The sound of the door closing behind her echoed through the mansion's corridors like a muffled sigh. The magical aura of the estate recognized her presence instantly, parting the shadows to let her walk unhindered to the upper chambers.
But tranquility was the last thing Rias felt.
Her steps, so practiced, so noble, didn't falter. But inside, something simmered. Like a goblet of scarlet wine stirred too much, nearly spilling, staining the fingers of anyone daring to hold it too long.
*What am I doing?*
The question pierced her mind like a needle through layers of pride and tradition.
Why was she acting this way? Why, even after the conversation ended, did her body still carry the soft tension of unresolved desire, her heart pounding as if she'd run through a war?
The answer was simple.
Kazuya.
He was a mystery that refused to be unraveled by conventional means.
From the moment he arrived at Kuoh Academy, she *felt*—not thought, not analyzed, but *felt*—that something was off. Or perhaps too right.
She threw herself onto the sofa in her room, eyes fixed on the ceiling, her crimson hair splayed like lazy flames across the cushion.
The truth was, she liked him.
But it was more than that.
She liked how he disarmed her with simple words. How he didn't seem to try to impress her yet did so with every gesture, every phrase, every glance.
But it wasn't just feelings driving her.
She was a demon, a creature of sin. And Kazuya… Kazuya was someone handpicked by her brother to join her peerage. That revelation was why Sona didn't compete over who'd claim him as a servant; she, too, seemed somewhat interested in him. But that wasn't the point. He might be the only one capable of freeing her from this arranged marriage…
If she could win him over—
Not just as a woman, but as a King…
If he became part of her peerage, her piece, her court…
The problem?
She didn't know if she wanted to win him for power…
…or because, deep down, she craved his touch with a certain urgency.
His scent still clung to her clothes. A light, clean fragrance with a citrus hint… but there was more. There was *him*. A presence that seemed to linger on her skin.
She stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Night was falling over Kuoh. Lights began to flicker, like the glowing eyes of serpents on the asphalt.
Rias bit her lower lip, staring into the darkness outside.
---
It had been an hour since Rias left Kazuya's apartment.
The silence left behind was peaceful—if you ignored the fact that the room looked like an improvised shrine for floating screws and metallic objects defying all human, demonic, or celestial logic. Honestly, even Old Satan would feel uneasy staying there for more than five minutes.
Kazuya sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his palm with a curious, almost lazy expression. But what hovered above it was far from ordinary.
A screw.
Not just any screw—the kind that seemed to contain ideas. Concepts. Pure will, compressed into polished steel.
He made it spin with a thought. A low hum vibrated in the air, as if the world were about to be reorganized by a cosmic screwdriver. And considering the kind of Sacred Gear Kazuya possessed, that might not be an exaggerated metaphor.
*Alphecca Tyrant.*
Capable of rebuilding people from scratch, erasing emotions like chalk marks on a blackboard.
And now… Kazuya had discovered something new.
He could shape it.
Sacred Gears could adapt and evolve based on their wielder's thoughts, needs, and emotions, gaining new abilities or qualities over time. He wanted something more symbolic. More… unsettling. And, by all the gods, he didn't want to follow the trend of throwing nails. A certain jockey named Joestar had already patented that idea in another universe.
He wanted something *his*.
And the Alphecca Tyrant, in all its sarcastic glory, responded in the most fitting way possible:
Screws.
They appeared, floating. Emerging from the floor, the walls, even his own flesh if he wished. And as a Sacred Gear, these "conceptual pins" weren't just pretty to look at—they could kill. Demons, vampires, creatures of darkness? One screw through the chest, and *poof*—ashes. Kazuya hadn't tested it on a real demon yet, but a suspiciously shady mosquito met a spectacular end half an hour ago.
And the versatility?
He'd already discovered he could morph them into blades, from elegant daggers to long swords that looked forged by a homicidal watchmaker.
In theory, he could even replicate Vlad Tepes's Noble Phantasm, sprouting screws from every surface around him. Carpet, walls, ceiling.
Weapons emerging from the air as if the world were a giant toolbox waiting for a touch of madness.
Kazuya blinked at the screw spinning above his hand.
"How many of these can I make at once?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else.
The answer came as a muffled hum and dozens of new screws materializing around him, like a swarm of steel moths.
He smiled. Not a wide grin. The kind of smile of someone who knew they held something dangerous and was starting to enjoy it.
The answer to his earlier question—"How many can I make at once?"—came with the cruel clarity of an inconvenient fact:
There was almost no limit.
At least, not for him.
The reason?
Magic.
Or rather, the Third Magic.
His magical energy didn't run out.
And it wasn't a case of "my power's bigger than yours." It was literally infinite. A constant, self-sustaining flow, like a closed cycle where he never needed to draw breath because he was submerged in a sea of pure possibility.
Sacred Gears, including the Alphecca Tyrant, were artifacts created by the Biblical God, capable of various effects like boosting the user's power, creating weapons, or manipulating elements. Using these abilities typically consumed the wielder's magical energy. For example, the Boosted Gear, when activating its Balance Breaker form known as Scale Mail, drastically enhances the user's capabilities but depends on their physical and mental condition. If the user overexerts, the armor automatically disengages as a safety measure.
The duration and effectiveness of a Balance Breaker are directly tied to the user's stamina and magical energy. In Issei Hyoudou's case, he could initially only maintain Balance Breaker for half an hour, once a day, with each additional use reducing that time.
Thus, a Sacred Gear's use primarily consumes the user's magical energy, and its sustained activation and effectiveness depend on the available energy and the wielder's endurance.
In Kazuya's case, he could keep his Sacred Gear active as long as he wanted, though he judged it wouldn't be forever, as it mentally drained him. Fortunately, his mental fortitude had grown significantly due to the memories of his "Ritsuka Fujimaru self," who'd lived a complicated life in one of the most chaotic universes out there. The mental energy he referred to came from willpower and mental resilience…
But then, Kazuya let out a long sigh, like someone giving up on solving a Rubik's cube blindfolded.
"Enough for today."
With a snap of his fingers—more for flair than necessity—the screws dissolved into silver sparks, vanishing like enchanted dust. The room returned to its almost-normal state, minus the holes in the walls and the carpet that now looked like it had survived an industrial sacrifice ritual.
Though he said he wanted to stop, Kazuya's mind rarely agreed with his mouth. Five seconds later, there he was, in the middle of the room, in a plank position, staring at the shredded carpet as if it held some ancient secret in its fibers.
The truth? Kazuya was weak.
Not the "can't open a pickle jar" kind, but the "supernatural beings could turn me into puree with a flick" kind, which, let's be honest, was considerably more concerning.
He had absurd magical energy.
But his body? Just a normal body. Slightly tougher from training, maybe. But nothing that put him on par with a demon who could crush cars with a slap.
"Time to fix that…" he muttered, standing with a crack in his neck. "Time for Human Body 2.0: bug-free edition…"
During the events of *Heaven's Feel*, Illyasviel von Einzbern performs an incomplete version of the Third Magic to prevent Shirou's soul from dissipating after his body's destruction. The magic acts as a reconnection tether: it anchors the soul to the physical world, preventing its dispersal. However, the temporary vessel Illya creates is unstable, incomplete, and "cheap," in her words. It's small enough to be scooped from a river by Rider, highlighting its fragility. As a result, a new body is needed to properly house Shirou.
The process reveals a core trait of the Third Magic: any vessel with human-like properties, such as an artificial body or a structure with a functional brain, can become a new anchor for the soul. Once anchored, the soul reshapes the new body based on the individual's physical and psychic memories. For all intents and purposes, the person is alive again. The new body acts as a genuine substitute, capable of bleeding, falling ill, aging, and eventually dying. It's essentially a biological replica rebuilt under the soul's command, as if the soul were "piloting" the body remotely, yet fully integrated.
Angra Mainyu's existence also exemplifies the Third Magic's potential, albeit indirectly. As the root of all evil, Angra transforms its soul into an "eternal generator," an entity transcending conventional existence. However, this is more tied to the Grail's wish-granting function than the Third Magic itself.
Beings like Lugh Beowulf, whose materialized soul exists in a stable astral body without needing a physical vessel, reflect what the Third Magic can achieve directly. They are natural examples of a state the magic artificially replicates: the soul's perpetuation, independent of a physical shell.
Thus, the Third Magic's true potential goes beyond preserving or transferring souls: it can fully recreate a body, alter its form, and even restructure its nature to suit the user's desires, needs, or ideals. This includes transforming into any creature, like a dragon, adapting the ideal form for combat, or even changing one's sex.
In short, *Heaven's Feel* is the magic of soul transcendence, allowing a being's essence to shape physical reality according to its soul.
To be considered a True Magic, having infinite magical energy is the baseline requirement, as all other True Magics grant access to vast magical energy in some form.
Considering all this, Kazuya knew he was about to do one of the dumbest things of his life. The kind of thing that'd require life insurance, two wills, and maybe an exorcism seal on hand, just in case.
But it was also the kind of thing no one else had the guts to try.
"Okay… If I'm going to mess with the source code of my existence, it better be to become something epic. Like… a dragon." He scratched his chin, thoughtful. "Not just any dragon. I'm talking Fafnir. The *Fate* Fafnir, not this DxD weakling. The one that gives Berserkers nightmares and would make any A++-ranked creature think twice before tossing a magical Hadouken."
His soul, long materialized and stable like an anchor glued to the world with cosmic superglue, began to vibrate.
Not metaphorically—literally. The light around him grew denser. The entire room shook as if about to turn into an *Evangelion* set piece. Deep down, Kazuya thought this was pretty damn cool.
"Okay, Third Magic… Time for the update."
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath… and let himself fall inward.
Inside Kazuya's spiritual world—or as he liked to call it, "the chaos control room"—everything was dark. A translucent void where only his soul shone, like a miniature sun. But at that moment, something gleamed.
A colossal outline, black as the void between stars, emerged before him.
Emerald-green eyes, glowing like incandescent gems, stared at him with the intensity of an entity that had devoured kings, gods, and the sanity of heroes.
Fafnir.
The black dragon of desire. Its body was a fortress of gleaming scales, with wings like veils of liquid darkness and claws that could tear through less logic-protected realities. A true colossus, the kind of creature that made even the Tarrasque think, "I'm not messing with that guy."
Kazuya smiled. Not out of arrogance, but childish excitement.
"It's you. It's always been you."
The human and dragon became one…
The change wasn't a ritual or a dramatic anime transition with background music. It was simple. Instinctive.
As if his soul, already free from the weight of needing flesh, had simply decided. The Third Magic didn't argue—it obeyed. That's what made it so absurd: it *did*. No resistance. No doubt. If his soul said, "I want to be a mountain-sized dragon with radioactive emerald eyes and a breath that could melt armies," then done. The world accepted his new form.
Back in the room, his human body reconfigured silently, though "human" was already a generous term. What remained was an astral, malleable body that could assume its dragon form whenever he wished.
His soul wasn't just him anymore. He *was* Fafnir.
Or at least, a new kind of Fafnir: one that could turn human when it wanted, with consciousness, sarcastic humor, and a troubling fondness for pop culture references.
He felt the power coursing through every layer of his essence. The raw strength of a dragon, the killer instinct of a legendary beast, and the clarity of a Tokyo nerd still wondering if the shower could handle his new body's heat.
He opened his eyes. They glowed with draconic green, slitted, before returning to normal.
He grinned.
"Okay… That was pretty damn awesome."
Eager to dive into his epic arc of struggling to control his power, he pushed his thoughts aside and moved.
He was expecting something more… chaotic.
Like his new body hurling him through the window from misjudging strength. Or accidentally breaking the doorknob. Or maybe tripping over his own feet and punching a hole in the floor with his face.
But none of that happened.
He stood. Stretched his arms. Rolled his shoulders. Took a deep breath. Everything flowed with the natural ease of someone born that way—which, technically, he wasn't.
"Huh. This is… weird."
He looked at his hands, giving a slight mental command and seeing a faint black energy with greenish glints, reminiscent of true Fafnir's scales. His nails looked like claws, but he knew they'd return to normal if he wished. In fact, everything obeyed his will, like he was the admin of a reality server.
He threw a punch into the air. The sound sliced the room like a compressed explosion, but not a single hair on his head stirred from reflex. No imbalance. No stumble. No "oh no, my leg's a bazooka now."
"Seriously? Where's my 'the power's too much to contain' moment?" he muttered, frustrated. "Not even an identity crisis, like 'I'm a monster'? Nothing?"
He tried jumping. The leap was high. Absurd. Nearly touched the ceiling. But he landed softly, as if he had wings—and now that he thought about it, he did. They just hadn't appeared because he didn't call them.
"What? Not even a muscle ache? An existential collapse? Cellular adaptation with weird side effects? None of that?"
Oh, the power thrummed beneath his skin, quiet, contained, but so intense it was like watching a sleeping volcano with its eyes open.
And yet… everything was under control.
Kazuya blinked, incredulous.
"I… was born for this?"
He snapped his fingers. Wings appeared, black as night, with membranes like living obsidian. He gestured, and they vanished. Simple. Natural. Organic.
"…Okay. I officially hate how well this is working. Where's the drama? The overcoming arc? The epic background music?"
Deep down, he knew the answer. His soul wasn't just an anchor mimicking the physical world anymore. It was the core. The physical body wasn't a vessel—it was a manifestation.
The Third Magic had made the impossible feel… mundane.
Kazuya crossed his arms, feigning irritation.
"If anyone tells me turning into an ancestral dragon was supposed to be hard, I'm gonna laugh…"
And maybe melt something just to live up to the title.
Kazuya yawned.
"I'm done with this crap."
He turned, dragging his feet to the bed, and flopped onto the sheets with the grace of a rice sack possessed by an exhausted entity.
Because yes, he was now a colossal black dragon that could destroy continents with a fiery breath if he wanted.
But he was also a third-year high school student.
And tomorrow, he had class.
"If I don't wake up in time to roll my Gacha, I swear I'll become this franchise's new final villain…"
He pulled the blanket over his head, ignoring the mana particles still dancing in the air around him.
And then he slept.
Like a dragon.
But also like an exhausted teenager who just wanted five hours of peace and some rest before the next apocalypse.