High School DxD: Fate's Error

The room was cozy, the kind of place you'd want to spend a rainy day—fire crackling in the hearth, shelves lined with books, and teacups scattered haphazardly around. The faint scent of tea and wood lingered in the air, and the heat from the fire made everything feel warm and soft. But despite the tranquil setting, everything felt wrong.

On the floor, a boy no older than fourteen writhed in agony, sweat dripping down his face and mixing with a spilled cup of tea, which slowly spread into a small, pathetic puddle. He groaned, shaking uncontrollably, his breath ragged and uneven.

With Herculean effort, he dragged himself up, his limbs trembling as though gravity had suddenly tripled. His damp hair clung to his forehead as he gasped out, "Oh… fuck. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Two deaths and a rebirth?" He winced, clutching his side. "That fucking hurts."

His breathing slowed, and his mind began to clear. He blinked a few times, the room coming into sharper focus, as though he were waking from a dream—or a nightmare. Then, out of nowhere, he muttered, "Coffee. Coffee."

A pause.

"Wait... what?" His brow furrowed, confused by his own words. His voice sounded strange—higher, almost squeaky, like someone had hit fast-forward on puberty. Panic bubbled up as he looked down at his hands. They weren't his.

"What the hell?" he whispered, turning them over. Smaller. Paler. Faint scars he didn't recognize. A sharp sense of unease hit him like a wave. His old body—his real body—was gone. And he'd liked that body. Admired it, even. People said he was handsome, damn it. This new one? He wasn't sure yet.

He staggered to his feet, barely managing to steady himself against the doorframe as he shuffled down a narrow hallway. Every step felt surreal, like he was walking through a dream he couldn't wake up from.

A mirror on the wall caught his attention. He stopped in front of it, reluctant to look, but compelled all the same.

"What the fuck…" he muttered, staring at the reflection.

Green eyes stared back—familiar, yet not quite. His hair was jet-black now, short and messy. His face had a permanent scowl etched into it, like a grumpy cat that had somehow taken human form. He poked at his cheek, then prodded the bridge of his nose. Still handsome, sure, but in a completely different way. Rugged. Troublemaker chic.

"Not bad," he said, tilting his head. His voice sounded uncertain, like he was trying to convince himself. "Could've been worse, I guess."

At least he hadn't lost his height. Standing at 5'8" at 14 was nothing to sneeze at. He could live with that.

As his reflection stared back, something strange settled in his chest. A sense of calm. Memories of this life—Oscar—trickled into his mind like water through cracks. A teenager living just outside Cork, in a bungalow his wealthy, tragically deceased parents had left behind. His life was fine. A few friends, decent grades, and enough talent on the football pitch to turn heads.

But what the hell had happened before this? He remembered the pain of rebirth, the vague, dreamlike encounter with God—or whatever entity had done this to him—but nothing else. His old name, Matthew, meant nothing now.

Brushing aside the existential crisis knocking at his mental door, he looked down at his arms. Bigger. Not huge, but bigger than they had any right to be for a teenager who didn't seem to work out much. Sure, there was the occasional heavy lifting—boxes, furniture, PE football—but this? This was lean, athletic muscle, with veins faintly visible beneath the skin.

Stripping down to his boxers, he took a step back, inspecting himself in the mirror. Broad shoulders, defined pecs, faint abs peeking through. He looked like a kid who accidentally stumbled into an Instagram fitness influencer's body.

"Fifteen percent body fat, tops," he muttered, turning to the side. His new physique didn't add up. His diet wasn't exactly clean, and his training was sporadic at best.

Then it hit him.

"Child of War," he said softly, the words tasting foreign yet familiar. This wasn't normal. His bloodline—it had to be. Sure, he wasn't about to arm-wrestle the Hulk anytime soon, but for a human? He was ahead of the curve.

"Not bad at all, Oscar," he said, grinning narcissistically at his reflection.

Feeling a bit more confident, he wandered into the kitchen. The small space was cozy, with wooden shelves and an almost rustic charm. He reached for the kettle, ready to make his usual tea, but hesitated. Something felt… off. Tea didn't sound appealing anymore.

He rummaged through the cabinet, pushing aside honey and sugar, until his fingers brushed against a tin of coffee. His eyes lit up.

Moments later, he was sipping a steaming cup, the rich aroma filling the air. As he took a slow sip, his eyes widened, a wave of nostalgia crashing over him.

"Tastes just like home," he muttered, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips.

But the moment didn't last long. Setting the cup down, he glanced at the knife sitting on the counter. Curiosity sparked in his mind. He picked it up, turning it over in his hand. It felt… wrong. Clumsy. Like holding a tool for the first time.

With a shrug, he gave it an experimental jab. Nothing. A few more half-hearted slashes later, and he sighed.

"This is embarrassing," he muttered.

Then something shifted. His fingers adjusted. His stance steadied. The knife moved differently—faster, smoother. He struck again, this time with more purpose. His hand seemed to learn on its own, responding to his subconscious.

A grin spread across his face, slow and wicked.

"My body adapts," he whispered, the words like a revelation. His grin turned into a full-blown manic laugh. "Oh, I am going to be lethal."

Eager now, he began searching the house for anything resembling a weapon. He found three: a fishing rod, an 8-iron golf club, and a small axe for chopping firewood. He laid them out on the table, staring at them like a dragon admiring its hoard.

"Not bad," he said, nodding.

Still, weapons weren't enough. He needed information. Grabbing his phone, he started searching for anything about the supernatural. Myths, legends, cryptic blog posts—anything that could help him understand this new world.

Predictably, there wasn't much. The supernatural seemed to have a way of keeping itself hidden.

"Figures," he muttered, scrolling through the results. But one idea caught his eye: churches.

There were three in Cork, but one—a small, out-of-the-way chapel—stood out. It was about an hour's walk, but something about it felt… right.

"Time to see a priest," he said, grabbing his coat.

As he reached for the door, he glanced back at the axe. For a moment, he considered bringing it.

"Maybe not," he muttered, shaking his head. "Don't need to scare the shit out of anyone. Yet."

Oscar hesitated, his fingers hovering over the screen of his phone. The church, just a 15-minute walk away, seemed like the right place to find some answers. But something gnawed at him. Something... off. And he recognized it immediately. Fear.

"Seriously? I'm scared of a church now? What's next, afraid of puppies?" he muttered to himself, but the unease lingered. It wasn't just the church. It was everything. He was… dead. Or at least, that's what he'd been told by the vague, godlike voice that had rebirthed him. And yet, he hadn't fully accepted it. Didn't want to. He was starting to feel like some sort of lost puzzle piece from a board game no one played anymore.

With a groan, he stood up, pushing the thoughts of divine encounters out of his mind. Maybe a bit of fresh air would help. He shuffled out to the porch, leaning on the railing to gaze out over the rolling green countryside. The occasional car passed by, and he could hear a dog barking from the neighbor's farm. The peaceful life... was it meant for someone like him?

Oscar couldn't decide. On one hand, he had a fucking great football talent, and his new body was already way more athletic than anything he remembered from his last life. On the other, he could still feel that rush of adrenaline every time he thought about the supernatural—a whole world of weirdness, and he was supposed to get involved?

Maybe I could just become a professional footballer and live out a cushy life somewhere in the Middle East. Forget about all this nonsense and enjoy the view from the back of a luxury car, right? Oscar let out a small sigh.

As much as he hated to admit it, though, he had a point. There was this nagging idea in the back of his head, a feeling that maybe this wasn't his fate. That maybe he wasn't supposed to be the hero of this story. He wasn't the guy destined to save the world... Or whatever. He just wanted to chill. And yet, here he was, waking up in a new life, with weird powers and a mystical encounter with a god—whatever that was supposed to mean.

He groaned again, rubbing his temples. Who even was Matthew, anyway? And was he even... me? It was like being stuck in some awkward phase where you didn't even know if you were the main character or just some sidekick with no purpose.

His thoughts twisted into a chaotic mess.

Should I have another cup of coffee? Or, you know, just, like, end it all? The darkness of that thought didn't escape him, and it nearly made him laugh. What was wrong with him? Here he was, graced with a body that could rival Greek statues and the potential to become someone, and he was considering... what? Just stopping?

Oscar smirked bitterly, his mind wandering back to the coffee. He could practically feel the warm mug between his hands. Coffee. It's the only thing that makes sense right now.