Waking up as Riser Phenex, arrogant, shirtless, and canonically useless, a reincarnated man realizes he's hit the jackpot... and also the trash heap of devil nobility. But why die as a footnote in someone else's story when you can rewrite the whole damn script? Armed with genre awareness, overpowered ambition, and zero patience for anime logic, Riser's done playing nice. He's recruiting monsters, stealing plot armor, and aiming to become something even the gods side-eye. Forget peace, forget canon, and definitely forget being defeated by teenagers again. This time, Riser's going full main character energy, with fire.
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DxD: Born Again in Flame (Riser si)
- Thread starter abel targayen
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User Total abel targayen 5
Prologue and plans
New
abel targayen
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
- Messages
- 49
- Likes received
- 166
Prologue: Ashes of the Phoenix
There was warmth, no, heat, pressing into his skin. A low crackle echoed through the room like a distant fire, steady and alive. He stirred.
The ceiling above was a mural of soaring phoenixes, feathers of gold and fire stitched into enchanted stone, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered old money and older magic. The bed beneath him was absurdly soft, the silken sheets smoother than anything he had touched in a lifetime. A nearby window let in amber-tinted sunlight through high gothic arches, illuminating velvet drapes, a mahogany desk, a chandelier of living flame.
Where the hell am I?
He sat up, the room tilting with unfamiliar weight. His body was different, taller, leaner, stronger. More refined. But what shocked him most was the aura. It rolled off him in waves, arrogance and power. It clung to the air like the scent of spice and brimstone.
He stumbled toward a tall mirror framed in phoenix feathers. The reflection wasn't his.
Blond hair, sharp features, crimson eyes that burned faintly with something inhuman. He looked maybe fifteen. His chest was bare, his skin too perfect, too flawless. No acne, no scars, just aristocratic beauty that felt as unnatural as it was magnetic.
He knew that face.
Riser Phenex.
"No…" His voice was unfamiliar, smooth and aristocratic. He stared at the reflection, trying to will it away, deny it. But then came the wave.
Like a dam breaking, memories flooded in, flashes of noble banquets in the Phenex estate, of tutors lecturing him on etiquette, combat, and devil politics. Flames erupting from his hands in training duels. Cold glances exchanged between elder devils at court. The smirk of a younger Rias Gremory across a table. The shame of a spare Heir. The taste of being irrelevant.
He sank to his knees, gasping.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Eventually, the panic faded. In its place came thought. Cold, precise, analytical thought.
So this was it. Somehow, impossibly, he had ended up in the body of a minor villain. A speedbump on someone else's path to greatness. Riser Phenex, arrogant, petty, disposable.
But now?
A slow grin pulled at his lips.
Now he had a five-year head start, the mind of a man from another world, and a future to rewrite. His fate was no longer bound to the canon timeline, no longer shackled to some teenager's path to greatness.
He would not be someone else's stepping stone.
He would forge a peerage worthy of legend. No more weaklings. He'd find monsters, people with potential and power. Earn their loyalty. Take what he needed and reshape the Underworld if he had to
He opened a drawer in the desk, retrieving the ornate ebony box that pulsed with ancient magic. Inside, the remaining Evil Pieces shimmered, two Rooks, two Knights, two Bishops, eight Pawns.
The Queen slot was empty.
"Yubellana…" he murmured. The name came with a flicker of recognition, a capable but underwhelming choice, locked in before he awoke.
No matter. The rest could be salvaged.
He closed the box gently, reverently. Stood tall.
"A side character in someone else's pathetic little story?" he whispered. "No. I am the master of my fate."
He turned toward the balcony, flame-washed wind tugging at his hair, and stared into the horizon over the mansion, to the rest of Ars Goetia. His mind was already spinning.
Who would he recruit? Where could he find the strength to carve a new future? Could he bend the rules of the game, or break them entirely?
The pieces were on the board. He would decide how they moved.
----------------------------------------------
Peace.
It was intoxicating, in its own way. The scent of roses from enchanted gardens drifting through the open balcony. Servants who bowed their heads in silence. Endless days of leisure, luxury, and lukewarm expectations. No burdens. No pressure. No destiny.
And no meaning.
Riser lounged in an obsidian chair, a glass of expensive wine, fire-blood vintage from the Phenex vaults, glowing softly in his hand. Fifteen years old, devil nobility, born into a house with coffers so deep they could drown lesser houses. Third son. Spare of a spare. Aristocracy meant that unless he actively humiliated himself or exploded half the Underworld, his family would let him live however he pleased.
And the idea was tempting.
He had magic. Real, honest-to-hell magic. He could light up rooms with a flick of his fingers. Summon flames from the marrow of his soul. Live in decadence until the end of time. And the Underworld would applaud him for doing nothing more than existing.
But that... that was how losers thought.
"Peace?" he muttered, smirking. "Fuck peace."
He stood and walked to the window, flames flickering behind his irises. The horizon beyond the House of Phenex's territory shimmered with ley lines, devil cities carved into obsidian mountains, ancient forests, ruins of ancient wars. And beyond even that, the material world.
This world was real fantasy. Every pantheon, every myth is real. Angels soared above Heaven. Dragons slept in volcanoes. Gods sipped wine in hidden dimensions. And he had the chance to live among them, challenge them, surpass them.
"I'm a devil with a literal immortality pass and magic limited only by imagination," he whispered to himself. "Why the fuck would I settle for anything less than the top?"
Sirzechs Lucifer? A noble goal.
But even that was too low.
No. His eyes gleamed now. He would reach the pinnacle. Become a being beyond myth. A king of devils, not by birth, but by right. He wanted to stand on the edge of existence and look down on dragons, gods, angels alike.
To do that, he needed power. Unshakable, undeniable power. Magical, political, personal.
And he couldn't do it alone.
The Evil Piece set still sat on his desk. One Queen already spent. The rest gleamed with latent potential.
Time to fill his peerage. Not with sycophants or incompetent playthings like in canon. No. This time, he would build an elite force, loyal, lethal, cunning. Not a household. A dynasty.
What kind of people did he want?
First: Loyalty. Absolute. His back must be protected when he stepped into the fire.
Second: Capability. Not just raw magical power, though that helped. Intelligence, adaptability, ruthlessness. If they could kill gods or manipulate a situation, that worked too.
Third: No idealists. He wasn't building a charity. Morals were luxuries the strong could afford. In the Underworld, power ruled. Only fools pretended otherwise.
He began listing names:
Valerie Tepes.
A dhampir, held captive by her own family in the shadows of Eastern Europe. Wielder of the Sephiroth Graal, a Sacred Gear of unimaginable potential. Healing, resurrection, possibly capable of granting immunity to holy weaknesses. If he could turn her, not only would he gain a trump card, but possibly the means to make devils' racial weakness obsolete.
A beauty, too. But that was secondary.
Problem? She was a magnet for trouble. Evil dragons, the Fallen, and worst of all: the son of Lucifer would all want her.
"But I have five years," he muttered. "Plenty of time to prepare."
Gasper Vladi.
Childhood friend of Valerie. Wielder of Forbidden Balor View, an anti-time Sacred Gear that could stop time. A little unstable. A little naive. But potential.
If he timed it right, he could get them both.
The Nekomata Sisters.
Held by House Naberius. Abused and caged and used as experiment subjects. Kuroka, especially, would be dangerous, a Youkai of immense potential and deadly instinct.
It would require careful planning to recruit them without becoming a target. But worth it.
Rossweisse.
Valkyrie. Scholar. Talented. Criminally undervalued by her own pantheon.
With the right approach, he could offer her recognition and respect she never received from Odin.
Ingvild Leviathan.
Lost descendant of a Maou. Slumbering power. A High-tier Longinus, Sacred Gear with the ability to control dragons.
She was a slow-burn asset, but a potentially game-breaking one.
Meredith Ordinton.
One of the wielders of a Longinus. If he could find her and recruit her, she could be a useful ally.
These were pieces worth playing.
But peerage members meant nothing if he wasn't strong enough to protect them. Or worse, if he was strong enough to recruit them, but weak enough to lose them.
That meant power had to come first.
Devil magic was a start, but he'd need more.
Ancient tomes from the Phenex library. Elemental fusion beyond just fire. Rituals. Forbidden techniques. Sacred Gear research. Maybe even tapping into the Super-devil research.
No. Not maybe. Definitely.
His end goal wasn't to be some noble with a hobby. It was to reach the level where reality bent to his will. Where the Dragon of Dreams himself, Great Red, would take notice.
And from there?
Maybe even beyond.
He exhaled and sat back, flames curling gently at his fingertips. The window of time was open. He had years before Issei Hyoudou awakens the Boosted Gear. Years to gather power, influence, and allies.
But it had to start now.
"Step one," he muttered. "Push past my current limit. Master Phenex fire. Expand magic versatility. Hunt Sacred Gear wielders. Recruit. Manipulate. Grow."
He poured a second glass of fire-blood wine and toasted the horizon.
"To the top. No matter who stands in my way."
Author's Note: Alright, after whining about how everyone's stories refuse to follow my brilliant plans, I've finally mustered enough courage (and caffeine) to post something. Fingers crossed it doesn't crash and burn. I already have a plan for how it should go but, spoiler alert, only the first arc is locked in — the rest is just me winging it like a pro. Feel free to drop feedback, ideas, or even insults. Seriously, I can take it — bring on the roast!
There was warmth, no, heat, pressing into his skin. A low crackle echoed through the room like a distant fire, steady and alive. He stirred.
The ceiling above was a mural of soaring phoenixes, feathers of gold and fire stitched into enchanted stone, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered old money and older magic. The bed beneath him was absurdly soft, the silken sheets smoother than anything he had touched in a lifetime. A nearby window let in amber-tinted sunlight through high gothic arches, illuminating velvet drapes, a mahogany desk, a chandelier of living flame.
Where the hell am I?
He sat up, the room tilting with unfamiliar weight. His body was different, taller, leaner, stronger. More refined. But what shocked him most was the aura. It rolled off him in waves, arrogance and power. It clung to the air like the scent of spice and brimstone.
He stumbled toward a tall mirror framed in phoenix feathers. The reflection wasn't his.
Blond hair, sharp features, crimson eyes that burned faintly with something inhuman. He looked maybe fifteen. His chest was bare, his skin too perfect, too flawless. No acne, no scars, just aristocratic beauty that felt as unnatural as it was magnetic.
He knew that face.
Riser Phenex.
"No…" His voice was unfamiliar, smooth and aristocratic. He stared at the reflection, trying to will it away, deny it. But then came the wave.
Like a dam breaking, memories flooded in, flashes of noble banquets in the Phenex estate, of tutors lecturing him on etiquette, combat, and devil politics. Flames erupting from his hands in training duels. Cold glances exchanged between elder devils at court. The smirk of a younger Rias Gremory across a table. The shame of a spare Heir. The taste of being irrelevant.
He sank to his knees, gasping.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Eventually, the panic faded. In its place came thought. Cold, precise, analytical thought.
So this was it. Somehow, impossibly, he had ended up in the body of a minor villain. A speedbump on someone else's path to greatness. Riser Phenex, arrogant, petty, disposable.
But now?
A slow grin pulled at his lips.
Now he had a five-year head start, the mind of a man from another world, and a future to rewrite. His fate was no longer bound to the canon timeline, no longer shackled to some teenager's path to greatness.
He would not be someone else's stepping stone.
He would forge a peerage worthy of legend. No more weaklings. He'd find monsters, people with potential and power. Earn their loyalty. Take what he needed and reshape the Underworld if he had to
He opened a drawer in the desk, retrieving the ornate ebony box that pulsed with ancient magic. Inside, the remaining Evil Pieces shimmered, two Rooks, two Knights, two Bishops, eight Pawns.
The Queen slot was empty.
"Yubellana…" he murmured. The name came with a flicker of recognition, a capable but underwhelming choice, locked in before he awoke.
No matter. The rest could be salvaged.
He closed the box gently, reverently. Stood tall.
"A side character in someone else's pathetic little story?" he whispered. "No. I am the master of my fate."
He turned toward the balcony, flame-washed wind tugging at his hair, and stared into the horizon over the mansion, to the rest of Ars Goetia. His mind was already spinning.
Who would he recruit? Where could he find the strength to carve a new future? Could he bend the rules of the game, or break them entirely?
The pieces were on the board. He would decide how they moved.
----------------------------------------------
Peace.
It was intoxicating, in its own way. The scent of roses from enchanted gardens drifting through the open balcony. Servants who bowed their heads in silence. Endless days of leisure, luxury, and lukewarm expectations. No burdens. No pressure. No destiny.
And no meaning.
Riser lounged in an obsidian chair, a glass of expensive wine, fire-blood vintage from the Phenex vaults, glowing softly in his hand. Fifteen years old, devil nobility, born into a house with coffers so deep they could drown lesser houses. Third son. Spare of a spare. Aristocracy meant that unless he actively humiliated himself or exploded half the Underworld, his family would let him live however he pleased.
And the idea was tempting.
He had magic. Real, honest-to-hell magic. He could light up rooms with a flick of his fingers. Summon flames from the marrow of his soul. Live in decadence until the end of time. And the Underworld would applaud him for doing nothing more than existing.
But that... that was how losers thought.
"Peace?" he muttered, smirking. "Fuck peace."
He stood and walked to the window, flames flickering behind his irises. The horizon beyond the House of Phenex's territory shimmered with ley lines, devil cities carved into obsidian mountains, ancient forests, ruins of ancient wars. And beyond even that, the material world.
This world was real fantasy. Every pantheon, every myth is real. Angels soared above Heaven. Dragons slept in volcanoes. Gods sipped wine in hidden dimensions. And he had the chance to live among them, challenge them, surpass them.
"I'm a devil with a literal immortality pass and magic limited only by imagination," he whispered to himself. "Why the fuck would I settle for anything less than the top?"
Sirzechs Lucifer? A noble goal.
But even that was too low.
No. His eyes gleamed now. He would reach the pinnacle. Become a being beyond myth. A king of devils, not by birth, but by right. He wanted to stand on the edge of existence and look down on dragons, gods, angels alike.
To do that, he needed power. Unshakable, undeniable power. Magical, political, personal.
And he couldn't do it alone.
The Evil Piece set still sat on his desk. One Queen already spent. The rest gleamed with latent potential.
Time to fill his peerage. Not with sycophants or incompetent playthings like in canon. No. This time, he would build an elite force, loyal, lethal, cunning. Not a household. A dynasty.
What kind of people did he want?
First: Loyalty. Absolute. His back must be protected when he stepped into the fire.
Second: Capability. Not just raw magical power, though that helped. Intelligence, adaptability, ruthlessness. If they could kill gods or manipulate a situation, that worked too.
Third: No idealists. He wasn't building a charity. Morals were luxuries the strong could afford. In the Underworld, power ruled. Only fools pretended otherwise.
He began listing names:
Valerie Tepes.
A dhampir, held captive by her own family in the shadows of Eastern Europe. Wielder of the Sephiroth Graal, a Sacred Gear of unimaginable potential. Healing, resurrection, possibly capable of granting immunity to holy weaknesses. If he could turn her, not only would he gain a trump card, but possibly the means to make devils' racial weakness obsolete.
A beauty, too. But that was secondary.
Problem? She was a magnet for trouble. Evil dragons, the Fallen, and worst of all: the son of Lucifer would all want her.
"But I have five years," he muttered. "Plenty of time to prepare."
Gasper Vladi.
Childhood friend of Valerie. Wielder of Forbidden Balor View, an anti-time Sacred Gear that could stop time. A little unstable. A little naive. But potential.
If he timed it right, he could get them both.
The Nekomata Sisters.
Held by House Naberius. Abused and caged and used as experiment subjects. Kuroka, especially, would be dangerous, a Youkai of immense potential and deadly instinct.
It would require careful planning to recruit them without becoming a target. But worth it.
Rossweisse.
Valkyrie. Scholar. Talented. Criminally undervalued by her own pantheon.
With the right approach, he could offer her recognition and respect she never received from Odin.
Ingvild Leviathan.
Lost descendant of a Maou. Slumbering power. A High-tier Longinus, Sacred Gear with the ability to control dragons.
She was a slow-burn asset, but a potentially game-breaking one.
Meredith Ordinton.
One of the wielders of a Longinus. If he could find her and recruit her, she could be a useful ally.
These were pieces worth playing.
But peerage members meant nothing if he wasn't strong enough to protect them. Or worse, if he was strong enough to recruit them, but weak enough to lose them.
That meant power had to come first.
Devil magic was a start, but he'd need more.
Ancient tomes from the Phenex library. Elemental fusion beyond just fire. Rituals. Forbidden techniques. Sacred Gear research. Maybe even tapping into the Super-devil research.
No. Not maybe. Definitely.
His end goal wasn't to be some noble with a hobby. It was to reach the level where reality bent to his will. Where the Dragon of Dreams himself, Great Red, would take notice.
And from there?
Maybe even beyond.
He exhaled and sat back, flames curling gently at his fingertips. The window of time was open. He had years before Issei Hyoudou awakens the Boosted Gear. Years to gather power, influence, and allies.
But it had to start now.
"Step one," he muttered. "Push past my current limit. Master Phenex fire. Expand magic versatility. Hunt Sacred Gear wielders. Recruit. Manipulate. Grow."
He poured a second glass of fire-blood wine and toasted the horizon.
"To the top. No matter who stands in my way."
Author's Note: Alright, after whining about how everyone's stories refuse to follow my brilliant plans, I've finally mustered enough courage (and caffeine) to post something. Fingers crossed it doesn't crash and burn. I already have a plan for how it should go but, spoiler alert, only the first arc is locked in — the rest is just me winging it like a pro. Feel free to drop feedback, ideas, or even insults. Seriously, I can take it — bring on the roast!
Chapter 1: Flames Beneath the Surface
New
abel targayen
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
- Messages
- 49
- Likes received
- 166
Yubellana had always loved the way he played.
The first few notes rang out through the manor's music room, rippling across air perfumed with fresh lilac and firewood. She stood in the doorway, caught, no, captivated, as his fingers danced with impossible grace over the ivory keys. Franz Liszt, she recognized. Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.
It wasn't just performance. It was poetry. Every motion, every note, perfectly controlled, yet filled with passion. This was not the careless, smug noble devil she had served for a while—this was someone transformed.
Riser Phenex sat in the golden sunlight, his blond hair catching fire in the light, his eyes half-lidded, and entirely focused on the piano. He didn't look up, but he knew she was there. Of course he did.
"Ah, Yubellana, I love you," he said as the music swept into a playful crescendo, "when I am with you," he said.
Her lips curled into a small smile, cheeks already warming.
"I become what you call a... hipdevil. I am hip, to the jive. I am in the groove, darling."
She laughed softly, covering her mouth. "Riser, you sound like one of those human jazz phonographs trying to flirt."
The notes slowed, playfully exaggerated, as he turned just enough to cast her a look full of theatrical longing.
"And now," he sighed, letting the piano linger on a sweet, low harmony, "you set my soul on fire. It is not just a little spark. No, it is aflame! A great, roaring flame. I can feel it now, burning, Yubellana, burning."
"You're incorrigible," she murmured, stepping into the room with her hands folded. She tried to sound disapproving, but her voice trembled with a poorly hidden giggle.
He rose, letting the final note of the Rhapsody echo gently behind him like the closing breath of a storm. Then he walked to her, not with the lazy swagger she'd known before, but with the composed confidence of a man who had chosen every step.
She blushed as he took her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles.
"Your cheeks betray you," he said, eyes gleaming. "You wear crimson better than any noble banner."
"You are impossible," she whispered, heart racing.
"And yet here you are, enchanted all the same."
Their faces drew closer, her hand pressed lightly against his chest. He leaned in—
But she turned her face away, flustered. "Riser, wait, there's something you're forgetting."
He paused, expression caught between mock disappointment and amusement.
"You're due to visit your parents at the estate today," she said quickly. "You told Lord and Lady Phenex you would attend tonight's evening meal."
He sighed dramatically, resting his forehead against hers. "You wound me, Yubellana. Interrupted at the very height of passion—for family obligations."
"You're the one who made the appointment," she replied, smirking shyly.
He laughed, stepping back. "And that is why you're my Queen. A beautiful woman with an inconvenient memory for my own convenience."
She flushed again, but said nothing.
He turned away, retrieving his coat with practiced grace. His movements were purposeful, elegant. Everything about him lately had changed. It wasn't just charm, it was a kind of focus, a clarity that unsettled and thrilled her in equal measure.
Once, Riser had been all fire and laziness. A noble devil with too much power, too little ambition, and no direction but the bed and the banquet.
But now...
He gave the piano one last glance before they left the room. "You know, Yubellana," he said quietly, "music is what the soul would say if it were free from the body. When I play... it's as though I remember something I never learned."
She tilted her head, intrigued. "You sound like a wannabe philosopher. It seems you have been thinking a lot."
"I have," he said simply. "Something... cosmic. Like I've stumbled across the answer to a question older than my bloodline. And now I can't stop seeing it: truth, purpose, wonder. Even in the smallest things."
She watched him as they walked down the hall. He paused to admire a painting he'd ignored for years. Complimented a servant's stitching. Yesterday, she'd caught him smiling at the simple act of eating a slice of fresh-baked bread, as if it were a ritual worthy of reverence.
"You're different," she said softly. "Since last month. You carry yourself like a man who's found something or someone—that woke him up."
He glanced at her sidelong. "Maybe I did."
Her heart skipped. For a moment, she wanted to ask more, to pry even. But she was afraid the answer might pull her deeper than she already dared to fall.
They reached the teleportation room. A Phenex sigil shimmered on the obsidian floor.
He took her hand again and smiled, less like a flirt, more like a man.
"Don't wait up," he said. "If my father tries to assign me another engagement to some nobleman's daughter, I may flee the mansion entirely."
She chuckled. "I'm sure you'll manage."
"Of course. I'm a hipdevil, remember?"
The teleportation circle flared to life beneath him, firelight licking at his coat.
And then he was gone, off to the Phenex estate, where power slept beneath old stone and politics simmered in gilded cups.
Yubellana stood alone, hand to her chest, wondering.
He was changing.
She only hoped she would not be left behind.
------------------------------------------------
The Phenex Estate stood like a monument to arrogance and eternity.
Riser gazed upward as the teleportation circle faded beneath his feet, boots touching down on polished volcanic glass inscribed with ancient noble seals. Before him stretched the ancestral palace of House Phenex, a sprawling gothic marvel of obsidian towers, sunstone domes, and fiery wards that shimmered in the dusk like auroras. Miles of enchanted gardens surrounded the main hall, where flowers bloomed with demonic fire and songbirds sang in infernal tongues.
It was the kind of splendor that made human monarchies look like peasant circuses.
He adjusted the collar of his coat with quiet precision. He might be the third son, but he was no afterthought.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Lord Riser, welcome home."
The voice belonged to a dark-haired woman in a tightly fitted French maid uniform. Her presence was crisp, elegant, her features refined—likely a noble devil in service, as was often the custom in ancient houses.
She bowed. "The family is awaiting your arrival in the dining hall."
"Well, lead the way," Riser said smoothly, and followed her inside.
The dining hall was vast, vaulted ceilings of ruby glass, a table carved from firestone stretching the length of a cathedral nave. Fire-elemental chandeliers bathed everything in warm, flickering gold. The Phenex crest, a flaming bird wreathed in demonic script, burned gently on every wall.
Seated at the head of the table was Lord Aurelius Phenex, regal in flowing crimson robes. A man of classical devil nobility, with eyes like burning coal and an expression carved from obsidian.
To his right: Rionas Phenex, the second son and self-made media mogul—handsome, laid-back, already sipping wine with a bemused smirk.
To his left: Rahella Phenex, both wife and sister to Aurelius—refined, powerful, and poised with the ease of a woman used to commanding lesser devils with a glance.
And beside her sat the youngest Phenex: Ravel.
Twelve years old, dressed in a pristine blue gown with a golden sash, her expression desperately serious as she sat straight, trying to appear as proper as possible.
When Riser stepped into the light, all heads turned.
"Well," Rionas grinned, swirling his glass, "look what the wind and his vanity dragged in."
"Apologies," Riser replied as he moved with effortless grace to his seat. "I was busy being in the groove. You know, hipdevil business."
Rahella stifled a chuckle. Aurelius arched a brow. Rionas only laughed louder.
"You're getting poetic. Been spending too much time with your Queen, I take it?"
"She brings out the classical romantic in me," Riser said smoothly as he sat beside his brother. "And unlike some of us, I don't spend all day manufacturing scandals just to boost magazine sales."
"Scandal sells, little brother. Beauty is temporary. Profits are eternal."
"Tragic words from a man with hair that expensive."
Before Rionas could counter, a tiny voice piped up.
"Riser!"
He turned to his sister, smiling warmly.
"Ravel. Still trying to look like a grown-up, I see."
"I am a grown-up!" she pouted, puffing her cheeks. "And I should be your Bishop!"
Riser placed a hand on his heart dramatically. "Alas, my peerage accepts only beautiful women."
"I am beautiful!"
"You're eleven."
"I'm mature for my age!"
Rionas leaned in, stage-whispering to Riser, "That's exactly what an eleven-year-old says when they try to get into noble clubs with illusions."
"I heard that!" Ravel snapped, throwing a bread roll at her older brother.
Rahella reached over gently and adjusted her daughter's hair.
"My little Ravel will be the fairest maiden in the Underworld," she said with a soft, dangerous smile. "And frankly, Riser, it's not a terrible idea. She's talented, and the Bishop piece's demonic power boost would aid her development. She could learn much under your guidance."
The tone shifted. Rahella's suggestion wasn't just maternal—it was a sign of trust.
Riser tapped the table gently with his finger. He had to tread carefully here. Accepting his sister into his peerage could increase their bond—and future influence—but it would also mean giving up a precious piece. Still…
He turned to Ravel, grinning like a fox.
"Tell me, little sister. What year are you in at the Devil Academy?"
"Fourth!" she said proudly. "Already top of my class in Enchantments!"
"Very good," Riser nodded. "Then here's a challenge."
He leaned in, locking eyes with her.
"If you graduate with ten DAEMONs—and I mean ten, with the highest score in each subject—I'll give you my Bishop piece. No take-backs."
The room went silent. Even Aurelius looked faintly impressed.
Ravel blinked. "Ten…? But that's…"
"The record is seven," Rionas pointed out.
"I want to be more than a record!" Ravel declared, fists clenched.
"Then do it," Riser said, smiling. "And I'll welcome you to the team with open arms."
"Promise?"
"On my pride as a Phenex."
Ravel beamed, and Rahella gave a small nod of approval.
Dinner began, servants bringing in seared chimera steak, abyssal salad, and demonic nectar wine—flavors refined over centuries of tradition. As they ate, the conversation drifted to territories, noble gossip, and the upcoming Rating Games.
But Riser listened more than he spoke. His thoughts wandered—not with boredom, but with purpose.
Demonic Leyens.
That was the term. Ancient regions pulsing with raw, condensed demonic energy. Sacred land for devils. Living currency. From these leyens grew what devils called Infernal Crystals—stones that shimmered with chaotic energy, able to be absorbed to increase a devil's demonic power.
The Phenex family owned hundreds. Some low-class, many mid-class, dozens high-class—and more importantly, they had two ultimate-class leyens under their domain. That alone placed them among the richest families in the Underworld.
That wealth translated into power. The reason noble families stayed noble. The reason so many lower devils remained powerless.
Even a talentless devil could become mighty if fed enough Infernal Crystals.
And he had access.
He chewed slowly, savoring the wine. One day, he'd harvest their highest-grade leyens for himself. Not just for power, but for his ambition.
If he wanted to build a peerage that could stand against gods, he'd need it.
He glanced at Ravel, now happily sketching a study plan onto her napkin with one of the enchanted forks.
"Yes," he thought, amused. "She may just earn it."
But the greater game had already begun.
And Riser Phenex was no longer playing to lose.
----------------------------------------------------
After the last wineglass was drained and Ravel had proudly declared her study schedule with ten DAEMONs like a knight swearing an oath, the evening came to a gentle end.
Most of the family dispersed to their private wings, but Lord Aurelius Phenex gave his son a look—a subtle lift of his brow, nothing more. Riser understood.
He followed his father down the obsidian halls of the estate, their boots echoing like distant war drums. At the end of a corridor guarded by silent marble golems, they came to his sanctum.
The doors opened without a sound, yet they carried weight, a silence thick with generations of ambition.
The study of Lord Aurelius Phenex was not a room. It was a statement.
Oil paintings of long-dead ancestors, battles, phoenixes rising from infernal oceans—works so rare even the Louvre would weep blood to house just one. There were statues from the pre-Great War, enchanted glass bookshelves that whispered knowledge in ancient tongues, and a fireplace that burned with golden flame. At the center of it all sat a desk, not ornate, not gilded, but a flawless slab of Void Obsidian and Celestial Ore, mined during the Second Satanic Rebellion. Its value? Enough to bankrupt a human empire. And yet, in this room, it was as natural as air.
So was Aurelius Phenex.
The Lord of the House stood tall, with golden eyes like suns darkened by smoke. His presence filled the room without effort. He had no need to raise his voice. Power hung on him like an heirloom blade: well-worn, deadly, and absolute.
"Sit, Riser."
Riser obeyed.
Aurelius studied him for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Then he spoke.
"You seem different."
Riser said nothing.
"Less dulled. Less trapped in the rhythms of idle hedonism. You carry yourself like a devil who has found his purpose."
Riser looked his father in the eye. "I was blind," he said dramatically, "and now I can see."
Aurelius didn't blink. Didn't smirk. But something in his gaze approved.
He stood, slowly circling his son, and then said:
"Tell me, Riser.
I hold no sword.
I build no wall.
Yet when I speak, gods pause and kings kneel.
What am I?"
Apparently, dramatics ran in the family.
Riser smiled. "Power."
The fire behind Aurelius flared, not with rage, but with recognition.
"Well answered," the old devil said. "Power is the first and last currency of our world. All else is inheritance."
He gestured to a map carved into the wall, a three-dimensional projection of the northernmost reaches of Phenex territory.
"Our high-class leyen field in the Varruk North is under siege. A wolf tide—massive beasts drawn by the leyen's pulse. They're devouring it faster than the ritual wards can regenerate."
Riser studied the region. "That's Uncle Ryzephar's domain."
Aurelius nodded. "He's doing what he can, but they're multiplying faster than expected. The leyen itself may be swelling beyond stability. Such things happen. The Underworld resents us, even if we are its children."
Riser gave a wry smile. "Even Hell wants us dead. It's oddly comforting."
His father let the corner of his lip twitch. "I want you to go. Aid Ryzephar. Fight. Burn. Learn."
Riser raised a brow. "No heir's paranoia? No concern for my tender youth?"
"You are a devil, not a flower. If you die to wolfspawn, you were unworthy of the name Phenex."
Riser exhaled through his nose, more pleased than anything. "And if I live?"
"Then you earn the right to claim something greater."
The two locked eyes. There was no need for dramatics. This was the devil way.
"I accept," Riser said. "I want to see the leyen. I want to test myself, and I want to know what it means to face a tribulation."
Aurelius gave a single nod. That was all the dismissal required.
The hallway beyond led to the Solar Garden Wing, where moonlight and firelight coexisted in an enchanted grove built into the estate's heart. There, in her private salon, sat Rahella Phenex.
His mother.
Tall. Glorious. Golden hair cascading down her back like woven sunlight. Emerald eyes that glittered with mirth, cruelty, and centuries of wisdom. Her curves were precisely sculpted by generations of superior bloodlines, refined magic, and perhaps the sheer will of perfection.
She was sipping something from a crystal flute. A swirling pink liquid that glimmered like stardust.
"Not of Earth," she said when she caught him looking. "The fruit only grows on the floating gardens of the Agares. Delicious and expensive."
She rose gracefully and pulled him into a hug, burying her face into his chest.
"My baby," she whispered. "My baby."
Riser stiffened for a moment, then melted slightly. She kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and then—lingering—his mouth.
Such things were not uncommon in noble devil circles. Hell had no god. Only power made sin.
"You've grown handsome," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Too handsome. I may have to put a ward on your heart."
"You already have one on mine," he replied, half-serious.
She laughed. "Oh, how charming you've become. Tell me, darling, what did your father say?"
"He wants me to aid Uncle Ryzephar. There's a wolf tide threatening the leyen."
Her gaze sharpened instantly. "He's sending you?"
"He's testing me."
"He's gambling you."
He stepped away, hands tucked behind his back. "I accepted."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"I wanted to."
She blinked.
"I need to know what I'm made of, Mother. We devils live forever, but how many of us ever live?"
She looked at him strangely, and for a moment there was almost fear in her gaze. Not of death, but of change. Her little boy had left. Someone older had taken his place.
Still, she smiled, a devilish, perfect thing, and poured him a glass of the forbidden drink.
They talked for a while. Of gossip. Of scandal. Of which noble had recently been caught siphoning leyen power from another's territory. Rahella laughed like a queen at a play. And Riser, ever the gentleman, matched her wit with ease.
When the time came to leave, she pulled him into a final kiss—this one passionate. Her hands gripped his collar as her lips played on his own, whispering promises and half-spells in an ancient tongue.
"My beautiful boy," she said breathlessly. "Come back to me in one piece."
"I always return, Mother," he said with a smirk, brushing her cheek. "The world hasn't yet found a fire that can consume me."
And with that, he stepped through the teleportation portal, bound for his private mansion to prepare for the trials to come.
For the leyen.
For the wolves.
For power.
Authors Note: Alright folks, things are starting to pick up speed. Second chapter of the night, proudly brought to you by the two glorious likes I received — yes, two. Fame is a wild ride. This chapter includes a bit of family drama and some good old-fashioned demonic world-building. You'll also get your first taste of some spooky lore, because what's a story without mysterious ancient legends?
Oh, and quick fun fact: DAEMON is not just edgy branding. It actually stands for Demonic Arts, Evocation, Manipulation, Occultism & Nobility. Basically, it's the VIP class schedule for magical elites. Think potions, combat, and other fun ways to get expelled with style.
Anyway, this is the last chapter for tonight. I'll post more tomorrow if I don't get distracted by snacks or existential dread.
As always, feedback is welcome — praise, criticism, dad jokes, whatever. Also, if you've got peerage member suggestions (High School DxD universe only, no crossover madness), drop them in. This is my first story, so I'm keeping things chill and simple for now. Although, knowing me, that could change by next week.
The first few notes rang out through the manor's music room, rippling across air perfumed with fresh lilac and firewood. She stood in the doorway, caught, no, captivated, as his fingers danced with impossible grace over the ivory keys. Franz Liszt, she recognized. Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2.
It wasn't just performance. It was poetry. Every motion, every note, perfectly controlled, yet filled with passion. This was not the careless, smug noble devil she had served for a while—this was someone transformed.
Riser Phenex sat in the golden sunlight, his blond hair catching fire in the light, his eyes half-lidded, and entirely focused on the piano. He didn't look up, but he knew she was there. Of course he did.
"Ah, Yubellana, I love you," he said as the music swept into a playful crescendo, "when I am with you," he said.
Her lips curled into a small smile, cheeks already warming.
"I become what you call a... hipdevil. I am hip, to the jive. I am in the groove, darling."
She laughed softly, covering her mouth. "Riser, you sound like one of those human jazz phonographs trying to flirt."
The notes slowed, playfully exaggerated, as he turned just enough to cast her a look full of theatrical longing.
"And now," he sighed, letting the piano linger on a sweet, low harmony, "you set my soul on fire. It is not just a little spark. No, it is aflame! A great, roaring flame. I can feel it now, burning, Yubellana, burning."
"You're incorrigible," she murmured, stepping into the room with her hands folded. She tried to sound disapproving, but her voice trembled with a poorly hidden giggle.
He rose, letting the final note of the Rhapsody echo gently behind him like the closing breath of a storm. Then he walked to her, not with the lazy swagger she'd known before, but with the composed confidence of a man who had chosen every step.
She blushed as he took her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles.
"Your cheeks betray you," he said, eyes gleaming. "You wear crimson better than any noble banner."
"You are impossible," she whispered, heart racing.
"And yet here you are, enchanted all the same."
Their faces drew closer, her hand pressed lightly against his chest. He leaned in—
But she turned her face away, flustered. "Riser, wait, there's something you're forgetting."
He paused, expression caught between mock disappointment and amusement.
"You're due to visit your parents at the estate today," she said quickly. "You told Lord and Lady Phenex you would attend tonight's evening meal."
He sighed dramatically, resting his forehead against hers. "You wound me, Yubellana. Interrupted at the very height of passion—for family obligations."
"You're the one who made the appointment," she replied, smirking shyly.
He laughed, stepping back. "And that is why you're my Queen. A beautiful woman with an inconvenient memory for my own convenience."
She flushed again, but said nothing.
He turned away, retrieving his coat with practiced grace. His movements were purposeful, elegant. Everything about him lately had changed. It wasn't just charm, it was a kind of focus, a clarity that unsettled and thrilled her in equal measure.
Once, Riser had been all fire and laziness. A noble devil with too much power, too little ambition, and no direction but the bed and the banquet.
But now...
He gave the piano one last glance before they left the room. "You know, Yubellana," he said quietly, "music is what the soul would say if it were free from the body. When I play... it's as though I remember something I never learned."
She tilted her head, intrigued. "You sound like a wannabe philosopher. It seems you have been thinking a lot."
"I have," he said simply. "Something... cosmic. Like I've stumbled across the answer to a question older than my bloodline. And now I can't stop seeing it: truth, purpose, wonder. Even in the smallest things."
She watched him as they walked down the hall. He paused to admire a painting he'd ignored for years. Complimented a servant's stitching. Yesterday, she'd caught him smiling at the simple act of eating a slice of fresh-baked bread, as if it were a ritual worthy of reverence.
"You're different," she said softly. "Since last month. You carry yourself like a man who's found something or someone—that woke him up."
He glanced at her sidelong. "Maybe I did."
Her heart skipped. For a moment, she wanted to ask more, to pry even. But she was afraid the answer might pull her deeper than she already dared to fall.
They reached the teleportation room. A Phenex sigil shimmered on the obsidian floor.
He took her hand again and smiled, less like a flirt, more like a man.
"Don't wait up," he said. "If my father tries to assign me another engagement to some nobleman's daughter, I may flee the mansion entirely."
She chuckled. "I'm sure you'll manage."
"Of course. I'm a hipdevil, remember?"
The teleportation circle flared to life beneath him, firelight licking at his coat.
And then he was gone, off to the Phenex estate, where power slept beneath old stone and politics simmered in gilded cups.
Yubellana stood alone, hand to her chest, wondering.
He was changing.
She only hoped she would not be left behind.
------------------------------------------------
The Phenex Estate stood like a monument to arrogance and eternity.
Riser gazed upward as the teleportation circle faded beneath his feet, boots touching down on polished volcanic glass inscribed with ancient noble seals. Before him stretched the ancestral palace of House Phenex, a sprawling gothic marvel of obsidian towers, sunstone domes, and fiery wards that shimmered in the dusk like auroras. Miles of enchanted gardens surrounded the main hall, where flowers bloomed with demonic fire and songbirds sang in infernal tongues.
It was the kind of splendor that made human monarchies look like peasant circuses.
He adjusted the collar of his coat with quiet precision. He might be the third son, but he was no afterthought.
A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Lord Riser, welcome home."
The voice belonged to a dark-haired woman in a tightly fitted French maid uniform. Her presence was crisp, elegant, her features refined—likely a noble devil in service, as was often the custom in ancient houses.
She bowed. "The family is awaiting your arrival in the dining hall."
"Well, lead the way," Riser said smoothly, and followed her inside.
The dining hall was vast, vaulted ceilings of ruby glass, a table carved from firestone stretching the length of a cathedral nave. Fire-elemental chandeliers bathed everything in warm, flickering gold. The Phenex crest, a flaming bird wreathed in demonic script, burned gently on every wall.
Seated at the head of the table was Lord Aurelius Phenex, regal in flowing crimson robes. A man of classical devil nobility, with eyes like burning coal and an expression carved from obsidian.
To his right: Rionas Phenex, the second son and self-made media mogul—handsome, laid-back, already sipping wine with a bemused smirk.
To his left: Rahella Phenex, both wife and sister to Aurelius—refined, powerful, and poised with the ease of a woman used to commanding lesser devils with a glance.
And beside her sat the youngest Phenex: Ravel.
Twelve years old, dressed in a pristine blue gown with a golden sash, her expression desperately serious as she sat straight, trying to appear as proper as possible.
When Riser stepped into the light, all heads turned.
"Well," Rionas grinned, swirling his glass, "look what the wind and his vanity dragged in."
"Apologies," Riser replied as he moved with effortless grace to his seat. "I was busy being in the groove. You know, hipdevil business."
Rahella stifled a chuckle. Aurelius arched a brow. Rionas only laughed louder.
"You're getting poetic. Been spending too much time with your Queen, I take it?"
"She brings out the classical romantic in me," Riser said smoothly as he sat beside his brother. "And unlike some of us, I don't spend all day manufacturing scandals just to boost magazine sales."
"Scandal sells, little brother. Beauty is temporary. Profits are eternal."
"Tragic words from a man with hair that expensive."
Before Rionas could counter, a tiny voice piped up.
"Riser!"
He turned to his sister, smiling warmly.
"Ravel. Still trying to look like a grown-up, I see."
"I am a grown-up!" she pouted, puffing her cheeks. "And I should be your Bishop!"
Riser placed a hand on his heart dramatically. "Alas, my peerage accepts only beautiful women."
"I am beautiful!"
"You're eleven."
"I'm mature for my age!"
Rionas leaned in, stage-whispering to Riser, "That's exactly what an eleven-year-old says when they try to get into noble clubs with illusions."
"I heard that!" Ravel snapped, throwing a bread roll at her older brother.
Rahella reached over gently and adjusted her daughter's hair.
"My little Ravel will be the fairest maiden in the Underworld," she said with a soft, dangerous smile. "And frankly, Riser, it's not a terrible idea. She's talented, and the Bishop piece's demonic power boost would aid her development. She could learn much under your guidance."
The tone shifted. Rahella's suggestion wasn't just maternal—it was a sign of trust.
Riser tapped the table gently with his finger. He had to tread carefully here. Accepting his sister into his peerage could increase their bond—and future influence—but it would also mean giving up a precious piece. Still…
He turned to Ravel, grinning like a fox.
"Tell me, little sister. What year are you in at the Devil Academy?"
"Fourth!" she said proudly. "Already top of my class in Enchantments!"
"Very good," Riser nodded. "Then here's a challenge."
He leaned in, locking eyes with her.
"If you graduate with ten DAEMONs—and I mean ten, with the highest score in each subject—I'll give you my Bishop piece. No take-backs."
The room went silent. Even Aurelius looked faintly impressed.
Ravel blinked. "Ten…? But that's…"
"The record is seven," Rionas pointed out.
"I want to be more than a record!" Ravel declared, fists clenched.
"Then do it," Riser said, smiling. "And I'll welcome you to the team with open arms."
"Promise?"
"On my pride as a Phenex."
Ravel beamed, and Rahella gave a small nod of approval.
Dinner began, servants bringing in seared chimera steak, abyssal salad, and demonic nectar wine—flavors refined over centuries of tradition. As they ate, the conversation drifted to territories, noble gossip, and the upcoming Rating Games.
But Riser listened more than he spoke. His thoughts wandered—not with boredom, but with purpose.
Demonic Leyens.
That was the term. Ancient regions pulsing with raw, condensed demonic energy. Sacred land for devils. Living currency. From these leyens grew what devils called Infernal Crystals—stones that shimmered with chaotic energy, able to be absorbed to increase a devil's demonic power.
The Phenex family owned hundreds. Some low-class, many mid-class, dozens high-class—and more importantly, they had two ultimate-class leyens under their domain. That alone placed them among the richest families in the Underworld.
That wealth translated into power. The reason noble families stayed noble. The reason so many lower devils remained powerless.
Even a talentless devil could become mighty if fed enough Infernal Crystals.
And he had access.
He chewed slowly, savoring the wine. One day, he'd harvest their highest-grade leyens for himself. Not just for power, but for his ambition.
If he wanted to build a peerage that could stand against gods, he'd need it.
He glanced at Ravel, now happily sketching a study plan onto her napkin with one of the enchanted forks.
"Yes," he thought, amused. "She may just earn it."
But the greater game had already begun.
And Riser Phenex was no longer playing to lose.
----------------------------------------------------
After the last wineglass was drained and Ravel had proudly declared her study schedule with ten DAEMONs like a knight swearing an oath, the evening came to a gentle end.
Most of the family dispersed to their private wings, but Lord Aurelius Phenex gave his son a look—a subtle lift of his brow, nothing more. Riser understood.
He followed his father down the obsidian halls of the estate, their boots echoing like distant war drums. At the end of a corridor guarded by silent marble golems, they came to his sanctum.
The doors opened without a sound, yet they carried weight, a silence thick with generations of ambition.
The study of Lord Aurelius Phenex was not a room. It was a statement.
Oil paintings of long-dead ancestors, battles, phoenixes rising from infernal oceans—works so rare even the Louvre would weep blood to house just one. There were statues from the pre-Great War, enchanted glass bookshelves that whispered knowledge in ancient tongues, and a fireplace that burned with golden flame. At the center of it all sat a desk, not ornate, not gilded, but a flawless slab of Void Obsidian and Celestial Ore, mined during the Second Satanic Rebellion. Its value? Enough to bankrupt a human empire. And yet, in this room, it was as natural as air.
So was Aurelius Phenex.
The Lord of the House stood tall, with golden eyes like suns darkened by smoke. His presence filled the room without effort. He had no need to raise his voice. Power hung on him like an heirloom blade: well-worn, deadly, and absolute.
"Sit, Riser."
Riser obeyed.
Aurelius studied him for a long moment, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Then he spoke.
"You seem different."
Riser said nothing.
"Less dulled. Less trapped in the rhythms of idle hedonism. You carry yourself like a devil who has found his purpose."
Riser looked his father in the eye. "I was blind," he said dramatically, "and now I can see."
Aurelius didn't blink. Didn't smirk. But something in his gaze approved.
He stood, slowly circling his son, and then said:
"Tell me, Riser.
I hold no sword.
I build no wall.
Yet when I speak, gods pause and kings kneel.
What am I?"
Apparently, dramatics ran in the family.
Riser smiled. "Power."
The fire behind Aurelius flared, not with rage, but with recognition.
"Well answered," the old devil said. "Power is the first and last currency of our world. All else is inheritance."
He gestured to a map carved into the wall, a three-dimensional projection of the northernmost reaches of Phenex territory.
"Our high-class leyen field in the Varruk North is under siege. A wolf tide—massive beasts drawn by the leyen's pulse. They're devouring it faster than the ritual wards can regenerate."
Riser studied the region. "That's Uncle Ryzephar's domain."
Aurelius nodded. "He's doing what he can, but they're multiplying faster than expected. The leyen itself may be swelling beyond stability. Such things happen. The Underworld resents us, even if we are its children."
Riser gave a wry smile. "Even Hell wants us dead. It's oddly comforting."
His father let the corner of his lip twitch. "I want you to go. Aid Ryzephar. Fight. Burn. Learn."
Riser raised a brow. "No heir's paranoia? No concern for my tender youth?"
"You are a devil, not a flower. If you die to wolfspawn, you were unworthy of the name Phenex."
Riser exhaled through his nose, more pleased than anything. "And if I live?"
"Then you earn the right to claim something greater."
The two locked eyes. There was no need for dramatics. This was the devil way.
"I accept," Riser said. "I want to see the leyen. I want to test myself, and I want to know what it means to face a tribulation."
Aurelius gave a single nod. That was all the dismissal required.
The hallway beyond led to the Solar Garden Wing, where moonlight and firelight coexisted in an enchanted grove built into the estate's heart. There, in her private salon, sat Rahella Phenex.
His mother.
Tall. Glorious. Golden hair cascading down her back like woven sunlight. Emerald eyes that glittered with mirth, cruelty, and centuries of wisdom. Her curves were precisely sculpted by generations of superior bloodlines, refined magic, and perhaps the sheer will of perfection.
She was sipping something from a crystal flute. A swirling pink liquid that glimmered like stardust.
"Not of Earth," she said when she caught him looking. "The fruit only grows on the floating gardens of the Agares. Delicious and expensive."
She rose gracefully and pulled him into a hug, burying her face into his chest.
"My baby," she whispered. "My baby."
Riser stiffened for a moment, then melted slightly. She kissed his cheek, then his jaw, and then—lingering—his mouth.
Such things were not uncommon in noble devil circles. Hell had no god. Only power made sin.
"You've grown handsome," she said, running her fingers through his hair. "Too handsome. I may have to put a ward on your heart."
"You already have one on mine," he replied, half-serious.
She laughed. "Oh, how charming you've become. Tell me, darling, what did your father say?"
"He wants me to aid Uncle Ryzephar. There's a wolf tide threatening the leyen."
Her gaze sharpened instantly. "He's sending you?"
"He's testing me."
"He's gambling you."
He stepped away, hands tucked behind his back. "I accepted."
"You shouldn't have to—"
"I wanted to."
She blinked.
"I need to know what I'm made of, Mother. We devils live forever, but how many of us ever live?"
She looked at him strangely, and for a moment there was almost fear in her gaze. Not of death, but of change. Her little boy had left. Someone older had taken his place.
Still, she smiled, a devilish, perfect thing, and poured him a glass of the forbidden drink.
They talked for a while. Of gossip. Of scandal. Of which noble had recently been caught siphoning leyen power from another's territory. Rahella laughed like a queen at a play. And Riser, ever the gentleman, matched her wit with ease.
When the time came to leave, she pulled him into a final kiss—this one passionate. Her hands gripped his collar as her lips played on his own, whispering promises and half-spells in an ancient tongue.
"My beautiful boy," she said breathlessly. "Come back to me in one piece."
"I always return, Mother," he said with a smirk, brushing her cheek. "The world hasn't yet found a fire that can consume me."
And with that, he stepped through the teleportation portal, bound for his private mansion to prepare for the trials to come.
For the leyen.
For the wolves.
For power.
Authors Note: Alright folks, things are starting to pick up speed. Second chapter of the night, proudly brought to you by the two glorious likes I received — yes, two. Fame is a wild ride. This chapter includes a bit of family drama and some good old-fashioned demonic world-building. You'll also get your first taste of some spooky lore, because what's a story without mysterious ancient legends?
Oh, and quick fun fact: DAEMON is not just edgy branding. It actually stands for Demonic Arts, Evocation, Manipulation, Occultism & Nobility. Basically, it's the VIP class schedule for magical elites. Think potions, combat, and other fun ways to get expelled with style.
Anyway, this is the last chapter for tonight. I'll post more tomorrow if I don't get distracted by snacks or existential dread.
As always, feedback is welcome — praise, criticism, dad jokes, whatever. Also, if you've got peerage member suggestions (High School DxD universe only, no crossover madness), drop them in. This is my first story, so I'm keeping things chill and simple for now. Although, knowing me, that could change by next week.
mikocon
Know what you're doing yet?
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- 521
His family felt very devilish with an air of nobility, so that's nice. For the peerage, I guess you already said the best options. If the MC had something to mess with devil bloodlines, he could make Katerea useful.
Merlin
[Verified Idol: Magi☆Mari]
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Because it is not the Christian Hell but an Underworld
Chapter 2: Blood, Fire, and the Forest That Hates
New
abel targayen
Making the rounds.
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The forest whispered as they entered it, an oppressive murmur that seemed to come from every gnarled root, every warped tree, and every direction but forward.
Riser walked ahead, his crimson cloak billowing slightly despite the stagnant air. The forest was a leyline wildland, grown atop rivers of demonic energy, untamed, unstable, and steeped in malevolence.
It hated them. He could feel it.
"It's like it's mocking us," Riser murmured, brushing his fingers over a tree whose bark twitched slightly in response. "Mocking us for trespassing… or daring to believe we're in control."
Yubellana, her violet hair glowing faintly in the gloom, stayed close at his side. Her eyes flicked nervously through the trees.
"Are you sure we shouldn't go to your uncle's camp first?" she asked softly.
He shook his head. "No. There's something here. A ripple. A warping in the air. I feel… devouring intent. Something's wrong."
They pressed deeper into the forest, past stone roots shaped like twisted skulls and shadowy thickets that seemed to shift behind their backs. Riser's senses, far sharper than any middle-class devil should possess, prickled as faint pulses of wild demonic energy flickered at the edge of his awareness.
Hours passed in the warped dusk. And then, he stopped.
Ahead, in a clearing ringed by black thorns and spiraling ley-crystals, a battle raged.
A towering minotaur with six muscular arms, three horned heads, and eyes that danced with malice fought a group of eleven devils. Their clothes bore noble sigils, their auras flickering with desperation.
Among them, one figure stood out.
A blonde-haired woman in elegant combat attire, commanding the team with sharp, tired gestures. Her golden aura flickered with the signature flame of the Phenex bloodline.
"Seorin," Riser whispered. "Uncle Ryzephar's daughter."
She was older than him by a decade, but she moved like a woman born to fire.
Still, she was cornered. And when the minotaur feinted left and lunged right, its wicked axe sweeping toward her neck, Riser moved.
He blurred forward, suppressing his energy as only he could, the way he'd been training since his awakening.
His strike landed cleanly at the base of the creature's thick neck. Not fatal. Not even near it.
But enough to shift the monster's focus.
The minotaur staggered slightly, confused.
And then it turned its many heads and roared.
Riser met its eyes and grinned.
"Boo."
The creature lunged, and Riser danced backward. He wasn't foolish. He couldn't win head-on. But he wasn't here to win.
He was here to stall.
The minotaur's attacks were brutal, raw power fueled by high-class rage. Each strike shook the ground, cracked trees, and split the earth. Riser dodged as best he could, slipping through patterns of destruction like a flickering flame.
He remembered every lesson, every painful sparring match with his older brother, every cruel correction from his tutor.
"Stay alive."
Still, the power difference was staggering.
A punch landed. He blocked it, but was sent flying, crashing through tree after tree. When he stopped tumbling, he was barely conscious and armless.
His limbs were already regrowing.
The pain was suffocating.
And yet, he laughed.
Because the plan was working.
The minotaur loomed over him, lifting him by the neck with two grotesque hands. Its other arms flexed, preparing to rip him apart.
But Riser smiled and looked past the beast.
"You've already lost," he whispered.
The minotaur turned
just in time to see Yubellana, her entire body glowing like a star about to go supernova.
And then:
BOOM.
The forest exploded in light and fire.
A crater the size of a stadium was carved into the earth. Trees vaporized. Shadows screamed. The air itself rippled with power.
When the smoke cleared, the battlefield was a scar of ash and glass.
From the molten dirt, two figures rose.
Riser, burnt, limbless, half his face gone, intestines dangling from his ruined torso, stood grinning, fire flickering in his one remaining eye.
The minotaur, far more intact, still reeled, burnt, broken, its hide split and steaming.
The explosion had worked. Not because it killed, but because it wounded.
And now, the others moved.
Seorin and her team surged forward with everything they had. Magical formations flared, swords struck, lightning crackled. The minotaur roared and lashed out, injuring several, but it was too late.
The collective assault brought it down.
A brutal, final strike from Seorin's flaming blade cut through its chest and it collapsed in a heap of blood and dust.
It was over.
Seorin was the first to run toward him, kneeling beside his now-regenerated form.
"You reckless idiot," she hissed. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
Riser smirked through his ruined clothes and bloody face. "I thought I'd drop in and say hi. Surprise family visit."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the relief. "Are you… okay?"
"I'm always okay," he said, rising. "Takes more than a high-class beast to ruin this hair."
He turned, eyes scanning for Yubellana.
She was kneeling on the ground, exhausted, barely conscious.
He crossed the scorched battlefield and gently picked her up in a princess carry.
She blinked, cheeks flushing bright red. "M-my Lord—"
"You earned it," he said softly. "You burned half the forest for me. I should carry you through a city square."
Seorin was already barking orders to her team, tending to the wounded, checking wards.
"Before more things crawl out," she said sharply. "We need to move. Now."
Riser nodded. The chaotic energy in the air made teleportation impossible. They'd have to move on foot.
As they trudged through the ashen forest, several devils came to thank him.
"A noble risking himself like that," one whispered. "I've never seen it."
"He didn't even hesitate," said another.
Riser didn't bask. He simply nodded.
Seorin walked beside him as they moved toward her father's camp. She glanced sideways.
"We were pulled into this forest," she explained. "Tricked. Enchanted. The minotaur or someone else wanted us dead."
"We lost twelve in the first ambush."
Riser said nothing. He offered no comfort. Death was part of this world.
"We make for the main camp," he said quietly. "Before this cursed land decides to feed again."
And so they marched, past ruined trees, the burnt corpse of a monster, and deeper into the infernal unknown.
Riser Phenex, once a joke of a noble, now a man with fire in his blood and a plan in his eyes.
This was only the beginning.
---------------------------------------
The moon was high and sickly red when Riser finally arrived at the stronghold of his uncle, Ryzephar Phenex. The structure loomed out of the leyline-shadowed hills like a grim crown of stone and obsidian, glowing slightly with warding sigils etched deep into every wall, tower, and parapet.
This was not a palace.
It was a fortress.
A place meant not for comfort, but for survival.
Riser landed lightly at the gates, still carrying Yubellana in his arms, her form slack with exhaustion. Seorin had guided the rest of her wounded subordinates ahead, and now they were being whisked away to the medical halls by the castle's healers and alchemical staff.
As Riser approached the inner courtyard, his uncle was already waiting.
Tall, narrow-eyed, and wrapped in a cloak of gray fire, Ryzephar Phenex was every inch a noble of Ars Goetia, his gaze polite but sharp, his stance like a drawn sword.
"Riser," he greeted, nodding once. "I bid you welcome to our fortress."
Riser inclined his head respectfully. "Uncle."
"I've had quarters prepared for you and your Queen. You should rest tonight. We'll debrief tomorrow morning."
"I appreciate the hospitality."
A silent gesture, and a steward in black and silver livery led Riser down a corridor of volcanic stone and reinforced arches. The air here was cooler than in the southern territories, tainted by the leyline energies, less gentle than the luxury of the main Phenex estate.
Yubellana stirred faintly as he laid her in the bed of their chamber. Riser knelt beside her, pulled a small crystalline vial from his jacket, and uncorked it with care. A single drop of a Phenex tear glowed with golden-white warmth, liquid life itself.
The moment it touched her lips, color returned to her cheeks.
Riser watched her sleep for a moment, brushing a stray strand of purple hair from her brow.
"You did well," he murmured.
Then he retired to his own room. His body ached, but the pain was useful. It reminded him he was still far too weak.
As he lay down on the stiff military bedding, he closed his eyes and mentally replayed the entire battle. Every mistake. Every advantage he'd failed to exploit.
He should have angled left instead of right on that fifth feint. Should have taken the tree line instead of the crater ridge. And Yubellana's explosion, too delayed, nearly too late.
It wasn't enough.
He needed more training. More tools. More control.
Sleep took him soon after.
Riser awoke with the second dawn. The red skies above the northern leyline territory shimmered faintly with demonic radiation.
A servant greeted him promptly, offering a platter of bloodfruit preserves, abyss bread, and eggs cooked over soulfire, a rich, nutritious devil breakfast.
As he ate, he was informed of the debriefing in one hour.
He nodded and dismissed the servant.
Afterward, he checked in on Yubellana. She was still fast asleep, her breathing even, her demonic signature stable.
Good. She needed the rest.
Riser left quietly and began to explore the stronghold. Its halls were reinforced with obsidian runes and alloyed with anti-magical latticework, no decorative excess like the Phenex estate. This place wasn't meant to impress, but to endure.
It had seen attacks. He could feel it in the walls.
Eventually, the meeting bell chimed. Riser made his way to the meeting chamber.
Seven captains had already assembled, seated at a long, circular table of black stone. Their house crests shimmered in subtle color, House Saeros, House Wystel, and others lesser but loyal to House Phenex.
All talk ceased as Riser entered.
His uncle gestured to the seat at his right. "Nephew. Please."
Riser sat with practiced elegance, clasping his hands before him.
Ryzephar rose.
"For the benefit of Lord Riser, who is newly arrived, I will summarize our position," he began, voice calm and sharp like a winter blade. "We are facing what we've designated as a Wolf Tide."
He tapped a rune projection. Glowing red sigils shimmered into a forest outline, dotted with icons of demonic beasts.
"Demonic wolves are not rare. They come in various strains, typically low to mid-class. Dangerous in numbers but predictable."
He turned toward Riser.
"However, these beasts strategize. They attack with feints. They retreat when overextended. They bait and break formations."
A pause. The captains nodded grimly.
"This suggests they are not acting alone. Something or someone is guiding them. And that is the root of our problem."
He flicked his fingers, and a new projection bloomed, mountains, ruined temples, leyline fractures.
"We believe their 'shepherd' may be hiding in the far northeast ridge. Our plan is as follows."
He outlined a new unit: 30 devils.
Elite, mobile, and experienced.
They would be the forward team. Their goal: track the intelligence directing the wolves, uncover its nature, and, if possible, eliminate it.
The captains began proposing names. Volunteers. Trusted agents.
Riser listened, silent. Calculating.
And then, when the list was nearly complete, he raised a hand.
"I volunteer," he said calmly.
The room quieted. A few glances flickered between surprise and concern.
Ryzephar's brows lifted. "Riser, this isn't a controlled exercise. It is very dangerous. You would be under live threat."
"I know."
One of the captains, a gray-haired noble from House Saeros, cleared his throat. "My Lord, with all due respect, this is no place for young heirs. There's no dishonor in allowing others to take this burden."
"I appreciate your concern," Riser replied. "But I am not porcelain. And if I wish to walk among the mighty, I must first crawl through the dirt."
He met his uncle's gaze evenly.
"I will go."
A long pause. Ryzephar studied him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"So be it," he finally said. "You are Phenex. And you walk your own fire."
The rest of the plan proceeded with fewer objections, though tension still hung thick in the air. Once all names were confirmed and strategy agreed upon, the meeting was adjourned.
The captains returned to their posts or their preparation.
Riser remained.
His uncle, as expected, did not move.
Seorin stayed as well, arms folded, her expression half-proud, half-worried.
Ryzephar stepped closer.
"You're serious about this."
"I am."
"You could die."
"I know."
Seorin interjected quietly. "You don't have to prove anything, Riser."
He glanced at her. "I'm not trying to. I just… refuse to be a man who lets his fate be decided by others."
Ryzephar nodded, slowly. "Then I won't stop you. But if something goes wrong, I'll be the one to inform your mother."
"I pity you for that," Riser said, half-grinning.
His uncle smirked. "As do I."
Ryzephar paused again.
"You saved Seorin's life. You have my gratitude, and my debt."
"You don't owe me," Riser said smoothly. "We're family. Besides, she handled herself well. I merely made an opening."
That earned him a snort from Seorin. "You were missing half your body by the end of it."
"And yet, still devastatingly handsome."
Ryzephar chuckled softly. "Go prepare. You leave at sundown."
Riser bowed his head.
"Yes, Uncle."
And with that, he left to ready his weapons, reinforce his wards, and walk willingly into the wild unknown.
Author's Note:
Just like I promised (and shockingly didn't forget), here's the new chapter! This officially kicks off the first arc. Yes, I have a plan. Yes, there's an antagonist. Yes, power-ups are coming. Basically, I've done the writer equivalent of meal-prepping for chaos.
I'd love to hear what you think. Praise, criticism, roast-level insults, dramatic poetry about my plot holes—whatever you've got, toss it my way. Any tips on how to improve my writing are also very welcome. Help me level up before I start giving side characters tragic backstories for no reason.
Riser walked ahead, his crimson cloak billowing slightly despite the stagnant air. The forest was a leyline wildland, grown atop rivers of demonic energy, untamed, unstable, and steeped in malevolence.
It hated them. He could feel it.
"It's like it's mocking us," Riser murmured, brushing his fingers over a tree whose bark twitched slightly in response. "Mocking us for trespassing… or daring to believe we're in control."
Yubellana, her violet hair glowing faintly in the gloom, stayed close at his side. Her eyes flicked nervously through the trees.
"Are you sure we shouldn't go to your uncle's camp first?" she asked softly.
He shook his head. "No. There's something here. A ripple. A warping in the air. I feel… devouring intent. Something's wrong."
They pressed deeper into the forest, past stone roots shaped like twisted skulls and shadowy thickets that seemed to shift behind their backs. Riser's senses, far sharper than any middle-class devil should possess, prickled as faint pulses of wild demonic energy flickered at the edge of his awareness.
Hours passed in the warped dusk. And then, he stopped.
Ahead, in a clearing ringed by black thorns and spiraling ley-crystals, a battle raged.
A towering minotaur with six muscular arms, three horned heads, and eyes that danced with malice fought a group of eleven devils. Their clothes bore noble sigils, their auras flickering with desperation.
Among them, one figure stood out.
A blonde-haired woman in elegant combat attire, commanding the team with sharp, tired gestures. Her golden aura flickered with the signature flame of the Phenex bloodline.
"Seorin," Riser whispered. "Uncle Ryzephar's daughter."
She was older than him by a decade, but she moved like a woman born to fire.
Still, she was cornered. And when the minotaur feinted left and lunged right, its wicked axe sweeping toward her neck, Riser moved.
He blurred forward, suppressing his energy as only he could, the way he'd been training since his awakening.
His strike landed cleanly at the base of the creature's thick neck. Not fatal. Not even near it.
But enough to shift the monster's focus.
The minotaur staggered slightly, confused.
And then it turned its many heads and roared.
Riser met its eyes and grinned.
"Boo."
The creature lunged, and Riser danced backward. He wasn't foolish. He couldn't win head-on. But he wasn't here to win.
He was here to stall.
The minotaur's attacks were brutal, raw power fueled by high-class rage. Each strike shook the ground, cracked trees, and split the earth. Riser dodged as best he could, slipping through patterns of destruction like a flickering flame.
He remembered every lesson, every painful sparring match with his older brother, every cruel correction from his tutor.
"Stay alive."
Still, the power difference was staggering.
A punch landed. He blocked it, but was sent flying, crashing through tree after tree. When he stopped tumbling, he was barely conscious and armless.
His limbs were already regrowing.
The pain was suffocating.
And yet, he laughed.
Because the plan was working.
The minotaur loomed over him, lifting him by the neck with two grotesque hands. Its other arms flexed, preparing to rip him apart.
But Riser smiled and looked past the beast.
"You've already lost," he whispered.
The minotaur turned
just in time to see Yubellana, her entire body glowing like a star about to go supernova.
And then:
BOOM.
The forest exploded in light and fire.
A crater the size of a stadium was carved into the earth. Trees vaporized. Shadows screamed. The air itself rippled with power.
When the smoke cleared, the battlefield was a scar of ash and glass.
From the molten dirt, two figures rose.
Riser, burnt, limbless, half his face gone, intestines dangling from his ruined torso, stood grinning, fire flickering in his one remaining eye.
The minotaur, far more intact, still reeled, burnt, broken, its hide split and steaming.
The explosion had worked. Not because it killed, but because it wounded.
And now, the others moved.
Seorin and her team surged forward with everything they had. Magical formations flared, swords struck, lightning crackled. The minotaur roared and lashed out, injuring several, but it was too late.
The collective assault brought it down.
A brutal, final strike from Seorin's flaming blade cut through its chest and it collapsed in a heap of blood and dust.
It was over.
Seorin was the first to run toward him, kneeling beside his now-regenerated form.
"You reckless idiot," she hissed. "What the hell were you thinking?!"
Riser smirked through his ruined clothes and bloody face. "I thought I'd drop in and say hi. Surprise family visit."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the relief. "Are you… okay?"
"I'm always okay," he said, rising. "Takes more than a high-class beast to ruin this hair."
He turned, eyes scanning for Yubellana.
She was kneeling on the ground, exhausted, barely conscious.
He crossed the scorched battlefield and gently picked her up in a princess carry.
She blinked, cheeks flushing bright red. "M-my Lord—"
"You earned it," he said softly. "You burned half the forest for me. I should carry you through a city square."
Seorin was already barking orders to her team, tending to the wounded, checking wards.
"Before more things crawl out," she said sharply. "We need to move. Now."
Riser nodded. The chaotic energy in the air made teleportation impossible. They'd have to move on foot.
As they trudged through the ashen forest, several devils came to thank him.
"A noble risking himself like that," one whispered. "I've never seen it."
"He didn't even hesitate," said another.
Riser didn't bask. He simply nodded.
Seorin walked beside him as they moved toward her father's camp. She glanced sideways.
"We were pulled into this forest," she explained. "Tricked. Enchanted. The minotaur or someone else wanted us dead."
"We lost twelve in the first ambush."
Riser said nothing. He offered no comfort. Death was part of this world.
"We make for the main camp," he said quietly. "Before this cursed land decides to feed again."
And so they marched, past ruined trees, the burnt corpse of a monster, and deeper into the infernal unknown.
Riser Phenex, once a joke of a noble, now a man with fire in his blood and a plan in his eyes.
This was only the beginning.
---------------------------------------
The moon was high and sickly red when Riser finally arrived at the stronghold of his uncle, Ryzephar Phenex. The structure loomed out of the leyline-shadowed hills like a grim crown of stone and obsidian, glowing slightly with warding sigils etched deep into every wall, tower, and parapet.
This was not a palace.
It was a fortress.
A place meant not for comfort, but for survival.
Riser landed lightly at the gates, still carrying Yubellana in his arms, her form slack with exhaustion. Seorin had guided the rest of her wounded subordinates ahead, and now they were being whisked away to the medical halls by the castle's healers and alchemical staff.
As Riser approached the inner courtyard, his uncle was already waiting.
Tall, narrow-eyed, and wrapped in a cloak of gray fire, Ryzephar Phenex was every inch a noble of Ars Goetia, his gaze polite but sharp, his stance like a drawn sword.
"Riser," he greeted, nodding once. "I bid you welcome to our fortress."
Riser inclined his head respectfully. "Uncle."
"I've had quarters prepared for you and your Queen. You should rest tonight. We'll debrief tomorrow morning."
"I appreciate the hospitality."
A silent gesture, and a steward in black and silver livery led Riser down a corridor of volcanic stone and reinforced arches. The air here was cooler than in the southern territories, tainted by the leyline energies, less gentle than the luxury of the main Phenex estate.
Yubellana stirred faintly as he laid her in the bed of their chamber. Riser knelt beside her, pulled a small crystalline vial from his jacket, and uncorked it with care. A single drop of a Phenex tear glowed with golden-white warmth, liquid life itself.
The moment it touched her lips, color returned to her cheeks.
Riser watched her sleep for a moment, brushing a stray strand of purple hair from her brow.
"You did well," he murmured.
Then he retired to his own room. His body ached, but the pain was useful. It reminded him he was still far too weak.
As he lay down on the stiff military bedding, he closed his eyes and mentally replayed the entire battle. Every mistake. Every advantage he'd failed to exploit.
He should have angled left instead of right on that fifth feint. Should have taken the tree line instead of the crater ridge. And Yubellana's explosion, too delayed, nearly too late.
It wasn't enough.
He needed more training. More tools. More control.
Sleep took him soon after.
Riser awoke with the second dawn. The red skies above the northern leyline territory shimmered faintly with demonic radiation.
A servant greeted him promptly, offering a platter of bloodfruit preserves, abyss bread, and eggs cooked over soulfire, a rich, nutritious devil breakfast.
As he ate, he was informed of the debriefing in one hour.
He nodded and dismissed the servant.
Afterward, he checked in on Yubellana. She was still fast asleep, her breathing even, her demonic signature stable.
Good. She needed the rest.
Riser left quietly and began to explore the stronghold. Its halls were reinforced with obsidian runes and alloyed with anti-magical latticework, no decorative excess like the Phenex estate. This place wasn't meant to impress, but to endure.
It had seen attacks. He could feel it in the walls.
Eventually, the meeting bell chimed. Riser made his way to the meeting chamber.
Seven captains had already assembled, seated at a long, circular table of black stone. Their house crests shimmered in subtle color, House Saeros, House Wystel, and others lesser but loyal to House Phenex.
All talk ceased as Riser entered.
His uncle gestured to the seat at his right. "Nephew. Please."
Riser sat with practiced elegance, clasping his hands before him.
Ryzephar rose.
"For the benefit of Lord Riser, who is newly arrived, I will summarize our position," he began, voice calm and sharp like a winter blade. "We are facing what we've designated as a Wolf Tide."
He tapped a rune projection. Glowing red sigils shimmered into a forest outline, dotted with icons of demonic beasts.
"Demonic wolves are not rare. They come in various strains, typically low to mid-class. Dangerous in numbers but predictable."
He turned toward Riser.
"However, these beasts strategize. They attack with feints. They retreat when overextended. They bait and break formations."
A pause. The captains nodded grimly.
"This suggests they are not acting alone. Something or someone is guiding them. And that is the root of our problem."
He flicked his fingers, and a new projection bloomed, mountains, ruined temples, leyline fractures.
"We believe their 'shepherd' may be hiding in the far northeast ridge. Our plan is as follows."
He outlined a new unit: 30 devils.
- 14 Peak middle-class
- 12 Low middle-class
- 3 Low High-class
- 1 Peak High-class
Elite, mobile, and experienced.
They would be the forward team. Their goal: track the intelligence directing the wolves, uncover its nature, and, if possible, eliminate it.
The captains began proposing names. Volunteers. Trusted agents.
Riser listened, silent. Calculating.
And then, when the list was nearly complete, he raised a hand.
"I volunteer," he said calmly.
The room quieted. A few glances flickered between surprise and concern.
Ryzephar's brows lifted. "Riser, this isn't a controlled exercise. It is very dangerous. You would be under live threat."
"I know."
One of the captains, a gray-haired noble from House Saeros, cleared his throat. "My Lord, with all due respect, this is no place for young heirs. There's no dishonor in allowing others to take this burden."
"I appreciate your concern," Riser replied. "But I am not porcelain. And if I wish to walk among the mighty, I must first crawl through the dirt."
He met his uncle's gaze evenly.
"I will go."
A long pause. Ryzephar studied him, eyes narrowing slightly.
"So be it," he finally said. "You are Phenex. And you walk your own fire."
The rest of the plan proceeded with fewer objections, though tension still hung thick in the air. Once all names were confirmed and strategy agreed upon, the meeting was adjourned.
The captains returned to their posts or their preparation.
Riser remained.
His uncle, as expected, did not move.
Seorin stayed as well, arms folded, her expression half-proud, half-worried.
Ryzephar stepped closer.
"You're serious about this."
"I am."
"You could die."
"I know."
Seorin interjected quietly. "You don't have to prove anything, Riser."
He glanced at her. "I'm not trying to. I just… refuse to be a man who lets his fate be decided by others."
Ryzephar nodded, slowly. "Then I won't stop you. But if something goes wrong, I'll be the one to inform your mother."
"I pity you for that," Riser said, half-grinning.
His uncle smirked. "As do I."
Ryzephar paused again.
"You saved Seorin's life. You have my gratitude, and my debt."
"You don't owe me," Riser said smoothly. "We're family. Besides, she handled herself well. I merely made an opening."
That earned him a snort from Seorin. "You were missing half your body by the end of it."
"And yet, still devastatingly handsome."
Ryzephar chuckled softly. "Go prepare. You leave at sundown."
Riser bowed his head.
"Yes, Uncle."
And with that, he left to ready his weapons, reinforce his wards, and walk willingly into the wild unknown.
Author's Note:
Just like I promised (and shockingly didn't forget), here's the new chapter! This officially kicks off the first arc. Yes, I have a plan. Yes, there's an antagonist. Yes, power-ups are coming. Basically, I've done the writer equivalent of meal-prepping for chaos.
I'd love to hear what you think. Praise, criticism, roast-level insults, dramatic poetry about my plot holes—whatever you've got, toss it my way. Any tips on how to improve my writing are also very welcome. Help me level up before I start giving side characters tragic backstories for no reason.
abel targayen
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
- Messages
- 49
- Likes received
- 166
Right? It's such a shame. High School DxD has this wild setup where literally every myth, legend, god, and grandma's haunted teapot exists, but somehow Hell ended up looking like someone's mildly spooky backyard. I get it though—the author had a very specific kind of story to tell (read: plot, with extra "plot") and honestly, he nailed it.
But me? I'm here to stretch that world like pizza dough. More depth, more weird lore, more hellish nonsense. I've got plans. Hopefully, I don't completely mess it up and turn it into a flaming clown parade. But hey, fingers crossed and notes prepared!
Gereh
Versed in the lewd.
- Joined
- Jun 24, 2021
- Messages
- 1,040
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- 29,127
Kinda basic list, besides Meredith those seem to be standard picks, part of me was hoping to see "Leonardo" or "George" on here, get them before the Cao Cao gets to them. Or at least some of the SlashDog characters. Just something that is a bit more unusual pick.
SeibahFaceSimp
Is It Wrong to be a Saberface Simp?
- Joined
- Dec 22, 2021
- Messages
- 486
- Likes received
- 3,710
So the Peerage Members (and the Possible Harem)
Queen: Yubelluna
2 Knights: Artoria Pendragon (Genderbend DxD!Arthur with Fate!Lancer Artoria Looks but less curvy) (Can you please add her too?)
Bishop: Meredith Ordinton
Bishop: Kuroka
Rook: Koneko
Rook: Rossweisse
2 Pawns: Valerie Tepes
3 Pawns: Ingvild Leviathan
2 Pawns: Le Fay Pendragon (Can you please add her too?)
1 Pawn: Gasper Vladi
Queen: Yubelluna
2 Knights: Artoria Pendragon (Genderbend DxD!Arthur with Fate!Lancer Artoria Looks but less curvy) (Can you please add her too?)
Bishop: Meredith Ordinton
Bishop: Kuroka
Rook: Koneko
Rook: Rossweisse
2 Pawns: Valerie Tepes
3 Pawns: Ingvild Leviathan
2 Pawns: Le Fay Pendragon (Can you please add her too?)
1 Pawn: Gasper Vladi
chapter 3: The Fruits of Obsession
New
abel targayen
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Jan 26, 2024
- Messages
- 49
- Likes received
- 166
Riser sat alone in the dim chamber, the only light coming from a single soulflame hovering above his desk.
His thoughts were not idle.
They were of power.
Not for vanity, not for prestige, though those were inevitable, but because he had to. Because in this world, power was the only absolute. And without it, he would always be just a pawn in someone else's story.
That was the tragedy of the old Riser Phenex.
But not him.
It had been just over a month since he had awoken in this body, reborn under gilded feathers and ancient Castles. Since then, he had been relentless, an obsessive student of the devil arts.
The pure-blood devils of the Underworld believed demonic power came naturally. That with lineage and waiting, one could bloom like fire.
But they lacked ambition. They relied on talent, on privilege.
Riser had no such illusions. And so, he turned to something else, to the power system in a show he watched back in his first life—Nen.
He thought of it as he closed his eyes, letting his demonic power still, his breath shallow. Zetsu: the shutting of his aura nodes, the absolute nullification of presence.
Devils never used this. They despised the very concept of vulnerability. But that was why they lacked true control.
Riser could now do it in his sleep.
He trained daily, following the concepts of Ten to reinforce his form, Ren to increase output, In to conceal. He practiced Gyo to hyper-focus his senses on a single point. And En, a personal favorite—his domain of perception, reaching meters out like a spider's web. He layered all these over the devil system's inherent malleability and imagination-fueled application.
That wasn't all.
He had gone further.
Through ritual and experimentation, Riser had created potions—blends of infernal chemistry, law-bound contracts, and the structured logic of the spiritual. The original Riser was decently talented, and he inherited all of his knowledge and took it further.
Which culminated in his first inventions: potions of power. Each potion, once ingested, rewrote a part of his very essence. His soul adapted, contorted, evolved.
The first was Hunter.
The moment I drank the Hunter potion, it was like someone cracked open a vault in my head. Suddenly, I just knew how to survive, how to move, how to hunt, how to live in the wild like I'd been doing it since birth.
Plants I'd never seen before, I could name them. I knew which ones would stop bleeding, which ones would kill, and which ones would keep me standing when my body wanted to drop. Animal organs? I knew what to keep, what to burn, and what to eat raw if it came to it.
Traps? Oh, that came too. I could walk through a forest and my eyes would just highlight the best spots. Slopes, branches, pressure points, like the terrain itself whispered to me where the trap should go.
I could rig a tripwire that would take out a demonic boar or blow a path to pieces if I needed. Yeah, explosives. Don't ask me how, but I suddenly knew the blast radius of a homemade grenade, the delay of a fuse, the best way to turn a pile of rocks into a minefield. It didn't stop there. I could feel danger spots, unstable cliffs, hidden sinkholes, quicksand. Nature's own traps, just waiting to be used. And I remembered places, like my mind took snapshots of every tree, every bend, every hiding spot. I didn't have to think, I just knew where to lead someone to make sure they wouldn't come out again.
Then my body changed. My strength surged, solid, feral. Like a bear's raw power mixed with a cat's precision. I could punch hard enough to crack the air and leap like I had springs for bones. My body just obeyed, tight control, fast reactions, quick healing. A cut closed faster. Pain dulled. I didn't feel stronger. I was stronger.
And the senses? That's the freakiest part. I don't even need to try most of the time. But when I focus, I can smell the difference between two people by the sweat on their shirts. I can see the faintest scuff on the ground and know who passed by and how long ago. I can hear a whisper across a field and tell if the speaker is limping, tired, or lying. Even footsteps tell me weight, stride, confidence.
But unless I want it, it stays quiet. Background hum. No overload. Just waiting.
The second was Provoker—a social weapon.
After I awakened the power of Provocation, something in me changed. I could read people better, spot the little cracks in their pride or patience. Just by watching and listening, I knew what to say or do to get under their skin. When I activate it, it's not just words. It's calculated humiliation, sharpened like a blade. My insults don't just sting, they dig deep and make people reckless. Even beasts and mindless monsters feel it. I don't even have to speak—sometimes just being near me is enough to make them charge.
It's not always fancy. Even a word like "ugly" can hit the right nerve if I say it right. And once they're mad, they're easy to bait, easy to lead—straight into a trap.
The third was Conspirer.
This one had nearly broken him.
After taking the Conspirer potion, my mind just... sharpened. Thoughts came faster, clearer. I could see connections, spot flaws in logic, and spin convincing lies on the fly.
With a few words, I can stir desire or doubt in someone's heart—make them chase an idea that wasn't theirs to begin with. That's Incitement.
But the real weapon? Misdirection. Confusion. Deception. I lead people to their own downfall without ever touching them. That's the art of conspiracy.
And last… Reaper.
As a Reaper, I see weaknesses—no matter where they hide. Flesh, stone, storms, even supernatural barriers. If it has a flaw, I can find it. And when I strike, I don't just hit hard. I hit where it hurts most.
That's Cull. Every blow is aimed at a vital point, and if I land enough, even an opponent mightier than I will fall.
He was not yet at his peak.
But the foundation had been laid.
When others see me, they see a young lord playing at war, he thought.
Let them.
He smirked to himself, eyes glowing faintly with internal power. The Hunter senses told him someone was coming.
Three... two...
A knock.
He didn't need to check. He already knew.
"Enter," he called lazily.
The door opened to reveal Seorin, blonde, composed, clad now in a knight's formal gown of the Phenex house crest. She looked regal. Yet the slight hesitation in her step betrayed something softer beneath.
"I came to thank you," she said. "And… say goodbye."
"Already trying to get rid of me?" Riser asked with a raised brow. "And here I was, preparing an emotional farewell with a sonnet and tragic violin."
She laughed softly, stepping closer.
"You saved me. I haven't forgotten."
"I told you. You handled yourself well. I merely stepped in before your charming head rolled off."
She rolled her eyes, but there was color in her cheeks.
"I still owe you."
"You could name your firstborn after me," Riser offered. "Or build a statue."
"Tempting," she murmured. Then, her tone changed, quieter. "But I think I'll thank you properly… now."
She stepped closer.
The mood shifted.
Riser tilted his head slightly as she reached for his jacket, eyes glinting with something between flirtation and promise. He caught her hand gently but firmly, just before things could go further.
For a moment, they stood in silence, heat in the air.
But Riser, ever the conspirer, simply smiled.
"You're beautiful when you blush," he said, brushing his thumb across her knuckles.
"Shut up," she whispered, redder than before.
But she didn't pull away.
Not yet.
-----------------------------------------------
Thirty devils stood at the forest's edge. The expedition had begun.
Leading them were the high-class devils:
• Zarkaura Saeros, Rank 6 and the overall commander, stoic and composed, with a stare like sharpened obsidian. And what his intuition told him to be wary of.
• Abygral of House Mengis, Rank 5, known for his battlefield valor.
• Tenebrael Silase, Rank 5, a silent strategist with unsettling calm.
• Mizraketh of House Hizbi, Rank 5, the strongest in raw strength among them.
Riser Phenex was the outlier, young, only still middle-class in power, yet unshakably present among the seasoned warriors. His face betrayed no fear.
A Week Later
They had gone deep into the Leyen Mountains, following no maps. There were none accurate for this region. At first, they found nothing. Then the signs began.
A rotting elk, skin pale and translucent, as if the color had been drained like juice from a fruit. Corpses of devils, some crucified upside down, others bent into grotesque sculptures that defied biology. An entire platoon's gear scattered as if torn from their wearers mid-scream, but no bodies.
Riser said little. He merely walked beside Zarkaura, watching, listening, calculating.
They followed the trail of horror for nearly half a day when the first attack came.
A pack of demonic wolves—over a hundred strong. They descended from the cliffs and treetops like a storm of teeth and muscle.
The devils reacted immediately, decades of training snapping into place. Formations were called. Magic was cast. Blood painted the forest floor.
But the wolves didn't stop. Another wave came the next night. Then another.
A grim pattern emerged: they were being herded, guided. Every time they made camp, even with careful precautions and magical concealment, the wolves found them.
By the fifth night, they were exhausted. At their latest makeshift camp, the captains met in hushed tones around the flickering campfire.
"Something's wrong," said Abygral, his armor streaked with dried blood.
"They're coordinating. They don't behave like wild beasts."
"we are being guided," said Zarkaura. "Or worse, led."
They formed a rotation. Zarkaura would take the first watch. Riser noticed how his eyes never left the dark horizon.
Riser's Thoughts
He remained quiet, but his mind churned.
This isn't a hunt.
It's a culling.
We are the prey.
The signs were too perfect. Tracks covered. Magical cloaking. Stealth practiced down to the breath, and still, the wolves came.
Someone is feeding them our locations.
But he kept his suspicions to himself.
If there's a traitor, the wolves are the least of our problems.
The Final Ambush
On the tenth day, Zarkaura's shout shattered the morning air.
"Form up! We are surrounded!"
They had been boxed in. A valley of dead trees. Jagged cliffs on three sides. Too late to reposition.
Hundreds of wolves emerged from the shadows. Their eyes glowed red with unnatural intelligence. Riser counted five alpha wolves, huge, pitch-black beasts wreathed in shadowflame. High-class in power.
Zarkaura barked orders. "Form the pentacle! Don't break the line!"
The devils obeyed.
The battle was hell itself.
Wolves attacked with maddening speed. Devils countered with flame, blade, and family magic. The formation held for a time.
Abygral Mengis roared, unleashing a burst of lightning that incinerated a dozen wolves.
They rallied.
Until Tenebrael Silase broke rank.
"It's hopeless! We're dead if we stay!" he shouted, eyes wild with fear. He vanished into the forest, unlikely to survive.
That was the crack the wolves needed.
One of the alphas leapt through the gap, straight for Abygral. The noble devil screamed once before the beast's jaws closed over his chest, crushing him like glass.
Then the panic began.
The formation broke. Screams. Blood. Chaos.
Idiots, thought Riser coldly. They've turned this into a massacre.
He dashed north, trailing Mizraketh. If anyone could survive, it was a Rank 5 captain. He suppressed his demonic energy to nothing, completely hidden.
After what felt like hours, he found Mizraketh—but he was not alone.
The Real Enemy
Six tall figures emerged from the trees.
They were shadows made flesh, burning with internal fire. Humanoid only in outline. Gaunt and shifting. Their forms bent reality around them.
Shadow Warlocks.
Demonic entities of fire and shadow. Normally solitary. But in rare cases, they formed groups, hive minds, amplifying their power.
Six of them meant near-invincibility.
Mizraketh flared his aura in defiance. "Come, then!"
The Shadow Warlocks didn't answer. They moved as one.
Whips of shadowfire lashed from their arms. Mizraketh screamed. His armor melted. His limbs turned black with rot.
It was not a battle. It was an execution.
Riser crouched, unmoving, suppressing his every breath. For the first time since his reincarnation, he felt true fear.
Then pain. Something slammed into his neck.
His vision went dark.
Author's note:
Well, that happened.
Hope the battle was at least mildly satisfying. I didn't want to spend ten paragraphs explaining how one character unleashed their special sparkle beam while the other activated their ultra-mega-final-form. Just quick chaos, a few explosions, and boom—we're back to the plot. Otherwise the pacing would slow down so hard it might start growing moss.
So, Riser has officially blacked out. Who could've possibly done it? He suspects a traitor. Is he right? Is he just paranoid with heatstroke? Who knows. But if there is a traitor… who is it? Dun dun duuun.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
His thoughts were not idle.
They were of power.
Not for vanity, not for prestige, though those were inevitable, but because he had to. Because in this world, power was the only absolute. And without it, he would always be just a pawn in someone else's story.
That was the tragedy of the old Riser Phenex.
But not him.
It had been just over a month since he had awoken in this body, reborn under gilded feathers and ancient Castles. Since then, he had been relentless, an obsessive student of the devil arts.
The pure-blood devils of the Underworld believed demonic power came naturally. That with lineage and waiting, one could bloom like fire.
But they lacked ambition. They relied on talent, on privilege.
Riser had no such illusions. And so, he turned to something else, to the power system in a show he watched back in his first life—Nen.
He thought of it as he closed his eyes, letting his demonic power still, his breath shallow. Zetsu: the shutting of his aura nodes, the absolute nullification of presence.
Devils never used this. They despised the very concept of vulnerability. But that was why they lacked true control.
Riser could now do it in his sleep.
He trained daily, following the concepts of Ten to reinforce his form, Ren to increase output, In to conceal. He practiced Gyo to hyper-focus his senses on a single point. And En, a personal favorite—his domain of perception, reaching meters out like a spider's web. He layered all these over the devil system's inherent malleability and imagination-fueled application.
That wasn't all.
He had gone further.
Through ritual and experimentation, Riser had created potions—blends of infernal chemistry, law-bound contracts, and the structured logic of the spiritual. The original Riser was decently talented, and he inherited all of his knowledge and took it further.
Which culminated in his first inventions: potions of power. Each potion, once ingested, rewrote a part of his very essence. His soul adapted, contorted, evolved.
The first was Hunter.
The moment I drank the Hunter potion, it was like someone cracked open a vault in my head. Suddenly, I just knew how to survive, how to move, how to hunt, how to live in the wild like I'd been doing it since birth.
Plants I'd never seen before, I could name them. I knew which ones would stop bleeding, which ones would kill, and which ones would keep me standing when my body wanted to drop. Animal organs? I knew what to keep, what to burn, and what to eat raw if it came to it.
Traps? Oh, that came too. I could walk through a forest and my eyes would just highlight the best spots. Slopes, branches, pressure points, like the terrain itself whispered to me where the trap should go.
I could rig a tripwire that would take out a demonic boar or blow a path to pieces if I needed. Yeah, explosives. Don't ask me how, but I suddenly knew the blast radius of a homemade grenade, the delay of a fuse, the best way to turn a pile of rocks into a minefield. It didn't stop there. I could feel danger spots, unstable cliffs, hidden sinkholes, quicksand. Nature's own traps, just waiting to be used. And I remembered places, like my mind took snapshots of every tree, every bend, every hiding spot. I didn't have to think, I just knew where to lead someone to make sure they wouldn't come out again.
Then my body changed. My strength surged, solid, feral. Like a bear's raw power mixed with a cat's precision. I could punch hard enough to crack the air and leap like I had springs for bones. My body just obeyed, tight control, fast reactions, quick healing. A cut closed faster. Pain dulled. I didn't feel stronger. I was stronger.
And the senses? That's the freakiest part. I don't even need to try most of the time. But when I focus, I can smell the difference between two people by the sweat on their shirts. I can see the faintest scuff on the ground and know who passed by and how long ago. I can hear a whisper across a field and tell if the speaker is limping, tired, or lying. Even footsteps tell me weight, stride, confidence.
But unless I want it, it stays quiet. Background hum. No overload. Just waiting.
The second was Provoker—a social weapon.
After I awakened the power of Provocation, something in me changed. I could read people better, spot the little cracks in their pride or patience. Just by watching and listening, I knew what to say or do to get under their skin. When I activate it, it's not just words. It's calculated humiliation, sharpened like a blade. My insults don't just sting, they dig deep and make people reckless. Even beasts and mindless monsters feel it. I don't even have to speak—sometimes just being near me is enough to make them charge.
It's not always fancy. Even a word like "ugly" can hit the right nerve if I say it right. And once they're mad, they're easy to bait, easy to lead—straight into a trap.
The third was Conspirer.
This one had nearly broken him.
After taking the Conspirer potion, my mind just... sharpened. Thoughts came faster, clearer. I could see connections, spot flaws in logic, and spin convincing lies on the fly.
With a few words, I can stir desire or doubt in someone's heart—make them chase an idea that wasn't theirs to begin with. That's Incitement.
But the real weapon? Misdirection. Confusion. Deception. I lead people to their own downfall without ever touching them. That's the art of conspiracy.
And last… Reaper.
As a Reaper, I see weaknesses—no matter where they hide. Flesh, stone, storms, even supernatural barriers. If it has a flaw, I can find it. And when I strike, I don't just hit hard. I hit where it hurts most.
That's Cull. Every blow is aimed at a vital point, and if I land enough, even an opponent mightier than I will fall.
He was not yet at his peak.
But the foundation had been laid.
When others see me, they see a young lord playing at war, he thought.
Let them.
He smirked to himself, eyes glowing faintly with internal power. The Hunter senses told him someone was coming.
Three... two...
A knock.
He didn't need to check. He already knew.
"Enter," he called lazily.
The door opened to reveal Seorin, blonde, composed, clad now in a knight's formal gown of the Phenex house crest. She looked regal. Yet the slight hesitation in her step betrayed something softer beneath.
"I came to thank you," she said. "And… say goodbye."
"Already trying to get rid of me?" Riser asked with a raised brow. "And here I was, preparing an emotional farewell with a sonnet and tragic violin."
She laughed softly, stepping closer.
"You saved me. I haven't forgotten."
"I told you. You handled yourself well. I merely stepped in before your charming head rolled off."
She rolled her eyes, but there was color in her cheeks.
"I still owe you."
"You could name your firstborn after me," Riser offered. "Or build a statue."
"Tempting," she murmured. Then, her tone changed, quieter. "But I think I'll thank you properly… now."
She stepped closer.
The mood shifted.
Riser tilted his head slightly as she reached for his jacket, eyes glinting with something between flirtation and promise. He caught her hand gently but firmly, just before things could go further.
For a moment, they stood in silence, heat in the air.
But Riser, ever the conspirer, simply smiled.
"You're beautiful when you blush," he said, brushing his thumb across her knuckles.
"Shut up," she whispered, redder than before.
But she didn't pull away.
Not yet.
-----------------------------------------------
Thirty devils stood at the forest's edge. The expedition had begun.
Leading them were the high-class devils:
• Zarkaura Saeros, Rank 6 and the overall commander, stoic and composed, with a stare like sharpened obsidian. And what his intuition told him to be wary of.
• Abygral of House Mengis, Rank 5, known for his battlefield valor.
• Tenebrael Silase, Rank 5, a silent strategist with unsettling calm.
• Mizraketh of House Hizbi, Rank 5, the strongest in raw strength among them.
Riser Phenex was the outlier, young, only still middle-class in power, yet unshakably present among the seasoned warriors. His face betrayed no fear.
A Week Later
They had gone deep into the Leyen Mountains, following no maps. There were none accurate for this region. At first, they found nothing. Then the signs began.
A rotting elk, skin pale and translucent, as if the color had been drained like juice from a fruit. Corpses of devils, some crucified upside down, others bent into grotesque sculptures that defied biology. An entire platoon's gear scattered as if torn from their wearers mid-scream, but no bodies.
Riser said little. He merely walked beside Zarkaura, watching, listening, calculating.
They followed the trail of horror for nearly half a day when the first attack came.
A pack of demonic wolves—over a hundred strong. They descended from the cliffs and treetops like a storm of teeth and muscle.
The devils reacted immediately, decades of training snapping into place. Formations were called. Magic was cast. Blood painted the forest floor.
But the wolves didn't stop. Another wave came the next night. Then another.
A grim pattern emerged: they were being herded, guided. Every time they made camp, even with careful precautions and magical concealment, the wolves found them.
By the fifth night, they were exhausted. At their latest makeshift camp, the captains met in hushed tones around the flickering campfire.
"Something's wrong," said Abygral, his armor streaked with dried blood.
"They're coordinating. They don't behave like wild beasts."
"we are being guided," said Zarkaura. "Or worse, led."
They formed a rotation. Zarkaura would take the first watch. Riser noticed how his eyes never left the dark horizon.
Riser's Thoughts
He remained quiet, but his mind churned.
This isn't a hunt.
It's a culling.
We are the prey.
The signs were too perfect. Tracks covered. Magical cloaking. Stealth practiced down to the breath, and still, the wolves came.
Someone is feeding them our locations.
But he kept his suspicions to himself.
If there's a traitor, the wolves are the least of our problems.
The Final Ambush
On the tenth day, Zarkaura's shout shattered the morning air.
"Form up! We are surrounded!"
They had been boxed in. A valley of dead trees. Jagged cliffs on three sides. Too late to reposition.
Hundreds of wolves emerged from the shadows. Their eyes glowed red with unnatural intelligence. Riser counted five alpha wolves, huge, pitch-black beasts wreathed in shadowflame. High-class in power.
Zarkaura barked orders. "Form the pentacle! Don't break the line!"
The devils obeyed.
The battle was hell itself.
Wolves attacked with maddening speed. Devils countered with flame, blade, and family magic. The formation held for a time.
Abygral Mengis roared, unleashing a burst of lightning that incinerated a dozen wolves.
They rallied.
Until Tenebrael Silase broke rank.
"It's hopeless! We're dead if we stay!" he shouted, eyes wild with fear. He vanished into the forest, unlikely to survive.
That was the crack the wolves needed.
One of the alphas leapt through the gap, straight for Abygral. The noble devil screamed once before the beast's jaws closed over his chest, crushing him like glass.
Then the panic began.
The formation broke. Screams. Blood. Chaos.
Idiots, thought Riser coldly. They've turned this into a massacre.
He dashed north, trailing Mizraketh. If anyone could survive, it was a Rank 5 captain. He suppressed his demonic energy to nothing, completely hidden.
After what felt like hours, he found Mizraketh—but he was not alone.
The Real Enemy
Six tall figures emerged from the trees.
They were shadows made flesh, burning with internal fire. Humanoid only in outline. Gaunt and shifting. Their forms bent reality around them.
Shadow Warlocks.
Demonic entities of fire and shadow. Normally solitary. But in rare cases, they formed groups, hive minds, amplifying their power.
Six of them meant near-invincibility.
Mizraketh flared his aura in defiance. "Come, then!"
The Shadow Warlocks didn't answer. They moved as one.
Whips of shadowfire lashed from their arms. Mizraketh screamed. His armor melted. His limbs turned black with rot.
It was not a battle. It was an execution.
Riser crouched, unmoving, suppressing his every breath. For the first time since his reincarnation, he felt true fear.
Then pain. Something slammed into his neck.
His vision went dark.
Author's note:
Well, that happened.
Hope the battle was at least mildly satisfying. I didn't want to spend ten paragraphs explaining how one character unleashed their special sparkle beam while the other activated their ultra-mega-final-form. Just quick chaos, a few explosions, and boom—we're back to the plot. Otherwise the pacing would slow down so hard it might start growing moss.
So, Riser has officially blacked out. Who could've possibly done it? He suspects a traitor. Is he right? Is he just paranoid with heatstroke? Who knows. But if there is a traitor… who is it? Dun dun duuun.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
abel targayen
Making the rounds.
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You are absolutely right. The choices are basic, but hey—they're strong and reliable. Like bread. Boring, but keeps you alive.
That said, Riser is planning things, and not something concret so they are still subject to change. Leonardo and George are great suggestions though, and honestly, the idea of Riser trying to recruit a human supremacist gives me life. The chaos potential is off the charts.
As for Slash Dog, oh yes. I've got plans. Big ones. That arc will be the first real canon-adjacent story after the current madness wraps up.
And by the way… another Riser fic? You know what that means
Gereh
Versed in the lewd.
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But why do you want bread when you could have cake? Or Goulash? Or Curry?
So yeah as a reader I would love seeing something beside "good ol' breed", so I would take a Shigune Nanadaru over another Kuroka/Koneko every day.
I mean Leonardo isn't really a supremacist, guy is still considered a child in canon, so 5 years earlier he is like 6 years old or so. And George is probably still hanging out in the magician association where probably half of his co-workers have pacts with some other supernatural beings. My personal head-canon is that he only really got into human supremacy because of Cao Cao.
I don't know what you are talking about...
The void trembled.
The girl-that-was-a-snake-that-was-a-Dragon stood still. Barefoot, emotionless, surrounded by an ocean of nothingness that stretched beyond space, beyond time. Her eyes stared ahead, unblinking.
Reality twitched.
A grin appeared first, impossible wide and sharp. Then glowing eyes, hovering midair. A figure twisted into place like a glitch in reality, curling out of nothing.
A purple tophat and orange fur coiling in an invisible breeze.
"Meow-dy."
The-grinning-cat-that-wasn't-supposed-to-be hovered upside down, grinning like the universe was a joke she refused to explain.
"How often do I have to tell you? You don't belong here, cat."
"I don't really belong anywhere. That's the trick, darling."
A pause. Then movement.
The cat launched forward, twisting through air, her tail snaking behind her, leaving a trail of afterimages in her wake.
The snake-dragon-girl raised a hand.
Blackness.
A sphere of void, pure nothingness, rushed out like a tidal wave. As it hit the cat, the feline just simply disappeared.
She reappeared mid-spin above, holding an open umbrella, slowly glided down.
"Ohhh no, no, no, deleting people on the first move? How impolite."
[add stuff here]
The-infinite-snake blinked. The projectiles froze, midair, then disintegrated.
She stepped forward. A single, casual step.
The space cracked, but the outsider didn't care, her grin got even wider.
"Tag."
Suddenly, the Dragon-without-a-beginning-or-end was surrounded by a dozen Cheshires Cats, each one with a hand extended.
She turned to vapor. A pulse of infinity wiped the copies out — all but one.
The real Cheshire Cat balanced on a floating teacup, sipping something steaming.
"You know, 'Phi-chan, you may be very powerful, but you are also very predictable."
Ophis raised her hand again.
"You are irritating."
Carol smirked, unbothered.
"Good. I'd hate to be boring."
She vanished in a puff of purple butterflies. Behind Ophis now, arms draped around her neck like a scarf.
"Want to hear a riddle?"
Crack. Ophis pulsed, once again reality screamed. The Cat was gone again.
But not defeated.
Her laughter echoed from everywhere—and nowhere.
"Careful, Dragon~"
Ophis looked up.
The sky smiled back.
The girl-that-was-a-snake-that-was-a-Dragon stood still. Barefoot, emotionless, surrounded by an ocean of nothingness that stretched beyond space, beyond time. Her eyes stared ahead, unblinking.
Reality twitched.
A grin appeared first, impossible wide and sharp. Then glowing eyes, hovering midair. A figure twisted into place like a glitch in reality, curling out of nothing.
A purple tophat and orange fur coiling in an invisible breeze.
"Meow-dy."
The-grinning-cat-that-wasn't-supposed-to-be hovered upside down, grinning like the universe was a joke she refused to explain.
"How often do I have to tell you? You don't belong here, cat."
"I don't really belong anywhere. That's the trick, darling."
A pause. Then movement.
The cat launched forward, twisting through air, her tail snaking behind her, leaving a trail of afterimages in her wake.
The snake-dragon-girl raised a hand.
Blackness.
A sphere of void, pure nothingness, rushed out like a tidal wave. As it hit the cat, the feline just simply disappeared.
She reappeared mid-spin above, holding an open umbrella, slowly glided down.
"Ohhh no, no, no, deleting people on the first move? How impolite."
[add stuff here]
The-infinite-snake blinked. The projectiles froze, midair, then disintegrated.
She stepped forward. A single, casual step.
The space cracked, but the outsider didn't care, her grin got even wider.
"Tag."
Suddenly, the Dragon-without-a-beginning-or-end was surrounded by a dozen Cheshires Cats, each one with a hand extended.
She turned to vapor. A pulse of infinity wiped the copies out — all but one.
The real Cheshire Cat balanced on a floating teacup, sipping something steaming.
"You know, 'Phi-chan, you may be very powerful, but you are also very predictable."
Ophis raised her hand again.
"You are irritating."
Carol smirked, unbothered.
"Good. I'd hate to be boring."
She vanished in a puff of purple butterflies. Behind Ophis now, arms draped around her neck like a scarf.
"Want to hear a riddle?"
Crack. Ophis pulsed, once again reality screamed. The Cat was gone again.
But not defeated.
Her laughter echoed from everywhere—and nowhere.
"Careful, Dragon~"
Ophis looked up.
The sky smiled back.
Need to finish off the Dio chapter for first, tho, since I trying to do once of those per week at the moment.
Chapter 4: The Halls of Rebirth
New
abel targayen
Making the rounds.
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- 166
Pain.
It was the first thing Riser felt. A searing, gnawing ache in every part of his body, as if even his bones protested their continued existence. A mocking voice followed.
"Good morning, princess."
The voice was familiar. Cruel. Self-satisfied. Riser's vision returned in swirls of red and darkness, and his eyes met the smirking face of Zarkaura Saeros.
"You're awake. Good. We've got a long walk ahead."
Riser tried to move, only to find his limbs limp—dead weight. His body did not respond, as though something in him had been caged.
"A seal," Zarkaura said, almost casually, as if reading Riser's thoughts. "Don't worry. You're too valuable to harm. For now."
Riser didn't show the panic crawling up his throat. Instead, he met Zarkaura's gaze and forced a sardonic grin.
"I didn't think you'd be the traitor, Lord Saeros. Too predictable, really."
Zarkaura chuckled. "Observant. But too slow. Now get up."
He released the seal with a snap of his fingers, and control returned to Riser's limbs like cold water rushing through empty pipes. Weakly, he stood. No point running, he wouldn't get far. Zarkaura was peak high-class, and Riser, for all his training, wasn't ready to match that yet.
Not yet.
They began ascending a narrow mountain path. Jagged rocks jutted from the sides like teeth, and the wind howled through the peaks like a lament. The sun was gone—hidden behind bruised clouds. Hell's atmosphere was worse than bleak: it was hateful.
"What do you want with me?" Riser asked.
Zarkaura smirked. "Me? Nothing. But… an old friend of mine is eager to meet you."
He said it like the punchline to an inside joke. Riser felt a chill crawl down his spine. Then, unexpectedly:
"Have you ever heard of the tale of Kelzior the cruel?"
"No."
Zarkaura's voice turned reverent. "Then you are more ignorant than I thought. That name should echo in the bones of every living devil. Kelzior the Cruel. Kelzior the Great. Founder of our House. My blood. My grandfather."
Zarkaura's eyes gleamed, and his voice dropped to a reverent hush, like a priest before a sacrificial altar. "He was born low, vermin to the noble houses. No bloodline, no wealth, no patron. But within him burned a will not of this world. Where others bent, he endured. Where others faltered, he slaughtered. During the Great War, he rose—through grit, through slaughter, through brilliance. Became High-Class by merit alone. And still, it wasn't enough. Because Kelzior didn't just want power. He bore the pride of the First Light, the pride of Lucifer himself. And just like his creator, he too wanted to overtake his creator. He sought transcendence. To be a Suzerian of creation."
Riser blinked once. Slowly. Great. I've been kidnapped by a mad fanatic with a martyr complex.
He glanced at the narrow passage they were walking through. Still bound. Still watched. Escape seemed unlikely. But maybe… maybe if he kept this zealot talking, something might slip. A plan. A weakness.
"And what happened to him then?" Riser asked, tone feigning curiosity.
"Surely someone so 'great' would be famous. Yet I've never heard his name whispered outside this dusty little bloodline."
Zarkaura stiffened, nostrils flaring but he didn't lash out. He wanted to tell the tale.
"The fools of history remember only victors. And Kelzior did not fall in battle—he was betrayed by time. During the civil war between the Old Faction and the New Satans, he chose neither. He instead declared himself Prince of Hell. Sovereign of devils. The One Above All. And for his vision, he was besieged by the traitor Sirzechs Gremory."
Riser's brow arched. "Not Sirzechs Lucifer?"
Zarkaura hissed.
"He is no true successor of Lucifer. He is a spineless coward who listens to the voices of the weak and the words of mortals. A peace-broker. A politician."
He spat the word like venom. "Sirzechs Gremory may be powerful, but he is no devil. He abandoned what we are."
Riser kept walking in silence for a moment, watching the torchlight flicker across Zarkaura's face—twisted with disgust and pride.
No true devil, he thought with a trace of amusement. How convenient. It never matters what they say when they lose. Only when they win.
Zarkaura could foam and rave about "true devils" all day. But Riser knew better.
Power defines truth in the underworld. And Sirzechs? Sirzechs Lucifer is monstrously powerful. The strongest devil that has ever lived. Maybe the strongest that ever will.
Zarkaura might have his delusions. But Riser wasn't in the business of ignoring reality.
He was in the business of surviving it. Riser's eyes narrowed.
"Besieged," he repeated silently. Not defeated. Not slain.
Zarkaura spoke with too much certainty. Too much present tense. It wasn't how one talked about a long-dead ancestor. It was how one spoke of a sleeping god—or a weapon still waiting to be drawn.
The air seemed colder now.
Riser kept his tone casual.
"You keep mentioning your grandfather like he's still alive."
Zarkaura grinned, teeth like daggers. "Who said he isn't?"
They climbed in silence until they reached a flat cliff face. Zarkaura performed several arcane gestures. The rock shimmered, then cracked open with a groan like a dying beast. A circular passage revealed itself, carved into the mountain like a wound.
"After you."
Riser entered.
What greeted him was not a hall, but a nightmare.
The Halls of Rebirth.
Despite the name, there was no life here. Only death, rot, and madness. The air was damp, stinking of blood and decay. The walls were lined with ancient, crumbling murals—grotesque images that seemed painted with human fat and blood.
One showed a devil wearing a coat stitched from baby faces, grinning with jagged teeth.
Another depicted a woman stretched on a rack made of children's limbs, her eyes gouged out and sewn into a cloak.
Yet another: shoes made of scalped human heads, their mouths frozen mid-scream.
The centerpiece of the chamber was a black river—thick, viscous, and crawling with things that should not exist. Rats the size of cats floated belly-up beside bloated snakes and eyeless, twisted things that might once have been infants.
"Welcome to the Halls of Rebirth," Zarkaura announced with pride, arms spread wide.
Riser stared in revulsion.
"You call this the hall of rebirth?"
"The weak see decay. The strong see potential. Kelzior saw beyond the veil. These halls are his legacy. His blood, his madness, his genius."
Riser stepped cautiously closer to the river. It whispered. He wasn't sure with what mouth, but it whispered. Words in a tongue that made his skin crawl.
"So what? You're going to throw me into this thing? Use me in some ritual to ascend?"
"Close." Zarkaura stepped beside him. "You're not the offering. You're the key. Kelzior left behind rituals. One of them requires something rare: a devil with both bloodline and potential. You, dear Riser Phenex, are the final piece. I was going to use your uncle but you arrived suddenly and were perfect as well as much easier."
Riser closed his eyes. "You're insane."
"No Riser," Zarkaura said calmly, almost lovingly. " I'm simply ahead of schedule."
He gestured toward a stone altar etched with runes older than most languages. Behind it loomed a statue, cracked and disfigured—a horned, eyeless devil with seven mouths, each one eternally screaming.
Zarkaura continued: "Sirzechs' ideology is poison. Equality? Mercy? The weak have deceived him. They would say the strong should nurture the gentle. These are the noble lies of Heaven. Devils were never meant to be kind. That is not our nature. The strong should rule, and the weak should burn."
"You really think this will bring down Lucifer himself?"
Zarkaura's eyes sparkled with manic fire. "I don't need to bring him down. I just need to show the world that truth is not dictated by votes or titles… but power."
Riser clenched his jaw. "And what if I don't cooperate?"
Zarkaura grinned like a wolf. "Then we go to Plan B. But don't worry. You'll cooperate. Because Kelzior… is waiting. And once you see him…"
The air grew heavier. The shadows shifted. Something was watching.
"…you'll understand."
Author's Note: Another chapter, yes again. It's a bit short, but I just wanted to toss it out into the world before my brain started rewriting the whole thing at 2 a.m. out of spite.
This one's mostly Zarkura glazing his ancestor like he's applying BBQ sauce, with a sprinkle of lore on top. Also, fair warning—take everything Zarkura says with a grain of salt. Or maybe a whole salt mine. The guy's basically a walking conspiracy forum in fancy robes. Total fanatic. Entertaining? Absolutely. Reliable narrator? Not even slightly.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
It was the first thing Riser felt. A searing, gnawing ache in every part of his body, as if even his bones protested their continued existence. A mocking voice followed.
"Good morning, princess."
The voice was familiar. Cruel. Self-satisfied. Riser's vision returned in swirls of red and darkness, and his eyes met the smirking face of Zarkaura Saeros.
"You're awake. Good. We've got a long walk ahead."
Riser tried to move, only to find his limbs limp—dead weight. His body did not respond, as though something in him had been caged.
"A seal," Zarkaura said, almost casually, as if reading Riser's thoughts. "Don't worry. You're too valuable to harm. For now."
Riser didn't show the panic crawling up his throat. Instead, he met Zarkaura's gaze and forced a sardonic grin.
"I didn't think you'd be the traitor, Lord Saeros. Too predictable, really."
Zarkaura chuckled. "Observant. But too slow. Now get up."
He released the seal with a snap of his fingers, and control returned to Riser's limbs like cold water rushing through empty pipes. Weakly, he stood. No point running, he wouldn't get far. Zarkaura was peak high-class, and Riser, for all his training, wasn't ready to match that yet.
Not yet.
They began ascending a narrow mountain path. Jagged rocks jutted from the sides like teeth, and the wind howled through the peaks like a lament. The sun was gone—hidden behind bruised clouds. Hell's atmosphere was worse than bleak: it was hateful.
"What do you want with me?" Riser asked.
Zarkaura smirked. "Me? Nothing. But… an old friend of mine is eager to meet you."
He said it like the punchline to an inside joke. Riser felt a chill crawl down his spine. Then, unexpectedly:
"Have you ever heard of the tale of Kelzior the cruel?"
"No."
Zarkaura's voice turned reverent. "Then you are more ignorant than I thought. That name should echo in the bones of every living devil. Kelzior the Cruel. Kelzior the Great. Founder of our House. My blood. My grandfather."
Zarkaura's eyes gleamed, and his voice dropped to a reverent hush, like a priest before a sacrificial altar. "He was born low, vermin to the noble houses. No bloodline, no wealth, no patron. But within him burned a will not of this world. Where others bent, he endured. Where others faltered, he slaughtered. During the Great War, he rose—through grit, through slaughter, through brilliance. Became High-Class by merit alone. And still, it wasn't enough. Because Kelzior didn't just want power. He bore the pride of the First Light, the pride of Lucifer himself. And just like his creator, he too wanted to overtake his creator. He sought transcendence. To be a Suzerian of creation."
Riser blinked once. Slowly. Great. I've been kidnapped by a mad fanatic with a martyr complex.
He glanced at the narrow passage they were walking through. Still bound. Still watched. Escape seemed unlikely. But maybe… maybe if he kept this zealot talking, something might slip. A plan. A weakness.
"And what happened to him then?" Riser asked, tone feigning curiosity.
"Surely someone so 'great' would be famous. Yet I've never heard his name whispered outside this dusty little bloodline."
Zarkaura stiffened, nostrils flaring but he didn't lash out. He wanted to tell the tale.
"The fools of history remember only victors. And Kelzior did not fall in battle—he was betrayed by time. During the civil war between the Old Faction and the New Satans, he chose neither. He instead declared himself Prince of Hell. Sovereign of devils. The One Above All. And for his vision, he was besieged by the traitor Sirzechs Gremory."
Riser's brow arched. "Not Sirzechs Lucifer?"
Zarkaura hissed.
"He is no true successor of Lucifer. He is a spineless coward who listens to the voices of the weak and the words of mortals. A peace-broker. A politician."
He spat the word like venom. "Sirzechs Gremory may be powerful, but he is no devil. He abandoned what we are."
Riser kept walking in silence for a moment, watching the torchlight flicker across Zarkaura's face—twisted with disgust and pride.
No true devil, he thought with a trace of amusement. How convenient. It never matters what they say when they lose. Only when they win.
Zarkaura could foam and rave about "true devils" all day. But Riser knew better.
Power defines truth in the underworld. And Sirzechs? Sirzechs Lucifer is monstrously powerful. The strongest devil that has ever lived. Maybe the strongest that ever will.
Zarkaura might have his delusions. But Riser wasn't in the business of ignoring reality.
He was in the business of surviving it. Riser's eyes narrowed.
"Besieged," he repeated silently. Not defeated. Not slain.
Zarkaura spoke with too much certainty. Too much present tense. It wasn't how one talked about a long-dead ancestor. It was how one spoke of a sleeping god—or a weapon still waiting to be drawn.
The air seemed colder now.
Riser kept his tone casual.
"You keep mentioning your grandfather like he's still alive."
Zarkaura grinned, teeth like daggers. "Who said he isn't?"
They climbed in silence until they reached a flat cliff face. Zarkaura performed several arcane gestures. The rock shimmered, then cracked open with a groan like a dying beast. A circular passage revealed itself, carved into the mountain like a wound.
"After you."
Riser entered.
What greeted him was not a hall, but a nightmare.
The Halls of Rebirth.
Despite the name, there was no life here. Only death, rot, and madness. The air was damp, stinking of blood and decay. The walls were lined with ancient, crumbling murals—grotesque images that seemed painted with human fat and blood.
One showed a devil wearing a coat stitched from baby faces, grinning with jagged teeth.
Another depicted a woman stretched on a rack made of children's limbs, her eyes gouged out and sewn into a cloak.
Yet another: shoes made of scalped human heads, their mouths frozen mid-scream.
The centerpiece of the chamber was a black river—thick, viscous, and crawling with things that should not exist. Rats the size of cats floated belly-up beside bloated snakes and eyeless, twisted things that might once have been infants.
"Welcome to the Halls of Rebirth," Zarkaura announced with pride, arms spread wide.
Riser stared in revulsion.
"You call this the hall of rebirth?"
"The weak see decay. The strong see potential. Kelzior saw beyond the veil. These halls are his legacy. His blood, his madness, his genius."
Riser stepped cautiously closer to the river. It whispered. He wasn't sure with what mouth, but it whispered. Words in a tongue that made his skin crawl.
"So what? You're going to throw me into this thing? Use me in some ritual to ascend?"
"Close." Zarkaura stepped beside him. "You're not the offering. You're the key. Kelzior left behind rituals. One of them requires something rare: a devil with both bloodline and potential. You, dear Riser Phenex, are the final piece. I was going to use your uncle but you arrived suddenly and were perfect as well as much easier."
Riser closed his eyes. "You're insane."
"No Riser," Zarkaura said calmly, almost lovingly. " I'm simply ahead of schedule."
He gestured toward a stone altar etched with runes older than most languages. Behind it loomed a statue, cracked and disfigured—a horned, eyeless devil with seven mouths, each one eternally screaming.
Zarkaura continued: "Sirzechs' ideology is poison. Equality? Mercy? The weak have deceived him. They would say the strong should nurture the gentle. These are the noble lies of Heaven. Devils were never meant to be kind. That is not our nature. The strong should rule, and the weak should burn."
"You really think this will bring down Lucifer himself?"
Zarkaura's eyes sparkled with manic fire. "I don't need to bring him down. I just need to show the world that truth is not dictated by votes or titles… but power."
Riser clenched his jaw. "And what if I don't cooperate?"
Zarkaura grinned like a wolf. "Then we go to Plan B. But don't worry. You'll cooperate. Because Kelzior… is waiting. And once you see him…"
The air grew heavier. The shadows shifted. Something was watching.
"…you'll understand."
Author's Note: Another chapter, yes again. It's a bit short, but I just wanted to toss it out into the world before my brain started rewriting the whole thing at 2 a.m. out of spite.
This one's mostly Zarkura glazing his ancestor like he's applying BBQ sauce, with a sprinkle of lore on top. Also, fair warning—take everything Zarkura says with a grain of salt. Or maybe a whole salt mine. The guy's basically a walking conspiracy forum in fancy robes. Total fanatic. Entertaining? Absolutely. Reliable narrator? Not even slightly.
Anyway, I'd love any feedback. Praise, criticism, savage burns, or conspiracy theories about the plot. Let me know what you think, how I can improve, or if I accidentally broke grammar beyond repair. I'd really appreciate it!
sickboy398
Versed in the lewd.
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Lotm elements, interesting