the novice devil

malcolm. when he arrived in the town, nothing changed. at first. but whispers began. they crept through alleyways, lingered in unclosed windows, and slipped into the quiet of night. people didn’t notice at first; then, they couldn’t ignore them. lies, murmurs. it was as if a sickness had woven itself into the fabric of the village. and one day, malcolm was gone. he never came back. but everything he left behind remained. god. for six days, he shaped, built, and created. on the seventh day, he stopped. he sat down and observed. “how beautiful it is,” he said. but there was a pit in his voice; an unfilled void. because perfection, in the end, always leads to the same place: boredom. “i need some amusement,” god said. and he gave malcolm permission. the village. a place tucked into a forgotten corner of a map, where the wind blew in the same direction every day, and the sea always looked gray. every morning, people patched up fishing boats and pushed them into the water; every evening, they waited for the wind to calm. and one night, even the wind stopped. the bell tower echoed with the sound of a bell no one had touched. that night, malcolm was in the village. and no one was ever the same again. prologue: god’s mistake the universe was still young; so young, it felt like it might trip and fall at any moment. every morning, the sun climbed over the horizon, strutting as if to say, “look how magnificent i am,” while the wind pretended to join in the spectacle. trees swayed flirtatiously with the valley, and even the stones by the stream stood with a kind of fake seriousness. humanity? ah, they were walking pollyannas! innocent like children, unaware of everything, as if all the troubles of the world had been buried underground and flowers planted over them. but someone was watching this overly neat, overly sterile picture—and the perfection of it all was starting to grate on his nerves. because god, looking at the magnificence of his creation, realized this: perfection is dreadfully boring. and above it all, god was watching. he admired the flawless harmony of his creation. everything functioned like a divine clock, working exactly as designed. but as days stretched into centuries, a discomfort grew within him, a nagging irritation at the immaculate splendor of perfection. there was no event, no challenge. humanity wasn’t meant to be like this, he thought. the perfection of the world was becoming sterile, too flawless, and far too predictable. people competed in kindness, stars burned with unending patience. “too smooth,” god murmured, pacing the heavens. this dissatisfaction felt like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. “what good is perfection without challenge? how can beauty be understood without contrast?” finally, he made a decision. god dimmed his light slightly and descended to earth, kneeling carefully on the delicate ground so as not to shatter it. with his hands, he dug into the soil and began to shape it, deliberately crafting a flaw. the clay resisted, like a stubborn child; uneven surfaces formed, with jagged edges and crooked contours. when he breathed life into it, the being opened its eyes—eyes that reflected no light, only infinite depths of darkness. the being tilted its head, neither friendly nor hostile, and simply looked at god with curiosity. “who are you?” god asked, his voice trembling with an unusual uncertainty. the being’s lips curled into a crooked smile. “i don’t know,” it said. “but i feel… i might be a mistake.” god paused. he had expected disobedience or confusion, but this answer touched him. a mistake, yes—but wasn’t it intentional? wasn’t that, in itself, perfect? “perhaps every flaw has a purpose,” god murmured. “your name will be malcolm. now go. walk among humanity. discover who you are and what you are. challenge my creation. but remember: the choice to create meaning—or destroy it—will always be yours.” malcolm rose to his feet, his shadow stretching unnaturally in the morning light. without another word, he walked away, leaving behind dark footprints that vanished with the touch of the wind. -1- nestled in a valley, a village of identical houses lay hidden. tucked among green hills, it was a marvel of symmetry. roofs sloped at precise angles, stone paths were immaculately clean, and gardens were arranged in flawless order. even signs of life felt overly controlled. this place resembled not a real village but a model trapped under glass. everything was better than it should be—and that was the problem. malcolm stopped and stared. for a while, he stood silently, his gaze fixed on the village. the corner of his mouth curled upward, but it wasn’t admiration. it was the smile of a predator catching the scent of control. there was something wrong here. as there always is with anything too perfect. “too beautiful,” he said, his voice low but certain. “perfection… the greatest lie.” the moment he stepped into the village, the order began to suffocate him. the streets were quiet. disturbingly quiet. children played, but there was no chaos. no noise. their movements were in harmony—not a natural harmony, but a rehearsed choreography. women laughed, baskets in hand, but behind those laughs was an emptiness. a hollow, unsettling void. malcolm walked slowly, observing, catching details. nothing was out of place. nothing was missing. everything was exactly where it should be. as malcolm wandered the cobbled streets of the village, he watched the lives around him. or was it life? were these people, or some kind of imitation of people? each one was too… right. too balanced. the smiles on their faces carried an almost mathematical precision. in one corner, anna and thomas looked at each other. no, looked wasn’t the right word; they devoured each other with their eyes. every movement was like a scene from a romantic play. the white scarf on anna’s head never slipped, and thomas’s hands were always reaching for hers. “what would happen if he let go of those hands?” malcolm wondered. “would she fall? lose her balance? or does gravity here only work when couples are holding hands?” a few steps ahead, there was lena. lena’s garden… it wasn’t a garden; it was a magazine cover. lavender lined up in perfect rows, vegetables arranged in geometric precision. lena patiently polished each tomato. “yes, definitely natural,” malcolm thought to himself. “you wake up in the morning, and your first thought is: are my tomatoes shiny enough? should i envy this woman for having no other worries in life, or pity her?” lena looked up at malcolm and, after a moment of hesitation, greeted him with a bright but empty smile. malcolm gave a slight nod, but inside he thought, “what if i dropped one of those tomatoes and watched it smash apart?” further ahead, there was a group of children. they were playing, or something between playing and pretending to play. everything was too orderly. “where’s the pushing, the crying, the drama?” malcolm wondered. one of the children stared at him with unblinking eyes. “okay,” malcolm thought, “this kid is definitely a robot.” then there was the old man by the well. a face that should have carried the marks of years, but was oddly smooth. one hand held a cane, the other stroked his beard. but he never actually used the cane. “shave off that beard,” malcolm thought, “and this guy’s just an old-fashioned young man. not old—just outdated.” as malcolm walked through the village, everything felt like part of a staged play. scenes were acted out, roles were performed, but nothing, no one, was real. “god’s perfect creation,” he murmured to himself. “but someone in this scene has even manipulated god. the stage lights are too bright.” and beneath those lights, something was terribly wrong. with every step, malcolm could sense it. “perhaps that’s why i’m here,” he thought. “to break it.” -2- near the edge of the village, by a stone wall, a figure crouched: edgar. he was scraping at scattered branches on the ground with his han…