High School DxD: Fate's Error

A hiss of pain slipped from my lips as I shifted, every movement dragging me further from the haze of sleep. My eyes blinked open slowly, struggling to focus. The sight of a cold stone ceiling greeted me, unfamiliar and unwelcoming.

Panic set in before I could even think, my heart pounding as I tried to piece together where I was. Then a creak—the soft groan of a door opening. My head snapped toward the sound, adrenaline spiking.

"You're awake," said a calm, measured voice.

The priest.

It was him—the man who'd flung me into a wall like a rag doll. But the fire in his eyes was gone, replaced by something gentler. He stepped forward, a tray balanced in his hands. Steam curled upward from a bowl on it, accompanied by a simple cup of water.

"I have to admit," he began, his voice tinged with a mix of guilt and curiosity, "after what I did to you, I expected you to be out for at least another day."

He glanced at the tray and chuckled softly, the sound strangely at odds with my memory of him. "This was meant to be my dinner, but I figured you needed it more."

He set the tray on a small table beside me. My eyes never left him, suspicion lacing every glance.

I sat up, wincing as pain radiated through my body. A glance down confirmed my sorry state: bandages wrapped tightly around my shoulder and ribs, blood staining the edges. Every breath was a reminder of how fragile I was.

"I'm sure you have questions," he said, dragging a chair closer to the bedside. "And trust me, I have plenty for you, too. So, how about this? We take turns asking. A little give and take."

I studied him for a moment, his calm demeanor doing little to ease my wariness. But the thought of answers was too tempting to pass up.

"...Oscar," I said, breaking the silence. "Oscar Lane."

"Well, Oscar Lane," he said with a faint smile, "it's good to officially meet you. I'm Father Sinclair, though if you prefer, Pat works just fine."

He gestured for me to go first.

"Why did you attack me?" I asked, my tone sharper than intended.

A knowing look crossed his face. "Fair question," he said. "Imagine this: you're an old man heading down to the secret underground of your church—a place where no one goes, especially not at night. Then you find a stranger holding that blade."

He nodded toward the corner of the room. My eyes followed his, landing on the scythe. It rested against the wall, its dark surface seeming to drink in the light.

"Do you see my concern?" he asked, dragging my attention back.

I grimaced, a flicker of shame creeping in. "I suppose that's...reasonable," I admitted reluctantly.

"In my defense," I added quickly, "I knocked. I looked around. You weren't there."

He tilted his head, surprised. "Well, I don't get visitors often," he said. "I was dealing with a stray devil nearby—drawn by the blade's...presence."

His expression turned serious, and his next words carried weight. "Now, my turn. Why couldn't I sense you? None of my barriers or seals reacted to your presence. That's impossible."

The question hit like a hammer. I clenched my fists, the weight of my reality pressing down again.

"I have no magic," I said finally.

His brow furrowed. "That's not possible. Every living thing possesses magic, even if only a trace. Even the stones beneath us hold mana in their core. But you..." His finger pointed sharply at me. "You're like a void. A gap where magic should be. Do you understand what that means? You're the only being in existence that the universe itself can't register."

His words hung heavy in the air, a mix of revelation and dread.

"Your turn," he said after a moment, his voice quieter.

"The scythe," I began. "When I entered the church, I felt it. When I got close, it...attacked me. Nearly killed me. What is it?"

Father Sinclair leaned back, his eyes clouding with something darker.

"That blade," he said slowly, "isn't just cursed. It's a fragment of pure death. Centuries ago, it belonged to a rogue soul reaper—a high-ranking one whose ambition was to become Death itself. He didn't follow Hades or the laws of the afterlife. He followed his own hunger, reaping thousands of souls to feed his power.

"But every tyrant meets their end. The warrior Cú Chulainn defeated him in Ireland long ago, in a battle that reshaped the land itself. The scythe was lost in the chaos...until centuries later, when a druid found it.

"That druid became the scythe's next victim," he continued grimly. "The blade doesn't just kill. It consumes. It binds itself to its wielder's mana, twisting their will, their soul, into its own weapon.

"Over the years, countless lives have been lost to its influence. The church has kept it sealed, passing it down from warden to warden. And now..." He fixed me with an intense gaze. "Now it's yours."

My chest tightened.

"You are the first person in history to touch that blade and walk away without being corrupted," he said. "Why?"

"...Because I have no mana," I whispered.

"Exactly. The blade can't bind itself to you because there's nothing to bind to."

He leaned forward, his eyes hard. "But that doesn't explain how you survived its attack. The scythe projects its bloodlust—a passive ability that can kill most within seconds. Even I don't take it lightly. So, Oscar, how did you survive?"

I swallowed hard, memories of the suffocating weight of the scythe's presence flashing through my mind.

"I almost didn't," I admitted. "It...it was overwhelming. But my body..." I hesitated, then forced the words out. "My body adapts. Slowly, but surely, it adjusts to whatever it's exposed to. That's why I came here. Looking for answers. Hoping for help."

I'm sorry, I think I'm going senile," Father Sinclair muttered, leaning back in his chair, disbelief etched across his face. "Did you just say your body adapts to whatever it's exposed to?"

"Yes," I replied firmly.

"Impossible," he said again, shaking his head as if trying to process my words. "No, that's definitely impossible."

"That's the second time you've said that," I countered, exasperated. "But don't you understand? I don't have magic, either! Nothing about me fits the rules of this world. So, of course, I'm serious. I don't know what's wrong with me, either."

"My turn," I said, steering the conversation back on track. "I came here for one reason and one reason only: the supernatural. Tell me about it. I'm new to all of this—completely new. This is my first day on the job."

His eyes widened slightly at that. "First day...?" He let out a heavy sigh, rubbing his temples. "Well, this has certainly been an eventful night."