Max & Co
Max and the party spent the next hour in tense combat, hunting down the stragglers that had either survived the initial blast or been smart enough to avoid it entirely. The work was methodical but exhausting—every shadow could hide a surviving monster, every sound made hands tighten on weapons, every moment required constant vigilance. But gradually, through teamwork and Max's ability to sense monsters before they struck, they cleared the battlefield of threats.
When the last Sand Worm fell to a combined assault, the party gathered the scattered magic stones in silence broken only by heavy breathing and the clink of crystals being collected. Then, as one, they turned toward the village, exhaustion giving way to relief as the reality of their survival settled in.
The return journey felt different from their desperate rush to battle. Where before there had been tension and fear, now there was cautious celebration—soldiers exchanging grins, clapping each other on shoulders, the adrenaline slowly fading into bone-deep weariness tempered by triumph.
As they crested the final dune and the village came into view, torches blazing in welcome, a cheer erupted from the walls. The entire village, it seemed, had gathered at the entrance, and when they spotted the returning fighters, the noise grew deafening.
Stan raised his fist in victory, and the crowd surged forward, engulfing them in a wave of grateful humanity. Children ran to their fathers, wives embraced husbands, and elderly villagers wept with relief as their protectors returned bloodied but alive.
The Chief let them celebrate for a moment before raising his hands for silence. The crowd quieted gradually, all eyes turning to their leader as he stood atop a barrel someone had rolled forward.
"Tonight, we faced certain death!" Stan's voice carried across the gathered villagers, strong despite his exhaustion. "A stampede that should have crushed us, destroyed our homes, killed our families. But we stand here victorious, and it's because of this man!"
He pointed directly at Max, who suddenly felt dozens—no, hundreds—of eyes focusing on him with laser intensity.
"Max, a wandering mage who owed us nothing, stood between us and destruction. With a single spell, he erased a third of that horde!" Stan's voice grew passionate, emotional even. "I declare him a hero of River Village!"
The crowd erupted. Cheers, applause, shouts of gratitude all blended into a wall of sound that made Max's ears ring.
Max felt his face heating up, embarrassment and a strange sense of gratification warring in his chest. He tried to act humble, raising his hands in a dismissive gesture. "Really, it was everyone's effort—"
But a shit-eating grin was already spreading across his face, completely undermining his attempt at modesty. He tried to cover it with a thankful nod toward Stan, but the Chief caught it, and his weathered face split into a knowing smile that said I see you, kid. Enjoy it while it lasts.
"Tonight, we feast!" Stan declared. "Bring out everything we've got! This is a celebration of life, of survival, of the hero who saved us all!"
The village erupted into organized chaos. Tables were dragged into the square, barrels of ale and wine rolled out from storage, cooking fires blazed to life as every household contributed what they could to the impromptu celebration. The smell of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the air, and someone broke out instruments—a flute, drums, strings that hadn't been played in months.
Max found himself swept along in the current of celebration, villagers pressing drinks into his hands, children asking him to demonstrate magic tricks, elderly women pinching his cheeks and declaring him "such a handsome young man." The attention was overwhelming but not entirely unwelcome—there was something deeply satisfying about being appreciated, about being seen as a hero rather than a threat.
Someone offered him a mug of what smelled like strong ale, the foam sloshing over the rim. Max's hand reached out automatically out of courtesy, then stopped.
He had alcohol before—his family owned a few vineyards back home, and he'd been expected to develop a palate for their product. But he never acquired the taste for it, preferring the clarity of sobriety over the fog of intoxication. And right now, his instincts whispered that something important was coming. A meeting, perhaps. The kind where being clear-headed would matter and would make a better impression in his honest opinion.
"I appreciate it," Max said with an apologetic smile, pushing the mug back gently. "But I should keep my head clear tonight. Never know when monsters might come back."
The excuse was accepted without question, and Max settled for juice and food instead, watching the village celebrate their survival with infectious joy. The feast stretched on for hours—meat and bread and vegetables prepared with the kind of enthusiasm that came from staring death in the face and living to tell about it. Laughter echoed across the square, children danced around the fires, and even the most stoic fighters let themselves smile.
But eventually, as the celebration began to wind down and people started drifting toward their homes, Stan caught Max's eye and jerked his head toward a building near the village center.
They both made way to what Max assumed as Stan's office and it was modest but functional space —a desk piled with ledgers, maps on the walls marked with monster sighting locations, weapons leaning in corners. The Chief moved with only slightly unsteady steps, pouring himself another drink from a bottle on his desk before gesturing for Max to sit.
"You handle your alcohol well," Max observed, settling into the offered chair.
Stan grunted, his words only slightly slurred. "Two decades of being an adventurer teaches you a few things. Including how to stay functional when you're half-drunk." He took a sip, then set the glass down with deliberate care. "But that's not why I called you here."
He reached under his desk and pulled out a large sack, setting it on the surface with a heavy thunk that made magic stones clink inside. "Half of everything we collected tonight. By rights, it's all yours anyway, but I figured you'd argue if I tried to give you everything."
Max's first instinct was to accept—his hand even twitched toward the bag. But then an idea struck him, sparked by his earlier experiments with magic circles and the possibilities they represented.
"Actually," Max said slowly, leaning back in his chair with what he hoped looked like casual generosity, "I'd like you to use those for the village's development instead."
Stan's expression went from slightly drunk to completely stunned in the space of a heartbeat. "What? No. Absolutely not. These are yours. You earned them fair and square—more than earned them. You saved our entire village!"
"And taking the village's situation into account," Max continued as if Stan hadn't spoken, his tone reasonable but firm, "with the increased monster activity and you mentioned having to pay protection fees to Ishrafan—that's the bigger nation you border, right?—I feel you'd have bigger use for them than me."
He tapped his storage bag meaningfully. "I've got enough magic stones with me from the monsters I fought on my way here. I'd rather get some valis for traveling expenses and maybe one stone for experimentation. That's all I really need."
Stan stared at him for a long moment, his slightly drunk mind clearly struggling to process this level of generosity. Then, abruptly, he stood up—swaying only slightly—and came around the desk.
Before Max could react, the Chief pulled him into a tight hug that smelled of ale and smoke and desert sand.
"You're a good man, Max," Stan said, his voice thick with emotion. "I am very proud to call you our friend." If you ever need anything—anything—you can count on me for help. This village owes you a debt we can never fully repay, but I swear on my status we'll try."
Max returned the hug awkwardly, embarrassed by the display but also genuinely touched. When they separated, he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. "Actually, there is one favor I wanted to ask..."
Stan's expression shifted to eager attentiveness immediately. "Name it. Whatever you need, it's yours."
Max began, "It is…"
After talking with Stan about the favour, the casual and somewhat festive mood came back, so Max brought up a critical question that had been gnawing at him since he'd arrived. "Chief, do you know what's happening in Orario these days? Any news from the city?"
Stan scratched his beard thoughtfully, pouring himself another drink despite the late hour. "It's been a while since the Zeus and Hera Familias fell, that much I know. Biggest shift in power Orario's ever seen, from what the merchants tell us. But exactly how long?" He shrugged apologetically.
"Couldn't tell you, son. We're too isolated out here. The desert keeps most news from reaching us, and the few merchants who do pass through want to leave as fast as possible. Can't blame them—sand gets everywhere, monsters are aggressive, and there's not much profit to be made lingering in River Village."
Max nodded, filing that frustration away. The lack of a concrete timeline was concerning, but not unexpected given the village's isolation. First priority once I reach Orario, he thought firmly. Find someone who knows what's happening. Figure out where I am in the story. Whether Bell has started his journey yet, whether the Minotaur incident has happened, whether—
He cut that thought off before it spiraled. No point worrying about timeline placement when he had no data. Better to prepare for any scenario.
"Thanks anyway, Chief," Max said, standing and stretching. "I appreciate everything you've done for me."
Stan waved him off with the easy generosity of someone slightly drunk. "You saved our village, son. It's us who owe you."
After bidding Stan goodnight, Max went back to his room and collapsed into bed, exhaustion finally catching up with him. Sleep came quickly, dreamless and deep.
The next morning, he woke early. The sunlight streaming through the window painted golden rectangles across the floor, and the village outside was already stirring with the sounds of daily life—but Max's focus was entirely internal.
Transformation magic. That was next on his list, along with Familiar Summoning. He didn't feel that exhausted despite yesterday's combat, and with the timeline uncertainty hanging over him like a sword, preparation felt more urgent than rest.
The thought of arriving in Orario unprepared, of witnessing the Monster Feria disaster and being crushed by escaped monsters because he couldn't adapt quickly enough—it made his stomach clench with anxiety. I can't afford to be helpless, he thought grimly. Not when I know what's coming, even if I don't know when.
Before heading to breakfast, he sat cross-legged on his bed and closed his eyes, letting the theoretical knowledge flow through his mind like water finding its path. The devil whose body he'd inherited had studied this magic but never fully mastered it—the memories were there, crystalline and detailed, just waiting to be properly utilized.
First, his mind supplied, have a detailed picture of the person you're intending to transform into. Facial features—the exact curve of the nose, the spacing between the eyes, the shape of the jaw. Physical attributes—height, build, proportions. Any irregularities—moles, scars, asymmetries. If you intend to impersonate them convincingly, closer observation of their posture, mannerisms, their way of speaking and walking, and other subtle details would exponentially increase the chances of success.
Max's weeb brain immediately supplied candidates. Not random people, but characters so deeply embedded in his consciousness that he could picture them with photographic clarity. Characters he'd watched for hundreds of episodes, studied in manga panels, cosplayed at conventions.
Itachi Uchiha was the obvious first choice. A 13-year-old Itachi—before the massacre, before going rogue, when he was still Konoha's prodigy ANBU, Uchiha's pride and Sasuke's beloved older brother. The body Max currently inhabited already bore some resemblance—similar facial structure, the same kind of cool, composed aesthetic that Itachi embodied. It made sense as a baseline transformation, something close enough to his current appearance that the magical strain would be minimal while he learned.
After getting their features and physical appearance conceptualized, the knowledge continued, focus and visualize your body changing, gaining their appearance, attributes, and features. Channel your demonic energy through every cell, instructing it to reshape, reform, reconstruct.
Max took a slow breath and began.
He pictured 13-year-old Itachi in crystalline detail—the refined, almost delicate features that still held traces of youth. The long black hair tied back in a low ponytail with bangs framing his face. The onyx eyes that could shift to Sharingan red. The slender but deceptively strong build of someone trained from childhood. That serene, gentle expression that masked incredible intelligence and power—the face of a boy forced to grow up too fast but still capable of warmth.
His demonic power stirred, responding to his intent. Max felt it flowing through his body like warm honey, and then—
The sensation was bizarre. Not painful, but deeply, fundamentally wrong on an instinctual level. His bones shifted with subtle cracks that he felt more than heard, his musculature rearranging itself, his hair changing texture and length. It felt like his entire body was made of clay being reshaped by invisible hands.
When the sensation finally stopped, Max opened his eyes and looked down at his hands.
More delicate. Slightly different proportions. He stood and moved to the small mirror mounted on the wall—and there, staring back at him, was Itachi.
"Holy shit," he breathed, and even his voice was slightly different—still his own, but softer, altered enough that someone who knew both might not immediately connect them.
After successful transformation, his knowledge supplied helpfully, verify the physical features—height, hair color, limb length, facial structure. Then focus on mimicking their voice and speaking style.
Max studied his reflection critically. The face was perfect—refined features that still held a hint of boyish youth, the long black hair that fell past his shoulders, even the gentle expression that masked deeper thoughts. His height had shifted down by a couple inches to match Itachi's. The build was leaner, more graceful than his natural devil form.
But the voice needed work.
Channel your magic to your vocal cords, his instincts instructed. Remember their speaking style—pitch, cadence, the subtle inflections that make their voice unique.
Max focused magic on his throat, feeling the delicate vibrations as he adjusted the structure of his vocal cords. He thought of young Itachi's voice—calm, measured, with an underlying gentleness that could still carry quiet authority.
"Some other time, Sasuke," he tried, and it came out perfect—that soft, contemplative tone that Itachi used when speaking to Sasuke.
"Little brother, you still lack understanding," he said, testing the slightly older-sibling cadence, and was satisfied when it flowed naturally with just the right mix of affection and instruction.
Satisfied, Max let the transformation drop. The sensation reversed—his body flowing back to its original devilish form like snapping a rubber band. He stumbled slightly, catching himself against the wall as mild dizziness washed over him.
Note to self, he thought, transformations take magic. Don't spam them carelessly.
But now that he understood the mechanics, the second transformation came easier.
Rimuru Tempest—the slime turned demon lord. Max's favorite isekai protagonist, and honestly, a body that would attract way less attention than his devil form. Rimuru's appearance was deliberately non-threatening: androgynous features, blue hair (convenient—less of a change from his natural color), golden eyes, small stature, an overall aesthetic of "harmless child" that hid devastating power.
Perfect for going undercover.
Max focused, visualizing Rimuru in exact detail. The transformation flowed smoother this time, his body already learning the process. When he opened his eyes and checked the mirror, Rimuru's cheerful face stared back—younger-looking, softer features, the kind of appearance that made people underestimate you right up until you deleted them from existence.
"Yo!" he tried, mimicking Rimuru's enthusiastic tone, and laughed at how naturally it came.
He practiced the mannerisms—Rimuru's relaxed posture, the way he gestured with his hands when excited, the slight head tilt when confused. The transformation held steady, responding to his intent.
This one, Max decided, is perfect for traveling. Nonthreatening, easy to maintain, and nobody would suspect this cute face of vaporizing a monster horde.
After reverting again—easier now, though still draining—Max decided to try one more for the fun of it.
Satoru Gojo. The strongest. White hair, blindfold covering those devastating Six Eyes, tall and lean with an almost lazy confidence that screamed "I could kill you with a thought but I'm too bored to bother."
This transformation was harder—Gojo's height required significant structural changes, and getting the hair color right took concentrated effort. But when Max finally stabilized it and looked in the mirror, he couldn't suppress a shit-eating grin that was absolutely Gojo-appropriate.
"Throughout heaven and earth, I alone am the honored one," he quoted, and the voice came out perfect—lazy confidence with an undercurrent of absolute certainty.
Max practiced the posture—hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed, that slight forward lean that somehow made Gojo look both casual and utterly untouchable. He even tried manifesting a thin barrier of magic around his face to mimic the Infinity technique, though obviously without the actual functionality.
These three, he decided as he let the Gojo transformation drop and slumped against the wall, breathing hard from the accumulated strain. Itachi for when I need to look dangerous and capable without revealing my devil nature. Rimuru for traveling incognito and avoiding attention. Gojo for... well, for fun. And maybe for intimidation if I need to look absolutely unhinged.
A few hours passed as Max practiced switching between forms, getting the hang of the magic and building up his stamina for maintaining the transformations. He timed himself—Rimuru's form could be held for about two hours before strain became an issue, Itachi's for ninety minutes, Gojo's for barely an hour due to the significant height difference requiring constant energy to maintain.
By the time he deemed the transformations satisfactory, the sun had climbed to mid-morning and his stomach was growling insistently. Max checked himself in the mirror one final time in his natural devil form—blue hair properly messy, amethyst eyes clear and focused, no lingering mismatches from the transformations.
Perfect.
Time for breakfast, and then he could try this familiar summoning business.
After breakfast—which involved being cheerfully mobbed by grateful villagers and receiving what could only be described as veryenthusiastic invitations from several young women who saw him as a heroic savior—Max excused himself with a devilishly charming smile that left them blushing and headed out into the desert to test familiar summoning.
Though as he walked, contemplating the inherited knowledge flowing through his mind, he realized "summoning" wasn't quite the right term. It was more like establishing a contract—a magical binding between master and familiar based on mutual agreement rather than forceful compulsion.
Max found a relatively flat expanse of sand far from the village and took a steadying breath. Alright, let's see what happens. He raised his right hand, visualizing the magic circle formation from his memories, and channeled his demonic power outward with clear intent.
The crimson magic circle materialized beneath his feet, intricate patterns glowing with power. But immediately, Max felt a heavy drain on his magical reserves—far more than he'd expected. The circle pulsed once, twice, then—
Crack.
It shattered like glass, the fragments dissolving into motes of light that faded into the morning air.
Max blinked, processing what just happened. "Hmm, interesting." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, analyzing the sensation. That looked like the circle was trying to summon something here—specifically, trying to pull something from another location or even another realm.
So this body might have already had a familiar back in DxD. The realization settled with odd certainty. Of course a Devil Heir would have already contracted a familiar. It was basically a requirement for their kind, like having a marriage contract or learning about the peerage system. But whatever creature had been bound to this body's previous owner was presumably still in the DxD universe, completely unreachable from this world.
Well, that means I need to find an animal or monster here to make my new familiar, Max thought, nodding to himself. If he remembered correctly from the knowledge, the process was straightforward: place the creature on a summoning circle, propose the contract, and if it accepted, the binding would establish itself automatically.
Simple. Elegant. Very devil-like in its efficiency.
But just for fun—because Max was fundamentally still a weeb at heart—he decided to test a theory.
He focused deeply on the concept of having a familiar, on wanting a creature to serve him, and activated the magic circle again. This time, instead of trying to summon his old familiar, he essentially asked the circle itself to summon a suitable monster to him.
The crimson formation appeared again, glowing brightly for exactly two seconds before—
Crack.
It shattered immediately, the pattern dissolving with what Max could have sworn was an air of offended dignity, as if the magic circle itself understood he was trolling it and refused to play along.
"Well, worth a try," Max said nonchalantly, grinning despite the failure. Can't blame a guy for attempting the easy route.
Now to find a monster the old-fashioned way.
He began wandering the desert, expanding his magical senses outward in slow, methodical sweeps. Even a Sand Worm or Serpent would be fine for his purposes—those creatures had decent combat potential and the intelligence to follow complex commands. But it seemed last night's display of overwhelming magical force had been too effective. He couldn't sense any monsters within miles, all of them presumably having fled to safer territories far from the terrifying mage who erased their kin with lightning.
Oops, Max thought without much remorse. Guess I overdid it.
His wandering eventually brought him to the river—the same waterway that gave River Village its name. The sound of rushing water was soothing after the desert silence, and Max crouched by the bank, scanning for fish or perhaps some kind of aquatic monster that might have survived his rampage.
That's when he spotted it.
A small, blobby thing near the riverbank, barely the size of his fist. At first, Max dismissed it as mud moving because of the river waves—just sediment dislodged by the current. But then it moved off the riverbank entirely, oozing forward with deliberate purpose, and Max paused mid-scan to watch.
The blob kept moving with slow but determined momentum, heading toward a small fish that had gotten stuck in deep mud near the shore. Max's eyes widened as he observed the blob reach the struggling fish and then—
It ate it. Or rather, the fish simply disappeared into the blob's translucent body, as if hidden by its stomach.
That's when it struck Max like lightning from Thor himself.
This is a slime!
The ultimate being in Tensura—Rimuru's species, capable of learning and adapting, of absorbing abilities and growing exponentially. The most loyal and magically conductive familiar weapon used by Cid in The Eminence in Shadow to devastating effect. A creature with virtually unlimited potential if properly nurtured.
He'd found his familiar. If the little guy agreed, of course.
Without delay, Max reached down and carefully scooped the small blob from its search for the next meal. The slime was cool and slightly damp to the touch, its gelatinous body rippling with confusion as it found itself suddenly airborne. Max set it down in front of him on a flat patch of sand, meeting what he assumed were the creature's sensory organs with a grin.
"Alright, lil guy," Max said cheerfully, already forming the crimson magic circle beneath the slime. "Time to see if you're interested in a partnership."
The familiar contract circle glowed to life, intricate patterns spreading outward from the slime's position. Max channeled his intent through the formation and spoke in a voice that carried both authority and genuine invitation:
"Are you willing to become my familiar?"
The slime, confused as hell, looked up at this massive being towering over it. Though Max appeared cheerful and sunny—almost ridiculously friendly for something radiating such intense power—the little creature's instincts screamed contradictory warnings. Be careful with this one. Dangerous. Predator. But... not hostile?
Then suddenly, it found itself placed on something that hummed with magic, and somehow—through whatever mechanism allowed magical contracts to bypass language barriers—it understood what the giant in front of it was asking.
The power and strength radiating from this being... the slime wanted it. Craved it with instincts deeper than conscious thought. If it accepted, it wouldn't need to hide on the shore anymore, trembling every time a predator's shadow passed overhead. It could have its belly full of food instead of scrounging for scraps. It could hunt instead of hiding. It could grow, evolve, become something more.
The slime's acceptance wasn't verbal—it couldn't speak—but the intent crystallized through the magic circle with perfect clarity.
Yes. Partner. Protect. Grow together.
The contract formed instantly, a surge of magical energy that engulfed both Max and the slime in brilliant crimson light. The circle on the ground lifted, transformed into a three-dimensional formation that wrapped around the slime's small body, etching intricate patterns into its very essence before being absorbed completely. The glow faded, leaving the slime marked with a barely visible sigil that pulsed in sync with Max's heartbeat.
Max could feel the slime's presence now—not in his mind exactly, but through the magical connection that bound them. Emotions, sensations, a vague awareness of hunger and curiosity and newfound security. It was like having a second heartbeat somewhere in his chest, perfectly synchronized with his own.
He nodded in satisfaction, carefully scooping up his new familiar. "Time to eat, lil guy. But first—" He lifted the slime to eye level, studying it with the seriousness of someone naming their firstborn. "I have to give you a proper name. Your name should honor the greatest slime in history, carry a piece of Rimuru's legacy. And since it's only because of my isekai that I found you..."
Max grinned, the name crystallizing in his mind with perfect clarity.
"Your name will be Kairu."
The moment the name left his lips, the magical connection between them flared. The slime—Kairu—pulsed with light as the name took hold, binding itself to the creature's essence through the familiar contract. In devil culture, naming held power, and by bestowing a name on his familiar, Max had strengthened their bond exponentially.
Kairu wiggled in his palm, the movement somehow conveying excitement and acceptance, and Max couldn't help but laugh.
"Welcome to the team, Kairu. Let's turn this world upside down!"
--> Devil in a Dungeon <--
AN:
Phew, no Kurohitsugi yet.Though, Max began cooking something big: Bro became a hero overnight, didn't drink, do anything naughty with the ladies, generously donated his 'earnings' to the village, I would say he has all the characteristics of a Noble Hero. Maybe the elves, Allen and those shady guys might disagree... who cares about them anyway?
Atleast Max now has a familiar and unsurprisingly its a slime. The Isekai is too much in this one.
I would like to hear your thoughts on how things would go in a comment/review for sure.
Next update will be on Thursday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.