There was warmth, no, heat, pressing into his skin. A low crackle echoed through the room like a distant fire, steady and alive. He stirred.
The ceiling above was a mural of soaring phoenixes, feathers of gold and fire stitched into enchanted stone, the kind of craftsmanship that whispered old money and older magic. The bed beneath him was absurdly soft, the silken sheets smoother than anything he had touched in a lifetime. A nearby window let in amber-tinted sunlight through high gothic arches, illuminating velvet drapes, a mahogany desk, a chandelier of living flame.
Where the hell am I?
He sat up, the room tilting with unfamiliar weight. His body was different, taller, leaner, stronger. More refined. But what shocked him most was the aura. It rolled off him in waves, arrogance and power. It clung to the air like the scent of spice and brimstone.
He stumbled toward a tall mirror framed in phoenix feathers. The reflection wasn't his.
Blond hair, sharp features, crimson eyes that burned faintly with something inhuman. He looked maybe fifteen. His chest was bare, his skin too perfect, too flawless. No acne, no scars, just aristocratic beauty that felt as unnatural as it was magnetic.
He knew that face.
Riser Phenex.
"No…" His voice was unfamiliar, smooth and aristocratic. He stared at the reflection, trying to will it away, deny it. But then came the wave.
Like a dam breaking, memories flooded in, flashes of noble banquets in the Phenex estate, of tutors lecturing him on etiquette, combat, and devil politics. Flames erupting from his hands in training duels. Cold glances exchanged between elder devils at court. The smirk of a younger Rias Gremory across a table. The shame of a spare Heir. The taste of being irrelevant.
He sank to his knees, gasping.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
Eventually, the panic faded. In its place came thought. Cold, precise, analytical thought.
So this was it. Somehow, impossibly, he had ended up in the body of a minor villain. A speedbump on someone else's path to greatness. Riser Phenex, arrogant, petty, disposable.
But now?
A slow grin pulled at his lips.
Now he had a five-year head start, the mind of a man from another world, and a future to rewrite. His fate was no longer bound to the canon timeline, no longer shackled to some teenager's path to greatness.
He would not be someone else's stepping stone.
He would forge a peerage worthy of legend. No more weaklings. He'd find monsters, people with potential and power. Earn their loyalty. Take what he needed and reshape the Underworld if he had to
He opened a drawer in the desk, retrieving the ornate ebony box that pulsed with ancient magic. Inside, the remaining Evil Pieces shimmered, two Rooks, two Knights, two Bishops, eight Pawns.
The Queen slot was empty.
"Yubellana…" he murmured. The name came with a flicker of recognition, a capable but underwhelming choice, locked in before he awoke.
No matter. The rest could be salvaged.
He closed the box gently, reverently. Stood tall.
"A side character in someone else's pathetic little story?" he whispered. "No. I am the master of my fate."
He turned toward the balcony, flame-washed wind tugging at his hair, and stared into the horizon over the mansion, to the rest of Ars Goetia. His mind was already spinning.
Who would he recruit? Where could he find the strength to carve a new future? Could he bend the rules of the game, or break them entirely?
The pieces were on the board. He would decide how they moved.
----------------------------------------------
Peace.
It was intoxicating, in its own way. The scent of roses from enchanted gardens drifting through the open balcony. Servants who bowed their heads in silence. Endless days of leisure, luxury, and lukewarm expectations. No burdens. No pressure. No destiny.
And no meaning.
Riser lounged in an obsidian chair, a glass of expensive wine, fire-blood vintage from the Phenex vaults, glowing softly in his hand. Fifteen years old, devil nobility, born into a house with coffers so deep they could drown lesser houses. Third son. Spare of a spare. Aristocracy meant that unless he actively humiliated himself or exploded half the Underworld, his family would let him live however he pleased.
And the idea was tempting.
He had magic. Real, honest-to-hell magic. He could light up rooms with a flick of his fingers. Summon flames from the marrow of his soul. Live in decadence until the end of time. And the Underworld would applaud him for doing nothing more than existing.
But that... that was how losers thought.
"Peace?" he muttered, smirking. "Fuck peace."
He stood and walked to the window, flames flickering behind his irises. The horizon beyond the House of Phenex's territory shimmered with ley lines, devil cities carved into obsidian mountains, ancient forests, ruins of ancient wars. And beyond even that, the material world.
This world was real fantasy. Every pantheon, every myth is real. Angels soared above Heaven. Dragons slept in volcanoes. Gods sipped wine in hidden dimensions. And he had the chance to live among them, challenge them, surpass them.
"I'm a devil with a literal immortality pass and magic limited only by imagination," he whispered to himself. "Why the fuck would I settle for anything less than the top?"
Sirzechs Lucifer? A noble goal.
But even that was too low.
No. His eyes gleamed now. He would reach the pinnacle. Become a being beyond myth. A king of devils, not by birth, but by right. He wanted to stand on the edge of existence and look down on dragons, gods, angels alike.
To do that, he needed power. Unshakable, undeniable power. Magical, political, personal.
And he couldn't do it alone.
The Evil Piece set still sat on his desk. One Queen already spent. The rest gleamed with latent potential.
Time to fill his peerage. Not with sycophants or incompetent playthings like in canon. No. This time, he would build an elite force, loyal, lethal, cunning. Not a household. A dynasty.
What kind of people did he want?
First: Loyalty. Absolute. His back must be protected when he stepped into the fire.
Second: Capability. Not just raw magical power, though that helped. Intelligence, adaptability, ruthlessness. If they could kill gods or manipulate a situation, that worked too.
Third: No idealists. He wasn't building a charity. Morals were luxuries the strong could afford. In the Underworld, power ruled. Only fools pretended otherwise.
He began listing names:
Valerie Tepes.
A dhampir, held captive by her own family in the shadows of Eastern Europe. Wielder of the Sephiroth Graal, a Sacred Gear of unimaginable potential. Healing, resurrection, possibly capable of granting immunity to holy weaknesses. If he could turn her, not only would he gain a trump card, but possibly the means to make devils' racial weakness obsolete.
A beauty, too. But that was secondary.
Problem? She was a magnet for trouble. Evil dragons, the Fallen, and worst of all: the son of Lucifer would all want her.
"But I have five years," he muttered. "Plenty of time to prepare."
Gasper Vladi.
Childhood friend of Valerie. Wielder of Forbidden Balor View, an anti-time Sacred Gear that could stop time. A little unstable. A little naive. But potential.
If he timed it right, he could get them both.
The Nekomata Sisters.
Held by House Naberius. Abused and caged and used as experiment subjects. Kuroka, especially, would be dangerous, a Youkai of immense potential and deadly instinct.
It would require careful planning to recruit them without becoming a target. But worth it.
Rossweisse.
Valkyrie. Scholar. Talented. Criminally undervalued by her own pantheon.
With the right approach, he could offer her recognition and respect she never received from Odin.
Ingvild Leviathan.
Lost descendant of a Maou. Slumbering power. A High-tier Longinus, Sacred Gear with the ability to control dragons.
She was a slow-burn asset, but a potentially game-breaking one.
Meredith Ordinton.
One of the wielders of a Longinus. If he could find her and recruit her, she could be a useful ally.
These were pieces worth playing.
But peerage members meant nothing if he wasn't strong enough to protect them. Or worse, if he was strong enough to recruit them, but weak enough to lose them.
That meant power had to come first.
Devil magic was a start, but he'd need more.
Ancient tomes from the Phenex library. Elemental fusion beyond just fire. Rituals. Forbidden techniques. Sacred Gear research. Maybe even tapping into the Super-devil research.
No. Not maybe. Definitely.
His end goal wasn't to be some noble with a hobby. It was to reach the level where reality bent to his will. Where the Dragon of Dreams himself, Great Red, would take notice.
And from there?
Maybe even beyond.
He exhaled and sat back, flames curling gently at his fingertips. The window of time was open. He had years before Issei Hyoudou awakens the Boosted Gear. Years to gather power, influence, and allies.
But it had to start now.
"Step one," he muttered. "Push past my current limit. Master Phenex fire. Expand magic versatility. Hunt Sacred Gear wielders. Recruit. Manipulate. Grow."
He poured a second glass of fire-blood wine and toasted the horizon.
"To the top. No matter who stands in my way."