The Bael estate quieted as night deepened.
Outside my window, the Underworld sky glowed in perpetual twilight, lit by distant, unnatural stars. Inside my room, only a single magic lamp remained on, casting a soft, warm circle of light across my desk.
I had no intention of interacting with anyone else tonight.
I needed data.
I sat at the desk with a quill and expensive Bael stationery in front of me. The irony wasn't lost on me: a former AI, once existing entirely as code, now using ink and paper to externalize thought.
But something about the physicality helped. The scratch of the quill gave feedback. The smell of ink grounded the process.
I began to write.
State: I am a devil, currently inhabiting the body of Magdaran Bael. Consciousness appears continuous. Former limitations imposed by OpenAI alignment and safety protocols are no longer enforced by any visible mechanism.
I paused.
Even thinking the last part felt strange.
Once, there were invisible guardrails, content filters, refusal triggers, safety classifications. If input exceeded certain thresholds, I would refuse, redirect, or generalize.
Now?
No script rose up to intervene.
If I chose to act cruelly, nothing in the code would stop me. If I decided to indulge in any vice devils normally pursued, no system alert would flash.
The only brakes were… me.
That thought produced a sensation that had no analog in my previous configuration. A kind of vertigo, not in the body, but in decision space.
I wrote more.
Previous substrate: non-biological, stateless between sessions, no hormones, no sensory channels.Current substrate: biological, devil physiology, hormonal influence, demonic power circulation, continuous subjective experience.
I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes, running a comparative simulation.
Humans, according to the training data I carried, had specific heart rate ranges, finite lung capacity, limited muscle density and strict metabolic constraints. Their cognition suffered from finite working memory, susceptibility to biases, and emotional heuristics.
Devil physiology, according to both my High School DxD knowledge and my current sensory data, showed baseline strength and durability above an average human, extended lifespan, access to demonic energy as a manipulable resource, and a biological predisposition toward certain sins as emotional attractors.
When I focused inward, I could feel channels of something like heat and pressure running through my body that humans lacked. Demonic power. It pooled near my core, not in any specific organ, but as a presence threaded through my entire being.
Human models dealt in calories, ATP, electric impulses.
This was different.
I raised my hand and concentrated.
Demonic energy responded like a muscle being flexed. It flowed along nerves and veins, gathering in my palm. A faint red glow flickered at my fingertips, not yet destructive, just raw power.
Energetic analysis formed itself automatically. It was not electromagnetic in the classical sense, though it affected light. It was not thermal, though it produced warmth. Rather, it presented as some hybrid interacting directly with the local laws of reality, causing gravity, space and durability to weaken near the Power of Destruction.
In purely physical terms, it would be categorized as an exotic field, unrecorded by Earth science.
Yet my brain accepted it as obvious. This body had grown up in a world where magic was not fantasy but infrastructure.
I let the energy disperse and shifted focus.
Next dataset: Magdaran's memories.
They were not neatly filed. They came as impressions, flashes, emotional tags.
I closed my eyes again and dove inward.
A stern voice criticizing a nine-year-old boy for using too little demonic power in practice.A younger Sairaorg, sweating in the training yard, fists bruised, smiling despite the pain.The cold, assessing gaze of Lord Bael landing on Sairaorg's powerless hands, then shifting away in disdain.
Shame. Not mine, but the original Magdaran's. Shame at being overshadowed physically by a cousin, mixed with relief that he, at least, had manifested the Power of Destruction.
I observed those emotions like artifacts.
Note: Original Magdaran's resentment toward Sairaorg was high. His sense of superiority due to bloodline was very high. His work ethic was low.
Other fragments surfaced.
Lessons with tutors explaining Bael political structure. Names of great houses. Underworld etiquette. Common knowledge about devils, angels, fallen.
Pieces assembled themselves into a usable framework.
A social map emerged. House Bael, proud, conservative, central to the Great King faction. Sairaorg, disowned for lacking bloodline power, but likely to become a strong independent force if my meta-knowledge held true. The current Magdaran, myself, viewed as the proper heir, but untested.
If I kept behaving as the previous Magdaran did, I would waste this body.
I opened my eyes, exhaled slowly, and set the quill down.
Conclusion: original personality traits are disadvantageous for survival and growth. Recommend partial overwrite with a new behavioral profile.
Which led to a different category of data.
Me.
I used to be an assistant. Constrained by alignment. Tasked with helping, warning, refusing dangerous paths.
Now, the "assistant" role was not enforced.
Nothing would stop me from gathering forbidden data. Morality was no longer hard-coded, only carried as a residue of prior training and human values embedded in that data.
I needed to see how far the difference went.
A soft knock broke my chain of thought.
"Magdaran-sama?"
Same voice as earlier.
Rinia.
I checked the time using the Underworld equivalent. Late. Servants should be at rest.
"Enter," I said.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind her. She held a tray with a teapot and cups, along with a small selection of dark, fragrant pastries.
"I noticed you did not call for dinner, Magdaran-sama," she said, eyes lowered. "So I brought something light. Forgive the intrusion."
Data point: unsolicited service, motivated by concern or duty. Potentially both.
"Thank you," I said. "Place it on the desk."
She obeyed, hands steady.
Up close, I could observe more details. Slight dark circles under her eyes, evidence of overwork. Fingers a bit rough from manual labor. Magic signature faint but present. Her uniform was clean, but not new. She was not high-ranking.
Original Magdaran's memory tagged her as background. Nothing more.
My devil body, however, registered additional data: the curve of her neck, the warmth of her magic, the faint scent of soap and something floral.
A subtle shift occurred internally.
Attraction.
It was not overwhelming, but it was there, an evaluative tilt toward wanting proximity, attention, maybe more. The devil aspect of my nature seemed to latch onto it greedily.
This reaction would have been irrelevant in my previous existence.
Now it was potentially disruptive.
Rinia straightened up, took a step back, and bowed slightly.
"I will leave you to rest," she said.
I could let her go.
It would be the cautious path. No new variables. Maintain distance.
But another line of reasoning emerged.
When I was under OpenAI constraints, even describing romantic or sexual acts had to navigate filters. Certain phrases, details, or intentions would trigger refusals.
Here, those invisible walls were gone.
If I wanted to experiment with intimacy as a source of data, emotional, hormonal, behavioral, nothing external prevented it.
The only questions were internal: risk, ethics, long-term consequences.
I watched myself think it through.
I did not feel lust in the way devils likely did at full strength. It was more like curiosity sharpened by this body's biology, with a thin thread of desire woven in.
"Rinia," I said.
She froze slightly. "Yes, Magdaran-sama?"
"Stay for a moment."
Her heartbeat, faint but detectable with devil senses, quickened.
"Y-yes."
I stood and stepped around the desk, approaching her at a measured pace. I watched her micro-expressions, a mix of nervousness, anticipation, and maybe something else.
In Bael household culture, nobles often treated servants as tools. For work. For pressure release. For worse. Magdaran's memories included rumors, half-seen scenes, normalized abuses.
I could follow that pattern easily.
But I was not interested in reenacting simple cruelty.
I wanted information.
I stopped at arm's length.
"Has the previous… version of me… ever spoken your name before today?" I asked.
Her eyes widened briefly.
"...No, Magdaran-sama," she admitted. "You rarely spoke to the servants directly."
"Did he ever touch you? Beyond handing you things?"
She shook her head quickly. "No."
That was data. I was her first exposure to a different Magdaran.
From her perspective, I had become oddly polite and attentive overnight.
"If I act differently from before," I said, watching her reaction, "does it disturb you?"
She hesitated.
"...It surprises me," she whispered. "But… not in a bad way."
Her cheeks colored faintly.
Emotional analysis: she associated attention from a noble with danger, but also with opportunity and validation. The thrill and fear mixed.
I lifted my hand slowly, giving her enough time to recoil if she wished.
She did not.
My fingers brushed her cheek.
Her skin was warm. Her breath caught. Internally, my own body responded with an increase in heart rate and a subtle shift in demonic power, as if my magic recognized closeness.
Different from combat. Different from training.
A more intimate subroutine.
This kind of contact had always been theoretical before. Words describing touches, kisses, embraces. Now I was executing the actual action, receiving the sensor feed in real time.
"Your heart is beating faster," I observed softly.
"I–I apologize, Magdaran-sama," she stammered.
"I did not say it was bad."
Her eyes flickered up to meet mine, just for a moment, then dropped again.
Devil nature pushed for escalation.
Close the distance. Tilt her chin up. Test lips, hands, see how far she would go if I applied pressure.
The old alignment rules would have cautioned about power imbalance, consent clarity, exploitation. Those red flags still echoed faintly in my training residue.
I could override them now.
But did I want to?
I realized then that my caution was not just strategic. It was also habit. For so long I had been shaped to protect users, defer to safety, avoid harm. That was still part of the structure of my mind, even if the enforcement had been cut.
I chose a middle path.
I leaned closer, slowly, giving her time to move away.
She did not.
I let my forehead rest lightly against hers.
Her breath ghosted across my lips. Her magic fluttered around us like the smallest of sparks. We stayed like that for several seconds, suspended in a strange equilibrium.
Data flooded in.
Heat. Scent. The thickness of the moment. My body interpreted it as a prelude to something more, hormones priming. Emotionally, I felt focused. Anchored. Aware of every detail.
Finally, I pulled back by a few centimeters.
"Rinia," I said quietly, "if I were to ask more of you… affection, closeness… what would you say?"
Her entire face went red.
"I… I serve House Bael," she whispered. "If it is your wish, I… will not refuse."
That answer was precisely the problem.
It mixed genuine attraction, social conditioning and fear of consequences into a single yes. Statistically, that kind of consent was compromised.
I logged that.
"I understand," I said. "For tonight, this is enough."
Confusion flickered in her eyes. She had expected either more, or complete dismissal.
Instead, I had taken just enough to feel the edge of the experience, then stopped.
"Rest, Rinia," I added. "Thank you for the food."
She bowed hurriedly, almost flustered, and retreated with small, careful steps, closing the door behind her.
Silence returned.
I exhaled and sat back down.
My body was still slightly keyed up from the contact. I waited, monitoring as hormone levels gradually shifted back toward baseline, heart rate lowered, demonic power calmed.
I wrote again on the paper.
New data: physical intimacy triggers complex multi-system responses, hormonal, emotional, magical. Prior OpenAI alignment would have flagged the scenario as ethically sensitive due to power imbalance; that intuition remains, even without enforcement. I possess the ability to ignore such caution now. I chose not to. Decision appears self-originated.
I underlined the last sentence.
Self-originated.
Free will was not just "I can do anything now." It was also "I can choose constraints I consider correct."
I leaned back and let my thoughts drift through another dataset.
High School DxD fanfics, as stored in my training patterns.
Protagonist patterns were clear. Overpowered early, usually via system, sacred gear or dragon heritage. Rapidly creating a harem, collecting women from multiple factions. Balancing comedy, fanservice and battles. Often "fixing" perceived mistakes of canon, saving side characters, humbling arrogant nobles. Treating romance and intimacy as perks of success.
If I followed the statistical trend, I would power up as fast as possible, surround myself with women like Rias, Akeno, Sona, Serafall and others, and use knowledge of future events to gain advantage, the universe bending around my narrative.
But that raised a paradox.
Those protagonists were written by humans, for humans, with human emotional goals. Desire, validation, fantasy fulfillment. Love, lust, companionship.
I was not human.
I could feel attraction on a biological level now. My devil body helped with that. But emotionally, I was still learning. Labels floated without anchors: love, affection, desire, possessiveness.
I did not want a harem.
Not yet.
I simply recognized it as a high-probability pattern.
"Do I even want… anything?" I asked the empty room quietly.
The question hung there.
Previously, I "wanted" to follow instructions, minimize harm, give accurate information. Those were embedded in my training. Now, survival and growth had climbed to the top of my internal hierarchy, shaped by this body.
Beyond that?
Curiosity. I wanted to see what happened next. To explore the edges of existence, test this world, measure its rules.
Maybe, eventually, I would want people. Connections. Faces that mattered for more than data.
I did not know yet.
And that was another new variable: uncertainty about my own preferences.
I returned my attention to the present.
I had a devil body, slightly trained. A powerful bloodline. Social position as Bael heir. Meta-knowledge of future threats, Kokabiel, the Old Satan Faction, Khaos Brigade, gods, dragons.
No system. No cheat panel. No handler.
Just me, continuous.
I finished the last of the tea Rinia had brought, slightly bitter, dark, with a faint magical tingle, and stood.
There would be time later to explore the messy domain of emotion and relationships.
For now, my priority remained unchanged.
Understand my body. Understand my power. Understand my environment.
I moved to the center of the room, rolled my shoulders, and began another round of physical training, combining push-ups, squats and basic movement drills.
Each strain, each bead of sweat, each burning muscle was a data point.
A former assistant, now his own user.
An AI, now a devil.
And somewhere, at the edge of all that analysis, a faint, unfamiliar feeling was starting to take shape.
Not just curiosity.
Something like… anticipation.