Date a Bride (Date A Live Fanfiction)

Codename: Bride

One of only two Spirits under the possessed of the DEM Industry, captured five years ago near Japan's southern coasts.

The mission details remained highly classified, accessible only to the organization's upper echelons.

For those in lower ranks, the available information was minimal—only that the Spirit had been subdued and secured by Artemisia Bell Ashcroft, an ex-member of the AST, an SSS-class Wizard, and one of the top five Wizards in the world.

Not even a description of the Spirit's appearance or abilities was accessible to them.

However, there were exceptions among the ranks—those responsible for conducting experiments on the Spirit's body were granted greater access.

These individuals, tasked with studying the Spirit to uncover more about her and her species, were inevitably permitted to delve into further details.

While they did not possess the full breadth of knowledge reserved for the highest-ranking members, their understanding was significantly more extensive than that of those in lower ranks.

Among the privileged information they accessed were the Spirit's natural abilities, her Angel name, her rank and potential inverse form rank, her Sephira classification, and the designated name of her Astral Dress, accompanied by a brief description.

The Spirit, known for her plant-like nature, resembled a fairy in her abilities.

She could manipulate and grow plants around her with ease, using her Reiryoku to create sprawling, intricate vines, flowers, trees, and any other forms of plant life.

What was more terrifying, however, was her ability to materialize giant plant-like structures out of thin air, shaping them into whatever form she willed. In some cases, she could even imbue them with life, granting them potential free will.

The sheer scale of her power was staggering—entire forests could sprout from the earth in an instant, and she could bring whole landscapes into existence in the middle of nowhere with but a thought.

In her Spirit form, she was classified as AAA rank, with a potential inverse rank of S. The exact reasoning behind this classification, however, remained undisclosed.

Her Astral Dress was identified as Elohim Tzaddik, a white wedding gown that, like all Spirits' attire, contained a layer of protection capable of repairing itself using the Spirit's Reiryoku. Her Sephira was classified as Rachamim.

As for the Spirit's Angel, all information beyond this point was classified for the high-ups. The only two details available were the Angel's name—Nathanael—and its reputation: The strongest defensive Angel, second only to the first Spirit's.

Part 2:

Captured two months after the Sister was secured, the DEM England branch had already gained invaluable experience in how to handle a Spirit.

So, by the time the Spirit known by the codename Bride was brought to the facility, they were more than ready.

Every tool, piece of equipment, and security measure had been meticulously crafted with one goal: to contain and control this force of nature.

Although the two Spirits were housed in the same compound, the design of the facility ensured that their containment was meticulously managed, each Spirit isolated in their own specialized section.

Built deep underground in the remote northern region of the United Kingdom, The facility was structured to handle the unique challenges posed by such powerful entities.

The space was massive, spread out over multiple levels, within an area of 50 km (~31 miles), carefully hidden from the public eye.

To ensure the safety of both the Spirits and the personnel responsible for their containment, the complex was designed to minimize any potential risk of contamination or interference.

Both Sister and Bride were housed in separate, highly secure wings—each isolated by thick, reinforced walls and a combination of magical and technological security systems.

These systems were specifically chosen to deal with the unpredictable nature of Spirits and the sheer scale of power they could unleash if provoked.

Special care had been taken to ensure that neither Spirit could affect the other, even indirectly. The wings were separated by a significant distance of 20 km (~12.5 miles), with a combination of reinforced tunnels, monitoring systems, and magical wards that acted as barriers between the two.

This not only ensured that any Reiryoku released by one Spirit would not bleed into the containment area of the other but also prevented any inadvertent interactions that might occur in the analysis data collected from each Spirit.

As for the public's safety, and with the need to maintain the secrecy surrounding the existence of Spirits, the entire facility was hidden beneath a veil of misdirection, buried 100 meters (328 feet) underground.

The surrounding 50-kilometer area was designated as restricted, prohibiting any civilian access. An additional 20-kilometer "no-go zone" was enforced for all personnel without the highest clearance.

Access to the facility was limited to a single, heavily patrolled road, monitored around the clock. Surveillance systems tracked every movement from the moment anyone entered the outer perimeter, ensuring that no unauthorized individual could approach undetected.

The entrance itself was hidden within the ruins of a historical castle—a relic from a bygone era. To the outside world, it appeared to be nothing more than a piece of history, Its true purpose was concealed, allowing the public to remain unaware of the horrors it concealed beneath.

Part 3:

On Bride's first day in the facility, stringent precautionary measures were enforced before any experiments could commence.

The primary objective was to strip the Spirit of every ounce of strength in her, to ensure she would have no means of resistance or escape.

In addition to the magically reinforced restraints that secured her body on the metallic platform, she was subjected to relentless physical assaults over the course of an entire week, pushing her to the brink of death.

Her body was then allowed just enough time to recover from life-threatening injuries before the cycle would begin anew.

This brutal treatment also aimed to weaken her regenerative abilities enough to ensure experimental results would not be compromised.

Though the Spirit possessed such healing capabilities, they were considered low-tier. Minor wounds healed within seconds, while more severe injuries required minutes or hours to mend.

It was no surprise, then, that such relentless treatment successfully hindered her regenerative processes, leaving her vulnerable.

Additionally, she was forced to consume various drugs, meticulously designed to suppress her control over her body, dull her awareness, and strip away her sense of time.

While these measures were, in essence, acts of torture, for the director of the DEM Industry—Isaac Ray Pelham Westcott—they were simply preparations for what he deemed "noble experiments."

To him, they were not acts of brutality but necessary steps to achieve a greater purpose.

So, throughout a whole week, as the spirit's screams and pleas echoed through the facility—a voice so powerful that even the reinforced glass couldn't fully contain it—He remained unmoved.

He was the sole person who never sought an excuse to leave the room, shield their ears, or avert their gaze.

the only figure who stayed and watched the entirety of every session of what he called "precautionary measures." He observed each moment of torture with patient detachment—never flinching, never betraying a hint of boredom.

"Oh~? A week has already passed?"

"Y-Yes, sir," a trembling voice replied. "We are now ready to begin. The Spirit's body has been weakened to its lowest point, and there are no signs of immediate danger. She no longer poses any threat."

Westcott's lips curled into a thin, satisfied smile as his gaze settled on the limp figure bound to the platform.

"Excellent," he murmured, casting a brief sidelong glance at the researcher. "Now, let us proceed with the real work."

He turned back toward the scene beyond the reinforced glass. But then, as if struck by inspiration, he froze mid-motion.

Slowly, he pivoted back toward the researcher, a soft "Ah~" escaping his lips, as though the idea had slipped into his mind with perfect clarity.

"Could you install new speakers to transmit sound from the experiment room?"

"Y-Yes...?" The researcher blinked in confusion.

"Well, as you can see, that reinforced glass does an exceptional job muting her voice. It's quite impressive, really. Were it not for the walls transferring the sound better, we wouldn't hear her at all."

Her voice? But all she's done is scream in pain or curse at random. What could you possibly want to hear?

The question lodged itself in his mind, but he didn't dare voice it.

Westcott's expression was gentle—too gentle. Like a child politely asking for a favor. And yet, there was something in that smile, something that sent an icy shiver crawling down his spine.

Swallowing hard, the researcher gave a stiff nod, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. "Y-Yes, sir... right away."

As he hurried off, Westcott returned his gaze to the glass wall. His hand rose slowly, pressing lightly against its surface as if his hand might somehow reach the figure within. The soft smile he wore seemed to twist...

Beyond that glass wall, the spirit's frail form was slumped against her restraints. Struggling to catch her breath, her body was drenched in sweat, streaked with blood both dried and fresh. Some wounds seemed to still not fully mend.

Westcott's gaze lingered, then briefly shifted to his own reflection in the glass.

His eyes widened as if he'd discovered something, a faint smile curling his lips—one he hadn't even been aware of—greeted him in the mirrored surface.

"..."

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the smile fade as if swallowing it whole. When he reopened them, his expression was composed, unreadable.

"Attention, everyone..."

Without shifting his gaze away from the glass or caring if his voice truly carried to every corner of the chamber, Westcott slowly, raised three fingers.

"I shall set three rules from now on..."

The room seemed to hold its breath. Every sound halted, every motion froze—even if someone was in mid-turn of a mere piece of paper—everyone stopped their doing solely to hear what Westcott had to say.

"First," he began, turning the three fingers into one, "this Spirit shall not sleep from now on. Use any means necessary—drugs, high-volume sounds, bright lights, or high-intensity electricity. Ensure she does not succumb to sleep, no matter what it takes."

He continued, raising a second finger.

"Second, the Spirit is to be deprived of all her senses. She shall see no light, feel no touch, and hear nothing. The only exception is when she is on the verge of falling asleep. Ensure she is completely trapped inside her mind..."

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room through the glass reflection, ensuring his words resonated with everyone before lifting a third finger.

"Third, there will be no communication with the Spirit. No words, no gestures, no attempts at interaction of any kind. THIS...IS...absolute."

The weight of his commands lingered in the air, pressing down on everyone present.

Some staff exchanged uneasy glances, some visibly sweating for some reason. Still, they tried to maintain a professional demeanor, forcing themselves to refocus on their tasks.

But just as the room stirred back to life, Westcott turned sharply toward them. The sudden motion froze them in their tracks.

With deliberate slowness, he raised a fourth finger.

"Don't hold back..."

A simple command, void of any clear meaning, yet it descended like a suffocating shroud over the room, snuffing out even the faintest spark of defiance.

The silence that followed was heavy and oppressive, as if the air itself had been drained of life.

Every person present seemed to share the same uneasy thought after Westcott's final command: He's certainly meant me by this...

The fear of messing up—the hypocritical doubt that Westcott might know something they didn't want him to know.

It wasn't baseless paranoia. Most, if not all, had bent at least one of those rules especially the fourth one at some point out of empathy for the spirit.

Some tampered with the session timers, lowering the duration so the spirit wouldn't suffer as much. Others had turned a blind eye, aware of the tampering but unwilling to report it.

Even those directly involved in executing the so-called "precautionary measures" had taken quiet liberties. Some adjusted the intensity of restraints, loosening them just enough to grant the spirit a moment's reprieve. Others quietly swapped out harsher tools for less invasive ones, hoping it would go unnoticed.

Then there were those who had fallen victim to the spirit's words.

Despite enduring relentless torture, the spirit somehow found it within herself to speak to them—not with accusations or pleas, but with questions. She asked about their lives with an almost casual tone: their routines, their hobbies, even their families as though she weren't the subject of their merciless experiments.

Caught off guard by her resilience and sincerity, some found themselves responding. At first, it was reflexive—short, muttered answers, spoken without thought. But as the days stretched on, a few began to speak more openly, unable to reconcile the image of her suffering with the kindness she extended toward them.

They knew it was dangerous—dangerous to let her words reach them, dangerous to see her as more than the entity they were tasked to subdue.

Even without Westcott's explicit commands, the unspoken rule in the facility was clear: Do not empathize. Spirits were nothing more than emotionless monsters—demons—preying on the weak-hearted with their cunning tricks.

And yet, the contradictions gnawed at their resolve. Spirits weren't human—they knew that—but they looked human.

They reacted to pain and suffering as any human would and, more unsettlingly, behaved like one. For some of the staff, it became increasingly difficult to treat her as anything less than a person.

So, when Westcott suddenly decided to impose such rules—something he had never done before, even with the spirit code-named Sister—it was understandable that fear rippled through the room. Most of them couldn't help but wonder: Does he know?

The thought alone sent shivers down their spines, not just because of their guilt, but because of the unknown. What would Westcott do if he discovered their transgressions?

"..."

Westcott let his hand fall, the murmurs and exchanged glances among the staff seeming to grow louder in the oppressive silence. But he didn't mind.

He knew.

He was fully aware of their fears, their secrets, and the liberties they had taken in defiance of his orders.

At first, he had been displeased—ready to make an example of someone, to demonstrate the consequences of acting on their own will. The decision had nearly crystallized in his mind.

But at the last moment, he withdrew the decision. His attention had shifted to one of the staff members assigned to the "precautionary measures".

This individual, clearly worn down, had succumbed to the spirit's words and engaged in a brief conversation with her.

And during that exchange, he noticed something intriguing.

The spirit's demeanor suddenly shifted. Her mood seemed to lighten, her presence softening, all from the simple act of talking.

It was as if, for a moment, she wasn't in the midst of physical torture—Occasionally, she even laughed. She seemed almost unbothered by her situation... if only for a fleeting instant...

Thanks to their foolishness, Westcott had discovered something.

The spirit's greatest suffering wasn't physical—it was mental. He didn't need detailed reports or complex data to notice it; it was painfully obvious. She had a past, something she desperately didn't want to be trapped with.

What she needed was someone to talk to—anything to free her from the confines of her own mind.

Even if it meant indulging in meaningless conversations with anyone, whether it was someone she despised or even the very people responsible for her suffering.

She wasn't some pure-hearted angel who couldn't hold hatred toward anyone; But a broken creature who wanted Salvation...

"...This realy started to get more and more entertainment..."

Westcott shifted his gaze slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse beyond the glass over his shoulder.

For a fleeting moment, as the Spirit gasped for breath, forcing her head to rise, their eyes met.

Two lifeless gazes locked—both devoid of vitality, yet empty for entirely different reasons.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(A/N): UP to chapter 19 are available in mznovels. com for free

the website is totally free to use with no ads, make sure to check it out!