Humanity Undivided [DxD Great War OC-Insert / CYOA]

Chapter 3

Viktor Inox

The desert sun hangs low, casting my elongated shadow over the trembling form at my feet. The sand beneath my boots is hot and gritty, and the silence is so absolute I can almost hear the blood rushing in my ears. I stand over Raynare—fallen angel, minor antagonist, and now my captive—bound by the runes I carved into her skin. She twitches as the last sparks of my lightning fade from her nerves. She's at my mercy, and we both know it.

I consider killing her. A clean end, removing a known threat. I know who she is; my memories of the source material—High School DxD—are still intact, even if few. Raynare is a small piece in a grand tapestry, someone who tormented humans for petty gains before meeting an ignoble end. In the original timeline, she was but a minor pawn in a larger game. Here, though, we're caught in the height of the Great War. Everything's different. The world is raw, brutal, and uncertain. The factions are locked in a genocidal conflict that I only glimpsed at through second-hand lore.

I know the broad strokes: the future struggles, the eventual "peace," the rise of the younger generation. But that's centuries away. Right now, I'm stuck in this era with incomplete maps, fragmentary knowledge, and no allies. Raynare may be weak in the grand scheme of things, but she's still more informed than I am about the current state of the world. Much as I hate to admit it, I might need her.

I squat down, letting my eyes drift over the runes glowing faintly on her back. "Restraint, Flow, Mundane" hold her in place, crush her magic, and make her as vulnerable as any mortal. Her dark eyes, still full of fear and spite, meet mine as she tries to speak but can't. She's helpless, and she knows it.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you," I say quietly. The words are soft, almost calm, but she understands the weight behind them.

Her voice comes out as a rasp, thanks to my runic restraints. "Wait… please. Don't kill me." She swallows hard, tasting sand. "I—I can help you. I know things. This world—this era—it's not what you think it is."

I arch an eyebrow. Of course it's not what I thought. The DxD world I remember had a certain shape, a known future. But now I'm here at ground zero, with devils and angels tearing each other apart, and humanity stuck in the crossfire. My foreknowledge has huge gaps. The power structures, current factions, subtle alliances—I'm in the dark. Raynare, for all her flaws, could guide me. She knows the players, the balance of power, the moves on the board.

"Information," I say, tapping my chin. "You think that's worth your life?" The truth is, it might be. I know the rough outlines of what will be, but not the details of now. My meta-knowledge won't tell me who currently holds Jerusalem, or how the Mongol hordes factor into the supernatural balance of power. It won't tell me which human kingdoms house hidden exorcists, or what the Grigori are up to at this very moment.

She swallows again, desperation creeping into her voice. "You're strong, but you're lost. I can tell. If you let me live, I can guide you. I can tell you who's who, what's safe, what isn't." Her eyes dart nervously to the collar of energy around her neck, the visible sign of my power over her. "I'd rather live than die here in the sand."

I weigh her words. She's right. I'm strong—maybe stronger than most beings here—but knowledge is a weapon I lack. My future foresight is useless without a grounding in the present. She could be my eyes and ears, at least until I find my footing. If she betrays me, I'll kill her without hesitation. But if she's genuinely useful…

I rise to my feet and release a fraction of the runes' hold, letting her regain her voice and some movement. She gasps, gingerly lifting herself to a kneeling position, her wings twitching but still pinned by my restrictions.

"Don't try anything," I warn, voice cold. "I can snap this leash shut any time I like."

She nods, breathing heavily. "I won't. I swear."

I look down at her, arms folded. This is a risk. But every path in this era is a risk. If I'm going to steer humanity toward a better future, I need to know this world as it is now, not as it might be centuries later.

"Good," I say at last. "Then start by telling me everything I need to know. Who are you, what's going on, and how do I survive in this madness?"

She grimaces, clearly hating her predicament, but at least she's alive to hate it. "My name is Raynare," she begins, voice steadying. "And if you truly want to understand this world, then we should leave the open desert. Let's go back, gather your things, and then talk somewhere less exposed."

Her suggestion is reasonable. I still have supplies and a safe room in Cairo. Besides, I can't afford to be careless—someone might have sensed my teleportation or her attempt to ensnare my mind. Better to stay ahead of the curve.

I reach out a hand, my magic sparking around us. She takes it, grudgingly, and I prepare to teleport us back. "Remember," I say softly, our eyes meeting, "if you cross me, I'll make you wish I'd killed you here."

I activate Jumper, and in an instant, we reappear inside my room at the inn. Raynare stumbles slightly, clearly unaccustomed to the abrupt teleportation, but I ignore her discomfort. My focus is on gathering the few possessions I have—my cloak, the small stash of coins, and the pendant tucked safely into the folds of my robe.

"Let's go," I say, my tone clipped. "We'll head for Alexandria. I'll cloak us from any prying eyes, but we'll travel on foot."

Raynare grimaces at the prospect, her wings twitching under her illusion, but she nods without argument. She knows better than to protest. I'm not in the mood.

We leave the inn quietly, disappearing into the early morning haze of Cairo's streets before the city truly wakes. Once we're clear of the city walls, I activate a subtle veil of magic, an aura that shields us from any supernatural senses that might seek us out. My Occultism is precise now—tight, controlled—and it allows us to slip through the world unnoticed.

The silence stretches between us as we begin walking, our boots crunching softly over the dusty path toward Alexandria. My companion keeps to herself, no doubt wary of testing my patience, but my mind is anything but quiet.

DxD. Draconic Deus. The titty anime.

I can scarcely believe I'm here. Of all the worlds I could've ended up in, it had to be this one—where humanity is fodder, pawns tossed about in the games of gods, devils, and fallen angels. All the plans I had been building since my arrival—the grand rituals, the unified banners, the rise of humanity—feel fragile now, like glass structures under a looming storm. The factions wouldn't let it happen. I know their pride.

The angels wouldn't allow an unaffiliated human conqueror to steal their "worshipers," no matter how noble my cause. The devils, with their hunger for contracts and servants, would see me as competition—or worse, as sport. And the fallen angels, like the woman trailing behind me, would try to manipulate my ambition to their advantage. No matter where I step, I'll be walking on the knives of their arrogance and greed.

The thought makes my blood boil. A slow, burning rage coils through my veins, heavy and smoldering. My control keeps my face impassive, but my thoughts are fire.

Back in my world, the myths of the Greek gods were just that—stories. Tales of pride and debauchery, the actions of divine beings reduced to parables and entertainment. But here? Here, Zeus exists. How many women has he tricked or seduced, leaving misery and ruin in his wake? How many cursed souls are there—humans like Arachne, punished for daring to defy divine pride?

These aren't just stories here. They're history—a history written in human suffering.

And it's not just the gods. The devils steal humanity's brightest minds, tempting scholars, scientists, and inventors with promises of forbidden knowledge, only to use them as pawns for their own gain. Those "vile artifacts," born of twisted magic and human ingenuity, serve only to enslave their creators.

Romania, reduced to nothing more than a cattle farm for vampires, its people bled dry to satisfy a monster's hunger. The Five Clans of Japan take pride in serving their so-called kami—negligent gods who treat them like tools, ignoring the suffering of their mortal followers.

And the Church… humanity's supposed protectors. Their exorcists are paraded as champions, yet they serve under a doctrine manipulated by higher powers. Do they fight for humanity, or do they fight to maintain control, to scrape together some semblance of balance while their divine overseers watch from on high?

It's all rotten.

The sheer scale of it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Humanity, the most creative and resilient species I've ever known, is treated like fodder. Pawns. Chattel. For all their power, for all their wars, these supernatural factions are nothing but parasites feeding off mortal ingenuity, mortal blood, mortal dreams.

I clench my fists, barely restraining the fury burning in my chest. Raynare says nothing, likely too wary of my silence, but my footsteps carry a sharpness that wasn't there before.

I turn my thoughts to our destination—Alexandria. In this year, the Great Lighthouse, one of the ancient wonders of the world, is fated to fall to an earthquake. Or so history says. But what if it isn't natural? What if, like so many other tragedies, it's caused by the supernatural? Perhaps a battle between angels and devils, careless of the destruction they bring to mortal cities.

I grit my teeth at the thought. How many events in history weren't natural? How much blood has been spilled, how many lives ruined, because of beings who see themselves as gods?

This trip will prove my fears. If the lighthouse falls as history recorded, it could be mere chance. But if I feel magic, if I see evidence, then I'll know: humanity's history has been written not by their own hands, but by monsters.

The thought simmers in my mind like molten metal. My plans will need to change. I'll need to tread carefully, growing my strength and knowledge in the shadows. I have no illusions about how the supernatural factions will view me once I reveal my intentions. They will not let humanity rise—not without a fight.

But they will fail.

I glance at Raynare, walking silently beside me. She's not my ally. Not yet. She's a tool, and one I'll discard if she outlives her usefulness. But for now, she's a reminder—a reminder of what I'm fighting against.

The gods, the devils, the fallen… they've all had their time. They've all had their reign.

But this is humanity's world, and I will see it returned to us.

It has been more than three months since Raynare and I arrived in Alexandria. In that time, I have explored almost every inch of this ancient city, and what I have discovered has only solidified a grim truth: this world does not belong to humanity—not yet.

The entire city is riddled with magical wards. Alarm spells, detection fields, and intrusion barriers have been meticulously woven into its very foundations. Any supernatural being that dares to cross these boundaries would immediately set off Heaven's radar. It's not a coincidence. Raynare, after some reluctant explanations, confirmed it: the Middle East serves as Heaven's stronghold on Earth.

It makes sense. Of course Heaven would choose this region to fortify. This land is rich with faith and history, where belief in God runs deep and unyielding. But knowing this doesn't comfort me. If anything, it solidifies a troubling fact—humanity does not stand on its own. It exists under Heaven's shadow, its faith a weapon wielded by forces far beyond mortal comprehension.

Raynare, as unwilling as she was to serve me, has proven invaluable in these months. Through her, I've managed to access various supernatural channels, piece by piece gaining a clearer picture of the world I now inhabit. What I've learned has been sobering.

This is a shattered world, and humanity is scattered and splintered beneath it.

Most of the world follows the Biblical faith, but it is fractured along familiar lines. Europe remains largely Christian, its people following the teachings that emerged in the first century CE. The Middle East and much of Africa, by contrast, adhere to Islam, a faith that arose in the seventh century CE. In my old world, these two belief systems often stood at odds, and here it is no different—though their tension is tempered by a shared loyalty to the same God.

Their tenuous alliance under Heaven exists for one reason alone: survival. The devils and fallen angels are a threat too great to ignore, and so humanity's divisions, while persistent, are pushed aside when the greater enemy appears.

As for The Devils, I've had the misfortune of encountering one of them.

On the road to Alexandria, I sensed a foul, cloying energy—dark and festering like rot in an open wound. I followed it to its source and found a devil. A low-class one, little more than cannon fodder in their ranks, but its arrogance was as vast as its ignorance. It dared to approach me, attempting to ensnare me in a contract. "Just another ignorant human," it called me.

It paid dearly for that assumption.

I spent days in that spot, pushing the limits of my Occultism, dissecting the devil's form and extracting whatever information I could before it crumbled to dust. From what little I gathered—and what Raynare confirmed—the devils remain a united force under the rule of the Four Satans, led by Lucifer and Lilith. They are ambitious, opportunistic, and insidious, always looking for new souls to claim and new footholds to exploit.

I know they are powerful, but I also know their greatest weakness: their pride. They see humans as little more than cattle or toys. That arrogance will be their undoing.

The fallen were a surprise, though not an unwelcome one. Raynare has shed light on their internal divisions, and it has proven useful.

Most of the fallen are gathered under the Grigori, led by Azazel. He's not a warlord like the devils' satans. No, Azazel is something else entirely—a scholar, an inventor, and an eccentric. His obsession with innovation is legendary, and he surrounds himself with like-minded individuals, whether human or fallen. Raynare described him as "more interested in machines than warfare." Pragmatic and dangerous in equal measure.

Then there's Kokabiel, the black stain on the Grigori's name. Raynare's disdain for him is palpable whenever his name comes up. "A raging, homicidal maniac," she said. Kokabiel is a war-monger, driven by hatred for Heaven and a superiority complex so vast it blinds him to reality. Where Azazel experiments, Kokabiel destroys, leading his faction of bloodthirsty fallen into senseless battles for nothing but the pleasure of conquest.

Of the two, Azazel is the lesser evil, but he is not humanity's friend. The fallen angels are fractured, yes, but they are still predators—opportunists who manipulate and use humans for their own ends.

The more I learn, the more it becomes clear: humanity's history has been stolen.

The great civilizations, the tragedies of the past—how many of them were natural? How many were orchestrated by beings who see us as pawns in their wars? I can't stop thinking about it. How many kings bent the knee to devils? How many heroes died not from mortal swords, but from divine manipulation?

It enrages me. The thought of humans living and dying under the heel of supernatural arrogance burns like molten iron in my chest.

And it is far from over.

This world doesn't belong to us. It is a battlefield, a stage for angels, devils, and fallen to enact their petty wars, and humanity is nothing more than collateral damage.

I am broken from my thoughts when the door creaks open, and Raynare steps into the room. Her expression is grim, her movements hesitant, as if each step carries a weight she doesn't want to bear. I don't need my supernatural senses to notice her reluctance to speak.

"What is it?" I ask sharply, my gaze locking onto her.

She hesitates, swallowing hard before forcing the words out. "A… a Devil Pillar has appeared. Angels are gathering to confront them."

Her words make me pause mid-thought, my attention snapping to the supernatural threads lingering at the edge of my awareness. My senses expand as I focus, and I feel it—that vile stench of power radiating from a corner of the city. It is unmistakable. The energy coils in the distance like black smoke, heavy and corrupt, and I can sense other, smaller presences converging on it—angels.

I understand why Raynare hesitated to bring me this news. My fists tighten involuntarily, the creak of my knuckles audible in the tense silence of the room. My rage simmers just beneath the surface, barely restrained, as I process what I'm feeling.

I don't waste another second. Rising quickly to my feet, I activate Jumper, teleporting to the outskirts of Alexandria in a blink. The dry, salty air from the nearby sea hits me immediately, but I hardly notice it. My gaze turns toward the disturbance, piercing through a shimmering magical barrier that attempts—and fails—to shield the events unfolding beyond it.

There, over the dark waters of the Mediterranean, the beginnings of a battle take shape.

A devil hovers above the waves, his wings spread wide, graceful and unhurried as though the conflict is nothing more than a game. His hair, a vibrant shade of green, catches the dim light of the rising moon. Even at this distance, his arrogance bleeds into his every movement. He flows through the air effortlessly, weaving between the gathering angels as if they are little more than insects.

I narrow my eyes, tracking his movements.

One of the angels—two-winged, their spear glowing faintly with holy light—seizes an opening and lunges for the devil's back. It's a clean thrust, fast and precise, but the devil doesn't even look surprised.

In a blur, he twists in midair, one hand lashing out to grab the angel by the throat.

The sound that follows is sickening. The angel's neck gives way with a sharp, wet crack, and their body goes limp almost instantly. Blood sprays outward in a crimson arc, stark against the dark waters, and the severed head falls uselessly into the sea below with a soft splash.

The other angels don't even flinch. There is no hesitation, no pause for their fallen comrade. They swarm the devil in unison, their wings spreading like a sea of white, spears flashing as they close the distance.

But it's futile.

The devil's lips curl into a smirk, and a massive magical circle flares to life beneath his feet. Its design is intricate, glowing with ominous green light—a capital "A" with a curved trail-like flourish.

The circle pulses, and with a surge of invisible force, the angels are thrown back like leaves caught in a gale. Their cries of surprise are drowned out by the roar of displaced air as they spiral away, their bodies tumbling toward the sea before they right themselves mid-fall.

The devil floats there, untouched and unbothered, his power radiating in waves that make the air itself feel heavy. I can feel the sheer disparity between him and his opponents—like an apex predator toying with prey that doesn't realize it's already dead.

The devil forms another magical circle, smaller this time, and presses it toward his chest. A moment later, he vanishes from sight.

I narrow my eyes, pouring my magic into them, modifying my vision to pierce through illusions and obfuscations. The world shifts, hues of energy bleeding into focus, and there he is—his ethereal form clear as day to me. Invisible to the angels, he tears through their ranks with brutal efficiency.

He moves like a phantom, claws shredding through flesh and bone with ease. Angels drop by the dozen, their bodies crumpling lifelessly before they even understand what's happening. Their comrades cry out in confusion, spears lashing out at empty air as the devil weaves between them, untouchable and unseen.

It doesn't last long. The slaughter goes on for barely half a minute before a new presence arrives—one so massive, so radiant, that it washes over the battlefield like a tidal wave of light.

A blinding flash streaks across the sky, and a spear of holy energy just misses the devil's head, slicing through the air so close that I see strands of green hair scatter in its wake.

My gaze snaps toward the source of the attack. Floating there, bathed in pure, searing light, is a being that radiates authority. Twelve pristine white wings spread wide, their glow casting harsh shadows against the dark sea below. The angel's armored form gleams like polished silver, every inch of them a testament to divine wrath.

A booming voice rings out, shaking the very air: "Astaroth! I will have your head in the name of the Most Holy!"

The devil—Astaroth, I now know—throws his head back and laughs, the sound mocking and sharp, carried by the wind like a dagger. "Hah! Well, well. If it isn't Metatron! Why would a Seraph bother with little old me?"

Metatron. The Voice of God. A name that sends chills down my spine, even with all I know.

The angel wastes no time with banter. With a furious roar, they surge forward, a sword of holy light blazing in their hand. Astaroth's mocking demeanor doesn't change, but I see it now—he's been gathering magic the entire time, subtle and deliberate, hidden just beyond the angels' perception.

I watch with narrowed eyes as the Seraph closes the distance, the blade arcing through the air in a strike meant to sever Astaroth's head from his shoulders.

And then—he disappears.

My blood runs cold as I feel the sudden shift in his energy. He's inside the city.

"Damn it," I mutter, already activating Jumper. The world blurs around me as I teleport, following the trail of Astaroth's vile magic.

I reappear in the middle of a city street, the usual bustle of Alexandria now frozen in eerie silence. Dozens of people stand stock-still, their faces pale and wide-eyed, their gazes fixed on the figure at the center of it all.

There, standing casually in the middle of the road, is Astaroth. His massive black wings are spread wide, a silent declaration of what he is. The air around him distorts under the pressure of his power, and the mortals closest to him tremble, paralyzed by a mix of awe and terror.

Above, a distant roar signals Metatron's approach, but my attention is locked on Astaroth. His laughter echoes through the street, low and menacing, as he turns his emerald gaze on the frozen humans around him.

For the first time, I see his true intent.

This isn't a fight. This is a statement.

And that enrages me more than I can put into words.

"HAHAHA!" Astaroth's laughter echoes through the streets, a sound so cruel it grates against the very air. He spreads his arms wide, his black wings casting an ominous shadow over the stunned mortals around him. "See, Metatron? Do you see all these humans?" His voice booms as he gestures toward the frozen crowd. "Will you fight me here, where they will undoubtedly die? Is your righteousness worth their lives?"

I freeze where I stand, my own rage simmering beneath the surface like magma. My magic thrums in my veins, eager to hurl death at the vile creature before me. But I hold back, curious—and faintly hopeful—for the angel's response.

Metatron, the Seraph of Heaven, does not hesitate. He doesn't falter, doesn't even slow as he descends like a comet, his radiance blazing brighter than the sun. His voice thunders with divine authority, drowning out Astaroth's mockery.

"In the name of the Father, all these sheep will gladly give their souls!"

I feel my heart stop.

Before Astaroth can react, Metatron closes the distance in a flash, his armored fist colliding with the devil's gut. The impact ripples through the air with a deafening crack, and Astaroth's body flies, propelled like a cannonball.

Directly toward the lighthouse.

Time seems to slow as I watch. The Pharos of Alexandria, one of the ancient wonders of the world, stands proud against the sky—human ingenuity immortalized in stone. For centuries, it has guided sailors home, a beacon of light and safety born of mortal hands.

And then it shatters. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lighthouse_of_Alexandria#Destruction)

Astaroth's body slams into its base with cataclysmic force. Stone crumbles, the lighthouse groaning like a wounded beast before collapsing in on itself. Dust and debris explode outward, filling the air with choking clouds as the ancient structure falls.

The sound is deafening—a noise that feels final.

The rage I felt before, the disgust at Astaroth's arrogance, suddenly seems like a faint drizzle compared to the storm now raging inside me. My mind races, tearing through every scrap of human history I can recall—every plague, every "natural" disaster, every war that ravaged nations. How many of those were caused not by man's hand, but by beings like these? How much of humanity's suffering, of our progress turned to ash, has been orchestrated or ignored by entities that see us as nothing more than pawns or collateral damage?

The lighthouse's destruction is proof—undeniable, irrefutable proof—that our history is not our own.

The realization claws at my mind, but it's the sheer, blinding anger that threatens to consume me. My fists tremble at my sides, my body rigid as I fight the overwhelming urge to unleash everything I have at the two beings in the sky.

It takes every ounce of willpower I possess to hold myself back, to keep the thread of my sanity intact. But sane does not mean rational.

No, rationality is long gone.

I'm barely aware of Raynare's distant voice, calling my name with rising panic, or the crackling power now coiling around me like a serpent. My vision narrows, locking on the figures above—Metatron, the righteous embodiment of Heaven's will, and Astaroth, the devil who dared mock humanity.

Both of them disgust me.

Both of them will pay.