Note: Do not take this fic overly serious. I'm writing purely for the fun of it to see how well I can write. Do be nice with your comments.
--- Seraph the beginning: The X ---
There were things Aleister Crowley never spoke of, not out of secrecy, but out of necessity.
Some memories were not meant to be shared.
Some stories were built not with words, but with silence.
This was one of them.
It began at fifteen, when the boy who would become who he is today entered a quarantined experimental site.
Why he even entered there, he couldn't recall anymore.
However, he was sure there was a reason.
Perhaps it was a destined call that reached out to him.
But that didn't matter.
The facility he'd entered had long since been abandoned by any formal institution, fenced off behind bureaucratic warnings and magical barriers.
Yet he stepped inside anyway.
What happened within those steel walls has never been clearly documented.
Even if the man decided to speak up, it wouldn't really matter.
His words would get twisted into something incomprehensible to others.
Only this was known: he entered and stepped out.
However, when he did, six GCAD scouts stationed nearby—seasoned mages and information gatherers—approached him.
They had attempted to question him and perhaps even sanction him for entering forbidden and highly dangerous grounds.
However, what happened next was strange. Moments after they questioned him, they began to behave strangely.
They were locked in a state that defied every known magical and psychological precedent.
Ideologically null.
They couldn't remember their names, their mission, or even what language was.
Their eyes seemed vacant, and their mouths were slightly ajar, as if they had forgotten how to talk.
When questioned about their purpose, they only responded with silence.
Medical tests yielded no clear answers.
Magical scans returned corrupted results.
What they did confirm was this:
the minds of the six men were not destroyed—it simply never existed....
But that was not all.
Forty-eight hours after the event, two small terrorist faction bases—one on the outskirts of Siberia and
—the other along the southern coast of the Philippines—vanished without a trace.
The buildings were intact, yet they had vanished without a trace. There were no remnants, no bodies, and not even a hint of magical energy or signs of a struggle.
The organizations had just disappeared.
Rumors spread rapidly.
The codename [Unknown] became a secret entry in the GCAD records at that time.
But it didn't take long before he was apprehended.
No, that was not it,
Seven months later, he strolled into the GCAD Quarantine Office.
He wasn't there to cause destruction; he simply walked in with quiet footsteps and vacant eyes.
Witnesses reported that he arrived at the reception area in the dead of night.
"I'm sorry,"
He murmured softly to the receptionist, a junior officer named Yuna Himari, who had since retired due to stress-related issues.
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't wish for this."
He said it again before letting them put the cuffs on him.
They took him to an underground facility built to hold magical anomalies.
But it quickly became obvious that he wasn't the one who needed to be contained; it was everything else around him.
The Quarantine Division didn't teach him how to use his abilities.
They simply couldn't because they couldn't.
After all, his powers surpassed their wildest imaginations.
Instead, they focused on creating environments, simulations, and theory prison.
Both sides were putting themselves through endless trials.
Either way, Aleister would still win.
If they successfully contained him, then it is his win.
And if they didn't, it is not a loss for him either.
They definitely did everything they could to rein in his uncontrollable powers.
They enlisted teachers, librarians, top-notch theorists, and skilled magicians.
These were individuals with deep knowledge and experience, who had devoted their lives to exploring the supernatural.
But none of them came back the same.
Some left in a daze, unable to remember how long they had been there.
Others... simply vanished.
There were no signs of struggle.
No bloodshed.
When the observers opened the containment chamber, it was just empty.
Sometimes, a lone shoe would be left behind. Other times, a notebook soaked with tears, its ink still fresh.
Yet, the Department didn't give up. If they couldn't teach him, they would study him.
If someone like him isn't kept in check, the consequences could be far worse than a thousand people going missing or ten factions vanishing in a single night.
This time, it would be even more catastrophic.
Because of his otherworldly abilities, they gave him the name.
Seraphim.
An ironic title, but one that suited him well, because of that malevolent familiar of his.
But he accepted the name.
And they sent him out.
High-stakes missions. Taking down enemy factions.
Hunting rogue librarians and witches from Lotharingia.
And every time, Seraphim came back. Unharmed. Unblemished.
He was invincible.
The world itself refused his death, something he claimed to have foolishly wished for.
Every attempt to take his own life didn't fail because of a fight against it, but rather because the universe wouldn't allow it.
The moment a death spell reached his skin, it would unwind.
Arrows bent mid-flight.
Swords turned to dust.
Even when he tried to end it all—just once—his blood simply wouldn't flow.
It wasn't about healing or fighting back; it was about being denied.
The world denied his death.
And so, he lived.
Now he was here.
On a floating island built for demons and monsters.
Assigned to observe the Fourth Primogenitor, a being of unmeasured power, prophesied catastrophe, and dangerous freedom.
The Fourth is similar to him. And maybe, just maybe, if it's that individual, then he could...
Seraphim—Aleister Crowley—grinned at the idea.
He had already seen what happened when unchecked power was allowed to fester.
But what fascinated him even more…
Was the potential outcome when two impossibilities finally collided.
He gazed out the window of his temporary abode as twilight draped its long shadow over Itogami Island.
Seraphim flexed his fingers, letting a soft smile slip his lips.
And yet, a whisper in his head echoed louder than thunder.
"I'm sorry."
"K'hter Sahadutha."
He still recalled uttering those words.
The world just never bothered to ask why.