[You have died]
[Rating = D]
[Reward = Hakuda(CQC of Shinikami)]
[Next Rebirth Status]
[Physical = Mid-Class Devil Nekoshou]
[Soul = Mid-class Plus]
[Chakra = Mid-class Genin]
[Next Rebirth Information]
[Name = Han]
[Path = Failed Experiment Nekoshou]
[Location = Neberius Clan territory]
Han came back to his senses. He had died again, this time by being eaten alive by the Hollow known as Grand Fisher.
'Sosuke Aizen…'
He sighed, never thinking that just by carrying Asauchi would draw his attention like this.
And he also realized that even his soul had been consumed.
He was still able to come to this waiting place, a hub for his next rebirth.
He looked at the water surface.
"What is it this time? Devil Nekoshou… Neberius… oh, come on, High School DxD!"
He groaned as he looked at his next rebirth location and status.
Despite being a series often known for its comedic, ecchi elements, the world of High School DxD was arguably even more dangerous than the one he'd just left in Bleach.
He was now a Devil Nekoshou, a member of a cat-like race known for their magical abilities.
His new path was that of a failed experiment by the Neberius clan, a group of powerful devils who, in the series' lore, were responsible for the massacre of many Nekomata.
This put him in an incredibly precarious position from the start, making his chance of survival feel slim.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He had just escaped the clutches of one formidable enemy, Sosuke Aizen, only to be reborn into a world where angels, devils, and fallen angels are in a constant state of conflict, with powerful entities at every turn.
His new existence was not one of peace, but a new, and potentially even more fatal, game of survival.
"Even if I complain, nothing will change. How many times do I have to die to be at least strong enough to not die early?"
Han accepted his fate and went straight to it.
The Neberius clan were just another bunch of bloated, self-important devils, a textbook example of the old blood clinging to power.
They saw anyone different as a tool to be exploited or a pest to be exterminated.
Their claim to fame was their "loyalty" to the old ways, but in practice, that just meant they were a bunch of sadistic purists who thought they were special because of their lineage.
They were exactly the kind of arrogant devils who would see a race like the Nekomata as nothing more than test subjects or a threat to be eradicated.
They were the embodiment of everything rotten in the devil hierarchy—all power, no purpose beyond their own selfish interests.
And the Nekomata? They were nothing but a bunch of glorified stray cats.
They had some interesting magic, sure, but in the grand scheme of things, they were a tiny, pathetic race that couldn't even defend itself. They were a joke.
Their so-called "special abilities" were just a liability that made them a target for stronger devils like the Neberius clan.
Their "cat-like" nature made them seem cute and harmless, but it was just a front for a race that was, for all intents and purposes, on the verge of extinction.
They were a race too weak to protect itself and paid the price.
They were the poster children for why being a small, unique faction in a world of monsters was a death sentence.
Their tragedy was not a source of sympathy; it was a lesson in futility.
The Neberius clan's territory wasn't a place of regal beauty; it was a cold, sterile monument to their own self-importance.
Think of a gothic cityscape built by a devil with no taste for anything but power.
The architecture was all sharp, menacing angles and spires that seemed to claw at the sky, made from a dark, obsidian-like stone that seemed to drink the light.
It was a land of perpetual twilight, illuminated by the sickly glow of magic-infused crystals and the flickering of sinister torches.
The air was heavy and smelled of sulfur and ozone, the scent of experiments gone wrong and the constant use of dark magic.
Their "gardens" were not for pleasure, but for show—twisted, thorn-ridden trees and carnivorous plants that served as living guards.
It was a place where every corner, every shadow, felt like it was watching you, and the only sounds were the echoes of footsteps on cold stone and the distant, tormented wails of whatever fresh hell they had cooked up in their labs.
As for the Nekomata village, if it still existed at all, it was a ramshackle collection of what could charitably be called huts.
It was a place built by desperate people trying to survive, not by a thriving community.
Imagine a clearing in a perpetually misty forest, with dwellings cobbled together from scavenged wood and whatever else they could find.
The village was a patchwork of mismatched styles, a testament to their lack of resources and stability.
There was nothing grand or beautiful about it—just the sad, functional architecture of a race that knew it was a target.
The village was quiet, too quiet, filled with the hushed paranoia of a people constantly looking over their shoulders, with the faint, unsettling scent of fear and old incense in the air.
Any beauty it once had had long since been bled out by the constant threat of extinction and the memory of the massacre.
It was not a home; it was a temporary hiding place for a race that was already halfway to being a ghost story.
…
Han woke with a gasp, the cold floor of a sterile, obsidian-walled room shocking him into full awareness.
The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of dark magic.
He was no longer in the ethereal waiting place but in the heart of the Neberius clan's territory, a place that was every bit as miserable as his premonition had suggested.
His new body felt weak, a fragile vessel compared to his last, but he could feel the latent magical energy of a Devil Nekoshou humming beneath his skin, an unfamiliar, wild power.
His senses, amplified by his new form, were overwhelmed.
He could hear the distant, guttural growls of some grotesque creature being tortured in a nearby chamber and the chilling, maniacal laughter of a devil, a scientist, pleased with his results.
This wasn't a home; it was a laboratory of horrors.
He pushed himself to his feet, his new, clawed hands finding purchase on the cold stone.
This was it. The first, and possibly last, test of his new life. His mind was clear.
Complaining wouldn't change his situation, and waiting would only lead to a slower, more agonizing death.
A low-ranking devil, a bulky brute with a face full of arrogance and a stupid grin, entered the chamber.
He was carrying a tray of what looked like surgical tools, his eyes barely even registering Han as anything more than a new piece of meat for the butchers.
"Time for your first session, kitty,"
The devil sneered, dropping the tray with a clang.
"Looks edible. How about eating it yourself?"
"What? You wanna—Aacck?!"
Han didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward, not with magic, but with the raw, brutal efficiency of Hakuda.
His movements were a blur, a series of quick, precise strikes aimed at the devil's pressure points and weak spots.
He feinted with a jab to the face, then pivoted, delivering a powerful chop to the neck.
The devil, caught completely off guard by the sheer speed and ferocity of the attack, staggered back, gasping for air.
Han followed up with a quick kick to the knee, a move designed to cripple and incapacitate, not kill.
The devil collapsed, groaning in pain, his arrogance replaced by a look of bewildered terror.
Han didn't linger.
He grabbed the dropped tray, using it to smash a weak point in the stone wall, revealing a hidden utility corridor.
He moved like a shadow through the cold, labyrinthine passages, his cat-like senses guiding him through the darkness.
He could smell the lingering fear of countless Nekomata, the scent of their despair and a heavy weight in the air.
As he moved, he came across a reinforced steel door.
The air around it was different, not thick with fear, but with a different kind of dread, one mingled with youthful innocence.
He peered through a small, grimy window and saw them.
Two small, white-haired Nekomata girls.
One, with a look of defiant fury, paced back and forth, her small fists clenched.
The other, younger, sat huddled in a corner, her tail wrapped around her protectively, her eyes wide with a profound sadness that seemed too old for her face.
'Kuroka and Shirone.'
His mind, sharpened by violence deaths, ran through the possibilities.
He could try to open the door, to free them. But he knew it was a fool's errand.
They were both too young, too tied to their family.
Their parents, he remembered from the source material, were still alive at this point.
'Even if I could somehow convince Kuroka to leave, Shirone would never abandon them.'
His strength was limited, his knowledge of this world still new, and attempting to take on a whole clan of devils with two small, terrified girls in tow was a guaranteed death sentence.
The memory of Sosuke Aizen, of the Grand Fisher, of his futile deaths, flashed in his mind. He had to be selfish, had to prioritize his own survival above all else.
He closed his eyes, steel his heart against the pleading look in the younger girl's eyes.
He whispered a silent apology, a promise he hoped to one day fulfill, and continued his escape, leaving the two sisters to their fate.
The memory of their faces would be a new kind of fuel, a quiet resolve to grow stronger so that one day, he would be able to do more than just run.
The road ahead was long and perilous, but for the first time in this new life, he had a clear purpose beyond mere survival.