High School DxD: Fate's Error

Oscar lay sprawled across the cold stone floor, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Each exhale was weaker than the last, a fading whisper of life. It felt as though the world itself held its breath, waiting for his final sigh.

Then, just as that last thread of life threatened to snap, his eyes flew open. He shot upright, gasping desperately as sweat trickled down his face, his wide eyes darting to the ground below him.

"Too close..." he muttered through ragged breaths. "Too fucking close."

His gaze wandered to his battered body, the bruises painting his skin a dull purple, before landing on the scythe in the center of the room. The monstrous weapon loomed like a shadow given form, its blade gleaming ominously even in the dim light. The oppressive aura that had nearly killed him had dissipated, though faint purple sparks flickered across the weapon's surface. It almost seemed... alive.

And yet, the Grim Reaper was nowhere in sight.

With a shaky hand, Oscar pointed at the scythe, his voice trembling. "It was you, wasn't it? You almost killed me!"

The weapon shimmered faintly, almost mockingly, as if to say, "What are you going to do about it?"

"Nearly dead," he muttered, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Not even a full day since my last death, and now this."

His laughter grew, tinged with hysteria, echoing off the stone walls. He staggered to his feet, wobbling like a newborn fawn, ready to flee if the weapon made another move. But it didn't. Slowly, realization began to dawn on him.

"I adapted," he murmured, his voice thick with disbelief. "That's why... that's why you're not attacking anymore, isn't it?"

The blade flickered again, its faint glow betraying an almost reluctant acknowledgment.

His lips curled into a crooked, manic grin. "I fucking did it, didn't I? I survived. You were close, so close... but not fast enough."

A cackling laugh tore from his throat, wild and unhinged. He stepped toward the scythe, the weight of fear melting away, replaced by a reckless defiance.

"You were sealed here, weren't you?" he muttered, glancing at the symbols scrawled across the walls. The ancient markings glowed faintly in the room's dim light, their purpose clear now. "Suppressed, yet you still had that much power..."

The scythe flickered in response, faint and almost proud.

Oscar's steps slowed as he approached the towering weapon. Up close, it was even more menacing—its sleek, dark blade curved with deadly precision, its massive size utterly imposing. The faint remnants of its earlier power brushed against his senses like whispers of a sleeping giant.

His hand trembled as he reached for the weapon, wrapping his fingers around its dark handle. It shuddered at his touch, resisting slightly, but he tightened his grip and pulled. The scythe came free from the ground with a metallic hiss, the skull at its base gleaming wickedly.

He examined the blade, marveling at its craftsmanship. It was beautiful in its lethal elegance, every inch radiating a dark allure. As he held it, a strange sensation coursed through him. It felt as though the scythe was peering into his very soul.

In return, he saw flashes—countless souls writhing and screaming within the weapon's depths.

"Does this thing... steal souls?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

The scythe pulsed faintly, as if answering yes.

Oscar's grip tightened. Without warning, a sharp pain lanced through his mind as the scythe lashed out with its mental assault, its aura clawing at his thoughts like talons.

But Oscar didn't flinch.

"Nice try," he muttered, his lips curling into a smug grin. "You can't hurt me anymore."

The weapon trembled in frustration, but he held it firm.

"You're mine now," he declared, his voice dripping with dominance. "Not Death's. Not the Grim Reaper's. Mine."

The scythe shimmered violently in protest, but it was futile.

Oscar laughed again, a wild, almost delirious sound. "You'll accept it eventually. Hell, you might even come to like it. But for now... you're mine."

Turning toward the chamber's exit, he frowned. "How the hell am I supposed to carry this out of here without drawing attention? If someone sees me walking around with a six-foot scythe, they'll call the cops for sure."

Before he could dwell on the thought, a voice cut through the air like a knife.

"What do you think you're doing, boy?"

Oscar froze. The oppressive weight from before returned in an instant, crashing down on him like a tidal wave. It wasn't an attack, but the sheer presence behind him was suffocating.

Slowly, he turned his head.

At the far end of the room stood an old man, his white hair slicked back and his untrimmed beard framing a stern, weathered face. He wore priestly robes that seemed to shimmer faintly with magic, his piercing eyes locked on Oscar with an intensity that made his blood run cold.

Oscar swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I—"

Before he could finish, the priest's expression hardened, and he moved.

A force slammed into Oscar like a freight train, hurling him across the room. He collided with the wall, the impact cracking the stone as pain erupted through his body.

Oscar lay crumpled against the wall like yesterday's garbage, every breath coming out in shallow, wheezing gasps. His ribs were screaming, his vision blurred, and if this priest hit him one more time, he was pretty sure he'd be meeting the Grim Reaper for round two—no, round three.

He tilted his head toward the corner where the scythe rested, glinting faintly. It shimmered like it was thinking—and by thinking, Oscar meant judging him for his miserable state.

Come on, you overdramatic hunk of metal. Do something, he thought, lips barely forming a whisper. "Attack him," he croaked. No response. The scythe just sat there, looking smug.

Oscar's voice rose in a desperate growl. "I said, attack him!"

That got its attention.

The room stilled, tension crackling in the air. The scythe jerked upright, purple lightning racing along its blade. With a sound like tearing fabric, it launched itself forward.

The priest's eyes narrowed, his hand snapping up to summon a gleaming sword of light. He met the scythe mid-flight, their clash ringing out like thunder. Sparks sprayed, shards of purple and gold dancing through the air.

The scythe didn't wait for an invitation. It swung around in a tight arc, coming at the priest from below, then from the side, then from behind. It moved like a wild beast, unpredictable and feral.

"Persistent little thing, aren't you?" the priest muttered, deflecting each attack with unnerving calm. His sword spun in precise, deliberate movements, parrying every blow like he was conducting a symphony.

But the scythe wasn't backing down. It darted forward again, a streak of dark lightning slicing through the air. The priest sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the blade as it embedded itself into the floor with a loud CRACK.

Oscar, slumped in his corner, gave a delirious, blood-streaked grin. "Yeah... stick it to him..."

The scythe pulled itself free and came at the priest again, faster this time. Its strikes were wild and relentless, forcing the old man to take a step back—then another.

"Ah, so you can sweat," Oscar wheezed, watching the faint sheen on the priest's brow.

The priest ignored him, his lips moving in a steady chant. Golden runes lit up along the walls, forming a glowing web of energy that began to pulse. The scythe slowed, its movements becoming jerky and sluggish as the runes drained its power.

"No, no, no!" Oscar rasped, watching as the scythe faltered.

The priest struck, his glowing blade slamming into the scythe with a burst of light. The weapon hit the ground, sparks flickering weakly as it lay still.

The priest turned to Oscar, brushing off his robes like he'd just finished a casual sparring match. "And now, the real corruption ends," he said, raising a glowing hand.

Oscar's heart sank. His body refused to move, every nerve screaming in protest. He glanced at the scythe, lying motionless just out of reach.

"Come on," he whispered, his voice breaking. "You're better than this. Don't let him win."

For a long, painful moment, nothing happened.

Then the scythe twitched.

Oscar's breath hitched.

The faint purple light grew brighter, crackling with renewed intensity. The scythe lifted off the ground slowly, almost dramatically, before shooting forward with a deafening roar.

The priest barely had time to react, his sword snapping up to meet the blade mid-flight. The force of the impact sent both of them skidding back.

Oscar barked a laugh, his grin widening despite the blood dribbling down his chin. "That's it! Don't give the old man a break!"

The scythe didn't need encouragement. It attacked again, faster this time, hammering the priest's defenses with unrelenting fury. Each strike sent shockwaves rippling through the room, cracks splintering across the floor.

The priest growled, his tone losing its calm edge. "Enough of this!" He slammed his sword into the ground, golden energy surging outward in a tidal wave. The scythe was thrown back, slamming into the far wall with a dull thud. Its glow flickered, dim but stubborn.

Oscar coughed out a laugh, his body slumping against the floor. "Good effort," he murmured, his vision swimming. He couldn't keep his eyes open anymore, the weight of exhaustion dragging him down.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the scythe, its faint light pulsing like a heartbeat.