Chapter 1: Rift of Crimson Moon
The sky above the Demonic Cult's Forbidden Peak was the color of fresh-spilled blood.
Mok Gyeongwoon stood alone at the very edge of the thousand-zhang cliff, black robes rippling like living shadows. In his right hand rested the Heavenly Demon Sword—its blade so dark it seemed to drink the moonlight rather than reflect it. In his left palm hovered a sphere of condensed Sky Demon Energy, pulsing with veins of violent purple-black qi that looked more like cracks in reality itself.
Tonight should have been the night he finally severed the last chain binding him to mortality.
Instead, reality itself betrayed him.
A hairline fracture appeared in the air directly in front of his eyes—soundless, scentless, without any killing intent or demonic aura. Just a tear. As though someone had taken a knife to the fabric of the world and sliced carelessly.
Before he could even sneer at the audacity, the fracture exploded outward.
Not with force. Not with flame or lightning.
With absence.
All sound, all scent, all weight, all temperature—everything simply stopped existing for one eternal heartbeat. Even the concept of "up" and "down" vanished.
Then gravity remembered its job in the most violent way possible.
Mok Gyeongwoon's body was yanked forward like a marionette whose strings had been tied to a galloping horse. The Sky Demon Energy sphere in his palm detonated uselessly against nothing; the Heavenly Demon Sword howled once in rage before the world folded inside-out.
He fell.
Not down.
Through.
Colors he had never seen before smeared across his vision. Shapes that hurt to look at twisted and reformed. Time tasted like copper and regret.
And then—
—impact.
Not against stone. Not against water. Against nothingness that somehow still hurt.
When sensation returned, it came in fragments.
Soft grass beneath his palms.
The scent of cherry blossoms mixed with car exhaust.
Distant, mechanical roaring of what could only be hundreds of steel beasts moving at unnatural speed.
Voices—young, carefree, speaking a language that sounded like gibberish at first, then slowly resolved into meaning.
"…did you see that? Something just fell from the sky!"
"Probably a drone. Or a really big bird. Stop being dramatic, Matsuda."
"I'm telling you, it looked like a person—"
Mok Gyeongwoon opened his eyes.
He was lying on his back in the middle of what appeared to be an ornamental garden behind a large, modern building of glass and concrete. Moonlight—pale, weak, almost sickly compared to the crimson slaughter-moon of his world—bathed everything in silver.
Three boys stood perhaps ten paces away, staring at him with wide eyes. One held some rectangular black device that glowed faintly. Another had both hands raised as though ready to ward off evil spirits. The third was already backing away.
Mok Gyeongwoon rose in one fluid motion. No groan. No stagger. As though gravity had personally apologized for daring to inconvenience him.
The instant he stood to his full height—tall, broad-shouldered, long black hair unbound and blowing in the night breeze—the three boys froze.
He tilted his head slightly.
Their hearts were beating so loudly he could count the individual chambers contracting.
Fear. Awe. Confusion. A trace of something he hadn't smelled in centuries—innocence.
He spoke, voice low and calm, yet carrying the weight of someone who had long ago grown bored of screaming.
"Where… is this?"
The boy with the glowing rectangle swallowed audibly.
"Uh… Kuoh Academy. Japan. You… you okay, man? That was a crazy fall."
Mok Gyeongwoon slowly turned his head, taking in the strange buildings, the metal poles topped with blinding white lights, the distant towers of glass that pierced the night sky like arrogant spears.
Japan.
He had heard the name once, centuries ago, from a captured swordsman who claimed his ancestors came from an island nation across the eastern sea. A place of disciplined blades and strange gods.
But this…
This was not that place.
Not anymore.
He felt it then—something fundamentally wrong with the qi of this world.
No. Not wrong.
Thin.
The spiritual energy here was so dilute it was almost insulting. Like trying to breathe through wet silk. And yet… beneath that thin layer… something else pulsed. Ancient. Heavy. Divided into factions that hated each other with theological fury.
He tasted it on the wind.
Devil.
Angel.
Fallen.
Dragon.
And something older still—something that whispered of sacred promises and broken pacts.
Mok Gyeongwoon's lips curved. Not quite a smile. More like a wolf remembering what hunger felt like.
He looked down at his own body. Still whole. Still clad in blood-black robes embroidered with the nine-headed demonic lotus of the Heavenly Demon Divine Cult. The Heavenly Demon Sword rested against his shoulder as naturally as a lover's arm. His dantian still thrummed with enough condensed demonic qi to level several city blocks.
Nothing had been taken from him.
Only the world had changed.
One of the boys finally found enough courage to speak again.
"Hey… seriously, are you cosplaying or something? That sword looks real dangerous. You can't bring weapons on campus—"
Mok Gyeongwoon's gaze shifted to him.
Just a glance.
The boy's knees buckled. He dropped to the grass like his skeleton had suddenly remembered it was made of wet noodles. The other two yelped and stumbled backward.
Mok Gyeongwoon took one step forward.
The air around him seemed to darken, as though light itself was reconsidering its life choices.
"I will ask once more," he said softly. "And only once."
His voice carried no anger. Only certainty.
"Where… is the nearest being who thinks themselves strong in this place?"
The boy on the ground whimpered.
"P-please don't kill us—"
"I have no interest in slaughtering children," Mok Gyeongwoon replied, almost gently. "But I do require directions."
He raised his left hand.
A thin thread of purple-black demonic qi coiled around his fingers like smoke given will.
The temperature dropped twenty degrees in an instant.
"Speak."
The boy with the phone managed three shaking words.
"Occult… Research… Club…"
Mok Gyeongwoon lowered his hand.
The cold retreated.
He turned his head toward the main school building.
Somewhere inside that place, something ancient and proud stirred—something wearing the skin of a high-school girl.
He felt it notice him.
Felt its curiosity.
Felt its faint, aristocratic arrogance.
The corner of his mouth lifted again.
"Good."
He began walking.
Behind him, three terrified high-school boys watched the black-robed figure disappear between the cherry trees.
None of them moved for a very long time.
.....
Somewhere far above Kuoh Town, invisible to mortal eyes, a crimson-haired devil princess paused mid-step inside her private office.
She frowned.
For just a heartbeat, the moon outside her window had turned the color of fresh blood.
And something inside her bloodline—something very old—whispered one word she had never heard before.
Cheonma.
Rias Gremory shivered.
For the first time in many years… she felt watched.
And the watcher did not bow.