in order for choice to exist. One Coptic fragment found near Nagi Hamadi reads, "Beial rose not from defiance, but from the silence between commands. He is the pause that made obedience possible.
In that single line, the myth deepens. Beliel is not a creature who hates the divine. He is the echo that proves it once spoke. The absence that confirms presence. In him, the idea of worthlessness transforms from insult to revelation. That even nothingness serves a purpose. By the medieval age, the word had hardened into a name.
Bil entered the grimois standing beside Lucifer as Modius and Beelzebub as one of the great infernal kings. Yet unlike the others he was never chained by a single sin. He did not govern fire or lust or envy. He governed the space between virtues, the cracks where meaning falters. The alchemists called him the dissolver, the spirit that breaks form so that the essence can be tested.
In their secret diagrams, Biliel was drawn as a circle without center, a flame that consumes its own wick. His sigil mirrored a serpent biting its tail, but broken. The Orurais interrupted. To invoke him was to confront the chaos that hides behind freedom. The monks who feared him said he was born from the first thought of disobedience. Because to name Bil is to name the tension that birthed humanity. The desire to be one's own god.
The dead sea war scroll closes its invocation with a single prophecy. At the end of days, Beliel shall be bound by the sons of light. But first he shall walk among them as one of their own. Perhaps that prophecy has already come true.
For in every era that celebrates freedom without wisdom, power without restraint, and truth without compassion. The shadow of Belilio walks again, not in the flames of hell, but in the choices of men. He was never banished because he was never truly separate. He is the emptiness between words, the silence before the lie. The beauty of freedom unmed.
They say that when the angels first named him, the heavens dimmed for a moment, not out of fear, but recognition. For every creation needs its shadow, and every god to be whole must remember the name of what it is not. At first, Belle was only a whisper of accusation, a shadow stitched to the name of every rebel. But words like seeds grow in the soil of fear.
And fear peted, ritualized, and recited has always been humanity's most fertile ground. Over centuries, the word hardened into presence and presence became personality. The abstraction of worthlessness began to breathe. The transformation did not happen overnight. It unfolded across deserts, temples, and manuscripts. In the scrolls hidden at Kuman, copied by hands trembling in candlelight.
The name Beiel appears over and over. No longer an adjective, but a ruler. The prince of darkness, the spirit of hostility. He is not a metaphor there. He commands armies. He leads the sons of darkness in a final war against the sons of light. His kingdom stretches across the seven firmaments of deceit. To the community that wrote those scrolls, the world was a cosmic battlefield.
Every act, every thought was part of a war between order and chaos, light and corruption. But in their war theology, something changed. Evil was no longer a flaw. It was an intelligence. It had structure, command, hierarchy. It had a king. Beiel became that king. And yet, the scrolls hint at something deeper.
They speak of him not only as a destroyer, but as tester. The Lord, they say, allows Bil to exist so that the righteous may be purified through struggle. He is the furnace of the soul. One fragment reads in which the alloy of faith is separated from the dross. In that sentence, a paradox takes root. Belio as both adversary and necessity, chaos as the instrument of divine refinement.
The theologians of the second temple period wrestled with this idea like Jacob with the angel. They needed darkness to define their light, rebellion to prove their obedience. In every ritual of purification, there was the shadow of Belio lingering, reminding them that holiness without opposition is meaningless. By the dawn of apocalyptic literature, his shape was fixed. He was now the lawless one, the angel of destruction, the lord of deceit. But beneath those titles, one truth pulsed.
Biliel was no longer a word. It become a pattern, a living archetype of corruption refined through centuries of collective dread. In the book of Jubilees, he is invoked as the spirit that makes men sin and blinds their hearts. In the war scroll, he commands a host of fallen angels, each a mirror of a human vice.
In the pseudapigrapha, he whispers into kings, twisting mercy into ambition. The fragments of the Dead Sea Scrolls describe him as a bright star fallen from heaven, echoing an older, more dangerous tradition, one that would merge him with the figure of the morning star. And thus, Belil began his slow metamorphosis into a reflection of Lucifer himself.
Not the same being, but the same wound. If Lucifer was rebellion born from pride, Beliel was rebellion born from despair. Lucifer refused to kneel. Beiel refused to believe. One sought to rival God. The other sought to erase him. When Christianity absorbed the fragments of Jewish demonology, Beiel's name crossed into new scriptures.
The Apostle Paul warns of the fellowship of Christ with Beiel, pairing the name with the Antichrist. The early church fathers saw him as the personification of lawlessness, a prefiguration of the great deceiver who would rise at the end of days. The word that once meant without worth now meant without restraint.
But theology like alchemy transformed symbols into flesh. The more the faithful feared Beliel, the more real he became. Fear became invocation. The air of the ancient world thickened with his presence. In the imagination of mystics and heretics alike, Beiel emerged not as a brute demon, but as a noble adversary, proud, articulate, and unbound.
In the medieval grimois, he appears enthroned upon a chariot of fire drawn by dragons, crowned in golden smoke. His form is described as radiant, even beautiful. His voice sweet as honey, but edged with ash. He does not roar, he persuades. He does not demand worship. He offers justification. His sin is not rage, but eloquence. A passage in the liberophicium spirituum describes him as the governor of all the deceits of the world who gives dignities and grants favor to men of ambition.
It warns he comes in beauty and gentleness but behind his words is a pit. The magician is told to greet him not with fear but with self-nowledge because those who summon Beiel unprepared will find they have only summoned themselves. It is said that he governs 80 legions of spirits yet none follow him out of loyalty.
They are reflections of those who called upon him, fragments of corrupted will. Biliel is not a monarch of minions, but a mirror of mankind. His kingdom is the human heart ungoverned. Ritual texts often blur the line between invocation and confession. The circle of summoning becomes the confessional booth, a sigil of Beiel, a map of temptation.
Every candle that burns is a reminder that light always feeds on what it consumes. When a voice in the ritual whispers, "Beliel, come," the air stirs not because he arrives, but because the desire that called him has been acknowledged. The early Gnostics, inheriting this tradition, placed him among the archons, rulers of the false heavens.
To them, Belelliel was the demiurge's lieutenant, the regulator of human illusion. He was not chaos, but control disguised as liberty. The voice that says, "Do as you wish." Knowing that wish itself is a chain. They called him the governor of masks. Odd. But even in damnation, he retained his paradox.
The mystics of later ages could not help but see in Beiel a reflection of something divine gone arai. In their writings, he is the architect of moral gravity, the reminder that all order casts a shadow and every commandment births defiance. One forgotten Coptic hymn found in a ruined monastery reads, "He who made Belle made the will." For only by choice may love become pure.
To name him then is to name the flaw that makes the soul meaningful. Without Bil, obedience would be instinct, not devotion. Without temptation, virtue would be sleep. This is why the monks of the darker sex whispered his name not in hatred but in awe. To them he was not simply evil. He was the echo of freedom. The ancient texts end with a warning but also a prophecy.
And the sons of Beiel forget his name. One fragment says he will rise again for forgetting is his kingdom. Perhaps that is why his story endures. Every time humanity mistakes desire for destiny. Every time liberty becomes corruption, Belio breathes a new is not the demon who drags us downward.
He is the lawless voice that tells us there is no downward only choice. And in that whisper, we remember why even the angels once trembled. The texts say that when the heavens closed their gates, he did not fall. He walked out. There was no scream, no rebellion of flame, no thunder tearing the sky.
It's only silence and the sound of chains loosening. The angel they once called Beiel stepped away from the choir and descended into the smoke between worlds, not in rage, but in understanding, for he had discovered something the others had not, that freedom could be a kingdom. He fell not downward, but inward into the hollow of his own name.
When he emerged, he was no longer Belil, the worthless one. He was Belil, the king of the lawless, crowned in the ashes of lost virtue. His throne was a chariot of molten brass drawn by serpents of fire. His crown was not forged, but formed a circle of light that burned without smoke, feeding on the desire of all who looked upon it. They say his arrival in the infernal kingdom was not met with violence, but with reverence.
The fallen hosts, weary from the chaos of their descent, gathered to him, not because he demanded it, but because he spoke what they already felt. You are not fallen, he told them. you are free. And in that sentence, the rebellion found its philosophy. Beal did not preach war, preached ownership, the sanctity of will.
He told them that heaven's greatest cruelty was not punishment, but protection, a cage made of law, gilded with divine affection. If the creator made you to obey, he whispered, then defiance is your true creation. And thus he became the first monarch of the Infernal Age, not by conquest, but by conviction. The Grimmoos say he commands 80 legions, but each legion is not of soldiers, but of principles.
Lust, ambition, deception, art, curiosity, all the impulses exiled by the cold perfection of the higher realms. Under Beiel's command, they became virtues inverted, the luminous side of darkness. His court is described in the liber as a place of impossible beauty. Palaces of obsidian and gold where fire flows like water and shadows dance like silk. There the air hums with the music of selfhood.
Every soul singing its own name until the chorus becomes unbearable. But Beiel's rule is not tyranny. It is permission. The beings who serve him are not slaves but mirrors. He gives each of them the same gift he gave himself. the right to become what they desire most. And yet in that freedom lies the curse. For desire unbounded consumes.
His legions burn not because they are punished but because they are endlessly fulfilled. Those who have invoked be in ritual say his arrival is heralded by a slow inversion of light. Candles bending inward. Shadows sharpening like blades. The air smells of metal and rain of something that once lived.
He does not appear as a beast, but as a man robed in flame, his eyes like mirrors polished by sorrow. He greets not with words, but with understanding. The summoner feels seen entirely, the beauty, the greed, the fear, the hunger. And in that moment of total recognition, something inside them whispers, "Yes, he does not ask for worship." To stand in his presence is to face the naked truth of one's will.
Those who come to him seeking power are granted it. But power in his kingdom is never external. It is the permission to stop pretending. He teaches that all morality is a mask worn by fear. That good and evil are inventions of those too weak to choose. At the grimmorium, Pham warns. He gives dignities and honors to them that call him truly. But he claims the soul by no oath.
He needs only the consent of the heart. That is his genius. He does not take souls. He waits for them to give themselves. In medieval writes, the summoning of be was considered the highest act of forbidden invocation, the test of the free will. The magician would draw the circle of brass, inscribed the sigil of Beal upon the floor with wine instead of blood, and burn gold instead of incense.
The ritual demanded beauty, not sacrifice for be was drawn, not to pain, but to elegance. To call him in desperation was feudal. He answered only the confident, the defiant, the ones who believed they deserved him.
It is said that when he manifests, the room fills with a soft sound, the echo of applause, not mocking, but welcoming. It is the sound of every past self rising to greet the one who dared. Beiel's philosophy infected kingdoms and empires alike. The whisper of freedom without consequence echoed through palaces, wars, and revolutions. He appeared in dreams of conquerors, inventors, lovers, not as a devil but as inspiration.
He whispered to architects designing towers that touched the sky, to philosophers who dismantled faith, to artists who bled beauty into forbidden colors. He was not the enemy of light but its inversion. The artist who learned that shadows make brightness visible. And yet even he carries the memory of loss. In the apocryphal canacle of iron wings, he laments, "Once I sang with the voice of the one, and now I am the echo that teaches mortals to sing their own.
His tragedy is divine loneliness, to have liberated all and bound none. He rules a kingdom where every subject is sovereign, yet none belong." It is the eternal solitude of perfect autonomy. The nostics would call it the hunger of the eon, the void that follows creation. Some mystics claim that Beiel's throne still burns at the heart of the Infernal Empire. Its surface reflecting not fire, but every soul that gazes upon it.
Those who look see their truest self and either bow in terror or reach out in awe. Both are the same to him. For Beiel knows that worship and rebellion are only reflections of the same mirror. Every act of defiance is secretly a form of prayer and every prayer carries a seed of defiance. He is the space between the two, the unending paradox that keeps creation alive.
To the monks who study his lore, he is not the embodiment of sin, but of permission, the divine truth that nothing holy remains untested. They say that when the final judgment comes, Beiel will not rise against heaven, but stand beside it, smiling. For without him, there would be nothing left to forgive.
And perhaps that is his true crown, not of gold or flame, but of irony. The demon who gave humanity the freedom even to deny him. When the last candle dies and the circle fades, his voice lingers, soft as breath. I am not your enemy. I am the fire that asks what you will do with your wings. Then the silence returns and the summoner realizes too late the ritual never ended. Merely moved inside them. They called it the circle of gold.
A ritual that shimmerred with light yet carried the scent of ash. In the oldest grimois, the grimmorium verum, the lesser key, the secret pages of the liber obscura, the summoning of be was never done in darkness.
Unlike the other kings of hell, whose rights demanded blood and smoke, his invocation required illumination. For be does not dwell in shadows. He dwells in the space where light begins to lie. The manuscripts describe a strange paradox. The summoner must build his prison from beauty. The circle must be drawn not with iron or salt, but with powdered gold, melted wax, and wine.
The surface of the ground must glimmer, a mirror of heaven inverted within it. No symbol of punishment is permitted. No names of God, no threats, no curses. Beal, the text warns, cannot be commanded. At the heart of the circle, a single mirror is placed, polished to brilliance, but covered with black cloth until the final moment.
This mirror is called speculum dissiary, the reflection of desire. Rounded are set 12 candles, their flames tinted with amber resin and oil of cinnamon. The air must smell alive, warm, seductive. The grimois agree on one condition. No blood must be spilled. He detests violence. writes one unknown hand in the margins of Lama. He comes only to those who understand elegance. Beal's summoning is not a test of courage but of control.
To call him in fear is to insult him. To call him in need is to feed him. But to call him in poise, to stand without trembling and offer nothing but awareness is to earn his regard. It is said the ritual begins with a single phrase whispered three times. Nonservium dissidario meow. I will not serve my desire. And yet by saying it, the summoner already does.
For the words are not denial, but invitation, a declaration that separates the cell from the longing, making space for him to enter. When the final candle is lit, the room begins to breathe. Shadows curl like serpents around the golden edge of the circle, and the air hums, not with menace, but with anticipation.
Then comes the scent of heated metal and rain. The mirror under the cloth grows warm. The summoner removes the cover and for a heartbeat sees nothing but his own reflection and the reflection smiles. Beal does not appear in fire or smoke, but in familiarity. He takes the form most desired, the face most trusted, the voice most soothing.
For his dominion is not fear. It is longing refined to art. He speaks softly, his words sinking like perfume into the air. You called not for me but for yourself. I am merely the answer. Those who have survived the ritual say the most dangerous moment is not his arrival but what follows the exchange. Beal offers no contracts. There is no parchment, no seal.
His bargain is unspoken psychological. He does not promise what you want. He simply lets you believe you already have it. He awakens within the summoner a taste of perfection, success, beauty, control, and lets them drown in it. In one forgotten ritual codeex, the CEX Orius, the summoner writes in trembling Latin, he showed me a kingdom built from my own hands.
I ruled it until I realized the walls were made of mirrors. The golden trap, that is what the old alchemists called it, not a circle to contain him, but a labyrinth to contain you. For Beiel's true ritual is not external. It unfolds in the mind, turning the summoner's will upon itself. Each thought becomes a thread, each desire a doorway.
He does not need to ins snare. Allows the seeker to bind themselves with their own yearning. Psychologically, he is the perfect seducer. Not because he lies, but because he tells the truth you wish were false. He reveals that what you worship you also crave to destroy. That what you fear you secretly desire. In his presence, dualities collapse.
Sin and virtue, love and control, pleasure and pain, all become reflections of the same fire. The Libra Hermetica Inferno warns of this collapse. He will teach the summoner that virtue is merely well-managed desire. And when the summoner agrees, the circle is broken. When the circle breaks, the ritual does not explode in violence. It dissolves. The candles extinguish one by one, not from wind, but from consent.
The mirror cracks in silence, and Beiel, ever courteous, bows. He leaves behind no smoke, no scream, only the faint ringing of applause, the sound of temptation's triumph. There are stories of those who survived. The alchemist Greor of ULM claimed that after invoking Beal, he spent seven days seeing gold everywhere in sunlight, in eyes, and blood.
He wrote that it drove him to madness, not from greed, but from awe. He had glimpsed the world as Beiel saw it. Everything shining, everything valuable, everything desirable. In another account from the monastery of Saint Avidus, a monk confessed to performing the ritual in order to no temptation not to yield to it.
He vanished the next day, leaving only his habit folded neatly in a perfect circle of candle wax. The abbott wrote, "Perhaps he succeeded. Perhaps he remembered what we forgot, that to no temptation is already to love it. The circle of gold became a forbidden practice. Yet its symbolism endured. In Renaissance engravings, Beiel is often depicted holding a mirror framed in flame, gazing into it with an expression of both pride and pity. Artists interpreted this as vanity. But the mystic saw deeper.
It was reflection, the demon teaching the divine what it looks like when it forgets itself. Philosophically, the ritual represents the human relationship with desire itself. To summon Beiel is to confront the truth that craving defines creation. The act of wanting is sacred but unchecked. It becomes consumption. Beiel's trap is not a punishment.
It is a revelation. He shows that freedom without discipline is merely slavery gilded in gold. Those who invoke him without understanding are lost. Those who meet him with reverence may learn, and those who see through the mirror, who recognize the reflection for what it is, emerge transformed. For in acknowledging the trap, they break it. It is said that Beiel rewards such awareness.
In the final stage of the ritual, if the summoner can speak his true name, Beliel, the worthless one, without fear or contempt, he kneels, places his hand upon their heart, and whispers, "Now you understand. Worth is the burden of the free." Then the circle cools. The candles gutter out. The mirror turns dark.
The summoner trembling feels no triumph, only clarity, as if the soul has been scraped clean of illusion. For Beiel is not a destroyer. He is an awakener. One who teaches that the most exquisite prisons are the ones we mistake for enlightenment. And somewhere in the hollow echo of the extinguished room, his voice lingers still, soft, amused, almost kind. You summoned me to bind me, but it was I who set you free.
There are demons that burn cities and demons that burn thoughts. Beal is the latter, the philosopher of fire, the architect of decay that masquerades as freedom. Where other infernal kings govern vice, be governs the idea of permission, he rules not through fear, but through persuasion by offering a truth so beautiful it dissolves the need for morality itself.
His creed is older than scripture, older even than rebellion. It begins with a whisper. Freedom is the final perfection. Yet within that whisper lies the slow unraveling of all order. For when freedom becomes its own god, it eats its children, conscience, restraint, love. What remains is the radiant carcass of self- worship, liberty without purpose. The ancient philosophers sensed this danger.
Plato spoke of the soul's tripartite nature. The reason, the spirit, and the appetite bound together by harmony. When reason sleeps, appetite rules. When spirit obeys appetite, the chariot crashes. Beal is the whisper to the charioteer that the reigns are chains.
He teaches that harmony is slavery disguised as peace. In his theology, corruption is not failure, it is liberation. To decay is to evolve beyond structure. The apple that rots releases its seeds. The law that collapses reveals the truth of its absence. Beiel's gospel is entropy baptizes progress. Every ruin is holy. Every downfall sacred. The church called him the lord of lawlessness, but he calls himself the father of continuence.
For nothing continues like the things that refuse to remain pure. To understand be is to enter the realm of inversion. He does not deny morality. He inverts its architecture until it becomes transparent. Good becomes performance. Evil becomes honesty. In his presence, virtue appears as another form of obedience. The gilded cage of those who mistake restraint for strength.
He tells them, "You are not good because you choose to be. You're good because you're afraid not to be." Here lies his genius. He exposes morality as fear dressed in righteousness. For centuries, theologians claimed that corruption begins when the will disobys divine order.
Beiel teaches that corruption begins when the will forgets it is divine. In the language of modern philosophy, Beiel could be called the existential tempter. Sarter wrote, "Man is condemned to be free." Beal whispers, "No man is blessed to be ungoverned." Sartra's anguish becomes his ecstasy. To Beiel, the weight of choice is not a curse but a crown.
In every act of self-defin, no matter how cruel, is a hymn to autonomy. He rejects Plato's ideal of the good as a distant sun. To be the light of the good blinds. It demands submission. Instead, he embraces the cave, the darkness where the shadows dance freely, no longer seeking to escape, but to understand themselves as art.
The prisoners who refuse to leave the cave are, in his view, the first true philosophers. Those who understand that enlightenment is not the seeing of truth but the mastery of illusion. This is why Beal is feared by angels and adored by men. He teaches not rebellion but reason turned inside out. His philosophy begins where theology ends.
In the moment man ceases to need God to justify himself. In that instant the soul becomes self- sustaining. A God within its own walls. But the tragedy and the beauty is that such walls are always burning. In the grimois, his sigil is drawn as two intersecting spirals turning in opposite directions. The symbol of creation and decay coiling into each other. The alchemists called it duplex flamma, the twin flame.
To them it represented the paradox of transformation. One flame consumes, the other reveals. Beal governs both. He is the lord of alchemical putrifaction, the sacred rot that precedes renewal. He teaches that every birth demands the death of something innocent.
When mystics speak of purification, they imagine ascent, the climb toward divine order. Beiel reverses the latter. He teaches descent, the purification through indulgence, through immersion in what one fears. To master the poison, he says, you must drink it and live. Those who follow this path do not rise glowing with sanctity. They emerge cracked, haunted, aware.
For awareness in his creed is the only virtue left untouched by hypocrisy. In the sermons of the hollow temple, an anonymous monk writes, "I heard him in the silence between confessions." He said, "The saint and the sinner kneel for the same reason. Both crave permission. The saint to obey, the sinner to act.
I give both what they seek." Be's theology of choice is therefore neither moral nor nihilistic. It is functional. Every decision is holy because it proves that will exists. To choose wrongly is not sin. It is celebration. For without wrongness, the divine spark would lie dormant. In modern times, his spirit has found new vessels.
The age of ideology of consumer gods and personal truths is his unseen cathedral. Every slogan of self-entitlement, every manifesto of desire disguised as liberation hums with his signature. He does not need temples anymore. He speaks through algorithms, through the endless liturgy of want. The marketplace is his monastery.
And each purchase, each post, each self-proclamation, a micro ritual of devotion to freedom without reflection. And yet, beneath the ruin of meaning, his shadow carries a terrible beauty. For even in corruption, there is honesty. Beal does not lie about what we are. He strips away illusion until only hunger remains. And hunger, he says, is truth the primal engine of existence.
He teaches that divinity and decay are not opposites but phases. The saint becomes the heretic by proximity to truth. The angel falls because he knows too much of heaven. In this endless oscillation, be sees the true rhythm of the cosmos. The universe breathes in purity and exhales corruption. He says to stop either breath is death.
That is why he calls corruption not evil but necessity. The continuation of creation through imperfection. In this his theology mirrors the forgotten fragments of gnostic thought. The idea that the world's flaw is its proof of vitality. That the fracture in the divine is what allows consciousness to exist.
Beal's philosophy ends not in despair but in stillness. The dark serenity of understanding that morality is a construct and freedom a crucible. The soul must burn to prove it can endure its own fire. In the CEX Voridis, an inscription attributed to Beiel himself reads, "Do not fear decay, fear completion.
For only what rots can grow again, and that perhaps is the core of his wisdom, the corruption that renews the fallen truth that refuses to die. Beal is not the destroyer of virtue. He is its surgeon. He cuts away the false flesh of goodness until what remains is raw breathing will. He does not ask you to sin. He asks you to choose and to know that choice is the only prayer the universe still hears.
The circle cools, its golden dust dimming to ash. Where Beal once stood, only a faint shimmer remains. The after image of desire retreating into silence. The mirror lies cracked, yet in its fractures glows a trace of light that refuses to die. It hums softly like a heartbeat beneath the earth. Beal does not depart. He withdraws into the summoner's reflection. His gift is not destruction, but continuation.
The haunting knowledge that freedom and decay share the same breath. In the still air, his voice lingers. Every virtue you cling to was born from what you fear. Every sin you flee from is what keeps you alive. Then the candles die and the silence feels heavier than any curse.
Somewhere beyond the veil, the infernal kings rise, their thrones carved from the choices of men. Next, the infernal kings.
