My Unique Skill Is Fate Gacha[DxD]

If we reach 600 Power Stones, I’ll post another extra Chapter!

Also, I have some great news for my Patreon supporters! Soon, there will be a massive release of 10 Chapters of my High School DxD story, bringing the total number of advanced Chapters available to 30 Chapters, as I will be posting up to Chapter 100!

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Nobunaga had a strange sensation just as she was starting to fall asleep. After spending practically the entire night completely engrossed in playing DOOM Eternal, discovering with immense satisfaction how fun it was to blow up demons with an arsenal of modern weapons, she finally decided to rest a bit. However, as soon as she closed her eyes, she felt as if her consciousness was being pulled toward some distant place.

It was not an ordinary dream.

It was as if her mind had been transported into someone else’s memories.

When she regained awareness of her surroundings, she found herself facing an unfamiliar landscape enveloped in a thin mist. Everything seemed distant, slightly blurred, like an old memory being relived through someone else’s eyes.

In the center of that scene, there was a little boy.

He could not have been more than five or six years old. His dark hair was short and slightly messy, and his blue eyes carried a strange mixture of curiosity and loneliness that did not suit someone so young. The boy remained standing in silence, looking toward the horizon as if waiting for someone who would never arrive.

Nobunaga frowned slightly.

"...Who are you?"

Her voice echoed in that strange space.

The boy, however, did not react. It was as if he could not even hear her. At that moment, Nobunaga understood that this was not a dream created by her own mind; she was observing a memory, brought forth by the dream cycle formed through the connection she shared with her Master. Still, something did not make sense. Why did he look so different? Although his facial features somewhat resembled Alear’s current appearance, the color of his hair and eyes was completely different — as if she were looking at the same person... and yet, at someone entirely distinct.

Suddenly, the entire misty landscape began to dissolve. The horizon disappeared like smoke carried by the wind, and the world around her was quickly reconstructed before Nobunaga’s eyes.

When the vision finally stabilized, she found herself inside a small house.

It was an extremely simple, almost miserable residence. The walls had cracks, the wooden floor was worn by time, and the few pieces of furniture were old and improvised. There were patches everywhere, as if every object in that house had been repaired countless times before continuing to be used.

In the center of the small room, the little boy was sitting on an old mattress.

Now it was possible to see him clearly.

His face was covered in small bruises. His lower lip was split, there was a cut near his eyebrow, and his arms and legs displayed various purplish marks that could hardly have been caused by a simple fall.

Beside him, a young woman carefully cleaned his wounds with a damp cloth.

She appeared to be a little over twenty years old.

Despite her delicate beauty, her face conveyed deep exhaustion. Her long black hair was disheveled, and her own arms showed recent bruises. There was a slight swelling near her left eye, in addition to purplish marks scattered across her neck and wrists, as if she too had been brutally beaten.

Her hands trembled as she passed the cloth over the boy’s face.

"...I’m sorry..."

Her voice came out low, almost broken.

"...I’m sorry, my love... I... I couldn’t stop it..."

A tear slid silently down her face before falling onto the cloth.

"...It’s my fault..."

The little boy blinked a few times.

Then, despite the bruises and the evident pain, he opened a small smile.

A gentle smile.

The kind that no child in that situation should be capable of making.

He slowly raised one of his small hands and gently touched his mother’s face.

"Mommy..."

His voice was weak, but full of affection.

"You don’t need to apologize..."

She froze.

"...The one who was supposed to protect you was me..."

The boy lowered his head for a moment, seeming genuinely frustrated with himself.

"...But I couldn’t..."

"I’m weak..."

The tears the woman had been trying to hold back finally overflowed.

She immediately hugged him, wrapping her arms tightly around his small body, as if she wanted to protect him from the entire world.

"No... Don’t say that..."

Her voice broke between sobs.

"You’re just a child..."

"You should never have to protect anyone..."

Nobunaga remained completely still. Her chest tightened in a way she had not expected. She had already witnessed battlefields covered in corpses, entire cities reduced to ashes, and countless deaths throughout her life. Even so, seeing that boy — so small — sincerely believing he had failed because he couldn’t protect his own mother... stirred a strange feeling in her heart.

The door to one of the adjacent rooms opened with a creak. A fat, middle-aged man staggered out. His protruding belly swayed with every step, his dirty shirt open revealing his hairy, sweaty chest. The stench of cheap alcohol invaded the room, mixing with the musty smell of the house. His bloodshot eyes scanned the room with contempt.

"Tsk... Useless fucking woman..." he spat, his voice hoarse and slurred from alcohol. "Still there cleaning up this little shit?"

The man looked at the boy sitting on the mattress and wrinkled his nose.

"And you, you useless piece of shit? Just sitting there like an idiot. If it weren’t for me, you two would already be on the street starving. Learn to be grateful, you bastard..."

The woman, the boy’s mother, visibly shrank. Her shoulders trembled as she tried to protect her son with her own body.

"Please... he’s just a child..." she murmured, her voice weak.

The man let out a cruel, cold laugh.

"A child? He’s old enough to stop being a burden. Now get that ass up and go to the room. You know very well how to serve me properly to make up for how much of a parasite the two of you are..."

He grabbed her arm brutally, yanking her up without any gentleness. The woman let out a muffled groan of pain but did not resist. Before being dragged into the room, she looked back one last time, her eyes full of guilt and despair.

The bedroom door closed with a dull thud.

The little boy was left completely alone in the main room. Sitting on the old mattress, he stared at the closed door with eyes that no longer seemed childlike. There was a deep rage there, a pure and silent hatred that burned slowly in his small chest. His tiny fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

He remained silent, listening to the first muffled sounds coming from the room — the man’s hoarse voice giving orders, the sound of clothes being torn off, and then... his mother’s moans of pain.

The boy’s small body shuddered. Without saying a word, he raised his hands and pressed them firmly over his ears, pushing his palms against the sides of his head until it hurt. His blue eyes, now empty of any childish emotion, fixed on the cracked floor of the house.

Nobunaga watched the entire scene in silence. The image of that small boy trying to block out the world with his own hands awakened something fierce inside her — a mixture of fury and a strange sense of protectiveness.

The vision began to flicker again, as if the memory was about to shift to another scene. And that was exactly what happened.

Now Nobunaga was watching the same little boy walking down a narrow, dirty street in a poor neighborhood. He wore an old, faded school uniform that was too big for his frail body. The backpack on his back seemed heavy for someone his age. His dark hair was messy, and recent bruises still marked his face and arms.

It was morning. Other children walked in groups, laughing loudly, playing and pushing each other. Whenever they saw him approaching, however, they instinctively moved away, forming an invisible circle around him. Some whispered among themselves:

"It’s that boy again..."

"They say his father is always drunk..."

"He’s hurt again..."

The words were not spoken out of malice; they were just children repeating what they heard from adults. Even so, it was enough to raise an invisible barrier between them and the boy, condemning him to a lonely childhood without friends.

At school, the situation was no different. During recess, while the other children ran around the courtyard, played, or talked in small groups, he remained seated alone in a distant corner, slowly eating a small piece of bread that his mother had managed to provide. Some classmates cast curious or even pitying glances in his direction, but no one took the initiative to approach him.

Whenever a teacher asked about the new bruises that appeared almost every day, he answered in exactly the same way, in a low voice completely devoid of emotion:

"...I fell down the stairs."

The adults exchanged glances among themselves, clearly realizing that the explanation made no sense. Even so, no one pressed the issue. Pretending to believe it was much easier than getting involved.

When the bell announced the end of classes, the other children ran to meet their parents or left accompanied by their friends. The little boy, however, simply put on his backpack and began the walk home alone.

And when he returned home, hell was already waiting for him.

The little boy had just entered. He barely had time to close the door when the fat man, clearly drunk once again, struggled to his feet from the old sofa.

"You’re back, you useless piece of shit?" he growled...

Without any warning, he delivered a violent kick to the boy’s stomach, sending his small body flying several meters until it slammed against the wall. The little boy fell to the floor, curled up, coughing in pain, but without letting out a single cry.

"This is so you learn not to be a dead weight! Your mother is working to support you, you shit!"

Another kick came.

Then another.

The man kicked him as if he were an old ball, making his body roll from side to side across the dirty floor. When he finally got tired of kicking, he started punching him. They were heavy, clumsy blows, hitting his shoulders, back, and face without any mercy. The boy protected his head with his arms but did not cry. He did not beg. He simply endured everything in silence, his blue eyes filled with cold and silent hatred.

At one point, his mother arrived and tried to intervene, placing herself between them. In response, she received a slap so strong that she was thrown against the table, falling to the floor. All she could do was cry, helpless, while watching her own son continue to be beaten.

"..." Nobunaga watched the entire scene, powerless to do anything. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her nails dug deep into her palms.

The mist flickered once more, and the scene changed again.

The little boy now appeared to be nine or ten years old. His body was still small and thin, but his blue eyes had almost completely lost their childish sparkle. He was sitting beside his mother, both hunched over the old kitchen table. On the floor was a worn suitcase, already partially filled with some clothes and the little money the woman had managed to save in secret.

"...Tonight..." the mother whispered, her voice trembling but determined. "When he goes out drinking, we’ll leave. We’ll catch the last bus at the station. I already asked a friend for help... she said she can hide us for a few days..."

The boy nodded silently, squeezing her hand. For the first time in a long while, a faint gleam of hope appeared in his eyes.

"I’ll protect you this time, Mom..." he murmured softly.

The mother smiled sadly and stroked his hair.

"No, my love. This time... we’ll protect each other."

They waited until they heard the front door slam, indicating that the man had gone out for another night of drinking. They grabbed the suitcase and left the house through the back door, walking hurriedly down the dark street.

But they didn’t get very far.

The man had forgotten his wallet and returned home much earlier than expected.

When he saw them on the street carrying the suitcase, his face twisted in pure fury.

"You sons of bitches...! Trying to run away?!"

He ran after the two. The mother tried to protect her son, but the man was much stronger. He brutally grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back inside the house with one hand, while with the other he grabbed the little boy by the neck and threw him to the floor with a violent punch.

"You ungrateful whore! After everything I’ve done for you!" he roared, delivering punches and kicks against the woman.

She fell, got up, and tried to protect her son, but it was completely useless. The man threw her against the wall and began to tear her clothes off brutally, exposing her body covered in old and new bruises.

"I’m going to remind you of your place..." he growled, unbuckling his belt while holding her down on the floor.

The little boy, lying in the corner of the room, watched everything. His blue eyes burned with pure, incandescent hatred. At that moment, something inside him simply broke.

Staggering, he stood up, picked up an empty glass bottle from the floor and, without hesitating for a single second, ran toward the man.

"DON’T TOUCH MY MOM!!!"

With all the strength his small body could muster, he violently struck the bottle against the man’s head.

CRACK!

The sound of the glass breaking echoed throughout the house. The man staggered as blood immediately began to flow down his face. He turned with eyes wide with surprise and fury, but the boy struck him again, driving the shards of the bottle into his head. Then again. And again.

Until the man collapsed heavily onto the floor, his skull cracked and a dark pool of blood slowly spreading around his head.

Silence.

The mother, with her clothes torn and her entire body trembling, stared at her son with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

The little boy let what remained of the bottle slip from his hand. His small hands were covered in blood. He breathed heavily, keeping his eyes fixed on the man’s motionless body.

Then, as if waking from a nightmare, the mother dragged herself to her son, ignoring her own torn clothes and the new bruises scattered across her body. She wrapped him tightly in her arms, pulling him against her chest.

"My love... my love..." she whispered between sobs, trembling from head to toe. "It’s okay... it’s okay now... you protected me... you saved me..."

The little boy remained still for a few moments, his small hands still covered in blood. Gradually, however, his body relaxed within that embrace. He buried his face in his mother’s shoulder and stayed there in silence. He did not cry. He simply breathed in her familiar scent while, a few meters away, the attacker’s body began to grow cold on the floor.

The following hours turned into a chaotic blur.

It was the mother herself who called the police. When the officers arrived, they found a scene impossible to ignore: the dead man, the woman and the boy covered in old and recent bruises, in addition to countless marks that revealed years of domestic violence. The neighbors’ statements, the accumulated medical records over the years, and the history of abuse were more than enough to clarify what had happened.

The case was officially treated as self-defense.

In the following weeks, the little boy began receiving intensive psychological care. Long sessions with a psychologist who patiently tried to help him release the anger, fear, and guilt he had carried since so early. He spoke very little. Most of the time he answered only in monosyllables or remained silent. Even so, he never refused the treatment, mainly because it was his mother’s request — she always watched him with eyes full of concern and guilt.

The mist flickered again, and time passed in quick flashes.

The little boy grew up. At fourteen or fifteen years old, he had become a tall and thin teenager, with constantly messy dark hair and blue eyes that carried a silent melancholy, marked by a deep feeling of loneliness.

He had no friends.

The small old television and the simple computer that his mother had managed to buy after much effort became his world. He spent hours immersed in stories of heroes who protected those they loved, of people who overcame their traumas and found the strength to move forward. For a few hours, that allowed him to forget the poverty of the house and the weight of the past he carried...

His mother watched him with a mixture of affection and concern. She worked tirelessly to support the two of them, but she always made sure to set aside some time to sit beside him, watch an episode together, or ask about the game he was playing.

"Are you okay, my love?" she would sometimes ask, gently stroking his hair.

He would answer with a small smile — the same gentle smile he had shown when he was just a child.

"I’m fine, Mom. Don’t worry..."

The vision began to slowly dissolve, becoming increasingly hazy.

Nobunaga’s consciousness returned to her body. She opened her eyes in the dark room of the Häagenti mansion, feeling her heart beating rapidly.

"...Master..."

The name escaped her lips completely unconsciously. She herself did not realize she had called him that. A strangely familiar sensation welled up in her chest, accompanied by the vague and blurred image of someone who seemed to exist far beyond that memory. Complex emotions, difficult to explain, flooded her heart — so intense that they made her eyes sting, as if she were about to cry for someone she did not even remember knowing.

Her expression hardened.

She remained silent for long moments.

Why... did she have the strange feeling that she knew Alear?