'Life sucks,' these two simple words were the only ones you ever remembered your father saying. It was a favourite saying of his, of that you were certain. Though you were also certain there was more to it than that. Some other dubious nugget of so-called fatherly wisdom long forgotten, just like everything else about him you tried to forget, chief among them being how he had beaten your mother to death, been sent to jail and then somehow managed die in prison.
You didn't really care how he had died you had just hoped to move past him. Turned out you were about as shit at letting things go as he'd been for his words come back to you now. Only the first part though. Lying on the riverbank in the shade of a bridge with a dagger imbedded in your chest, those first two words are probably the perfect summary of your feelings. Or at least as perfect as your rapidly fading, oxygen deprived consciousness is able to grasp at. The only thing that makes this situation even more perfect is the knowledge that you'd plunged the dagger in yourself.
If you could have seen the hand fate had dealt you it would most certainly have been four jokers and a ten. An alcoholic, wife beating, wife killing, dead in prison father is almost certainly guaranteed to fuck up almost anyone's life. Still, you might have still been able to make something of yourself if you hadn't had a procession of shitty foster carers and guardians, school teachers and classmates. There was no way any of it was your fault? Right?
What followed is easy to predict, a domino cascade of mediocrity, failure and deterioration that would only ever end one way. No money, no home, no family or at least none that gave a damn about you, nothing left but the tattered, threadbare clothes on your back and some sort of family heirloom you couldn't sell or do anything useful with and you were left with only one real option. The option only the truly mad or the truly desperate would choose.
You decided to sell your soul to a demon. What? Surprised? Not what you were expecting? Actually, if you've read the description, it's exactly what you are expecting, but never mind. Anyone who doesn't have fourth wall breaking knowledge would be questioning the mere existence of such things, but you'd been given a reason to believe otherwise. This was your ten and you were betting everything on it.
In most card games the ten was a bit of a head scratcher. It was high enough to be considered one of the strongest cards but at the same time it wasn't a picture. This bizarrely creates a fictional gap between it and the jack that can be perceived to be much larger than it really is. In reality a ten has a high probability of being the highest card in a single game, but that probability isn't really high enough to allow a person to confidently bet on it. It was a card that promised much but didn't always deliver and thus it could end up being even more disappointing than the much lower cards that had little hope or expectation attached to them. As a trump card it wasn't really one that inspired all that much confidence, but when the rest of your hand is made up of jokers you don't have much choice.
The dagger was your ten. Of what? Isn't it obvious? Hearts, of course! That was where you stuck it after all. But there was some bizarre method in your supposed madness. The dagger was special, you had realised this after discovering that only you could draw it from its scabbard. Perhaps a bit cliché but at first you had suspected that no one would be able to draw the blade. You had taken it to a number of pawn shops and antique dealers and none had managed it. Until one day you'd been feeling particularly stupid and had been trying to pry the damn thing open with a box cutter. Surprise surprise, your hand slipped and you cut yourself quite badly, spilling blood onto your last remaining item of potential value.
Disaster had turned to success, however, as it turned out that such a brainless mishap was just what the demonic doctor ordered and the cursed item had happily lapped up your red leakage, the indecipherable marks on the scabbard and the impressive blood red ruby on the pommel both glowing ominously. And finally, the blade had slid from its sheathe of its own accord, as though it had been waiting for just the brand of idiot who would somehow end up spilling blood on a sheathed dagger.
But what excitement or glee had quickly disappeared from your mind as you made to draw the blade properly. The moment you did your head exploded in pain as visions and memories flooded your brain. It was telling a tale that you hadn't wanted to hear, one that would likely make you wince and turn away if it wasn't being seared into the back of your mind like a brand. And as the visions faded, the blinding headache was only matched by a new burning pain on the back of your arm, just below the wrist. A glance revealed that you had somehow used your newly unsheathed blade to carve a symbol into your own arm. There was no blood, what little had been spilled had been similarly devoured by the cursed dagger and the mark burnt, a brand upon your arm to match the one you had received inside your skull. And with it came the knowledge that, for you who had been cursed with one of the worst hands possible, the use of this blade could very well be your one and only chance at something better.
And thus, you had kept the blade, taking it with you right up until the end. The injury on your arm had quickly faded, leaving the mark behind as though you had simply chosen a strange tattoo. But it was far more than that. The information planted inside your head had largely been to inform you of the existence of demons and the basic structure by which they were organised, but it also explained that the mark mercilessly carved into your arm could be used to make a bargain with a demon. It also advised that there was really only one offer that a person in your situation could realistically make.
And so, with nothing to lose and anything to gain you had come here, to this out of the way spot to try it out. The 'ritual' had been simplicity itself. Just stab yourself in the chest with the dagger and you'll be placed into a state of near death, allowing you to bargain with those who existed beyond your mortal world. If it worked then great. If it didn't, you'd be past caring, which was also acceptable. That was the plan, at least. And as with all of your plans up to this moment it didn't go as you had hoped.
It's difficult to say exactly what went wrong because your memories of this particular section of your 'not-really life because you are technically not alive' are very hazy. All you can remember is the pain. So much pain. Nonstop, agonising, mind wrenching pain. The sort of constant torturous pain that death was designed to save you from and you were certain you begged for it repeatedly. But who or what you were pleading with was deaf to your appeals. And the pain continued. So much of it that all of these moments rolled into each other as your mind struggled desperately to escape. So much that it was impossible for you to even focus on what was causing it.
All you could feel were the various sensations as they crashed over you. Stabbing, wrenching, cutting, burning, charring, cracking, breaking, freezing, ripping, tearing, piercing, suffocating, slicing, melting all of it blurring together without rhythm, reason or any discernible purpose. Other than perhaps to break you. And break you it did. No human mind was designed to withstand that much inescapable punishment.
But something was different. After a lifetime of nothing ever going the way you wanted it and an afterlife promising nothing but eternal agony you received your first real boon. When you finally snapped, instead of breaking down completely and losing all awareness you somehow gained an incredible clarity instead. It was as though a part of your soul had disconnected itself from the rest, reducing the level of pain you were experiencing to a more tolerable level. It was still raging throughout your soul but you were getting increasingly better at pushing it down, allowing you to actually think for the first time in who knew how long.
You had no idea how long this had been going on for and you didn't want to know but you were at least able to reflect on how this had started. And it had started with her! Yes, you could remember her now, the demon that had responded to your call. You forgot her name, if she ever told it to you, but you knew she liked to refer to herself as 'The Torturer,' though she had more commonly wanted you to simply call her Mistress. She had accepted your offer and had promised to grant you a great power that you would be able to take back with you into the mortal world. But she had a warped way of honouring your agreement. Instead of returning you to Earth and waiting for you to die, she had claimed your soul first and determined to do whatever she wanted with you so long as she did eventually give you what she had promised. Your own rage and frustration at this betrayal meant little to her, nothing you said or promised to do actually meant anything to her. She really only seemed to enjoy making you suffer. And suffer you had.
But focusing on that really would drive you to insanity, so you brought your thoughts back to the present. And the first thing to catch your attention is your near constant companion, the meat hook. Ah yes, this was your 'standby' position when your tormentor was busy doing other things, she would leave you hanging, quite literally. The meat hook was easily large enough to accommodate you, piercing you through your lower back and tearing up your insides as your weight brought you down onto it, causing the point to jut out of the top of your chest.
The first thing you'd needed to learn was that as a disembodied soul you didn't actually need to breathe as even trying to do so would cause blood to bubble up your throat and into your mouth nearly drowning you. A few times you'd managed to wiggle or tear yourself off the hook, only to end up falling into the large permanently bubbling cauldron below. The thing was massive, far too large and far too deep for you to ever hope of climbing out of it and each time you'd fallen in you'd simply have to endure being boiled alive until your captor found you and returned you to your hook. There were a number of other hooks as well, all hanging nearby, all suspended above the bubbling cauldron but none of them had occupants. It seemed as though you were the only person dumb enough to sell your soul to this particular crazy sadist.
As for your 'host' you didn't actually see much of her. She'd almost always gouge out your eyes the moment she entered the room if she caught you looking in her direction so you'd long learnt to keep them closed if you heard the sounds of her approaching. Not that having your eyes closed helped you in any meaningful way, she'd still go about hurting you in whatever ways her limited imagination directed her to, ignoring or perhaps even relishing your screams, tears and pleas for mercy or later on the ever more pleasant escape of death. You were able to establish that although she called herself The Torturer that wasn't actually her role, as the only soul she ever actually tortured was you and that seemed to be simply for her own personal enjoyment. You never saw anyone else but you often heard her interacting with other demons in the next room over.
You of course had never left this room, what you would usually call a kitchen. Though in this case every item that you would usually find in kitchen had been converted into a method for inflicting pain. Anything that couldn't had been replaced with something that can and so the room now looked like a cross between a kitchen and a medieval torture chamber. It was the sort of thing you'd typically only see in a horror game so thoroughly disconnected it was from everything you'd previously known. From what you could tell there was only one way in or out of the room and that was the door your tormentor used to visit you when she was looking to burn off some stress or recover from a bad day at work.
You didn't know what The Torturer actually did for work or even what sort of work a demon even did. But the one thing you did know for sure was that she was hopelessly bad at it, whatever 'it' was. Once you'd managed to orient yourself away from being able to experience nothing but searing agony you could actually hear the conversations that took place in the next room. You were never entirely there enough to really understand what was being said, but you had been chastised and yelled at enough in your life to know that your captor was experiencing the same thing.
So, she was incompetent and that led to her getting yelled at a lot by her peers and superiors. Which in turn led to her coming here after work and tormenting you to relieve her frustrations. Apparently to demons the screams of tortured souls was in some way soothing. And the pattern continued, you have no idea exactly how long for. Your focus was almost entirely in your battle against the endless waves of pain crashing against your body trying to strip your mind of all it's capability. You didn't bother trying to speak to your tormentor, your screams and pleading only seemed to entertain her.
So, you stopped. You slowly but surely managed to muffle your cries, enduring the worst that she could throw at you with quiet apathy, or at least as close to it as you could muster. You endured being stabbed, sliced into pieces, toasted, boiled, roasted, gored, grated, having your skin peeled off, your bones broken and so much more. Your soul was immortal, after all it was only in the form of your body because you didn't have the ability to imagine it as anything else. And it always reformed itself after she was finished. So you endured. Until everything changed.
You had sensed it for a while, of course. Her enjoyment of your suffering and misery was tied in to how much pain and despair she was causing you. The less of this mental affliction she seemed to be causing the less enjoyment she was receiving. Until she actually grew bored of tormenting you. For a while she simply left you to hang on your hook, listening to her growing increasingly frustrated with her usual avenue of stress relief not doing it for her anymore. And then she seemed to come to a decision. She came in one day, if there even were days here, and just stared at you as you hang there, careful to avoid meeting her eyes yourself. Then a familiar hand grabbed for your neck but instead of tearing you off the hook like usual it turned your head roughly in her direction. You hastily closed your eyes but then something surprised you.
'Look at me,' she barked, 'look me in the eyes!' You couldn't even remember the last time she had spoken to you that wasn't her simply gloating over your suffering or encouraging you to cry or beg more. Certainly, she'd never wanted you to look at her before. It might be some sort of trick but she'd never been sly enough for such a ruse before so you obeyed her and opened your eyes. This could have been a good opportunity to take a good look at your captor for the first time that you could remember but you'd much rather try to work out what was going on behind her eyes instead. So, you met her gaze and held it. Perhaps she'd finally grown so bored of you that she was getting rid of you? Even if that meant death, you'd still prefer it over this. But no, the gaze that you were examining was almost pensive, examining you. She let you go and took a step back.
'You'll do,' she muttered, seemingly to herself before she focused on you again, 'I have a job for you, maggot!' Yes, her insults were just as unimaginative as she was. You didn't bother responding, she'd never been interested in dialogue before so you assumed she'd tell you everything she felt she'd need to tell you and all you'd need to do was grunt your acknowledgement at the end.
'You should be grateful,' she spat, 'I'm giving you a chance to earn your worthless soul back! I'm sending you back to the human world with the gift I promised you. But don't get complacent! You'll be working for me from now on! One hundred more souls! Bring me them and I'll give you yours back! And don't fuck this up, or you'll feel like your time spent here was like a relaxing sauna compared to what I'll do to you next!' You doubted that as you were fairly sure she'd inflicted every form of suffering and torment her twisted but unoriginal mind had been able to come up with. But you still didn't reply and, clearly, she didn't need you to. Of course not, in her mind there was no way you'd ever conceivably say no to her. So, she simply pulled you up off your long-time companion the meat hook and tossed you casually over her shoulder without even giving you a chance to say goodbye. Not that you would be missing her or anything else in that fucked up room.
Next up is a very confused moment where you feel as though you are falling and spinning and flying all at the same time. And then you hear a splash. Cold, you feel cold. Cold and wet and an odd floating sensation. Your body aches. Wait? Your body? For a long time, you try to get to grips with what actually happened. It has been so long since you had been able to actually properly think after all. The sudden absence of the all dominating pain left you hollow while the rest of your bodily sensations continue to hide, debating whether or not it is time to start resurfacing now.
The first thing that returns, after being bottled up for so long is of course THE RAGE! THAT EVIL PSYCHO BITCH! HOW DARE SHE DO THAT TO YOU FOR SO LONG! IF YOU COULD JUST GET YOUR HANDS ON HER YOU'D SHOW HER EXACTLY HOW TO USE THAT FUCKED UP ROOM OF HERS! AND NOW YOU WERE SOME SORT OF ERRAND BOY, FETCHING AND CARRYING FOR THAT WOMAN SO SHE CAN HAVE FUN WITH MORE PEOPLE?! TO HELL, LITERALLY, WITH THAT! AND TO HELL WITH EVERYONELSE AS WELL! FUCK THIS FUCKED UP WORLD AND EVERYONE IN IT!
Damn it! Now what the hell are you supposed to do? Souls? A hundred of them? The fuck are you supposed to do that? 'Hey there my crazy, sadist, torture happy boss wants your soul, you mind handing it over?' Like that would ever work! Shit, you're really in the deep end now. Though what had you expected? The rage still burns inside you, coursing through your veins like molten magna fuelling your body through sheer hatred, but you start to tune it out, just as you did the pain that came before it.
Your senses come back to you, slowly and tentatively. Yes, you are back in your physical body now, you cannot afford to lose yourself inside your own head any more. What do you feel? Gripping? Odd… You aren't moving but at the same time you are. Weird… Floating? Drifting? This will take some getting used to… How long were you away that you cannot remember how your own body works anymore? For so long you've done nothing but hang and suffer and strive to endure. Crazy…
Your vision swims in the darkness, no wait that's the night sky. But it's moving, drifting slowly across your vision. No, you are moving. Wet, floating, drifting and cold even without lifting a muscle. The river, you must have fallen in. Or more likely you were thrown in by that… No, stop don't think about that… fight the rage, you need to move. You are back in your mortal body now; bad things will happen if you don't get it together. How did you move your muscles again? Fuck… Was it always this hard? It's as though you are back to being a baby again, unable to move and only able to rely on others to look after you. Except there isn't anyone else. There had never really been anyone else. Not since… Shit, no… More rage… Just stop, that isn't helpful right now.
Fortunately, the current isn't very strong and you are somehow managing to keep your head above water. And you're breathing, that's a thing you need to remember to do now. What else do you need to remember you need to do now? Hopefully it will come to you. Though more likely you'll just die right away. You'd almost welcome it at this point. But death isn't going to help you, not while someone else still has their grips on your soul and can pull you back at any time.
Finally, you begin to regain control of your own body, your first objective, make it to dry land before you sink and drown. One quick check of your body reveals everything is where it is supposed to be. You are still clutching the dagger in your hand. Though last time you had seen it you remember it had been imbedded in your chest. But no, in your hand is better. You aren't sure how you should feel about it right now, considering it is responsible for this mess you are now in. No, it isn't the dagger's fault, it is HER'S… No, stop it. Survive first, rage later. You start to experiment with your new… no, old body. Damn, thinking is hard. Your old body just feels like a new body. All the same you manage to get it to cooperate. Sort of. Still working out what controls the arms and what controls the legs. Your body is shaking. No, that's called shivering. You'll need to get out of the water and warm up. Or at least dry off.
Like an ancient, rusty machine that hasn't seen use in many years you finally manage to get your body to operate as it needs to. Drifting to the river bank and hauling yourself out of the water. You don't get very far, your drenched clothes weighing you down as you struggle to crawl up the bank, not even considering trying to get your treacherous body into an upright position. Eventually you slump down again, wet and cold but at least the immediate danger is over. Now if only you could rest. Impossible while the rage still courses through you. It actually feels like a separate entity at this point. Maybe it is. Your mind is so torn up right now you wouldn't be surprised. But you gather up whatever parts of it aren't raging and try to give yourself some time to recover. Not enough time, it will never be enough time. You've endured far more pain than the human mind was ever designed to endure and for far longer. You should be a gibbering wreck at this point, or a brainless husk. Somehow you had maintained some semblance of sanity. But the madness will never be far away.
Movement, is that movement you hear somewhere nearby? You'd been so busy trying to regain control of your own body you hadn't paid much attention to anything or anyone else. You'd assumed, no hoped that you'd been alone. But perhaps you are not as alone as you'd like. No, you are most definitely not alone, footsteps moving close, crunching the grass beneath unhurried, uncaring boots. A muttering noise from above you that you are unable to decipher and something touches you. You don't feel the need to react to it. It isn't pain so it isn't important. Is that a hand moving through your jacket pocket? Yes, you recognise that. Are you being mugged? Ha! Jokes on this fool, you haven't a single coin!
Then the questing hands find the demonic dagger in your grasp and surprised eyes note the jewel in the pommel and the ornate decorations upon the sheathe. And all of a sudden, those hands you couldn't care less about are trying to pry the item from your grasp. Instinctively you find your grip tightening, your other hand moving to defend its brother only to be slapped back down before it can gather any strength. Your grip is fierce but your opponent is persistent and likely just as desperate as you are. This bastard, why can't he just leave you alone! Can't he tell you are BUSY? You let the rage take over this time.
You become a passenger in your own body, looking up at the wild eyes of the man looming over you, thick hair and filthy clothes. Likely homeless, just like you, probably on drugs or just opportunistic and immoral. No matter, you feel yourself adjusting your grip. In a single moment you are clutching the hilt, he the sheathe. He's tugging desperately then he's falling back with the sheathe in his grubby hands. And you are rising, blade in hand and lunging forward. He's too busy staring dumbly at the sheathe in his hands to realise the danger he's in. Too bad for him. Your hand plunges down, dagger with it and it sinks into his chest without any resistance at all. You can feel the hatred, the rage burning so strongly inside you you're surprised your blood isn't turning to steam in your very veins. Anger not really directed at this hapless fool in front of you, who is just trying to survive as you are, but angry at society, angry at the world and most of all, angry at HER.
The dagger slips out just as easily as it went in, then it goes back in. Out and then in again, time and time again. Blood would be flying everywhere if it wasn't being sucked into the blade first. Suddenly you realise he's the one now lying on the ground and you are on top. He's long dead of course, but that doesn't mean you need to stop stabbing him. He should just consider himself lucky he died quickly. He probably didn't get a chance to experience even the smallest fraction of what you'd suffered through at her hands. Fuck him for his good fortune.
Eventually you stop stabbing the guy. Largely because there isn't much left to stab. Your time outside your body left you without a good grip on your physical body's limitations. You'd read somewhere that there were limitations placed upon your brain to prevent your body from utilising all of its available strength. This was for good reason as without those limitations you'd likely tear your own muscles apart and break your own bones without realising. You don't have such a restriction, for good or for ill. As the rage abates and is pushed back down you can feel the pain in your dominant arm. You can recognise it easily enough. You've broken your humorous. No, more like a fracture. Usually this would be a trifling issue but your physical body won't heal like you are used to. You'll need to work out how to reengage your limiters or you'll end up tearing your recently recovered body to pieces.
Before you do anything else you drag the corpse of your would-be mugger down the riverbed and push it into the river. It's not perfect but it'll have to do for now. You doubt anyone will be looking for him. If anyone cared enough to look for him, he wouldn't be in the state he found you in. Next… well what the hell is next? Sheathing the blade probably. As you do so, however, you cannot help but notice. The thing is throbbing! And the jewel on the pommel is glowing, just as it did when you first spilt blood on it. Was it about to… SHIT! NOT YOUR HEAD AGAIN! More words embed themselves in your brain like miniature blades stabbing into your delicate grey matter. This time, however, you can understand what is being said clearly.
To whom it may concern, congratulations, for you have inherited my legacy. If you are wondering why the blade had chosen you the answer is simple. I instructed it to find it's way into the hands of the most pathetic and worthless individual it could find. Angry? You should be. But don't despair. I was once just as you are currently, weak and wretched without any real hope or prospects. But I was able to climb from this lowest of lows to the highest of highs and crowned myself the Demon Lord, the king of that world and overseer of the darkest of mankind's souls.
This diary is something I left behind to guide others, The Diary of the Usurper! With it you may well be able to ascend from your pitiful state to one where you may indeed be able to challenge me for my position. To get you started I will grant you the smallest fraction of the power you might one day possess. Abandon all sense of morality and abandon your worthless humanity while you are at it. In time you may learn that there is only one universal truth in this world. Until then struggle as hard as you can, climb as high as you want. I will wait for you at the top with baited breath. Yours faithfully, The Demon Lord Kairos
The pain in your head subsides faster this time, a single message taking less time to convey than the massive lore dump that happened the first time. Even so a new pain draws attention to a brand-new mark upon your arm, placed just below the first one. As before you had been forced to use the dagger to carve the symbol into your own flesh. Most likely it will transform in time as the first one did into a simple tattoo. Why this so-called diary works in such a way is a mystery to you. Wouldn't an actual book be easier? Or is this demon lord just someone who likes to cut himself? Had he really carved his spells into his own body? You'd have to ask him if you ever actually meet him.
Still, this information is potentially a revolution for your thought process. It only takes a brief moment of contemplation for the 'superpower' granted to you by that bitch to reveal itself to you. Though this power feels as though it had been designed by her more as a leash to prevent you from actually screwing up rather than to actually help you carry out the task she had selfishly imposed on you. The actual power she had given you is a form of immortality. But not really a useful kind.
A useful kind of immortality would allow you to recover from any wound you suffered or would prevent you from dying altogether. Or even an immortality that would send you back in time if you died allowing you to try again. As different versions of the same power goes that sounds like a pretty crappy one. You feel as though they could probably make a messed up story about such a power in the future. Though that may just be you. The actual power you have been given only triggers the moment you are killed and will immediately move your soul into another nearby body, allowing you to possess someone else and become them. As cool as that could be, potentially, it is also entirely random, granting no control over the body that you actually take over.
Even worse, you can tell that the possession had been set to include non-human targets as well. Meaning if you aren't careful you could end up dying and find yourself in the body of a dog, or hamster or some other animal. Why this was included you do not know, but knowing your tormentor as you do it was probably designed to screw with you. Regardless, it really did seem as though you won't be able to escape from that torturing bitch simply by dying. She'll keep tugging on your leash until you gather the souls she wants, possibly even afterwards considering there is no way you trust her to keep her word. Unless you turn the tables on her.
Isn't that exactly what the Diary of the Usurper was designed for? It is right there in the name! Still, do you really want that? If you could gather enough souls to keep the bitch off your back you might be able to gather enough power to actually make something of yourself here in the mortal world. You'd have to steer clear of the Church and their enforcers, of course but if you could keep your head down for long enough you suspect you could amass the kind of power that would make you nigh unstoppable. It does sound like a hell of a lot of work though, and there will be a lot of climbing and likely failure before you if you really do want to attempt it.
Who knows how many times you'll have to die in order to achieve your goal, every death warping you into a new body that would more likely than not hinder your progress more than it would help? Is anything really worth that much effort? You've already experienced so much pain and suffering. As much as you hate this world and that demon bitch and as much as a part of you wants nothing more than to lash out at it, the majority of your being is just tired. You certainly don't want to go through any more of what you had just escaped from. Your fractured mind whirs with the possibilities, the options and the opportunities, eventually settling on three feasible options going forwards.
Firstly, you could simply resign yourself to your fate and gather the souls demanded by your captor. It likely wouldn't be so difficult, especially if you utilised the power of the Diary every so often. Your demonic dagger had harvested the soul from the man you had just killed, utilising it to grant you your new power, but you feel confident it could be used to store the souls as well. So, all you need to do was kill one hundred more people with the dagger and you'd be done. The downside of this plan, of course is that it will rely on that woman keeping her word and actually releasing you. Still, even if she doesn't, so long as she doesn't put you back on that fucking hook it might not be too bad an existence to keep hunting souls for her.
Secondly, you could do as you had been advised by the former owner of the Diary and use its power to elevate yourself. You sense that this power could be used in a number of ways depending on your own tastes. Just as importantly you'd also be able to feed the Diary in a number of ways, meaning you won't necessarily need to slaughter everyone. Instead, you can use the power granted to you by the Diary to intimidate, manipulate or corrupt your way to greater heights, assembling for yourself your own kingdom of servants and followers, even slaves if you fancy it. After that you could even challenge the bitch herself and seize whatever position she holds within Hell, or you could simply dominate the mortal world reaping all the benefits such a thing would entail. It would certainly be riskier and more dangerous than the previous option. If you challenge your oppressor and lose, you'll be back on the hook for the rest of eternity, but the potential benefits could be worth it.
Finally, you could stick your middle finger up at all of this demon nonsense and go straight to the Church. If you confess your sins and explain the situation to someone with power and influence, they might be able to severe the shackles that bind you to the demons. Then you'd be able to eke out a semi-normal existence on this planet like everyone else. You could rebuild your life, actually make something of yourself and then die like a halfway decent person. It will at least allow you to avoid the hook and it should prevent you from being manipulated both by the bitch and by the author of the Diary who really just sounds like he is bored and wants someone strong to fight against.
The downside of this option, of course is that it involves placing yourself entirely at the mercy of the Church. You had never really believed in God or in any of the other things that they preached and you can't help but think that the priests and enforcers serving His word will, after sensing your demonic taint, be far more likely to just have you burnt at the stake than actually try to help you. Still, there is always a chance, right?
It is a difficult decision, but one that has to be made…