Prologue: Reborn.

'For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.'- Khalil Gibran.

Prologue: Reborn.

Author's note.

Those memories are dedicated to Cleria Belial, princess of and 2nd in line to the Belial Pillar clan, my mistress and wife.

Having finally made the decision to write those memories- driven by nothing more than sheer melancholy and boredom, I dare confess- I was presented with yet another dilemma: start with the end or the beginning of my life?

While usual authors- whose books you are probably more than used to read- obviously choose to start with their births, I'm forced to humbly admit that my simple mind is far from worthy to join the likes of Cicero and Shakespeare. You see, one can say my life is everything but normal, as far as humanity is concerned. Partly by my beloved Cleria's fault, of course.

Having spent several days in my musings, after meditations comparable to that of a Buddhist monk's, I have decided to start them with my far from splendid end- the least exceptional part of my- I daresay- quite adventurous and bohemian life.

With that said, I have little pride to say my last breath was in April 1st, 2942 AD. Laying on a bed at the immense and richly-decorated Gremory Palace, in a vast, illuminated room with wide windows, resting under blankets of pure silk. My women and my Peerage were there, all of them, watching with sorrow as the one who turned their lives upside down finally met the eternal embrace of feared death.

I couldn't distinguish many faces, though. My vision was blurry, but I could still see Cleria and her grayish eyes and hair, looking at me with teary eyes, holding my frail hand to her cheek affectionately. Seeing her in such state made me feel like the worst man in the world, unworthy of such affections from her, or from anyone else. I didn't belong in this place, I didn't belong even in my own body.

For I am the greatest of liars. I am the one so selfish and depraved to change this world so that it suited my needs. A homeless soul, lost in between realms.

For I, my dear readers, used to be called by a name that wasn't mine. Be known for looks that didn't belong to me.

I was once known as Diodora, Diodora Astaroth, Head of the Pillar House of Astaroth, and those are my memories.

Enjoy.

The feeling of waking up from a dream so close to reality that one doesn't know what is true and what is imagination. There's no simple way to describe it, it's like being rescued after sinking into an ocean of warm, numbing waters. One's muscles seem to hesitate, as the mind tries to make its decision.

This very sensation impregnated my thoughts with its reek as I nearly jumped awake screaming, both pain and panic mixing together in my voice.

'I died.' Those two words were the only I could ever put together in a coherent thought. Still, they weren't enough… 'I was murdered.' I thought, my hands automatically sliding over my chest looking for blood and finding…nothing, just soft, flawless skin. Not even a single homeless erythrocyte.

As my mind's gears began to work, I finally noticed I was in a room. That wasn't the problem, during my brief life I've stayed in lots of different residences, apartments and hotel rooms, never settling down as young people with enough time and money usually did. No, the problem was: this room was totally out of my league.

It was designed in soft, relaxing tones of gray and silver, generating a queer luxurious feeling. Hanging over my colossal king-sized bed which would make a Lord envious, an ultramodern chandelier made of the finest crystal ruled over the ceiling, reflecting the weak light coming throughout the vast windows. Covering the floor, a plush silvery gray carpet was all but begging to be stepped upon, while the furniture was completed by a large modern desk stacked with things such as a brand new Huawei MateBook X Pro, sweets and some books and papers. Really, it was like waking up inside a warm storm cloud; this was the room of a playboy.

'Where the hell am I?' I thought, having managed to set my survival instincts and fears aside, focusing on the situation at hands. After being stabbed 6 times in the abdomen with a cooking knife in Detroit, the best scenario expected for me was waking up in a hospital room, with some doctor tending to my precarious health. 'And this clearly isn't a hospital.'

Taking another look around, I confirmed I was the only person in the room. There wasn't anyone close by who I could simply ask about my whereabouts- could it be some millionaire saved me? Improbable, but that was the most logical conclusion I could reach for now. 'Well, should at least take a look around.' With that I put the warm blankets aside and stand up from the fluffly bed.

That was the moment I noticed one very single detail. I was white and way thinner than ever.

'What the…' I thought, raising my arms to take a better look at what I thought to be a trick from my head. It was definitely for real, my skin was of a pale tone now and the muscles I used to have were pretty much gone. 'WHAT THE FUCK?!'

I used to be a doctor, I knew it was possible for a man of color- such as me- to turn white after the use of some quite toxic lotions. The problem was: 1-I've never even thought about using such products; 2-That didn't explain why my arms suddenly looked like sticks. To make things worse, for some reason I've had my clothes taken off me so…I could actually see that my body was way different than before, my legs were pale and, bizarrely, creamy and the tool in between my legs was surely not mine.

'No, it's definitely not what I am thinking…' I thought with a mix of both dread and excitement. Hesitantly walking towards the bathroom, I had to hold onto the portal and sink due to the feeling of numbness that took over my entire body. My brain was on the verge of shutting down as a torrent of ideas, fears and neurotransmitters blended together to give birth to absolute chaos. 'It's impossible, there's no way…'

With a shiver running down my spine, I mustered the strength to raise my gaze to the mirror and saw…

Hazel eyes.

A face that was not mine, handsome and gentle looking, a face of a boy on his late teens, smooth and flawless. It was the face of someone who'd never faced any hardships in life, the face of someone who never actually had to stress himself out in college or work. Dark green hair flowed in long bangs to the bridge of my nose and, forming an ugly X-shaped brand over my sternum, an ugly scar revealed the spot where my wounds were once healed by a Holy Maiden.

For I, my dear readers, have possessed the body of none other than Diodora Astaroth, the misogynist, narcissistic rapist that served as one of the villains of a novel named High School DxD.

I was reborn a Devil, in a body that was not mine, in a bedroom that didn't belong to me, in a world so perverted it challenged all the logic that once applied to my thoughts. I was a wandering, homeless soul, sent in between realities for reasons still to be revealed, but with potential to change everything. My very presence here could change everything, I could save this world or destroy it, I could bring blessings or destruction. I had been given the chance to be more than I could ever be as a human.

And, I, my dear readers, would make sure to take it.