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

Chapter 4

Viktor Inox

In the throes of my barely controlled rage, I feel the leash on my power slip. My mind, empowered by the full force of Hypercognition, stretches outward, and the world around me grinds to a halt. The rippling sea, the settling dust of the shattered lighthouse, the horrified faces of the mortals below—it all freezes, like a painting suspended in time.

The raw emotion—the sheer rage—within me becomes more than just a feeling. It becomes fuel. Occultism, sensing this torrent, rises to meet it, pathways and possibilities unfolding in my mind. Like a thousand open doors, it offers me ways to weaponize this anger, to direct it into spells and magics that could annihilate all in my path.

For a moment, I don't pay it much attention. I can feel it, deep in my bones—this instant, this choice, is pivotal. What I decide in the next few seconds will forever shape my future, and humanity's future.

Before I was changed—before that golden leaf lifted me beyond my limits—I was just a man. A normal human of the twenty-first century. I came from an age where humanity had conquered almost everything but itself. We had overcome plagues, distances, and the physical world. What we struggled with—what we always struggled with—was unity. Ourselves.

And yet, that world—my world—still left me with something invaluable: inspiration.

Because Occultism, as powerful and boundless as it is, is unshackled by rules and limitations. So long as the sacrifice is sufficient and the image strong, it can do anything. The sacrifice can be anything of equivalent value—energy, stamina, memories, souls, even raw time itself. Whatever price is required to make it real.

My mind flashes through countless magical systems, pulling from every corner of fiction and imagination. The breathing techniques of the demon slayers, the conceptual spells of fantasy mages, and the reality-breaking magic of Dungeons and Dragons. My mind dissects each system, analyzing their strengths, their mechanics, their connections to what I need right now.

And then… one stands out.

A golden figure, clad not in mere armor but in the very concept of humanity's triumph. A being who stood as a unifying force for a fractured and battered race. A symbol of unwavering purpose and undying resolve.

The Emperor of Mankind.

My mind focuses on him—the anathema to all warp-born horrors, the unifier of humanity in the bleakest age imaginable. A leader who turned a scattered, helpless species into a galactic superpower. The more I think, the more I know that his template is perfect for what I aim to do. Humanity in this world, as it is now, mirrors the humanity of that grim universe: shattered, divided, preyed upon by monsters and gods alike.

In the Warhammer universe, there exists the Warp—a dimension of pure energy, raw and unrefined, shaped by thought and emotion. It is a place of limitless potential and unimaginable danger.

In this world—Draconic Deus—there exists the Dimensional Gap. A void outside of creation, a place of infinite chaos and energy. It is where dreams and void were born, where the True Dragons—Great Red and Ophis—reside, beings of such incomprehensible power that even gods pale in comparison.

The similarities are striking enough for Occultism to latch onto the concept. The Warp and the Dimensional Gap are not the same, but their essence—their infinite, unbound nature—resonates. Both are wells of limitless energy, a canvas upon which anything can be imagined and brought into being.

I feel Occultism seize upon this connection, feeding on the alignment between these ideas. The template of the Emperor—his unifying force, his connection to infinite power—merges with the potential of this world's Dimensional Gap. I can feel it forming within me: the foundation of something terrifyingly vast.

The image solidifies, becoming more concrete the longer I focus on it. The more grounded in reality a concept is, the stronger Occultism can make it. And this concept—this path—feels real. Tangible. Achievable.

The Dimensional Gap holds infinite energy, untapped by the beings of this world, a source ignored because of its unpredictability. But I see it for what it is—a wellspring of power waiting to be shaped by a mind strong enough to control it. I could forge humanity into something these gods, devils, and fallen angels would fear—a race unbroken, untouchable, and unified under a singular will.

The Emperor led humanity through fire and war, forging them into a force that could rival gods.

And now, in this frozen moment, I realize that I can do the same.

The fire of my rage burns brighter, tempered now by purpose. Sane, but no longer rational. Rationality wouldn't allow me to dream this big. To imagine what I'm about to do.

And so I allow myself this moment—this clarity—as Occultism molds my fury, my thoughts, and my purpose into something greater. The seeds of the Dimensional Gap seep into my body, spreading like wildfire.

The gods, the devils, the angels… they have no idea what's coming.

Humanity will rise. And I will see to it personally.

Raynare

These past few months have been the hardest of my existence. It's not just the shame of failing my mission in Cairo—no, that would've been almost bearable. I've been bound, like a slave, to a human. A human.

At first, I thought I was simply unlucky enough to run into someone contracted to a devil—someone who had been granted a fraction of a Pillar's bloodline magic. It would have explained his unreasonable strength, his impossible knowledge of runes I had never seen, and his aura that seemed far more refined than any human should possess.

But then we ran into that low-class devil.

I'll never forget that moment, the way the devil, in its arrogance, mocked him, calling him an "ordinary human" while sneering down its twisted nose. I had expected Viktor to simply brush it off—ignore the wretch or perhaps even pretend to entertain its offer.

What I saw instead will haunt my dreams for decades to come.

It wasn't just anger that twisted his face; it was hatred—a hatred so pure, so overwhelming that it felt like I could choke on it just being near him. And what he did after…

I've tortured my fair share of humans, angels, and the occasional devil. But what Viktor did to that creature was something else entirely. He didn't simply kill the devil—he unmade it, picking apart its form and existence piece by piece like a cruel god performing surgery. Even I, a fallen angel who has reveled in violence, pitied that devil before it finally turned to dust.

Since then, my wariness of him has only grown. During our time in Alexandria, I answered his questions about the supernatural as carefully and cautiously as I could. I could feel his rage simmering just beneath the surface with every word I spoke—like he was holding it back through sheer will alone.

Sometimes, I thought he might snap my neck just to release some of that tension.

But now?

Now, what I see before me makes those moments seem like nothing more than a fleeting shadow.

"W-Wait! You have to calm down!" My voice trembles as I take a step toward him. I know it's a mistake even as I do it, but I can't stop myself. I reach out, my hand extending to grasp his shoulder, as if touching him could somehow pull him back from whatever abyss he's staring into.

And then it happens.

In one moment, my fingertips are about to brush against him. In the next, the world disappears.

All I see, all I hear, all I feel is GOLD.

The energy that explodes from him is blinding, a wave of power so immense it feels like it's pressing down on my very soul. I don't even register the pain as I'm flung backward, my body slamming into the hard stone of the wall behind me. Dust rains down, bricks crack, and for a moment, I think I might've blacked out.

When I manage to open my eyes, I freeze.

Viktor stands at the center of it all, an unmoving figure bathed in an aura of light that defies description. It isn't the serene radiance of angels, nor the suffocating malice of devils—it's something entirely other. Gold and white intertwine, tendrils of energy flickering around him like wild flames that refuse to burn out. It doesn't just hum with power; it screams of purpose.

My wide eyes take in the scene, my breath coming in shallow gasps. This is not the same man I've been traveling with. This isn't just a human with unexplainable strength.

What is he?

As the golden light floods the battlefield, stretching to the heavens in a blinding pillar, the world stills. The clouds scatter like frightened beasts, and the air grows thick and heavy, trembling under the sheer weight of his presence.

Viktor stands at the epicenter of it all, his form unyielding, his expression carved from stone. His eyes, glowing like molten gold, pierce through the chaos with a force that strips away all pretense. Above, the devil Astaroth and the Seraph Metatron hover, their battle forgotten, their power dimmed before this living titan of wrath.

The silence stretches impossibly long before his voice rings out—sharp, resounding, and dripping with fury.

"You call yourselves divine. You call yourselves rulers of creation. Yet you are no better than vermin, scrabbling in the dirt for scraps of pride."

The words cut through the air like a blade, every syllable carrying a weight that makes even my wings shudder. The devil and the angel turn their gazes upon him, their arrogance faltering, their eyes wide with something they can barely admit—fear.

Viktor steps forward, his footfalls cracking the ground beneath him—not from physical force, but from an unrelenting will that bends the world itself. He gestures upward, toward the two beings frozen in the sky, his voice rolling like thunder.

"Look at you. Angel. Devil. Creatures born of light and darkness, children of power you neither earned nor deserve. You speak of righteousness, of sovereignty, yet here you are—tearing this city apart like spoiled children while mortals suffer beneath you."

His hand sweeps outward, toward the streets of Alexandria, where the dying lie—men, women, children—all caught in the crossfire of power beyond their comprehension.

"Look upon what you have wrought! These mortals—these finite, fragile beings—you dare call them insignificant? You dare stand above them, wielding power meant to uplift, and instead you leave them to bleed in the dirt?"

The golden light intensifies, rippling outward in waves that shake the very air. The humans who had frozen in place now shield their eyes, their forms kneeling in awe, while I press myself harder against the wall, desperate to resist the storm.

His voice softens, but the softness carries no mercy—only contempt.

"You were given power to guide, to protect, to inspire. But you squander it. You revel in your petty grudges, your vainglorious posturing, while the world you claim to rule suffers. And for what? A war that serves no purpose but to feed your pride?"

The devil, Astaroth, sneers despite himself, though I see his hands twitch. Metatron remains silent, his radiant form dimming ever so slightly. They know as well as I do—there is no refuting his words.

Viktor's gaze hardens, his golden eyes flaring as he speaks again, his voice rising like a clarion call.

"Hear me now, angels and devils alike. I am no mortal king. I am no servant of your twisted hierarchies. I am the will of humanity made manifest, and I shall not abide this atrocity any longer."

The earth shudders violently as the pillar of light expands, its brilliance turning the sun into but a candle. The golden storm swirls around him, untamed and awe-inspiring, a force of nature born of sheer resolve.

"You will cease your senseless war. You will crawl back to your heavens and your hells and leave humanity to stand on its own. Or so help me, I will tear you down to your very foundations. I will remind you what it means to fear annihilation."

The words slam into the air like a hammer, echoing outward across the battlefield and beyond. The golden radiance pulses, and for a moment, the sky itself seems to part, as if bowing to his will.

"I have seen the brilliance of mankind. Their resilience. Their ingenuity. You mock them, but where you stagnate, they ascend. Where you grow corrupt, they endure. And when your thrones have turned to ash, they will rise above you and reclaim what is theirs."

The cracks in the earth deepen as his power reaches its crescendo. The devil and the angel stare down at him in silence, their confidence shattered, their superiority stripped bare before his presence.

He raises his hand once more, and the golden light coils around him like a storm, pulsing with energy that feels endless, overwhelming.

"Know this: I am no god, no devil, no angel. I am human—and I am done watching my people suffer beneath your petty games."

His voice crescendos into something that reverberates across the heavens, final and unyielding.

"I am the light that will pierce your shadows. I am the fire that will burn away your sins. And I will not suffer fools who trample upon humanity any longer."

The pillar of light flares one final time, so blinding that the entire world feels as though it has been bathed in gold. For a breathless moment, time itself seems to halt, and the heavens themselves tremble.

Viktor Inox

Using Occultism, I tap into the Dimensional Gap, that infinite, chaotic wellspring of energy that exists beyond the edges of creation. The raw power flows into me like a roaring flood, endless and unrelenting. Chaos and impurity threaten to tear through my form, but I will it into submission. With sheer force of intent, I strip away every impurity, letting the unwanted fragments flow back into the void, leaving behind only golden glory—pure, refined, and radiant.

I can feel the strain pushing against my very being, the energy building to the limit of what my body can endure without disintegrating into spiritual particles. But I push further, funneling all that raw power into two simultaneous channels of thought.

The first feeds the Throne World, that private dimension bound to me within my absolute control. The energy surges into it like an unstoppable tide, and I feel the space within me expand at a terrifying rate. What was once no larger than a single cubic mile has now become hundreds, a boundless domain that spreads and reshapes itself at my command.

Mountains rise, their peaks scraping the skies of my world. Rivers carve through valleys, winding their way into newly formed seas. I will the land into being—my realm, my sanctuary, my stronghold. The Throne World grows into something worthy of its name, the very fabric of it shaped by my unyielding will.

The second instance of thought focuses on a spell—one born from my rage and solidified by my intent. I let the energy coalesce, shaping it with precision until it forms a single spear of light. The Glory of it is overwhelming, so dense and pure that it manifests in physical form, glowing with an intensity that eclipses the sun.

I rear my arm back, the spear thrumming in my grip, its radiant weight pulling at the fabric of reality. I can feel the very concept of it solidify as I imbue it with 'existence erasure.' Not merely destruction, not obliteration—erasure. Mind, body, soul, destiny, and fate—all will cease to be.

I announce my final declaration, my voice carrying like the tolling of a bell across the ruined battlefield.

"To humanity, I shall be known as Revelation. To all those that oppose it, I shall don the mantle of Anathema."

The words resonate, etched into the very air, as though the world itself listens.

"Now, bear witness to Humanity!"

I hurl the spear.

It tears through the sky like a golden comet, its brilliance consuming all that it touches. The air distorts around it, rippling with uncontainable energy. Even before it reaches its target, its sheer presence is enough to turn flesh to ash. Metatron, the great Seraph of Heaven, recoils in its radiance, his divine form blistering as his skin blackens and flakes away in strips.

The devil—Astaroth—doesn't even have time to react.

The spear connects, and his form is consumed in an instant. His laughter, his power, his very existence is erased, struck from reality with no trace left behind. Body, mind, soul—all of it vanishes, leaving only a scar in the air where he once stood. His destiny, his lineage, his fate itself is undone. The ancestor of Astaroth is no more.

But I am not finished.

Drawing one final pull of power from the Gap, I weave Occultism, Jumper, and the Throne World together in unison. The city of Alexandria begins to quake violently, the very fabric of its existence bending under my command. A swirling vortex erupts from the earth, spiraling outward as a void consumes everything in its wake.

Stone, buildings, streets—everything is torn from reality, swallowed into the vortex. I feel the strain pulling at my consciousness, my vision darkening at the edges, but I push through, my will holding firm even as my body begins to fail.

The last thing I see, as the vortex consumes the world around me, is Metatron's face—scarred, wide-eyed, and frozen in sheer, unfiltered fear. The great Seraph, the Voice of God, stares at me not as a man, but as something far worse.

And then darkness claims me.

Metatron

I am frozen.

My mind, sharp and precise, commands my body to move, to fight, to act—but it refuses. Every instinct that has guided me in countless battles, every measure of divine will that once carried me through wars and slain gods, now screams at me to be still.

A vortex of spiraling energy consumes the entirety of Alexandria before my very eyes. The fabric of reality itself twists and shreds, pulled into a storm of chaos that defies comprehension. Buildings vanish, roads fade, people blurr—all of it torn from existence with the merciless finality of a divine judgment.

And the human—that human—stands at the center of it all.

My body aches with a sensation I have not felt in centuries. Pain. The radiance of his spear—that abomination of light—has left its mark on me, a Seraph, one of God's most perfect and unyielding creations. I glance at the edge of my vision, at the molten edges of my shattered helmet. My hand touches my face, trembling as it grazes the scarred skin beneath—a patch of flesh that refuses to heal. Even now, divine energy pours into me, my very essence striving to mend what was broken, yet it fails.

A Seraph's body is perfect—designed by the will of the Almighty to be eternal, unyielding, untouchable. And yet this… this human has wounded me.

I can only move once the city is gone. Alexandria—the pride of humanity in this region—no longer exists. In its place is a void, an empty scar upon the earth that stretches toward the horizon. Only the three mosques remain, untouched, as if left behind—unwanted, abandoned trash perched atop raised plateaus of land. Around them, the sea creeps inward, already reclaiming what it can, waves lapping hungrily at the now-barren wasteland.

I descend gently, though it takes all I have to maintain control over my flight. My wings tremble, not from exertion, but from something far worse—something I cannot name. As my feet touch the desolate ground, my knees buckle, and I fall.

I, Metatron—the Voice of God, the Seraph of Heaven, the messenger of judgment—fall to my knees.

My mind struggles to process what I have seen. My being is divine; my purpose is singular. I am a vessel for God's will, a mechanism of His creation. Emotions—fear, doubt—these things do not belong to me, yet now they coil within me like serpents. My thoughts are clouded. My very existence quivers under the weight of the impossible.

That human.

There was pure malice in him. Rage beyond anything I have seen in devils, no pride in himself but in humanity. Yet he did not wield power with recklessness or madness, but with purpose—a purpose so absolute, so singular, it burned brighter than the heavens themselves.

And I could do nothing to stop him.

I kneel in silence, my gaze turns to the hole in reality caused by his spear. The void stretches endlessly, as though existence itself recoils from the place, refusing to return.

What is he?

Not half a minute passes before another light descends from above, this one familiar. Pure, unshakable, and eternal.

I force myself to look up as the brilliance of my Father's light pierces the desolation. It is not like the human's golden fury; it is soft yet absolute, like the dawn's first light banishing the darkness. The radiance touches the earth, and from it steps the One who created me.

God.

His form is impossible to describe, even for me. He is not a man, nor an angel. He is not something that can be seen. To mortal eyes, He would be incomprehensible—a formless radiance, a void of understanding. To me, He is perfection. He is everything.

He approaches me where I kneel, my body still trembling, my wings lowered to the ground in defeat. I try to rise, to speak, but my voice falters.

"F-Father, I… I—"

He places a hand on my shoulder, gentle yet firm, and the trembling in my limbs begins to subside. His presence fills me, a balm to the cracks forming in my faith.

"Rest for now, Metatron," He says softly, His voice the very essence of calm and command. There is no judgment in it, only understanding. "You have done all you can."

His gaze shifts toward the scar upon the earth, the place where Alexandria was torn from existence. His light dims slightly, as if He mourns the loss, though His expression betrays nothing.

"When you wake," He continues, "you will tell Me everything that happened."

I can only nod weakly, my head bowing further. His words settle over me like a decree, and with that simple gesture, my body gives in to the weight it has been carrying.

The last thing I see is His radiance standing tall against the dark void of the ruined earth. The power that lingers there still hums faintly, a golden wound etched into the very fabric of the world. And then, mercifully, unconsciousness takes me.

I do not dream. Angels do not dream.

But I know that when I wake, the world will never be the same again.