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

Chapter 6

Viktor Inox

It has been a month since Alexandria pledged its allegiance to me.

The city, now relocated entirely within my Throne World, houses an estimated population of 300,000 souls. Every man, woman, and child has been brought into this dimension, where my will shapes reality.

Over the past month, challenges have arisen, as they always do when lives are uprooted and foundations are shaken. Yet, I have taken it upon myself to care for these people, to provide them with more than mere survival.

The once-barren fields surrounding the city now brim with golden grain and vibrant produce, all willed into existence through my control over this dimension. Every damaged or crumbling building has been rebuilt, their foundations stronger than before. The mosques and religious edifices that once dotted Alexandria's skyline have been replaced by schools—centers of learning and progress, erected to guide the people toward a new path.

My efforts alone, however, would not have been enough. It is through the work of those the city now calls the Apostles of the Emperor—the men and women I spent ten days teaching and guiding—that Alexandria has begun to flourish. These individuals, having absorbed the lessons I imparted, have taken upon themselves the task of spreading knowledge and teaching magic to all who attend the new schools.

Magic, as it turns out, is a talent humanity in this world has always possessed, though it was wielded inefficiently. During those ten days, I observed a crucial flaw in how humans interacted with mana: their power was diffuse, scattered throughout their bodies like a gaseous cloud—thin, brittle, and prone to disruption. To my sight, their potential was squandered by this inefficiency.

When I understood this, I devised a solution: a ritual through Occultism that would create a mana core within their bodies. This core acts as a container, condensing and centralizing their magical energy. It allows them to wield magic in a far more refined and potent form.

The results were staggering. The average individual, who might have struggled to grasp basic spells, now possesses the capacity of a low-level prodigy, someone capable of reaching high-class power with time and dedication. As for those with natural talent—those whose gifts might have made them stand out even in the world beyond? They can now surpass what was once thought to be humanity's limit, rivaling the power of those considered Satan-class.

The ritual I devised is not without its costs. To cast it requires rare materials and precise catalysts, resources that would be difficult to acquire under normal circumstances. Fortunately, within my Throne World, I can circumvent such limitations. The dimension itself gathers resources, ensuring I always have what I need to perform the ritual on those willing to undertake it.

"Truly," I muse to myself, recalling an old adage, "you are not trying hard enough if you are not cheating."

Alexandria thrives now, but this is only the beginning. With knowledge spreading through the schools, with magic becoming an attainable skill rather than a rare gift, and with the people united under a shared vision, the city is transforming into something greater.

I shake my head and exit my thoughts, returning to reality. Currently, I am crafting something I never expected to create for a fallen—a magical artifact.

In my hands, I hold a pendant, its surface smooth and unadorned for now. I carefully inscribe runes along its edges, my focus absolute. This pendant is meant for Raynare, someone who, despite my initial reservations, has proven to be a significant help in my efforts—even if reluctantly at first.

During our months in Alexandria before the battle, her wariness of me was evident, though it didn't stop her sharp remarks or thinly veiled criticisms. Yet, I am not so prideful as to dismiss the value of her assistance. The information she has provided has likely determined the direction I am now heading.

Her knowledge of the supernatural world has opened my eyes in ways that my memories of the source material from my old life never could have. Through her guidance, I made contact with supernatural channels—under disguise, of course—and came to understand the intricate power dynamics among the three biblical factions and the divisions within each.

For that alone, she earned her freedom in my eyes. When I woke after the battle in Alexandria, I removed the runes that had bound her to me, severing the magical connection that held her. Yet, to my surprise, she chose to stay.

When I asked why, her answer shed light on something I had sensed but never fully understood.

"Fallen are, by their very nature, incomplete," she had said. "Our light is hollow—a shell of what it once was."

From her explanation, I learned that what I had always felt from fallen angels was the absence of something essential: their grace.

Grace, she told me, is the 'love of God made manifest', a core aspect of an angel's being. When an angel falls, they lose their grace, and with it, a part of themselves. The absence of this fundamental essence leaves a void, an emptiness that gnaws at their very souls.

"To fill that void," she had continued, her voice quieter, "many of us turn to sin. We pour ourselves into obsessions—actions or desires that temporarily stave off the emptiness. It's why fallen are often consumed by their passions."

Her words carried a weight I hadn't anticipated. It explained not just her behavior, but the patterns I had observed in others like her.

Then, she revealed something I hadn't considered. "Here," she said, gesturing to the world around us, "inside your Throne World, God's system cannot reach me. I haven't felt the void since you brought me here."

The implications were profound. In this realm, her hollow light no longer reached for what it had lost. The absence of that void allowed her to exist without the constant gnawing emptiness.

As I work on the pendant, her words linger in my mind. This artifact is not just a gift—it's a symbol of trust and a token of acknowledgment. Its runes are designed to channel the ambient energy of the Throne World, creating a stabilizing field that will protect her from external influences, including those from God's system, should she ever leave this place.

For all her faults, Raynare has proven herself valuable. She may still be wary of me, but her actions have shown loyalty, even if she refuses to admit it outright. Perhaps, in her own way, she has found solace here—just as I have found purpose.

I finish the last rune, letting the mana settle into the artifact with a faint glow. I hold the pendant up, inspecting it under the light. It's simple yet effective, designed with purpose rather than decoration.

I put the artifact into an ornate box, its surface carved with intricate designs, and head for the city where I can feel her presence.

Disguised beneath an illusion, I walk the streets of Alexandria. The bustling city teems with life, its roads and alleys filled with people carrying out their daily tasks. Each person is a world of their own, a story unfolding amidst the backdrop of a city that is both ancient and new.

I will never tire of this—simply walking through a human cradle, observing the resilience and vitality of humanity. I watch children laughing as they chase each other through narrow alleyways. Peddlers call out to passersby, showcasing wares with practiced enthusiasm. Women hang brightly colored clothes to dry under the warm sunlight, their chatter blending into the symphony of the marketplace.

These moments are small, fleeting, but they hold a beauty I will always cherish.

As I turn a corner, a voice calls out to me. "Young man!"

I pause, glancing in the direction of the sound. An old man stands by a cart loaded with bundles of wheat. His frame is hunched with age, his hands gnarled from years of labor. He waves me over, his face lined with both weariness and warmth.

"Yes?" I ask, stepping closer.

"Could you spare a moment to help an old man?" he asks, gesturing to the bundles on his cart. "These are heavier than they look, and my back isn't what it used to be."

"Of course," I reply without hesitation. I lift the bundles with ease, tucking them securely under my arm. His eyes widen briefly, perhaps surprised by the lack of strain on my part, but he says nothing as we begin walking together.

We make our way down the street at a leisurely pace, the old man guiding me to his destination. As we walk, I ask, "What do you think of Alexandria's new ruler old man?"

He glances up at me, his expression thoughtful. "Ah, where do I even begin?" he says, his voice steady but carrying the weight of many years. "I've lived through much in my time—wars, famine, the rise and fall of rulers. I've seen despair grip this city like a vice, and I've seen moments of fleeting joy. But this…"

He pauses, his gaze drifting toward the horizon, where the golden castle looms atop the distant peak. "When the light came, and those words filled the air… it was as if the world itself had stopped for a moment. I've never felt anything like it. For the first time, I felt hope—not for myself, but for those who will come after me."

I remain silent, letting him continue.

"This city has always been a place of survival for many," he says. "But now, it feels different. People are learning, building, helping each other. The old divisions don't seem to matter as much. Perhaps it's the schools, perhaps it's the magic they talk about, or maybe it's something greater. Whatever it is, it feels like we have a chance to leave behind the struggles of the past and build something better."

He looks at me then, his eyes sharp despite his age. "I don't know if I'll live to see what Alexandria becomes, but for the first time in a long time, I'm not afraid to hope. The young ones—they might just have a future worth fighting for."

His words settle in my mind, their sincerity striking a chord deep within me.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

He smiles faintly. "For what? You're the one carrying the wheat."

"For your perspective," I reply.

We arrive at his destination—a small bakery nestled between two larger buildings. He gestures for me to set the bundles down, which I do carefully.

The old man offers a nod of gratitude. "Thank you, young man. May your kindness be returned to you a hundredfold."

I nod in return, watching as he moves to greet the baker waiting at the door. For a moment, I linger, the elder's words echoing in my mind. Then, with the ornate box still tucked under my arm, I turn and continue toward Raynare's presence, the weight of hope and responsibility settling ever more deeply into my heart.

I reach the place where I feel Raynare's presence. Before me stands a structure reminiscent of a Roman theater, its arches and tiers a blend of ancient craftsmanship and recent restoration. On the stage, bathed in the soft glow of torchlight, I spot her.

Her wings are hidden, her true appearance masked by an illusion. She looks entirely human—her dark hair tied back, her posture poised with the grace of a seasoned performer.

I raise a brow, intrigued by the scene. Without drawing attention to myself, I make my way to the stands, blending into the gathering of spectators. The murmurs of the crowd surround me as I settle into a seat, watching her movements carefully.

The torches dim slightly, signaling the beginning of the play. A hush falls over the audience, the rustling and whispers ceasing as all eyes turn to the stage.

The play begins, and almost immediately, I can feel it—an undercurrent of emotion weaving its way through the words, the gestures, the very air. It is subtle, yet undeniable, as if each line of dialogue carries more weight, each expression more depth than it should.

On stage, Raynare commands the scene, her voice clear and evocative. The play is a simple tale—a family torn apart by war, their struggles and hopes laid bare as they strive for reconciliation. Yet in her hands, the story feels grander, more profound.

I lean back slightly, observing not just her, but the audience. They are rapt, their faces mirroring the emotions playing out on the stage. Some smile, others tear up, their reactions raw and unguarded.

As I sit among the crowd, watching her perform, fragments of a conversation come back to me—something Raynare had mentioned in passing.

"All angels possess a purpose," she had said, her tone dismissive, almost bitter. "Just as Raphael is the healing of God and Gabriel the strength of God, every angel carries a fragment of purpose."

I remember brushing it off at the time, preoccupied with more pressing concerns. But now, watching her on stage, those words take on new weight.

Even angels with only two wings, like Raynare, are not without purpose. Though considered weak by celestial standards, they still carry a fragment of meaning, a role within the greater design. Her own, as I now realize, was a minor one, yet no less profound—the patron of the play. She was a muse for performance, a guide for playwrights, actors, and the crafters of stages.

In this moment, I see that fragment of her purpose shining through. The way she moves, the way her voice carries emotion, the way the audience responds—it all speaks to something deeper. She was once a celestial being who inspired art, ensuring it conveyed the depths of human experience.

I lean back, letting the realization settle over me. She's more than the two-bit villain I remember from my old memories of the source material. More than a fallen angel clinging to Azazel's shadow, obsessed with the Grigori's Governor General. More than a casualty in the endless ledger of the Three Faction Conflict.

She's a person.

Her fall didn't strip her of who she is, even if it cast her into the shadows of what she was. Watching her now, I see a spark of that former glory—a hint of the muse she used to be, still present even amidst the ruins of her celestial nature.

The play reaches its crescendo, her character delivering a monologue that brings the story's themes to the forefront.

"Our bonds are not forged in ease but in struggle," she says, her voice steady but tinged with vulnerability. "We stumble, we fall, we break. But it is in the mending, the rising, the trying once more, that we find our strength. That we find each other."

The audience is utterly silent, hanging on her every word. For a moment, it feels as though the world itself is holding its breath, waiting for the final note to fall.

When the play concludes, the crowd erupts into applause, their cheers ringing through the theater. Raynare takes a bow, her illusion shimmering faintly under the torchlight as she offers the audience a small, genuine smile.

As the spectators begin to disperse, I remain seated, my thoughts still circling. She's not the same Raynare who fell from grace, nor is she the antagonist I remember. She's something in between—a being caught between worlds, still searching for meaning in the aftermath of her fall.

I rise from my seat and make my way to the stage. She notices me before I reach her, her smile fading as her expression shifts to something guarded.

"You," she says, her voice low but not entirely unkind.

"Me," I reply, stepping closer.

"Did you enjoy the show?" she asks, her tone light but wary, as if bracing for some form of mockery.

I meet her gaze and nod. "It was remarkable. You brought something to it no one else could."

Her posture stiffens slightly. "You don't need to flatter me. I know what I am."

"I'm not flattering you," I say evenly. "I'm telling you what I saw. You're more than you think you are, Raynare. You always have been."

She falters for a moment, her expression caught between disbelief and something softer. "Why are you here?"

I pull the ornate box from under my arm and hold it out to her. "This is for you."

She hesitates before taking it, her fingers brushing over the carvings on the lid. When she opens it and sees the pendant inside, her breath catches.

"What is this?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

I hum softly, meeting her gaze. "A gift, for your help." I gesture toward the pendant resting in the ornate box. "It's an artifact I crafted—designed to stave off the void left by your grace."

Her eyes widen in surprise, her breath catching at my words.

"When I said you are free, I meant it," I continue, my tone steady. "I will not hold you here simply because the void prevents you from living a life beyond this place." My gaze shifts toward the distant crowd, their murmurs a faint hum in the background. "I refuse to have you bound by circumstance—no matter how unintentional. Even if you would not object to it, my pride will not allow me to fall short of fulfilling my word to the fullest."

She looks down at the pendant, her fingers brushing over the box's carvings. For a moment, her usual guarded demeanor seems to falter, replaced by something I can only describe as quiet contemplation.

After a few seconds, she smiles—a warm, genuine smile, one I've never seen on her before. It catches me off guard, if only slightly.

Raising her head, she looks at me and says, "Thank you." There's a moment of sincerity before a hint of a smirk sneaks onto her lips. "Would you mind putting it on me?" she adds, offering the box back to me.

I shrug nonchalantly. "Sure thing."

Taking the pendant in hand, I watch as she turns, brushing her hair aside with a practiced motion. The act is surprisingly elegant, her dark hair falling to one shoulder in a way that wouldn't look out of place on a stage. As I clasp the pendant around her neck, it glows faintly with a golden sheen before settling into a quiet radiance.

She tilts her head slightly, murmuring almost to herself, "...Thank you."

My lips twitch upward, unable to resist. "Wait a second—don't tell me the great and prideful Rayray is blushing?"

She stiffens, whipping around so fast her hair nearly slaps me in the face. Her expression is a mix of fury and embarrassment, her cheeks undeniably tinged with pink. "Y-You!" she stammers, her finger jabbing toward me like a dagger. "How dare you—don't call me that ridiculous name!"

I smirk, crossing my arms. "What, Rayray? It suits you."

Her wings twitch under her illusion as she sputters, her usual sharp composure crumbling. "I—! You—! Ugh!" she huffs, turning on her heel with a dramatic flare and storming a few steps away.

"Admit it," I call after her, unable to stop myself. "You like it!"

"Never!" she yells over her shoulder, her pace quickening as she stalks off.

I chuckle quietly, watching her retreat. The pendant glimmers faintly against her neck, a small token of the trust we've somehow forged. Despite her indignation, there's a spring in her step, a lightness I haven't seen in her before.

"Rayray," I murmur to myself, shaking my head with a smirk. "She'll come around."

As I walk back into the bustling streets of the city, my thoughts drift. While I will always hold humanity in the highest regard, unwavering in my belief in its potential… perhaps, I can also accept that there is more to people, even if they belong to a supernatural race.

Lucifer

I recline atop my obsidian throne, the seat of power forged from the abyss itself, as Lucifuge stands at my side, dutifully delivering the latest reports on my war.

"-And then Gabriel decided to appear," he drones on, his voice measured but strained under my scrutiny. "While the Gremory and Bael legions managed to escape, the forces that reached Earth were utterly decimated."

I raise the crystal goblet to my lips, the dark wine swirling within—a particular vintage stolen during my delightful raid of Olympus. The memory brings a faint smile to my lips as I take a slow sip.

"And what," I say, my voice low, measured, but carrying an edge that slices through the air, "of the one who killed Astaroth?"

Lucifuge hesitates, and I catch the faintest quiver in his hand as he adjusts his cuffs. "Uhm… I'm afraid we still do not know much, my lord."

My brow twitches, the slightest motion, but one that sends him scrambling to add, "B-But! We do know this: besides taking Alexandria, the being whom Lady Leviathan has begun calling the Anathema also wounded Metatron. And… the wound, my lord, it appears… unhealable. Even by his grace."

I pause mid-sip, lowering the goblet slowly. "A wound," I repeat, letting the words roll off my tongue, "that even Father cannot heal?" I lean back into the throne, the cold obsidian a perfect contrast to the heat flickering in my gaze. "Now that is… interesting."

My eyes scan the grand hall, a cavernous chamber illuminated by the flickering light of infernal flames. The shadows cast by the jagged architecture seem to writhe, alive with malevolence. My gaze stops at the new Lord Astaroth, sitting stiffly among the gathered nobles.

The Anathema. Whatever that being did to the progenitor of his line, it rippled through their entire bloodline like a death knell. Reports say that when Astaroth fell, a golden light erupted from within the bodies of his descendants. That light stripped them of their bloodline abilities—the genius of mathematics, the unparalleled precision in craftsmanship—all gone.

A loss to the war effort, yes. But not an irreplaceable one. Lilith will craft another to fill the void, though the replacement will undoubtedly be inferior. It will suffice. They always do.

I place the empty goblet on the armrest of my throne without a word. A human slave steps forward, her hands trembling as she refills it with a practiced motion. Her lifeless eyes remain fixed on the task, her broken will and shattered soul a testament to my craft.

Ah, the joy of it. Father's pride, stripped bare and defiled. This one, in particular, I made sure to select carefully—a direct descendant of Adam, bearing the blood of Father's favored creation.

There are many lineages of humans: those crafted or molded by the divine in their image and those that crawled from the filth of evolution. But none bring me greater pleasure to break than the descendants of that human.

As the woman finishes pouring, I flick my hand, a casual motion that releases a dark light. She doesn't scream—there isn't enough of her left to scream. Her body dissolves into nothingness, erased by my anti-divine light as if she had never been.

I swirl the wine in my goblet, its deep crimson reflecting the flickering flames of the hall. "Lucifuge," I say, my tone almost casual, as if discussing the weather, "go fetch me another one."

He bows deeply, his movements quick and precise, the fear in his eyes thinly veiled. "Of course, my lord."

"And this time," I add, leaning forward slightly, letting the menace in my voice seep through, "find me a defiant one. I wish to have fun for a bit longer."

"Yes, my lord," he replies, his voice steady, though I can feel his unease. With a flash of light and the sigil of a magic circle, he is gone, leaving me alone in the flickering shadows.

I watch the nobles mingle below, a sea of serpentine smiles and veiled intentions. Many of them descend upon the new Astaroth like a flock of ravens, their polished words laced with promises and demands. The poor devil's discomfort is palpable, his youth and inexperience making him an easy target for their predatory games.

This is precisely why I allowed their clan to remain noble after the progenitor's death. It is far too entertaining to watch my tools fight one another, their ambitions clashing in an endless dance of scheming and deceit.

As I drain the last of my wine, the rich taste lingering on my tongue, I rise from my throne. The movement alone is enough to silence the entire hall. All eyes turn toward me, and a heavy hush falls over the room, broken only by the faint crackle of infernal flames.

Without a word, I leave the chamber, my footsteps echoing down the grand hall. The sound carries an unspoken command, and none dare to follow.

I make my way toward the base of the castle, descending deeper into the heart of my domain—the pit where Lilith resides.

Seducing that human woman had been laughably easy. After I was banished from left Heaven, I found her wandering the desolation of the Underworld, lost and vulnerable. She was searching for meaning, for purpose, and I offered her both. Promises of love, devotion, and power had her ensnared in an instant.

Hah! Love? Devotion? As if I would ever debase myself so far as to consider a human my equal.

The memory brings a smirk to my lips as I pass by the narrow windows of the corridor. Outside, I catch sight of the mortal slaves toiling in the shadow of my fortress. Their hands are raw and bloody as they struggle to carve and shape the obsidian, the very material that forms my citadel.

I sneer at the sight. Disgusting creatures. So pathetically weak that even a simple stone can reduce them to such a state. They are tools, nothing more—fragile, fleeting things that exist only to serve my will.

I shake my head, brushing aside the faint flicker of disdain, and continue down the dimly lit hallway. The air grows heavier with each step, the oppressive heat and sulfurous stench thickening as I approach the cavern below.

This underground abyss is the foundation of my castle, a sprawling network of molten rock and jagged stone, a place where infernal power thrives unchecked. It is here that I keep Lilith, where her essence fuels my creations and ensures my dominion remains unchallenged.

The walls of the cavern glisten with a dark, oily sheen, the glow of the magma casting twisted shadows that seem to writhe like living things. I pause at the entrance, the oppressive energy rolling over me in waves, and take a moment to savor the power that radiates from this place.

As I descend into the cavern, the oppressive heat gives way to an even darker presence—a pit of blackness so deep and absolute it seems to devour the very light around it. It is a void, a pool of ichor that ripples faintly, its surface swallowing sound and sight alike.

And there, chained within its depths, is my favorite human. The ichor reaches up to her waist as she kneels in it, her head bowed, her expression as lifeless as the ichor itself. How poetic: my father's prized creation, the one who dared to eat from the Tree of Knowledge, now reduced to a slave to fuel my legions.

Her voice, monotone and devoid of emotion, breaks the silence. "What do you want now, Lucifer?"

I smirk, the corner of my lips curling in satisfaction at the sight. "Well, well, if it isn't my beloved wife. The queen of devils herself." I inject a mocking joviality into my tone, spreading my arms theatrically. "Tell me, my dear, what are you doing kneeling here in this delightful little pool? Such a dreary setting for one so… regal."

Her gaze flicks up to meet mine, her eyes hollow and unyielding. "Spare me your games, Lucifer," she says flatly. "I hope you haven't come just to taunt me again. It's grown tiresome."

Always so delightfully snarky, even in chains.

I let out a soft chuckle, my smirk widening. "Oh, Lilith, you wound me. You make it sound as though I don't enjoy our little chats. But no, my love, this time I've come with a purpose."

I step closer, the rippling ichor parting slightly at my presence. "I need a replacement," I continue, my voice dripping with mock sincerity. "Astaroth, our so-called 'great strategist,' was… well, let's just say he was barely a distraction before he went and got himself obliterated. Truly embarrassing, don't you think?"

Her lips press into a thin line, her silence speaking volumes.

I grin, the glint of malice in my eyes sharp as a blade. "So, my dear Lilith, I need you to do what you do best. Create. Another. One. After all, we can't have the Astaroth line going extinct just because their precious progenitor couldn't keep his head on straight—or intact, for that matter."

Her chains clink faintly as she shifts, her gaze never leaving mine. The ichor ripples around her, reflecting the faint, mocking glow of my presence.

"Well?" I ask, leaning forward slightly. "Surely you're not too busy wallowing to help your dear husband?"

Her stare hardens, but she doesn't answer right away. I chuckle again, straightening. "Good. I knew I could count on you, my queen."

I turn away, my steps echoing through the cavern as I ascend the stone stairs leading out of the oppressive darkness. Just as the silence settles behind me, my sharp hearing picks up a single sound—the faint, deliberate plink of a droplet falling into the ichor.

Ah, tears! How exciting!

A smirk spreads across my face as I climb, the thought lifting my already good mood to new heights. Nothing quite compares to the satisfaction of breaking what once thought itself unbreakable.

By the time I reach the upper levels of my castle, I find myself in an uncharacteristically light mood. Pushing open the heavy doors to my chambers, my gaze falls immediately upon the newest arrival.

The human Lucifuge has procured for me is already chained to a stone slab in the center of the room. Her wrists and ankles are bound tightly, yet despite her circumstances, her defiant glare meets mine without hesitation.

I chuckle softly, stepping closer, my shadow stretching long across the chamber. Truly, this day could not be any better!