- So hey guys, this story is my definitive writer experience, and I hope you enjoy it as much as me, and I hope this is the first of many fics for this site. And NO harem for you perverts LOL. Good read, and Author Out. -
I never expected much from life—hell, by the end, I barely expected anything at all. Twenty-nine years old, a washed-up nobody wasting away in a nicotine-stained apartment with blinds that hung like broken ribs, stacks of manga leaning dangerously against ramen cup pyramids, and the faint smell of cigarettes clinging to everything like a curse. My lungs were ashtrays, my body a collapsing ruin of caffeine and bad habits, and the only time I ever felt alive was behind a screen. I lived through other people's stories, never my own. Other heroes swung their swords, shouted their courage to the heavens, fought for something that mattered. Me? I pressed "play" and let the fantasy wash over the fact that my reality was empty.
And then death came. Quick, stupid, and ironic as hell. A heart attack, of all things, in the middle of an all-night anime binge. My last vision was crimson hair flowing across the glowing monitor, dragon wings stretching wide, and then my chest clenched, the room tilted, and everything went black. So yeah, poetic in the most pathetic way possible.
But when I opened my eyes again, I wasn't me anymore.
The first thing I saw was the ceiling—smooth, white, and far too low. The second thing were my hands. Small. Tiny. Fragile. My pulse spiked, panic hitting me like a truck, my breath wheezing in a throat that suddenly wasn't mine. The room was unfamiliar, quiet, warm in a way my old place never was. And then I heard them—voices drifting from the kitchen, soft and domestic, a man and a woman laughing together. They spoke Japanese, words clear as sunlight.
"Issei, dinner's almost ready!"
Issei.
No. No fucking way.
The name hit me like ice water. I sat up, piecing everything together at a speed I'd never managed in my first life. The tatami mat under me. The sliding door. The ordinary cheer in their voices. Kuoh Town. Hyoudou residence. Somehow, impossibly, I had awakened as Issei Hyoudou—future Oppai Dragon, King of Perverts, protagonist of High School DxD.
But here was the difference. I wasn't him. I was me. Every memory, every regret, every wasted second of my old life was still carved into my brain. And unlike him, I wasn't about to spend this second chance chasing skirts and daydreams while the world burned around me. Not this time.
In that little house, with the smell of curry drifting through the walls and the laughter of my new parents carrying like a lullaby, I made a vow: I would study. I would grow stronger. I would train. I would not bring shame to them. Not this time. Not ever again.
Gorou and Miki Hyoudou weren't faceless comic relief here. They weren't side characters relegated to two-second jokes. They were real. They worked hard, came home tired, still managed to smile. I could see the faint exhaustion around their eyes, the small sacrifices that added up, the quiet resilience. And it reminded me of my own parents—the way their faces had fallen every time I quit a job, failed another class, chose fantasy over reality. I broke them, slowly, without meaning to. That guilt lived in my chest like rust. And it drove me.
From that day forward, every single moment mattered. I wasn't just a four-year-old anymore. Inside this small frame was the bitter, frustrated soul of a twenty-nine-year-old man. While the other kids fought over toys, I studied. When my parents thought I was doodling cartoons, I was drilling kanji until my fingers cramped. When they sent me outside to play, I ran laps around the park until my lungs burned and my legs screamed. Youth was a gift, but discipline—that was the weapon I'd lacked before.
Sometimes, lying awake on my futon at night, staring at the wooden beams overhead, I'd whisper to myself like a mantra: "This is not a game. Devils, angels, fallen, dragons—they're all real here. And one day, they'll come for me."
So I prepared.
It started small. Push-ups, sit-ups, squats. The exercises I used to skip or mock in my past life became ritual, almost holy. My parents laughed at first, calling it cute that little Issei wanted to act like an athlete. "Look at him, Gorou—our son thinks he's Rocky." And Gorou would chuckle, "Half expect him to start running up the stairs yelling banzai." I laughed with them, but I didn't stop. By six years old, my body was already sharper, tougher, faster. Not even close to standing against monsters, but enough to feel the difference, enough to plant the seed.
And that's when it happened.
It was late. My arms shook, my face pressed against the tatami mat, sweat dripping off my chin as I fought for one more push-up. Just one more. My teeth clenched, my little muscles screaming in rebellion, but I refused to stop.
And then—
[Hmph. Persistent little human, aren't you?]
The voice slammed into my skull. I froze. It wasn't outside. It was inside. Deep, resonant, ancient, like the growl of something that had seen empires rise and fall. My breath caught, my pulse thundered. I knew that voice. Of course I knew it.
Ddraig.
The Red Dragon Emperor. One of the Heavenly Dragons. Sealed inside the Boosted Gear—the gauntlet of legend, now resting in the soul of a six-year-old boy with a twenty-nine-year-old failure's mind.
[So… this is the new host fate has cursed me with. Small. Weak. But… not without fire. Interesting.]
I collapsed onto the floor, chest heaving, a grin splitting my face like madness. Six years old on the outside, twenty-nine inside, and now—for the first time—a dragon in my soul.
The nights that followed blurred together in sweat, whispers, and quiet terror. Imagine trying to sleep with an ancient dragon murmuring in the back of your head. At first, he rarely spoke, just watched. Judged. Sometimes he broke the silence with mockery.
[Pathetic form. Straighten your spine, worm.]
[Is that supposed to be a squat? I've seen slimes with better posture.]
I bit back laughter every time. Because if he was mocking me, he wasn't ignoring me. And if he wasn't ignoring me, then maybe, just maybe, I could earn his respect.
Still, the fear never left. This wasn't an anime anymore. This was a world where angels could vaporize cities, where devils schemed like politicians, where dragons laughed at nuclear fire. I couldn't afford to fuck around.
So I wrote. Pages of timelines, character names, betrayals, arcs. Events burned into the back of my mind from marathons in my old life became a survival guide now. I filled the margins with training routines, ideas, strategies. I meditated—not the "empty your mind" self-help crap, but real, raw focus. Feel the body. Feel the soul. Touch the faint pulse of the Boosted Gear sleeping within.
Ddraig noticed.
[You're not like the others. Usually my hosts just scream for power. Pathetic kings of nothing, begging for strength they never earn.]
"Yeah, well," I muttered, clenching my tiny fists one night, "I'm not them."
There was a low chuckle, deep and rumbling, like mountains shifting.
[We'll see.]
Days passed. Weeks. Months, and then... Two Years. My parents smiled at their strange, disciplined son who helped around the house, studied without being asked, never whined. "You're such a good boy, Issei," my mother said, patting my head. And my chest ached, pride and guilt tangling until I could barely breathe. They didn't know what was coming. Kuoh Academy. Fallen angels. Rias Gremory. Blood. But I did. And I swore I'd be ready.
One evening, the sky bled orange over Kuoh, painting the rooftops in fire. I sat outside, legs sore, shirt damp with sweat, and stared at the horizon. Behind me, the sliding door opened, the smell of curry wafting through as my parents called me in for dinner. I clenched my fists, feeling that faint hum of power deep in my soul, like a heartbeat that wasn't mine.
"This time," I whispered, "I won't waste it. Not ever again."
And from within, thunder rolled.
[Then rise, little human. Rise, and burn.]
I smiled, six years old, twenty-nine inside, and carrying a dragon in my soul. For the first time in two lifetimes, I felt alive.
My second life had truly begun.