The One Bathed in White (DxD)

Hatred

--One Month after Headon's resurrection --

Screams pierced the night, fire licking the stars, explosions tearing through broken earth as men cried out in despair. Hell had come and he was an angel in White...

Fear clung to the air like smoke, the sound of chaos echoing around the old man as he peered over the castle ramparts. His heart clenched when he saw the forest beyond, engulfed in white flames. He knew what was coming—had known the moment he saw the white light burn through the trees.

The agonized screams of his comrades reached his ears, drawing a weary sigh from his lips. Slowly, he slid down against the cold stone, his back hitting the rampart as exhaustion overtook him. Tears pricked his eyes. With trembling hands, he reached inside his tattered uniform, fumbling until he found what he was looking for: a small, crumpled photograph. Its edges were worn, the surface dirtied by war and time. It showed his family—the last Christmas they'd spent together. His daughter beamed in his arms, her eyes bright with joy, and his wife laughed, frozen in a moment of happiness long gone.

He had left them. Left them for FUG, seduced by promises of power, of money, of a better life for them. But now, regret weighed heavily on his heart. He would never see his daughter again. He knew it. He had believed in Headon, The Goddess—thought her strength would shelter them. He was wrong.

Headon didn't care. She never had. Not for him, not for his men. They were all just tools—pawns in a game played by the powerful.

They had unleashed something they didn't understand. They thought they'd broken a man. Instead, they'd given life to a monster.

The sob broke from him before he could stop it, his chest heaving as he clutched the picture tightly to his heart. His tears soaked the fragile paper, each drop filled with sorrow, anger, and the bitter taste of betrayal.

Arie Technique – Incinerating Shooting Star.

A brilliant flash of white obliterated him, the old man reduced to nothing more than ash. Above the burning ruins of the castle, a figure floated. His sword blazed with white fire, his face shrouded in the shadows of the night.

And then there was silence.

The screams had stopped. It was as if the men, the castle, everything had never existed. Wiped from history, remembered only by those who would mourn their absence. The castle crumbled, sections falling into ruin as the flames devoured what was left.

Only the crackle of fire and the fall of stone remained. And the rage. The rage of a man whose soul had been consumed by hate.

Y/N drifted in the air, but he wasn't really there. He was lost—drowning in the darkness of his mind, wading through a swamp of memories, a cacophony of screams that tormented him daily. He had long since stopped keeping track of time. How long had it been since he had seen his mother? Yasaka? Kunou?

The memories tightened their hold, dragging him deeper into despair. Each one an echo, louder than the last, pulling him further into the abyss. He was a stranger to himself now—more a beast than a man. He had given in, let the power within him take over. His sword swung again and again, each strike fueled by fury and sorrow. He couldn't see his enemies, nor the destruction he wrought—only feel the power coursing through his veins.

For two months, Y/N had ravaged FUG outposts, twenty in total, each one left in ruins, reduced to rubble and ash. With every attack, his power grew, and the hunger inside him deepened, devouring the souls of the damned.