A/N: Got tired from writing fanfiction. Took a break. Re-read some DxD crossovers, and was reinvigorated enough to write Chapter 2. This chapter may be deeper on the 40k than expected. If necessary, will explain when Chapter 3 comes out. This will be probably be in about six months.
I was always the greatest.
What I desired, I took. What I enjoyed, I preserved. What I hated, I ended. Stars trembled at my steps, and the universe bent and tore with my will.
I was not accustomed to petty emotion. When Aza'gorod first tasted the nectar of life, lesser beings may have called what I felt jealousy. It was not. It was something much more basic, less refined, more primal. Was I not the greatest of all? Should I not be the master of the feast? Should the right to ambrosia not be mine, before all others?
Thus, when the Silent King gave us our bodies of living metal and bade us to wage war on his enemies, I was the vanguard. When we met with the legions of the Elder Ones, I was the first to reach out and crush their existence. I was the first wave of destruction to roll over their empire, and all crumbled in my wake.
And when Mephet'ran whispered that the essence of life was not comparable to that of our own, I was the first to cut my teeth. Etryn'xar was weak, but his flesh was sweeter than anything you can imagine.
In doing so, I was the one who took the first step towards our downfall.
ISSEI HYOUDOU
WS – BS – S – T – W – I – A – Ld – Sv
3 – 2 – 3 – 3 – 1 – 3 – 1 – 7 – 6+
Issei felt… different.
He had first noticed it back in the church, right after Raynare had dissolved. The others had mentioned it, too: they'd felt something, not fully describable, and yet at the same time, not quite right. It had flared up for a fleeting moment, before his Gear abruptly disabled itself of its own accord, so he tried to rationalise it as an after-image from the Gear's power.
Since then, that same feeling had always been there, lurking away, minor but definitely not unnoticeable. It was difficult to pinpoint exactly what it was. The best he could describe it as was halfway between getting up out of the wrong side of the bed in the morning (more significant as his bed was against the wall), and inexplicably losing something important that he never knew he had.
He was pretty sure that everyone around him felt it, as well. People stood around half a foot further away from him than they otherwise would. The passing glances from girls in the hallway held about five percent more hate. And whenever he talked to one of his fellows in Buchou's Peerage, they would always blink once or twice, then lightly shake their heads before speaking. Hell, when he looked into a mirror, while absolutely nothing had changed with his face, he had to pause before he could be sure that, yes, it was indeed him.
I fail to see why this is cause for concern. It is not a fault. I improved you.
And that was the reason why he couldn't pretend that this wasn't some figment of his imagination. Whenever that voice – Mag'ladroth, it had called itself – started whispering to him, everything became worse. Distance became separation. Hate became loathing. A few blinks became being kicked through a wall by Koneko. It was always for just a moment, while those words were whispering in his mind, but in those moments, he felt like a greater pariah than he'd ever felt in his life.
If increased isolation was what an improvement counted as, he would hate to see what Mag'ladroth counted as a punishment.
"Ise-kun? Are you alright?"
"Huh?" He blinked the confusion out of his eyes as he realised he'd completely spaced out. "Sure, Asia-san. I was just thinking." He tried to give a reassuring smile; it seemed to work, and Asia went back to her book.
With all that said, though, even if Mag'ladroth did end up ripping out his immortal soul and imprisoning it in some transdimensional prison from which there would be no escape, he found that he wouldn't be able to hate it. Without him, he never would have been able to crush Raynare, and Buchou wouldn't have been able to bring Asia back. The world was brighter for her presence, and for that, he thanked it.
Idle flattery will get you nothing.
An involuntary shudder passed through the Occult Research Club. Yes, he was thankful. Now he just needed to stop giving it excuses to speak.
I may rest inside of you, but you cannot control me that easily. I will speak when I wish. You have no idea what I…
Any further monologuing was cut off when Koneko kicked him through a wall again. He thanked Mag'ladroth greatly for that.
He was not keen on Riser Phenex.
"My lovely Rias. I came to see you."
He didn't need to hear anything else. One line, one greasy, sleazy line was all it took for him to hate that Fried Chicken bastard. Everything after that – the way he oozed cockiness, his supposed engagement with Buchou, that disdain he treated his harem with – all that just made him hate him more.
Hate is good. Hatred is the most powerful force in the universe. Love may yet move mountains, but only hatred can raze them to the ground.
"Great words,"" he muttered mostly to himself (he was beginning to find it a lot simpler to communicate directly with whatever was in his Sacred Gear, instead of indirectly using thoughts and emotions). "I suppose you're going to use them to justify what you did last night?"
I had no intention, but if you ask, I will answer. Yes, it was hate, but not for either of you. There is another that I despise, and stopping the two of you would have denied him of some of his strength – though, given how depraved half of you so-called devils are, I'm surprised you haven't already managed to orgy him back awake yet.
His mind had to flash back to the night before: clothes scattered about the floor, skin pressed against warm skin, Buchou tenderly kneading his hands into her breasts, mood perfectly between romance and lust, only for Mag'ladroth to break it all by almost-screaming an insane amount of profanities into his head, resulting in Buchou abruptly slapping him in the face and almost unleashing all her demonic power on him. She apologised as soon as she caught herself, but the moment was gone. They sat there, both naked but with nothing in the air, until Grayfia came to lead her away.
Stop moping. There are things out there you have no idea about, and it would be better if he never came close to waking again. Besides, let us return to the matter of hate. You hate that 'Fried Chicken bastard', correct? You could simply kill him now.
The frankness of the statement caught him off-guard for a moment. "I don't think we can just do that…"
Of course we can. We have our means – all you would need it to call me forth again, point, and I can do the rest. We have our motive – unless necrophilia is common these days, killing him would definitely get your precious Buchou out of her engagement. We have our opportunity – right now, with him in another monologue, none of them would see it coming. It would be easy. A whelp like him would hardly be a use of strength…
In some sense, he was actually grateful that Mag'ladroth was cut off right there, as that proposition was beginning to sound dangerously attractive. That being said, he certainly wasn't grateful of the manner of that interruption: a giant fireball engulfing his head.
This is what passes for high-class warp sorcery these days? I had thought that the winged one was merely unskilled, but it appears I was mistaken. If this is what passes for strength, perhaps exterminating every psyker would be a waste of effort.
He couldn't focus on that musing, as he was too busy trying to scream, and yet fail as the flames sucked the air from his lungs. It was all he could do to close his eyes to shield them from the worst of the heat and hope to not die.
Please. I improved you for times like this. There is no way that something this pathetic could hurt you.
Those words… he wanted to ponder them more, but before he could, a smooth hand grabbed his neck and yanked him out of the fireball.
To the amazement of everyone, himself included, his face had survived the ordeal completely intact. The same could not be said for Fried Chicken's pride, though; after checking that, yes, he was actually completely fine, an argument had immediately broken out. Despite his Queen's fervent explanation that she had felt something 'so, so, so wrong' from him, Fried Chicken eventually did concede defeat and offer a formal apology on her behalf. It did nothing to change the situation about the engagement, however. The Rating Game was still on.
Ten days. They had ten days to get their ragtag team of six up ready to compete with a full peerage of sixteen. That was why they'd taken a leave from school, and come out to the wilderness. They had to train. They had to train hard.
Unsurprisingly, given how they had the least information on his abilities, he was up first. Standing in a clearing, everyone else safely away, he pointed his right arm to the sky. "Alright, Mag'ladroth! Time to come out and see what you can do!"
No.
Eh? "Come on. Please? Everyone else is counting on you for a show."
No. That is their problem, not mine, and I see no reason to expend energy for an ultimately fruitless demonstration.
"What? But if we don't find out what you can do now, how will we plan for the Rating Games?"
I work better alone. Besides, if even your allies don't know your plans, how can your enemies?
Even as murmurs started going through the assembled crowd, he found he didn't really have a good answer for that.
"Buchou, do we know what my Sacred Gear actually is yet?"
She gently shook her head. "I'm afraid not. I've looked through every source I have readily available, but I haven't come across any mentions of the name Mag'ladroth, or of a Void Dragon. I've asked Sitri-san for her help, but if she doesn't find anything either, we might quickly be running into a dead end. I'm sorry I can't help more."
"Don't worry about that, Buchou! It's okay if you don't find anything as long as you tried!" Even as he said that, though, the seed of doubt at the back of his head remained. Just what was Mag'ladroth, anyway?
"Mag'ladroth-san! Please help me!"
Would you appreciate it if I started talking mostly purposelessly in your head in very long and contrived sentences that still manage to flow reasonably naturally at a fair if not exceptionally quick rate, for no specific reason or meaning other than aggravating the negative way that those around you seem to react to my improvements, with the most likely end result out of all those possible being that our dear friend Koneko over there ends up kicking you into assorted trees, rocks and other bits of scenery with a degree of force that would be between seventy-two and seventy-five percent higher than the degree of force that she would otherwise kick you with if said aforementioned moderate aggravation was not otherwise present?
As it turned out, no, he would not appreciate it at all.
"Ara, ara, Ise-kun. We knew your demonic power levels were low, but this… your power level is functionally zero."
Simply put, that wasn't good.
Again, this is not a fault. It was an improvement I took the opportunity to make.
"Ise-kun? Did Magla-san start talking again, just now?"
"Yes, he did. Why? Did something come up?"
"Right now, for about four seconds, your power level turned negative."
"Mag'ladroth-san," he said out loud, mostly to help keep his thoughts clear, "is there anything I can do so that you actually come out?"
My objections concern energy wastage. If you find a way for me to replenish the energy I lose, then I may consider it.
"Great! So what do you need?"
I do not suppose that you have any spare stars lying around? Or how about life essence? Bear in mind that I've already tried, and your non-sentient life here tastes terrible. It also comes dangerously close to what you would call a negative-calorie food. So, stars or unwanted sentient specimens. Do you have any?
"Erm… I don't think we have those, Mag'ladroth-san…"
Then do not bring this issue up again.
"You know, somehow I feel like all this training could have gone better."
The day of the Rating Game had arrived.
Yes, perhaps his own training was suboptimal by his own standards, but what was done was done. It might not have been great, but it was enough. It had to be enough. They sat there in the imitation clubroom, all their wills united. For Buchou's sake, losing here was not an option.
Well, when he said that all their wills were united…
I still do not see why killing the opposition is prohibited. I remember sports and games having a much higher body count. They were more entertaining that way.
He had come to almost expect that sort of gentle tact, but he still shook his head. Sensing no reply, Mag'ladroth spoke again.
Alas. Thanks to your so-called safety measures, it seems that I will not be replenishing my energy today as anticipated. As such, my involvement here will have to be minimal.
Wait… did it just say…
Oh, do not get me wrong. For some unknown reason, this appears to be important to you, and I look after my loyal underlings. I do not plan on leaving you defenceless. Here. Take this.
With little fanfare, the silver gauntlet appeared on his right hand again. This time, though, it appeared clutching a… it was a sword, but merely calling it that hid half the story. Superficially, it was plain and utilitarian – no intricate runic patterns or ornate embellishments, nothing holy or demonic about it in the slightest; only three feet of grey metal. On closer inspection, though, it was precisely that plain greyness that was everything. Nothing changed about it, and yet, everything changed. In the blink of an eye, shining highlights would dull to the matteness of a brick, only to gleam again just as the brain tried to process what had happened; tiny shifts of the wrist and arm caused those same highlights to shift wildly and unexpectedly, almost to the point when turning it left was like turning it right. He also caught sight of a small nick on one of the edges; while inspecting the blade, he noticed that, after flipping it three times, that nick was exactly in its starting place. In short, the sword was paradoxical and unnatural. In some sense, it was almost as if it was alive.
A Phase Blade. A common enough weapon, back in my time. I have enough of these that it matters not if you break this one.
This… as much as he wanted to ask more questions and analyse that sword more (from how everyone else was looking at it, he guessed they had questions too), but time was not on their side. With the abrupt screech of a buzzer, the Rating Game had begun.
It was most definitely not an ordinary sword.
Two of Fried Chicken's Pawns had met him head on, intent on eviscerating him with a pair of chainsaws. In the first exchange, when saw met blade, chain snapped, flying back towards its wielder. Caught by surprise, she couldn't get out the way in time, and ended up with a torn carotid. Enraged, the second charged blindly in, to broadly the same result.
One of his Knights spied him from a distance, and launched an ambush strike. It was only a crack of a twig that stopped him from being instantly impaled. In desperation, he raised his sword in a last-ditch parry. She pushed in with all her might, expecting to easily overpower any resistance. What neither of them expected was no resistance. When edge met edge, his weapon cut through hers effortlessly, easier than a knife through water. Clear shock was etched on her face as her own speed impaled her on his blade.
One of his Rooks stood vigilant, intent on never letting him pass. Not used to taking the offensive, his downwards chop was clumsy and inefficient. It should have been an easy block, followed by a swift counterattack while he was off balance. She did all the movements perfectly, and still found herself torn from shoulder to hip. Again, the blade had cut through her weapon like it wasn't there.
If steel weaponry is the highlight of your metallurgy, then I look forward to seeing what some of the more exotic weapons in my armoury can do.
And while these things were going on, Mag'ladroth's 'improvements' were still fully in effect. One of his Bishops tried to set him on fire again; once the shock of the moment wore off and he realised that he wasn't actually burning, he simply walked up and unceremoniously punched her in the face. Similarly, whenever his Queen flew overhead and dropped a set of explosions on him, he would simply walk out unharmed and politely smile back. Somehow, thanks to Mag'ladroth, he was completely steamrolling through Fried Chicken's peerage.
That was not to say he was invincible. He was still only one person with one weapon, with little combat experience to speak of, so his defence was rather sloppy, especially against multiple opponents. The next time multiple Pawns tried to corner him, he ended up taking multiple cuts and slashes, several of them rather deep, and barely managed to avoid getting stabbed through the stomach. It was mostly luck and adrenaline that meant he survived. Still, if his guard was shoddy, theirs was non-existent. One pause, and he managed to get the offensive back. Three heavy cuts was all it took.
Now, the battle was a good as over. Yes, he'd taken more scrapes along the way. Yes, his left arm was now dangling limply by his. Yes, he'd heard over the tannoy that he was Buchou's only combat unit left. Those weren't relevant now. He'd singlehandedly taken out over half of Fried Chicken's effective force, so that he only had two Pawns, a Bishop, and a weakened Queen left.
"Rias Gremory's Pawn has promoted to a Queen."
He didn't need to hunt down the rest of the enemy. He knew that Buchou could handle them. Right now, he was in the same building as Fried Chicken, and he'd worked up an appetite.
Fried Chicken seemed to underestimate him at first; perhaps he simply thought that he was obscenely lucky. When their eyes met, Issei quickly found himself surrounded by flames again. He quickly absolved those questions of his abilities by dashing straight through and slashing him across the gut.
Being able to regenerate was unfair.
Regardless, he'd caught him completely off-guard for a moment, so he took the opportunity to try cut one of hamstrings; it worked in fantasy manga, right?
Again, being able to regenerate was unfair.
This continued for some time. Quickly after getting his bearings back, Fried Chicken concluded that fire wasn't working, and settled for the more traditional method of decking him in the face. Hardly any of his punches landed, but given how he could regenerate, that was less of an issue. Everything else about the game was ignored. Right now, it was one simple test to determine the result: which of them would collapse from exhaustion first.
The battle reached a sort of pattern. One would charge in, blows would be exchanged, both would spend some energy, and then one would back off. In the lull, they would catch their breaths, rally themselves and look for weaknesses to exploit in the next exchange. Occasionally, one would try get tricky, forcing the engagement on longer or breaking away early, but these were quickly adapted to. Once the rhythm was found, it was difficult to disrupt.
During one of these lulls, Fried Chicken chose to break the silence. "You can't win, you know."
He grunted. "Wait and see."
Fried Chicken dismissed him with a laugh. "I can't see where your confidence is founded. It's hardly even a question. Our dear Rias seems to have made a mistake in recruiting you. Eight Pawns, for what? A fancy sword? Your Sacred Gear is pathetic. I could crush you with it any day…"
In truth, Fried Chicken's monologue did not end there. It was there that Issei stopped listening, though. He stopped because out of his Sacred Gear, there was echoing a cold, harsh, metallic grating sound. Every moment of it sent chills down his spine. In some way, the tone of it reminded him of maniacal laughter.
He calls me weak.
"…Mag'ladroth?" he quietly whispered, trying to not get Fried Chicken's attention.
He calls me weak, and what does he know about strength? How many legions has he led from the front in the field of battle? How many armies has he crushed in the flames of strife? How many victories has he brought under his bloody banner in the ravages of war? What titles has he earned? What discoveries has he made? What deeds has he done?
"Mag'ladroth?"
None! He has done nothing with his life, but sit on his thrones of glass while his minions tend to his every whim and lust. He has achieved nothing. His rank, his title, his influence his so-called demonic gifts. Every single thing in his life was given to him. He has toiled and pained for nothing, and yet he counts himself in the highest of the high. How wrong he is. He knows nothing of the way of the universe. He does not know strength as he has never used it. He does not know power as he has never had to face it.
He reminds me of another that I hate oh so much.
"Mag'ladroth? Are you alright?"
Oh, yes. I am alright. I am perfectly alright. In fact, I am so perfectly alright that it appears that I have changed my mind on whether to spend any of my limited energies. It is your lucky day.
Without warning, the sword in his hand started melting and shrinking, as if dissolving into the metal of his gauntlet. There was no time for anyone to panic or gloat, however, as the gem in his palm started glowing brighter again, and the liquid in those pipes began to flow once more. This time, though, the greenness quickly bleached away to white, before that too managed to fade, leaving behind an unearthly, unsettling glow that could only be described as colourless light. No-one knew what, but something was going to happen.
So he thinks he is among the best of the best? Let me disprove that notion. Let me show him there is still room for improvement. Let me pose him this question: Riser Phenex, how would you like to become a Pariah?
As soon as the thought ended, a giant wave of something came rushing out of his palm, straight towards Fried Chicken. It was… it was clearly powerful, and yet nothing like the usual displays of demonic strength from Buchou or Akeno, or even Fried Chicken himself. If anything, it was the exact opposite to that, like what a positron was to an electron. It seemed to warp and distort the air between them, twisting and breaking shapes and figures, and yet he could feel nothing out of the ordinary with his skin. It felt… wrong. Completely alien, and completely wrong, and yet… familiar? There was something unnervingly familiar about it. He didn't want to know what.
Wave met its target, target staggered, and then it was gone. Almost. It was faint to tell, but around Fried Chicken, that aura was still present. Something had changed. Once noticed, it was hard to miss. Something was wrong about him.
Nothing is wrong. I disliked his attitude, so I improved him, like I improved you.
What? But… that meant… how…
I will explain this to you later. Right now, he is still stunned. Take your doubt, your fear, your terror and your hate, and direct it onto him.
…Urgh. As much as he wanted a clear explanation, Mag'ladroth was right. It would have to wait. He wouldn't get a chance like this again. Four steps, a swing, and plated fist crunched into eye. It wasn't enough to knock him out, but he definitely felt bones crack underneath. With the elegance of a lame horse, Fried Chicken slumped to his hands and knees.
"What. Did. You. Do?" he muttered, nursing a serious black eye.
He was about to taunt him right back, but paused. Fried Chicken was nursing a serious black eye.
Ten seconds had passed since he'd punched him, and he still had a black eye.
He hadn't regenerated.
He noticed a moment later. "What… what did you do?" His other eye immediately bugged open, and his gaze became unfocussed, as if deeply trying to remember something long since lost. He was trying to heal, to no avail. Shock quickly turned to blind panic, and he began making half-wild hand gestures, trying to call up his ever-reliable flames; those, too, had deserted him. "What did you do? WHAT DID YOU DO?"
There was no need to answer.
Finish him.
He obliged.
"Riser Phenex has been defeated. Rias Gremory wins the match."
The surge of power did not go unnoticed.
Even at a barely a fraction of its true strength, the will of a Star God was still enough to ripple the fabric of spacetime itself. The effect was slight, and few were acute enough to detect it, but for those who could, it was all too hauntingly familiar.
A ripple passed out through space and stars, beyond the fringes of the galaxy, to the dead sands of a dead world around a dead star in dead space, where a forlorn figure had placed himself into exile. He felt it, and a pair of cold, metallic eyes creaked open. The missing one. The last one. His last penance. He nodded to himself in silence. He knew what he had to do.
A ripple passed out through space and stars, towards a planet where mankind's first and last bastion would one day stand, into a swirling sea of chaos. Upwards and sideways, arced and reversing and inswung were the paths it took, around unspeakable horrors and indescribable nightmares, until it reached where the maelstrom had formed an empty void, not unlike a gap between dimensions, where a lone figure had placed himself to wait. He felt it, and a pair of heavy, scaled eyes cracked open. His leader. His master. His God. He roared, and the Warp shook. He knew what he had to do.
Finally, a ripple passed out through space and stars, well beyond the fringes of the galaxy, and the reaches of the next one over; beyond the confines of the Local Cluster, the edges the Supercluster above, and the very boundaries of the Universe, to even beyond the weave of time and space, where a raving figure had long ago been sealed. It felt it, and a pair of sunken, lunatic eyes crashed open. Its brother and banisher, its old ally and adversary, its greater and lesser and equal, had finally returned. It laughed. It was not a natural laugh.
Just like how Aza'gorod had instilled those beings of flesh with fear of death, so too had it left a mark on their pathetic forms. It, too, was a fear, though of something much less tangible: of an incalculable presence, just beyond the edge of perception, both always and never there, capable of untold cataclysms if fully unleashed. Faint, ancestral memories conjured wispy names, garbled a thousand times over from the original; they gave them titles, as if it was something that mere words could appease. Tsathoggua, the Sleeper of N'kai. Nazara, the Ancient Sovereign. Trihexa, the Great Beast of the Apocalypse.
Those names were all wrong.
It laughed again. Tsara'noga, the Outsider, knew what it had to do.