3rd Person POV
Lunchtime arrived with the familiar clamor of trays clattering and students rushing through the Kuoh Academy cafeteria. The usual chaos reigned—long lines at the counters, groups claiming tables, laughter echoing off the high ceilings—but Arto, Rias, and Akeno slipped away from the noise without drawing too much attention.
They found a quiet corner near the windows: a small four-person table tucked against the wall, partially shielded by a potted plant. Sunlight streamed in, warming the surface. Akeno set down the large bento box she'd carried from the clubhouse—three perfectly packed compartments filled with colorful, homemade food: tamagoyaki rolled into golden spirals, grilled mackerel, pickled vegetables, steamed rice shaped into neat onigiri, and a small side of fruit salad.
Arto stared at the spread for a moment, then looked up at Akeno with quiet wonder. "You made all this?" Akeno beamed, already opening the box and handing him chopsticks. "Of course, darling. I wasn't about to let my knight survive on cafeteria mystery meat on his first day."
Rias settled on Arto's left, unpacking her own portion with practiced grace. "She's been up since dawn. This is her love language." They began eating—quiet at first, the kind of comfortable silence that comes after a morning of new experiences. Arto took his first bite of the tamagoyaki and closed his eyes for a second, savoring the sweet-salty flavor.
"This is… incredible," he said simply. Akeno's smile turned soft and pleased. "I'm glad you like it."
After a few more bites, Arto set his chopsticks down and leaned forward slightly, voice low enough to stay between the three of them. "About training," he began, looking at Rias. "We start this afternoon—right after the last bell. I'll train you personally in hand-to-hand combat."
Rias's eyes lit up with immediate interest. She leaned in, resting her chin on her hand. "I'm ready. Where do we begin?"
Arto's gaze was calm, serious, but not unkind. "We start slowly. I know you've never thrown a proper punch in your life—at least not without magic backing it. Devil strength is incredible, but without technique, it's wasted energy. You'll hurt yourself more than your opponent."
Rias nodded, already visualizing the process. "So… basics first?"
"Exactly." Arto tapped the table lightly. "Stance. Balance. How to shift weight. How to breathe through a strike instead of holding it. How to read an opponent's center of gravity. We'll drill those until they're instinct. Only then will we move to actual sparring."
He paused, then added with a small, knowing smile: "And I won't go easy on you. You'll feel every mistake. You'll bruise. You'll bleed. But you'll learn faster that way."
Rias's grin turned fierce. "I wouldn't want it any other way." Akeno, who had been quietly eating while listening, tilted her head with a playful pout. "And me? Don't tell me I'm being left out of the fun~"
Arto turned to her, expression softening. "I will help you make a mana weapon here and now, and guide you along the way so that you know how to do it."
He extended his right hand toward her, palm up. A faint silver-blue glow gathered in his palm—subtle, controlled, barely noticeable to anyone glancing their way from across the cafeteria.
"Now," he said quietly, voice low enough to stay between the three of them, "show me your hand. Let me help you with a smaller version of the naginata. I'll show you the spell and how to tweak it to change it however you want."
Akeno's eyes lit up like twin violet stars. She immediately placed her left hand in his—palm to palm—fingers curling lightly around his.
The moment their skin touched, the glow in Arto's hand flowed into hers like warm liquid light. Akeno felt it instantly: a gentle current of mana, precise and patient, waiting for her direction.
Arto's voice came soft and steady, spoken aloud but pitched for only them to hear.
"First, visualize the shaft. Long, slender, perfectly straight. Feel the length—about one meter for now, easy to handle. Let the mana flow from your palm upward."
Akeno closed her eyes briefly, breathing in through her nose. The silver-blue light extended from their joined hands, forming a thin, elegant pole that hovered between them—translucent at first, then solidifying into a shimmering length of pure mana.
"Good," Arto murmured. "Now the blade. Curved, single-edged, sweeping like a crescent moon. Keep it light—sharp but not heavy. Let your lightning decide the color."
Akeno smiled, tiny sparks of violet dancing along her fingertips. The mana at the top of the shaft stretched, bent, and hardened into a graceful, curved blade—edge glinting with faint purple electricity that crackled softly along the cutting surface.
The complete mini-naginata floated between them—slender shaft, sweeping blade, perfectly balanced, humming with latent power.
Arto's thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand—guiding, encouraging. "Now tweak it. Change the curve. Lengthen the shaft. Thicken the blade. Add serrations. Shift the balance point. Whatever you want. The mana listens to you now."
Akeno's eyes opened—bright, focused. She tilted her wrist slightly. The shaft extended another thirty centimeters. She flexed her fingers. The curve deepened, becoming more pronounced and wickedly elegant. She thought of lightning. Violet arcs danced along the entire length, coiling like living serpents.
The weapon responded instantly—beautiful, deadly, utterly hers. Akeno spun it once—slowly—in the narrow space between them. The blade sang through the air, leaving a faint trail of purple static that dissipated harmlessly.
Akeno let out a soft, delighted breath. "It's perfect—"
"I don't think so."
The voice cut through the moment like a sudden chill. Both Arto and Akeno turned toward it.
Tsubaki Shinra stood a few steps away, arms crossed, her sharp eyes fixed on the floating mana naginata with clear disapproval. Her long black hair was tied back in its usual high ponytail, and her student council aura—composed, authoritative—clashed oddly with the casual cafeteria setting.
"The naginata shouldn't be this short," she said firmly, stepping closer without hesitation. "The shaft needs more reach for proper sweeping arcs, and the blade should curve more gracefully—deeper curve, thinner edge. Like this."
She reached into her blazer pocket, pulled out a pen, and leaned over the table. With quick, confident strokes on a spare napkin, she sketched a proper naginata: long, elegant shaft, sweeping crescent blade, perfectly proportioned for fluid, dance-like combat.
Arto stared at the drawing, then at the girl holding the pen—genuine surprise flickering across his usually unreadable face. He hadn't noticed her approach, hadn't even known her name until now. She was in the same class, yes, but quiet, observant, always in the background near Sona Sitri. "Thanks, miss… uhh…"
Akeno stepped in smoothly, her voice warm and amused as she placed a gentle hand on Arto's arm. "Thank you, Tsubaki. It's nice to have your opinion." She gestured toward the seat next to her, where Sona Sitri had appeared seemingly out of nowhere—lunchbox already open, chopsticks poised over rice, pink eyes calm behind her oval glasses. "Darling," Akeno continued, leaning closer to Arto, "this is Tsubaki Shinra, Sona's Queen."
Tsubaki gave a small, polite bow of her head—formal, precise—while Sona simply nodded once, acknowledging the introduction without looking up from her meal. Akeno's smile widened, playful but reassuring. "Tsubaki and Sona are like me and Rias. So no need to worry about magic being exposed to commoners."
Arto's surprise eased into quiet understanding. He inclined his head slightly toward Tsubaki—respectful, appreciative. "Thank you for the correction," he said sincerely. "I'll adjust the proportions."
He raised his hand again. The mana naginata re-formed—this time longer, the shaft extending to a more traditional two meters, the blade deepening into a graceful, sweeping curve exactly as Tsubaki had sketched. Violet lightning immediately threaded along the edge, responding to Akeno's will.
Akeno took the revised construct, gave it an experimental spin—longer reach now forcing her to adjust her stance—and let out a soft, appreciative hum. "Much better. Thank you, Tsubaki."
Tsubaki gave a small nod, satisfied. "It's a noble weapon. It deserves to be represented correctly. But why do want to make a naginata, Akeno?"
Tsubaki paused, her sharp eyes flicking from the floating mana naginata to Akeno's face. For a moment the usual composed mask slipped—just a fraction—revealing genuine interest beneath the student council vice-president's calm exterior.
"You're right," she said quietly, voice measured but carrying a note of respect. "A naginata excels at controlling distance. It gives you reach to punish anyone who tries to close in, while still letting you flow into close range if needed. It's not a brute-force weapon like a greatsword or spear—it rewards timing, footwork, and reading your opponent's intent. Perfect for someone who fights with elegance… and lightning."
She stepped a little closer, gaze lingering on the construct Arto had shaped. The violet arcs along the blade pulsed faintly, as though responding to Akeno's will. "I've trained with one since I was small," Tsubaki continued. "My mother insisted. She said a lady should be able to defend herself beautifully." A very small, almost private smile touched her lips. "I suppose she was right."
Akeno's expression softened from playful to earnest. She let the mana naginata fade away completely, the last sparks of purple static drifting harmlessly to the floor. "I've never used a polearm before," she admitted. "My lightning is strong at range, but if something gets inside my guard… I freeze for half a second. That half-second is death in the Arena. Or against anything that can move faster than thought."
She met Tsubaki's eyes directly. "So yes—I need something that lets me keep control even when they're close. Something graceful. Something that feels like dancing… but ends with thunder."
Tsubaki studied Akeno for a long moment—assessing, not judging. Then she gave a small nod. "I'll teach you," she said, voice even but carrying the quiet authority of someone who rarely offered her time lightly. "But there should be a price."
She turned her gaze to Arto, who was already shaping a smaller version of the naginata in his palm. The mana construct hovered there—shaft shortened to about 1.2 meters for easy handling, blade a delicate crescent of violet-edged light—rotating slowly as he fine-tuned the balance point with subtle flicks of his fingers. "I want to know…" Tsubaki continued, eyes narrowing slightly, "…whatever you're doing here with tweaking this naginata."
The question hung in the air—polite, but pointed. Not hostile. Not suspicious in the usual sense. Simply… curious. And calculated. Arto let the mini-naginata rotate once more before allowing it to fade into drifting sparks. He met Tsubaki's gaze without flinching, expression calm, almost relaxed. "Well," he said with a small shrug, "if you can train Akeno properly, I'm glad to share my technique."
He raised his hand again—palm open, silver-blue mana gathering once more."Let's start from the beginning, okay?" Tsubaki's posture shifted—just a fraction—shoulders squaring as though she were stepping onto a training mat. "I'm listening."
Arto nodded once, then began.
At their small corner table, Rias and Sona sat facing each other—lunchboxes pushed aside, chopsticks resting forgotten. The space between them felt suddenly charged, like the moment before a storm.
Rias leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a low, velvet murmur that wouldn't carry beyond the two of them.
"Sona," she said, tone deceptively light but edged with steel, "what do you want with my Arto?"
Sona didn't flinch. She adjusted her glasses with one finger—a small, deliberate motion—and met Rias's gaze with calm, unreadable pink eyes.
"Nothing much," she replied, voice equally quiet, equally measured. "Just to let you know that the Sitri clan has joined with Gremory in sharing the asset named Arto Abyssgard. The agreement has been made between our parents. I'm only informing you of the outcome."
Rias's eyes narrowed—sharp, dangerous, the crimson glow behind them flaring for half a heartbeat before she reined it in.
"So you've known what my Arto could do…" She paused, mind racing back to that night in the clubhouse study—the Stabilizer demonstration, the silver barrier Arto had raised, the sudden blackout of any external surveillance. "…from that night, right?"
Sona's lips curved into the smallest, most controlled smirk. "You're sharp, Rias. But yes. Not the full details—our observer was blocked almost immediately—but enough. Enough for my parents to understand the magnitude of what he's developed. Enough for them to negotiate terms with yours."
Rias leaned back slightly, fingers interlacing on the table, posture regal even in stillness. "And what exactly are those terms?"
Sona's smirk softened into something closer to professional courtesy. "Joint research oversight. Shared access to any breakthroughs. Mutual protection of the asset. Equal priority in emergency reincarnation offers should he ever change his mind about remaining human. The Sitri clan will provide logistical and financial support for scaling the technology—facilities, materials, secure testing grounds. In return, Gremory grants us partial patent rights and first-refusal status on any military applications."
She paused, letting the implications settle. "It's not ownership, Rias. It's partnership. Your parents agreed it was the safest way to protect him from… external interest."
Rias's gaze flicked briefly toward Arto—still patiently guiding Akeno through a basic thrust, Tsubaki offering quiet corrections—then back to Sona. "He's not an asset," she said, voice dangerously soft. "He's a person. My person."
Sona inclined her head—just a fraction. "I know. And that's precisely why my parents insisted on the clause that no faction—including Sitri—can force reincarnation without his explicit consent. He stays human unless he chooses otherwise. And if he decides to reincarnate, he will be in your peerage, I won't push any further. Sitri will only be the side who provide support financially for his work and receive benefits from his projects, nothing further"
Rias studied her for a long moment—searching for deception, for hidden agendas. She found none. Only the same careful pragmatism Sona always carried. Finally, Rias exhaled—slow, controlled. "Fine," she said. "But hear me clearly, Sona. If anyone tries to pressure him, manipulate him, or treat him like a tool again… they'll answer to me. Personally."
Sona's smirk returned—small, almost fond. "I would expect nothing less." She picked up her chopsticks again, resuming her meal as though the conversation had been about nothing more consequential than club budgets. "And Rias?"
Rias glanced back at her. Sona's voice dropped even lower. "Tell him we're not his enemies. We're just… making sure no one else can be either." Rias didn't answer immediately.
She simply watched Arto across the room—laughing softly at something Akeno said, his large hand steadying the mana shaft as Tsubaki demonstrated a grip adjustment. Then she looked back at Sona. "I'll tell him."
A beat of silence. "And Sona?" Sona raised an eyebrow. Rias's smile returned—sharp, protective, utterly Gremory. "If you ever call him 'the asset' in front of me again… we'll have a problem." Sona's smirk widened—just a touch. "Noted."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Sona on a phone]
Lunch had ended, but the weight of the conversation lingered like smoke in the empty cafeteria corner. Most students had already hurried off to afternoon classes, leaving only the faint clatter of trays being cleared in the distance.
Rias stood alone by the window, phone pressed to her ear, crimson hair catching the afternoon light. Her free hand rested on the sill, fingers tapping a slow, tense rhythm. The line connected after only one ring. "Papa," she said immediately, voice low but edged with something sharp. "I must ask—why didn't you inform me about Sitri coming to you and Mama for a deal?"
On the other end, Zeoticus Gremory's sigh was long and heavy, carrying the exhaustion of a man who had fought too many battles—both on fields of war and tables of diplomacy. "You know the situation, Rias," he answered, voice filled with frustration and a deeper, quieter sadness. "Sitri already knew of Arto's existence—and what he made. That single piece of knowledge was enough to turn every other clan against us if we tried to keep him exclusively. You've read it, right? The war we had with Phenex and their allies? We're still recovering from it."
Rias's jaw tightened. Her fingers stopped tapping.
Of course she knew.
Everyone in the Underworld knew.
The war that had nearly broken House Gremory to its foundations. The Phenex clan—arrogant, fire-wreathed, and backed by a coalition of lesser houses—had come for Gremory territory and influence with the fury of a dynasty that believed itself untouchable. The conflict had lasted years. Castles burned. Bloodlines were thinned. And in the end, the only thing that had forced a ceasefire was the betrothal agreement between Rias and Riser Phenex—a political leash meant to bind the two houses together rather than let them tear each other apart completely.
The wedding was still scheduled for next year.
Rias bit her lower lip hard enough to taste copper. "I know," she said, voice quieter now. "I know what that war cost us."
Zeoticus's tone softened, though the weight in it remained. "I know you want prosperity for our clan, Rias. And I know it would come fast with Arto—faster than anything we've seen in centuries. But prosperity without peace is just ashes waiting for the next spark. If it means sharing this power with another ally—Sora Sitri, in this case—it's something that must be done."
He paused. "We can't afford another war. Not now. Not when we're still rebuilding. Sitri's resources, their research networks, their neutrality—they're insurance. Protection. And in exchange… they get a seat at the table. That's the price of survival."
Rias stared out the window at the courtyard below—students laughing, walking in groups, living ordinary lives untouched by the politics of the Underworld.
Her voice came out small, almost fragile. "I just wanted him to be ours. Not… shared."
Zeoticus's sigh was softer this time. "I know, little one. But he was never going to be just ours. Not once the knowledge leaked. The best we can do now is make sure the people who share him are ones we can trust."
A long silence stretched across the line.
Then Rias exhaled—slow, controlled, the way she did when steeling herself for something difficult. "…Fine."
She straightened. "But if they ever try to pressure him, manipulate him, or treat him like a tool instead of a person… I won't care about alliances. I'll burn that bridge myself."
On the other end, Zeoticus let out a quiet, tired chuckle.
"I would expect nothing less from my daughter," Zeoticus repeated, softer this time, almost fond. "But don't worry. If it's Sora Sitri, we won't need to worry about overstepping. He is my best friend. I'm glad it was him who came instead of anyone else."
Rias allowed herself a small, reluctant smile. She knew the history—decades of shared battles, late-night strategy sessions, and the kind of trust that only comes from surviving wars together. Sora Sitri wasn't the type to treat people like disposable tools. If anything, he was almost obsessively fair-minded. That was why the deal felt… tolerable.
"Now…" Zeoticus's tone shifted, curiosity sharpening it. "Has Arto sent you the prototype of magitech?" Rias's gaze dropped to the folded sheet of paper still tucked inside her blazer pocket. She could feel the faint hum of mana against her chest—like a second heartbeat.
"He did," she answered, voice dropping to a near-whisper even though she was alone in the hallway. "It's… incredible, Papa. Safe spell simulation. Real-time analytics. Mana cost, output, stability, even projected collateral. No risk to the environment. And it runs indefinitely on the Stabilizer—no battery, no recharge. He wants to scale it up. A whole facility. Not just a piece of paper."
Zeoticus was quiet for a moment, processing. When he spoke again, the exhaustion in his voice had been replaced by something harder, more resolute. "Good. That's better than good. Can I have a look? I want to know if this worths investing in"
Rias gave a small nod—even though he couldn't see it. "I'll send it with the manual to you right away. Let me know your opinion by the end of this afternoon, okay?"
She ended the call and slipped the phone back into her pocket. Then she reached inside her blazer, fingers brushing the folded paper. The moment she touched it, the faint silver-blue shimmer along the edges pulsed once—warm, responsive, alive.
Rias exhaled slowly, centering herself. She raised her free hand. A small crimson circle bloomed in her palm—simple, elegant, laced with Gremory-specific wards. The circle expanded, becoming a perfect delivery portal no larger than a dinner plate: stable, secure, untraceable except to those keyed to its signature.
She placed the folded paper and a small note, her own manual on how to use this paper. The portal pulsed once—soft crimson light flaring—then collapsed inward, taking the paper and note with it. The delivery was instant. Somewhere in the Gremory estate in the Underworld, the items would materialize on Zeoticus's desk, sealed and warded.
Rias lowered her hand. The hallway was empty again. She straightened her blazer, smoothed her skirt, and let the tension ease from her shoulders. Then she walked back toward the classroom.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto changing playing with the naginata made of mana]
The final bell rang, signaling the end of classes for the day. Kuoh Academy emptied quickly—students spilling out in waves of chatter and laughter, backpacks slung over shoulders, uniforms rumpled from a long day. The sun hung low, painting the campus in warm amber and long shadows.
Akeno and Tsubaki parted ways from the main group at the gates. Akeno gave Arto and Rias a playful wink over her shoulder. "Don't have too much fun without me~" she called, voice lilting. "I'll be back with a brand-new set of polearm skills to show off."
Tsubaki offered only a small, polite nod before leading Akeno toward the old kendo dojo behind the gym—quiet, empty at this hour, perfect for private training. Arto and Rias turned the other way, heading toward the familiar backyard behind the Occult Research Club building. The path was shaded by cherry trees, petals drifting lazily in the late-afternoon breeze.
They walked in comfortable silence for a few moments—until Rias's phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the caller ID, and her expression shifted from relaxed to alert. "Papa," she answered, putting it on speaker so Arto could hear.
Zeoticus's voice came through—deeper than usual, laced with a mix of awe and urgency. "Rias. I've seen enough of the prototype you sent. I've reviewed it. Multiple times."
Rias slowed her pace, Arto matching her step-for-step. "And?" she asked, voice steady but expectant.
A long exhale on the other end.
"It's… extraordinary. The simulation fidelity is flawless. The real-time analytics are more detailed than anything our research division has produced. The mana draw is negligible—practically zero. And it runs indefinitely on the Stabilizer. No degradation. No heat buildup. No risk of rebound. This isn't just a tool, Rias. This is a paradigm shift."
Rias glanced at Arto. He walked beside her with hands in his pockets, expression calm, as though Zeoticus were simply commenting on the weather. "I want to see it scaled," Zeoticus continued. "Not a single sheet. A full facility. Secure testing chambers. Observation rooms. Data integration with our existing mana-monitoring systems. We can have the blueprints drafted within the week. Construction can start next month if we move fast."
He paused—then his tone softened, almost paternal. "And tell Arto… thank you. This could change everything. Not just for Gremory. For the entire Underworld."
Rias's eyes softened too. She looked at Arto again—really looked—and saw the quiet weight in his expression. "He's right here, Papa," she said gently. "You can tell him yourself."
She held the phone out slightly. Zeoticus cleared his throat—suddenly awkward. "Arto… son… I've seen what you made. It's beyond anything I expected. You've given us something we've chased for generations. I want you to know… we're not taking this lightly. We'll protect it. Protect you. Whatever resources you need—money, facilities, personnel, security—it's yours. Just say the word."
Arto was quiet for a moment. Then he spoke—voice low, steady, carrying the weight of someone who had heard promises before. "I appreciate that, Lord Zeoticus. Actually, I've already had the blueprint of the facility in my head, I just need a week or 2 to put them into documents, it's called Simulation Room, the scaled up version of the paper you are holding, the only different is this time, it's powered by Stabilizer instead of giant mana crystals. When I'm done, I send you for your approval and resources distribution, especially materials, there are some that go under different names for me so I would need you to help me find them"
On the other end, Zeoticus cleared his throat again—this time with something closer to genuine respect than awkwardness. "A Simulation Room…" he repeated slowly, as though tasting the name. "Scaled up from the prototype you sent. Powered solely by the Stabilizer—no mana crystals, no external reservoirs, no degradation over time."
He paused, and when he spoke again, the exhaustion that had colored his earlier words was gone, replaced by the sharp focus of a lord who had just been handed the key to a new era. "You've already designed it. In your head."
Arto gave a small nod, even though Zeoticus couldn't see it. "I have. The framework is complete. Structural layout, mana routing, safety wards, observation arrays, emergency cutoffs—everything. I just need time to commit it to paper. Blueprints. Material lists. Exact specifications. A week, maybe two, if I'm undisturbed."
Zeoticus exhaled—a sound that carried both relief and anticipation. "Then take the time. As much as you need. When you're ready, send the documents. I'll have our best engineers and rune scribes standing by. And the materials…"
He trailed off for a moment, already calculating. "List them. Every rare ore, every restricted reagent, every exotic component—even the ones that go by different names in different territories. I don't care how obscure or how tightly controlled they are. If they exist in the Underworld, the human world, or beyond, I'll find them. And I'll get them to you discreetly. No questions asked."
Rias's fingers tightened slightly around her phone. "Papa—"
Zeoticus cut in gently but firmly. "I mean it, Rias. This isn't just about power anymore. It's about security. Stability. The kind of future where our people don't have to fear the next war because we're too strong to be challenged—and too wise to start one."
He addressed Arto again, voice dropping into something almost paternal. "You have my word, Arto. Whatever you need—money, facilities, personnel, protection—it's yours. No strings. No conditions. You've earned that much and more."
Arto was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but steady. "I'll hold you to that." A faint chuckle came through the line—warm, tired, relieved. "I'd expect nothing less." Rias ended the call with a soft tap, slipping the phone back into her pocket. She turned to Arto fully, studying his face—searching for any sign of doubt, hesitation, or old wounds reopening.
He met her gaze calmly. "You okay?" she asked softly. Arto exhaled—slow, measured. "I've heard promises before," he said. "Most of them broke. But this one…"
He glanced down at the folded prototype paper still tucked safely in Rias's pocket, then back at her. "…this one feels different." Rias stepped closer, reaching up to brush a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. "Because it is," she said simply. "Because we're not them. And you're not alone anymore."
Arto's hand came up—covering hers gently against his cheek. "I know. But training first, princess, prepare to gain muscle and skills"
Rias's fingers lingered against Arto's cheek for a heartbeat longer, the warmth of his skin under her palm grounding her as much as it seemed to ground him. Then she let her hand drop slowly, a soft, determined smile curving her lips.
"Training first, then," she agreed, voice low and laced with anticipation. "I'm ready to earn every bruise and every skill under your tutelage, Sensei."
Arto's gray eyes flickered with something warm—pride, perhaps, or the quiet relief of someone finally believed in. He gave a small nod.
"Good. Because I don't train princesses. I train warriors."
He stepped back, rolling his shoulders once as though shedding the last traces of the earlier vulnerability. The shift was subtle but complete: the gentle man who had just let himself be held became the legion commander again—calm, focused, unyielding.
"Backyard. Now. Comfortable clothes. No jewelry, no accessories. Hair tied back if it's long." He glanced toward the hallway where Akeno had disappeared with Tsubaki earlier. "I'll meet you there in ten minutes. We start with stance and breathing. No magic. Just body."
Rias rose from her seat in one fluid motion, already mentally cataloging every word. "Ten minutes," she echoed. "I'll be ready."
As she moved toward the door, she paused, turning back to look at him over her shoulder. "And Arto?"
He raised an eyebrow. "When we're done tonight…" Her smile turned just a touch wicked. "…I expect you to tell me exactly what you said to Edward Elric that made him personally hand over his life's work to Kiba."
Arto's expression remained impassive, but the corner of his mouth twitched—betraying the mischief he usually kept hidden. "You'll have to earn that story too, princess."
Rias laughed—bright, fierce, delighted. "Challenge accepted." She disappeared down the hallway, footsteps quick and purposeful.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto changing into his training gear]
The backyard behind the Occult Research Club building was bathed in the soft orange glow of late afternoon. The grass was neatly trimmed, the training dummies stood like silent sentinels, and the air carried the faint scent of cherry blossoms drifting from the nearby trees. Arto waited near the center of the open space—blazer discarded, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, posture relaxed but alert. He had changed into simple black training pants and a fitted dark gray shirt, the fabric clinging to the hard lines of muscle earned through millennia of survival.
Rias appeared at the edge of the yard moments later. She had changed as well—loose black leggings that hugged her legs, a crimson sports top that left her midriff bare, hair tied back in a high ponytail. No jewelry. No makeup. Just Rias Gremory—raw, determined, ready.
She walked toward him with purpose, stopping a few paces away. Her blue-green eyes met his—bright, eager, but tempered by the understanding that this was no longer playtime. Arto studied her for a long moment, gray eyes sweeping over her stance, her balance, the way she held herself.
Then he spoke—voice low, calm, carrying the weight of command. "Here, in this space, you are not my princess." The words were quiet but absolute. "You are my soldier. My trainee. And I will do everything in my power to make you stronger—not the way I was trained, but the better way. The way that builds instead of breaks. The way that forges steel without shattering it."
Rias's chin lifted slightly, a spark of challenge in her gaze. "I'm ready." Arto nodded once. "Then we begin with the absolute basics. No shortcuts. No magic. Just body and will." He stepped closer, circling her slowly—assessing, not judging. "First: stance."
He stopped in front of her. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Lead foot forward—left if you're right-handed. Knees slightly bent, weight on the balls of your feet. Back straight, shoulders relaxed but not slumped. Chin tucked. Eyes forward."
Rias adjusted immediately—mimicking his posture with the quick precision of someone who had spent years mastering magical forms. She felt the difference instantly: grounded, balanced, ready to move in any direction.
Arto circled again, making small corrections—nudging her lead foot a fraction wider, tapping her shoulder to remind her to drop it, pressing lightly against her lower back to straighten her spine. "Good," he said after a moment. "Now breathe. In through the nose—slow, deep, fill the belly first, then the chest. Out through the mouth—controlled, steady. Never hold your breath during movement. Breath is your rhythm. Lose it, and you lose control."
Rias followed—inhaling deeply, feeling her diaphragm expand, then exhaling in a slow, even stream. The tension she hadn't realized she was carrying began to ease. "Again," Arto instructed. "Ten breaths. Focus on the rhythm. Let everything else fall away."
She did. Ten slow, deliberate breaths. With each one, the world narrowed—until there was only the rise and fall of her chest, the grass beneath her feet, and Arto's steady presence in front of her.
When she finished, he nodded approval. "Better. Now movement." He stepped back, raising his hands in a loose guard—palms open, fingers relaxed. "Mirror me. Step forward with the lead foot. Shift weight to the front. Then back—shift to the rear. Again. Forward. Back. Keep the knees soft. Never lock them. Never cross your feet."
Rias mirrored him—step, shift, step, shift—slow at first, then smoother as muscle memory began to take hold. Arto watched her like a hawk—correcting with small gestures: a light tap on her hip to remind her to keep weight centered, a nudge to her shoulder to stop it rising. "Again. Faster. But never sacrifice balance for speed." They drilled.
Step. Shift. Step. Shift.Forward. Back. Side to side.
Ten minutes became twenty. Sweat began to bead on Rias's forehead, her breathing deeper now, controlled. Arto never once raised his voice. Never once showed impatience. Every correction was calm, precise, delivered with the same patience he had once wished someone had shown him.
Finally, he stepped forward—closing the distance. "Enough basics for now." He raised his hands again—open palms, loose guard. "Throw a punch. Slow. Show me your natural form." Rias hesitated for half a second—then stepped in and threw a straight right, fist aimed at his chest. It was powerful. Clean. But telegraphed—shoulder rising first, hips twisting too late, weight shifting forward too aggressively.
Arto didn't block. He simply stepped aside—minimal movement, effortless—and caught her wrist gently as the punch passed. "Good power," he said. "But you're giving everything away. Shoulder. Hip. Foot placement. Your opponent sees the punch before you even throw it."
He released her wrist and stepped back. "Again. Slower. Focus on keeping the shoulder down. Twist from the core, not the arm. Drive from the back leg."
Rias nodded—once, sharp—and tried again...Better...Still not perfect...But better.
Arto stepped in closer. "We'll drill this until your body forgets how to telegraph. Until the punch is invisible until it lands." He met her eyes—serious, but warm. "You're strong, Rias. Stronger than most. But strength without control is just noise. We're going to give you both."
Rias exhaled—slow, determined. "Then teach me." Arto's smile returned—small, proud. "I will." The sun continued its descent. The backyard filled with the soft sounds of footwork, breathing, correction.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias throwing a punch that almost blow the clubhouse away]
The backyard behind the Occult Research Club was bathed in the soft lavender of early evening. The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky bruised with purple and gold. The training dummies stood battered—splinters and dents marking where Rias's fists and elbows had struck. The grass beneath their feet was scuffed and torn in places, testifying to hours of relentless footwork, drills, and controlled falls.
Rias stood in the center of the yard, hands on her knees, breathing hard. Sweat soaked her crimson sports top and leggings, strands of hair clinging to her forehead and neck. Her arms trembled from the constant tension of maintaining perfect form. Bruises bloomed across her knuckles, her forearms, the side of one calf—ugly purple patches where Arto's open-palm blocks and light counters had landed with deliberate precision.
She had lasted longer than most beginners would have. But she had reached her limit. Arto watched her from a few paces away—arms crossed, expression calm but not unkind. He had pushed her hard: stance corrections repeated until her legs shook, shadowboxing until her shoulders screamed, basic throws that left her sprawled in the grass again and again. Every time she rose, he nodded once—small acknowledgment—and corrected the next flaw.
Now she was done. Not broken. Just… spent. Rias straightened slowly, wincing as her muscles protested. She tried to take a step toward him—then her legs buckled. Before she could hit the ground, Arto was there.
He caught her effortlessly—one arm under her knees, the other around her back—lifting her into a bridal carry as though she weighed nothing. Rias's arms instinctively looped around his neck, face pressing against his shoulder. "I… can walk," she mumbled, pride warring with exhaustion.
Arto huffed a quiet laugh—soft, warm. "You can barely stand, princess." He carried her toward the clubhouse steps—steady, unhurried, every step careful so as not to jar her sore muscles. Rias didn't protest further. She let her head rest against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart.
"You did well today," he said quietly as he climbed the steps. "Better than most soldiers I trained in the legion on their first day. You listened. You corrected. You didn't complain once." Rias gave a tired, breathless laugh against his collarbone. "I wanted to complain. Several times."
"But you didn't." He pushed the back door open with his shoulder, carrying her inside. The clubhouse was quiet—lights dimmed, the faint scent of Akeno's earlier cooking still lingering. Arto headed straight for the living room couch and lowered her gently onto the cushions, propping a pillow behind her back.
Rias winced as she settled—every muscle protesting the sudden stillness after hours of movement. Arto knelt in front of her, one knee on the floor, forearms resting on her thighs. "You're exhausted because this was soldier training—not noble training. No magic to cushion the blows. No devil physiology to ignore the pain. Just body and will. You pushed through it. That's what matters."
He reached up, brushing a damp strand of crimson hair from her forehead with surprising tenderness. "But you've earned a break. And a little treat." Rias raised an eyebrow—tired but curious. "A treat?"
Arto stood, disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, then returned with a small tray: a chilled glass of her favorite iced tea (lemon and mint, just the way she liked it), a warm damp towel folded neatly, and—most surprisingly—a small bowl of sliced strawberries dusted with sugar.
He set the tray on the coffee table, then knelt again. "First the towel," he said, lifting the warm cloth. "For your muscles." He pressed it gently to the back of her neck—heat seeping into sore tendons—then moved it to her shoulders, rolling slow circles. Rias let out a soft, involuntary sigh as the tension began to melt. "You're… surprisingly good at this," she murmured, eyes half-closing.
Arto chuckled—low, warm, the sound rumbling through his chest where she leaned against him. "You're a VIP soldier, you know?" he replied, voice light but laced with that quiet affection she'd come to recognize. "I've never done this to my own troops. Just… myself. But since you're the daughter of my employers…"
He paused, letting the tease hang for a heartbeat before continuing, softer: "…you get special treatment." Rias huffed a tired laugh, the sound muffled against his shoulder. "Lucky me."
Arto's hands never stopped moving—slow, methodical, working out every knot with the same patience he'd once used to maintain his own armor after endless campaigns. He moved to her upper arms next, rolling the towel along the biceps she'd overtaxed during endless shadowboxing, then down to her forearms where the bruises from blocking his counters had bloomed darkest.
"You pushed through more than most legion recruits would have on day one," he said quietly, almost to himself. "No magic. No devil regeneration. Just grit. That's rare."
The clubhouse door slid open with a soft click, admitting a rush of cool evening air and the faint scent of cherry blossoms mixed with ozone.
Akeno stepped inside—hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed from exertion, training clothes clinging to her skin with sweat. In her right hand, a slender mana naginata flickered into existence one last time—violet lightning coiling along the curved blade like living serpents—before she released her grip and let the weapon dissolve entirely in a shower of harmless purple sparks that drifted upward and vanished.
She crossed the room on unsteady legs and collapsed into the nearest armchair with a dramatic sigh, head falling back against the cushion. Her breathing came in heavy, satisfied pants. "Training… with Tsubaki… is brutal," she declared, voice husky from use. "I think my arms are going to fall off. But… gods, that woman knows polearms like breathing."
Arto looked up from where he had been quietly reviewing a few handwritten notes—blueprints for the Simulation Room already taking shape on scattered papers beside him. Rias, sitting across from him with a cooling cup of tea, also turned her attention to Akeno, eyebrow raised in fond amusement.
Akeno lifted her head just enough to flash them both a tired but triumphant grin. "She corrected every single thing Arto's mini-naginata got wrong. Shaft too short. Curve too shallow. Balance point off by centimeters. By the end I was drilling the basic sweeps until I could do them in my sleep. And the way she moves…" Akeno mimed a slow, graceful arc with her empty hand. "It's like watching water cut stone. Elegant. Ruthless. Perfect."
Rias leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "So? Verdict? Ready to dance with thunder?" Akeno's grin widened—exhausted but bright. "More than ready. Tsubaki gave me the foundation. The footwork, the spins, the way to turn defense into offense without breaking rhythm. And now…" She flexed her fingers, summoning the naginata again—longer this time, shaft fully extended to two meters, blade sweeping in a deep, wicked crescent. Violet electricity immediately threaded along the edge, crackling softly. "…I get to make it mine."
She let the weapon vanish once more, sinking deeper into the chair with a contented groan. "But first… I need a shower. And maybe someone to carry me there." She shot Arto a playful, pleading look. "Darling~?" Arto huffed a quiet laugh, setting his notes aside. "You survived Tsubaki's drills. You can walk to the bathroom."
Akeno pouted dramatically. "You're no fun." Rias stood, stretching once before offering Akeno her hand. "Come on, lightning queen. Shower first. Then dinner. Then we drag you both back to the Arena tonight." Akeno accepted the hand, letting Rias pull her to her feet. She leaned heavily against the crimson-haired heiress for a moment—genuinely tired, but glowing with satisfaction.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto cooking]
The clubhouse was quiet except for the gentle bubble of the stew pot on the stove—beef, potatoes, carrots, and herbs simmering in rich broth, the scent filling the air with warmth and comfort. Arto stood at the counter, wooden spoon in hand, giving the pot a final stir before turning the flame down to low. Dinner was ready; he'd made enough for everyone, knowing training left people ravenous.
The front door opened with a soft click.
Kiba stepped in first—still in his school uniform, tie loosened, one hand cradling Edward Elric's annotated tome like it was a holy relic. His eyes never left the pages; he walked in a perfect straight line toward the couch without once looking up, mumbling equations under his breath.
Behind him came Koneko—white hair damp with sweat, gym clothes sticking to her skin, cheeks flushed, breathing in short, heavy pants. Every step looked like it cost her something. Her small frame trembled with exhaustion, legs shaking as though gravity itself had tripled. She looked like she'd been dragging a mountain behind her all day.
Which, in a way, she had.
Arto turned from the stove, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and greeted them with a calm nod. "Welcome back." Kiba managed a distracted wave without looking up. Koneko just glared—golden eyes narrowed to slits—and kept trudging forward like she was marching to war.
Arto stepped toward her, hand already glowing faintly with silver-blue mana. "Training's over for today." He reached out—gentle, careful—and pressed two fingers to the center of her chest.
The spell unraveled in a soft pulse of light. The invisible weight that had been crushing her all day lifted instantly. Koneko's knees buckled for half a second—then snapped straight.
Her body, suddenly free, reacted like a coiled spring finally released. She launched herself at Arto—fast as a bullet, tiny fist cocked back, aiming straight for his chest with every ounce of pent-up frustration. "You—!"
Arto sidestepped—smooth, effortless, barely moving his feet. Her punch whistled past his ribs, close enough to ruffle his shirt. Koneko spun, already winding up for another swing—eyes blazing. Arto raised both hands in a placating gesture, voice calm and warm. "You endured an entire day with a ton weighing on your body. Most grown soldiers would have collapsed by lunch. You didn't complain once. You kept going. That's impressive, Koneko. Really impressive."
She froze mid-motion—fist still raised, cheeks puffed out in lingering anger. Arto stepped to the side and lifted the small covered plate he'd set on the counter earlier. "And because of that… I made you your favorite."
He removed the lid. A neat stack of thick, fudgy chocolate brownies—still warm, dusted with powdered sugar, each one cut into perfect squares. Beside them sat a small bowl of fresh strawberries—bright red, sliced, and drizzled with just a hint of melted dark chocolate.
Koneko's glare cracked. Her nose twitched. Her stomach growled—loudly. The fist slowly lowered. "…You made these?" she asked, voice small and suspicious. Arto nodded once. "From scratch. Extra cocoa. No nuts. Just how you like them."
Koneko stared at the plate for a long, silent moment. Then—reluctantly—she reached out, snatched the top brownie, and took an enormous bite. The anger in her eyes didn't vanish entirely… but it softened. Considerably.
She chewed slowly, cheeks puffing out again—this time from pleasure rather than fury. "…They're good," she mumbled around the mouthful, voice grudging. Arto's smile was small but genuine. "I'm glad."
Kiba, who had finally looked up from his book long enough to notice the scene, chuckled softly. "You're scary when you're mad, Koneko. But brownies seem to be your weakness."
Koneko shot him a glare that could curdle milk, then grabbed another brownie and retreated to the couch—curling up with her prize like a small, satisfied cat. Arto turned back to the stove, giving the stew one last stir. "Dinner's ready in ten. Shower if you want. You earned it."
Arto glanced over his shoulder, spoon never stopping its rhythm. "Kiba," he said casually, "can you help me fix this dent Koneko made when she tried to jab me? Would be nice if you used what you learned in that book. I'll guide you along the way, so don't worry—you have a good failsafe over here."
He lifted the spoon from the pot and gave Kiba a conspiratorial wink, a tiny droplet of stew clinging to the tip like a promise.
Kiba blinked—once, twice—then looked from the dent in the plaster to the ancient tome in his arms, then back to Arto. "You… want me to transmute the wall? Using alchemy? Right now? In the kitchen?"
Arto shrugged, turning back to give the stew another stir. "Why not? Small-scale. Low risk. Perfect practice. You read the chapter on matter reconstruction and localized equivalent exchange, yes?"
Kiba swallowed, then nodded quickly. "Y-yes… I did. Edward's notes on structural stabilization through balanced transmutation circles… and Alphonse's addendum about minimizing energy loss during material phase shifts…"
He set the book down carefully on the counter (as though it might explode if mishandled) and stepped closer to the dent.
Arto moved to stand beside him—close enough to intervene if needed, but giving Kiba space. "Start small," Arto said, voice calm and encouraging. "Draw the circle first. Basic reconstruction array—focus on restoring original density and texture. Use the wall's existing plaster as the source material. No need to pull from outside unless you want to experiment."
Kiba exhaled slowly, then extended his right hand. A faint golden glow gathered at his fingertips—tentative at first, then steadier as he traced a simple transmutation circle on the floor in front of the dent. The lines were shaky but correct—pentagon base, directional arrows, stabilizing runes placed exactly where Edward's notes recommended.
He placed both palms on the circle. "Ready?" Arto asked. Kiba nodded—nervous but determined. Arto placed one hand lightly on Kiba's shoulder—not to interfere, just to steady. "Go."
Kiba clapped his hands together once—classic alchemical ignition. The circle flared bright gold. The dent in the wall shimmered. Plaster flowed like slow liquid—cracks sealing, surface smoothing, color matching perfectly. Within seconds the wall was flawless again, as though Koneko's punch had never happened.
The glow faded. Kiba stared—breathless—then looked at his hands in disbelief. "I… I did it." Arto gave his shoulder a firm, proud squeeze. "You did. Clean. Precise. Minimal waste. Good work."
Kiba's face lit up—pure, unguarded joy. "That felt… incredible. Like the wall was telling me exactly how it wanted to go back together." Arto chuckled—low and warm. "That's alchemy at its best. Listening to the material instead of forcing it."
He turned back to the stew, giving it a final stir. "Now help me set the table. Dinner's almost ready." Kiba hurried to grab plates, still buzzing with excitement. From the hallway, the sound of water shutting off and muffled giggles drifted in—Rias, Akeno, and Koneko finishing their showers.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto distributing the stew on the dining table]
The dining table was warm with the aroma of beef stew—rich broth, tender meat falling apart at the touch of a spoon, carrots and potatoes softened to perfection, all laced with just the right amount of herbs and a subtle depth of red wine that Arto had reduced down carefully. It was a far cry from the charred, uneven attempts he'd made only a few days earlier. Tonight, the dish looked and smelled like something that belonged in Lady Venelana's own cookbook.
Arto ladled generous portions into bowls while everyone settled around the table: Rias to his right, Akeno across from him, Kiba and Koneko already eyeing the food with barely restrained hunger. "Careful, it's hot," he warned, passing the first bowl to Rias.
She accepted it with a small, appreciative smile, inhaling deeply. "You've improved dramatically," she said, voice warm with approval. "This actually looks like one of Mama's recipes."
Arto gave a small shrug, almost shy. "I followed her instructions exactly. No improvisation this time." Akeno took her bowl next, eyes sparkling. "And yet it still tastes like you put love into it, darling~"
Koneko didn't comment—she simply picked up her spoon and began eating with quiet, focused intensity. The brownie reward earlier had apparently put her in a forgiving mood. They ate in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, the only sounds being spoons against ceramic and the occasional soft hum of satisfaction.
Then Arto set his spoon down and turned to Rias. "May I borrow your phone for a moment?" Rias raised an eyebrow, already reaching into her pocket without question. "Of course. What do you need?"
Arto accepted the device with a small nod. "Just looking something up." He unlocked it with the passcode she'd given him days earlier, opened the browser, and typed quickly. His fingers moved with practiced efficiency—search bar, keywords, scroll, read, scroll again. He stayed silent the entire time, expression focused but not tense.
After perhaps three or four minutes, he handed the phone back to Rias. "Thank you." Rias took it, curiosity lighting her eyes. "You're a living library," she said, half-teasing, half-genuine. "What could possibly be on the internet that you don't already know?"
Arto picked up his spoon again, stirring the last of his stew before taking a bite. "Inspiration," he answered simply. Rias glanced down at the browser history.
The last search was still open:
distributed version control system
She blinked. "…Version control? Like Git?" Arto nodded once. "Exactly. The concept—distributed, decentralized, multiple contributors working on the same project without stepping on each other, every change tracked, every version recoverable, branching and merging ideas instead of fighting over a single truth. It's elegant. Resilient. Human-scale collaboration turned into a machine that doesn't break when someone makes a mistake."
He met her gaze."That's what I want for the Simulation Room project… and eventually everything that comes after it. Not one person building in isolation. Not one faction owning the truth. A living, growing system where multiple minds can contribute, test, refine, fork, merge—without losing anything. Without losing anyone."
He paused, letting the words settle. "But before we get all grand and big about ideals, this is the first place I want to apply such a system."
His fingers tapped the book once. "I will teach you my systematic magic—the way I learned to break spells down to their bones, rebuild them, and make them do things even their original creators never imagined. And the distributed version control system…" He glanced at Kiba, whose eyes were already shining with recognition. "…is how we keep it safe while letting it grow."
Akeno leaned forward, chin on laced fingers, violet eyes bright with curiosity. "So it's like Lady Venelana's cookbook, but… bigger? Freer?" Arto nodded. "Exactly. I saw how her root book worked—only she could make changes, and every copy updated automatically. Centralized. Safe. Controlled. But limited. Only one mind at the helm."
He opened the book to a blank spread, then traced a small, glowing silver-blue circle in the air above the page. The circle hovered, rotating slowly. "With distributed version control, every approved student gets their own working copy. You experiment. You branch. You create new formulas, new arrays, new effects. You test them in the Simulation Room—perfectly safe. When you're ready… you propose a merge. I review it. If it's sound, if it's safe, if it adds something real—I accept the changes. The master book updates. Everyone's copy updates. And the system grows."
He looked at each of them in turn. "But make no mistake—this is dangerous. In the wrong hands, a single person could create spells that end cities in seconds instead of years. That's why there will be gates. My approval. Audits. Version history so nothing is ever truly lost—or hidden."
The dinner plates had been cleared away, leaving only the faint scent of herbs and the soft clink of glasses being set aside. The dining table now held only the single, leather-bound book in its center: Spellcrafting Formulas, its faded gold title catching the warm light of the overhead lamp.
Arto rested one hand lightly on the cover, fingers splayed, and looked at each of them in turn—Rias, Akeno, Kiba, Koneko—his expression calm but carrying the quiet gravity of someone who had spent millennia guarding dangerous knowledge. "Tomorrow," he said, voice steady, "I will give each of you a copy of this book to start studying under me after school—after I authorize it for each of you."
Rias raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. "Authorize?"
"Yes. Authorize." Arto tapped the cover once. "The book will be encrypted in Abyssgard Code. Once you're authorized, only you can read that copy and understand what's written inside it. The authorization will also grant you the ability to understand my native language—but only on the surface level, like an auto-translation. That way, you can exchange intel about the book without leaking any knowledge out."
Akeno tilted her head, violet eyes sparkling with intrigue. "So… when we talk to each other about the content of the book, we're talking in your native tongue?" Arto nodded once. "Yes. And no one would understand that aside from me. My legion is dead. I am the only one who can understand that language. That's not mentioning it's a dead legion from another world, so yes—super classified."
Kiba leaned forward, fingers brushing the edge of the book as though it might burn him. "So even if someone steals the physical copy… or intercepts our conversation… they get nothing. Just gibberish."
"Exactly," Arto confirmed. "The encryption is keyed to your individual mana signature and intent. Without both, the pages remain blank or show meaningless symbols. The spoken language is the same—only those authorized will hear it as comprehensible words. To anyone else, it's just… noise. An unknown tongue from a dead world."
Koneko, who had been quietly licking chocolate from her fingers, finally spoke—voice small but firm. "…Safe?" Arto met her golden eyes. "Very safe. This is how we protected our most dangerous knowledge in the legion. No leaks. No betrayals. Only the people we chose ever knew."
Rias traced a finger along the book's spine, thoughtful. "And the authorization process?" Arto's hand glowed faintly silver-blue again. A small, intricate rune appeared in the air above the cover—rotating slowly, like a key waiting to be turned.
"Simple. Tomorrow, each of you will place your hand on the master copy and state your intent—out loud—that you accept responsibility for this knowledge. That you will use it only to protect, to learn, to grow stronger together. The rune will read your mana, your will, and bind the copy to you. After that… it's yours. Forever. Even if the book is destroyed, you'll remember every page. The knowledge stays inside you."
Akeno's smile turned soft, almost reverent. "So we become walking libraries… and secret-keepers." Arto nodded. "And guardians. Because once you understand systematic spellcrafting, you'll be able to create things no one else can. That kind of power needs to be handled carefully."
He looked at each of them again—Rias's fierce determination, Akeno's playful intensity, Kiba's quiet resolve, Koneko's steady loyalty. "I trust you all can handle the knowledge and the responsibility that comes with it. Now, enjoy your stew and shower me with praise for my improved cooking skills"