In countless arrangements of interstellar clouds and radiant stars, the cosmos spun its endless symphony. An unceasing array of mysteries unfolded—asteroids drifting in silence, planets dancing their slow orbits, black holes hungrily devouring light, and wormholes twisting through the very fabric of reality. Even dead space existed: vast, motionless voids where not even the whisper of energy stirred.
All of it, scattered across millions of galaxies—within billions of universes—woven into the vast quilt of the multiverse. And beyond even that, in numbers too great to name, stretched the omniverse: the infinite tapestry of all that was, is, and ever could be.
Within one thread of that tapestry, in the quiet bloom of a newborn multiverse, a new universe began to take shape. One unlike the rest. One… different from the original.
…
In the quiet dark of night, the moon hung high, shining with a beauty undeterred. Its light—a pale reflection of the sun—glowed like a silver beacon cast upon the world below. Beneath that gentle luminance sat a town, sizable and nestled not far from the edge of a bustling city. This was Kuoh.
Tonight, the townsfolk were celebrating. Laughter echoed through the streets, glasses clinked, and music drifted on the cool breeze. People drank, danced, and savored the fleeting pleasures of the moment. But not all shared in the joy. Some wandered through the night hollow-eyed and bitter, resenting their jobs, hating their lives—friendless, forgotten, lost in the crowd.
Others, though equally alone, wore their solitude like a worn but comfortable coat. They browsed through comic shops, picked up movies, grabbed snacks from quiet stalls—finding joy not in people, but in the small things they loved.
None of them, not even the most paranoid or perceptive, could have guessed the truth.
A fallen angel walked among them.
But this wasn't just any fallen angel. No nameless exile or rogue cast from the heavens. This was the Governor-General. The one who ruled over the shadows of heaven's discarded. The leader of the Grigori.
Azazel.
His name, whispered in ancient circles, carried with it a legacy of defiance, brilliance, and power. Cloaked in human guise, he moved through the crowd like smoke—untouched, unseen, yet ever present. Eyes sharp, mind sharper. Observing. Calculating.
And though Kuoh's people partied, laughed, and lived in blissful ignorance, the very air around them shivered with something unspoken.
Something was coming.
And that something?
It was a fallen angel.
But not just any fallen angel. A powerful one. Ancient. Dangerous. And he wasn't here for a quiet stroll through memory lane. He wasn't sightseeing. He wasn't passing through.
No.
He was here to rumble.
He was here to party.
And he wasn't leaving until he got exactly what he came for.
The peaceful hum of Kuoh's night life buzzed on, oblivious to the storm casually strolling beneath the streetlights. Azazel's presence wasn't loud—it didn't need to be. It pressed against the world like a growing pressure in the air, something just on the edge of being noticed. A force waiting to strike, not out of rage…
…but for the sheer thrill of it.
He moved through the streets with a presence that turned heads without needing attention. His long coat—black leather, buttoned tight against the night air—clung to his form like armor. His hair, a striking mix of golden blond streaked with black, caught the moonlight as he walked with a swagger that was simply too cool to be faked. Effortless. Dangerous. Timeless.
Azazel didn't just pass through Kuoh—he claimed it.
Every bar he saw, he entered. He bought drinks for everyone inside, tossing credits and bills like confetti, leaving absurdly generous tips that left bartenders speechless and patrons cheering. With each stop, he got more drunk, but never sloppy—just louder, looser, laughing like he hadn't felt joy in centuries.
And then there were the clubs. Strip clubs, in particular. He made an event of every visit—lap dances by the dozen, stacks of cash fluttering like autumn leaves, strippers grinding with professional grace that quickly slipped into something more… personal. Every dancer, every onlooker, felt the electric buzz of his presence—something divine, something wrong, and yet… impossible to resist.
But it was the brothels that would remember him most.
He walked in casually, paid in full—generously, always—and disappeared behind closed doors. And within twenty minutes, the doors would open again.
The prostitutes inside—seasoned, jaded, long numb to anything but survival—stumbled out behind him with wobbling legs and dazed, breathless expressions. Exhaustion painted their faces. But more than that… astonishment.
"How?" they whispered to themselves. How did he do it? After so many clients, so many years… how did he make them feel it again? Not just the act—but the pleasure. The kind that made their hearts race. The kind they thought was long gone.
Azazel never answered. He just smirked, lit a cigarette, and walked on like he had all the time in the world.
And in a way, he did.
He was already a few thousand years old.
And tonight?
He was just getting started.
After plenty more drinks and shots, of never ending fun and cheers. Azazel walking the long Kuoh streets layed his eyes on a woman. A beautiful woman. One with her arms wrapped around her a man. Her husband if the ring on her finger was anything to go by. Laughing and smiling as they walked into a love hotel. Azazel under normal circumstances would have never done such a thing. As dangerous as he was, he was more of a scientist, a inventor, a man of intellectual passion. But alas the stress of his long long life caught up with him. From keeping the restless prideful fallen angels in check. To stopping a civil war between Grigori and the devils. To just countless inventions and ideas he was never able to properly execute. At least not yet anyway. He needed a release. And what better way then get drunk and give in to long rusted over lustful passion.
But that woman. Something about her was calling to him. And so he decided in this drunken stupor. He would have her. Not realizing the consequences this would have on the future of not only Kuoh, Grigori, Heaven and even hell. Not even just on Japan. But on the world as he knew it.
But right now. Azazel wasn't worried about that. He wasn't aware. He just wanted to have fun. And fun he shall have.
Azazel followed the couple into the hotel.
With a casual snap of his fingers, a brief shimmer of arcane light spiraled beneath his feet—a magic circle, ancient and intricate, flaring into existence for barely a second before vanishing along with him.
Invisible now, he walked among the living like a shadow.
He trailed behind them, silent as air, watching as they approached the front desk. The woman behind the counter greeted them with a warm smile. The couple—hands linked, eyes full of affection—spoke politely, exchanged a few words, paid in full, and were handed their key.
Azazel followed them to their room.
He watched as they stepped inside, the door shutting softly behind them. Watched as shoes were kicked off, jackets shed, the lights dimmed. Watched as their voices dropped into soft laughter, whispers, and then silence—broken only by the slow, rising rhythm of breath and body.
Soon, passion overtook them.
Clothes hit the floor in clumsy trails. Skin met skin. Desire unfolded like a slow-burning fire, unfiltered and human. They made love—once, then again. Again. A fourth time.
Azazel stood in the corner of the room, unseen, untouched. His eyes didn't burn with lust, but with something else. Fascination. Curiosity. A kind of longing so old it had turned cold.
As the husband collapsed onto the mattress for the fourth time—sweaty, drained, utterly spent—Azazel finally moved.
Another snap of his fingers, and the air shimmered. A pulse of magic washed over the room. In an instant, both husband and wife froze in place. Their bodies slackened, their eyes glazed, as if time itself had paused just for them.
Azazel stepped forward, the only thing now moving in the quiet stillness of that room.
Then he pushed the husband off of the bed. Making him pass out. Then he snapped his fingers once again. As he decided to test out a spell. Didn't want the wife to lose her mood after all. He thought to himself. As a magical circle encompasses his body. Slightly changing his dna, as his appearance slowly changed, shifting into that of the husbands. As he snapped his fingers again. Unpausing the wife.
Grinning, Azazel pounced with the ferocity of a tiger, hunger and heat roaring through him like fire. The bed creaked and shook beneath them, loud thuds echoing off the walls as the woman cried out in pleasure.
"Yes, husband—more, please!"
The room erupted into chaos, the kind born of pure, unchecked passion. The walls trembled. The ceiling groaned. Azazel let himself go completely, every ounce of restraint tossed aside.
"Who's the papi?!" he roared, breath ragged.
"You are! You are!" she screamed, body trembling beneath him as wave after wave of ecstasy overtook her—again, and again.
Azazel moved with divine intensity, doing things that would've made the most seasoned adult stars look like awkward first-timers. She reached her peak over and over, until her voice cracked and her body gave in.
As he approached his own release, his movements grew heavier, more primal—until, with one final, powerful thrust, he let go.
The room fell into silence as the woman passed out from exhaustion, her body completely overwhelmed.
His release surged through her, filling her to the brim. Azazel leaned back, breath heavy, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction as he admired the aftermath—the sweat-slicked skin, the tangled sheets, the silence broken only by her soft, unconscious breathing. Pure, unfiltered pleasure washed over him like a crashing tide.
Azazel exhaled slowly, the last traces of exertion leaving his body in one long breath. He rose from the bed, his expression calm—almost eerily so. With a casual snap of his fingers, a soft flash of magic rippled over his skin. In an instant, the sweat, the scent, the evidence of indulgence vanished. His body was clean. Composed. As if none of it had ever happened.
But the gleam in his eyes… that still lingered.
His appearence back to his original as he gently floated the husband back onto the bed, using his magic to cover them both with a cover.
And with nothing more than a satisfied sigh, Azazel quietly took his leave.
He never looked back.
He didn't need to.
What he left behind, he believed, was nothing more than spent pleasure and fading warmth.
But it was more than that.
Far more.
Unseen, unnoticed in that quiet room, a spark had taken root—small, silent, and impossibly significant.
He hadn't just left behind desire or magic.
He had left behind a child.
His child.
Azazel stepped back onto the streets of Kuoh, his coat swaying with each lazy stride. Neon lights reflected in his golden eyes as he blended into the nightlife once more, indulging himself with a smirk and a devil-may-care attitude.
He wasn't thinking about consequences.Not tonight.And definitely not about the divine hangover waiting for him the next day.
He just wanted more drinks, more distractions, more of anything that could keep the centuries at bay.
…
#Time Skip: Nine months later#
Kuoh General Hospital – Maternity Wing
The sterile scent of antiseptic lingered in the air, sharp and clean. Monitors beeped softly. Nurses moved with quiet urgency behind pale curtains. Rain pattered lightly against the windows.
Don Furuya sat by his wife's bedside, his hand tightly clasped around hers. He hadn't let go in hours. Yuzuna lay back against the hospital pillows, her face pale with exhaustion, but her smile—small and radiant—never left.
"You're doing amazing," Don whispered, brushing her damp hair from her forehead.
Yuzuna chuckled weakly. "If I didn't love you, I'd kill you for knocking me up."
Don laughed—nervous, strained. "I'll take that as a compliment."
A contraction hit, and she gritted her teeth, gripping his hand tighter. Her back arched slightly, eyes clenched shut.
"It's close," said one of the nurses, glancing at the monitor. "Very close. Doctor will be in any moment now."
Don leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers. "I've got you. I'm right here."
Yuzuna nodded, her breath shaky but determined. "I know."
Neither of them noticed it—not yet—but the lights in the room flickered, just for a second. A low hum, almost imperceptible, passed through the floor. The heart monitor spiked—not dangerously, but oddly.
In the hallway, a nurse paused, frowning at a sudden chill in the air.
In her womb, the child stirred.
Something strong. Something not fully human.
Something awakening.
The hours stretched, filled with cries, strained breaths, and the rhythmic encouragement of the nurses. And then—finally—a sharp gasp, a final push, and the piercing cry of new life filled the room.
Yuzuna collapsed back against the bed, her body trembling, tears streaking down her cheeks—part pain, part joy. The doctor smiled as he cradled the newborn in his hands.
"It's a boy," he said gently.
Don stood frozen for a moment, the words sinking in. Then emotion surged through him, overwhelming and pure. He stepped forward as the nurse swaddled the child and handed him over.
He took the tiny bundle into his arms, barely able to breathe.
His son.
Taito Chihiro Furuya.
The baby wriggled slightly, eyes still closed, fists curled. His skin was warm, his heartbeat strong. His cries were soft now, as if soothed by the presence of his father.
Don laughed through the tears building in his eyes. "He's perfect," he whispered, looking to Yuzuna, who smiled through her exhaustion.
"He has your eyes," she murmured.
Don smiled wider. "And your stubborn lungs."
For a moment, everything was still. Beautiful. Whole.
But no one saw it.
In the far corner of the room, half-lost in the shadows cast by a flickering overhead light, a single feather drifted silently to the floor. Black. Long. Slightly curved at the tip.
It twirled once, twice—then came to rest in silence, unnoticed by the doctors, the nurses, or the parents.
No one questioned why the heart monitor had spiked strangely at the exact moment of birth.
No one saw the feather.
No one heard the faint echo of wings.
The door creaked open with a low groan.
Don looked up just as an unmistakable figure stepped into the room. Short, broad, and built like a stubborn mountain, the man's presence filled the space even before he said a word. His face was mostly hidden beneath a wild mane of white hair that spilled down past his shoulders, and a thick, tangled beard that looked like it hadn't seen a comb in years. Only his eyes—sharp, gray, and impossibly alert—cut through the wilderness of hair.
"Jogoro," Yuzuna said with a tired smile. "You made it."
The old man grunted. "'Course I made it. You think I'd miss the birth of my grandson?"
He stepped closer, boots thudding with more weight than his size suggested. As he reached the bedside, Don gently lifted Taito and turned so his father could see him.
Jogoro squinted, leaned in.
"Hmph. So that's him, huh?"
Don nodded proudly. "Taito."
The baby squirmed slightly, letting out a soft coo. Jogoro stared, expression unreadable under the wild scruff of his brows and beard. Then, with a kind of cautious reverence, he reached out a thick, calloused finger and gently touched the baby's cheek.
Taito's tiny hand wrapped around it instantly.
Jogoro froze for a moment—just a breath—but something passed across his face. Not emotion, exactly. More like recognition. An instinct honed by decades of silence, survival, and whatever senses the old man had learned to trust long ago.
His eyes drifted toward the far corner of the room, just for a second.
He didn't see the feather.
But he felt something. A pressure. A weight in the air that didn't belong.
He looked back down at the child, eyes narrowing.
"You're not just a normal one," he muttered.
Don blinked. "What?"
Jogoro grunted again. "Nothing."
Then he stood up straight—well, as straight as he ever did—and crossed his arms. "He's strong. He'll make trouble one day."
Yuzuna chuckled weakly. "Sounds like a Furuya, then."
Jogoro cracked a crooked smile. "Damn right."
In the corner, the black feather remained unseen, untouched, slowly curling as if reacting to some invisible breeze.
...
#Time Skip: Three Years Later##Furuya Residence – Evening#
The Furuya household was never loud, but it was never still either. It breathed with life—soft and steady—like the quiet pulse of a place long lived in. Wind chimes swayed outside the porch. The kitchen lights were warm. And laughter, low and genuine, rose from the living room as a child raced across wooden floors in mismatched socks.
Taito Chihiro Furuya, five years old and full of questions, held a makeshift sword fashioned from a rolled-up manga magazine. His target? A shadow on the wall. His mission? Unknown—but apparently urgent. His narrowed eyes and furrowed brows made that very clear.
"Victory!" he declared, swiping at the air before stumbling into the couch.
From the kitchen, Yuzuna watched with a hand on her belly, her second child pressing softly beneath her palm. Her smile carried all the exhaustion of motherhood and all the magic, too. The kind of smile born from sleepless nights and whispered lullabies. She leaned slightly into the counter, one foot absently rubbing her ankle as the baby kicked again.
"He's going to knock over another lamp," she said.
"I heard that," Don replied, peeking in from the hallway with a towel slung over one shoulder. "I'm just waiting to see which one."
Taito glanced back, panting. "I'm not knocking anything over."
Yuzuna chuckled. "That's what you said last time, right before you shattered the vase your father swore wasn't expensive."
Don raised his hands. "Technically not a lie. It looked expensive."
A deep grunt came from the nearby recliner where Jogoro sat—half-asleep, half-listening. His once-imposing form was wrapped in a fleece blanket, a cup of lukewarm tea forgotten in his hand. His eyes, though still sharp on occasion, seemed to cloud more frequently now, like clouds passing over a distant mountain.
"What's this about a vase?" he muttered.
Don walked over and gently took the tea cup from his father-in-law's hand. "Nothing, old man. Just your grandson pretending to be a samurai again."
Jogoro looked toward Taito, blinked once—twice. "He's grown," he mumbled.
"You said that yesterday," Taito replied, climbing up onto the couch beside him.
"I did?" Jogoro frowned, as if trying to reach for something just out of memory's grasp. "Well… then it must be true."
He reached out, resting a heavy hand on the boy's head, letting it linger there. Taito leaned into it without a word. For all his youthful energy, he never pulled away from his grandfather's touch. Not once.
Yuzuna watched from the kitchen, her free hand unconsciously rubbing her belly again.
"Have you thought about a name yet?" Don asked, coming to her side.
She nodded softly. "Mero. After my grandmother."
Don kissed her temple, smiling. "She's going to love that."
Yuzuna didn't answer right away. Her gaze drifted back toward Jogoro, who was now quietly nodding off again, and to Taito, curled up beside him with that strange calm he sometimes slipped into—eyes watching something far away, like he could hear music no one else did.
She spoke again, more to herself than to Don. "He's going to need to grow up fast."
Don glanced at her, the lightness in his eyes dimming just a little. "Why do you say that?"
Yuzuna took a slow breath. "Just… a feeling."
She didn't say more. Didn't need to.
Outside, the wind picked up. A lone chime tinkled gently against the dusk air. And inside the Furuya home, three generations sat together—bound not just by blood, but by time, memory, and the invisible threads of fate already pulling tight around them.
Tomorrow would come.And with it, change.
...
#One Month Before the Shrine##Furuya Residence & Kuoh Amusement Park#
It started small.
A cough here, a fainting spell there. Yuzuna brushing off her own discomfort with a tired smile and a "Just a little dizzy, love." She kept cooking meals, packing lunches, braiding Mero's hair with trembling fingers when Don wasn't looking. But the shadows under her eyes deepened. Her skin grew pale, her breath shorter.
Taito noticed first.
He watched her with quiet eyes, too sharp for his age, his instincts whispering truths no one wanted to hear. She moved like someone fading—half here, half somewhere else.
One morning, she collapsed in the garden.
Don carried her inside, voice cracking as he called for an ambulance. Mero screamed, clutching her stuffed fox to her chest. Taito didn't scream. He just stood there, fists clenched at his sides, jaw locked in silence.
Doctors ran tests. Then more. But their answers were empty, sterile, layered in medical jargon that meant nothing and everything at once. No one could explain why her cells were breaking down like that. Why her energy, her strength—was unraveling like silk pulled too thin.
Then, without warning, she vanished.
Jogoro was gone too. One morning, both were simply not there. No note. No message. Just their absence, hanging in the air like incense smoke after prayer.
Don called hospitals. Police. Friends. Nothing.
For seven days, the house felt hollow. Mero cried herself to sleep each night. Taito stopped speaking altogether, wandering the halls in his socks, always pausing at the back door—like he was waiting for someone to step through it.
On the eighth day, they returned.
No explanation. No apology. Just a soft knock at the front door, and there she was—Yuzuna, thinner now, but standing. Jogoro beside her, hunched and silent, a cane in one hand and something unreadable in his eyes.
She smiled when Taito opened the door.
"I kept my promise," she whispered.
And she had.
The very next morning, she packed a bag with snacks, wipes, and spare clothes. Don helped her load the car, while noting that something smelled bad. Mero wore a sunhat shaped like a rabbit. Taito didn't smile, but he held her hand tighter than he ever had before.
They spent the entire day at Kuoh Amusement Park.
Rides spun. Bells rang. Candy melted in fingers. Yuzuna laughed when Mero dropped her ice cream for the second time and just shrugged. She cheered as Taito won a giant plush frog at the ring toss. Don took pictures he'd never stop looking at. Jogoro followed at a slower pace, always keeping one eye on Yuzuna. Always quiet.
They stayed until sunset.
By then, Taito was asleep on his mother's lap, his breath slow and steady. Mero, sticky and tired, curled up beside him. The air smelled like sea salt and sugar.
Yuzuna stroked Taito's hair, staring out at the water.
Don watched her from the side, trying not to notice how thin her wrists had gotten. Trying not to ask where she had gone. He knew she wouldn't answer.
And he was right.
That day at the amusement park was perfect.
And it was also goodbye.
…
#Time Skip: Six Years Later#
#Furuya Family Shrine#
"Come on, kids, give Mommy a hug."
Yuzuna knelt down, arms open, her smile gentle but distant—like it was struggling to stay warm. The soft golden light of the setting sun bathed the shrine steps in amber, catching the shimmer of tears she could no longer produce, yet they still seemed close to falling despite the impossibility.
Taito ran into her arms first, his white-and-black hair tousled from a long day of roller coasters, cotton candy, and laughter. He was six now—tall for his age, quiet like his grandfather, sharp-eyed like something older than a child should be. And yet… something else stirred beneath his skin. Something not yet understood.
Mero followed close behind, tiny arms wrapping around Yuzuna's waist. Only three, her long silver-gray hair tumbled down her back in gentle waves. Her cheeks were still sticky from the sweets she'd devoured hours earlier, but her little hands clung with the seriousness only children understood.
"Why do you have to go now?" Mero whispered.
Yuzuna kissed the top of her head. "Just for a little while, sweetheart. I'll always be with you—in your hearts. Be good for your brother, okay?"
Taito said nothing. But as he pressed his cheek against her arm, he flinched.
Her skin was cold.
Not breeze-cool, not end-of-day cool. Cold—like stone left in the deep shade of winter.
Then he noticed something else.
When had Mom's eyes turned red?
Behind them, Jogoro waited at the base of the shrine steps. He looked older—much older. The wild white hair that once crowned his head like a lion's mane was thinner now, his frame more hunched, as if time or something far crueler had begun to weigh on him heavily.
Yuzuna stood slowly, pulling away from their embrace with a tenderness that only made the moment harder.
She ruffled Mero's hair. Brushed a strand from Taito's face.
"Take care of each other," she said softly. "And remember… Mommy loves you. So, so much."
Then she turned.
Jogoro stepped beside her, silent.
Together, they climbed the stairs toward the ancient torii gate at the top of the shrine. Neither of them looked back.
Taito stood there, hand clutching Mero's, watching as the heavy shrine doors opened with a deep groan and swallowed the two of them whole.
The wind died. The world held its breath.
That moment would stay with him forever.
Not the parting words.Not the scent of incense.Not even the golden glow of a fading sun.
Just the feel of her skin.
So cold.
And the look in her eyes.
A love beyond words. A sorrow that couldn't be spoken.
And something else.
Hunger.