The room was white.
Not a comforting white, but a clinical, artificial, imposed white. A white that existed only to better highlight the metallic lines embedded in the walls, the runic circles engraved directly into the floor, and the motionless figures who had worked there for centuries. Machines filled every corner of the chamber, blending technology and magic without distinction: silent gears, crystals etched with ancient formulas, transparent conduits filled with luminescent fluids, cables coursed through by unstable arcs of energy.
As usual, the demonic researchers were taking their readings.
Some adjusted parameters formed of shifting runes, others observed mana flows through impossible instruments, while a few recorded the ritual's constants in grimoires blackened by centuries of annotations. Their faces—marked by horns, unnaturally colored skin, or inhuman protrusions—betrayed neither fatigue nor impatience.
They were beings who had devoted an excessive portion of their existence to a single project, born of the will of the last Demon King.
At the center of the room stood an immense reinforced glass vat. All machines, all magical circles, all lines of power converged toward it, as though space itself acknowledged this point as its heart. Inside floated a body, immersed in a dense, faintly bluish incubation fluid.
Then, without the slightest warning, the air changed.
The pressure in the room rose abruptly. Ambient mana contracted, drawn toward the vat by an invisible force. The circles engraved in the floor flared to life simultaneously, their saturated runes screaming silently under an uncontrollable overload.
And everything exploded.
The vat cracked with a deafening roar before shattering completely. Glass shards flew across the room. The incubation fluid spilled violently onto the floor, carrying the body within it. The machines overheated, releasing electrical arcs that struck walls and ceilings in a brutal cacophony. Mana, now unstable, rampaged through the magic circles like an invisible storm.
Several demons were thrown to the ground. Others lost consciousness under the shock of the ambient mana.
Then, amid the chaos, the body opened its eyes.
Aoyama Kiyoshi saw.
But not as before.
The world around him seemed slowed, as though time itself had been forced to adapt to his perception. He distinguished every detail: the liquid flowing across the floor, shards of glass still suspended in the air, the panicked breaths of the demons sprawled around him. He heard everything—every breath, every heartbeat, every electrical vibration in the failing machines.
His own heart beat with perfect regularity.
His field of vision adjusted instinctively, focusing on whatever caught his interest, zooming effortlessly onto distant details. His brain absorbed this avalanche of information without the slightest difficulty, as though such sensory overload were entirely normal.
More troubling still, where the liquid touched the floor, a thin layer of frost was already forming. With each of his movements, the cold spread, freezing the water around him without any conscious effort.
But that was not what drew his attention the most.
All around him, suspended in the air, floated countless bluish particles. They were everywhere—previously invisible, now impossible to ignore. Instinctively, he reached out toward one of them.
The moment his fingers passed through it, certainty imposed itself upon his mind.
This was neither a discovery nor a hypothesis.
It was an obvious truth.
Mana.
He knew what it was, as though this knowledge had always been part of him. Mana flowed around him, through him, responding to his very existence.
What's happening? Where am I?
At that thought, a dull pain flooded his head. Confused memories surfaced: blaring sirens, unbearable pain, panicked voices ordering him to stay awake, not to let go.
Then—nothing.
He understood.
Aoyama Kiyoshi was dead.
His first life had ended on Earth, and he had awakened here, in a world where mana existed. Another world, evidently. He swept his gaze across the room: the shattered vat, the impossible machines, the runic circles carved into the floor as if lifted from a fantasy novel.
Was I… an experimental subject?
The thought provoked neither panic nor anger. It simply asserted itself as one logical hypothesis among others. Aoyama Kiyoshi allowed it to linger for a moment while he observed his surroundings more carefully.
His gaze drifted to the figures strewn around him. Some lay motionless, others struggled to regain consciousness. All bore horns. Some had crimson skin, others ashen or obsidian, sometimes streaked with scales or supernatural markings. Not a single face was human.
That observation dispelled any remaining doubt.
This was neither a dream nor a hallucination. He was in another world.
Only then did he feel something change.
It was not a physical sensation, nor pain, nor even an emotion. Rather, a gradual awareness, as though a part of him were finally aligning with his surroundings. In the air, mana no longer drifted chaotically. It formed subtle currents, orderly flows… and one of them seemed directly connected to him.
Like a call.
He did not dwell on it long. His mind, already accustomed to processing complex information, accepted the connection as fact. Wherever that flow led, something awaited him—something that had now become part of his existence.
He took a step.
Beneath his foot, the still-wet floor slowly froze, covered by a thin layer of ice. He observed the phenomenon with an almost scientific detachment. It was neither surprising nor alarming. Simply… coherent.
He stepped forward again.
This time, his gaze instinctively lowered. The frozen surface formed an imperfect mirror—slightly cloudy, yet smooth enough to reflect a silhouette.
He remained still for a moment, eyes fixed on the icy surface.
It was not only his appearance that had changed.
He examined himself more closely, not out of curiosity, but necessity. Posture, balance, weight distribution—everything was different. A lower center of gravity, softer lines, a silhouette foreign to any muscle memory he knew. Every movement confirmed the same truth.
This body was not his.
Naked, shaped without any apparent flaw, it left no room for doubt. From the simple observation of its silhouette—its full breasts and its sex—he understood one thing with certainty: he was no longer a man. The realization imposed itself smoothly, without shock or distress, as just another factual datum to integrate.
The information settled without triggering the slightest emotional ripple. No shock. No rejection. Not even genuine surprise. He merely noted something strange: in his former life, such a revelation should have provoked a reaction—confusion, anger, at the very least an inner tension.
Here, nothing.
She inhaled slowly and focused on herself—on what she felt, or rather, on what she did not feel. Her thoughts were clear, intact, but something had changed in how her emotions manifested. They felt more distant, more restrained, as though the body itself imposed an artificial calm.
An adaptation.
She lowered her gaze slightly toward the naked silhouette, flawless, devoid of any unnecessary mark. A body designed, not born.
Interesting.
She raised her head.
Already disinterested in the question of her body, she turned her attention away from what had changed to focus on what truly mattered. In the air, the flow of mana was still there—stable, precise, connected to her in a way she did not need to analyze further to understand.
That link existed.And it led somewhere.
She followed it.
Step by step, she left the laboratory. With each movement, the cold followed her naturally, spreading across the surfaces she passed. The floor froze beneath her feet, the walls coated themselves in a thin layer of frost, as though the environment itself reacted to her presence.
She climbed a spiral staircase, followed a long corridor with smooth, impersonal walls, then ascended a second staircase. The architecture remained sober, functional, almost austere. Nothing was decorative. Everything seemed designed to serve a single purpose.
Reaching a massive door, she pushed it open without hesitation.
The scenery changed abruptly.
Beyond the threshold stretched a palace. The strict lines of the laboratory gave way to grand, almost excessive architecture. Immense pillars rose to the ceiling, reminiscent of ancient temples, while artworks, sculptures, and priceless frescoes filled every available space. Gold, marble, and rare materials intertwined in a blatant display of wealth and power.
Architectural opulence, designed to crush anyone who entered.
She paid it little attention.
Her gaze remained fixed on the flow of mana, which continued through the hall without dispersing. She advanced, indifferent to what should have inspired awe or reverence.
Along the way, she encountered several demons.
Some froze upon seeing her. Others recoiled instinctively. Their expressions wavered between shock and pure, visceral terror. Before she could even understand the reason for their reactions, their bodies gave out. They collapsed heavily to the floor, unconscious—sometimes before she had even passed them.
She kept walking.
Behind her, a thin layer of ice slowly covered their bodies, sealing the scene in absolute silence. She noted the phenomenon without lingering on it. It was neither intentional nor problematic. Simply a consequence.
The mana flow eventually guided her to an immense door.
She stopped before it, certain of what lay beyond. The link was stronger here, almost tangible. What it was connected to lay just on the other side.
She placed her hand on the door and pushed.
The chamber inside was entirely covered in ice. Floor, walls, ceiling—everything was frozen in an unmoving, pristine cold. At the center of the room, embedded upright in the frozen floor, stood a katana.
That was where the flow led.
She approached it slowly, with a strange sensation she did not immediately analyze. No desire. No excitement. Rather, a sense of familiarity—as though she were reclaiming something that had always belonged to her.
So it was you.
She grasped the hilt and pulled the katana free from the ice.
The next instant, the mana in the room surged violently. The air vibrated, saturated with energy, before everything converged brutally toward her. The phenomenon lasted only a few seconds, but when it stabilized, the mana had already organized itself around her body.
It took form.
A white garment materialized around her, shaped directly from mana. The fabric—light and almost translucent in places—clung to her form without ever hindering her movements. Icy patterns with pale blue reflections traced the robe like frozen crystals, while delicate ornaments evoked both ceremonial attire and symbolic armor.
Then she slowly drew the katana.
The hilt was an immaculate white, perfectly smooth. The blade itself was a blue of nearly unreal purity, so clear it seemed to reflect the sky itself. She observed the weapon for a few seconds, without excessive admiration, then sheathed it again with the same calm.
Katana in hand, she turned away from the chamber and left.
She wandered through the palace for some time.
The mana flow had dissipated, yet she continued onward, guided by a simple intuition: someone would eventually appear. But as other demons crossed her path, the result was always the same. A brief glance, a moment's hesitation—then their bodies gave out without warning, collapsing to the floor before she even opened her mouth.
She abandoned the idea of questioning them.
Eventually, she stopped before a vast open doorway.
The chamber beyond left no doubt.
It was a throne room.
Gigantic pillars rose on either side, carved from dark, veined stone engraved with ancient symbols. Between them rested golden armors, frozen in martial poses. A deep red carpet stretched the length of the hall, leading to the raised platform upon which stood an enormous seat.
The throne was excessive. Gold, gemstones, intricate engravings—everything about it screamed power, domination, eternity.
She observed it for a few seconds.
Then a faint smile curved her lips.
She advanced without hesitation, climbed the steps, and sat down. The gesture was natural, fluid, as though the throne had never awaited anyone else. She crossed her legs, laid the katana casually across them, then tilted her head, resting her cheek against her hand on the armrest.
After all…
She lifted her gaze slightly, her icy blue eyes lost in the vastness of the hall.
There was no need to continue wandering. The one to whom this throne truly belonged would eventually reveal themselves.