The Limitless Curse (Rewrite taking over the original story)

A World Left in Ruins

The battlefield was silent. Not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, suffocating quiet that follows devastation. The air still carried the lingering scent of ozone and scorched earth, remnants of the divine power unleashed upon the land. Asgardian warriors worked tirelessly to clean up the wreckage, salvaging what they could after the clash with Loki.

Rias and her peerage stood near the remains of the battlefield, exhaustion settling into their bones. The battle was over, yet none of them could fully process what had happened.

Loki had been sealed. Fenrir and his offspring subdued. Victory was theirs, but it didn't feel like it.

Their eyes kept darting toward Y/N, who stood apart from them, his sword sheathed but his presence heavier than ever. He had returned at the most crucial moment, cutting through Hel's forces like a storm of death itself. But none of them could ignore the simple fact—he had disappeared without a word, abandoning them when they needed him most. And now, he was back, stronger than before, but unwilling to explain where he had been.

"You're awfully quiet, Y/N," Azazel remarked, stepping toward him with his usual smirk, though his golden eye gleamed with something sharper—curiosity. "Considering you just returned from the dead, I'd expect some kind of explanation."

Y/N merely exhaled, crossing his arms. "I was never dead."

"Funny, you might as well have been," Issei muttered. "You just vanished, man. No warning, no sign of where you went. And now you come back swinging a sword like you've been a master swordsman this whole time?"

His tone wasn't outright hostile, but there was an edge to it—a frustration that wasn't entirely unjustified. The rest of the ORC, and even Sona and her peerage, stood behind him, waiting for an answer.

Rias crossed her arms, her crimson hair flowing in the wind. "We trusted you, Y/N. But you didn't trust us enough to tell us where you were going."

For a moment, Y/N remained silent. Then, he glanced at his own hand, flexing his fingers as if testing their strength. His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable.

"...It wasn't about trust," he finally said. "It was about necessity."

Azazel's smirk twitched. "Necessity?"

Y/N's eyes narrowed slightly. "I needed to be stronger."

A simple answer. But there was more to it. Everyone could feel it.

Flashback: The Path of the Blade

(Time Unknown)

Y/N collapsed to one knee, his breath ragged. Blood dripped from his knuckles, staining the cracked stone beneath him. His entire body felt like it was being torn apart, muscles screaming in agony.

"Pathetic," a voice sneered.

Before Y/N could react, a blur of motion sent him flying, crashing into the ruins of a shattered temple. Dust filled the air as he struggled to push himself up.

A figure loomed over him, their face hidden in the shadows. Only the gleam of their blade was visible—a blade unlike any Y/N had ever seen before. Its edge pulsed with an eerie glow, shifting between crimson and black like a void devouring light.

"You fight like a wild animal," the figure continued, stepping forward. "Instinct alone will only take you so far. If you wish to truly cut through your enemies, you must become something more than a mere brawler."

Y/N grit his teeth, forcing himself to stand. "And what do you know about me?"

A cold chuckle. "I know enough. Enough to see that you are lost."

The figure lifted their sword, the blade humming with restrained power. "You think strength is just about power. But strength... is precision. Strength is control. Strength is knowing exactly when to cut, and when to hold back."

They lunged.

Y/N barely had time to react before the world blurred, and pain exploded across his chest. He fell to the ground again, gasping. The figure sighed.

"You have potential," they admitted. "But until you understand the blade, you will never become what you are meant to be."

Y/N's vision swam. Yet, through the haze of pain, something clicked.

For years, he had relied on his fists, his instincts, his raw power. But power alone wasn't enough. If he wanted to carve his own path, he needed more. He needed... a weapon worthy of his soul.

His crimson eyes locked onto the shifting blade in his opponent's hand.

"I want to learn," he rasped.

The figure finally smiled.

(Present)

Y/N's fingers traced the hilt of the sword strapped to his waist. The weapon was unlike anything else in the world—crafted from an unknown metal that shimmered between black and deep crimson, as if alive. The blade itself was sleek, elegant, yet carried an ominous aura, its edge so fine it seemed to cut the very air around it.

Carved into the hilt was a single inscription in an ancient, forgotten language. A reminder of what he had endured to obtain it.

The others eyed the weapon warily, especially Azazel, whose analytical mind was already breaking down its properties.

"So, you did train," Azazel muttered. "And judging by that blade, it wasn't with anyone normal."

"Who was your master?" Sona asked, curiosity laced in her otherwise calm tone.

Y/N's grip on the sword tightened slightly.

"That doesn't matter."

A half-truth. He wasn't ready to reveal everything yet. Not now.

Vali smirked. "Hmph. Fine, keep your secrets. But tell me one thing—was it worth it?"

Y/N met his gaze, and for the first time since his return, a small, almost imperceptible smile crossed his lips.

"Yes."

The group eventually dispersed, returning to their separate affairs. Issei still seemed somewhat frustrated, but he didn't press further. Rias, while still wary, seemed willing to let it go—at least for now.

Only Azazel lingered.

"You know," the fallen angel said casually, "You can keep playing the lone wolf act, but it won't last forever. Sooner or later, they'll want real answers."

Y/N said nothing.

Azazel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just don't let whatever you're planning blow up in our faces, alright?"

With that, he turned and walked away.

Y/N remained standing there, staring at the blade in his hands. The weapon that had become an extension of himself.

The past was behind him. But the future?

That was still unwritten.

And he intended to carve his own path—one way or another.