DxD: Lost in Time

The worst situations often befall those who least deserve them, there are no exceptions to this cruel truth.

A quiet village had faced utter devastation within a single, merciless night. Once a peaceful and lively haven, it now lay in ruins, shrouded in an oppressive, suffocating gloom.

Wooden houses stood in skeletal fragments, some charred to ash, bearing the unmistakable marks of flame and destruction. The once-thriving settlement, brimming with life and hope, was now a shadow of its former self, a graveyard for memories.

Through the wreckage, a lone figure walked, humming a haunting yet oddly catchy melody. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of sorrow and anger, and his crimson eyes were dry but hollow, a reflection of his inner emptiness.

"Fuck everything that has bat wings," he muttered, his young voice trembling with both defiance and despair.

The boy, no older than four, bore signs of the hell he'd endured. Ash and soot streaked his unruly, honey-blonde hair, and dark circles framed his dim crimson eyes.

His once-simple, earth-toned clothes were now torn and stained with dirt and blood. Barefoot and bruised, he wandered through the ruins, his knees buckling under the weight of his grief.

He knelt on the cold, broken ground, his small frame shivering as he gazed up at the full moon above, a lone beacon of light in a vast sea of darkness. For him, the moon and the stars were the only things untouched by the carnage, the only witnesses to his sorrow.

Tears welled up again as memories of the previous night, the worst of his short life, flooded his mind.

It was supposed to be an ordinary evening. He was meant to spend it with his family, surrounded by the comfort of their small but beautiful village, Denbō.

Nestled in a peaceful valley amid towering mountains, Denbō was a vibrant place with houses inspired by traditional Japanese architecture and a population thriving off the land's fertile soil.

But that serenity shattered when men descended from the sky. Their malevolent presence was suffocating, their killing intent like a blade against the necks of every villager. Without warning, they attacked.

Hell broke loose.

They cut down everyone they encountered, destroying homes, lives, and dreams with a cruel, almost gleeful precision. It was a massacre.

And his father, his kind and strong father, was no exception.

The memory of his father's final moments haunted him. His last words, choked out through bloodied lips, were not pleas for mercy but a desperate command: "Run! Live! Survive at all costs!"

The boy had obeyed. He ran, barefoot and terrified, through the chaos. He stumbled and tripped over the bodies of those he'd known, his neighbors and friends. One by one, they fell around him, and he could do nothing.

No one should witness such horror, let alone a child.

His lungs burned, his legs ached, and his heart pounded like a war drum. But still, he ran, clutching at the faint hope that he could find his mother and escape.

But hope proved fleeting. They caught up to him.

He felt death's icy grip creeping over his small, trembling frame as he stared into the cold, merciless eyes of his father's killer. Despair swallowed him whole, and he was certain this was his end.

Yet, against all odds, something... or someone, saved him. A figure, cloaked in mystery, intervened and gave him the chance to escape. He had no idea how or why, but he seized the opportunity and fled.

Now, as he stared at the dark, star-studded sky, he clenched his fists. His lips quivered as he muttered to himself, "So Angels and Devils exist... Why the hell am I even here? Of all times, why now!?"

His voice cracked with frustration, but no one paid him any mind. The few survivors were too consumed by their grief to notice the ramblings of a child.

In this cruel world, survival was all that mattered. There was no time for self-pity, no room for weakness.

"If I don't adapt... if I don't grow stronger..." he whispered, his gaze hardening. He refused to die in helplessness, and he vowed no one he loved would suffer the same fate again.

The flame of determination ignited within his chest, fed by his grief and anger. His trembling stopped, replaced by a fierce resolve.

"I won't be this helpless again," he declared, his crimson eyes gleaming with a new light. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of an unyielding promise. "I will not fail to protect my mother... or my father's memory."

He began walking again, his small frame trudging through the rubble. He passed families mourning their dead, offering them solemn nods of sympathy. These were the people who had cared for him, and their suffering only steeled his resolve further.

Why wasn't he breaking down completely? Why hadn't the grief consumed him, as it had others?

The answer was simple: Hisashi was no ordinary child. He was a reincarnator, a soul who carried the memories and experiences of another life. Maybe that was why he hadn't descended into madness. Maybe that was why he could remain rational.

He stopped and looked back at the broken landscape, his gaze heavy with thought. The tears that had flowed freely were gone, replaced by a fierce determination.

"I'll bury the dead," he murmured. "That's the least I can do. But this mistake... this failure... will never happen again."

His journey would start here. His resolve would be forged in fire and blood.

Meanwhile, high above the village, a solitary figure hovered silently in the sky. One pair of gleaming white wings spread wide, and a faint smirk crossed his lips.

"Interesting," the figure mused, his voice soft but curious. "I wonder what the others will think of this..."

And with that, he vanished into the night, leaving the boy to face his fate alone.

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The boy trudged aimlessly through the ruins, his breath shallow and his legs trembling. The echoes of destruction still rang in his ears, a cruel reminder of the night he'd lost everything.

"Hi...shi!" A faint voice pierced through the haze of his thoughts, barely audible over the howling wind. He froze. Was someone calling him? Or was it a cruel trick of his mind? A memory of the deceased?

"Hisashi!" The voice grew clearer, urgent, and unmistakably real. He turned toward the sound, his heart pounding.

From the distance, a figure stumbled into view.

A woman with disheveled purple hair and crimson eyes that mirrored his own. Her tattered clothes hung loosely on her frail form, but her gaze burned with relief.

"Mom?" Hisashi whispered, disbelief and hope warring in his voice.

She broke into a run, her arms outstretched as tears streamed down her face. "I finally found you!"

The boy stood frozen, and when she enveloped him in a tight embrace, his defenses crumbled. He clung to her with all the strength he could muster, burying his face in her shoulder.

"You're alive," he murmured, his voice cracking.

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