DxD: The Pale Puppeteer

The underground lab reeked of burnt flesh and decayed magic.

Flickering light from enchanted sigils illuminated the cold, sterile chamber, where a group of devils stood in anticipation.

Proceed.

At the center of the room, Subject No. 12 convulsed violently.

His body—restrained by reinforced magic bindings—twitched as the final stage of the Death Factor infusion took effect.

His veins, now darkened like dried ink, pulsed unnaturally.

The researchers, a collective of obsessive, outcast devils, watched with measured excitement.

If this worked, they would finally surpass Ajuka Beelzebub.

And yet…

Nothing.

The lead scientist, an aging devil with hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, scowled.

"Another failure."

He waved a dismissive hand.

"Dispose of him. Prepare the next subject."

One of the assistants stepped forward, ready to activate the disposal spell—

—until something shifted.

Thin, nearly invisible threads extended from the subject's fingertips, like strands of mist catching the dim light.

They drifted in the air, weightless, delicate.

Then, without warning—

A soft 'whisper' filled the chamber.

A second later, one of the restraints snapped apart.

The lead scientist's expression darkened. "What was that"

The assistants exchanged uneasy glances.

They hadn't seen the threads cut anything.

The bindings simply... split apart, as if something microscopic had eaten through them.

"Look closer, sir."

One of the younger researchers swallowed.

The threads didn't cut.

They… killed the material.

The lead scientist's gaze sharpened.

He took a step forward, squinting.

The snapped ends of the restraints were unnaturally smooth, lacking the telltale frayed edges of something torn.

Even enchanted steel should've left jagged remains—but instead, it was as if the material itself had simply ceased functioning at an atomic level.

The threads didn't cut.

They killed whatever they touched—atom by atom—until the structure collapsed.

The lead scientist exhaled sharply.

"A flawed ability."

The others looked at him in confusion.

"His power has no force behind it. If the threads were infused with true Death, they would reduce everything to dust. Instead, they can only sever weak points—nothing more."

To prove his point, he grabbed a scalpel from a nearby table and swung it at one of the floating threads.

The thread snapped in half.

The scientists murmured among themselves.

This was not the overwhelming power of a true Death-Wielder.

This was… something lesser.

The lead scientist scoffed.

"A failure that barely functions. Strings That's all he can manifest"

The subject remained silent.

He had yet to move from his kneeling position.

His silver-tinged eyes flickered, studying the threads in his hands, as if he himself was only now beginning to understand.

Then, carefully, he twisted his fingers.

The remaining threads in the air shivered, moving in an almost serpentine motion.

He tilted his wrist—gently—and the threads curved toward the lead scientist.

A heartbeat later—the lead scientist froze.

One of the threads had brushed against the sleeve of his robe.

A thin black line appeared where it had touched.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then—

The fabric peeled apart without resistance, split open like a surgical incision.

The lead scientist tensed.

Even though the thread had barely grazed him, his skin beneath felt… cold. Numb.

He pulled away immediately.

The researchers whispered amongst themselves.

This power wasn't completely useless.

The threads were extremely sharp, not through physical force, but because the very atoms of anything they touched 'died' on contact.

Yet, it was still a far cry from what they desired.

The lead scientist exhaled slowly, regaining his composure.

"Tear him apart and extract the core sample."

A long silence filled the room.

Then—

The subject, still kneeling, lowered his head slightly.

A gesture of submission.

A sign of obedience.

The lead scientist smirked.

Perhaps this one knew his place.

"You will serve us, then. A prototype."

The subject said nothing.

He merely closed his fingers, letting the threads vanish.

And behind him, in the shadows, unseen by the researchers, a single thin strand remained.

It curled ever so slightly—like a puppet master testing his strings.

——————✗—————

Beyond the chamber, in a separate containment facility, dozens of other test subjects lay in wait.

Some were screaming.

Some were silent.

Some had already stopped breathing.

The next batch of experiments had already begun.

And the researchers, still hungry for more, had no intention of stopping with just one success.