Chapter Text
Okay. First of all? What the actual hell?
I wake up to nothing but cold, crushing silence. And when I say silence, I mean absolute, soul-suffocating, vacuum-of-space level silence. No wind, no rustling leaves, no birds chirping, no background hum of existence. Just... void. The kind of silence that makes you question whether your ears are even working or if the universe itself just hit the mute button on reality.
My eyes snap open, and—oh. Oh no.
Gray, barren wasteland. Craters, dust, jagged rocks. A complete and utter lack of anything remotely resembling life. It's desolate, empty, and just looking at it makes my brain short-circuit.
Then, as if the horror needs to really sink in, I glance up. And there it is. The Earth. Floating in the distance like some smug cosmic wallpaper. Blue, green, swirling with clouds, looking all majestic and peaceful. You know, the exact opposite of where I currently am.
This has to be a dream, right? A really, really vivid, borderline cruel dream? Maybe I fell asleep watching some space documentary, and my brain just decided to throw me into a full-blown sci-fi horror scenario for funsies.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath—except, wait. I don't need to breathe. There's no oxygen here, yet I'm not gasping or dying. I'm just... existing. Huh. That's weird.
Okay. Focus. What do I know?
One: I am definitely on the Moon.
Two: I am not dead. (Always a plus.)
Three: I am also not suffocating, freezing, or experiencing my blood boiling from exposure to the vacuum of space. (Even bigger plus.)
Four: I should be freaking out more than I currently am, which suggests either shock, brain damage, or something much, much weirder is going on.
And that's when I finally look down.
Oh.
Oh what the hell.
This... is not my body.
I mean, technically, it is my body because I'm the one inside it, but it is very much not the one I went to sleep with. Or the one I've had my entire life. Or even one that should be physically possible.
Now, I wasn't exactly an Instagram model in my past life. I was normal. Completely average. The kind of person who debated for half an hour over getting a gym membership only to go once and then let the payments auto-renew for six months while I ignored my responsibilities. But this? This body I have now?
This is some next-level, divinely engineered, top-tier waifu material.
My breasts? Massive. Heavy. They exist in that weird realm where logic and physics have simply given up, hanging on to reality by the flimsiest excuse imaginable. My hips? Goddess-tier wide. Child-bearing, dominatrix-commanding, absolute thunder hips. My thighs? Thick enough to save lives. If someone ever got caught between them, I'm pretty sure I could squeeze them into the next dimension.
My skin is smooth, impossibly flawless, and glowing faintly under the lunar light like I'm some kind of ethereal goddess of temptation. It's the kind of skin people pay thousands to achieve, and here I am, just existing with it.
I flex experimentally, and oh. Oh. A delicious shudder of power courses through me. It feels like I could punch a crater into the Moon if I really wanted to. And honestly? The temptation is strong. Just one little punch, see how far I could send a chunk of lunar rock flying into the void—
No. Focus. One existential crisis at a time.
I reach up, running a hand through my hair—long, silky black strands that cascade down my back like some kind of shampoo commercial on steroids. It's ridiculous. Too thick, too perfect. It flows like liquid, shimmering ever so slightly as if even my hair has decided to become dramatic.
Then I catch my reflection in a nearby shiny rock—because apparently, Moon rocks make excellent mirrors—and oh, well that's just excessive.
Violet eyes. Violet. Not brown, not hazel, not even a nice, comforting blue. No, I've got eyes that scream, "This woman is either a goddess or the final boss of a JRPG."
And somehow, somehow, all of this takes a backseat to the realization that I am very much naked.
Like, completely.
A lesser woman might have panicked. Might have curled up into a ball and tried to process the absurdity of her situation. But no. Not me. Because apparently, my instincts have also gotten an upgrade. Before I can even decide to do anything, shadows ripple around me like liquid night. They coil and weave over my body, wrapping me in something that is, in a word, scandalous.
First, the boots—thigh-high, glossy black, clicking against the lunar dust like the footsteps of doom. They fit like they were custom-made, which, considering they materialized from the void, they probably were. Then, fingerless gloves stretch up to my biceps, framed with elegant golden filigree that practically screams battle-ready dominatrix.
And the outfit just gets worse—or better, depending on how you look at it.
A thong—because of course, a thong—settles low on my hips, whisper-thin, designed by the eldritch gods of temptation themselves. My chest? Covered. Barely. Black pasties adorned with glowing golden sigils settle over my breasts, doing absolutely nothing in terms of modesty. Honestly, I think they might be there for decoration more than anything else.
The final touch? Shoulder pauldrons. Because nothing says "divine warrior of justice and questionable fashion choices" like shoulder armor with nothing else to back it up.
And then—oh, hell yes.
Twelve. Massive. Black wings explode from my back in a flurry of feathers. They stretch wide, powerful and commanding, casting an ominous shadow over the lunar surface. I have wings. I have wings.
This is ridiculous. This is amazing.
At this point, I should probably be asking important questions. How did I get here? What do I do now? Who the hell decided to give me this body? But all I can manage is a slow, satisfied smirk.
I am no mere mortal.
And then, like a slap from reality, the memories hit me.
I remember now.
The void. The bored bureaucrat flipping through endless paperwork. The Multiversal Reincarnation Office, where souls like mine apparently get a second shot at existence under the watchful, indifferent gaze of cosmic HR.
"Pick a power, pick a form, and get thrown into a random world," the faceless clerk had said, shuffling papers like he was about two minutes from quitting his job and committing insurance fraud.
And me? Well, I had made a choice.
Raguelle. The Fallen Archangel of Justice and Vengeance from DXD. A being of divine wrath, holy power, and very questionable outfit choices.
Now, I had been dropped into the universe with no instruction manual, no tutorial, and apparently, no concern for my personal convenience.
I look up at Earth, floating in the distance, all innocent and blue like it didn't just leave me stranded here without so much as a "Good luck, sucker."
I roll my shoulders. My wings stretch, the feathers rippling in the nonexistent lunar wind. I test a flap. Then another. Power thrums through my body, and I can feel the strength waiting to be unleashed.
No point standing around like a confused anime protagonist.
I take a deep breath—purely out of habit, because turns out, I don't need to breathe anymore.
Then, with a smirk, I bend my knees, stretch my wings, and leap.
Time to make an entrance.
There are a few things they don't tell you about flying through space. First, it's cold. Like, absolute zero, "your nipples could cut glass" kind of cold. Not that I can feel it, but the thought crosses my mind. Second, there's no sound, which means I don't even get to hear the epic whoosh I was expecting as I rocket through the void. And third, there is a distinct and horrifying lack of gravity-based common sense.
Because the moment I start flapping my wings? Yeah, I realize physics is a scam.
I don't just glide. I don't even just fly. I absolutely YEET myself toward Earth like an overenthusiastic RPG character on max stats. One flap sends me rocketing forward at speeds that I'm pretty sure should turn me into angelic paste against the atmosphere.
I brace myself as I slam into the upper layers of Earth's air like a meteor. Flames burst around me, the friction of re-entry painting me in a trail of golden fire. If anyone is watching from below, I probably look like an avenging goddess descending to smite the wicked. Or a particularly angry shooting star.
As I breach the clouds, I finally get a view of my landing zone.
Oh.
Oh no.
It's a city. A massive, sprawling metropolis with gleaming skyscrapers, bustling streets, and approximately seven billion people who are not ready for what's about to happen.
Panic sets in. I have zero experience with controlled landings. Or landings, period. In my past life, the only thing I ever landed was an unpaid internship. And that crashed and burned too.
My wings flare out instinctively, trying to slow my descent, but at this speed, it's like trying to stop a freight train with a wet napkin.
The impact is spectacular. I crash straight into the middle of a busy intersection, sending cars flying, asphalt cracking beneath me, and probably giving every pedestrian within a mile radius the worst day of their lives. Dust and smoke rise in a dramatic plume around me, and as it clears, I find myself in the center of a newly-formed crater, surrounded by horrified onlookers.
Well.
That could've gone worse.
I stand up, brushing debris off my ridiculously impractical outfit. My wings fold behind me, and I scan the crowd. Dozens of people stare, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. Some are holding up their phones, recording what I'm sure will be the next viral sensation titled "Half-Naked Angel Crashes Into Downtown."
A guy in a business suit drops his coffee. A kid tugs on his mom's sleeve, pointing at me with the universal expression of "Mom, what the heck is that?" A cop, who was clearly two days from retirement, reaches for his radio with a look that screams, "I do not get paid enough for this."
I clear my throat. "Uh. Hi?"
Silence.
I try again. "Sorry about the… you know." I gesture vaguely at the destruction. "Unscheduled arrival."
More silence. A distant car alarm wails mournfully.
Then, from the crowd, a single voice.
"Yo, is that an Endbringer?"
The dam breaks.
People start shouting. Some are panicking. Most others are screaming as they run for the hills.
I sigh. This is going to be a problem.
Before anyone gets any bright ideas about detaining me, I do the only logical thing.
I launch myself into the sky again, leaving another mini-crater in my wake. Sorry, taxpayers. I'll send a fruit basket later.
I land on top of a skyscraper, catching my breath. Not that I need to breathe, but old habits die hard.
Alright. Time to figure this out.
One, I am definitely in some version of Earth, because I recognize the Empire State Building.
Two, my powers are no joke. If I can yeet myself from the Moon and survive re-entry like it's a minor inconvenience, I am officially terrifying.
Three, I have absolutely no idea what the hell I'm supposed to do now.
My stomach growls. Huh. Turns out, fallen archangels get hungry. Good to know.
I glance down at the city below. I should probably get some food, figure out my next steps, and avoid causing an international incident. Or, at the very least, avoid getting tackled by whatever government agency is definitely already mobilizing.
With a sigh, I spread my wings and take off.
Time to find a diner.