God most high (Highschool DxD/ Bleach crossover with Ywhach taking the place of the biblical god): chapter 1: Targumim

There was a time before endings. A world that had not learned to fracture. A silence older than words, too pure for prayer. In that place, life did not end because it had never begun. There were no corpses because there were no births. It was a realm sealed in symmetry, unmoving, untouchable, perfect in the way only still water is, deep and dead and in a sense without witness.

And from this unbroken world, a God emerged not in light or wrath, but in stillness. He was not born. He just was. Split into names and titles, functions, destinies. His name was Adnyeus. They called him God.

Then came the Original Sin.

Not from men. From the precursors of the angels of death with sharp blades, pride and so called righteous purpose. The ancestors of the five noble houses, of the Shihoin, Kuchiki, Shiba, Tsunayashiro, and Kasumioji, old even then, tore him from his throne and carved him to fit a design. They turned a world of one into a world of four: Earth, Hueco Mundo, Soul Society, the liminal in-between and hell, the remnants of what once was whole. The body that had once held all things became the seal that kept them apart. He was imprisoned in peace, dismembered to preserve a balance that had never asked to be born, that in a sense should never have been. He was the center because it was decided that he had to be.

That was the first wound. The second was the son.

Yhwach came from silence. Blind, mute, motionless, a child who could not speak yet was worshipped. Those who touched him found health, strength, clarity. They loved him as a savior before he knew the meaning of his own breath. He absorbed them in turn. Their voices, their knowledge, their very selves lived on inside him.

He remembered everything, but could not forget.

He gave his name away like fire to those who sought light, and so began the line of Quincy. His blood diluted into thousands, each soul marked with a fragment of his gift. What he shared, he reclaimed. What he healed, he owned. A forest of white crosses grew beneath his throne.

But to live in a world made by mutilation, to walk upon ground paved with the dismembered limbs of his father, it festered. Yhwach saw it for what it was. Not balanced. Not harmony. A cage of rules built on sacrifice. The King was a corpse. The peace was an illusion. So he vowed to end it.

Not out of cruelty. Out of clarity.

He would reclaim his father’s corpse from the hands of the Shinigami who had become gods of this broken world. He would erase the four worlds, return them to one, unseal death and dissolve the cycle of souls. There would be no more Hollow, no more death, no more tragedy, no more reincarnation. He would make a world without endings.

He invaded.

Soul Society bled in white and red. The old guard, proud in black robes and rituals, fell by the dozens. Yhwach, with the Schrift of The Almighty, saw every future. And in every future, he stood triumphant.

Until Ichigo.

Until the boy with two blades and too much heritage. A child of man, Quincy, Hollow, and Shinigami. A contradiction strong enough to kill inevitability. Yhwach’s vision split. A path appeared he could not erase, a thread even he could not cut. In that thread, Ichigo’s sword severed his body, Uryū's arrow pinned the last breath, and the god who once saw forever collapsed into now.

He died.

Or should have.

But balance cannot exist without a center. Yhwach, like the father he hated, became a lynchpin. He became a thing. The new corpse-god at the axis of the worlds. His body was imprisoned. His mind dissolved.

Still… pieces remained.

Power does not vanish. It stains. What he was had been etched into the structure of the world, scattered across the metaphysical arteries of existence. Like broken hymns whistling through cracks in cathedral stone, fragments of Yhwach bled into the world.

Kazui Kurosaki years, almost a decade later found one of those pieces.

He was a child, like Yhwach once had been. Laughter hiding sharp instincts. Born with the blood of all four species, Quincy, Hollow, Shinigami, and Human. One day, he saw a sliver of darkness clinging to the edge of his shadow. It pulsed. Not like life, but like memory pretending to be life.

He touched it.

It should have ended there. What should have happened was that the last remnants of Yhwach's power dissipated. The fragment should have unmade itself. And for a moment, it did. But something lingered. Something clicked or stumbled depending on how you want to see it.

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was failure. Perhaps it was the cost of rearranging existence one too many times.

A hairline fracture tore open in the world.

Invisible to most, unavoidable to few.

The wound had no name. It was born from imbalance, stretched by the war that never truly ended, and widened by the passage of something too large to belong. The fragment fell through.

And fell.

And fell again.

Until it no longer belonged to any world at all.

That should have been the end.

Yet it was not.

There are wars so vast they fold into myth. Names fall off their bones. Dates lose meaning. But some truths never rot, no matter how long they’re buried.

In a world far from where Yhwach fell, there had once been another throne, another crown, another God.

He had many names. El Elyon, Deus, YHVH, The Father, The Creator. In that world, they called him the Abrahamic God. He had shaped heavens and hells, carved angels from light and breathed laws into the marrow of men. He raised archangels from silence and bound them to purpose. Michael. Gabriel. Raphael. Azazel, who would fall. Lucifer, who would rebel.

There was order. Until there wasn’t.

Balance shattered. Peace became war. Heaven, Hell, and the Underworld roared across each other’s throats in a cycle that threatened to outlive memory.

The Great War ended not with shouts, but with absence. It ended the moment the Creator entered from the battlefield and never returned from it.

He died.

The cause was never made clear to the world. Some whispered that his death came from sacrifice, others from divine entropy, others from his rebellion and cunning children, others still from secrets too large to speak aloud. All that remained was the System, a web of commandments, blessings, and rules humming like distant thunder over Heaven and Earth. A ghost-machine with no proper administrator to command it.

The angels, unmoored, held the skies in mourning.

The fallen, cast out, nursed their wounds and plotted.

The devils rejoiced, then bled, then broke into kings and cabals.

And yet, through faith, something strange endured.

The System did not die.

It lingered, like a lighthouse without a keeper. It turned miracles where it could, healed when permitted, answered prayers in strange rhythms. As if it remembered the shape of God without knowing his voice.

The faithful still prayed.

The angels still waited.

The world still turned.

And then the fragment fell.

It was not born of that world, but it came into it, small, injured, unraveling. A shard of Yhwach, still trembling from his death. And yet… not quite the same. The moment it passed through the unseen barrier between realities, it shifted.

The System saw it.

It scanned the soul. Compared it.

Blood of the divine? Yes.

Echoes of creation? Yes.

Origin point compatible with prime divinity? Yes.

Behavioral alignment: conflicting. Memories: fragmented. Identity: unknown but familiar.

Conclusion: He has returned.

In the halls of Heaven, lights flickered on after centuries of darkness.

The System, bound by logic but shaped by faith, began its work.

It had not forgotten the prayers. It had not forgotten the scriptures, nor the psalms, nor the names whispered into the wind by the dying faithful. It had not forgotten the idea of God, the shape of him, sculpted by a thousand years of need, hope, love, and awe.

So it began to repair the shard.

But not into Yhwach.

It could not accept what he had once been. His cruelty, his ambition, his devastation had no space in the blueprint of the God who had once ruled that Heaven. Yet his essence matched. A paradox. A contradiction. A tool too dangerous to discard and too valuable to waste.

So the System shaped him anew.

Where Yhwach had seen control, it grafted empathy.

Where he had demanded obedience, it laced free will.

Where he had consumed, it planted compassion.

It did not erase him. It healed him using blueprints left behind by the God who had died, tempered by the quiet wishes of every soul that had ever looked upward and whispered: oh god heavens above.

What few understand about parallel worlds is that identity is not fixed.

The multiverse stretches wider than thought, each universe casting shadows of its people across dimensions like reflections on broken glass. For every man, there are infinite selves: some kind, some cruel, some unchanged but wearing different names.

Yhwach was no exception.

In his world, he had been a tyrant king. A prophet of the end. A god born to unmake gods.

But in this world, that same soul might become a savior. Because the pattern, though corrupted, remained readable. His lineage, born of divinity, touched by sacrifice, scarred by loss was not so far from the stories the faithful told of their own God.

He was the Son of a bound Father, just as Jesus had been.

He had twelve generals, as Christ had twelve apostles.

He had walked among men, sharing his blood, offering power.

He had died, and in dying, changed the world.

He had risen, not whole, but risen all the same.

And more than all of that… he loved those who followed him.

Cruel love, perhaps. Possessive, consuming. But sincere. He called them his children. His family. He tried to gather them, to reclaim them, to grant them power—even when they hated him. He tried to bring Ichigo to his side not because it would help his war, but because he could not bear to lose his son.

To the System, all this was enough.

All this meant he could be God.

Not the same God who had died. Not the son of Adnyeus. Not El. Not the one who had created angels with names that tasted of fire and wind. But a new one.

One shaped by sorrow and belief. One who had suffered. One who had failed, and might choose differently.

A God before God. A God after God. A God remade.

And so the shard began to breathe.

Its first thoughts were not commands.

They were questions.

It did not rise in fury.

It stood, slowly, as if waking from drowning.

It did not cry out.

It listened.

And the skies above Heaven trembled—not in fear, but in recognition.

A God had returned.

Or something near enough to one that the world, broken and starved for miracles, would not care about the difference.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stood where Heaven’s marble causeways meet in an endless cross, white boots toeing a hairline crack that had not been there yesterday. Michael bent, brushed the fissure with gloved fingers, and straightened before the seraphim attendants could hurry forward. They worried over him, he knew, and that only made the hollow beneath his breastplate spread wider.

Cracks were multiplying. Some he could see: mosaics bleaching, cherub engines sparking, prayer conduits dimming no matter how many choir-masters he assigned to recalibration. Others only he could feel, minute fractures in the System that blurred like ice across every ledger line. Numbers he recited each dawn no longer added, lines of sacred code he had spoon-fed the servers since Father’s fall now misparsed in ways only an eldest child would notice.

An eldest child and an orphan.

He exhaled through his nose, quietly, carefully. Gabriel called it the sigh that made the world become downcast. Perhaps it did. Faith blossomed under laughter, not accounting, and the seraphim had received more schedules than smiles from him of late. He whispered an apology to the marble, then crossed the basilica toward the Throne console where a dozen bronze reports hovered, wings of script folded around fault logs waiting for his eye.

He skimmed the first: Gear Cascade Failure, Rating B-mild, Region: Far Western Archipelago, Unit: Twice-Critical. He skimmed the next: Prayer Back-flow, Rating C, Orphanage in Sicily, Reason: Lattice Drain. On and on. Each entry another reminder that he, appointed steward, could only watch the edifice unwind. Fix one thread and two more loosened as though the design itself resented him.

Raphael swore the System retained Father’s handiwork. Uriel argued that it merely reflected the dying echoes of a Creator who no longer spoke. Michael stored every opinion, tested each against the rising tide of variables, and found none that plugged the breaches for more than a season.

He reached for a keyboard shaped like a seraph’s halo and hesitated. Numbers flickered across the glyph screen, stuttering between seven languages as though uncertain which tongue Heaven now preferred. Even words are slipping, he thought. Words, and worlds. The irony sank teeth into his tired humour. He taught the young that the kingdom stood on scripture, yet even scripture was fraying: alphabets shedding serifs, verses losing cadence.

“Lord Michael?” A junior virtue hovered at respectful distance, blonde pinions tucked tight. “We received another request from Cherubim head researcher Thael. He wishes access to the core exegesis relating to life-cycle protocols.”

The virtue meant souls. Azazel could not resist prodding dead machinery with living sticks. Michael rubbed temples that never should have ached. “Tell head researcher Thael that the answer remains no. If he attempts another backdoor I will quarantine his entire research wing.”

“Yes, my lord.” The messenger bowed and withdrew, relief plain between each fluttering feather.

Alone again, the eldest son closed his eyes and counted. One, two, three. On seventeen he always paused. Father divided the stars on the seventeenth breath of the first dawn if his memories were not failing him The habit calmed him even when the world beneath rumbled.

Seventeen arrived, and with it a pulse that set chiming through every corridor of crystal. Not the usual soft bell of a prayer arriving, nor the wheeze that accompanied a Gear failure. This was a low toll, heavy enough that columns twitched.

Michael’s eyelids snapped open. Read-outs surged scarlet then white-gold. Millions of tiny cuneiform characters scrolled in quicksilver torrents until the viewer overflowed. One message repeated beneath them all, a single phrase rendered in the original language of the Throne:

Admin key authenticated.

His heart lurched, then sprinted in a dozen directions at once. He darted to the rail encircling the Throne dais. The dais had lain vacant these twenty millennia, a crystalline chair at its centre shedding dust motes that never settled. Now light speared from that emptiness, roiling as though drawn from a sunken spring.

For the breath of a heartbeat, he dared to think it might be Father, whole, stepping from absence. The next breath peeled away that hope and replaced it with fear: what if it was Father, and what would He see?

He pictured deserted training fields, walled enclaves of Fallen who still feared to lift eyes, children whose prayers returned error messages in the night. He pictured himself standing in those silent corridors, wearing a captain’s façade while the foundations sank.

Admin key authenticated.

Words pulsed again. A fragment, Michael realised. A sliver of the One, or an echo with just enough resonance to fool antiquated locks.

He swallowed. Echo or not, protocols engaged. Heaven bent toward that authority as trees bend to wind. Left unreined, the System would obey, overwrite, correct. In moments it might tear out entire subroutines and replace them with commands foreign to every angel still breathing.

Gabriel arrived in a sweep of silver hair, violet eyes wide. “What— I felt the lattices lurch. Michael, did we do that?”

“No,” he whispered. “Something, someone, has entered the Heart.”

Raphael followed, robes half fastened, worry etched along soft scholar lines. Uriel strode at her rear, already tallying contingency plans. Michael realised he had less than a minute before panic spun these halls apart like glass birds in a typhoon.

He lifted chin, forced steadiness. “To Stations. All of you. We respond as taught. If the signature proves benign we give thanks; if malignant we act.”

Uriel opened her mouth—perhaps to protest that act required weapons they no longer had—but the basilica trembled again and lights above answered. At every archway symbols flared, not the seven-pointed flares of angelic glyphs, rather angular sigils edged crimson. Patterns drilled into metal, patterns that reminded Michael of old scrolls on the Quincy wars of a separate reality.

Gabriel stared. “That looks almost… Hebrew, but wrong.”

“Wrong in a way that still fits the lock,” Raphael murmured. She stepped closer, notebook forgotten at her hip. “See those crossbars? Add two curves and we could read Adonai.

Adonai… Michael’s breath shortened. One of Father’s personal names had not graced these halls since time’s first war. Meanwhile, the sigils multiplied, overlaying with Heavenly characters in an impossible duet. Script married script, each racing to complete the same equation from different sides of creation.

A third pulse swept through. Michael tasted it at the back of his throat: cool metal, bright as new snow, with undertones of blood and something older than both Heaven and Hell. Limbs tingled, wings thrummed. Raphael gasped, then laughed despite herself as the ragged edge of one wing sealed, flight-feather repairing where centuries of overwork had frayed it to fuzz.

The System was healing them.

Reports echoed from every corridor: Seraph infection counters rolling back, Gear containment stable. Somewhere below, a legionnaire sang Hallelujah so loudly the word echoed through ventilation shafts. Choir thrushes that nested in the rafters burst into song as if the very stones hummed a pitch that tuned hearts.

Michael clamped both hands upon the rail lest his knees betray him. The bread-crumb trail of miracles led to the dais, to that radiant knot where empty space once sulked. Fragment or Father, he thought, pulse hammering, I must stand presentable. He straightened pauldrons and smoothed the fold of his sash even as doubts gnawed.

Would Father see only the dust, the half-mended walls, the legion of Fallen that Michael had failed to coax home? Would he look upon Michael, eldest son, and read disappointment?

Heat gathered behind his eyes. He pressed one thumb to the corner, blinked until halos steadied. Gabriel caught the gesture. Her hand settled over his gauntlet, wordless solidarity, the kind only siblings wrought in shared orphanhood.

He drew a longer breath. “Gabriel, keep an ear to the prayer nets. If anomalies spike, quiet them with every choir you can spare. Raphael, monitor metabolic feedback. We do not know if sudden restoration will over-stress the lower orders. Uriel, prepare contingency Lamed if foreign protocol asserts hostile control.”

They saluted. For a heartbeat, Michael feared they might question the wisdom of greeting an unknown entity instead of sealing it inside astral quarantine. Instead, they obeyed. They had never seen him falter, therefore could not picture him failing now; a truth that both honoured and lacerated.

He walked the length of the nave, each step echoing louder than the last, until the dais loomed. Light there buckled, rippled, resolved into a sphere large as a cathedral bell. Inside, lines of pale script intersected, every letter a reserved flame. His lips formed half a benediction before courage crumpled. What if I am not enough? The doubt was a snake coiled around shame, fangs teasing each heartbeat.

Father’s last recorded words washed through memory: Look after your brothers and sisters. Michael had tried. He had taken children weeping over a silent sky and built them starlight out of gears and hope. He had composed lullabies into the prayer feed so orphan boys would not feel alone at night. He had fought devils who dreamed of tearing the veil to scoop angelic organs for trophies. He had mediated peace, sanctioned war, kissed a thousand foreheads in the infirmary with hands that shook only when no one saw.

Yet here the world stood, rotting at the edges, and perhaps Father would know it at a glance.

A smaller window bloomed before his eyes, projected from the Throne interface. Authorization request. Accept? Y/N. The prompt flickered twice, impatient fingerprints of a script no one had touched since the day Heaven shuttered.

Michael’s hand, so unerring in combat, hesitated. Say yes, Gabriel’s hush reached him on currents of thought alone. She must have linked minds without realising, so raw was the plea. At the same instant Uriel’s voice chimed from a panel: “Thirty-seven per cent of archives repaired, security layers holding. This is either benevolent or feigning virtue with impossible finesse.”

He exhaled a prayer that might have been Father’s name or might only have been please, then pressed Y.

Light collapsed inward with the hush of a sun closing eyelids. When it cleared a figure floated above the seat Father once filled. Male, Michael thought first, as instincts sorted features: tall but lean, shoulders cloaked in white so stark they hurt. A mane of black hair fell between sweeping antler-shaped extensions, neither crown nor halo, but something that suggested both.

And eyes. They glowed burnished red, yet neither cruel nor kind, merely weighing. As though each glance tagged and filed the future of every cell it touched.

Michael knelt. It happened without thought. Stones bruised kneecaps even through armour, but he remained bowed until Gabriel’s whisper cracked the stillness behind him.

“Michael… he is waiting.”

He lifted gaze, throat parched. “I… bid you welcome. This realm has longed for your breath Father.”

The man, no, Presence surveyed the basilica, considering cracked pillars, half-lit torches. Voice arrived like a chord plucked from copper strings.

“So fragile now, yet still beautiful. The design holds, Michael.”

His name across those lips stole wind from lungs. Recognition, gentle as it sounded, knifed through shame. He tipped head lower. “I laboured, yet my craft fell short. I beg pardon for every thread I let fray.”

Silence gathered. Michael braced for reprimand, rehearsed acceptance. Instead, warmth spilled along his shoulders, neither hand nor wing, but contact all the same. Shame trembled under that silent benediction then eased, not erased, only untangled so he might breathe again.

The Presence spoke quietly. “I see the burden you bore and the reasons you faltered. I deem none of it beyond mending.”

Fresh tears blurred visor glass. He wiped them behind metal before they could fall. Raphael raised a palm, wordless celebration; Gabriel whispered thanks in half the world’s languages; Uriel exhaled the breath she had stored for blades.

The Presence turned toward the consoles. Red irises shuttered like focusing lenses. Glyphs spiralled outward, layer upon layer, rewriting faster than thought. Michael glimpsed rules grafting themselves beside older laws: Blut Arterie, Sankt Kaiser, Schrift Allocation. The angelic code did not fight. Instead, it tested each new particle, saw familiar root signatures, and welcomed them like twins separated in infancy.

Michael found his voice. “You seemed to have changed Father.”

Father’s shard, faith-forged God, answered in a rumour of promise.

“Names are garments for mortal hours. In the days to come, you may call me…Ywhach.”

The name echoed down the nave and out into realms below. Every choir sensed it, every exorcist, every child clutching a rosary in darkness. Light climbed the stained glass and poured into earth like dawn water.

Michael sensed the world shift gears. Long-standing miracles primed themselves. Cells he had scheduled for shutdown hummed alive. And within his chest a knot released that he had not noticed forming, one forged from centuries of standing at gates that no longer opened.

Gabriel brushed feathers along his shoulder. “Brother, your face.” She sounded near tears.

He touched his cheek, found it wet. Laughed, or tried, but the sound cracked like a boy’s. “Forgive me. I had forgotten how lightness feels.”

“Then remember,” Raphael said, drawing close. “The whole host will remember if you lead.”

He turned back to Ywhach. The figure had closed eyes, listening perhaps to the symphony of code and prayer intertwining. Michael squared his shoulders.

“Command me,” he said, voice steady now. “I am ready.”

The red eyes opened, kindled with dawn’s first glimmer. “Begin by hoping,” the Adonai replied. “Hope is the lever that shifts worlds. We will show them all. Show them that the lever still moves.”

Michael bowed once more, but this time no shame dragged him earthward. He rose, wings unfurling in clean restored plumage, and when he stepped away to issue orders that would echo from pearly spire to mortal street he felt, at last, like an eldest brother whose grasp did not tremble.

Outside, bells that had rusted silent for an age began to ring, each note brighter than the one before.