A True Curse in DxD: I'm Gonna Touch You

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Mahito sat atop a crumbling pew inside the abandoned church, fingers drumming against his knee, his grin fading into a contemplative scowl. His mismatched eyes narrowed as he mulled over the latest report from his reluctant little spies, Mitelt and Kalawarna.

"Baking?"

He muttered, rolling the word around on his tongue as if it were a foreign concept.

"That stupid pervert is baking?"

His lips curled in disgust before quirking up into a bemused smile.

"For his friends, no less."

He kicked his feet up onto a broken altar, tossing his head back dramatically, an exaggerated groan escaping him. His fingers twitched with the urge to act, to disrupt, to rip Issei's little moment of peace away from him. After all, wasn't that the most delicious part of his work? Watching hope crumble in real-time? Seeing the light in someone's eyes flicker and die as despair replaced it? It was practically his art form.

And yet… he hesitated.

The grin slipped off his face. His fingers stopped drumming. A rare silence settled over him.

"Tsk."

His teeth clicked against his tongue.

"What is this? Why am I even considering this?"

He shook his head, scoffing, his foot tapping against the ground impatiently.

The idea of attacking Issei now—it felt wrong. Not in any moral sense, of course. Mahito had no morals. But tactically? Strategically? It felt… premature. Issei was changing. That much was evident. The thought of him making cupcakes, of all things, for his so-called comrades, struck Mahito as pitiful at first, laughable even. But as he thought about it more, an unsettling thought crept into his mind.

"He's… stabilizing."

Mahito's fingers curled into fists. That wasn't supposed to happen. Issei was meant to spiral, to fall further into grief, anger, self-loathing, to become desperate, to become… broken. But no, instead, he was retreating into comfort, into connection, into something disgustingly human.

The air around Mahito trembled as his cursed energy flared up, distorting the space around him in writhing, unsettling waves. His skin crawled at the mere thought.

"Tch! So what?!"

He snapped, slamming his hand down on the broken altar, sending a spiderweb of cracks through it.

"I should be tearing him apart right now! I should be making him suffer, making him understand that he'll never escape me! That no matter what he does, no matter how much he tries to play pretend, I will always be right there, right behind him, waiting!"

His voice rose, dripping with venom, a manic gleam in his eyes.

Then, just as suddenly, he deflated, exhaling a deep breath through his nose. The corners of his lips twitched before curling back up into a smirk.

"But then again… wouldn't that be too easy?"

He mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

"No, no. Let him have this week. Let him have his fun. Let him believe he's healing, that he's moving forward. Let him feel safe."

A low chuckle bubbled from his throat, growing into a full-blown laugh.

"Oh, how much sweeter it'll be when I rip it all away from him! When I remind him that no matter how much he bakes, no matter how close he gets to his friends, he's still just a weak little dumbass bitch boy playing house with devils."

Mahito rolled his shoulders, shaking off the remnants of his previous frustration. The decision had been made. He would let Issei have his precious week. But only so that when he finally did strike, the damage would be irreparable.

"That settles it, then."

He said, standing up and stretching lazily. His grin returned in full force, the kind that sent shivers down spines. He turned to his two trembling spies, who had been standing there in silence, too terrified to speak, too petrified to even breathe too loudly.

He stepped toward them, his movements slow, deliberate, predatory. Their bodies locked up, their wings twitching, their eyes wide with terror. Mahito reached out, and they flinched violently, expecting the worst.

Instead, his hands came down gently atop their heads, patting them mockingly.

"Good little birds."

He cooed in a saccharine voice, his touch light yet suffocating, like a noose just tight enough to remind them of its presence.

"Keep watching him for me. Report everything. Especially the things that make him happy. I especially want to know what makes him smile."

Mitelt's breath hitched, her hands shaking at her sides. Kalawarna swallowed hard, biting her tongue to suppress the whimper threatening to escape. They didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe wrong. They knew, knew, that Mahito could feel their souls just beneath their skin, that he could reshape them into whatever nightmare he desired with nothing more than a flick of his wrist.

And Mahito relished that knowledge.

Just before they turned to leave, his hands pressed ever-so-slightly down on their heads, forcing them just a little lower. Their knees nearly buckled. The air around them grew suffocatingly thick with cursed energy.

"Oh, and one more thing."

He said, voice still light, airy, playful.

"If I ever catch either of you slacking off..."

His fingers twitched. Their stomachs turned.

"Well, let's just say I'll get creative, yeah? Maybe I'll make you both into something useful for once. Maybe something that can't fly away from me."

They didn't respond. They couldn't. They simply nodded frantically before bolting from the church as fast as their wings could carry them.

Mahito stood there for a moment, watching them disappear into the distance, a content sigh escaping his lips.

"Ah, what fun!"

He mused, stretching his arms behind his head.

"Now, let's see just how long our little baker boy can keep up this facade before it all crumbles around him!"

He snickered at his own joke before turning on his heel, hands in his pockets, whistling a lighthearted tune as he vanished into the shadows of the ruined church.

After all, patience was a virtue. And Mahito had all the time in the world to break Issei piece by piece.

One.

By.

One.

Seeing all his Curse Marines standing before him, their hulking, grotesquely improved bodies laid bare, Mahito couldn't help but chuckle.

Their previous clothing had been utterly destroyed in the transformation process. Muscles had bulged beyond human proportions, bones had shifted, and skin had stretched to accommodate their new forms. Their enhanced physiques had simply torn through whatever pitiful fabric they had been wearing before.

Now, they stood naked before their master, powerful yet lacking any form of identity beyond what he had gifted them.

Mahito tapped his chin, pondering their current state. He couldn't let his newly created warriors run around exposed like mindless beasts. No, they needed something fitting—something that reflected both his artistic touch and the significance of their new existence. After all, what was an army without its uniform?

Then, with a wicked grin, he had an idea.

"Alright, boys."

He said, clapping his hands together.

"Time to go shopping!"

Of course, by 'shopping spree,' Mahito meant something far more creative than walking into a store and picking out clothes like some regular nobody. No, that was far too mundane. Instead, he would craft their attire in the same way he had crafted their bodies—through Idle Transfiguration.

The shopping spree begins. The first house he came across was an ordinary two-story home, nestled quietly within the suburban streets of Kuoh. A quaint little family lived inside—a mother, a father, and two children, all sitting around the dinner table, laughing about something trivial. How cute.

Mahito rapped his knuckles against the door, donning his most pleasant, priestly smile. When the father answered, Mahito greeted him warmly.

"Good evening, sir. I come bringing the blessings of our Lord. May I come in?"

The man, a little hesitant but ultimately too polite to refuse a supposed man of faith, allowed Mahito inside. That was his first mistake.

The second mistake was thinking he could run.

Within moments, Mahito's hand was on the man's shoulder, his grin stretching wider, eyes brimming with sick amusement. Flesh writhed and twisted as the father's body morphed before his own family's horrified eyes. His screams turned into a sickening gurgle as his skin folded in on itself, knitting together, fibers rearranging like a weaver crafting fine silk. His body softened, his bones liquefying, his entire being reshaping into something new.

When the process was complete, what remained was not a man—but a heavy, dark priest robe, billowing slightly as though still alive.

The mother clutched her children, eyes wide with terror as Mahito turned toward them.

"Oh, don't look at me like that."

He chided, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

"Your husband is still here, in a way. And don't worry, you'll be joining him soon enough!"

Crafting the uniforms. House after house, Mahito continued his spree, knocking on doors with the same charming smile, playing different roles each time. Sometimes he was a concerned neighbor, sometimes a delivery man, sometimes a priest spreading the word of God.

It didn't matter what he said—what mattered was the result.

Men, women, and children alike were transfigured, their very souls stitched into fabric. Some became flowing black robes, embroidered with gold trim. Others became belts, gloves, boots, each crafted meticulously from human flesh reshaped into something far more useful. Their fear, their last moments of existence, were still ingrained into the fabric, an ever-present whisper trapped in the folds of their new forms.

Mahito was particularly proud of the insignia he crafted—a symbol unique to his new army. He etched it into the robes using delicate strokes of transfiguration, forming an open mouth, wide and grinning, with two sets of small arms within it, fingers forming distinct hand signs. It was both a work of art and a warning to those who would oppose him.

By the end of the night, he had gathered enough to clothe his entire force. Mahito strolled back into the desecrated church, his arms full of the newly crafted garments spun from the twisted forms of his victims.

His Curse Marines stood waiting, their grotesquely enhanced bodies gleaming under the dim candlelight. Each of them towered over him, their post-human musculature twitching with newfound power, but they were still adjusting to the changes. Mahito smirked.

Alright, boys."

He cooed, tossing the robes at their feet.

"Dress up. We've got work to do."

As they fumbled to clothe themselves, Mahito observed their movements, delighted by the way they struggled with the simple act of putting on their new vestments.

Their enhanced strength made delicate actions cumbersome, their massive hands tearing through the fabric if they weren't careful.

Some adjusted quicker than others. The four he deemed special—Dil, Doe, Gob, and Blair—seemed to retain more dexterity than the rest, an unexpected but welcome development. Freed, of course, took to his changes with psychotic glee, flexing and stretching his monstrous new form, reveling

in his newfound strength.

His Curse Marines, previously stripped of all dignity, now stood proudly adorned in their new uniforms, their hulking forms draped in the fabric of the unfortunate souls who once called this town home.

A fitting tribute. Mahito stepped back, admiring his handiwork. The Curse Marines looked almost regal now, the robes flowing behind them as they moved, shadows dancing along the fabric. He chuckled to himself, running a hand through his hair.

"Ah, much better! Now you look the part. No more naked freaks, just my perfect little soldiers."

He turned his gaze toward Freed, who had been watching with wild, manic eyes, his grin practically splitting his face in two.

"Freed, my dear psychopath, what do you think?"

Freed let out a low whistle.

"Gotta say, boss, you sure know how to dress a bunch of ugly bastards. Real nice touch with the creepy symbol. Gives 'em some character."

Mahito laughed.

"Exactly! A proper army needs proper uniforms. And what better material to use than the weak and insignificant? They didn't deserve those bodies, anyway."

One of the newly-clothed Curse Marines shifted slightly, the movement causing a faint, almost imperceptible whisper to escape from his robe. The sound was barely audible, but Mahito heard it.

A lingering remnant of the soul trapped within.

He smirked.

"Ah, still some spirit left in them, huh? How poetic."

The aftermath. As Mahito admired his newly dressed creations, he stretched his arms with a satisfied sigh. He had transformed dozens of lives in just one night, molding them into something greater. And the best part? No one noticed a single thing.

People would eventually start asking questions. The disappearances would become too many to ignore. But Mahito wasn't worried. Let them search, let them wonder. It would all be in vain.

Because soon, very soon, they would see his Curse Marines in action.

And by then, it would be far too late.

Mahito clapped his hands together, drawing their attention.

"Now that you're all looking so dignified, it's time to make sure those fancy new bodies of yours aren't wasted on incompetence."

The next few days were filled with brutal training. He ran them through a series of tests designed to push their mutated forms to the limit. Strength trials involved lifting chunks of the ruined church, smashing through walls with their bare fists, and tearing apart metal with ease. Endurance tests were even more gruesome—Mahito personally severed their limbs, only to watch in amusement as their enhanced bodies knit themselves back together in moments.

Freed, of course, loved every second of it.

"You really know how to show a guy a good time, boss!"

He cackled, swinging his newly augmented fists into a stone pillar, reducing it to rubble.

"I feel like a goddamn beast!"

Mahito chuckled, his eyes gleaming with sadistic glee.

"Oh, Freed. You haven't even seen the best part yet."

After ensuring his Curse Marines had fully acclimated to their new forms, Mahito turned his attention to the next phase of his plan. He needed weapons—not just any weapons, but something fitting for his new warriors. The thought of mundane steel bored him, so he set out on yet another artistic endeavor.

He stepped out into the streets of Kuoh, slipping between the shadows like a specter, seeking new materials for his latest experiments. He didn't discriminate—young, old, rich, poor. It didn't matter. Each soul was just raw material to him. His fingers traced the air, cursed energy crackling as he plucked unsuspecting humans from their mundane existence and twisted them into something far more… useful.

A mother cradling her infant in the late hours of the night was the first to be sculpted. Her flesh stretched, her bones twisted, her soul wailed. A grotesque spear emerged from what was once her body, the faintest echo of a scream trapped within its razor-sharp edge. The baby, still warm from the transformation, became a wicked dagger, its tiny form reshaped into something deadly.

Mahito whistled as he continued his work, his fingers dancing like an artist at his canvas.

A man coming home late from work became a massive war hammer, his body compressed and hardened until he was nothing more than a brutal instrument of destruction.

A group of teenagers who had foolishly wandered into a dark alley became a set of vicious polearms, their souls still flickering within, their fear lingering in the cold steel.

Then came his greatest experiment yet.

The idea struck him like divine inspiration. He had always been fond of the Warhammer 40K universe from his past life—the sheer brutality of the Bolter, the way it tore through flesh with explosive precision. It was a weapon of true, unrelenting destruction. But he lacked gunpowder, lacked the mechanics to replicate such a device in the conventional sense.

So, he adapted.

He found a family—a father, a mother, a teenage son. They cowered in their home as he stepped through the doorway, his smile wide, his eyes gleaming with malevolent curiosity. He reached out, his hands brushing against their trembling forms, and reshaped them. The father became the foundation, his form stretched and hardened, his bones reforged into the outer casing of a massive rifle. The mother, screaming, became the firing mechanism, her very soul converted into a living ignition system. And the son…

Mahito turned him into the ammunition.

It was a grotesque masterpiece. The rifle—his twisted imitation of a Bolter—fired shards of human bone as its ammunition, the remains of the teenage boy feeding the weapon as it fired. Mahito aimed it at a nearby wall and pulled the trigger. A sharp crack echoed through the church as bone shrapnel tore through the stone, leaving gaping holes in its wake.

He laughed, turning the weapon over in his hands.

"Oh, this is beautiful."

He wasted no time in mass-producing his new creation. He raided more homes, finding more bodies to repurpose, more souls to carve into tools of destruction. Some became more of his Bolter-inspired rifles, others were reshaped into ammunition—their very essence repurposed for endless carnage. The most horrifying part? The magazines made from children, their small forms curled and grotesquely bound, constantly regenerating new bone rounds to feed the weapons.

By the end of the week, Mahito had amassed an arsenal unlike anything Kuoh had ever seen. His Curse Marines were fully equipped, their massive forms clad in his custom robes, their hands gripping weapons that were once living, breathing people.

He took special care in crafting the arms for his four exceptional Curse Marines—Dil, Doe, Gob, and Blair—each receiving a weapon tailor-made to their twisted strengths. Freed, of course, was given something even grander.

For him, Mahito spent hours in meticulous focus, crafting a great sword unlike any other. He found a particularly resilient soul—one that resisted, fought, screamed for longer than most. It was a challenge, but Mahito delighted in it. He stretched the soul, sharpened its essence, refined it into the perfect instrument of death. By the time he was done, the blade radiated malice, pulsing with the echoes of the tormented being trapped within.

Freed took the weapon into his massive hands, swinging it with ease.

"Ohhh, boss."

He purred, licking his lips.

"You really outdid yourself this time."

Mahito grinned. "Only the best for my favorite psychopath."

With their training complete, their bodies stabilized, and their weapons in hand, Mahito took a step back, admiring his work. His Curse Marines—his personal army—stood before him, ready to bring devastation upon Kuoh. The town emained blissfully unaware of the horror lurking within its shadows, but not for long.

Over the course of a week, Mahito had transfigured a total of sixty-six people. Each transformation was a work of twisted art, a symphony of suffering that played in harmony with my ever-growing knowledge of the soul.

Meanwhile, He kept my ears open to the constant reports from Mitelt and Kalawarna. They whispered to him the details of Issei's life, his steady progress, his growing bond with his fellow devils. Mahito learned of his promise to Kiba, his training sessions, and most amusingly, his symbolic act of burning his porn collection. A desperate attempt to cleanse himself, to break free from his perverse past. Cute.

Mahito found it almost poetic how he was clawing his way out of the depths of mediocrity, training harder than ever, oblivious to the inevitable despair waiting for him. He thought he was improving, strengthening himself, but in reality, he was merely fattening himself up for the slaughter.

This week had been fantastic for him and his friends—hope, growth, camaraderie. And that's precisely why he would make next week a living hell.

The moment Asia Argento arrived in Kuoh, just as the timeline dictated, he knew it was time to put his plan into motion. Mahito smiled at her innocence, her naivety, her unwavering belief in kindness. It made what he did next all the more enjoyable.

Mahito made sure she got a full tour of his collection—an exhibit of grotesque beauty, transfigured flesh and twisted souls fashioned into weapons. The sight alone nearly broke her. She trembled, her lips quivering, unable to form words as her hands clenched into fists over her chest in a desperate attempt to pray. As if prayer would do anything.

"Go on,"

He urged, grinning.

"Ask for His help. Maybe He'll answer. Oh wait—"

Mahito laughed, stepping closer to her, tilting my head mockingly.

"He won't."

She whimpered, eyes brimming with tears, but he could already see the cracks forming in her faith. And he relished it.

To make matters even more perfect, Mahito decided to repair Raynare, stitching her soul back together. She was far from whole, her mind fractured, her emotions dulled, but she was still functional. Still receptive to orders. And that's all that mattered. He sent her off, instructing her to play her part just as she had in the original timeline. Let Asia meet Issei. Let them form their bond. Let that pitiful fool believe he had found someone to protect.

And then, just like before, rip her away from him.

Watching it unfold was delicious. The separation, the heartbreak, the righteous anger burning in Issei's eyes—it was all so predictable, yet so satisfying. And as Raynare dragged Asia back into his waiting hands, Mahito set the final stage of his plan into motion.

The ambush. The moment where all of Issei's progress, all of his growth, would be tested against the horrors he had created.

A mansion belonging to one of their contact clients served as the battlefield. The pieces were set, the players unaware of the script written for them. Mahito stood in the shadows, watching, waiting. His Curse Marines were ready, their grotesque weapons at their sides, eager for blood. Freed was practically salivating at the thought of a fight.

And as he awaited Issei and his friends to enter the trap, and walking straight into the jaws of death, he couldn't help but chuckle.

This was going to be fun.

Mahito stretched his arms above his head.

"Well, boys, I think it's about time we let the world see our handiwork."

He turned his gaze toward the horizon on nearby window, a manic glint in his eye. The week of peace for Issei and his friends was over. Now, it was time to turn their world into a living nightmare.

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Mahito lounged in the shadows, a twisted grin stretching across his face as he prepared for the grand unveiling of his Curse Marines. This was their debut, their baptism by fire, and he intended to savor every second of it.

This wasn't just about a fight—it was a test. A trial to see just how powerful his creations were and to gauge if they had any weaknesses that needed addressing. That was why he had only sent in six of his weakest Curse Marines. He had ordered them to hold back, to give the devils a chance. Not because he wanted a fair fight—he didn't give a damn about fairness—but because he needed to see if they could at least survive. If they died even with the Curse Marines restraining themselves, then they were worthless, unfit for the suffering and torment he had in store for them.

Freed stood beside him, practically vibrating with anticipation. The mad exorcist licked his lips, gripping the hilt of his sword like an addict craving his next fix. Mahito had brought him along for contingencies—unseen variables, unexpected complications. But for now, Freed would stay put. This was a stage for the Curse Marines to shine.

To further ensure the devils' struggle, Mahito had only given his marines a limited amount of ammo for their bolters. They would be forced to conserve, to fight strategically, to transition into melee when the time was right. He didn't want them to mow through Issei and his pathetic friends too quickly. Where was the fun in that?

And, of course, the crowning jewel of his plan—Asia. The girl had been positioned exactly where Issei would see her the moment the fight began. Her presence would serve as an emotional anchor, a tool to prolong the suffering. With her healing abilities, she would keep the devils alive just long enough to endure the relentless onslaught. Mahito wanted them to taste despair, to feel the weight of hopelessness pressing down on them before they even considered the idea of victory.

With everything set, Mahito leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head as he watched the spectacle unfold.

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Back to the present (chapter 7).

As Issei knelt with his shoulders slumped, the rogue priest behind him still yanked his hair harshly, forcing him to watch his friends suffer. His will wavered, teetering on the edge of collapse. One thought echoed in his mind—how? How the hell did this even happen?

Issei's body trembled as he knelt amidst the chaos. The overwhelming scent of blood clogged his nostrils, making it hard to breathe. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as his eyes darted around, taking in the nightmarish scene before him.

Kiba lay motionless on the ground, his right arm severed at the shoulder, the wound still oozing blood onto the cold floor. His usually sharp, determined eyes were closed, his body unnaturally still—completely unconscious.

Freed stood over him, grinning wildly, his transfigured sword dripping with fresh blood. He gave Kiba's limp body a mocking nudge with his foot, chuckling to himself.

"Man, you went down way too easy! I was hoping for more of a fight!"

Freed sneered, twirling his blood-soaked blade.

"Guess I got my hopes up for nothing."

Akeno, usually composed and sadistic in battle, lay broken. Her arms and legs were nothing more than shattered bone and torn muscle, leaving her completely helpless. She sobbed, the powerful lightning priestess now reduced to a trembling mess. Every breath she took was filled with agony, and the realization that she couldn't even lift a finger to help her friends crushed her spirit further.

Looming over her was one of the Curse Marines, his grotesquely enhanced body twitching with excitement. His face was twisted in pure ecstasy, his eyes rolling back as he raised his massive transfigured hammer high above his head. The bloodstained weapon pulsed unnaturally, as if hungry for more carnage.

"Ohhh, that scream was beautiful."

He moaned, shuddering.

"I need to hear it again. And again. And again!"

Akeno gasped, her breath hitching as the hammer came down, ready to shatter what little remained of her intact bones.

Rias, his king, his president, his friend—she was barely holding on. A deep stab wound in her stomach leaked a horrifying amount of blood, staining her once-pristine uniform in crimson. Her flawless skin had turned deathly pale, her vibrant crimson hair clinging to her sweat-drenched face. Every breath she took was a struggle, each one weaker than the last. Her body trembled violently, her strength fading, but even in this dire state, she reached for her fallen comrades, as if sheer will alone could pull them from the abyss.

A few meters away, a Curse Marine stood, his towering form casting a long shadow over the dying battlefield. His face was twisted into an eager grin, his eyes locked onto Rias like a predator savoring its wounded prey. In his right hand, his transfigured spear gleamed with fresh blood—her blood. His left arm, however, was completely gone, severed at the shoulder in a smoking mess of burned flesh and exposed bone.

He chuckled, rolling his neck with a sickening pop.

"Damn… that really hurt, you know?"

he mused, flexing his remaining arm.

"A point-blank blast of power of destruction? You almost turned me into dust."

He sneered down at the ash at his feet—the corpse of his fellow Curse Marine, now nothing more than dust. The fool had made a mistake, and Rias had capitalized on it with a precise shot of her power of destruction. But in his final moment, the corpse had served its purpose, shielding him from total obliteration.

He gripped his spear tightly, raising it once more.

"Still, you're on your last legs, princess,"

He cooed, taking slow, deliberate steps toward her.

"One little slip… just one moment where you drop your guard… and I'll run you through for good this time."

Asia knelt on the ground, tears streaming down her face, muttering desperate prayers as she tried to summon enough power to heal them all. But she was shaking, overwhelmed by the sight of so much suffering. She had never witnessed such brutality before. Her healing abilities were impressive, but against such devastation, she was helpless.

And then there was Koneko—silent, still, unconscious. She had taken a brutal barrage of bullets at the beginning of the battle, her small frame unable to withstand the firepower of the curse marines' transfigured rifles. Now, Freed loomed over her, his wicked grin stretching impossibly wide. He gripped his greatsword with both hands, lifting it high, preparing to bisect Koneko in half.

"Oh man, I almost feel bad about this one."

Freed sneered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy.

"She looks so tiny and pathetic. But hey, a kill is a kill, right?"

In the next moment Issei blinked, the whole view in front of him changed. Issei stood frozen in the endless inferno, the weight of his powerlessness crushing him. The voice—deep, commanding, and ancient—spoke once more, and this time, it felt closer, almost as if it were standing right behind him.

"Do you finally understand, boy?"

The flames parted, and from their depths, a colossal figure emerged. A pair of glowing emerald eyes pierced through the darkness, their draconic gaze filled with judgment, but also… something else. Respect? Interest?

Issei knew who this was. He had felt this presence before, buried deep inside the sacred gear attached to his left arm.

"Ddraig…"

He whispered, barely able to form words as he looked upon the towering shape of the Red Dragon Emperor, a being of legend.

The dragon's form was vast and ever-shifting, its crimson scales blending seamlessly with the inferno around them, as if the flames were simply an extension of its will.

"For the short time I have resided in your soul, I have watched, observed… judged."

Ddraig's voice rumbled like an earthquake, shaking Issei to his core.

"At first, I believed you to be nothing more than a weak, hopeless pervert, stumbling through life with foolish dreams and base desires."

A flash of memories surged through Issei's mind—his first summoning job, his shameless ogling of Rias and Akeno, his desperate struggles against enemies he barely survived.

"But I was wrong."

The flames surged higher, and within them, images formed—scenes of Issei pushing himself beyond his limits, refusing to give up even in the face of overwhelming odds. His battles, his pain, his unwavering determination.

"You have changed, grown. I have seen the fire in your soul, your monstrous talent in battle, your instincts—untamed, but formidable. You possess a rare resonance with me, a compatibility that few in history have ever achieved."

Ddraig's voice softened slightly, though the weight of his words remained.

"And yet, despite all this, you are still weak."

The images shifted, showing Issei kneeling in the mansion's blood-soaked battlefield. His friends broken and suffering. His king dying. His enemies laughing.

"You are forced to face monsters before you have even scratched the surface of your own power. And if you do nothing now, you will lose everything."

Issei's fists trembled. He knew it was true. He hated that it was true.

"But there is a way."

The air grew heavy. The flames twisted, forming into something tangible—an unspoken promise, an opportunity.

"A sacrifice."

Ddraig's eyes bore into him, solemn and grave.

"Give me your left arm."

Issei's breath hitched. He glanced down at his arm—the arm that bore the Boosted Gear, the artifact that held Ddraig's soul.

"With your arm, I will forge a conduit between your body and my power, allowing you to wield strength far beyond what you are capable of now. You will survive. You will save them. But once you make this choice, there is no turning back."

Issei didn't hesitate. He didn't stop to think about the pain, the consequences, or what losing his arm would mean in the long run. None of it mattered.

"Take it!"

He roared, his voice echoing through the endless inferno.

"Take my damn arm, Ddraig! Just give me the power to save them!"

Ddraig's voice grew quieter, more serious.

"Are you sure?"

Issei clenched his fists, his breathing heavy as he recalled Kiba's reckless charge. The usually composed and tactical swordsman had thrown himself at Freed without hesitation, all to protect Koneko. He hadn't cared about the danger, hadn't thought about himself—only about saving his friend.

And it had cost him his right arm.

The image burned itself into Issei's mind—Kiba standing defiantly before Freed, his sword flashing as he struck with everything he had, only for the maniacal ex-exorcist to sever his limb in one clean swing. Blood had sprayed into the air like a crimson fountain, and Kiba had collapsed.

Yet even as his body hit the ground, Kiba had still reached out, trying to move, trying to fight.

"Kiba gave everything to protect Koneko… to protect use."

Issei muttered under his breath, his voice trembling. His fists shook at his sides, fingernails digging into his palms. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

"And it cost him his right arm to do it."

His body felt like it was on fire, his heart pounding in his chest as if it were trying to break free. The weight of his comrade's sacrifice crushed him, yet it also ignited something deep inside him—a fire that burned hotter than anything he had ever felt before.

He looked up, his eyes filled with a fierce resolve.

"If all I have to do is give up my left arm to save everyone… then the choice is obvious!"

He turned to face Ddraig directly, his expression set with grim determination.

"That damn arm is worthless to me now! Take it! If it means I can save them, then I don't need it!"

Ddraig was silent for a moment, the great dragon's eyes watching him with an intensity that made the air feel heavy. Then, a low chuckle rumbled through the burning landscape.

"You truly are a fool, partner."

The dragon said, though there was no malice in his tone. If anything, there was something akin to pride hidden beneath the amusement.

The flames surrounding them flickered wildly, as if they were alive, responding to Issei's unwavering resolve.

"But a fool with conviction… is more terrifying than any warrior."

The fire surged, roaring around them like an inferno.

"Very well, partner. Your sacrifice shall not be in vain!"

A deafening roar erupted, shaking the entire world as Issei's left arm was engulfed in a blinding, crimson blaze. The pain was indescribable, far beyond anything he had ever experienced, but Issei didn't scream. He refused to.

This was nothing compared to what his friends had suffered.

Kiba had thrown himself into battle without hesitation. Akeno had been reduced to a broken mess. Rias was barely holding on. Asia was terrified, helpless.

His friends—his family—were dying.

What the hell was a single arm compared to that?

Yet, beneath the agony, something deep within him awakened.

Power.

Pure, raging, unrelenting power.

Ddraig's emerald eyes burned with approval.

"Then rise, Issei Hyoudou… and show them the wrath of the Red Dragon Emperor!"

The world around him shattered.

Issei's entire body burned with an overwhelming surge of power, his very soul igniting as his aura exploded outward in a cataclysmic burst of red and green energy. The sheer force of it sent shockwaves rippling through the battlefield, shattering the ground beneath his feet.

The Curse Marine gripping the back of his head was flung like a ragdoll, his massive, mutated body crashing through multiple walls before slamming into the ground, motionless. Dust and debris filled the air, but through it all, Issei stood—tall, stronger, and reborn.

"Welsh Dragon Overbooster!"

The transformation near instantaneous. Crimson armor, sleek yet powerful, materialized over his body, each plate brimming with an ancient, draconic might that hummed with untamed energy. Emerald jewels embedded into the gauntlets, shoulders, and chest of the armor pulsed with life, their glow intensifying with each passing second. His fingers curled into fists, the strength in his grip alone sending tiny cracks through the floor beneath him.

For the first time, he felt like he was complete.

A roar tore itself from his throat, a deafening battle cry that shook the very foundations of the building. It was not just his voice—it was Ddraig's as well, their souls now merged in perfect resonance. The combined fury of man and dragon echoed through the battlefield, drowning out the groans and ragged breaths of his fallen comrades and the sadistic laughter of the curse marines.

"Balance Breaker—Boosted Gear Scale Mail!"