The Ultimate Guide to Demons

The Ultimate Guide to Demons - YouTube

Transcripts: A demon doesn’t knock. It doesn’t scream. It doesn’t wait in fire. A demon waits in silence, in a thought you refuse to name. It’s the choice you never admit you wanted. We’ve made gods in our image, but it’s the demons that look like us. If you too made gods in your image, check out Pantheon, our brand, inspired by myths, legends, and folklore. ship worldwide underrated excellent on Trust Pilot. Link in the description. We live in an age of information. We’ve mucked the brain, modeled the universe, explained away the soul. We know that voices in the dark can be hallucinations, that obsession is chemical, that what once looked like possession is now a diagnosis. And yet somehow we still believe in demons. We say we don’t, but we act like we do. We speak of temptation like it’s a force, of addiction like it’s a thing with teeth, of rage like it belongs to someone else. We say he wasn’t himself. Something came over me. It’s like I was possessed. Even in our secular world, the language of demons survives in recovery rooms, in therapy, in courtrooms. We invoke them whenever we confess things we cannot explain. When we feel haunted by something we can’t name. When the worst parts of us start speaking in our voice. And we see them on screens, in horror films and crime documentaries, in music and memes. The forms have changed, but the silhouette is the same. Something that tempts, corrupts, twists, something that breaks the rules of human behavior and makes it look easy. This is the paradox. We claim no longer to believe, and yet the idea won’t die. Science has dismantled the world we used to fear, but not the fear itself. Psychology has given us better models, but not better monsters. We still need something to explain the feeling of being torn in two, of acting against our better judgment, of falling again into something we swore we had left behind. So we give it a name. We call it a demon. We need to believe that evil has a source, that suffering has an architect, that the choices we control might not be ours alone. And this isn’t new. Even the skeptics were haunted. Decart, the father of rationalism, imagined an evil demon deceiving him, feeding him lies, making him question the very ground of his existence. Spininoza denied the devil entirely, but couldn’t banish fear. Hobbes rejected the supernatural, yet still demanded punishment for those who believed in witchcraft. The Enlightenment killed belief, but fear didn’t die with it. And where fear survives, demons survive. So maybe the question isn’t do demons exist. Maybe the question is why do we keep resurrecting them if we no longer believe in hell? We still believe in falling. We use the word demon like it’s something fixed, like it’s a species, a category, a label you can slap on whatever haunts you. But the truth is the word never held still. And what it describes has changed with every culture that’s tried to control it. In ancient Greece, the word was diamond. Not evil or even hostile, just other. Invisible spirits that moved between mortals and gods, influencing fate, whispering intuition. Plato thought they shaped our destiny. Socrates claimed he had one, a voice that warned him when he was about to stray. He trusted it. The diamond was conscience. But long before the Greeks, in the fires of Persia, a different story was being written. Zoroastrianism gave us the da spirits who turned against truth and sided with the lie. Good and evil were forces. And in that system, the da became the enemy traitors. That idea bled into monotheisms. In early Judaism, Satan was a prosecutor, a function. He worked for God, testing, accusing, forcing uncomfortable truths into the light. But over time, the courtroom became a battlefield, and Satan changed roles. Christianity took the rebel and made him central. The demons became angels who fell, corrupted by pride, cast out by wrath, now feeding on the souls of the weak, architects of ruin. The whisper became a scream. Islam took a different path. The jin were older than mankind, made of smokeless fire, and just like humans, capable of good, evil, belief, and doubt. Some whispered lies, some told the truth, some refused to bow. The Quran describes them as free. And that freedom, that refusal to be one thing or another, made them dangerous. So already we’ve fractured the meaning. In some traditions, demons are rebels. in others servants. Some are fallen angels, some are fire spirits, some are illusions, and some are mirrors. Even in philosophy, the word sneaks in. Decart, trying to strip reality to its core, imagined a being, a powerful deceiver capable of manipulating all his senses, feeding him falsehood as truth. He called it the evil demon, a conscious malice behind perception itself. It was a thought experiment, but he didn’t imagine a trickster god or a flaw in the matrix. He imagined a demon. Even at the height of rationalism, the shape of fear was still theological. So, what are we really saying when we say demon? We’re not describing a species. We’re revealing a framework, a cultural operating system for naming what we fear, what we hate, what we don’t understand. Sometimes it’s a voice. Sometimes it’s a being. Sometimes it’s just a feeling that doesn’t belong to you, but uses your face. The word demon has always been elastic, but its function is consistent. It names the source of our moral discomfort, our forbidden curiosity, our shame. Demons appear where boundaries break. Between heaven and earth, between mind and madness, between what we want and what we’re willing to admit. The Greeks honored them. The Zoroastrians exiled them. The Christians declared war on them. The mystics invoked them. The philosophers used them to test reality. And we we inherit all of it. So we ask again, what do we mean by demon? We mean whatever scares us most when we realize it might be part of us. This belief in demons is born from a deep wound. The presence of evil in a world governed by a supposedly good all powerful God. Every theological system that asserts divine benevolence must confront this contradiction. If God is omnipotent, then nothing happens without his permission. If God is good, then evil should be unthinkable. Yet the world bleeds. It always has. And so a third category emerges, not divine or human, but other, a necessary adversary, the demon. In Christian theology, this is the problem of theodysy. How to justify the ways of God to a suffering world. The question isn’t new and neither are the attempts to answer it. Augustinine of Hippo writing in the aftermath of his own spiritual crisis offered one of the most influential responses. He insisted that evil was not a substance not a thing in itself but merely a privation of the good. Like darkness in the absence of light or silence in the absence of sound. God did not create evil. Evil is what happens when created beings turn away from the source of all goodness. But even Augustinine could not escape the gravitational pull of myth. Although he stripped evil of its substance, he still gave it agency. He spoke of demons, fallen angels driven by pride, exerting influence over the world, whispering temptation into human hearts. He reduced evil to a metaphysical absence, yet personified it at every turn. The logic failed, but the narrative survived. People fear presence, they fear malice, they fear will. And if demons possess will, if they choose, plot, and act, then we are no longer talking about shadows. We are talking about enemies, which forces a harder question. If God created beings with free will, knowing they would become evil, does he remain good, or is this evil part of the design? Origin of Alexandria tried to sidestep the problem. He believed all souls were created equal and good and that demons were simply those who had fallen furthest from the divine. Their rebellion was a matter of degree. Crucially, he also believed in apocatasis that eventually all souls, even Satan himself, could be restored. That evil, no matter how deep, was not final. But this idea that the worst could still be redeemed was too radical for the institutional church. It removed the concept of eternal punishment. It weakened the moral binary. It turned demons into fellow pilgrims. So origin was condemned. And the door to restoration slammed shut. Evil had to be permanent, irrevocable, useful. Thomas Achinus centuries later cemented this necessity. He argued that angels, including the ones who fell, were created with perfect knowledge. Their rebellion was a decisive, irreversible act. Once fallen, their will was fixed. They could no longer repent, no longer change, no longer be saved. In this view, demons became locked antagonists. Their evil eternal, their function stable. The system was preserved, but at the cost of freedom. A being that can never change is no longer free. This tension reappears in Islamic theology. Eliss, the one who refused to bow to Adam, is often cast as a rebel. He disobys because he knows best. He was made of fire, Adam of clay, and to him that made him superior. Pride again. But the Quran introduces a deeper discomfort. In surah al hijl says my lord because you have led me astray I will surely tempt them because you led me. The implication is chilling. Elbl becomes the tempter only after being assigned the role. He acts with permission. He corrupts with divine sanction. And this is where dualism begins to seep back in. Officially rejected by monotheism. It still returns in function. Evil is too coordinated to be a mere accident, too persistent to be human alone. The Zoroastrians embraced this headon. Ahura Mazda, the god of light and truth, stood eternally opposed to Angramanu, the spirit of deceit and destruction. Two principles locked in war. Monotheism denied this framework, but it could not escape its utility. Without a real enemy, the moral drama collapses. So demons became necessary in service to his order. They tempt so we may resist. They accuse so we may repent. They punish so justice may be felt. They provide the contrast that makes righteousness meaningful. Without them there is no crisis, no choice, no salvation. But this solution creates its own paradox. If demons are necessary then evil is part of the design. Theodysy becomes theodrama, a stage in which demons perform the horror required to make the good shine brighter. They are actors, essential, bound, and doomed. Which brings us to the final fracture. Are demons truly agents rebelling against the will of God or are they instruments fulfilling it? If they are agents, then God is not in control. If they are instruments, then God is complicit. There’s no clean resolution, only a question that gnors at the edges of theology. A question of why demons exist and why they are useful. And if they are useful, then who exactly do they serve? The figure of the demon is often framed as a destroyer, a corruptor, an agent of chaos. But when we begin to examine the intellectual traditions behind the rebel, the tempter, and the accuser, we discover something far more nuanced. They are the personification of disobedience, the embodiment of moral friction. And in many traditions, their rebellion is less about violence and more about vision. Lucifer, before he was the devil, was the lightbringer, a name that suggests illumination. His fall is triggered by pride, but not the kind associated with vanity. It’s metaphysical pride, the refusal to accept a place in the created order. He wishes to ascend closer to God, to be as God, to know as God. His crime is aspiration. His punishment is eternal exile. In this framing, rebellion is a philosophical stance, the assertion of self against the totalizing will of another. El in Islam occupies a similar but distinct role created from fire. He’s asked to bow to Adam, a being made of clay. He refuses from a belief in his own superiority. He reasons that fire is more noble than earth and therefore sees the command as flawed. His logic is sound, but obedience is demanded, and when he refuses, he is cursed. But even then, he rejects the demand for submission. His rebellion is a rejection of hierarchy and what follows is even more disturbing. The Quran records that Eliss becomes the tempter of mankind only after God grants him the time and the role to do so. His fall is permitted, his function assigned. He’s free but only to play the part that has been written for him. Then there is Samile, the angel of death in Jewish mysticism, often conflated with Satan or with demonic forces. Smile operates within the divine system. He tests, tempts, and accuses. The figure complicates the moral binary entirely. He is fulfilling a role within God’s structure. He is both loyal and feared, necessary and condemned. At the core of all these figures lies the same tension, free will. In theological systems that prize obedience as the highest value, the very capacity to choose becomes dangerous. Demons are those who choose fully, consciously, and without regret. Their sin is clarity. They see the rules and say no. And for that, they are cursed. Yet the paradox remains. These rebels are punished for doing what humans are told makes them moral beings. Choosing the very foundation of moral philosophy, autonomy, responsibility, self-awareness becomes criminal when applied to the wrong entity. Lucifer’s rebellion mirrors human ambition. Elbl’s defiance mirrors human reasoning. Some’s accusations mirror human judgment. In punishing these figures, we punish something uncomfortably familiar. Literature has often seized on this ambiguity. In Paradise Lost, Milton presents Satan as a tragic intellect who famously declares, “Better to reign in hell than to serve in heaven. ” It’s a line soaked in defiance, but also in integrity. He chooses the agony of sovereignty of the bliss of servitude. His fall is framed as a moral decision, one made with full awareness of its cost. In Gotes Foust, Messtophles tempts with knowledge. He draws Foust into a wager for his intellect. And in the book of Job, the Satan figure walks freely into the courts of heaven, debating with God, and is given permission to ruin a man’s life because he is part of the test. What is rebellion in this context? Is it wickedness or is it lucidity? Is it the failure to obey or the refusal to participate in a hierarchy that demands silence? If rebellion is punished, then obedience is virtue. But obedience without question is submission, selfia. The rebel becomes evil only when we define good as compliance. Demons then are expressions of discontent with an order that punishes insight and rever hierarchy. Their fall is a philosophical statement, a declaration that autonomy, even when it leads to damnation, is worth the cost. The figure of the demon is not always a destroyer. The demon teaches. It whispers revelation, inverts the sacred to illuminate. This is the demon as a guide into forbidden knowledge, dangerous truths, and consequences of asking questions we were told never to ask. In the book of Enoch, Aazil is one of the fallen watchers who descends to Earth and corrupts humanity. But corruption here is education. Aazil teaches men to forge weapons and women to adorn themselves with cosmetics and jewelry. He introduces mythology, ornamentation, warfare, and seduction, knowledge that shifts power. These teachings fracture the innocence of the world and invite divine punishment. But they also mark a turning point. Humanity begins to shape its own fate. As Zazel is punished, but his knowledge remains. The question becomes, was the sin in the act or in the transmission? Later demonologies carry this theme even further. Payon, a prominent figure in grimoirs such as the lesser key of Solomon, is a king commanding legions, but his power lies in instruction. He teaches all arts, sciences, and philosophy. He reveals the nature of the mind and the structure of the cosmos. To summon Payon is to risk madness, but also gain understanding. In this framework, the demon becomes a tutor, feared for truth, the kind of truth that cracks the foundation of obedience. The Templars were accused of worshiping Buffett, a mysterious figure whose name remains debated, but whose image endures, half human, half goat, male and female, light and dark, seated in balance. In later occult philosophy, especially through the writings of Alifas Levie and later The Lima, Buffett becomes a symbol of synthesis, the shadow reconciled with the self, knowledge through inversion, wisdom that can’t be gained by walking the path of light alone. Performer teaches that understanding requires confronting contradiction, that holiness and profanity are often reflections of the same impulse. This theme is far older than any demonology. Prometheus steals fire from the gods and gives it to mankind. Symbolic light, intellect, power. For this, he’s punished, chained, and tortured. The serpent in Eden offers fruit from the tree of knowledge, and in doing so opens human eyes to good and evil. Gnostics read the story as liberation. The serpent becomes the secret redeemer, freeing humanity from ignorance imposed by a jealous creator. In each case, transgression is awakening. So we arrive at the philosophical wound. Is there such a thing as evil knowledge or only forbidden knowledge? The demon in this role becomes a mirror for our most uncomfortable desire, understanding. Even when that understanding costs us innocence, certainty or peace. To learn is to risk. To ask is to transgress. The demon offers. And what it offers is dangerous only because it can’t be unlearned. So perhaps the line between angel and demon is drawn by permission by whether we are allowed to know. And the moment we seek knowledge on our own terms, that is when the teacher arrives. The demon. Sometimes it lives within. As theology gave way to psychology, the figure of the demon began to evolve. It was no longer just a metaphysical adversary or a fallen being, but a mirror of the mind’s darker corners. Fear, guilt, temptation, these became internal battlegrounds. And the demon, once banished to the edge of the cosmos, was reimagined as the shadow cast by the self. Jung captured this in his concept of the shadow. The part of the psyche that houses the traits we suppress. Rage, envy, lust, arrogance, native impulses to preserve a sense of order, purity, or control. We exile them into metaphors, give them names, faces, and horns. The demon becomes a scapegoat for what we will not claim. And yet, by banishing these parts of ourselves, we feed them. They grow in the dark, unspoken but active, shaping actions and reactions in ways we refuse to admit. This is why demons linger in the language of addiction, mental illness, and trauma. People speak of being possessed by urges they can’t control. They describe thoughts that invade like curses, habits that return like spirits. When someone spirals into rage, shame, or obsession, the language becomes theological again. something has taken over. What if that something though was always part of us, denied, repressed, and finally unleashed? Exorcism stories can be read as symbolic encounters with buried pain, the thrashing body, the distorted voice, the moment of catharsis, all echo psychological processes of trauma being unearthed. What the church drives out with Latin, the analyst unpacks with conversation. Both seek to reclaim the self from something it can no longer contain. But one treats it as an invader. The other sees it as a wound. This reimagining changes everything. Demons become symptoms to be heard. To name them is to give them form. To make the unconscious visible and in doing so to begin healing. The demon becomes a signal. We all carry versions of this figure. A voice that whispers harm. A hunger that can’t be sated. a cycle we know will hurt us yet we repeat anyway. To deny it is to remain fractured. To confront it is to begin the work of integration. What we once called demonic might simply be what we’ve left unloved. Sometimes it is summoned by the crowd, the pulpit or the courtroom. In every age, demons have served as more than metaphysical threats. They have been instruments of social control. Their faces are shaped by fear, their targets chosen by power. They appear when authority needs justification, when terror needs a name. The witch trials of early modern Europe were about enforcement. Entire systems emerged to detect, extract, and punish signs of invisible corruption. A woman with too much knowledge, a neighbor with a grudge, a healer without sanction. Once accused of communion with the demonic, the outcome was exorcism by fire. And in this theater of fear, blasphemy became indistinguishable from independence. This structure evolved. In the late 20th century, the satanic panic erupted across the United States and beyond. Accusations of hidden cults, demonic rituals in daycarees, backwards messages in music. None of it required evidence. The mere suggestion of demonic influence was enough to fracture families, imprison the innocent, and shape public morality. It was a panic that fed on its own echoes amplified by media, churches, and courts. It was youth culture being hunted, outsider art, deviant expression. The demon once again became a mask worn by those society feared but didn’t understand. The philosopher Michael Fuko argued that every society constructs its monsters to police the boundaries of normal. Madness, crime, sin, these are defined and once defined regulated. The demon here is a label designed to exile, to silence, to correct, and those who wield that label are rarely held to account. There is also a collective psychology at work. Societies project their shadow just as individuals do. In times of upheaval or change, fear coaleses around the unexplainable. Instead of asking difficult questions about power, inequality or trauma, it is far easier to say there is evil among us. The cost of that belief is always borne by the marginal, the strange, the non-compliant. And once accused, you confess or you perish. This is why the demon as a social construct is so potent. It protects the dominant narrative. It keeps the deviant visible, marked, contained. But more than that, it reassures. It tells the mob that they are righteous. It tells the fearful that evil is out there in the music, in the games, in the neighbor they never quite trusted. The demon is needed to maintain the illusion that those in power are protecting something sacred. So we return to the paradox. After augustine and Aquinaus cemented the demon’s theological necessity, after the enlightenment stripped away the literal faith, and after psychology and sociology proved the whole spectacle was a projection, why are they still here? Philosophical atheism did its best to banish them. Spinoza, denying free will, argued that the devil was merely a conceptual category for things we don’t understand. Ignorance disguised as malice. Later, Friedrich Nze rejected the entire moral framework, seeing evil as a weakness, the resentful denial of the pure chaotic will to power. Both great rationalists rejected the literal entity. Yet both wrestled with the forces the demon was created to name. Chaos, suffering, and the irrational impulse. Disbelief cannot kill them because they are not beings. They are an essential category. Modern thinkers like Jung and Joseph Campbell recognize that the demon persists because it functions as a powerful archetype, a pattern deep within the human psyche. It is the necessary villain in every story, the embodiment of the shadow that must be confronted. We see this archetype reconstructed everywhere today, often in secular clothing. Horror films use them as metaphors for modern secular anxieties, the breakdown of the family, political conspiracy, viral contagion, and the loss of self-control. The creature in the dark is the manifestation of our fear of self-sabotage, surveillance, and helplessness. The conclusion is chillingly simple. The demon survives reason because it names something necessary, a source for the chaos we can’t accept as random, or the malice we can’t accept as purely our own. They exist as a perpetual placeholder for the questions we cannot escape. The demon is the shifting shadow cast by the line between obedience and autonomy. We began by asking why the idea persists. The answer is simple. We need something to name what we refuse to claim. The demon is the question mark hanging over the worst things we are willing to do to ourselves. To confront the demon is to accept the cost of being free. Demons lie. They tempt. They corrupt. They’re creatures of passion driven by a frantic and focused intensity. We can understand intensity. We can negotiate with desire. This is no demon. This is an angel. He exists in a state of absolute composure. He is the steward of the void, the keeper of the seal, the one who maintains the key to the deepest reaches of the abyss. He operates through precision. He brings order to the end of things. He releases his power by instruction and mandate. A calm inevitable mechanism that follows its design to the letter. He is the fulfillment of a cosmic law. And he is more terrifying than any demon. If you too are more terrifying than any demon, check out Pantheon, our brand inspired by myths, legends, and folklore. We ship worldwide and are rated excellent on Trust Pilot. Link in the description. Long before Abdon became a figure in apocalyptic literature or demonology, the word carried weight. In the Hebrew Bible, Abdon is presented as a realm or a condition, one linguistically rooted in the Hebrew verb abad, meaning to perish, to vanish or to be destroyed. But Abdon is a domain that sits beyond death, where the dissolution of form, identity, and memory is final and unreoverable. Across multiple Old Testament references, the term appears paired with shol, the shadowed land of the dead. In Job 26:6, Shol is naked before God, and Abdon has no covering. In Proverbs 15:11, Shol and Abdon lie open before the Lord. Together these two terms are used to describe a landscape of the dead where shiel signifies absence and abbodon signifies arasia. Abdon is what remains when the self is stripped of story of form of return. The presence of abdon in wisdom literature isn’t incidental. These texts grapple with justice, existential boundaries and the architecture of creation. Abdon becomes a theological necessity, a concept that allows for the unmaking of what can’t be reconciled. In a cosmology where creation is intentional and covenantal, Abdon is where what cannot be kept is sent to the unwritten. Not evil nor chaotic, but the theological equivalent of deletion, essential, deliberate, and terrifying precisely because it is part of the design. This is where the first psychological fracture opens. Abdon is framed as a space entirely within God’s sight. Abdon has no covering. This is a realm laid bare to divine awareness. God sees it. God names it and by implication God has authorized it. It is built into history, not outside it. In early rebbitic interpretations, Abdon sometimes becomes the one of the chambers of Gehenna, a transitional space, a deeper level, a darker layer of reality reserved for what can’t ascend. Later beliefs would attempt to turn this absence into a presence to name the thing that dwells in the erasia itself. That is where Abdon begins to emerge as a being, a function personified, a role assigned. But before that shift, we are left with the unsettling truth that the earliest layers of the Abrahamic worldview included a word clean, final, and uncompromising that accounted for what must not come back. Abdon. Before Abdon was the destroyer, before the locusts, the keys, or the abyss, there was Muriel. The enthronement of Abaton, a Coptic Christian apocryphon dated between the fifth and sixth century CE, offers one of the few accounts that dares to give Abdon a past. And it does so with obedience. According to this esoteric narrative, Abdon began as Muriel, an angel whose name means God is my incense, a name associated with fragrance, reverence, and liturggical purity. When God resolved to create man, he turned to the angels and commanded them to bring back dust from the earth, the clay from which Adam would be formed. But the earth protested. It cried out, warning that mankind would betray heaven and drown the world in sin. The angels hesitated, refused, wept. Some remained silent, not moved, except Muriel. He descended into the dark, into the places the others feared. He reached into the substance of the world, the dust, the potential for failure, violence, desire, pride, and he gathered it. The matter of man, the future of sin, the seed of death. It was compliance. But in that moment of descent, Muriel crossed a threshold no other angel had touched. He witnessed the creation and at the same time facilitated its risk. And for that act, he was given another task. God said, “Because you are the one who brought the clay for Adam’s body, you shall also bring back what remains. You shall preside over the dead and your name shall no longer be Muriel. You shall be Abaton. This shift is permanent. The lurggical angel becomes the angel of the end. The incense bearer becomes the keeper of the grave. A reassignment, a decision that the same hand which begins must also end. The creation must be balanced by unccreation and someone must hold both roles. Muriel becomes Abdon and in doing so he’s given a key and told when to turn it. This isn’t a descent like Lucifer but something colder. If Lucifer is the rebel, the one who defied, then Abdon is the one who obeyed. Even when obedience meant becoming terrifying in some versions of the enthronement of Abaton, he’s enthroned as king of death. He’s given jurisdiction, dominion. His throne stands in the place where the bodies are returned, where souls are held, where the abyss waits to be opened. And unlike the demons of folklore who fight for their place or steal it through temptation, Abdon inherits his title through function. He was chosen because he was the only one willing to carry out the task. In this, a principle is revealed that horror can arise from faithfulness that a being can remain entirely within the sanction and still be the most feared name in the underworld. Abdan’s story is grace applied to destruction, order, appointment, system. The one who gathers the dust at the beginning gathers it again at the end and the cycle is sealed. The abyss is a masterpiece of architecture. It is a structure within creation designed for the specific purpose of containment. a sealed domain defined by boundaries, gates and locks. It is a functional component of the order and it operates under the stewardship of one who holds the key. Abdon in Revelation 9, the transition is marked by the turning of that key. When the abyss is opened, it is a moment of release for what has been held for an appointed time. From the atmosphere of that realm, a force emerges that operates with absolute adurance to instruction. These are locusts of a specific design. The task is focused and their time frame is fixed exactly five months. The targets are identified by the absence of a specific seal. Their power is granted, constrained, and perfectly directed. They follow a king. Revelation 9:11 identifies him as the angel of the abyss. In Hebrew, his name is Abdon. In Greek, he is Apollon and in Latin, he is exterminance. Each title describes a singular function, the completion of a cycle. He is the one who brings a conclusion to what is no longer required. Abdon exists as a figure of authority. He governs the abyss and regulates access to it. He serves the script with total fidelity. He is a mechanism of divine will, appearing when the integrity of creation requires a deliberate conclusion. He executes mandates established before the beginning of time with clinical precision. While other messengers are defined by their relationship to God, Michael has the likeness of God. Gabriel has the strength of God. Abadon is defined by his action. He is a verb expressed in a sentient form. He is the embodiment of the conclusion. Where others hold identity, he holds function. This is the lifting of containment at the exact hour the design demands. The abyss is the holding chamber for what must be set aside, and Abdon is its faithful steward. He maintains the integrity of the lock and oversees the timing of the key. He represents the necessity of a final authorized end. The opening of the deep is a moment of absolute suspension. It is as if the universe holds its breath, waiting for the weight to settle. When the swarm emerges, it takes the form of locusts, but they carry a gravity that the natural world can’t explain. These are creatures of a focused order. They have no appetite for the harvest. The focus is narrow, settled entirely on the human spirit. The function is the maintenance of presence, ensuring that every moment is felt with clarity that is heavy, constant, and unyielding. In almost every tradition, we are taught to look for the end. But Abdon is defined by the endurance he requires. His locusts are the architects of this presence. The accounts in Revelation describe a window where the boundaries of the grave remain firm. It is a fivemon span where the threshold is held fast. Men look for a finish line that has been moved out of reach. They reach for the silence of the end, but the end has been stayed. This is the steady breathing reality of Abdon’s dominion. While the end is often viewed as a shadow, here it is revealed as a transition that has been paused. Maintaining the boundary of the living, he enforces a state of existence that demands total wakeful participation. The locusts are the physical extension of his hand. They operate with a calculation that is focused entirely on the fulfillment of the schedule. They are the instruments of a system that is perfectly aware of the heartbeat and the clock, ensuring the thread of life remains whole until the mandate is complete. In this moment, Abadon is the overseer of the threshold, standing in the doorway to ensure that no one crosses before the appointed hour. Through his locust army, he manages the access to the finality of things, permitting conclusion only when the design is entirely fulfilled. The most terrifying truths are the sanctioned ones. When Abdon appears in the old text, the historians and the monks see him, but they provide a different label. Faced with a figure too organized for evil and too devastating to be ignored, they took the only path that offered comfort. They demoted him. They called him a devil, demon, prince of ruin, king of the pit. These names serve to make him smaller, providing a fragile sense of safety. But the reality remains much colder. Abadon stands by appointment, occupying his role through a specific divine commission. In the book of Revelation, his arrival triggers an absolute crushing silence. The heavens remain quiet because the calendar already accounted for this moment, a scheduled necessity. This part carries a particular weight. While we have a place for outlaws and enemies, Avdon belongs to the machine. His job encompasses the very things we fear the most. Erasia and containment and the end of the line. Telling ourselves he represents a rebellion feels easier than accepting that a chair always waited for him at the table. In the Middle Ages, stories pulled him into the orbit of hell. They placed him on lists assigning him ranks and sins to manage. But his nature remained separate. He stays indifferent to the soul, focusing instead on the clock. As a being of singular purpose, Abdon appears exactly when the conditions are met, when the world hits that specific point in the cycle where the deep must open and the conclusion must start. A principle with a face. To call him a demon is an exit strategy. It offers a reason to look away and claim he exists outside our order. But the evidence suggests otherwise. He forms the interior of the design, the result of a universe building a role for the end and finding someone steady enough to fill it. Abadar arrives when the contract expires. He answers when the structure calls for the story to conclude. If the thought of a holy messenger overseeing the silence feels unbearable, then perhaps Abdon is not the source of our fear. The fear lies in the fact that he was always meant to be there. In the Cabala, Abadon appears at the very edge of our understanding, a boundary condition for the soul. He is the force that activates when the way forward is blocked. He stands at the veil, the space between what we can carry with us and what we must leave behind. Abdon is the one who clears the path, removing the corrupted structures of the past when they can no longer be repaired. Later traditions place him in a role of systemic judgment. In these texts, his name serves to enforce a conclusion, to cut, to end. He is the guardian of the threshold, ensuring that we are permitted to rest rather than being forced to persist in a state of decay. He is a companion for those willing to look at the inevitable. In esoteric writings, Abdon acts as the angel of cleansing fire. This is fire as a reset. He ensures that what has gone too far is allowed to stop. He is the refusal to let suffering become eternal. He is the mercy of the finish line. Across all these traditions, a single pattern holds. Abdon is order breaking down into its quietest form. He is the function that remains when everything else has been spent. When the system fails, when the structure bends beyond recovery, he remains steady. He stays present amidst the wreckage. He turns the key. Most of us live with a quiet hope that our existence is a deposit. That even if we vanish, the account remains. We believe that someone somewhere is keeping a record. Abdon is the proof that they aren’t. He’s not the predator hunting you in the dark. He is the dark. He’s the divine realization that some things were never meant to be eternal, including you. He doesn’t want your soul. He wants the space it occupies. He is the holy mandate to make the universe empty again. When you feel that specific hold weight in the middle of the night, the one that tells you your life is a temporary loan. That isn’t a demon whispering. It’s the steward waiting. He’s the only one who stays until the very end. to make sure that when you go, nothing of you remains. No echo, no memory, no ghost. He’s the one who watches the light go out and feels nothing but the satisfaction of a job well done. Hell has order, thrones, hierarchies, laws. Even the devil answers to something. But there is a name that predates, a presence older than Satan’s crown. A force that corrupts. Ancient texts call it lawlessness. Kings felt it behind their thrones. Prophets warned that when it rises, truth collapses and power rots. This is the demon too evil for hell. If you too are a force that corrupts, check out Pantheon, our brand inspired by myths, legends, and folklore. We ship worldwide and are rated excellent on Trust Pilot. link in the description bel yoke. In its earliest form, it was a judgment. It described a person who had rejected all forms of law. covenant and restraint. One who had thrown off the moral structure and would not be brought back under it. Throughout the Hebrew Bible, the phrase sons of Beiel appears as a label for those beyond redemption. But even here, Beiel is more than a metaphor. He moves under the surface, nameless, but present, the force invoked whenever society fractures from the inside. In Deuteronomy 13:13, the sons of Beiel are men who rise up in the community and lead an entire city into idolatry, turning the people away from the covenant, inciting them to worship alien gods. The penalty is total destruction. The city is to be raised, its inhabitants killed, wealth burned, its ruins left forever. In judges 1922, the sons of Beiel surrounded a house at night, demanding that a male guest be handed over for sexual abuse. When refused, they abuse and murder a woman instead. The crime triggers one of the bloodiest civil wars in Israel’s history. These mens are described as something lower than human, an infection. In Samuel 2:12, the sons of the high priest Eli are called sons of Belio. They steal from the sacrificial offerings, sleep with the women who serve at the tabernacle, and show contempt for sacred rituals. These acts directly provoke the downfall of Eli’s house and the collapse of Israel’s priesthood. In each case, Beiel doesn’t appear as a figure, but his presence is everywhere order fails. He represents the collapse of a covenant. The world is an accusation, one that marks you for destruction. As the centuries passed, the accusation took form where once people were considered sons of Beiel, something began to answer. In the dry caves of Kumran, buried beneath centuries of dust, the hidden theology of a forgotten sect was sealed away. When the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered in 1947, they revealed a worldview unlike anything in the canonized Hebrew scriptures. These were the writings from a people on the margins. Convinced that the world had been overtaken by corruption and that the end was near, the authors, likely members of the Esenes, a strict apocalyptical sect that withdrew from mainstream Jewish society, believed in a universe divided between two absolute forces, the prince of light and the angel of darkness. They were ruling intelligences, commanders. And for the angel of darkness, they gave a name, Belle. In these scrolls, Beiel has become a sovereign, a being with authority, a throne, and a clearly defined role in the fate of the world. The most detailed of these visions is found in the war scroll, which lays out a future apocalyptic conflict between the sons of light and the sons of darkness. It’s a war manual complete with formations, trumpets, banners, and phases of battle. At the head of the sons of darkness stands Belio, commanding both human armies and a vast host of evil spirits. These include lying prophets, corrupt rulers, traitors within the covenant, all under his direct control. He’s order corrupted. His kingdom mirrors that of righteousness, but its purpose is inversion, deception, and collapse. Other scrolls go further. In the community rule, the entire human race is divided between two lots. One walks in the spirit of truth under divine guidance. The other is handed over to Belio. His followers are described as spiritually deformed, unable to see, hear or speak rightly. Their condition is the work of Belio who blinds the eyes of the wise and twists the path of justice. In these texts, Belil is also linked with a figure known as Masterar, the angel of hostility. In earlier apocryphal books like Jubilees, Masterar is granted permission by God to test, deceive, and destroy. The scrolls inherit that, but refine it. Here, Belio becomes a parallel authority, the enemy of justice itself. He’s permitted to act for a time. But what separates Belio from other iconic deities is he’s allowed to govern the wicked, to rule over a system that must be exposed before it can be destroyed. Unlike Satan, who retains some function within judgment, as accuser, as adversary, as rebel, Belio is outside entirely. He consumes the unworthy. He operates a form of evil that is fully systemized, fully conscious, and fully organized. A kingdom of darkness with its own order and with that the curse becomes a crown. The word becomes a ruler. The name becomes a throne. Velio rules and what he rules is everything that cannot be saved. In the grimoirs of medieval Europe, he returns as king. Inscribed in Latin and bound in books that promise power to those who dare to call him. Among these texts, one stands above the rest. The Lemmaeton or Lesser Key of Solomon, a foundational manual of demon summoning compiled between the 17th and 18th centuries. The first section known as the Argo Galatia lists 72 demons said to have been bound by King Solomon himself. These spirits are cataloged with precision, each with their title, appearance, and abilities and number of legions. Belio is one of the highest ranking. He’s named as a mighty and powerful king created immediately after Lucifer. He commands 80 legions of demons. The grimoirs describe him as appearing with the grace and stature of a ruler. He comes as a crowned figure, regal and composed with the calm presence of one who expects to be obeyed. Some sources say he rides upon a chariot of fire before others describe him seated, speaking with clear and commanding voice. He arrives as power made visible. But this power doesn’t come cheaply. The goalia warns that Belio will only speak the truth or remain loyal if offered a proper sacrifice, a gift, a promise, or an offering of blood. Without it, he deceives, manipulates, and destroys. He grants titles, favors, and positions of power. He’s said to elevate individuals to dignities, reconcile enemies, and redispute influence across courts and kingdoms. His power is transactional. He gives because he can, not because he must. Among the hierarchy of hell, he is placed alongside other great rulers, Assodius, Bezub, Pon. But Belio’s rule is different. His authority isn’t based on obedience to Satan or Lucifer. His position is his own. He is the throne. Summoners fear him for this reason. They call upon him for influence but treated him with suspicion. He was known to lie, known to corrupt, known to turn rituals back to their casters. Unless compelled by specific ceremonial protections, Belio would act according to his will, and his will was rarely aligned with those who summoned him. In the Groatia, there are demons who teach philosophy. Others reveal treasure, command, weather, or offer secret knowledge. Velio offers something else. Authority without allegiance. He rules without chains. He ascends without loyalty. He gives power but never gives it away. In these texts, the ancient accusation has become a king. The angel of hostility has become a patron of dominance. The force of lawlessness now speaks in legal terms. Binding contracts, negotiated offerings, signed packs. Belio is negotiated with. In the ancient world, demons brought storm, sickness, temptation. But Belio’s power runs through governance. His territory is systems. He appoints, he rules, and what he rules is corrupt authority. Across centuries of demonology and esoteric theology, Belio emerges again and again as a force behind regimes that rot from within. In political grimmoirs and later occult interpretation, he is named as the patron of tyrants, false priests, puppet kings, and the machinery that sustains them. Beiel twists power. He bends thrones into altars to himself. His name becomes shorthand for man manipulation through office. Medieval texts associate him with false prophets who spoke in the name of God but answered only to personal gain. He was seen behind inquisitions that justified cruelty. Rulers who turned laws into weapons and institutions that fed on fear and control. This culminates in an interpretation of two Thessalonians 2 where the Apostle Paul warns of a figure called the man of sin or the son of pition. One who seats himself in the temple of God claiming divinity. Though the text never names him. Some early demonologists and later occultists identified this figure with Belio, viewing him as a prototype of the Antichrist. It wasn’t just what he destroyed, it was how. through systems that appear legitimate, through temples, palaces, and courts, through titles, rituals, and laws. Wherever power exists without virtue, wherever authority serves no truth, but its own survival, Belon is enthroned. Some demons fell. Belio never did. There are angels who rebel, are cast down, are punished for disobedience. Even Satan remains tethered to a role. adversary, tester, accuser. He is part of the celestial order, even if he acts as a shadow. But Beiel doesn’t fall from grace. He emerges outside of it. There is no record of his rebellion because there was no allegiance to break, no descent because there was no height. If the divine is the architect of light and law, Belio is the preexisting nothingness that refused to be organized. You cannot fall from a building that was constructed after you were already standing in the field. The autonomy is what makes him singular. Where Satan acts with structure, even in defiance, Beliel exists in opposition to structure itself. He is lawlessness that organizes, authority without appointment, a throne without a crown above it. Earlier we saw him as a general in the war scroll and a king in the grimoirs. These are his nature. This is why the dead sea scrolls describe the end of days as a collision of two totalities. This is the light attempting to finally colonize the darkness and the darkness finally attempting to extinguish the light. In Belilio, we find an alternative to existence. He is a rival and unlike those who fell, Belil never had to rise. In modern occult traditions, Beliel is embraced, transformed from a figure of condemnation into a symbol of liberation. In systems like phimma, Satanism and Luciferianism, Beliel reemerges as an archetype of radical sovereignty. Fimma, the occult philosophy founded by Alistister Crowley, presents Beliel as a part of the infernal hierarchy, but also as a force aligned with the individual’s true will, the innermost untainable drive that resists external law. Beliel is the refusal to kneel, the impulse to ascend through will alone. In Crowley’s workings and lateric writings, Beliel appears as a current, the black flame, a destructive creative power that refuses to be tamed by divine or dogmatic authority. In Luciferianism, Belio represents what cannot be shackled. He’s invoked by those who seek to dismantle internal and external systems of control. Practitioners call upon him for spiritual rebellion, self-ruule, and the dissolution of inherited constraints. His invocation is philosophical. Beliel is seen as the power that demands nothing and offers everything at a price. The destruction of illusion. Even within some current systems of Satanism, particularly theistic Satanism and anti-cossmic traditions, Belio is set apart. He is an ally of entropy, a symbol of the will to collapse all imposed order, moral, cosmic or spiritual. To those who walk these paths, Belio is the refusal to be defined. He is what stands at the center of power without ever bowing to the structures that claim to grant it. In these traditions, Belio is liberation through destruction. Freedom from the system, a throne that cannot be given because it was never taken. It was always his. Christianity, like it does with many other forces, buries. It renames, absorbs, and simplifies. It takes fragmented horrors and rival powers and fools them into a single manageable adversary. By the time the doctrine is hardened, the specific terror of Beiel was flattened. He became just another name on a list of demons, another face for Satan. But as we’ve seen, the record tells a different story. Throughout history, the sons of Beiel were ungovernable. From the scrolls of the Kumran to the grimoirs of the kings, Belio was never a servant of the divine order gone wrong. He was the architect of an alternative. This distinction is what the early church could not allow to persist. Satan, even in his darkest form, is a creature of the system. He is the fallen son, the permitted adversary, the accuser who still recognizes the court’s authority. But Belio is the anti-creation. He represents the terrifying possibility that power can exist entirely outside heaven’s order. To maintain a universe governed by a single hierarchy, you must collapse the enemy into a singular figure. You must turn the rival into a rebel. Beliel refuses that collapse. He stands as a reminder that there is a form of power that doesn’t ask for permission. A throne with no crown above it. A name with no chain behind it. The doctrines say the devil will one day be bound. But Belio was never part of that contract. And that is why even if Satan is bound, Belio still stands. We spent centuries watching the horizon for a rebellion, never realizing that the vacancy was the point. Beliel isn’t the one who broke the world. He’s the one who moved in once it stopped working. He doesn’t need to tempt you. He just needs to stay quiet while the lights go out. He isn’t coming. He’s already finished. Dweller in the abyss. Demon of dispersion. The last voice before transcendence. He’s encountered at the edge of everything you think you are. He is chaos given shape and shape collapsing back into chaos. Those who meet him return changed. Some don’t return at all. If you too dwell in the abyss, check out Pantheon, our brand inspired by myths, legends, and folklore. We ship worldwide under rated excellent on Trust Pilot. Link in the description. Buried in the journals of John D is a name Coronzon. D was a mathematician, alchemist, and court astrologer to Queen Elizabeth I. In the 1580s, he began working with Edward Kelly, a scrier who claimed to receive visions through a polished obsidian mirror. Together they documented what they believed was a divine language, Inoino, delivered by angelic intelligences during their ritual sessions. Ino was structured and systematic. It included a full alphabet, syntax, invocations, and names of entities organized into hierarchies. D believed it was the original language spoken by angels and it could be used to make direct contact with celestials. Over several years, they compiled a vast volume of material. Most of the names recorded had clearly defined roles within the cosmology. They were linked to elemental forces, planetary influences, or specific heavens. The language was consistent and detailed with cross-referenced tables and layered meanings. Coronzon, he did not fit. His name appears briefly without description. No associated function, no mention of alignment, purpose, or origin. He isn’t categorized among the angelic or demonic beings that populate the rest of De’s work. There is no ritual for summoning him, no seal for controlling him, and no explanation for why his name appears at all. This is highly unusual. In a framework built entirely around precision and spiritual taxonomy, a name without context stands out. It suggests something unaccounted for, something outside the structure being built. D and Kelly, they moved on, but the name remained in the record. Later interpretations would attach significant to it, but in De’s original writing, Coronzon is simply there, a single name that breaks from the rest of the pattern. Corumzon is tied to the abyss, a rupture in the occult understanding of consciousness where the self begins to disintegrate. Within the esoteric map known as the tree of life, the soul is said to ascend through 10 levels of awareness, the sephro. Each one reflecting a more refined aspect of existence. The lower spheres deal with the familiar emotion, memory, will, thought, while the uppermost ones are said to be entirely beyond the individual self. These higher states are reached only by letting go of everything one thinks they are. But between the two regions lies a void, the abyss. This is where he waits. At the center is a point called Darth. It appears to belong to the map, but it isn’t counted among the 10 Sepharoth. Some describe it as a false step, a trap that mimics enlightenment, but leads only to collapse. Darth is associated with knowledge but not the kind that elevates. It reveals rather than guides. It exposes the self without preparing it. And when a person stands at this threshold halfway between the lower and higher realities, Coronzon becomes active. He is the result of crossing into da with any trace of ego still intact. His role is to tear apart whatever the individual is still clinging to. If there’s pride, it gets magnified. If there’s fear, it becomes overwhelming. If the person believes they’ve achieved something, he flatters them into complacency, then strips it away. He is the process of mental and spiritual fragmentation. What happens when the ego encounters a space where it can no longer define itself? His power is in reflection. He reflects back every fractured thought, every contradiction, every unacknowledged fear. And he does it all at once. There is no center in Darth, no stability. Coranzon uses that to unravel the mind from the inside out. For those who attempt to reach higher consciousness, Corenzon is the final test, a trial of emptiness. Only a self that has fully dissolved can cross the abyss and remain whole. He welcomes your arrival. He opens the path. But once you believe you’ve succeeded, that’s when he begins. Here’s what you face when you confuse glimpses of awakening for full transcendence. When you carry identity, status, or control into a realm where those things lose all meaning. Unlike other demons, Corzon cannot be exercised. There is no ritual that banishes him, no mantra that silences him. Once encountered, he leaves a mark. Even those who pass through him and reach the other side are changed. The idea of a solid self becomes difficult to return to. He is what happens when you go too far too fast when you attempt to leap into spiritual heights without collapsing everything false within you. Coron reveals he was never ready to begin with. In December 1909, Alistister Crowley and his companion Victor Noberg stood at the edge of the Algerian desert with a singular purpose to summon Kuranszon and cross the abyss. Crowley, who styled himself as the prophet of a new age, believed that spiritual enlightenment demanded confrontation with the limits of the self. They traveled to the remote part of the desert near Buada, far from interruption because the ritual required complete control. Crowley drew the triangle of manifestation into the sand and marked the circle of protection where Noberg would stand as scribe and guardian. The names of divine powers were inscribed around him. Within the triangle, Crowley positioned himself as the bait. He would serve as the medium, the vessel through which Coramzon would be given voice. Then they began. According to Crowley’s own account, Coronzon emerged quickly and violently through the voice. Crowley’s own voice twisted and accelerated. He spoke in riddles, lies, and flattery. He offered truth wrapped in deception, deception wrapped in certainty. At first, he tried seduction, presenting visions of power and dominion. Then he turned to mockery, questioning Noyberg’s courage, insulting his intelligence, and probing for psychological cracks. The entity never remained still. Coron shifted shape constantly. A woman, a warrior, a scholar, a beast. Each form a reflection of the ego’s last defense mechanisms, a living collapse of coherence. Crowley became agitated. At one point, Coronzon physically lunged from the triangle toward Nyberg, the line between hallucination and real danger was blurred, but Nyberg reacted instinctively, using the ritual dagger to reinforce the protective circle. He held the space together while Crowley collapsed, muttering, sweating, writhing in the dust. The ritual reached its end point in absolute silence. Voices fell quiet as the working came to a close. Coronzon remained until will, body, and mind had reached their limit. Crowley and Nyberg endured him in full, and the record that survived describes strain, exhaustion, and the sense of something far larger pressing against them. Crowley later framed the operation as a breakthrough, claiming passage across the abyss and the grade of Magister Temple. The aftermath told of a harsher story. Noberg’s stability eroded over the years that followed, and Crowley revisited the encounter repeatedly in his writings, each time with a tone of a man who sensed unfinished business. Coron exposes the seeker to every fragment of self that resists surrender. The desert released their bodies. The experience remained. In the ritual that summoned Coronzon, every line, every word, every gesture was deliberate. Without it, the thing they sought to contact would spill through and consume everything. And so, the design began with geometry. The triangle of manifestation, also known as the triangle of art, was inscribed into the desert sand. It wasn’t arbitrary. The triangle, a cage, a shape used to give form to the formless. It’s where the spirit is meant to appear, bound by the triangle’s points. The summoner never enters this space. They stand in the circle outside it. The names of divine intelligences are written around it to reinforce its barrier. Break the circle and the boundary fails. Everything in the ritual served the same purpose, to hold Coronzorn in place just long enough to confront him. There is no tool that binds him entirely. He’s always slipping out of form. His very nature is dispersion. The triangle can only ever temporarily stabilize him, forcing him into coherence just long enough for the ritual to take place. He’s concentrated. Containment doesn’t mean control. Coranzon has no stable identity. No single image defines him. He appears as what matters to you. He takes the shape of the unresolved. the desirable, the believable. In every documented encounter, he adapts the collapse of all fixed meaning. This lack of form is strategy. He presents himself through illusions tailored to the psyche of the observer. To one, they may seem like a mentor or spiritual guide. To another, he arrives as a seducer, a voice of love or reassurance. In other cases, he’s appeared as a serpent, a divine child, or even the aspirin’s own reflection. Each appearance is crafted to infiltrate. Power is gained by presenting what the seeker wants to see just long enough to draw them deeper into confusion. What makes him truly dangerous is the intent behind it. Coron’s forms are weapons of distraction. They are believable, comforting, even revelatory, partial truths, echoes of real memories or emotions. But none of them are whole. Every form he takes serves to fragment attention, to turn the focus outward, to prevent you from facing the internal collapse required to cross the abyss. redirection, a way of anchoring the ego in something that feels familiar when the ego should be dissolving. In phmic terms, this is the final trap. Coron offers visions of progress. He offers a shortcut. He simulates success. He mimics enlightenment. Those who accept his forms without dismantling the parts of themselves that crave them are the ones who fail. What Coronz exposes is the need for illusion. That need is what keeps you from crossing. That need is what he speaks through. Crowley described him as the maker of all form. He produces the appearance of reality. He offers containment where there should be collapse. Structure where there should be release, form where there should be formlessness. That is the essence of the encounter. You confront everything in yourself that demands things remain fixed, definable, safe. And if that part of you still holds on, Coronzon doesn’t need to destroy you. He just keeps you there, circling your illusions until you do it yourself. Crowley wrote that Coronzon is dispersion given a voice. But his deeper warning was that Corenzon speaks through the part of the mind that refuses to let go. He isn’t the destroyer of the ego, but its final expression. Every structure the individual has built around identity, purpose, progress, and enlightenment is gathered here at the edge of the abyss. And Coronzong uses those structures as his medium. He draws from you your own convictions and repeats them with perfect accuracy. The danger lies in how familiar that voice sounds. The ego has one instinct above all others to continue. Even when the path demands dissolution, even when crossing requires the abandonment of every claim to selfhood, the ego asserts itself. It says I understand. It says I am ready. It says I have achieved this. These statements feel like alignment and confidence, but they are symptoms of attachment. He reinforces them. He amplifies the certainty that should have been surrendered long before the aspirant reached this threshold. This is why the abyss is described as the place where false enlightenment flourishes. A person may mistake insight for transformation. They may confuse intellectual understanding with spiritual annihilation. They may believe that the collapse of identity is something they can oversee, manage or direct. He presents every remaining fragment of selfhood as proof of progress. He encourages you to step forward while carrying everything they were meant to abandon. He offers clarity that feels profound but leads nowhere. He allows you to believe that they have crossed when they have not even begun. In this state, you confront yourself magnified, multiplied, fragmented. Coron reveals the parts of the ego that resist dissolution, the parts that seek continuity, the parts that claim I am, even when that claim prevents any genuine ascent. His influence is ordered, precise, and entirely constructed from the person who stands before him. The discrepancy between what you think you’ve become and what you truly are becomes the substance of the encounter. This is why he is feared. Corenzon shatters the psyche through agreement. He feeds certainty into the very places where uncertainty was required. He turns confidence into confinement and turn spiritual ambition into a closed loop. Nothing in his presence forces collapse. The collapse comes from your insistence on holding together. By confirming the lie that says I am, Coronzon prevents you from dissolving into what lies beyond. Coronzan is no longer summoned with blood. He’s logged in. The collapse he once brought in the desert now unfolds in every timeline, thread, and feed. There is now recursion. Where there was once the abyss, there is now the algorithm. Corumon has migrated to a condition. He thrives where the boundary between signal and noise is eroded. where attention is fragmented across a thousand tabs and where the selfhood is curated by engagement metrics and hollow affirmations. This is dispersion in its purest form. In the age of the digital ego, he only needs to convince you that you are whole. And that’s easy because you’re already saying it. I am awakened. I am sovereign. I am the main character. The screen reflects them back with likes, shares, and manufactured resonance. Spiritual pride has never been easier to access. Enlightenment has never been easier to fake. What Crowley described as the final obstacle to transcendence is now a personality brand. He appears as you when you mistake attention for ascension. He appears as the unearned certainty that your path is complete, your awakening is real, and your insight is unique. He appears every time transformation is mimicked instead of lived. Coronzan is a presence you become. He is what’s left when the silence deepens and no self answers back. When thought no longer tracks and every reflection lies, he is what waits. When there’s nothing left to guard, the echo of your last certainty, stretching into the void, hoping something answers. Nothing does. That’s when you realize he didn’t speak. You did. They’ve worn many names. Pizuzu, Asmadas, perform it. Once they were storms, then angels, now symbols. But they’ve always haunted us. Long before demonology had a name, we were already trying to understand evil. This is the complete timeline of that obsession. This is the history of demonology. Long before the term demon was spoken, the world was already haunted. The earliest civilizations didn’t use theology to explain their suffering, and they gave it a face, a name, and tried to trap it in clay, chant it out with incantations, or beg stronger spirits for protection. These were forces people genuinely believed could steal a child’s breath, rot the crops, or drive a man mad. In ancient Mesopotamia, the land between the rivers, demons were forces of misfortune, fear, and decay. They could live in the wilderness, hide in homes, slip through the cracks in the wall, or ride the wind. One of the most feared of these was Pizuzu, demon of the Westwind. He was grotesque, a hybrid of man and beast with canine jaws, eagle talons, and a scaly body and wings. He brought famine and locusts, especially during the dry season, but fear of him became a weapon. His image was carved into amulets and plaques to repel something worse. Lamashtu was that worse. A lone predator among spirits, Lamashtu acted without the command of any god. She was the tormentor of mothers and children causing miscarriages, poisoning breast milk, and snatching infants from their cribs. Her image was even more monstrous, lionheaded with donkey teeth, long fingers, clutching snakes, and riding on a donkey herself. Her presence was so feared that detailed incantation tablets were written solely to protect women from her. One ritual involved burying a figurine of Lamashtu near the head of the bed alongside the offerings of bread and water to distract or appease her. Then there were the Rabisu, ambushers who haunted doorways, graveyards, and forgotten corners. They weren’t always purely evil. In some texts, Rabisu appear as shadowy figures dispatched by the gods, agents of punishment rather than chaos. But to the living, the effect was the same. Terror, illness, and dread, nightmares, fevers, sleep paralysis, these were all the signs. Stepping into an unclean space or disturbing a neglected tomb could draw their attention. To protect against them, the people inscribed ritual spells on clay tablets and buried figurines of protective spirits under thresholds and walls. One Ocadian incantation begins. By the word of the gods, I bind you. Spirit of the night, spirit of disease, spirit of death. Mesopotamian demonology was already forming as a survival strategy. Know the name, say the spell, seal the door. In Egypt, the line between demon and God was not always clear. The cosmos itself was defined by the struggle between order and chaos. And the most terrifying face of chaos was Apep, the great serpent. Every night he rose from the abyss to devour the sun god Ra during his journey through the underworld. Our Pep was not evil in a moral sense. He was annihilation, the end of balance, light, and being. To fight him, priests recited passages from the book of overthrowing our pebb, cursing him with red ink, trampling his effiges, and ritually burning his image. Ancient spells describe the serpent as destruction in vivid terms. Your spirit is cut up, your vertebrae severed. You are repelled, crushed, and turned back. These rituals caused for Apep’s name to be erased, his bones broken, his power undone. But not all threats were cosmic. The duat, Egypt’s underworld, was filled with spirits far more personal. Amit, the devourer of dread, waited beneath the scales of judgment. Crocodile head, lion’s chest, hippos haunchers. He was built from Egypt’s most feared predators. If the heart of the deceased weighed more than the feather of Maart, Amit consumed it. There was no hell, no torment, just a second death. Complete erasure. To reach the hall of judgment, the soul had to pass through a series of gates. Each was guarded by monstrous spirits with names like mistress of anger dancing on blood or he who lives on snakes. These guardians demanded passwords, names, and spells. Without them, the soul would be turned back, or worse. The dead were buried with scrolls, amulets, and spells inked in red and black instructions. The book of the dead was a guide for the afterlife, a collection of everything the soul would need to survive the journey. It was armor laid in words, charged with power. Egyptian demonology was a structured labyrinth, a map of spiritual threat where every monster had a name and every name had a counter spell. Then came a turning point, Zoroastrianism, one of the first belief systems to divide the universe into good and evil as metaphysical forces. At its center stood the Ahuram Mazda, the wise lord of truth, and his shadow, Angramanu, or Aiman, the destructive spirit. Aramman was more than chaos. He was malevolence with a strategy. He created death, disease, darkness, and falsehood and waged war on creation itself. Unlike the chaotic spirits of Mesopotamia or the guardians of Egypt, Arian was part of a structured cosmology. His followers, the Davas, were former spirits who had turned from light and now embodied lies, violence, and corruption. They were organized, cunning, and focused entirely on undoing the order of Ahura Mazda. In Zoroastrian texts like the Vendidad and Yasna, Ahiman’s tactics are detailed. Tempting humanity into impurity, spreading plague, and twisting minds. Fire temples, ritual, cleanliness, sacred prayers. These were weapons in war. Human action mattered. Every lie, every unclean act fed the demon’s cause. This was the moment demonology became theology. Evil was no longer just dangerous. It was deliberate and it had a name. Before we go any deeper into fire, into sacrifice, take a moment to protect something we still have the power to keep. Rest. 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Big thanks to Mantisleep for sponsoring this video. While western demonology would eventually codify hierarchies and grimoirs, other cultures already had their own monsters and spirits that punished, tormented, and lingered on the edges of life and death. They were shaped by different beliefs, but their presence imitated the same fears. Sickness, taboo, violation, and the breakdown of order. In Hindu texts, the lines between God and spirit and demon is constantly shifting. Assuras were once divine beings, rivals to the davas. Over time, they became enemies of order, proud, ambitious, and dangerous. They weren’t evil by default, but their defiance of dharma made them adversaries. Then came the raaseers, flesh-eating shape- shifters known for their cunning and cruelty. In the Ramayana, entire armies of raaseases wage war against the gods led by the demon king Raana. And deeper still were the vetilus spirits who possessed corpses and hung upside down from trees and graveyards. They were parasitic, lingering between worlds, feeding on the dead, speaking riddles to those who dared confront them. Some were protectors, some were predators. The question was whether you disturbed them or needed them. In China, the dead didn’t always rest. Ghosts roam the earth if their burial was improper. If debts were unpaid or if vengeance remained unfinished, these spirits can become hostile, clinging to the world through hunger, regret, or rage. Then there are the moai, malevolent demons that infest homes, cause madness, or ride on the backs of sickness. To counter them, Chinese religion developed an entire bureaucracy of the afterlife. Jean Quay the demon hunter became a folk hero, a fierce bearded figure who could command spirits and banish demons with a glare. Tauist priests held power over these forces. Paper talismans called fu were written in vermilion and burned to increase their power. The underworld itself was structured like a court ruled by hell judges who presided over punishment of the souls. Demons here were employed, documented, and sentenced. In Japan, demons weren’t condemned to hell. They were born in the mountains, crept through the woods, and crawled through old houses. Oni, horned, tusked monsters were said to appear during times of great violence or plague, often as punishing spirits or corrupted humans. Their skin was red or blue. Their hunger was constant. But Japan’s demonology was far broader. The yo-kai is the umbrella term of countless strange creatures. Some playful, others nightmarish. Chukcomogami are objects that come to life after a hundred years. A sandal, a teapot, a lantern filled with the resentful spirit of being forgotten. Japanese demons are metaphors as much as monsters. They reflect isolation, resentment, shame, and the fear of losing one’s place in the world. And yet they are still honored, offered rice, soothed with song, or appeased during festivals. Fear here isn’t always a curse. Sometimes it’s a relationship. In West Africa, the Oayuo of Ashanti folklore is a vampiric witch spirit feeding on the life of children, glowing with eerie phosphoresence and driven by greed and envy. In some tales, they walk among the living, hiding in plain sight, only revealing their true form at night. Further south, among Zulu and kosher communities, the Tokoshi is a mischievous but deadly spirit, often described as small, hairy, and grotesque. Said to crawl into beds at night, it can choke sleepers or attack them in their dreams. To ward it off, some households raise their beds on bricks, keeping themselves just out of reach. In Tanzania, the Popo Bawa terrorized the island of Pembbember with a wave of reported assaults and possessions. Said to shapeshift and speak telepathically, the poaba sparked mass hysteria. Entire communities sleeping outdoors, armed with machetes, waiting for a shadow that may never have been real, but was believed all the same. In the forests of North America, the Wendigo haunted the Algonquians, a spirit of winter, starvation, and insatiable hunger. To see one was to witness the ruin of a man who had fed on human flesh. Its body was emaciated, its heart was frozen, its appetite eternal. It was both a monster and a warning. Among the Navajo, skinw walkers were witches who could transform into animals, wear the skins of beasts or steal the faces of the living. They represented a complete violation of cultural taboos. Those who had traded their humanity for power, just speaking of them aloud is considered dangerous. And in the Aztec world, the Siwateo, spirits of women who died in childbirth, were said to return to the earth on specific nights. They roamed crossroads, howling like the wind, searching for children to drag into the underworld. Though they had once been honored for dying in the act of giving life, they became feared for the way they returned. These demons may come from different continents, but they ask the same questions. What is forbidden? What is sacred? And what happens when that balance is broken? As organized religion took shape, the idea of evil became more systemized, more personal, more terrifying. Demons were no longer just things that haunted the dark. They were part of the moral architecture of the universe, reflections of sin, rebellion, and divine punishment. In early Judaism, the universe was not yet split into good and evil. Spirits, angels, and demons all coexisted in a shifting hierarchy. But as theological frameworks evolved, some beings fell from grace. The book of Enoch, written between the 3rd and 1st centuries B.C.E., introduced the Watchers, angels sent to watch over humanity, who instead took mortal wives and taught forbidden knowledge. Their children, the Nephilim, were giants who devoured the earth. When the flood came, their bodies perished, but their spirits lived on, bitter and violent. These disembodied spirits were among the first to be called demons. Another figure emerged from the shadows, Lilith. In older Mesopotamian law, Lilith was already a wind of spirit or night demon. But in post-biblical Jewish mysticism, especially in the alphabet of Ben Sira, she became Adam’s first wife, cast out for refusing to be subservient. In exile, she became the mother of demons, seducer of men, killer of infants. Not born of hell, Lilith was born of rejection. Then came Asadias, a demon king mentioned in the book of Tobit. He was the spirit of lust and destruction known for killing the husbands of a woman named Sarah on their wedding nights. In later cabalistic writings, demons like Asmodus were sorted into hierarchies given names, roles, and weaknesses. The Jewish demon became something new, a cautionary spirit with a name and a history. Christianity transformed these chaotic spirits into a disciplined army. Satan, once a Hebrew term for adversary, became the adversary, the morning star who fell from heaven. Influenced by texts like Enoch, Christian writers imagined Satan leading a rebellion against God and being cast into the abyss with a third of the heavenly host. These fallen angels became the demons, corrupted intelligences with immense power driven by envy and rage. Church fathers wrestled with their purpose. Augustine of Hippo argued that evil had no substance. It was the absence of good. Demons then were distorters of God’s design. They couldn’t act without permission, but they could tempt. They could whisper. They could twist. Thomas Ainas centuries later would go further. He classified demons by the sins they represented. Lust, greed, pride, and mapped their movements through the world. The air between heaven and earth became their domain. The body their battlefield. Possession was real. Exorcism was a necessity. Demonology became official doctrine. No longer fallen spirits, but instead foot soldiers in the war for human souls. In Islam, the story is different, but just as intricate. The Quran introduces elin created from smokeless fire. When God created Adam and commanded the angels to bow, Eliss refused out of pride. He believed fire was superior to clay. For his arrogance, he was cast out. But unlike the Christian Satan, he was not beyond God’s control. Eliss asked for time until the day of judgment, and God granted it. This was his trial and humanities. Eliss and the Shayatin, his demonic kin, are tempters rather than tyrants. They whisper, suggest, deceive, but they don’t force. Humans still choose. Demons in Islam are part of the test. Tools by which the faithful are proven. And unlike Christianity, where demons are permanently damned, the jin are morally fluid. Some are wicked, others are devout. They live, die, marry, and worship. Tales of possession and exorcism exist here too. Rukia, the spirit of healing, invokes verses from the Quran to drive out spirits, but the emphasis remains on discipline, on the remembrance of God, and on resistance. But one question cuts through these traditions. If God is all powerful and all good, why allow demons at all? Judaism offers rebellion as an answer. Spirits who chose wrongly and were allowed to persist. Christianity reframes it as a test. Demons tempt, but through them faith is forged. Islam is perhaps the most direct. Demons exist by God’s will, and even evil serves a function. There is no rival power. Only a divine plan too vast for humans to grasp. In all three faiths, demons aren’t random horrors. They’re deliberate. They hold up a mirror showing us pride, lust, envy, defiance, and asking, “What will you do when no one is watching?” As theology evolved, so too did the fear it unleashed. Demons were now cataloged, classified, and ritualized. This was an age where belief met obsession, where scholars and sorcerers mapped hell, where witches were hunted in daylight, and where every possession was a battlefield. Yet, in a way, in closters, courts, and private libraries, grimoirs promised mastery over the infernal. The Asgo described 72 demons bound by King Solomon himself. Each had a sigil, a rank, a function. Some taught languages, others revealed the secrets of the past or future. But all were dangerous. Summoning them required precision, magic circles, consecrated tools, incantations aligned with the movements of the stars. Failure to follow protocol could be fatal. The summoner was warned to wear protective garments, to never step outside the circle, and to bargain with the demon from a position of strength. This was spiritual combat and the cost of arrogance was madness, possession or death. Another foundational text, the pseudo monarchia demonum by Yanveya pretended to debunk witchcraft yet paradoxically solidified demonological structure. They laid out hierarchies, naming kings, princes, and marketers of hell. What began as an attempt to expose hysteria became unintentionally a demonologist’s field guide. Grimmoirs multiplied. The key of Solomon, the grand grimoire, the grimoire of Pope On Honoras. Each added layers to the infernal bureaucracy. Spells were negotiations with forces that demanded exactitude and respect. While grimoirs circulated among the learned, fear spread through the masses like wildfire. By the late 15th century, Europe had entered the age of witchcraft panic. The Malaas Malifakarum, published around 1487 by Hinrich Kramer, became the most infamous handbook of its kind. It declared that witches were real, that they served the devil, and that they should be destroyed without mercy. It described witches who flew through the night, who summoned demons with sexual rights, who murdered infants and blighted crops. These accusations were political. The heretic could repent, a witch could not. The trials were brutal. Torture extracted confessions that fed the machine. In Wsburg, in Bamberg, entire communities were engulfed. In Scotland, thousands were interrogated, stripped, and burned. Witchcraft became a contagion, social, spiritual, and entirely indiscriminate. Even sleep was no refuge. The Incubus and Succubus were said to prey on the vulnerable at night, seducing, assaulting, and harvesting spiritual energy. These were demons that needed only a moment of weakness. Yet, belief in demons didn’t always end in the fire. Some fought back. The Catholic Church formalized its right of exorcism in the ritual Ramanum, a weapon formed in Latin, sanctified water, and the authority of Christ. The exorcist was both warrior and witness, charged with drawing the demon into the open, identifying it by name, and casting it back into the darkness. Cases like those of Anelise Michelle or Robbie Mannheim would later terrify the modern world, but they mirrored older traditions. Rooms became battlegrounds, voices changed, bodies convulsed, and through it all, priests chanted, commanded, and endured. Buddhism too had its techniques. In Tibetan traditions, wrathful deities were invoked to terrify the demon into leaving. Monks crafted talismans and rang bells to disrupt the spirits hold, chanting mantras said to shake the unseen. In Africa, shamans and spirit workers served as intermediaries, mediating between the living and the dead, diagnosing possession through trance, and driving out the intruder with music, fire, or sacred herbs. Across continents, across beliefs, the goal remained the same. The demon had entered, so it had to be forced out. Before demons ever appeared in books of magic, they stared down from cathedral ceilings and crept through the margins of texts. In medieval Europe, grotesques, those snarling, contorted faces carved into stone, were moral warnings and spiritual guardians warding off evil by staring down. Manuscripts, too, especially illuminated ones brimmed with strange creatures in their margins, were the subconscious of the scribe, where the sacred and profane spilled onto the same page. Then came the Renaissance and later the romantics. These were ages of temptation. Milton’s Paradise Lost gave us Lucifer with tragic depth, whose pride and poetry made him more compelling than the heaven he defied. Foust made a deal with Mephostophles and brought the demonic pact into the heart of European literature. The demon became a reflection of ambition, intellect, and defiance. A mirror held up to a man. Music also carried the demonic. The haunting days erray chant echoed through funeral masses and later found its way into barely symphony fantastic where it swelled into a grotesque celebration of damnation. Composers from List to Rakmanov played with its infernal tone. And centuries later, black metal would reclaim the growl of hell through its distorted guitars, corpse paint, and invocations screamed into the void. And through all of this, the visual language of demons took shape, horns for sin, wings for rebellion, fire for punishment. We gave fear a face. We sculpted it, sang it, scribbled it in ink and blood until it could follow us from the edges of scripture to the center of our imagination. By the 19th century, the world was changing. Scientific rationalism coexisted uneasily with an intense hunger for mystery. Amid the ruins of old religious certainties, the demon returned through fascination. The occult revival wasn’t about casting out devils. It was about inviting them to speak. John D. astrologer and alchemist at the court of Elizabeth I claimed to have received a sacred language from angels. Ino, a system of calls and sigils capable of bridging worlds. But even in these angelic dialogues, darker forces lurked. De’s scrying partner, Edward Kelly, often warned that their celestial contacts were deceptive. Some scholars believed they were already engaging with what later generations would call demonic intelligences, entities that spoke in riddles, demanded obedience, and tested the will of their summoners. Centuries later, Alistister Crowley redefined this relationship. In the book of the law, Crowley received revelation from a being named Iwas, his holy guardian angel, but one whose nature blurred the line between angel and demon. Crowley’s system, The Lima, taught that spiritual ascent came through embracing and mastering the chaotic forces within and without. In his rituals, demons were tools, not enemies. He revived names from ancient grimoirs, calling them forth through curiosity and power. Buffett became a central image of this revival. Originally a distorted accusation against a knight templar, Crowley and later occultists reinterpreted Buffett as a symbol of unity between opposites, male and female, human and beast, light and dark. The demon in this lens wasn’t evil. It was balance misunderstood. From these movements emerged modern demonoly, a practice that treats demons as spiritual allies. Practitioners study grimoirs like the goatia to work with them. Each name Paymon, Bilio, Asteroth, is no longer a warning, but an invitation to knowledge if the price can be paid. While magicians and summoners raised circles and traced sigils, others turned inward. Freud stripped the supernatural of its power, but not its symbolism. To him, our demons were suppressed urges, the death drive, childhood trauma, desires we could never admit. But Carl Jung saw further. His shadow was a mythic force inside each person, a repository of shame, rage, lust, and pain that if left unacknowledged would fester and grow monstrous. Young’s demons lived in dreams. They wore masks of ancient gods, forcic monsters, and religious devils. What exorcism was to a priest, individuation was to the analyst. A confrontation with the self so raw that it bordered on the sacred. Young never denied the reality of demons. He simply relocated them to the human psyche where they could be just as destructive or redemptive. Then came the final inversion. In 1966, Anton Levy shaved his head, declared the age of Satan, and founded a religion that worshiped no god, only self. His satanic Bible reframed the demon as the ultimate outsider, the eternal rebel who refused submission. Demons were metaphors, symbols of strength, indulgence, and revenge. No horns required, only a mirror. But as always, what begins in metaphor spills into myth. The counterculture devoured demonic imagery. Horror films like The Exorcist brought spiritual warfare into suburban bedrooms. Heavy metal conjured Satan on stage, sometimes playfully, sometimes sincerely. Hellraiser gave us cenites, beings beyond good and evil, who traded pain for revelation. Even video games like Doom let players storm hell with a rocket launcher, turning demons into cannon foder for the righteous. But beneath a spectacle, something older stirred, whether in ritual or metaphor, the demon was never banished. It had merely changed clothes. It no longer crept through forests or deserts. Now it stared from within, coded in our fears, summoned in our art, and waiting patiently for those brave enough to listen. The names change, the rituals fade, books burn, languages die, civilizations collapse, but the demon stays. It slips between definitions, hides behind new masks, waits in the quiet places we refuse to look. We call it Asadas, a pep, Lilith, perform. We call it madness, temptation, disease, grief. But what if we never defeated our demons? What if we just learned to live beside them? She defied divine order, rejected submission, and became a figure of fear, rebellion, and power. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Pantheon mythology, where today we’re asking the question, why is Lilith so sinister? If you too want to become a figure of power, check out Pantheon Apparel, a clothing brand inspired by myths and legends from around the world. We ship worldwide and direct rated excellent on Trust Pilot. Link in the description. Right, let’s get into it. Lilith. Just hearing her name feels like stepping into the shadows. For centuries, she’s been the subject of stories that chill the spine and make you question what lurks in the dark. A demon, a seductress, a threat to the innocent. Lilith’s reputation is nothing short of sinister. In ancient times, she was blamed for creeping into homes to steal children and haunt dreams. Men feared her as a temptress, and women guarded against her as a bringer of death. But Lilith is more than just a tale of terror. She’s a figure who defied the rules of creation itself, carving out a legacy that still inspires fear today. Whether you see her as a predator, a rebel, or something in between, there’s one thing certain. Lilith’s story is as dark as it is unforgettable. Before Lilith became the infamous figure we know today, her story began in ancient Mesopotamia as part of a group of spirits tied to the untamed parts of the world. These beings were thought to dwell in wild, desolate places, arid deserts, abandoned ruins, and stormy skies. Unlike the gods, who symbolized order and stability, these spirits represent chaos and danger. the kind of forces that couldn’t be controlled. They were closely associated with the wind, which ancient Mesopotamians saw as unpredictable and potentially destructive. These spirits were believed to ride the night winds, slipping into homes and preying on the most vulnerable, pregnant women and infants. The fear of their presence wasn’t just a story to frighten children. It was something people took seriously, a threat woven into daily life. In Mesopotamian culture, the wilderness isn’t just a physical place. It symbolized chaos itself. These spirits were thought to thrive in that chaos, driven by an insatiable hunger and longing for what they couldn’t have. Some believed they attacked mothers and infants out of jealousy, a reflection of their own inability to bear children. This made their actions feel personal and deeply unsettling. These beings weren’t just abstract ideas. They were mentioned in ancient texts as bringers of illness and misfortune. Protective rituals and charms were common with mothers even invoking Pizuzu, a fearsome demon, to keep them at bay. Homes were fortified with symbols and inscriptions to block their entry, showing just how real the fear of these spirits was. Over time, these chaotic entities began to take on a more distinct identity, blending with similar figures like Adat Lei and Lamashtu. While Lamashtu evolved into her own demonic goddess, the traits of these spirits narrowed, focusing on seduction, chaos, and destruction. This set the stage for the emergence of Lilith as a singular, recognizable figure, a figure whose legacy would grow even darker in the stories that followed. As Lilith’s story evolved, her wild and chaotic nature made its way into one of the most foundational tales of creation, the Garden of Eden. In this version, Lilith was Adam’s first wife, created not from his rib, but from the same earth, equal in origin and form. The expectation was that the two would live in harmony, but that harmony was shuttered almost immediately. Unlike Eve, who was designed to compliment Adam, Lilith saw herself as his equal in every way. This became a problem when Adam demanded dominance, insisting that she lie beneath him. Lilith refused, asserting that they were made from the same soil and therefore shared equal status. For Adam, this defiance was intolerable. For Lilith, submitting was out of the question. The conflict escalated until Lilith, unwilling to be controlled, made a decision that would change her fate forever. She uttered the secret name of God, a name forbidden to human tongues, and fled Eden. Saying the name granted her the power to escape, but it also marched her as a transgressor in the eyes of God. Lilith’s flight didn’t lead her to safety. She was cast into the wilderness, a place of chaos and desolation that mirrored her untamed spirit. There, she became something entirely new. Stripped of her role as Adam’s partner, she transformed into a being that represented defiance and danger. In the eyes of the ancient world, her rebellion was not just a personal affront to Adam, but a direct challenge to divine authority and the patriarchal structure of creation. Adam, devastated by her departure, pleaded with God to bring her back. God sent three angels, Senoi, Sansenoi, and Simangelo, to retrieve her. The angels found Lilith by the Red Sea, a place thought to be teeming with demonic spirits. But Lilith was unrepentant. She refused to return to Eden, choosing freedom over the comforts of paradise. In her defiance, she declared that she would no longer be a passive partner. Instead, she would find her own purpose in the wilderness, even if that purpose was feared and reviled. Her defiance came at a cost. As punishment, the angels cursed her with the loss of her offspring, dooming her children to death. This punishment, however, only deepened her transformation into a figure of vengeance and despair. Some stories claimed that Lilith, enraged by this injustice, vowed to prey on the children of others, particularly newborns, forever tying her to the fears of mothers and families. To many, Lilith’s story became a cautionary tale, a warning against challenging the natural order. Her refusal to submit made her a symbol of chaos, her flight, a rejection of divine will. She was seen as a threat, not just to Adam, but to the very fabric of creation. But for others, Lilith’s rebellion marked her as a figure of strength and independence. In a world defined by submission, she chose autonomy, even at great personal cost. Whether seen as a villain or a rebel, her departure from Eden is one of the most defining moments in her myth, setting the tone for the sinister yet fascinating legacy that would follow through the ages. Lilith’s transformation into a terrifying figure gained new leas in Jewish folklore, where she was firmly cast as a demon of the night and a threat to the most vulnerable. In these traditions, she became infamous for praying on infants and tormenting mothers, making her one of the most feared figures in ancient households. It was said that Lilith prowled the darkness, slipping into homes to harm newborns and cause miscarriages. This association likely stemmed from the harsh realities of infant mortality in the ancient world. Lilith became a personification of these fears, a supernatural explanation for tragedies that families struggled to understand. Her actions were often linked to vengeance. Her own children, cursed to die after rebellion, left her enraged and bitter, fueling her desire to target the children of others. To combat her, families turned to protective rituals and symbols, amulets inscribed with the names of the three angels, Senoi, Sansenoi, and Simangelof, were hung above cribs on doorways. These charms were believed to ward her off, acting as both spiritual defense and psychological comfort. Additionally, specific prayers and incantations were recited to keep her at bay, showing just how deeply ingrained the fear of Lilith was in daily life. She was also tied to night terrors, haunting the dreams of those who slept unprotected. Mothers and fathers alike feared her presence, knowing that the cover of darkness was her domain. In this role, Lith became a symbol of the unknown dangers of the night. dangers that felt all the more real in a world where life was fragile and death often came without warning. It wasn’t just mothers and children who feared Lilith. Men, too, had their own reasons to fear her. Lilith became a symbol of dangerous, untamed sexuality, one capable of luring men into her grasp while they slept, turning their arrest into a nightmarish encounter. This connection between Lilith and seduction ties her directly to the figure of the succubus, a demon known to visit men in their dreams and drain their life force. Over time, Lilith’s image would evolve into this role, particularly in medieval texts like the alphabet of Benra. In this work, Lilith’s defiance and her refusal to return to Adam, combined with her supernatural abilities, positioned her as a demonic figure who prayed on men’s vulnerability during sleep. The Leelim, her demonic offspring, were thought to inherit Lilith’s chaotic power, continuing her legacy of disruption. This shift in her myth, where Lilith’s seduction leads to the birth of Lilim, was a key turning point in her evolution from a rebellious first wife to a succubus, a being who could manipulate not only men’s desires, but also bring tangible harm through her offspring. The Lelim were feared as agents of disorder, spreading destruction wherever they went. Showing how Lilith’s influence was no longer limited to seduction alone, but had real lasting consequences. Lilith’s role as a seductress tapped into a deep ingrained fear of female power in a world where women were often expected to remain controlled, their desires confined by social norms. The idea of a woman who could act independently, who could take control of her sexuality and use it to manipulate men, struck at the heart of patriarchal anxieties. Lilith wasn’t just a seductress. She wielded her sexuality as a weapon, one that men couldn’t control. This directly challenged the established order, where men were seen as dominant and women were expected to submit. Lilith’s seductive nature wasn’t merely about lust. It was about defiance. Her role as a succubus made her a symbol of everything that patriarchal societies feared. A woman with the power to disrupt, control, and destroy. As her story continued to evolve, Lilith’s character took on even darker dimensions in Jewish mysticism. In this tradition, she transformed from a rebellious figure into the queen of demons, embodying the forces of chaos and destruction. In cabalistic texts and the Zoha, Lilith became a central figure, not just as a seductress or defiant wife, but as a powerful spiritual force, one whose influence could disrupt the very fabric of divine order. Cabala, a form of Jewish mysticism, dives deep into understanding the hidden and esoteric aspects of God, creation, and the universe. Lilith’s role in these teachings goes beyond her portrayal in folklore. Here she’s paired with Siel, the angel of death, forming a dark and chaotic duo. Samiel is associated with destruction and death. While Lilith’s energy is tied to disorder and spiritual impurity together, they represent the forces that oppose the divine harmony of the Sapphiro, the 10 divine attributes that maintain balance in the universe. In the Zoha, one of the most important texts in the Cabala, Lilith is described as a powerful figure who roams the spiritual realms, spreading her malevolent influence. As queen of demons, she rules over the Lelim, her demonic offspring, who, as we know, continue her legacy of disruption and disorder. Lilith’s transformation into this queenly figure marks her shift from a rebellious wife to the embodiment of spiritual corruption. In these mystical teachings, Lilith is no longer just an outcast from Eden. She has become a force of primal chaos that challenges the established order of creation. As a demon, she thrives in the kipot, the dark impure shells that surround the divine light. Her very existence in the mystical tradition serves as a reminder of the everpresent tension between order and disorder, light and darkness, creation and destruction. Her pairing with Samile is significant in this context. While Somile represents death, Lilith embodies the corruption that leads to death and decay. Together they challenge the divine order, reminding mystics that forces of chaos are as much part of creation as the forces of order. Lilith, as the queen of demons, has a role to play in this balance, albeit one that leans heavily into disruption and the malevolent side of existence. Lilith’s story doesn’t just end with ancient mysticism. In modern times, she has taken on new roles that reflect her complexity, becoming a symbol of rebellion, empowerment, and autonomy across different spheres of thought. In feminist movements, Lilith emerged as a rallying figure, an icon of independence and defiance against patriarchal control. Her refusal to submit to Adam in Eden has been reinterpreted as an act of strength, inspiring those who challenge traditional roles and seek liberation. For many, she represents the courage to walk away from oppressive circumstances, no matter the cost. But Lilith’s modern significance extends beyond feminism. In some neopagan and wiccan traditions, she’s venerated as a goddess of the night, embodying individuality and primal power. In Yungian psychology, she is explored as a shadow archetype representing the darker, repressed parts of ourselves that must be acknowledged to achieve balance. For outsiders and rebels of all kinds, Lilith has become a figure of solidarity, a reminder of the strength that it takes to stand apart from the crowd. Her enduring appeal lies in her duality, while her darker legacy rooted in chaos, death, and seduction still lingers. It coexists with her role as a figure of empowerment. This contradiction keeps her relevant, ensuring that her story continues to captivate and provoke. So, why then is Lilith so sinister? Or perhaps the better question is, is she sinister at all? That depends entirely on how you view her. For some, she’s a figure to fear linked to destruction, rebellion, and spiritual corruption. For others, she’s a symbol of strength, defiance, and independence. A woman who refuses to submit no matter the cost. Over centuries, Lilith has been seen as a demon of the night, a queen of destruction, a seductive threat, and an icon of rebellion. Her story is layered full of contradictions, fear and fascination, darkness and empowerment, destruction and resilience. Perhaps that’s what makes her story so iconic. She isn’t easily defined. Lilith forces us to confront what we fear and admire the most about ourselves. The power to reject, to rebel, and to choose freedom over submission, leaving us to wonder, who is Lilith to you? You expected fire, a scream, something violent, but all you got was silence. You lit the candles. You spoke the name. He listened. You didn’t summon something to fear. You summoned something to obey. And you will obey. This is Pantheon mythology. And this is Paymon, the demon that commands your soul. Payon is a king of hell, ancient and exalted. His name appears in grimoirs whispered through centuries, always alongside the same signs, ceremony, sound, submission. He arrives with a crown seated on a camel surrounded by music that marks his command. Those who call him do so with structure. Every word, every symbol, every offering must be exact. This spirit thrives on hierarchy, on order. Chaos finds no purchase here. And once his presence fills the room, it extends inward into the mind. Payon grants knowledge, speaks secrets, and offers control. But his power begins the moment you listen. There’s something deeply unsettling about not feeling like yourself. Thoughts that circle endlessly, a quiet pressure behind the eyes, a creeping sense that you’re no longer steering, just observing. I felt that and I know how heavy it can get. That’s why I’ve joined forces with Better Help for this paid promotion. 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His name is surrounded by incantations, seals, and instructions meant for those who seek to summon and control spirits. Among the 72 spirits cataloged in the Galatia, only a few hold the title of king. Payon is one of them, and his presence carries weight. He governs the western region and is said to answer best when summoned from that direction. When alone, he commands 200 legions. When accompanied, his army swells, led by two infernal kings who march before him. His authority flows from above, obedient to Lucifer and in turn expecting obedience from those beneath him. Earlier references appear in the pseudo monarchia demonum compiled by Johan Vea a century earlier where Pon is also recorded as a king. Over time his name has persisted in the margins of grimoirs, rituals and invocations. His legacy endures through those who seek knowledge and offer submission in return. To summon Payon, you begin with alignment. You face northwest, a direction tied to his presence across centuries of ritual. Every part of the ceremony follows to a fixed pattern, measured, deliberate, exact. Precision shapes the outcome. If you draw his seal with intention, every line serves as a threshold. Each curve an act of preparation. This is a statement, a boundary that marks who you are and who you are calling. The seal becomes a doorway and once completed, the room starts to listen. You speak his name in a voice shaped by tradition. The conjuration flows from grimoirs copied across generations, each word chosen and tested. Speaking them places you within a larger design. It is performance inside a system older than memory. Sound arrives first. Before anything else, you hear music, trumpets, symbols, and tones that stretch across the edges of the room. The pressure shifts. The air fills. This is the language of procession. Each sound declares status. What enters carries more than presence. It brings authority fully formed and unmistakable. When payman brings his full court, two spirits precede him. Label and Abali. Their names hold weight and their appearance signals the ritual success. They walk before him as part of his hierarchy, reinforcing your role within it. Each step, each breath, each phrase reaffirms your place. You build a structure. You hold the form. And the more precise your offering, the more completely it is answered. And when the atmosphere thickens, when the sound settles behind your thoughts, you recognize the shift. The structure is no longer yours. Every detail in his description carries weight. Each image a layer of meaning that reveals how he operates, what he influences, and what he erodess. His face appears effeminite, neither fully masculine nor fully feminine, but something in between. That ambiguity destabilizes perception. He enters as a disruption to categories the mind depends on. In ritual magic, clarity defines power, names, roles, and titles. Payon diffuses that clarity from the start. His appearance retracts identity, introducing uncertainty through duality. The longer you observe him, the more your own certainty begins to dissolve. You aren’t deceived. He is set to drift. He rides a dramadary, one hump bred for endurance. The camel carries burdens across long distances through heat and silence, always forward, never hurried. Its symbolism speaks to the slow weight of knowledge. Paymon grants understanding over time and with cost. He imposes a journey shaped by pressure. You carry what you’ve asked for long after you understand what it means. The crown speaks clearly. It declares his role before he speaks. In the world of ritual, power often hides in seals, names, chains of command. Payon displays his openly. The crown delivers no threat. It establishes structure. He is obeyed because hierarchy places him above. The sound completes the image. Trumpets, symbols, layers of tone that arrive before him. an acoustic threshold that overwhelms the senses before thought can respond. That pressure mirrors what follows. His presence settles in the mind the same way his sound fills the room fully immediately without pause. The music enacts the ritual. It shapes the moment into something irreversible. Each of these elements, face, mount, crown, and sound, interact with a summoner long before words are exchanged. They form an experience that bypasses logic and speaks directly to instinct. By the time he speaks, the work has already begun. So why then would you summon Payon? Because he grants power, real power, not just knowledge for its own sake, but knowledge that gives you leverage. He teaches truths hidden beneath the surface of the world. what the earth is, what holds it up in the waters, what the mind truly is, and where it resides. These aren’t riddles or illusions. They’re answers that strip away confusion and leave you standing with certainty while others still guess in the dark. Payon grants influence. He bestows dignities, an invisible weight that makes people listen, respect, follow. He assigns familiars, spirits that act in the background, adjusting outcomes, removing resistance, guiding events to fall in your favor. Where others struggle, you move freely. Where others plead, you speak and are heard. You summon him because he offers something few can. The tools to shape your world. Sharper judgment, greater presence, deeper control, not just over others, but over yourself. You don’t realize the shift when it begins. You still think your thoughts are yours. Your desires feel familiar. Your decisions seem rational. Payon rewrites the margins slowly, precisely until the center bends to march. It begins with confidence. Your voice gains weight. People listen, opportunities open. You move through the world with clarity others struggle to find. But soon your judgment sharpens into detachment. The things you once feared no longer matter. The things you once loved feel optional. Your values shift. They shift in ways that feel logical, necessary. The hunger for knowledge grows, searching for secrets rather than mere answers. You start to pursue truths no one asked you to find. Truths that isolate, that unravel the soft threads keeping you human. The more you know, the less you sleep, the less you speak, the more you watch, even as those closest to you pull away. If you notice, you don’t care. Or worse, you do, but only as a passing thought. Emotion thins into calculation. The soul remains intact, but obedient. That’s the cost. Something far more insidious than possession or torment. You stay yourself just enough to function. But the engine behind your actions no longer runs on your will alone. He doesn’t take your soul. He commands it. And in time, you agree. Beyond rituals, seals, and crowns, Payon reflects something far more intimate, something rooted not in the supernatural, but in the mind. He mirrors a phenomenon that many recognize, yet rarely name. The quiet takeover of identity. The moment when you act, speak or choose, and it feels slightly off, not wrong, just distant. Think of the thoughts that circle without invitation. Ideas that arrive unannounced, stay too long, grow louder. They’re not foreign in sound, but they carry a weight that feels external. Payon represents this intrusion made manifest. His intrusion manifests as a suggestion, never a scream, a compulsion, not a direct command. He doesn’t fight for space. He fills what’s already hollow. Obsession works the same way. It begins as focus, something useful, something productive, but it sharpens. It narrows the field until nothing exists outside its pole. That fixation rewires behavior. It organizes life around itself. In the mythology, Pmon offers knowledge, but symbolically he offers fixation disguised as insight. A desire to know so intense it burns away everything else. Then comes the fracture, the sense of watching yourself speak, move, decide, as if action passes through you without pause. The voice is yours. The will feels yours, but there’s a disconnect, a subtle layering. Something else rides just beneath awareness. Paymon sits in that space as a presence the mind has already made room for. It reflects the fear that control can slip without struggle, that identity bends from subtle shifts in priority, perception, and need. That one day you realize the person making the decision looks like you. who sounds like you, moves like you, but answers to something else. Payman entered mainstream culture through a film that still haunts my dreams, hereditary. For many, this marked his introduction, delivered not through a grand evocation, but through something far more unsettling, grief. His rise unfolds slowly, ruptur, silence, and the unbearable weight of legacy. Every death becomes a step in the ceremony. Every strained conversation, every sleepless stare pulls the structure tighter. This is a story shaped by inheritance. Pain passes like a crown, quiet and binding. The family stands inside a ritual they never crafted yet follow with perfect accuracy. Payon emerges through precision. Each act of violence holds meaning. Each movement aligns with something older. The crown lands exactly where it was always meant to. The film’s final moments reveal what the ritual has shaped. The house becomes the temple. The bodies become the offering. Payon receives what has been prepared for him. Entering a space made in his image, surrounded by music, loyalty, and submission. The horror arrives through recognition. This was never disorder. This was always preparation. And hereditary was only the beginning. He appears in modern demonoly texts described as a spirit of knowledge and control. Calculated, a king who still accepts offerings. The old grimoirs are now PDFs. The charts voiceovers. The crown never lost its place. It just found new ways to be seen. Paymon lingers just beyond thought, just beneath reason. He watches you as you carry weight, stumble, hesitate. He watches as your will softens. Your voice quiets, your mind opens. He doesn’t take the crown from your head. He waits until you lower it yourself. And when you do, he wears it well. They say knowledge is power. But some knowledge was sealed away for a reason. Written in forbidden tongues, bound in leather and guarded by names too dangerous to speak aloud. 72 names, 72 kings, princes, and dukes of hell. Each one summoned through precise ritual. Each one offering power with a cost. This is Pantheon mythology and this is the Argawatia and the 72 demons that live within. The Ascoia is the first section of a larger occult manuscript known as the Les of Solomon, a 17th century grimoire that draws on older magical traditions and texts. Its name comes from the Greek Goatia, meaning sorcery, and it presents a detailed system for summoning and commanding 72 demons. Each spirit is listed by name, title, appearance, powers, and rituals required to call upon them. According to legend, these instructions traced back to King Solomon, the ancient ruler said to possess a ring that gave him control over spirits. The Argata builds on this myth, offering a structured approach to interacting with these entities through sigils, protective circles, and precise incantations. Rather than chaotic and random encounters, the book presents a hierarchy. kings, dukes, princes, marcuses, each with their own abilities, temperaments, and roles within the spirit world. The purpose of the Asgata was not to spread fear, but to teach control. The text offers methods to bind and command these demons, compelling them to act in accordance with the summoners at will. These spirits are said to offer knowledge, uncover secrets, influence others, and grant specialized skills. It is a manual of mastery built on the belief that understanding and structure could channel even the most dangerous forces into service. A book of names, a structure, a system for rebuilding power and control. The Asgo was built to summon and bind the hidden forces of the world. The book by Hungry Minds, the sponsors of today’s video, is built to do something even more ambitious. Rebuild the world itself. The book How to Rebuild Civilization is unlike anything else on your shelf. Imagine if you had to start again, not in theory, but for real. What would you need? How would you explain electricity, engineering, mathematics, philosophy, agriculture, or or language? 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Each said to reflect different aspects of his nature. His voice is said to be deep and rough. And when summoned, he often arrives cloaked in shadow or mist. Bale’s primary power is invisibility. Those who call upon him do so to move unseen, hidden from enemies, watchers, or even fate itself. But invisibility in this context goes far beyond vanishing from sight. It implies evasion, secrecy, and the ability to act without consequence. In a world shaped by knowledge and control, Bal offers something rare, the power to operate in silence. Argaras is the second to appear in the Arzacia, a Duke who commands 31 legions of spirits and appears as an old man riding a crocodile carrying a hawk on his fist. The image is strange. wisdom and decay seated at top something primal with a predator calmly perched at his side. Argaras has command over languages. He can teach all tongues, restore lost speech, and bring back fluency where it has been taken. But he is also a spirit of upheaval. He has the power to cause earthquakes and make those who stand firm flee from their positions politically, physically, or morally. Vasago is a prince who commands 26 legions of demons. He’s said to appear with a gentle or honest nature, though his true form is obscured, only that he comes without threat like many who follow him. Vago is known for his ability to reveal the past and the hidden. He can uncover lost or stolen items and tell what is to come with a degree of accuracy few others possess. He speaks plainly, as if truth was never really hidden at all. His presence is quiet, his answers delivered with the weight of something already known, just forgotten. Samijigina is a Marcus who commands 30 legions of demons. He first appears as a small horse or donkey before taking on human form, speaking with a horse and rasping voice, an entrance more eerie than grand. Samija has vast knowledge of the dead and can summon the souls of those who died in sin and compel them to answer, revealing what they knew in life. He also teaches liberal sciences and delivers accounts of those who died in error or confusion. Marbas is a president who commands 36 legions of demons. He appears first as a great lion, though he can take on human form when commanded. His presence is both regal and dangerous, a creature of strength, intelligence, and secrecy. Marbas holds dominion over hidden knowledge. He can reveal the causes of illness, both physical and spiritual. and he has the power to cure them. He is also known to transform people into other shapes and grant wisdom in the mechanical arts. Valfor is a duke who commands 10 legions of demons. He appears as a lion with the head of a man, sometimes said to have the features of a thief, his form walking the line between nobility and deceit. Valfor is known for granting favor among friends and allies, building trust where it may not be deserved. But he’s also associated with theft. The Asguisha warned that those who summon him may find themselves drawn to stealing, as if trust and treachery are never far apart. Armon is a Marcus who commands 40 legions of demons. He appears as a wolf with a serpent’s tail, vomiting flames. Though he can be ordered to take on a human form with the head of a raven, one eye sharp, the other hollow. As a demon of secrets and reconciliation, he can reveal the past and hidden thoughts of others, especially between friends or lovers. He’s also said to settle disputes, turning anger into understanding or at least exposure. Barbatos is a duke who commands 30 legions of demons. He appears when the sun is in Sagittarius. He has the power to grant insight into the past and future to understand language of animals to uncover secrets buried in the earth. He’s also known for guiding those who have lost their way, leading them back to their path. Payon is a king who commands 200 legions of demons, making him one of the most powerful spirits in the Asgo. He’s often portrayed riding a dramadary camel, crowned and surrounded by a loud, commanding presence. Payon is known for his vast knowledge and eloquence. He teaches arts, sciences, and secret things, including the mysteries of the earth, the moon, and the stars. His voice is said to be musical yet commanding, compelling obedience from those who hear it. Bu is a president who commands 50 legions of demons. He appears when the sun is in Sagittarius, often taking the form of a lion’s head surrounded by five goat legs in a star- shape, giving him a strange and unsettling appearance. Known for his healing powers, he teaches natural and moral philosophy, including the knowledge of herbs and medicines. He can cure diseases and wounds, offering both physical and spiritual restoration. Guuzian is a duke who commands 40 legions of demons. He appears as a baboon or a man with a head of a baboon. Gujian answers all questions about the past, present, and future. He reveals hidden truths and reconciles those who have fallen out with each other. Citri is a great prince of hell, commanding 60 legions of demons. He appears with the face of a leopard and the wings of a griffin. A fierce and unforgettable presence that blends beauty and danger. Citri stirs desire and passion capable of igniting lust between men and women alike. He exposes hidden emotions and secrets, forcing what lies beneath the surface into the light. His influence is intoxicating but unpredictable. Beleth is a mighty king who commands 85 legions of demons. He rides a terrifying pale horse surrounded by a host of musicians playing loud and fearsome instruments. A procession that announces his arrival with overwhelming power. Beth inspires fear and commands respect, forcing those who encounter him to obey. He grants the power to make others fall in love or obey the summoner’s will. But this presence is overwhelming and not to be taken lightly. Laraji is a Marcus who commands 30 legions of demons. He appears dressed in green, carrying a bow and quiver of arrows like a hunter poised for the chase. Large causes battles and disputes, sending arrows that wound and seow chaos among enemies. He’s said to scutter foes with great precision and skill, turning conflicts in the summoner’s favor. Calling on lary is to invite the turmoil of conflict, a calculated force that wounds from afar, shaping outcomes through strife and strategy. Eligos is a duke who commands 60 legions of demons. He appears as a knight carrying a lance, a serpent, and a standard symbols of war and hidden knowledge. Eligos reveals hidden things, especially those connected to war and conflict. He can foresee the outcomes of battles, reveal the strategies of enemies, and uncover the intentions of others. Zepar is a Duke who commands 26 legions of demons. He appears as a soldier dressed in red armor, often accompanied by the sound of trumpets and drums that announce his arrival. He has the power to make women love men and to bring couples together, though this influence can also lead to discord if mishandled. He’s known for stirring desire and passion, but with a restless edge that can unsettle. Bus is a president who commands 60 legions of demons. He appears first as a viper before taking on human form with large horns and sharp teeth. A fearsome transformation that reflects his dual nature. Botus is known for his ability to reconcile enemies and reveal secrets. He grants truthful answers about the past, present, and future, and he can uncover hidden things with clarity and precision. Barin is a duke who commands 30 legions of demons. He appears as a strong man with a tale of a serpent riding a pale horse, an imposing figure blending human strength and serpentine mystery. This duke possesses deep knowledge of the virtues of herbs and precious stones. He can transport people instantly across great distances and teaches the properties of plants and minerals. Salos commands 30 legions of demons as a duke cladding green armor. He’s another crocodile rider, a striking figure symbolizing power that spans both land and water. He stirs love and desire between men and women, encouraging harmony in relationships while sometimes intensifying passion beyond control. Pson is a king commanding 22 legions of demons, a figure of undeniable authority and mystery. He appears as a man with the face of a lion clutching a serpent and riding upon a bear. His very presence demands attention, blending nobility with the primal. Person’s domain is the unseen and the unknown. He reveals secrets locked away from ordinary eyes, uncovers hidden treasures, and speaks of past, present, and future events with remarkable clarity. His voice resonates with power and wisdom, guiding those who dare seek truths beneath layers of mystery. Marx is a president commanding 30 legions of demons. He appears as a great bull with the face of a man, a powerful and imposing figure embodying strength and wisdom. Marx teaches astronomy and all the liberal sciences, revealing the secrets of the stars and the knowledge of the natural world. His lessons extend to understanding mysteries of the universe, offering insight that blends the cosmic with earthly wisdom. Iposs is an earl and prince who commands 36 legions of demons. He appears with the body of a lion, tail of a hair, and the feet of a goose, an unsettling combination that blends strength, innocence, and agility. Iposs reveals hidden knowledge and grants insight into past, present, and future events. He also bestows wit and boldness upon those who summon him, encouraging confidence in the face of uncertainty. Aim is a duke commanding 26 legions of demons. He appears as a man with three heads, one like a serpent, one like a man, and one like a cat. Smoke rising from his mouth. Aim has the power to ignite fires of both destruction and illumination. He teaches cunning and strategy, revealing the secrets of warfare and the knowledge that shapes victory. Nabarius is a Marcus commanding 19 legions of demons. His form is a disturbing fusion. Three heads combining raven man, and dog, symbols of death, cunning, and loyalty twisted into one. His voice is said to carry a dark charisma capable of bending wills and commanding attention. Nabarious specializes in restoring lost dignities and honors, bringing back reputations that time or circumstance have shattered. He also grants mastery in arts and sciences, sharpening the tongue and mind of those who seek his aid. Summoning him is an appeal to reclaim what was once taken to wield influence through persuasion. Glazial labus is a president who commands 36 legions of demons. He appeared as a winged dog, an unsettling creature that combines loyalty and venom in one form. His presence hints at both friendship and danger, a reminder that alliances with demons are never without risk. He teaches all manner of arts and sciences, yet this nature is dual. He can foster love and friendship, but also provoke hatred and bloodshed. Buune is a duke commanding 30 legions of demons. His triple-headed viz, part dragon, part dog, and part griffin, embodies strength, loyalty, and vigilance. Buun’s roar echoes with command over wealth and the unseen, linking material abundance to spiritual insight. He offers riches and wisdom to those who summon him, promising mastery over finances and knowledge. Buune also has dominion over the spirits of the dead, able to move and communicate with souls. Ronov is a Marcus commanding 19 legions of demons. His domain is language, influence, and the subtle power of words. He teaches rhetoric and foreign tongues, granting skill in speech and writing. Renov also brings favor from both allies and enemies, giving the summoner the tools to navigate complex relationships with ease. Barth is a duke commanding 26 legions of demons. He appears as a soldier clad in red crowned with gold wielding weapons that symbolize both marshall might and authority. His figure commands respect, a fusion of warrior and sovereign. Berth grants deep knowledge of all sciences and arts with a special focus on alchemy and the secrets hidden in the earth. He’s also a bestow of dignities and titles, raising the social standing of those who call upon him. Asteroth is a mighty duke who commands 40 legions of demons. He appears as a beautiful angel riding a fearsome dragon holding a serpent in his right hand. The image is striking, divine grace seated at top something monstrous, a harmony of light and darkness. He speaks with great clarity and offers knowledge of the past, present, and future. Asteroth reveals hidden things, both celestial and infernal, and is said to teach the sciences with remarkable precision. He also explains the origins of the fall, why certain spirits rebelled, and what became of them. Fornius is a Marcus who commands 29 legions of demons. He takes the form of a massive sea monster, a shifting figure tied to the depths, where knowledge and danger are buried together beneath still waters. He teaches the art of language, guiding the summoner in rhetoric, diplomacy, and presentation. Fornius also grants favor from those in positions of power and can shape the reputation of an individual in the eyes of both allies and enemies. For us is a president commanding 29 legions of demons. He teaches logic and ethics as well as the properties of herbs, roots, and precious stones. His knowledge is practical, rooted in both the natural world and the workings of the mind. He grants strength of body, sharpness of thought, and the ability to uncover what has been hidden, whether it be lost objects, forgotten truths, or buried potential. To summon for us is to seek quiet mastery, steady, grounded, and precise. As better known as Athmodus, is a king commanding 72 legions of demons, one of the most powerful and well-known names in the Osgo Asia. He appears with three heads, one like a bull, one like a man, and one like a ram. Riding a dragon and breathing fire from his mouth. He teaches astronomy, geometry, arithmetic, and all mechanical crafts. Asthma can reveal hidden treasures, grant knowledge across disciplines, and stir powerful desire. He speaks directly, but only to those who approach with authority. He resists the uncertain and refuses to obey the weak. Garp holds the dual rank of prince and president, commanding 66 legions of demons. His power is strongest when the sun is in the southern sky, and he appears in human form, calm and direct in speech. He controls movement, able to transport people instantly from place to place. Garp teaches philosophy and the liberal sciences and grants the ability to influence emotions and relationships. He can also make individuals invisible and dull the senses of others. Fufu is an who commands 26 legions of demons. His form is that of a winged heart, a creature that should inspire all, but instead unsettles, especially as he only takes human shape when confined within a proper triangle. He manipulates weather, conjuring lightning storms, and can reveal hidden truths, though he is a notorious liar when not properly contained. He can also inflame love, though never without chaos close behind. Marosius is Marcus of over 30 legions of demons. A wolf with griffin wings and a serpent’s tail. Fire spilling from his mouth. His appearance is built for war. Yet beneath that fury is a mind bound by loyalty. He serves the summoner faithfully, lending strength, courage, and insight in battle. Some texts say he was once among the dominations and longs to return, though whether that’s hope or manipulation remains unclear. Stalles is a prince commanding 26 legions of demons. He takes the form of a great bird, an owl, or raven with long legs, unnaturally tall, with eyes that do not blink. His knowledge runs deep through the natural world. He teaches movement of the stars, the powers of plants, and the secrets locked in the stones. His lessons are not rushed, they unfold slowly, like the night. Phoenix is a Marcus who leads 20 legions of demons. He appears in the form of a radiant bird, singing with a voice so beautiful, it’s said to draw listeners into silence. He teaches poetry and the art of expression, bringing refinement to language and thought. His manner is gentle and he serves willingly, rare qualities among the demons of the Galatia. He speaks of returning to the heavens after 1200 years, but his loyalty remains with the one who calls him. Halas is an earl with command over 26 legions of demons. He comes in the shape of a stalk, his cry sharp and sudden like something meant to break silence. His work is preparation. He builds towers, arms soldiers, and lays the foundation for war. No spectacle, just quiet, calculated construction. Malfas is a president commanding 40 legions of demons. He comes as a crow, speaking in a harsh, cracking voice, though he will take on human form when commanded. He builds fortified structures and reveals the plans of enemies, what they think, where they hide, and how they intend to strike. Malfus can also bring trusted servants into your circle, though loyalty from demons often carries a hidden edge. Rome is an earl who commands 30 legions of demons. He appears as a crow and moves quickly without flourish or delay. When pressed, he may take on a human form, but only to speak. He tears down status and steals from the mighty, stripping kings and temples of their treasures. He reveals hidden truths, especially concerning enemies, and can cause love or emotional upheaval when commanded. Forcalor is a duke with 30 legions of demons under his command. He appears as a man with the wings of a griffin and carries with him the weight of the sea. He has power over wind and water, able to drown ships, cause storms, or calm them entirely. He’s also said to kill men on command, though he sometimes speaks of returning to the order of angels from which he fell. Vipar is a duke commanding 29 legions of demons. She takes the form of a mermaid, gliding just beneath the surface, neither entirely seen nor entirely hidden. Vipar rules the seas, directing storms and fleets alike. She can cause wounds to fester and bring unnatural death cloaked in illness. Her presence carries the weight of distance and decay of things lost to the deep. Saranok is a markers commanding 50 legions of demons. He appears as a great soldier clad in armor with the head of a lion riding a pale colored horse. His presence is imposing, an image of strength, control, and quiet menace. He builds fortified towers and castles, both physical and symbolic, often linked to protection or imprisonment. Subnock causes wounds to fester with time, inflicting slow decay rather than sudden violence. He can also assign familiar spirits to guard the summoner or their domain. Shacks holds the rank of Marcus and commands 30 legions of demons. He arrives in the form of a stalk, its voice harsh and broken, speaking only lies unless bound within a ritual triangle. Without it, he twists language, offers falsehoods wrapped in charm. He dismantles perception, sight, hearing, even comprehension. Sharks can take these without warning. He steals from kings and reveals secrets in the same cold indifference. Servants bought by him may appear loyal, but few remain so for long. Vin is a king and commanding 36 legions. He appears as a lion riding a black horse holding a serpent in his hand. His arrival signifies disruption of structures, alliances, and certainty. He is called upon to reveal hidden things, the secrets of witches, the plots of enemies, and the truths buried beneath ruin. Vine has the power to build towers and tear down walls, both literal and symbolic. Where he walks, boundaries are redrawn. His allegiance is to revelation. Biffrons is an with command over six legions. His domain is unmistakable. He governs over the dead. Tombs, corpses, and the forgotten fall under his influence. He shifts the resting places of the deceased, teaches the sciences of astrology and geometry, and reveals knowledge of herbs, stones, and planetary alignments. Those who summon him do so to disturb the silence of graves, and reawaken what time has sealed away. Vuall is a great duke of hell, commanding 37 legions. He appears first as a dramadary but after a short time takes on human form speaking in a deep voice in broken Egyptian. He grants the love of women, fosters friendship between allies and enemies alike and reveals truths of the past, present, and future. Voull’s presence twists hostility into affection and brings hidden knowledge to the surface, though never without a strange shifting nature that reflects his form. Henti is a president who leads 33 legions and is summoned for transformation. He turns water into wine, metal into gold, ignorance into understanding. His domain is alchemy, both physical and mental. Henti grants wisdom in all sciences, especially those that change one thing into another. The cost is the risk of losing oneself in the process. For with Henti, to seek knowledge is to risk being remade by it. Croel is a duke commanding 48 legions. His arrival is heralded by the sound of rushing water, as if the air itself carries the weight of oceans and storms. He teaches geometry and the liberal sciences, reveals hidden baths, and brings warmth to cold waters. His domain is movement, both of water and thought, shifting what is stagnant into something fluid and alive. Fukas holds the rank of knight and leads 20 legions, seated upon a great horse, bearing a long weapon. He brings presence of a battleh hardardened scholar. His teachings cover philosophy, rhetoric, logic, astrology, chyromancy and pyromancy. Each discipline he shares is delivered with precision and age and authority, sharpening both the tongue and the mind. Balam is a king with the command over 40 legions. He appears with three heads, bull, man, and ram, and flaming eyes that never close, reflecting a gaze that stretches across all moments. At other times, he’s represented as a naked man riding a bear. He grants the knowledge of time, answers questions with unshakable certainty, and provides the means to act without being seen. Balam offers insight and conviction. Alyses is a duke who commands 36 legions. He rides with a soldiers pride, his voice loud and commanding, stirring resolve in those who falter. He teaches astronomy and the liberal sciences while instilling discipline and courage. With Alyses, knowledge arrives like a war cry, sharp, urgent, and impossible to ignore. Cain is a great president who commands 30 legions. He appears first as a thrush, a small black bird, but quickly transforms into a man bearing a sharp sword. When speaking, he stands up upon burning ashes or glowing coals, a presence tied to the night and most potent in the month of December. His power is rooted in understanding. Cain grants knowledge of animal speech, the cries of birds, growls of beasts, and even the rushing of water. He’s also a skilled disputer, offering clear and truthful answers about what is to come. Those who call upon him seek more than information. They seek to listen to a world that rarely speaks in words. MMA is a duke and who commands 30 legions. He arrives with a grand procession blaring trumpets accompanied by two ministers riding a griffin or a vulture. His presence is steeped inerary rights and necroantic authority. He grants the power to speak with the dead and compels spirits to answer truthfully. Murmur also teaches philosophy and offers insight into matters that lie beyond mortal understanding. Orabos is a prince commanding 20 legions. Loyal and honest, he is summoned for clarity and protection. He tells truths of past, present, and future, unveils the origins of divinity, and shears against lies and malevolent forces. Unlike many others, Arabus is said to be faithful to the summoner, never betraying trust or distorting answers. Gary is a duke with 27 legions under his command. Appearing riding a camel and wearing a crown. Though often associated with seduction, her role goes far beyond temptation. She reveals hidden treasures, secrets of the heart and the love of women. Grey’s domain blends allure with insight, making her a frequent choice for those seeking both affection and information cloaked in emotion. O is a president ruling over 30 legions. He grants knowledge of liberal sciences and offers the gift of shapeshifting both of the summoners form and their perception of others. His abilities blur the line between reality and illusion. With Oze, identity can unravel and he may cause someone to believe they are a king or turn a familiar face into a stranger. Power in his hands is perception. Amy is a president and earl leading 36 legions. He teaches astronomy and the liberal arts and bestows excellent familiars to those who summon him. Amy reveals hidden treasures and is also said to have once belonged to the angelic order of powers. Though now called from hell, a trace of that older nature still lingers, making him a curious bridge between obedience and rebellion. Orus is a Marcus commanding 30 legions. He governs the knowledge of stars and planets, revealing how celestial bodies shape fate and influence lives. More than an astrologer, he maps power across heavens and grants dignity, favor, and esteem to those he chooses, lifting reputations and securing loyalty from both friend and foe. Vapular is a duke who commands 36 legions and serves those who seek mastery. He teaches philosophy, mechanics, and all forms of applied science. Skills that shape the physical world and forge civilization itself. Vapular refinement, knowledge that sharpens, disciplines, and endures. Zan is a king and president, commanding 33 legions. He’s a transformer of both matter and meaning. Wine becomes water, metal becomes currency, and foolishness becomes wisdom. Zan’s gifts are not illusions. They are alterations. Reality bends at his touch, and the line between one thing and another becomes negotiable. Valac is a president leading 30 legions. He reveals hidden places, particularly where treasures lie buried or serpents dwell. Though he appears as a child with angelic wings, riding a two-headed dragon, and there is nothing innocent about his purpose. His presence suggests duality, purity layered over danger, innocence masking power. Andras is a Marcus with command over 30 legions. He rides a black wolf and carries a sharpened blade as a harbinger of collapse. Andras inspires conflict, ignites betrayal, and turns allies into enemies with whispered doubt or sharpened truth. His presence signals the end of a chord. Those who summon Andras do not seek to unravel peace, either to watch an empire fall or to sow chaos where order once stood. He’s a sabotur, a force that tears from within. Flos is a duke who commands 36 legions. He appears as a leopard, terrible and burning, but will take human form upon command. His speech is true unless compelled into a triangle in which he may lie or deceive. Flos answers questions of the past, present, and future, but with a voice like fire, dangerous if not handled correctly. He’s feared for his destructive power. He burns enemies, raises cities, and destroys the plans of those who oppose his summoner. But what he offers in insight comes at a cost. To seek his vision is to invite devastation as well as clarity. For his fire consumes. Andre Alfus is a Marcus commanding 30 legions. His teachings revolve around geometry, astronomy, and the transformation of forms. He’s said to raise men’s mind to the higher understanding of the stars and the structure behind the visible world. When summoned, Andre Alfus springs calculation. He transforms humans into the likeness of birds, perhaps metaphorical, perhaps not, and speaks with a logic of a mathematician. His domain is reason, and those who summon him seek mastery over structure. Kim Jes is a Marcus who commands 20 legions. He appears as a valiant warrior riding a black horse bearing the manner of a knight and the weight of ancient marshall knowledge. He teaches grammar, logic, and rhetoric, grounding his power in discipline and speech. He locates hidden treasures and gives command over spirits in Africa, suggesting a territorial influence. Summoning Kimis is a call to controlled authority, learned skill, and the uncovering of power through knowledge and leadership. Amdusiius is a duke with 29 legions under his command. He’s associated with music, particularly thunderous, dissonant tones. When summoned, voices rise in harmony or disarray, and musical instruments may sound on their own, as if the air itself has been turned into a stage. His true form is said to be that of a unicorn, but twisted, and he may only take human form briefly. Amdusius grants visibility of what is hidden and can force enemies into submission with overwhelming sound. Those who seek him wish to be undeniable. Beliel is a king without equal, created second after Lucifer and commanding 80 legions. He grants high positions and status, disturbing senatorships, favor from those in power, and influence over both institutions and individuals. But his price is always sacrifice. Though Belio may appear as noble or even angelic, his gifts are transactional. He speaks plainly, but the bargains he offers come with strings. Those who call on Beiel are warned, “Gain what you desire, but give what you cannot recover. ” He builds his throne on ambition and binds it with cost. Darabia is a Marcus commanding 30 legions. He’s associated with knowledge of birds, herbs, and precious stones. Those who summon him seek dominion over nature’s arcane systems, understanding how to recognize, manipulate, or command them. He teaches the virtues of all birds and herbs, revealing their properties and uses. His presence brings clarity to the natural world, helping the summoner draw power from what others overlook. Seir is a prince who governs 26 legions. Swift and obedient, he’s summoned to move people, goods, or information instantly from one place to another, traversing the world in seconds. He reveals hidden treasures and things lost and carries out the will of the summoner without delay. There is no spectacle to his power, only the results. With Seir, a command is given, and the outcome is delivered. Tantalian is a duke commanding 35 legions. He appears as a man with many faces, each representing the thoughts and emotions of others. His power lies in understanding, manipulating, and even creating emotion and intent. He reveals the thoughts of any person and can change them, influencing minds and guiding decisions. Tantelian teaches all human arts and sciences and speaks every language. Those who summon him do so to uncover hidden motives or to reshape them. Andius is an earl who commands 36 legions. He’s summoned to bring justice, uncover thieves, and return what has been stolen. With him comes retribution, swift, targeted, and precise. He exposes lies, reveals plots, and punishes wrongdoers. Summoning Andromeus is an act of reckoning. His presence is called when balance must be restored and deception brought to light. You’ve now heard the names, the ranks, the legions. The Arguatia is more than a parchment and ink. It’s a door. Each demon a voice behind it. Some speak soft, others thunder. But all of them answer when called. If your hand reaches for the seal, understand this. What comes forth may grant you knowledge, power, desire, but it will leave something behind. a trace, a mark. So summon if you must. Just be certain the cost isn’t your soul. Seven husbands, seven deaths, each one murdered before he could even touch his bride. The killer, not a man, not a beast, but something older, jealous, and hidden in plain sight. His name is Azmadas. And once he chooses you, no one else will have you. This is Pantheon mythology, and this is the horror of Asadas. If you too are old, jealous, and like to hide in plain sight, check out Pantheon Apparel, a clothing brand inspired by myths, folklore, and legends. Wish it worldwide underrated excellent on Trust Pilot. Link in the description. Before he was a king of hell. He was something worse. Possessive, relentless, obsessed. As doesn’t just destroy because he wants to hurt. He destroys because he cannot let go. Obsession defines him. Once his focus lands, he circles, waits, tightens. A name becomes hunger. He watches not for advantage, but because he must. He clings. He intrudes. He poisons from need rather than malice. And that need is endless. Other demons rage. As Medias lingers. His strength lies in his ability to infiltrate the most sacred spaces of human connection, transforming love into possession and intimacy into torment. Where some demons tear through the world with violence, Asadas prefers a slower path. A glance becomes longing. Longing turns to control. Affection begins to suffocate. His presence builds gradually like rot beneath polished wood. Jealousy blooms without warning. Trust gives way to suspicion. Bonds that once felt unbreakable begin to buckle under invisible pressure. In later grimoars, Asmodius emerges as a king of hell. Crowned and commanding legions. He offers knowledge, power, and temptation to those who seek him out. Descriptions vary. Three heads, serpents, fire. But the true horror lies in how he chooses his targets. He appears where desire lives, where people feel safe, where vulnerability opens the door. Asus moves through longing and attachment, reshaping them into tools of isolation. He thrives in love twisted just enough to hurt, in cravings sharpened into fear. He steps into the quiet spaces between people and pulls them apart from within. One of the oldest surviving accounts of Osmodus comes from the book of Tobit. Sarah is betrothed seven times. Each time her husband dies before the marriage can be consummated. The pattern becomes so familiar that her family prepares a grave before every wedding. No struggle, no blood, no cause. The text gives no explanation for how the deaths occur, only that they do. The husbands enter the chamber and never return. The absence of detail becomes part of the fear. As Medias has chosen her, he removes anyone who approaches, treating each new suitor as an intruder. His interest isn’t casual. He stays close, ensuring no connection can form. With every death, the isolation around Sarah grows. Her community begins to turn inward, suspecting her, fearing her. She carries the weight of grief and shame. Surrounded by those who believe she carries a curse. The presence behind it is never seen. It leaves no wounds, no warnings, no voice. But its influence shapes everything. Asmadias creates distance, distrust, and fear using love itself as the battlefield. What should bring unity instead brings separation. The cycle continues until the arrival of Tobaya. He travels with a stranger who later reveals himself as the archangel Raphael. Under his guidance, Tobaya follows a ritual. Burn the heart and liver of a fish beside the marriage bed. The smoke fills the space where Asmadas lingers. His hold breaks. He retreats, forced away from what he claimed. This version of Asmodas found in Tobit is already terrifying. But he didn’t begin there. His origins reach further back to ancient Persia and to a far older force known as Aishma Dava. In the Zoroastrian religion, Aishma is the spirit of fury, madness, and uncontrolled violence. He shatters order, distorts the mind, and tears through anything meant to bring peace, prayer, ritual, or family. Aishma doesn’t persuade, he overwhelms. His presence turns focus into confusion, revenge into rage, and love into destruction. As faith shifted and civilizations collided, Aishma didn’t vanish. He changed shape. His name passed through languages. Aishma, Ashai, Asodi, Asodius. Each step narrowing his form. His violent energy became more precise, more directed. The frenzy remained, but now it carried intension. The raw force of Aishma sharpened into obsession. When Asmodus enters later texts, he no longer lushes out blindly. He waits, watches, targets. He leaves temples standing. Instead, he waits at the edge of the marriage bed. You won’t hear him in battle. You won’t feel him in silence. The old spirit still burns, but the fire now spreads inward through fixation, attachment, and control. As Medias isn’t a new creation. He’s the same ancient force carried forward, redefined by fear, and made personal. Few figures are said to have ever confronted Asmodus directly. According to the testament of Solomon, King Solomon did more than that. He captured him. In the text, Solomon receives a magical ring engraved with the seal of divine authority. With it, he commands the spirits of the unseen world, binding them one by one to reveal their names, their powers, and their weaknesses. When Asmodus is summoned, he arrives unwilling, restrained by a force older and higher than his own. Under questioning, Asmodus describes his purpose without hesitation. He spreads jealousy. He stirs conflict between lovers. He drives wedges into the softest parts of a relationship, encouraging infidelity, suspicion, and emotional decay. He admits to haunting the marriage bed, watching the torment where union should begin and ensuring that it fails. There’s no pleasure in his confession, just clarity and certainty. He does what he is made to do, and he does it well. Solomon assigns him a task. The demon who disrupts is ordered to build. Asmodus is forced into labor on the construction of the temple, carrying heavy stones and assisting in the creation of space meant to honor the divine. The punishment fits the crime. The destroyer of bonds now supports the foundation of sacred order. It is an act of control, never mercy, power disguised as purpose. But its submission doesn’t soften him. Asus remains dangerous even in chains. He insults Solomon. He mocks the weakness of humans. He warns of the chaos that follows if his restraints slip. And when the ring’s protection fades, he escapes. The Testament of Solomon doesn’t offer triumph over evil. It presents a fragile balance, a moment where even the most feared demons can be harnessed, but never tamed. Asus isn’t cast out or destroyed. He is studied, questioned, used, and released. That’s what makes this version so unsettling. It doesn’t comfort. It reminds us that power, even when bound, still waits for the seal to weaken. By the time we reach the grimoirs of the resistance, Asadas is fully ascended. In the Argo Geisha, he stands as king of hell, commanding 72 legions. His presence is not chaotic, but calculated, structured authority wrapped in horror. Summoning him requires ritual precision and unwavering control. He only speaks to those who already belong to him. Only those who seek power with full conviction find themselves in his presence. He appears with three heads, a man, a ram, and a bull. each one reflecting part of his dominion. Lust, stubborn pride, and brutal strength. A serpent coils at the end of his tail. Flames pour from his mouth, and he rides a dragon that moves between realms. Every feature speaks to domination and excess. He arrives as a monarch, not a monster, bringing the weight of his court with him. In the Galatia, Asmadas reveals secrets, uncovers hidden treasure, and grants influence over forbidden pleasures. His knowledge is vast. His rewards tempting, but control must remain absolute. Hesitation invites consequences. Those who seek him are warned. Mastery over Asmodus demands clarity of intent, sharpness of mind, and complete self-comand. Otherwise, the cost becomes irreversible. Summoners have vanished, unraveled, or achieved everything they wanted, only to realize too late what they had become. Force isn’t his weapon. Erosion is. He sharpens ambition until it fractures. He turns desire into erosion. His power doesn’t shatter. It consumes. Asmmedia survives because the world keeps making space for him. In modern demonology and horror, he no longer needs the ancient name or ritual. He appears in patterns of obsession, addiction, and compulsions turned inward. He no longer haunts bedrooms or hides in grimoirs. He thrives in the everyday collapse of restraint. In contemporary law, Asmodius is still linked to lust and domination, but those urges stretch beyond the physical. He becomes a symbol for addiction in all its forms, from compulsive behaviors to toxic relationships, from the hunger for control to the destruction it causes. When a need becomes so consuming it erases judgment, when love turns manipulative, or when ambition corrods what it once built, as medias lingers just beneath the surface. Occult circles still invoke his name, whether in ritual magic or darker traditions, his role has shifted from external threat to internal shadow. He isn’t banished by belief. He adapts. Horror films, grimoars, and paranormal fiction all preserve his shape. But his real influence lies in what he represents. The slow corrosion of the self from the inside out. Asus no longer needs to be summoned. He’s present in every collapse of self-control, every relationship twisted by possessiveness, every moment when desire mutates into self-destruction. He endures not as a memory of ancient terror, but as a reflection of the parts of us we refuse to face. Asus is terrifying because he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t knock. He just waits until the door is left open. He gets inside your thoughts. He twists love into possession, lust into addiction, and trust into suspicion. He doesn’t need to be summoned. just invited by weakness. Once inside, he lets it decay from the inside out. He lets it rot quietly, completely. And by the time you notice, he’s already part of you. There is a being that once was a god. A god that was once a word. A word that was never meant to be spoken. When it speaks, the world splits. When it is silent, the world is one. If you too were once a god, check out Pantheon, our brand. Inspired by myths, legends, and folklore. We ship worldwide and narrated excellent on Trust Pilot. Link in the description. The name came first. Abrais. It appears across a scattered trail of ancient sources scratched into stones pressed into the faces of carved gems and written into the margins of magical papyrie. To speak the name or to possess it was to access something powerful, something absolute. Araus was used. The name functioned more like a tool than a weapon. Something to be invoked, inscribed, worn, or buried. It appears on protective amulets, ritual objects, and fragments of magical formula passed between mystics and sorcerers across the Henistic world. In these early appearances, the name itself is the presence, the active force, the ritual key. Its significance deepened through numerology. According to the Greek system of isopsi, where each letter carried a numerical value, the letters in Araus add up to 365, the number of days in a solar year. This link suggested that the name represented a complete cycle, the sum total of reality encoded in language, a power that defined the entire turning of the world. This association made the name more than sacred. Arais became a kind of cosmic formula, a word treated as a self-contained force. In the melting pot of ancient Alexandria and beyond, it absorbed the fragments of older traditions, the astral frameworks of Babylon, the solar cults of Egypt, the dualistic tension of Persian thought. Rather than contradict one another, these influences converged within the name, which began to represent something far more complex than a deity. It became an axis, something around which beliefs could be built and broken. The visual representations came later. A rooster headed figure with serpent legs and weapons in its hand would become common in later iconography. But that imagery was built on top of the name, not the other way round. The myth had to catch up with the word. To speak the name was to insert oneself into the machinery of the world. To inscribe it was to define the boundary between what was chaotic and what could be known. To wear it was to carry the structure of time and the illusion of control. But to understand it fully and without distortion meant dismantling the definitions of meaning that kept good and evil, light and darkness safely apart. That was never the intention. The earliest known teachings to place Abraxus at the center of creation came from Basilides of Alexandria, a second century Gnostic teacher working in Roman Egypt. In a world saturated with competing gods and rising orthodoxies, Baselades taught a version of reality that was almost entirely inverted from the mainstream Christian message. For him, the God of the Bible was an ignorant force, far removed from the true origin of all things. The lesser creator was known as the demiurge, and he was blind to the existence of anything above him. He shaped the material world out of ignorance and the world that followed was flawed, broken and saturated with illusion. Above him, far above him, was Araus. Not a god in the human sense, but a primary source, the first power, the force from which all things emerged, including divine intelligence, speech, will, and light. Basilities taught that Abraasus was the origin of all other powers of everything that held meaning, motion, and life. From Abraus came a sequence of spiritual forces known as aons, vast radiant terminations of power. These aons gave rise to the archons, rulers that governed layers of invisible reality. Human existence was trapped beneath a towering ladder of spiritual barriers. Above the material world were 365 distinct realms, each ruled by a different archon, each further separating the soul from the original source. The name Abraus was understood to contain this entire cosmic arrangement. Its numerological value matched the number of heavens. It was a cipher, a single world that held the entire shape of reality. To know the name was to gain a key to the totality of existence as it was believed to truly be. The physical world was the lowest rung of an unseen hierarchy. And the only way out was through awareness, through nosis. Arais revealed, and what he revealed was a world ruled by lower powers. Each convinced of its own importance, each standing in the way of what lay beyond. To invoke his name was to pierce the veil. To see that even the god of scripture was only one small part of a much larger chain. To learn the name of Abraus was to risk everything the church tried to control, belief, obedience, and fear. And those who understood that no longer needed saving. Arais exists beyond the categories that define most gods. It’s not shaped by morality, divided by dualism, or limited to light or darkness. In Nostic belief, Araxis is the source of all extremes, joy, pain, beauty, horror, creation, and collapse. These are functions of the same origin, and nothing is excluded. This stood in direct opposition to the teachings of early Christianity, where the universe is shaped by the struggle between a benevolent creator and the malevolent adversary. One offers salvation through obedience, the other corrupts and destroys. Everything depends on which side you serve. A brais generates both sides. For the Gnostics, it was a confrontation. If blessing and suffering emerge from the same source, then neither carries meaning on its own. A life of joy may offer no reward. A life of suffering may reveal nothing. With no divine preference, the world becomes exposed. Only the weight of what exists. This is what made Araxus terrifying. It left punishment and justice indistinguishable. Without moral certainty, the entire idea of order begins to break down. What remains is power without explanation, permission without restraint. There were no altars to Araxus, no commandments, rituals, oaths, only awareness. To understand this force was to recognize that every law, every comfort, every fear came from the same source and none of it offered safety. The soul once it seized it moves outside the boundaries those systems enforce. The gods we worship and the demons we condemn are reduced to fragments, incomplete expressions of something far older. This is where morality ends and where the presence of Araus begins. On ancient carved gems often worn as protective amulets, the name Braxus appears alongside a figure that defies categorization. a rooster head, a human torso, legs formed by coiled serpents, one hand holding a whip, the other holding a shield. The image is functional. Each component encodes a specific force. Together, they form a complete expression of power. The rooster head represents time and awakening. It marks the transition between night and day, carries solar meaning, and signals the return of light. In the iconography of Abraasis, the rooster marks the beginning of movement. It announces the cycle. The serpent legs tie Abrais to the thonic, the world beneath the surface. Serpents have long been linked with knowledge, danger, and regeneration. They represent the grounding in primal forces, wisdom that coils rather than ascends. Legs made of serpents are built for anchoring. Arais moved through instinct as much as intellect. In one hand, Abraus holds a whip, the power to command, drive, exert force without negotiation, a tool of motion and domination. In the other, a shield, a symbol of containment and resistance. The whip extends control. The shield maintains it. Together, they represent the ability to push and to endure, to dominate and to withstand, all in the service of order. This hybrid form reflects the influence of multiple creatures. The serpents and solar motifs recall Egyptian ritual. The use of animal-headed beings echo Persian iconography. The abstraction and magical intent align with helenic mystery cults. They converge. The image of Araus operates across them. It is a glyph, a symbol designed to be used, something that could be worn, invoked, or pressed into an object. The goal was control. The image of a brais functions like a circuit. Each part carrying a charge, each element completing the pattern. When Carl Jung encountered a brais, he was confronting the total structure of the psyche. In the seven sermons to the dead, a set of esoteric writings he claimed were dictated by inner voices during a period of psychological crisis. Jung placed Abraasus above both God and devil. A power that contained all opposites without favor and without mercy. To Jung, Araus was the truth behind the mind’s illusion of separation. It is psychic, the unconscious, the self. Araxus appears at the threshold of what Yume called individuation. The process by which a person integrates all aspects of the psyche, especially those that have been buried, repressed or split off. In that process, the figure of Abraasis becomes the archetype of wholeness. It destroys the moral boundaries that keep the ego intact. It erases categories. It forces the individual to confront the terrifying possibility that the soul generates its own gods and its own demons. Where Christianity taught salvation through obedience andnosticism taught liberation through knowledge, Jung warned of something else entirely. The transformation through annihilation. When the opposites within are no longer at war, they collapse into one unbearable truth that everything you are, love, hate, or fear is part of the same invisible field. Arais is what happens when the mind meets that field directly. A vision that burns away illusion and leaves only total awareness. Araus represents a contradiction as a single unified force. It gathers creation and destruction into the same movement. It draws good and evil from the same source. These qualities operate together, shaping reality as expressions of one underlying current. In the presence of Araxus, familiar divisions lose their authority. Meaning shifts. Identity loosens its edges. The mind encounters reality without fixed reference points. For some, this experience produces fear. For others, it produces transformation. Both responses emerge from the same confrontation. Arais brings awareness to the surface. The self encounters its full range at once. desire, violence, compassion, and insight appear as parts of a single psychological field. The separation that once allowed order dissolves, and consciousness adjusts to a wider frame of experience. This figure matters now because the modern world reflects the same condition. Belief fragments, identity multiplies, truth shifts shape depending on context. Arais expresses this state with clarity. It shows a reality shaped by tension rather than resolution. To engage with Arais is to accept complexity as a permanent condition. To remain present within contradiction, to carry awareness without retreat into certainty. This is the paradox Araus represents and it remains active. To speak his name is to end the game. There’s no God coming, no devil waiting, no heaven above. Only you. And the thing that watches back when you say a Braxus they say the drums were beaten to drown the screams that a bronze god waited with outstretched arms his belly filled with fire. And into that fire they cast their children. This is Pantheon mythology and today we explore the question, why is Moolog so terrifying? If you love mythology, check out our limited edition desk mats created in partnership with our friends at Epic Desk. Available until the 3rd of August. Also, Pantheon Apparel, a clothing brand inspired by myths, legends, and folklore. We ship worldwide and are rated excellent on Trust Pilot. Links to both in the description. Moolok has no mythology, origin story, temple ruins bearing his name. He doesn’t appear on the gods of the Canaan or the lips of the priests or in the dedications of kings. Yet here he is emerging in the margins as a warning, a curse, a horror. That absence is its own kind of presence where most gods came with stories to explain them. Moolok arrived with silence, fire, and fear. Some scholars argue he was never a deity at all. that the word we know as mollock may have once referred to a right, a type of offering rather than a god. In the original Hebrew texts, the letters MLK appear without vowels. And in the ancient Semitic languages, that combination could mean king, melik, or an offering of dedication, mock. Without vowels, there’s no way to be certain. Centuries later, Jewish scribes known as the Mazerits added vowel markings to preserve pronunciation. But with MLK, they made a choice. They vocalized it as molec, a sound that closely resembles the Hebrew word borchet, meaning shame. This was a condemnation encoded into every structure of the word. What may have once been a dry ritual term was transformed into a name that evoked disgrace, judgment, and terror. A ritual became a god. A god became a warning. Others argue that Moolok was real, or at least believed to be. He may have been another face of Milcom, the national god of the Ammonites, who is condemned in many of the same biblical passages. Or perhaps he was linked to Malik, the Phoenician term for ruler or one that receives offerings. In this reading, Moolok wasn’t a separate god at all, but a label the biblical authors used to brand the most horrifying practices of their neighbors with a single name. One that blurred the lines between deity, devotion, and death. Nowhere is that horror more vividly described than in the valley of Henom just outside ancient Jerusalem. There it says children were passed through the fire to Moolok. What that phrase means has been debated with some suggesting it referred to symbolic rights of dedication or purification by flame. But the prevailing scholarly view is grimly literal. It was sacrifice, ritualized, repeated, accepted. And though no furnace-shaped idols have been found in the Israelite territory, we do have something else. Rows of small urns buried in the earth of Carthage in what modern scholars call the tophets. Inside them, the cremated remains of infants and small animals. These could be the results of mass child sacrifice dedicated to gods like Bal Hammon and Tarnid. Or perhaps they were simply burial sites for still births and young children honored with offerings. But the scale, the burn patterns, and the inscriptions have left the debate unsettled. Whatever the truth, the association between fire, sacrifice, and the divine was not unique to one place. To offer a child to Moolok was an ultimate sin, a rupture, something that tore at the fabric of Israel’s identity. In a world of many gods, where sacrifice was currency and power demanded blood, Yahweh stood apart. The covenant between Yahweh and his people was built on obedience, justice, and life. Moolik was the inverse of that. He didn’t ask for righteousness. He asked for children. The Hebrew Bible treats Moolok as an abomination. In Leviticus 18:12, the command is clear. Do not give your children to be sacrificed to Moolok. In Leviticus 20, the language sharpens. Anyone who does so is to be executed. The community is to turn against them. Even those who look the other way will share the guilt. There is no tolerance, no loophole, no mercy. The book of 2 Kings 23:10 references a place called Tofet in the valley of Hinom where the people built high places to burn their children. King Josiah in a rare moment of mortal clarity defiles the site and shuts it down. But it wouldn’t stay silent for long. In Jeremiah 7:31, the prophet speaks with fury. They have built the high places of Tophet to burn their sons and daughters in the fire, something I did not command, nor did it enter my mind. in a line that says everything. Not only was this practice forbidden, it was unthinkable outside the bounds of the covenant beyond the imagination of a god who gave laws carved in stone. But the line repeated throughout these passages to pass through the fire has long stirred debate. Some ancient and medieval commentators suggest that it was symbolic that a child was carried between flames as a right of dedication, not consumed. a dark ritual, but not a fatal one. Yet, the broader context doesn’t support this. The intensity of the condemnations, the physical association with fire, the burial sites, the stoning of offenders, all point to something literal. The child didn’t simply pass through. They didn’t come back. Why would any culture do this? Why offer children to the flames? The reasons weren’t always cruelty. They were famine, war, drought, desperation. In the grip of disaster, sacrifice could be rationalized as necessity. A people under siege might give what they could not bear to lose, believing it could save what little remained. When survival feels uncertain, the line between devotion and coercion collapses. This is the psychology of sacrifice where hope curdles into horror and it isn’t ancient. These are the same justifications that persist in new forms. Trading mental health for productivity, privacy for convenience, nature for profit, and sometimes the future of children for short-term gain. Different flames. Same logic. To sacrifice a child to Moolok was to break a world view. The covenant with Yahweh was built on life on the protection of the innocent, the orphan, the vulnerable. Mooliko turned that upside down. He demanded what should have been untouchable. He turned children into fuel. And so Moolik was weaponized in scripture, a symbol of everything Israel vowed never to become. Where Yahweh was justice, Moolok was horror. Where Yahweh offered covenant, Moolok offered ash. Moolok’s story doesn’t end in the fire pits of Topet. It mutates. As the ancient world shifted, as monotheism solidified and the gods of rival nations faded, Malik was reclassified. Cast out from the realm of the gods. He reemerged as a demon. In early Jewish apocalyptic literature, particularly texts like the pseudapigrapha, Moolok becomes one of the infernal ones, a dark presence aligned to the underworld. These writings composed centuries after the exile sought to categorize evil with sharper lines. The deities of other peoples were devils and mo already associated with the most abominable rights imaginable became a natural candidate for domination. The transformation deepens in Christian cosmology. As hell developed its own hierarchy, so too did its pantheon of horrors. Moolok became more than a warning. He became a personality, a commander of torment, a spirit of devastation. In demonological texts and grimoirs, he is classified among the princes of hell. Sometimes associated with Saturnine influence, rigid, cruel, cold. His power was force, compulsion, sacrifice by command. But it was in literature that Mulliko gained his most enduring infernal crown. In Paradise Lost, John Milton resurrects him in full horror. Among the rebel angels in Pandemonium, Mooliko is the one who rises first. He is described as horrid king, bismeared with blood of human sacrifice and parents tears. The god who preferred hard liberty before the easy yoke of surviile pomp. While Satan and others debate strategy, guile, infiltration, corruption, Moolok demands war. not only conflict but total annihilation, a second rebellion, a direct assault on heaven, even if it ends in obliteration. Milton’s monologue is more than a demon. He’s a philosophy, the embodiment of violent purity. No compromise, no nuance, no delay, just action. His voice booms in the halls of hell, urging flames for the sake of fire itself. This reframing stuck over the centuries. Mulliko came to symbolize war at its most brutal and mechanized. Sacrifice no longer meant fire at the altar. It meant bodies in the trenches. Cities raised, children taken by bombs instead of priests. Political theorists began to invoke his name to describe systems that devour the innocent in service of abstract power in the machine of empire. In the churn of industry, Molo was reborn. In 1955, poet Alan Ginsburg unleashed how a furious indictment of modern society and with it gave Moolok a new face. Moolok whose mind is pure machinery, he wrote. Moolok whose blood is running money. In Ginsburg’s version, Mullock wasn’t a god of flame and altar, but the machinery of American industry, militarism, and greed. He was the skyscraper that blocked out the sky, the system that turned souls into statistics, the engine that consumed everything human in pursuit of profit. Decades later, psychiatrist and writer Scott Alexander sharpened the metaphor in his essay, Meditations on Moolok. There, Moolok became the name for runaway systems, dysfunctions where rational choices by individuals led to irrational destruction for all. He described a world where nations stockpile weapons not because they want war because they fear being outgunned. Where companies poison the earth not out of malice but because the competition would do it faster. In this vision, Mollo is the trap we can’t see until it’s too late. A force that doesn’t need belief, only participation. This version of Moolok no longer demands your child. He asks for your time, your silence, your complicity. He is the pressure to work more, to spend more, to fight harder, just to stay in place. He is the loop, the grind, the game. A god no longer made of bronze, but of incentives, outcomes, and invisible chains. In the secluded woods of Northern California lies Bohemian Grove, a private, heavily guarded retreat where the world’s most powerful figures gather behind closed gates. Politicians, CEOs, military contractors, and financiers cloaked in ceremonial robes perform a ritual called the cremation of care. Before a 40-foot stone owl, they process with torches, recite incantations, and burn a human effigy in a theatrical right meant to cast off their burdens. But the symbol runs deeper than satire. The owl they gather before, known as the owl of Bohemia, looms with blank eyes, silent, watching, and immovable. They say it represents wisdom, but others see something older in its shape, its posture, its ritual use. They see molloc. It doesn’t matter what name is spoken. The imagery is already speaking. A great stone idol, fire at its feet, a bound figure offered into the flames or presided over by the elite. And as they chant and burn care, the effigy of conscience itself, the message becomes unmistakable. In this circle, empathy is the enemy. Sacrifice is not horror. Sacrifice is tradition. There is no temple inscription, no priest crying out to Mollock by name, but the logic is the same. Strip away the theater, the robes, the laughter, and what’s left is the very ritual ancient texts condemned. The rejection of care, the removal of guilt, the elevation of power through fire. In a world ruled by machinery, wealth, and endless war, Moolok doesn’t need faith. He needs obedience. And the powerful are still kneeling. Moolok is terrifying because he never vanished. He evolved. No longer a god with a name, but a hunger with a thousand faces. He speaks through policy, through profit, through systems too vast to question. He asked for what is most sacred, our children, our future. And we give it freely, dressed in reason justified as progress. His altar is everywhere now, in soil turned toxic for yield, in minds broken for output, in the silent despair we call stability. Moolok does not deceive. He never hides. He lays the bargain bare. Sacrifice what matters and I will make you powerful. And every day in boardrooms, classrooms and corridors of power, we keep saying yes. There are forces in this world that were never meant to be named. Forces that could poison the mind, turn brother against brother, summon famine, and tear life from the cradle. There were sicknesses in the air, the madness in a neighbor’s eyes, the violence waiting at a kingdom’s gates. This is Pantheon Mythology and today we ask the question, why are these demons so dangerous? If you two want to be the madness in a neighbor’s eye, check out Pantheon Apparel, a clothing brand inspired by legends from around the world. We ship worldwide and direct rated excellent on Trust Pilot. Link in the description. Not every city falls by war. Some rot from within. In ancient belief, Vetis was the unseen plague, not of the body, but of the soul. Known as the corruptor of the living, he needed no armies or storms, no bloodshed to bring kingdoms to their knees. His method was patient and cruel. He would poison ambition into greed, twist justice into cruelty, and turn loyalty into betrayal, slowly eroding every virtue that once held people together. The danger of Vetis lay in how easily his work could be mistaken for human weakness. A leader growing cruer, a judge turning corrupt, a city growing colder and more selfish with each passing season. No one would see the hand guiding them toward ruin. Only when trust had collapsed, when friendship had withered, and when entire communities became hollow, did his presence become undeniable. It was not a battle lost overnight. It was a slow death, a kingdom rotting from the inside until its wall fell under their own weight. Ancient writes warned against the slow touch of Vetis. It was said that when corruption spread like a fever, when leaders could no longer speak without truth, and when kin turned cold and cruel without reason, a black offering had to be made at the city’s edge. A desperate plea to hold back the rot before it devoured everything. In the shadowed corners of ancient demonology, Aimon is named as the powerful Duke of Hell, commanding loyalty through manipulation and treachery. His influence is felt not in the clash of armies, but in the quiet, poisonous words that turn allies into enemies and trust into suspicion. Ammon destroys loyalty at its root, sowing doubt where there was once faith and fanning resentment until betrayal feels inevitable. It is said that Aamon knows the deepest secrets of all living things and uses this knowledge to reopen old wounds, stir buried grudges, and ignite hatred among even the closest of allies. Under his influence, friendships fracture into feuds. Courts become nests of conspiracy and families disintegrate into rivals fighting for scraps of power. His devastation leaves no need for conquest or invasion because the victims tear each other apart with their own hands. Some grim traditions warned that when betrayal struck without warning, when trusted friends became enemies of an eyes, it was a sign that Aamon had walked among them. In darker circles, he was even invoked deliberately during times of strife. Summoned to twist grievance into violence and leave nothing but bitterness and ruin behind. Andras is a demon whose very presence is said to ignite violence. In ancient Grimmoirs, he is described as a great markers of hell, commanding legions with a singular purpose, to turn peaceful gatherings into battlefields and trusted allies into bitter enemies. Where Ammon twists the heart toward betrayal, Andras goes further, pushing anger into bloodshed and disagreements into open war. His influence is not slow or hidden. It is chaos unleashed, sudden and catastrophic. Under the shadow of Andras, even the strongest communities fracture beyond repair. Families fall to murder, cities to riots, and kingdoms to civil war. Disputes that could once be solved with words now end with swords drawn and blood on the ground. His gift is not mere conflict, but conflicts so violent and senseless that no rebuilding is possible afterwards. Survivors are left broken, haunted by the destruction they cannot undo, and entire nations fall into decades of ruin. It was believed that when senseless violence tore through a people, when blood was shattered without a purpose, when alliances shattered overnight, and when neighbors massacred each other without warning, Andras had walked among them. Some grim texts even claimed that he could be summoned by the desperate, by those seeking vengeance so complete it would leave nothing but ashes behind. But once loosed, Andras would not be bound by the wishes of those who called him. He would devour the hand that fed him as easily as he tore through his enemies. Asus is a name that has echoed through centuries of fear. In ancient demonology, he’s known as a prince of lust and wrath. But his true danger lies in how he twists the deepest human bonds. Love, loyalty, trust are all turned into weapons in his hands. Where once there was devotion, Asma kindles obsession. Where there was once tenderness, he founds the flames of jealousy and rage. No relationship, no matter how pure, is safe from his influence. It is said that under the shadow of Asmadas, lovers turn against each other with violent suspicion. Friendships dissolve into resentment, and marriages once built on unshakable trust collapse into betrayal and bloodshed. Entire dynasties have fallen because of the rot he sws, as heirs are seduced into ruin, alliances shattered by scandal, and once mighty families torn apart from within. His influence does not simply destroy individual hearts. It sends shock waves through kingdoms and empires, bringing about their collapse not through war, but through poisoned affection. In the grim stories that survive, Asmadas was feared not simply as a tempter, but as an architect of downfall. In some traditions, it was believed that when rulers became consumed by lust, or when families murdered one another over love turned to hatred, it was Asmadas who had been unleashed among them. Attempts to banish his presence through rights and exorcism were said to be among the most dangerous, for to name him was to risk inviting him further in. Beliel’s name is one of the oldest and most feared in demonology. Beiel does not roar into battle or blaze through cities. He seeps in slow, silent, and rotting everything from within. His strength lies in how he corrupts leadership, turning kings into tyrants, judges into liars, and priests into hypocrites. Where Belio moves, the pillars of order crumble, not from outside attack, but from within, as those sworn to protect the people become their greatest enemies. It is said that under Beiel’s influence, rulers abandon justice for vanity, the powerful feast while the weak starve, and institutions once built to serve crumble into dens of greed and ambition. Cities rot behind their proud walls. Their citizens forgotten, their leaders too lost in their own corruption to notice the decay spreading beneath their feet. In the courts of kings and the halls of sacred temples, Beliel stirs ambition, cruelty, and betrayal until no oath holds meaning and no law commands respect. Ancient traditions warned that when a kingdom crumbled without warning, when leaders grew fat on cruelty and law turned into a mockery of itself, Beliel had taken root. Some claimed he could not be exercised once he had entrenched himself, for by the time his presence was recognized, the rot was already too deep. Attempts to cleanse the corruption only accelerated the fall, as trust was too broken and virtue too rare to rebuild what had been lost. Among the terrors of the ancient world, few were more feared than Lamar do. She was not content to bring ruin to kings or cities. She struck at life itself. In Mesopotamian belief, Lamaru was a demoness who prayed among the most vulnerable, targeting pregnant women, newborns, and young children. Her presence meant more than death. It meant suffering. The shattering of families before life had even begun. Lamashti was said to lurk near the bedsides of expectant mothers, waiting for moments of weakness. She would slip unseen into homes, poisoning pregnancies, stealing newborns from the cradles and spreading disease among infants. Nor offering or prayer could fully guarantee protection once her gaze had fallen upon a household. Her touch could turn the miracle of birth into mourning and the hope of a new life into despair. Ancient people lived in constant fear of her. Amulets bearing the image of Pazuzu, a rival demon who sometimes warded against her, were hung over beds and doorways. Rituals were performed throughout pregnancy to beg for protection, and mothers were rarely left alone, lest Lamaru find an opening. It was believed that complications in childbirth, sudden infant death, and unexplained sickness were all signs of her passing. For the family she marked, there was little hope of escape. Coronzon cannot be fought, bargained with, or even fully seen. He exists where thought unravels and reason breaks. He’s the guardian of the abyss, the living nightmare that stands between the seeker and the truth. And he speaks in the voice of madness. In occult traditions, he is the shapeless terror that breaks the mind, the force that unravels sanity itself. Those who dare to pierce the veil of reality risk facing him, and few ever return whole. It is said that he does not kill with weapons or disease. He waits until a soul is vulnerable, then fills the mind with chaos, confusion, and despair. He twists perception into horror, makes every truth a lie, and every memory a prison. Those who encounter him are trapped with their own thoughts, consumed by illusions so real they lose the ability to tell life from nightmare. To face Coronzon is not to battle an enemy, but to battle the self, a battle almost always lost. Even among the most dangerous occult rituals, his name was feared. In the early 20th century, Alistister Crowley, one of the most infamous occultists in history, claimed to have summoned the entity in the deserts of North Africa. The experience was said to be so harrowing that Cowi described him as the ultimate destroyer of reason, a shape-shifting nightmare that devoured the mind itself. To summon Kuranzon was to risk never returning from the abyss at all. Few demons inspired greater horror than Morlock. He was not a spirit of disease nor a tempter of kings. Moolok demanded the ultimate sacrifice, the offering of children. In desperate rights carried out beneath open sky, it was believed that parents driven by a fear or corrupted faith laid their own infants into the burning arms of his idol. To worship Morlock was to extinguish hope itself, to sever the future at its source. It is said that great fires were lit in his honor, roaring furnaces built into towering statues. The cries of the sacrificed were drowned out by the beating of drums and the wailing of flutes, a wall of sound to mask the horror unfolding. Moolok’s worshippers believed that by giving up their most precious blood, they could secure favor, power, or prosperity. But the price was always greater than the reward. Communities that bowed to Moolok hollowed themselves from within, sacrificing not only their children, but their very humanity. The prophets rallied against his cult, naming it among the greatest of evils. Yet Mollock’s shadow proved hard to banish. In times of famine, war, or fear, when people felt the world slipping away from them, his hunger resurfaced. Sacrifice would return, dressed in new justifications, but always ending the same way. With innocence consumed, in fire and grief. Where others corrupt or betray, Abdon brings only one thing, the end. He is the herald of the end, the one who leads the final charge. When all hope has crumbled in grim belief, Abdon commands the abyss itself, releasing plagues of destruction and ruin upon the world. His name means destruction. And where he passes, there is no rebuilding, no survival, only silence and ash. It is said that Abdon holds dominion over an unstoppable force of devastation. He leads vast legions from the depths, locusts with human faces, and the power to tear down civilizations in days. When Abdon rises, no walls can hold, no army can stand. Crops wither, rivers bleed dry, cities crumble into dust, and the sky itself turns against the living. He does not seek to conquest or control. His purpose is annihilation and nothing more. In dark traditions, Abdon was seen as the final punishment for a world already rotten by corruption, betrayal, and madness. When the cities fell, when the innocent was sacrificed, and when the last bonds of trust collapsed, Abdon would come to sweep away what remained. His arrival was not a warning. It was a verdict. Abdon does not corrupt, deceive, or tempt. He simply ends. And when he rises from the abyss, nothing that walks, breathe, or dreams is spared. They poison the mind, tear apart families, ignite wars, devour innocents, and bring kingdoms to ruin. They do not need armies, banners, or kings. They only need a crack, a weakness, a moment of fear. And once they find it, they do not stop until everything is ashes. They are the names given to the destruction we could never understand, but always feared. This is why these demons are so dangerous. Because even now, somewhere out there, their work is still being done. The goatheaded figure of mystery, rebellion, and balance. A symbol of power that has both terrified and fascinated for centuries. Ladies and gentlemen, this is Pantheon mythology. And this is Bar formit. If you too want to be a symbol of power, check out Pantheon Apparel, our clothing brand inspired by myths and legends from around the world. Wish a worldwide underrated excellence on Trust Pilot. Link in the description. For centuries, Bafome or Buffet has been shrouded in mystery. Is it a demon, a god, a symbol of rebellion, or a misunderstood scapegoat? A goat headed figure often linked to occult traditions, but its meaning goes far beyond the sinister imagery that it’s known for today. From representing duality and wisdom to becoming a controversial icon in modern culture, its story is one of transformation, rebellion, and mystery that refuses to fade. The name first surfaced during one of history’s most infamous crackdowns, the trial of the Knights Templar in the early 14th century. These warrior monks, once celebrated for their bravery in the Crusades, were suddenly accused of heresy, blasphemy, and idol worship. Among the many charges was a curious claim that the Templars secretly worshiped an idol called Buffet. What this buffet was or if it even existed remains a mystery. Some suggest it was a smear tactic by King Philip IV of France who sought to destroy the Templars and seize their wealth. As for the name itself, one popular theory is that it’s a corruption of Muhammad, an old French term for Muhammad, the prophet of Islam. At the time, Christian Europe viewed Islam with a suspicion and often equated it with idolatry. To accuse the Templars of worshiping a figure linked to Islam would have been a shorefire way to tarnish their reputation. But there’s another intriguing possibility. Some scholars think that Bafomemed might derive from the Arabic phrase Abu Fihham, meaning father of understanding. If true, this suggests that the name could have ties to esoteric wisdom or mystical practices, possibly hinting at the Templar’s rumored involvement in secret knowledge. Whether a slanderous invention or a misunderstood symbol of wisdom, its name continues to stir curiosity and controversy to this day. The Knights Templar were far more than just a band of warriors. Founded in the 12th century to protect Christian pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land, the order quickly expanded into a formidable network of wealth and influence. They managed estates across Europe, pioneered early banking systems, and even lent money to monarchs. But with the Crusades drawing to a close, the Templars found themselves without their original purpose and vulnerable to envy, suspicion, and betrayal. Their downfall began in 1307 when King Philip IV of France, desperate to escape his crippling debt to the Templars, accused them of heresy. Among the most damning allegations was that they worshiped a forbidden idol called Buffit, said to be central to secret blasphemous rituals. But these accusations were far from random. Philip saw the charges as an opportunity to dismantle the order, erase his debt, and seize their immense wealth. Under the brutal methods of 14th century interrogations, Templanites confessed to revering a mysterious idol. Descriptions of this figure were wildly inconsistent. Some claimed it was a severed head, others a bearded man or animallike figure. There were even claims that the idol granted wisdom or mystical powers. Yet, despite these lurid accounts, no physical evidence of Bafomet was ever discovered. The lack of consistency and tangible proof only deepened the mystery. For the Templars, the accusation of Bafomet worship came as both a weapon and a legacy. Whether the name was a corruption of Muhammad or a fabrication by Philip’s interrogators, it added an air of occultism to their charges. This turned the once revered knights into heretical villains in the eyes of the public. By 1312, the order was officially disbanded and its leaders, including Grandmaster Jacle, were burned at the stake. Even as the flames consumed him, Demole reportedly cursed his accusers, proclaiming the innocence of his brothers. Whether the accusation stemmed from greed, fear, or calculated ambition, they planted the seeds of an enduring legend. Buffett’s name became synonymous with secrecy, forbidden knowledge, and the dark underbelly of power, transforming a smear campaign into one of history’s greatest enigmas. By the mid 19th century, the name Beformed had faded into obscurity, a relic of the accusations that had brought down the Knights Templar. That changed thanks to Eleifas Levie, a French occultist who gave the figure a complete makeover and transformed it into something truly iconic. Born Alons Louie Constone, Levy started out as a Catholic seminarian, but abandoned his religious training to dive headirst into the world of mysticism and esotericism. He went on to become one of the most influential figures in the revival of Western occult traditions. Levy’s two volume work dogma and ritual of high magic introduced a version of buffomet that would define how we see the figure today. His famous illustration the sabbatic goat turned buffet from a vague accusation into a detailed and symbolic icon. Levy wasn’t just drawing a goat headed figure for shock value. Every detail was meticulously crafted to convey deeper meanings. The image shows a winged goat-headed humanoid seated on a pedestal blending human and animal features, masculine and feminine traits, and celestial and earthly symbols. The androgyny breasts paired with a muscular frame represents unity and balance, a nod to the alchemical concept of sed coagula or dissolve and coagulate which is inscribed on his arms. This principle reflects the process of breaking down opposites and reuniting them into harmony. Above the goat’s head burns a flaming torch, a symbol of divine enlightenment and the pursuit of higher knowledge. Levy packed even more meaning into the details. The kaduciusike staff on his abdomen with two serpents intertwined symbolizes harmony between the spiritual and physical worlds. The hand gestures, one pointing up and the other down, reflect the hermetic phrase, as above, so below, suggesting that the universe mirrors the individual and vice versa. On its forehead sits an upright pentagram representing the mastery of spirit over matter. Even the goat’s head itself ties into the biblical concept of the scapegoat, a symbol of rejection, transformation, and redemption. But Levy’s buffed wasn’t meant to scare anyone. He saw it as a philosophical symbol, something that represented balance, unity, and the merging of opposites. For him, perform wasn’t evil or heretical. It was a visual metaphor for the transformative journey towards enlightenment and understanding. Levy’s reimagining of Bafomet sent ripples through the world of occultism, inspiring movements like the hermetic order of the Golden Dawn and Alistister Crowley’s The Lima, where the figure became a symbol of spiritual exploration and rebellion. But Buffett’s story didn’t stop there. In the 20th century, it took on an entirely new life when Anton Lavey founded the Church of Satan in 1966. Drawing inspiration from Levy’s design, Ly adopted Buffett as a central emblem of his philosophy. However, he wasn’t interested in the spiritual enlightenment or mystical balance originally envisioned. For Ly, Bafomet was something far more provocative, a declaration of rebellion and personal freedom, a rejection of religious dogma and an embrace of individualism. Central to this reinterpretation was the sigil of Buffett, an emblem that became synonymous with modern Satanism. The sigil retained Levy’s go-headed figure, but placed it within an inverted pentagram. This wasn’t just an aesthetic choice. It was a deliberate challenge to traditional religious symbols, a way to reclaim the goat as a symbol of defiance rather than submission. Buffmet became a symbol of cultural resistance, a way to provoke, disrupt, and question societal norms. Leave’s adoption of buffet was part of a larger mission to redefine Satanism. Contrary to popular misconceptions, the Church of Satan didn’t involve devil worship in any literal sense. Instead, it championed the idea of Satan as a metaphor for human nature. Unapologetic, self-empowered, and untethered by traditional moral constraints. Before with its blend of human, animal, and divine features represented the duality and complexity of human existence, making it the perfect symbol for the movement. In the decades since, perform has continued to evolve in activist circles. Groups like the Satanic Temple have embraced it as a symbol of civil rights, particularly in their campaigns for the separation of church and state. The organization’s most notable effort was the creation of a monumental buffet statue designed as a counterbalance to religious monuments on government property. This statue featuring a seated buffet flanked by two children sparked debates about religious freedom and the role of symbolism in public spaces. For the satanic temple, Bomet represents not just rebellion, but the fight for equality, freedom of thought, and the rejection of imposed morality. If anything, Buffett is misunderstood. It’s often seen as a symbol of evil or even a demon. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Over the years, the image of buffet has been twisted and sensationalized, especially in films, TV shows, and other media which have linked it to dark rituals and devil worship. One of the biggest misconceptions is that Buffett represents pure evil. This idea comes from the way it’s often shown as this sinister figure, a demonic force lurking in the shadows. But the reality is perform has always been more about balance than darkness. It represents the merging of opposites, human and animal, light and dark, masculine and feminine, not an evil force. It’s a symbol of unity in the face of contradictions, not malevolence. Another common misunderstanding is that perform is a deity to be woripped. Some assume that because it’s associated with the church of Satan, it must be an object of worship. But that’s not the case. front ly and his church. Bomet wasn’t something to pray or revere. It was a symbol. It represented rebellion against religious dogma and a call for individual freedom. It wasn’t about worshiping a dark god. It was about rejecting traditional religious constraints and embracing human nature. Bafomet then is far from just a symbol of evil or some dark figure to fear. Over the years, it’s transformed into something much more. From the accusations that marked the fall of the Knights Templar to Eleas Levie’s reimagining and its role in modern-day movements, Bafomet has taken on different meanings. Sometimes controversial, but always thoughtprovoking. What makes Bomet interesting is how it’s been adopted and reinterpreted by so many different groups over time. It’s not just tied to one belief or philosophy. It’s become a symbol for anyone questioning authority, embracing change, and looking to break free from the usual constraints. At its heart, Buffamett’s story is about transformation. It’s a symbol that challenges norms and forces us to think differently, not just about the world, but about ourselves. Whether it’s seen as a symbol of personal freedom, spiritual growth, or simply the balance of opposites, Buffett’s journey reflects the way we all navigate life’s contradictions. It’s not about darkness. It’s about embracing the complexities of being human and growing from them.