Requiem of the Pathways

The blizzard howled like a wounded beast, its frozen breath clawing through the mountainside. Snow blanketed the world in an endless stretch of white, swirling in violent currents that sought to swallow anything foolish enough to tread its domain.

Yet, through the storm, a lone figure ascended.

A heavy cloak billowed behind him, fur-lined shoulders dusted with frost. His steps were slow but deliberate, boots crunching against the ice-crusted stone. The storm raged, but it did not deter him. If anything, it bowed to him.

A fortress loomed at the mountain's peak, a bastion of stone and silence. Its entrance was marked by a towering set of doors etched with the weight of time and history. Two guards clad in dark armor flanked the entrance, their spears crossing the moment the figure approached.

"State your business, or you will be dealt with."

The words were sharp, cutting through the blizzard's wail. Yet, the figure did not falter. He raised a hand, pulling back his hood slightly.

A scar carved its path across his face—from his jaw to his hairline. Deep shadows of exhaustion clung beneath his eyes, yet his gaze burned with something colder than the storm itself.

The guards stiffened, their breath hitching as recognition dawned. Then, swiftly, they withdrew their spears, fists slamming against their chests in salute.

"Welcome home, Father."

Father said nothing. A slight nod, and he pressed forward.

The stone doors groaned open with the weight of a single hand. The warmth of the bastion's halls greeted him, but it was not a welcome embrace; it was quiet—too quiet.

Once alive with the sounds of warriors training and minds crafting the next great innovation of war, the corridors now lay empty. The torches flickered weakly along the walls, their light struggling against the creeping shadows. A few figures lingered in the vast hall, but they scattered at the sight of him.

Something was wrong.

As he strode forward, his saber, a Shashka crafted in the old ways of Russia, rattled in its sheath.

…

"Welcome back, Father."

The voice came from one of the many wooden doors lining the corridor. He paused, turning his head.

A young man stood there, saluting with his eyes closed. His hair was an unruly mix of white and red, and his attire was an odd contrast: casual sweatpants, a black long-sleeve shirt, and black Tai Chi shoes.

"Duikang." Father acknowledged, his voice low. "The expedition?" Duikang asked. 

"The Devils still lack fear." Father's voice held no satisfaction, only cold calculation. "No matter how many I cut down, they march forward, blind to their doom. I could erase them all instantly… but I want them to remember. To fear me. To shudder at the thought of my return. Until then—" He exhaled, pulling back his cloak, revealing the length of his black hair. "—my work is unfinished."

Duikang accepted the words without question. But something in his expression darkened.

His eyes narrowed. "The air here stinks of despair. Why?"

A hesitation.

"I'm afraid… tragedy has struck, Father."

His unyielding stance did not change, but the hall itself seemed to grow colder.

"Explain."

Duikang lowered his head. "Your mother… she is here."

The words hit harder than steel.

"Here?" the voice remained even, but something stirred beneath the surface. "I thought she was in Spain."

Duikang did not meet his gaze. "She is in your younger brother's room."

For a moment, silence. The next moment he was moving.

The halls blurred past him, the winding staircases and dimly lit corridors a maze he had long since memorized. A mother's wail echoed before he even reached the open door.

And then he saw her.

Hunched on the floor, clutching a small stuffed bear. Samuel's.

Tears streamed down her lined face, shoulders trembling with grief that no steel could mend. He stepped forward, sinking down beside her, arms wrapping around her frail form.

"They took your brat from us, Ivann." Her voice was thick with sorrow, her Russian accent slurred through the weight of her grief. "Our sweet little Samuel… he was just a boy."

Ivann said nothing. He only held her tighter.

Her hands balled into fists. She struck his chest weakly, frustration bleeding into despair.

"That сатана" she spat the word like poison. "won't even let me see his body."

A breath. Controlled. Measured.

"Duikang."

A shadow stepped into the doorway.

"Yes, Father?"

Ivann's voice was ice.

"Find who did this."

Duikang nodded. "And the body?"

Ivann finally lifted his gaze. Once weary from the march home, his eyes burned with fury.

"I will handle it myself."

The weight of his wrath pressed into the room like a tangible force. Duikang swallowed but did not argue. He saluted, then disappeared down the corridor, leaving Ivann and his mother in their grief.

Ivann tightened his hold.

"Do not cry, Mama." His voice softened, but beneath it, steel. "I will bring Samuel home. And we will lay him to rest. Here, where he belongs."

Her sobs only deepened.

***

Meanwhile.

A dimly lit hall. The scent of oil and steel. A lone mercenary sat against the wall, sharpening a dagger, his expression unreadable.

Footsteps approached.

Duikang.

"The Father demands justice," he said, tone even but unyielding. "Find the one responsible for Little Bear's death. If you return empty-handed, you will hang."

The mercenary did not flinch. He merely stood, saluted, and turned to leave.

But before he could take a step a shadow stirred.

A presence. Silent, and deliberate.

From the dark corner of the hall, she stepped forward.

Hair the color of fresh snow. Eyes that gleamed dark pink under the torchlight. A face sharp, elegant, and utterly void of emotion.

She did not ask permission.

"I will go." 

The mercenary hesitated. Glanced at Duikang.

Duikang merely smiled, hand resting against his chin.

"The Cold-Hearted Ballerina, hmm?" His voice carried a note of amusement.

He watched as she strode past without another word, vanishing into the shadows as if she had never been there.

His smirk deepened.

"I wonder," he murmured to himself, "if the exorcists beyond Russia will learn the lesson we already have."

He chuckled.

"To fear the elegance that stalks from the dark."

***

The city of Rome stretched beneath the sky like a slumbering beast, its heartbeat pulsing through narrow streets and towering cathedrals. The air carried the scent of old stone, burning incense, and something holy that intertwined like vines around a giant crucifix.

Adam Morgenstern stepped out of the carriage, his golden eyes sweeping across the Vatican's towering walls.

It was a fortress in every sense of the word.

Not just of faith but of dominion.

The very ground hummed with centuries of whispered prayers, wars waged in God's name, and men who had killed and died for their faith. The Holy City stood not merely as a beacon of faith but as an iron scepter of Him who ruled it.

He adjusted the strap of his bag, suppressing the unease that crept at the edges of his mind. Even before stepping foot inside, he knew this place was dangerous.

"Welcome to the heart of the Church, Morgenstern," his escort said, his voice steady yet light, carrying the ease of someone well acquainted with duty and people.

Ignatius was his name.

A man who looked in his late teens, dressed in a pristine black clergy robe, a silver cross gleaming against the fabric. A white silk blind fold adorned his eyes, yet they somehow held some warmth, like a teacher who expected much but never asked for more than he knew he could give.

"First time in the Vatican, I take it?" Ignatius asked, a small smile playing on his lips.

Adam gave a polite nod. "You'll be showing me around, I assume?"

Ignatius motioned for him to follow. "Yes, and I expect you to keep up. One must always know their surroundings. A good exorcist does not simply react to the world; he understands it before it moves. 

As they walked through the halls of the cathedral, Adam let his gaze drift over the towering ceilings and grand stained-glass windows, which depicted saints and martyrs, their eternal suffering cast in vibrant color. 

***

The tour was swift but thorough. Ignatius spoke with the efficiency of a man who had done this a thousand times before.

"This is the Basilica, where the Cardinals and the Pope convene. You will rarely need to be here unless summoned." he gestured towards the grand gilded chamber. "Two things are certain: if you find yourself here, you have done something remarkable or very foolish. Either way, you'll leave differently."

"These corridors lead to the libraries. Some are open to exorcists. Others are restricted to high-ranking clergy." His voice lowered slightly, though not in secrecy, but more in respect towards the place itself. "Knowledge is power, but it also is responsibility. If you wish to learn, do so with purpose, not curiosity alone."

Adam noted that carefully. The library could be valuable later.

"The training grounds are past this gate. It is here that exorcists hone their skills, where battles are fought beneath the watchful gaze of those who judge their worth and strength." Ignatious faced towards the open courtyard, where exorcists refined their ability under the gaze of more advanced exorcists. 

They passed several courtyards where trainees were sparring, their wooden swords clashing in rhythmic sequences. Some bore bruises and fresh wounds, but there was no hesitation in their movements. Adam watched them unfazed.

Each step deeper into the Vatican only reinforced the cold, calculated precision with which the Church operated. Faith was the foundation, but control was its spine. The Vatican did not simply teach belief. It enforced it.

And then, finally.

"The administration hall."

Inside, a lone nun sat behind a desk cluttered with parchment and wax-sealed documents. She was middle-aged, her nun covers neat, and her expression cool, with the unmistakable air of someone who had long since lost patience for foolishness. 

She barely looked up.

"Name?"

"Adam Morgenstern," Ignatius supplied before Adam could open his mouth.

The nun flipped through the documents with the efficiency of a war machine, pulled out a single parchment, stamped it with the seal of the Church, and handed it over.

"Your assignment details. Who, where, and when."

Adam took the paper, scanning it briefly.

Leader: Alexander Alaric

Meeting: Tomorrow at dawn in front of Building B.

A new team. New faces. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

The nun continued, "You've been assigned quarters in the eastern wing. You may settle in for the night."

Ignatius gave a small nod. "I will leave you to it, then. May the Lord guide your path."

Adam inclined his head. "And yours as well."

With that, he turned and left, parchment in hand, mind already occupied with the road ahead.

Ignatius smiled, watching him disappear into the corridor before turning away, hands slipping behind his back as he made his way down another hall, already moving on to the next duty.

***

His quarters were small but comfortable. They had a single bed, a wooden desk, a wardrobe, and a light bulb that illuminated the room.

Adam locked the door behind him and let out a slow breath.

Alone.

Finally.

He walked to the desk, placed the parchment down, and reached into his pocket. With a flick of his wrist, he summoned the Blasphemy Slate.

Faint golden light shimmered as the obsidian slabs materialized before him, their surfaces carved with eldritch symbols, whispering of forbidden knowledge.

He traced his fingers over them.

The Pathways. The road to real power.

And yet, a single thought lingered in his mind.

What if someone finds out?

The Church would never tolerate such heresy. Even if he claimed ignorance, they would see it as a threat.

…A Sacred Gear.

The words came to him like an answer whispered from the void.

Yes. That would be his explanation: a sacred gear, a gift from God. The Church would be suspicious, but they would not outright condemn him for it.

But then,

Sacred Gears…

The phrase triggered something profound in his memories—a fragment of a conversation long forgotten.

A boy.

A foolish, lustful boy who spoke of women's chests, of devils and angels, of a battle between three factions.

A world where fallen angels schemed, where dragons roared, the strongest devils in existence could destroy the world as a whole.

Adam's blood ran cold.

He muttered the words before he could stop himself.

"Could it be that I'm in the world of… High School DxD?"

Disbelief clawed at Adam's mind, but the pieces fit too perfectly.

The Sacred Gears, the Church's Holy Swords, the rigid hierarchy of exorcists, the war between Heaven, Hell, and the fallen.

This wasn't just any supernatural world.

It was High School DxD.

Adam exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face.

Of all the places to be reborn…

He had never cared for the show. He had barely watched an episode before dismissing it outright. On the other hand, his friend had been obsessed, often rambling about the lore, the ridiculous power scaling, and how beings like Great Red and Ophis could annihilate planets without effort.

And now?

Now he was trapped in a world filled with monsters that could swat him aside like an insect.

His grip on the Blasphemy Slate tightened.

This was bad. Extremely bad.

If even half of what his friend had said was true, then the beings at the top of this world were beyond comprehension. He had heard things about Super Devils, dragons, gods, and creatures that could destroy him in the blink of an eye.

His golden eyes swept across the Slates, his mind racing through the possibilities.

The Pathways lay before him, a road to power, unlike anything this world had ever seen.

But this power had a cost.

His fingers brushed over the engraved names of various Sequences, their forbidden knowledge whispering to him from the darkness.

Hermit…Visionary… Error… Red Priest… Demoness…

Each Pathway promised something different, something unique.

Adam's jaw tightened. I can't make a decision yet.

The Blasphemy Slate detailed many required rituals, materials, and formulas to advance through the Sequences, but there was one massive, glaring problem.

Do these ingredients even exist in this world?

The more he thought about it, the more uncertain he became. The Lord of the Mysteries universe had its unique supernatural ecology. But DxD's world followed different rules.

There were Devils, Fallen Angels, Holy Swords, Dragons, and… Sacred Gears.

But did those things exist here?

His thoughts swirled like a storm, filling the dimly lit room with unease.

He needed information. And fast.

Adam leaned against the wooden chair, staring at the slightly flickering light bulb.

There was one place where information, accurate information, could be found.

The black market.

If rare supernatural ingredients existed anywhere, they would be there.

The black market was a staple in any world. He just needed to make contact.

But how does one even find the black market?

Adam drummed his fingers against the desk, his mind shifting gears.

He had no contacts. No reputation. No leverage.

If he started asking too many questions, the wrong people would take notice. The Vatican was already a den of secrets, and he had no intention of exposing himself too early.

Then again…

A thought flickered at the edge of his mind, something instinctual, something simple.

Desperate men always seek forbidden things.

He smirked.

If there was one universal truth across all worlds, it was this—there would always be people who craved power beyond their station.

He just had to find them.

***

A plan began to form in his mind.

Step one was to observe.

He had to watch, listen to the whispers in the corridors, and see who moved in the shadows. Every institution, no matter how righteous, had its secrets, and the Vatican was no different.

Step two is to identify.

There were always weak links, desperate enough to break the rules for the right price. A recruit drowning in debt. A priest with secrets to bury. A desperate man willing to risk damnation for a sliver of power.

Step three: profit.

Once he found an opening, he would pry it open. Carefully. Subtly.

The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.

After all, he was still an exorcist, a boy with a "Sacred Gear" not a shadow lurking in the underbelly of the supernatural world.

At least… not yet.

***

Adam exhaled, pushing the Slates aside.

His mind felt clearer now.

Rushing would be foolish. Choosing a Pathway blindly, without confirming the ingredients' existence, was a death sentence.

No.

He would wait. Gather knowledge. Build a foundation.

And when the time was right, he would step forward.

He glanced at the parchment bearing his assignment details.

Alexander Alaric. Dawn.

His new team.

They would be the first pieces on his board.

Adam smiled faintly.

This world was his game.

And he intended to win.

"Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me." Psalm 23:4

///

Sorry for the long break, took a few days to plan out ARC 1 and new characters to be introduced, but im very excited to start ARC 1, the real story begins now.

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