Birth and the First Technique
The pressure around me was beginning to shift. The viscous, silent space that had enveloped me for months was becoming unstable, compressing, pushing, forcing my tiny body to move toward an inevitable exit. I understood, rationally, that this was the process of birth. But feeling it on my skin was something else—a suffocating grip, a tide pushing me out of everything I knew.
"This is it… my new life begins."
When light finally penetrated my closed eyelids, a biting cold washed over me. Air entered my lungs for the first time, burning like embers, and my body trembled with weakness. It was a small, fragile, dependent body.
Fragile… that word sounded like a curse.
I didn't want to be fragile. I couldn't. Not if I intended to write my own rules in this world.
It was in that instant that I felt that familiar energy again—the demonic power. The same force I had been studying in the womb. Instinctively, my mind worked quickly: if the body was a vessel, I could shape it, filter it, reinforce it.
"If this energy responds to imagination… then let it be my tool of purification."
I focused the little power I had within me. I imagined my body as a continuously flowing river, and the demonic power as filters spread throughout it. Every impure particle, every useless protein, every remnant that could make me slow or vulnerable would be eliminated, burned, discarded.
The process hurt. Not physically, but with effort. It was like holding my breath and diving deep, forcing the water to move against the tide. But gradually, the feeling of weakness began to stabilize. My body, though still that of a baby, felt cleaner, more responsive, as if I had created a firm foundation for my growth.
"My first technique… Demonic Purification. A body free of impurities, a worthy vessel for the power to come."
A cry echoed from my throat—not a cry of despair, but an inevitable reflex of birth. Voices surrounded me, muffled but charged with emotion. One of them, soft and trembling, was the first to reach my heart.
"He was born... our son... Zarion..."
It was my mother's voice. The warmth of her arms enveloped me immediately, and for a moment, the harshness of reality seemed distant. She smelled of comfort, of hope.
Soon after, a firmer, more controlled, but not emotionless voice spoke:
"Finally... the heir to our house."
The weight of those words didn't escape me. It was my father's voice. There was no explosion of joy, but a restrained relief, as if he had carried a heavy inheritance on his shoulders and had finally placed part of it in me.
And so, between my mother's warmth and my father's analytical gaze, I opened my eyes for the first time. My eyes reflected a subtle purple glow, a spark that flickered with the instinctive use of demonic power. My mother smiled, enchanted; my father narrowed his eyes, curious.
In that instant, I understood: I was not just a baby. I was the rebirth of an ambition. And the first step had already been taken.
The Empty Mansion and Silent Decay
After birth, time passed strangely. My eyes were still weak, my body limited, but my consciousness remained awake. Each time I opened my eyelids, I saw flashes of what I now called home.
My family's mansion was grand. Vast corridors of polished stone, walls adorned with ancient symbols and banners faded with time. A place that had undoubtedly seen its glory days. But now… there was too much silence.
The space, however large, felt dead. There was no movement, no laughter, none of the vibrant energy that should inhabit a noble home. Only my mother's footsteps echoing through the halls, and sometimes the sound of my father working in his research workshop. Nothing else.
Even without direct knowledge of the past, I felt the emptiness. It was like a room filled with the echoes of voices that no longer existed. "So… this is the inheritance I receive. A clan that was once great, but now survives only in the memory and insistence of a few."
With each day, I understood better. When my mother rocked me and spoke to herself, in a soft tone, she mentioned the names of former servants, comparing the current solitude with times past, when the place teemed with life. And when my father spoke, however briefly, it was always about work, research, and the burden of keeping the family alive.
The contrast between them was stark. My mother represented warmth, care, humanity. My father represented discipline, obsession, and rational survival. Two pillars that, in a way, sustained what remained of the family.
But there was something they didn't see, something I sensed: the lack of soul in the clan. The place had land, it had infrastructure, it had minimal resources… but it lacked life. It was like a body without blood.
And, internally, my ambition grew. "If this clan was saved by Ajuka Beelzebub, then it has some minimal political value. But what good is a title without real power? What good are lands without people to inhabit them? I don't just want to carry this name… I want to remake it, make it greater than it has ever been."
Of course, at that moment, I had neither the body nor the power to act. But my mind palace was already working. Each night, while feigning sleep, I structured ideas:
Constant purification: keep my body free of impurities.
Occult training: begin as soon as possible, without attracting attention.
Possibilities study: If Evil Pieces existed, how could I recreate or optimize something similar?
Clan expansion: One day, bring life back to the mansion, but under my own rules.
And it was in one of these reflections, upon hearing my father casually mention the name Ajuka Beelzebub in a conversation with my mother, that something clicked.
Ajuka. Ajuka. The creator of the Evil Pieces. The genius of the system that supported the new demonic hierarchy. This could only mean one thing:
"So this is it… this world is High School DxD."
My heart raced, even in a child's body. Excitement burned within me. I had been reborn into the very universe I had always dreamed of knowing. The universe where demons could defy the impossible.
But the joy was short-lived. Soon after, the realization of the risk came. Knowing where I was was only the first step. The real challenge was to survive and excel in a world where monsters like Sirzechs Lucifer, Serafall Leviathan, and even humans and angels who could single-handedly destroy armies existed.
I couldn't be just another one. I couldn't follow the rules written by others. I would have to write my own.
Lying in the crib, my purple eyes reflecting the soft glow of the demonic flame within me, I made a silent vow:
"I will not be a servant. I will not be a shadow. I will be the one who dictates the game. And this clan, dead and empty, will be the stage for my rebirth as a true demon."
The mansion might be silent. But within me, a flame already burned too brightly to be extinguished.