DxD: Curse Devil

At night, under the cover of darkness, Alexander moved swiftly through the vast warehouse.

Shelves upon shelves of ingredients stretched before him—meat, vegetables, fruits, milk—everything a noble family needed to indulge in luxury. The Gremory Clan never lacked anything.

And yet, he had starved in the same house where food was plentiful.

His fingers grazed over a crate of fresh meat before he carefully selected a portion, ensuring no noticeable gaps were left behind. The warehouse was massive, stocked to the brim. No one would notice a few missing ingredients.

He worked efficiently, gathering just enough to sustain himself without raising suspicion. He wasn't stealing. This food belonged to the estate, and he was part of the estate.

Or at least, he was supposed to be.

With his supplies secured, Alexander slipped back into the shadows, heading toward the abandoned kitchen in the west wing.

Tonight, he would cook for the first time.

From the books in the library, Alexander learned about different dishes—meals designed to strengthen the body, enhance stamina, and promote growth.

High-protein foods to build muscle. Nutrient-rich meals to boost energy. Balanced diets to fortify the body.

Cooking became more than just a necessity. It was part of his training.

At dawn, after preparing and eating his carefully chosen meals, he trained.

His body was weak, but he refused to let it stay that way.

Push-ups, sit-ups, squats, running—he did everything he could. His arms burned, his legs trembled, but he pushed forward.

Day after day, night after night, he repeated the process. Cooking, eating, training.

His once thin, malnourished frame slowly began to change. His muscles grew firmer, his endurance increased.

It was only the beginning.

Six years had passed, and Alexander had transformed from a lonely, frail child into a focused, driven young man. He stood in the garden behind the West Wing, his grip steady on the large stone sword he had taken from one of the statues in the wing. His eyes were closed as he stood in the center of the grass, his mind fully absorbed in his training.

He visualized his opponent, a technique he had learned from a book on Kojiro Sasaki, one of history's most legendary and enigmatic swordsmen. Sasaki had been known for forfeiting battles whenever his opponents were stronger, yet he had honed his swordsmanship to the point where, by the end of his life, his skills were unmatched. It was said that if Sasaki hadn't perished in his duel with Miyamoto Musashi, he would have become the greatest swordsman to ever live.

Alexander's breathing was deep and steady as he followed Sasaki's method. In his mind, he was fighting Soujo Okita, his father's knight. Okita, a brilliant swordsman, had trained under Sirzechs Lucifer himself, mastering techniques that could overwhelm most foes in the blink of an eye. But today, Alexander was not a child who struggled to hold a sword; he was a young man who had spent years mastering his craft.

In his mind's eye, Okita lunged at him with precise, fluid strikes. Alexander effortlessly parried the first, then sidestepped a slash meant to take his head. His own sword moved as an extension of his will, the stone blade cutting through the air with grace and power. Each movement of Okita's was countered with ease, every strike predicted before it even landed.

This was the power of visualization.

Alexander's movements mirrored what was happening in his mind. He was able to anticipate Okita's every step, adjusting his own swordplay as he mentally fought back against the knight's powerful techniques. As he practiced, his body shifted with the rhythm of the fight, stepping back to dodge a thrust, moving forward to strike. Every time his sword clashed against an invisible opponent, it honed his skill, making him a step closer to the swordsman he aspired to be.

The real battle, though, lay in his mind. By facing stronger opponents over and over, Alexander had learned the styles of countless masters, from Okita's graceful, fluid technique to the unpredictable nature of Musashi's two-sword style. It had become second nature for him to feel the rhythm of the fight in his bones, even if the fight was only a mental construct.

No longer was he a weak child seeking approval.

He was a warrior in the making.

With a final, sweeping motion, Alexander imagined a decisive strike, and in the real world, his stone blade struck the air with a satisfying whoosh before he lowered it, the tip of the sword grazing the grass beneath him.

His eyes opened slowly, and he stood still for a moment, absorbing the tranquility of the garden. His body was coated with sweat, and his muscles ached, but there was no fatigue in his mind. In that moment, he was at peace—focused, calm, and ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.

He was ready.

Before leaving the clan, Alexander knew he needed a proper weapon—one that could elevate his swordsmanship to another level. No matter how skilled a swordsman was, the right blade could make all the difference.

So, he made his way to the Gremory Clan's armory.

The armory was vast, filled with weapons of all kinds—blades, spears, axes, and more, each crafted by master blacksmiths. However, none of them resonated with him. He searched tirelessly, inspecting countless swords, but nothing felt right.

Hours passed as he combed through the shelves, until finally, in a forgotten corner beneath a thick layer of dust, he noticed an old black sword case hidden under a shelf. His fingers traced the name engraved on it:

Dark Star.

Intrigued, he brushed off the dust and carefully opened the case.

Inside lay a breathtaking sword. Its hilt was a deep, dark purple, wrapped in leather that looked both regal and ominous. The blade itself was a striking crimson red, gleaming even in the dim light of the armory. It was unlike any sword he had ever seen.

As he reached for it, a strange sensation coursed through his fingertips—like the sword was alive. The moment his hand wrapped around the hilt, he felt a pulse, as if the weapon was acknowledging him. A shiver ran down his spine, but he didn't let go. Instead, he tightened his grip.

This was it.

This was the sword he had been looking for.

After searching for the corresponding scabbard, he finally found it—a crimson red sheath that perfectly matched the blade's color. It was slightly worn, yet still held an air of elegance, as if it had once belonged to a great warrior.

Sliding the sword into the scabbard, he felt a sense of completion, as if the weapon had always been meant for him.

With Dark Star secured at his waist, Alexander left the armory without a second glance.

His preparations were almost complete. Soon, he would leave the Gremory estate—and this time, he wasn't coming back.