Arto's POV
The first thing I feel is warmth.
Not the cold bite of stone or the metallic tang of blood-soaked dirt that used to greet me every morning for longer than most civilizations have existed. Warmth. Soft. Living. Two bodies pressed against mine—one on each side—like living blankets that refuse to let go even in sleep.
Rias is curled against my left shoulder, her crimson hair spilling across my chest like spilled wine, one arm slung possessively over my ribs, fingers loosely curled into my shirt. Her breathing is slow and even, the steady rise and fall of someone who fought hard and sleeps harder. Akeno claims the right—cheek tucked into the hollow of my throat, long black hair fanned over my collarbone, one leg hooked over both of mine like she's staking permanent territory. Her breath tickles my neck every few seconds, warm and soft and alive.
I lie still for a long moment, letting the sensation settle. I'm getting used to this...Slowly.
I've spent three thousand years waking up alone—either in chains, in blood, or in the suffocating dark of the Arena. The idea of someone choosing to stay beside me through the night still feels… foreign. Like a language I'm only beginning to speak.
But last night was different. The Dark Arena opened as it always does—silent, inevitable, the veil tearing like wet paper. The monsters came in waves, as expected. But this time, I wasn't alone.
Rias fought like a storm given form—Power of Destruction reshaped into tighter, faster lances, chains that whipped and exploded on command. She still relied on me for the finishing blows when things got too close, but she held her own far longer than yesterday. She read patterns. She adapted mid-fight. She even saved me once—blasting a clawed horror off my back before it could sink its teeth into my neck.
Akeno was… terrifying.
Her new mana naginata—longer now, perfectly curved thanks to Tsubaki's corrections—danced in her hands like it had always belonged there. Lightning coiled along the blade, arcing outward with every swing. She didn't just defend distance; she commanded it. When the swarm closed in, she spun—graceful, lethal—and turned the battlefield into a web of violet death. She still needed my intervention when the bigger ones charged, but she lasted. She adapted. She smiled while doing it.
They both did...And the Arena noticed...It always notices. The more I teach them, the more it learns. The more it learns, the more it counters. The more it counters, the harder it becomes.
That's why the systematic spellcrafting matters...I'm not just giving them tools. I'm giving them the means to make their own tools. To branch. To experiment. To create spells and techniques the Arena has never seen—because they never came from my mind.
The Dark Arena is part of me. It grows with me. It adapts as fast as I can think...But if they learn to think differently— If they learn to forge their own paths instead of walking mine— Then even the Arena won't be able to keep up.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias scaring chibi Arto from behind]
3rd Person POV
After a few minutes, Rias stirred first.
She made a small, sleepy sound—half-sigh, half-murmur—then lifted her head just enough to blink up at him. Her blue-green eyes were still heavy with sleep, hair mussed and wild around her face. A slow, soft smile spread across her lips. "Morning, Sensei," she whispered, voice husky.
Before he could answer, she leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his cheek—soft, lingering—then another to his jaw, then one final one to the scar at the base of his throat.
Akeno woke at the sound of Rias's voice, stretching languidly against his other side like a cat. She lifted her head, violet eyes half-lidded and glowing with sleepy affection. "Morning, darling~" she purred.
She shifted higher, nuzzled into the crook of his neck for a heartbeat, then captured his cheek in a slow, sweet kiss, gentle. When she pulled back, she brushed her nose against his.
They both settled back against him—Rias on one side, Akeno on the other—watching him with matching expressions of curiosity and pride. Rias propped herself up on one elbow, crimson hair tumbling over her shoulder. "So…" she began, tracing idle circles on his chest with one finger. "How did we do last night? In the Arena, I mean."
Akeno mirrored her—chin resting on his shoulder, eyes bright. "Yes, Sensei. Be honest. We want to know~" Arto exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling for a moment as he replayed the entire session. "You both improved. A lot."
He turned his head to look at Rias first. "You held the front line longer than ever before. Your new lances—tighter, faster—cut through the swarm like they weren't even there. You read the patterns. You adapted mid-wave. You even covered Akeno when she got flanked. That's high-level awareness. The Arena noticed. It's already planning around your new range and speed."
Rias's smile widened—fierce, satisfied. "Good."
He shifted to Akeno. "And you… your naginata is becoming terrifying. The way you spin it now—those wide arcs, the lightning trailing every swing—you controlled distance like it was yours to command. When the bigger ones charged, you didn't panic. You pivoted, struck the joints, paralyzed them for me to finish. You lasted. You grew. The Arena added you to its threat list last night. It's watching you closely now."
Akeno's eyes sparkled. "I knew I felt it paying attention~"
Arto looked between them—his two warriors, his chosen, his… everything. "But you still needed cover," he continued, voice steady but not unkind. "When the swarm closed in completely, when the bigger ones broke through—your instincts are still ranged. You backstep to cast instead of stepping in to end it. That half-second hesitation is what the Arena will exploit next time."
He reached up—brushing a strand of crimson hair from Rias's face, then tucking a lock of black silk behind Akeno's ear. "That's why we keep training. Close-quarters. Hand-to-hand. Polearm mastery. Systematic spellcrafting. Until your first thought isn't 'create distance'—it's 'end the threat'."
Rias nodded—serious now. "We'll get there." Akeno leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. "We'll make the Arena regret ever trying to adapt to us~"
Arto's smile returned—small, real, proud. "I know you will." He shifted slightly—careful not to dislodge them. "But first… breakfast. Then school. Then tonight—we go again."
Rias groaned dramatically, burying her face against his shoulder. "Can't we just stay here forever?" Akeno giggled, nuzzling closer. "I second that motion."
Arto huffed a quiet laugh. "Tempting. But you both have classes. And I have… a date with quadratic equations."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto cooking breakfast]
The morning light had barely begun to fill the clubhouse living room when Arto gathered everyone before breakfast.
Rias, Akeno, Kiba, and Koneko stood in a loose semicircle around the low coffee table. Five identical copies of the leather-bound book—Spellcrafting Formulas—lay in a neat row on the surface, each one looking exactly like the master copy Arto still held in his left hand.
The air felt heavier than usual, charged with quiet anticipation.
Arto spoke first, voice calm and measured. "Before we leave for school, I need each of you to authorize your copy. This is the only chance to do it safely and correctly. Once the process is complete, the book belongs to you—permanently. No one else will ever read it unless you allow it."
He placed the master copy in the center of the table. "First, look without authorization." He opened his own copy to a random page and held it up for them to see. The text on the page was not in any recognizable script.
Instead, the letters danced—literally. They twisted, shifted, flowed like liquid silver caught in an invisible current. One moment they looked almost like ancient runes, the next like flowing cursive, then jagged pictograms, then pure abstract shapes. The pattern never repeated. The moment any mind tried to focus on a single character, it slipped away, morphing into something else. Trying to read it felt like chasing smoke.
Kiba blinked rapidly. Akeno tilted her head in fascination. Koneko frowned. Rias's eyes narrowed—already trying to pierce the veil with sheer willpower. "Impossible to decipher," Arto said simply. "Even if you stare for years. Even if you record it. Even if you photograph it. The Abyssgard Code doesn't allow static capture."
He closed the book, then opened it again to demonstrate. "Let me show you what happens when someone tries to pry."
He took out a blank sheet of paper and a pen, then began writing—copying a paragraph directly from the page. The moment the pen touched paper, the characters he wrote began to writhe and twist, morphing into the same dancing, shifting nonsense that filled the original.
He held up the sheet. "See? Even my own hand can't preserve it." Next, he pulled out Rias's phone (with her permission) and snapped a clear photo of the open page. The image on the screen showed only swirling, distorted glyphs—nothing legible. The letters refused to stay still even in digital form.
Finally, he read a sentence aloud—slowly, clearly. The words that came out of his mouth were not the clean, precise language he normally spoke. Instead, they emerged as a garbled, twisting cascade of sound—phonemes folding over themselves, rising and falling in impossible patterns. It sounded like language being strangled, reversed, and played backward all at once.
He stopped after a few seconds. "Even spoken aloud, it's protected. The moment it leaves my authorized intent, it becomes noise. Meaningless to anyone not bound to the book." He placed the master copy back on the table. "Now… authorization."
He looked at each of them in turn. "Place your right hand on your copy. State your intent clearly—out loud. Say that you accept the responsibility of this knowledge. That you will use it only to protect, to learn, to grow stronger together. That you will never share it without my explicit consent. Speak from your heart. The rune will know if you're lying."
One by one, they stepped forward. Rias went first. She placed her hand on the cover, palm flat, and spoke without hesitation: "I, Rias Gremory, accept responsibility for this knowledge. I will use it to protect those I love, to grow stronger, and to build a better future—together with my peerage. I will never share it without Arto's explicit consent."
A soft silver-blue rune bloomed beneath her palm—rotating once, then sinking into the leather like a seal being branded. The book pulsed once, warmly.
Next came Akeno. She placed her hand, smiled softly, and spoke: "I, Akeno Himejima, accept this knowledge with gratitude and responsibility. I will wield it to defend my loved ones, to grow, and to stand beside Arto and everyone here. I swear never to share it without his permission."
The rune appeared—brighter, edged with faint violet lightning—and sank in. Kiba went third. "I, Yuuto Kiba, accept this responsibility. I will study it with care, use it to protect my friends and to create something meaningful. I will keep it secret unless Arto allows otherwise."
The rune glowed gold—steady, honorable—and sealed. Koneko stepped up last—small hand trembling just slightly. She placed it on the cover, looked Arto straight in the eyes, and spoke in her quiet, firm voice: "I, Koneko Toujou, accept this. I'll learn it. I'll protect it. I won't tell anyone without your say-so."
Her rune was small, bright white—simple, pure—and sank in without hesitation. When the last one finished, Arto exhaled—slow, relieved. "It's done."
He picked up the master copy. "These are yours now. Study them. Experiment in the Simulation Room. Bring your questions, your new formulas, your failures. We'll review them together. We'll improve them together."
Before anyone could leave the clubhouse for school, Arto raised a hand—quiet, but commanding enough to still the morning bustle.
Everyone paused: Rias halfway through adjusting her tie, Akeno slipping on her shoes, Kiba still cradling his alchemy tome, Koneko already halfway to the door with a half-eaten chocolate bar.
Arto placed the master copy of Spellcrafting Formulas back on the dining table, then looked at each of them in turn. "Before we head out," he said, voice low and deliberate, "a word of advice about tonight's lesson."
He tapped the leather cover once. "Read the first chapter—Intention—a little before the real lesson starts after school. Read it carefully. Read it multiple times if you can. It's the hardest chapter in the entire book, and we're tackling it first because everything else depends on it."
He opened the book to the first page—thick, dense script filling nearly every inch of the spread. "This is the foundation. The very first formula ever recorded in systematic spellcrafting. It's what turns a caster's intention into actual, controllable mana flow. Without it, the rest of the book is useless. With it done wrong… dangerous."
He met their eyes—serious, almost stern. "The chapter alone takes up almost ten percent of the book. Hundreds of formulas follow, but every single one of them is built on this one. If you want to create a spell, you must know exactly what it does. You must visualize it fully—every component, every side effect, every interaction with the environment, every possible outcome. No missing pieces. No vague ideas. Because if your intention is unclear or incomplete…"
He let the silence stretch for a heartbeat. "…the spell will work beyond what you wanted. It will twist. It will grow legs of its own. And the backlash can be catastrophic for the caster. Unpredictable problems. Mana poisoning. Rebound. Permanent damage. I've seen it happen. I don't want to see it happen to any of you."
Rias's expression sobered instantly. Akeno's usual playfulness dimmed into focused attention. Kiba's grip on his alchemy book tightened. Koneko's chewing slowed, golden eyes fixed on the open page.
Arto turned to a subsection near the beginning of the chapter—labeled Magical Indexes of a Spell. "This chapter will also teach you the magical indexes," he continued. "Every spell has them: power index, stability index, rebound index, mana efficiency, environmental interaction, secondary effect probability, duration decay rate… and more. When you visualize a spell, you must account for every single one of these indexes. If you only think 'fireball', you might get a weak spark—or an uncontrolled inferno that burns you alive. If you think 'fireball with 500 joules, 98% stability, 0.3-second duration, 0.8-meter radius, minimal thermal bloom, zero rebound'… then you get exactly what you intended."
He closed the book gently. "So tonight, when we start, I expect you to have read and understood the first chapter thoroughly. We won't move forward until every one of you can explain—out loud—what happens when intention is incomplete, and how the indexes help prevent it."
He looked at each of them again—searching for understanding, for commitment. Rias was the first to speak, voice steady. "We'll read it. Multiple times if necessary."
Akeno nodded, expression unusually serious. "I'll make sure I can recite every index in my sleep."
Kiba closed his alchemy book with a soft thud. "Understood. I'll treat it like the Elric entrance exam—except more important."
Koneko finished her chocolate bar in one last bite, then gave a single, decisive nod. "…Got it."
Arto allowed himself one small, proud smile. "Good."
[On the way to Kuoh Academy]
The morning walk to Kuoh Academy had never felt so long.
Arto strode at the front, one hand firmly on Rias's shoulder to keep her from veering left toward a flower shop she wasn't even looking at, the other occasionally reaching back to nudge Kiba back onto the sidewalk before he could step into oncoming bicycle traffic. Akeno walked beside him, book open in one hand, humming softly while her free arm looped through his—half escort, half restraint. All three of them had their noses buried in identical copies of Spellcrafting Formulas, eyes flicking rapidly across the dancing Abyssgard Code that only they could now read.
"I shouldn't have said anything," Arto muttered under his breath for the third time in five minutes. Rias didn't even look up—just adjusted her step automatically when he tugged her back from drifting toward the curb. "The Intention chapter is fascinating," she murmured, voice distant. "The way it breaks down visualization into discrete indexes… power, stability, rebound probability, environmental resonance… it's like dissecting a spell's soul."
Akeno giggled without lifting her gaze from the page. "Darling, you wrote this and you're complaining? This is your masterpiece. We're just… appreciating it thoroughly."
Kiba, walking behind them in a perfectly straight line only because Arto kept one hand on his back like a human rudder, muttered: "The subsection on secondary effect cascade is genius. I never realized how many unintended chain reactions could occur from a single imprecise visualization…"
Arto sighed—long, resigned, the sound of a man who had created his own personal hell. "I told you to read it before class. Not during the walk to class."
Rias finally glanced up—just long enough to flash him a dazzling, unrepentant smile. "But we're doing both. Multitasking. You're a good influence." Akeno leaned her head against his shoulder without missing a single line of text. "He really is~"
Kiba nearly walked into a telephone pole. Arto yanked him back by the collar without looking. Somewhere else, Koneko trudged along in her junior high uniform, small backpack bouncing, expression thunderous. The invisible gravity spell Arto had cast on her yesterday still pressed down—making every step feel like wading through molasses. She hadn't complained once all morning. She just… walked. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a tiny tank with anger issues.
At least the weight kept her from reading the book while walking. Arto glanced at her small, determined back and felt a flicker of relief.
One out of four is safe.
The group reached the school gates just as the warning bell rang. Students streamed past—some staring openly at the strange procession: the towering transfer student herding three book-obsessed upperclassmen like a shepherd with particularly scholarly sheep, while a tiny first-year glowered her way forward under invisible tonnage.
Rias closed her book with a soft snap, eyes bright. "I think I've got the Intention indexes memorized. We can start deconstructing tonight."
Akeno shut hers with a flourish. "Same. I already have three ideas for lightning variants."
Kiba reluctantly closed his copy, fingers lingering on the cover. "I… might need to reread the cascade section. Just to be sure."
Arto exhaled through his nose. "Class first. Arena later. No reading during lectures."
Three heads nodded—too quickly, too innocently.
[In class]
History class should have been Arto's sanctuary.
After three thousand years of fragmented memories, lost civilizations, and wars that spanned worlds, the history of this modern Earth—its timelines, its wars, its quiet moments of progress—was one of the few subjects he genuinely wanted to learn. The teacher's voice droned steadily about the Industrial Revolution, dates and inventions sliding across the blackboard in neat chalk lines.
Arto sat with his notebook open, pen moving in slow, precise strokes as he copied key events, trying to anchor the unfamiliar world into something he could understand.
But peace was not on today's agenda.
A small, neatly folded square of paper landed on his desk—silently, almost magically, as though it had teleported from the desk one row ahead. Akeno's handwriting: elegant, looping, with a tiny heart dotting the 'i'.
Darling~ How does intention index interact with mana resonance in the third subsection? If I visualize a delayed explosion but the stability index is only 87%, will the delay trigger early?
Arto stared at the note for a second. Then another small square fluttered down from Rias beside him—her script sharper, more decisive.
If the environmental interaction index is set to 'neutral atmosphere' but the spell is cast indoors, will the rebound increase due to confined space? Or does the caster's visualization override physical conditions?
He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had told them to read the first chapter. He had not expected them to read it with the intensity of someone cramming for the final exam of existence. Before he could finish writing a reply to Rias, another note landed—this one from Akeno again, folded into a perfect little crane.
Also, if I inlay a secondary lightning effect on a basic fire spell, does the intention index need a separate subsection for mana type conversion, or can it piggyback on the primary effect?
Arto's pen paused mid-stroke. He glanced sideways at Rias—she was already watching him, blue-green eyes bright with curiosity and challenge, pen tapping against her notebook in quiet impatience. One row ahead, Akeno had twisted just enough to peek back at him, violet eyes sparkling with mischief and genuine hunger for answers.
They weren't playing...They were serious...Dead serious.
Arto had expected questions after school. He had expected them to struggle with the first chapter's density—the way Intention broke down visualization into almost mathematical components, forcing the caster to account for every possible variable. He had not expected them to arrive at class already dissecting it like surgeons.
He quickly scribbled two short replies on the backs of their notes, folded them, and flicked them back with subtle mana nudges—silent, invisible, precise.
To Rias: Visualization overrides only if explicitly defined in the intention index. Otherwise, physical conditions apply. Indoor cast = higher rebound risk unless you account for confinement in the environmental index.
To Akeno: Secondary effects need their own subsection in the intention index. Piggybacking works but risks cascade instability. Always define mana type conversion separately.
He leaned back slightly, trying to refocus on the teacher's lecture about steam engines. Within thirty seconds, two more notes landed.
Rias: Then why not always define confinement? Is there a mana cost penalty for over-specifying?
Akeno: If I define the secondary effect as 'chain lightning on contact', does it inherit the primary spell's stability index or do I need a separate one?
Arto pinched the bridge of his nose. He had created a monster. Three monsters. He had told them to read the chapter. They had devoured it. And now they were hungry for more. He wrote quick, concise answers, sent them back, and tried—again—to listen to the teacher.
Behind him, he could practically feel the intensity radiating from both women. Rias's pen scratched furiously as she took notes on both the lecture and his replies. Akeno was humming softly, but her shoulders were tense with focus, already drafting her next question.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto being sticked with a bunch of sticky notes]
The bell rang, sharp and merciful, signaling the end of history class. Students began packing up, chairs scraping, voices rising in a wave of afternoon chatter. Arto closed his notebook with a quiet snap, already anticipating the barrage he knew was coming.
Rias turned in her seat instantly, eyes bright, a fresh note already forming in her hand. Akeno twisted around from the row ahead, violet gaze sparkling with at least three more questions she'd clearly been holding in for the last forty minutes.
Before either could speak, Arto raised both hands in a universal gesture of surrender—palms out, head slightly bowed, expression somewhere between exhausted and pleading. "School is for my relaxation, please," he said, voice low but carrying the full weight of a man who had just survived three millennia of war only to be buried under enthusiastic students. "Don't put me to work. I've worked enough last night setting up Git and the authorization system for the books using magic."
He let out a dramatic, theatrical wail—soft enough not to disturb the teacher packing up at the front, but loud enough to make his point. "I stayed up until three in the morning weaving mana-based version control trees, branching logic, merge conflict resolution runes, and individual encryption keys keyed to your mana signatures. My head hurts. My fingers are cramped. I deserve at least one class period where I'm not debugging magical distributed repositories."
Rias froze mid-motion, note half-crumpled in her hand, lips parting in surprise before curving into a slow, delighted grin. Akeno's eyes widened, then softened with genuine sympathy—though the mischief never quite left them. "Oh, darling…" she cooed, reaching back to pat his forearm. "You poor, overworked genius. We didn't realize you pulled an all-nighter just for us."
Rias leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You built a full Git-equivalent system… with magic… overnight… so we could safely collaborate on spellcrafting without risking leaks or conflicts?"
Arto rubbed his temples with exaggerated exhaustion. "Yes. And now I would like to pretend to be a normal high-school student for forty-five minutes. Is that too much to ask?"
Rias laughed—soft, warm, utterly charmed. "Not at all, Sensei." She tucked the half-written note into her pocket. "You've earned your break. We'll hold our questions until after school."
Akeno pouted playfully but relented, turning forward in her seat with a dramatic sigh. "Fine~ We'll be good. For now."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto reading his own book, wondering why Rias, Akeno and Kiba found it that good to read]
The classroom settled into the familiar hush of mid-morning break. Students drifted toward windows, vending machines, or small clusters of friends. The teacher had stepped out for a moment, leaving the room in a gentle limbo of murmured conversations and rustling papers.
Sona Sitri sat perfectly straight at her desk, notebook open but untouched, pink eyes fixed on the scene one row behind her.
Akeno had been buried in that strange leather-bound book since first period—Spellcrafting Formulas—scribbling furiously in the margins, then folding the pages into precise little notes that somehow always found their way to Aruto's desk. Each time she passed one back, her movements were casual, almost playful, but the intensity in her violet eyes told a different story.
Now Akeno had slipped away—dragging Aruto with her under some flimsy pretext about "needing his opinion on something in the hallway." The seat behind Sona was empty. Rias sat alone, head bent over an identical copy of the same book, crimson hair falling like a curtain as she read with fierce concentration, occasionally jotting something in her own elegant script.
Sona waited until the room's noise reached a comfortable background hum. Then she turned in her seat—slow, deliberate, posture impeccable—and addressed Rias in a voice pitched for privacy. "Rias."
Rias looked up, blinking once as though surfacing from deep water. Her expression was calm, but her fingers tightened slightly around the edges of the book. "Sona," she acknowledged, voice even. "What is it?"
Sona adjusted her glasses with one finger—small, habitual, but carrying the weight of someone who had already calculated every possible outcome of this conversation. "I couldn't help but notice you've been reading the same… unusual text as Akeno all morning." Her tone remained polite, almost conversational. "And sending notes to Aruto. A lot of notes."
Rias didn't flinch. She simply closed the book gently, resting her hands on the cover. "It's study material," she said neutrally. "Nothing more."
Sona's lips curved into the smallest, most controlled smile. "I'm not asking for the contents. I'm reminding you of something we both know." She leaned forward just a fraction. "Aruto Abyssgard is now a shared asset between the Gremory and Sitri clans. Our parents signed the agreement. Both houses are providing financial support, materials, secure facilities, and political protection for his projects. Whatever knowledge or advantage that book represents… my clan deserves at least its existence and a high-level overview. We are not tolerating unfair treatment when we're in this together."
Rias's eyes narrowed—sharp, protective. "You're asking for access to something Arto created for us. For his students. For people he trusts enough to share his deepest, most dangerous knowledge with."
Sona didn't blink. "I'm asking for transparency between allies. The Sitri clan isn't trying to steal from you. We're trying to make sure we're not left in the dark while Gremory pulls ahead in a technology that could reshape the balance of power in the Underworld."
She paused—then softened her tone just enough to be diplomatic. "I'm not demanding the full contents. Not yet. But I deserve to know what it is. What it does. What kind of advantage it gives you. Because if this is as revolutionary as my parents suspect… then the Sitri clan's stake in Aruto's future means we should at least be informed."
Rias studied her for a long moment—searching for deception, for ambition disguised as fairness. She found only the same cool pragmatism Sona always carried. Finally, Rias exhaled—slow, controlled. "I'll speak to Arto," she said. "But understand this: the book isn't just knowledge. It's trust. He gave it to us because he believes we'll use it responsibly. If I share anything—even an overview—it will be because he approves. Not because our parents signed a contract."
Sona inclined her head—small, acknowledging. "That's fair. I would expect nothing less from him… or from you."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto trying to fill out papers with the help of chibi Akeno to make sure the social system knows he exists]
Arto returned to the classroom with Akeno just as the break was winding down, both of them slipping back into their seats with the kind of casual ease that made it look like they'd only stepped out for a quick drink.
Rias immediately leaned over, voice low and curious. "Where did you two go? You were gone the whole break."
Arto set his bag down, exhaling a small, tired laugh as he adjusted his tie (still slightly crooked—Akeno had insisted on re-tying it in the hallway). "I went to pick up my paycheck from the Gremory clan," he said simply. "Akeno helped me open a bank account to receive it. Turns out… I don't technically exist in this world's systems. No ID, no tax records, no social security equivalent. Filling out the paperwork was… interesting."
Akeno giggled softly, leaning her chin on her hand. "'Interesting' is one way to put it. The bank manager looked like he was about to call security when Aruto tried to explain he was a 'displaced entity from another dimension.' I had to smooth things over with a little charm, some creative documentation, and a very polite smile."
Arto rubbed the back of his neck. "I managed. But that's not the part that's bothering me." He reached into his inner pocket and pulled out a slim bank statement envelope—freshly printed, still crisp. "As far as I remember, my agreed monthly wage from the Gremory household was 200,000 yen. Enough to cover basic living expenses while I focus on projects. But when I checked the account…"
He slid the statement across the desk toward Rias. "…I just received 4,000,000 yen." Rias took the paper, eyes scanning the numbers. Her brows lifted slightly. "That's… twenty times the agreed amount."
Arto nodded, expression calm but clearly puzzled. "I don't understand. I'm not complaining about the money, but I don't want charity. If this is some kind of bonus or advance, I'd like to know why. And who authorized it."
Rias's gaze flicked sideways—toward Sona Sitri, who had been quietly listening from the next desk over, her own notebook still open but untouched. Sona met Rias's look without flinching. A small, composed smile curved her lips. "I believe I can answer that," she said, voice even and professional.
She closed her notebook with a soft click and turned fully toward Arto, pink eyes calm behind her glasses. "Aruto Abyga," she began, inclining her head slightly in formal greeting. "I'm Sona Sitri, student council president. And—more relevant to this conversation—the heiress of the Sitri clan."
Arto blinked once—genuine surprise flickering across his face. He hadn't connected the quiet, bespectacled girl in the front row to the Sitri name until this moment.
Sona continued without missing a beat. "A few days ago, my parents—Lord and Lady Sitri—approached Lord and Lady Gremory with a proposal. They had become aware of your existence… and of the breakthrough you presented to them: the Stabilizer and the early prototype of what you call magitech. Our intelligence network is quite thorough."
She spoke matter-of-factly, no apology in her tone—only transparency. "Rather than risk another faction attempting to claim or control you, both clans agreed to a formal alliance. The Sitri clan has joined the Gremory in supporting your work—financially, materially, logistically, and politically. In exchange for shared access to future developments and mutual protection of your person and projects, we are providing significant resources. The increased payment you received is the first disbursement of that joint fund. 4,000,000 yen is the agreed monthly support stipend—2,000,000 from each house—effective immediately."
Arto stared at her for a long moment, processing. "So… this isn't charity," he said slowly. "It's investment." Sona nodded once. "Precisely. You are no longer just a Gremory associate. You are a protected asset of both clans. Your safety, your freedom to work, your ability to remain human if you choose—these are now shared priorities. The money is yours to use as you see fit: living expenses, materials, equipment, whatever advances your research."
She paused, then added more softly: "We are not trying to own you, Arto. We are trying to make sure no one else can." Rias watched the exchange with quiet intensity, fingers resting lightly on the prototype paper still in her pocket.
Arto exhaled—long, slow. "I… see."
He looked at Sona directly. "Thank you for explaining. And thank you—for the support. I'll make sure the work is worth it." Sona inclined her head—small, formal. "I have no doubt you will."
[ORC clubhouse]
The clubhouse living room had transformed into an impromptu study hall by the time Arto stepped through the door. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted through the windows, catching motes of dust and the faint silver-blue shimmer that still lingered on the edges of four open books.
Rias sat cross-legged on the couch, Spellcrafting Formulas balanced on her knees, a notebook filled with neat annotations open beside her. Akeno lounged in the armchair, legs draped over one armrest, book propped against her thighs while she twirled a pen between her fingers—violet sparks occasionally dancing along the tip. Kiba occupied the floor in front of the low table, book spread wide, a separate sheet of paper already covered in tiny, meticulous diagrams. Koneko had claimed the other end of the couch—small frame curled tight, book open in her lap, but her golden eyes were narrowed in lingering frustration. The invisible gravity spell still pressed down on her, making every small movement feel like wading through deep water.
Arto closed the door behind him with a quiet click. Everyone looked up at once. "Okay," he said, voice calm but carrying the subtle shift into teacher mode, "it's about time we start our lesson…"
Koneko's hand shot up immediately—small but insistent. Arto paused mid-step, realization flickering across his face. "Oh. Right."
He raised his right hand. A soft silver-blue glow gathered at his fingertips, then extended toward Koneko in a gentle wave.
The gravity spell unraveled—weight lifting from her shoulders, her back, her legs—like a heavy blanket being pulled away. Koneko let out a long, relieved breath, shoulders dropping, entire body relaxing back into the cushions as though gravity had just remembered to be kind. She flexed her fingers once, twice—testing—then fixed Arto with a flat, expectant stare. "…Sweet treat," she said simply. No please. No negotiation. Just fact.
Arto huffed a quiet laugh—fond, resigned—and walked to the kitchen counter where a small covered plate waited. He removed the lid, revealing a neat stack of thick, fudgy chocolate brownies—still warm, dusted with powdered sugar, each one cut into perfect bite-sized squares.
Koneko's glare softened instantly. She reached out without a word, snatched the top brownie, and took an enormous bite. Her cheeks puffed out in contentment. Anger: reduced by approximately 87%. Arto returned to the center of the room, pulling a chair over to sit facing the group. "Alright," he said, resting his elbows on his knees, voice steady. "Have you all read the first chapter of my book?"
Four heads nodded—some more vigorously than others.
Rias closed her copy with a soft snap, eyes bright. "Three times. I've already started mapping the Intention indexes to my own spellcasting process."
Akeno leaned forward, chin on laced fingers. "Same here. I especially love the subsection on secondary effect probability. I've got three lightning variants I want to test tonight."
Kiba looked up from his notes—pages already filled with cross-references between Arto's system and the Elric brothers' notes. "I finished it twice. The cascade warning section is… sobering. I've been thinking about how to apply it to Sword Birth arrays."
Koneko—mouth still full of brownie—gave a small thumbs-up. "…Read it. Understood most. Want more chocolate."
Arto's lips twitched—the barest hint of a smile. "Good. Then we start exactly where I said we would: Intention." He opened his own master copy to the first page—the dense spread of Abyssgard Code now perfectly legible to him, and soon to them once they began practicing.
Arto stood at the head of the small circle they had formed in the clubhouse living room—books open on laps, notebooks at the ready, the faint scent of Akeno's earlier brownies still lingering in the air. The group sat in a loose semicircle: Rias cross-legged on the couch, Akeno reclining beside her with chin in hand, Kiba kneeling formally on a cushion, Koneko curled up at the end of the couch with her brownie plate protectively in her lap.
The master copy of Spellcrafting Formulas rested on the low table between them like a silent judge.
Arto's voice was low, steady, carrying the calm authority of someone who had taught this lesson to soldiers long before any of them were born. "Before we discuss anything," he began, "let's remind ourselves of the definition of magic."
He raised one hand, palm up. A thin thread of silver-blue mana rose from his skin—stable, filtered, pure—coiling slowly into a simple, perfect circle that hovered above the table. "When a spell is cast, stable mana—filtered, controlled mana—flows from the caster's body or from mana-storing items through the magic circle. It is bent, shaped, directed by the magic sigils. That shaping creates the effect. And that effect… is what we call Magic."
The circle pulsed once—softly—then faded.
He lowered his hand. "The effect is the core of this chapter: Intention. Everything in this book—every formula, every array, every spell you will ever create—starts here. Intention is not just 'wanting' something. It is dissecting what you desire into the smallest, most precise pieces possible. It is specifying so completely that the mana has no room to interpret, no room to twist, no room to go wrong."
He opened his own copy to the first page and turned it so everyone could see the dense spread of text—now perfectly legible to them after authorization. "This chapter teaches you how to identify and define the magical indexes of a spell. Every spell has them. They are not optional. They are the skeleton beneath the skin."
He pointed to the first major heading:
Magical Indexes of a Spell
"Power index: raw energy output.
Stability index: how likely the spell is to hold its form without collapsing or rebounding.
Rebound index: risk of backlash to the caster.
Mana efficiency: how much power you waste.
Environmental interaction: how the spell behaves in different conditions—air, water, confinement, high mana density.
Duration decay rate: how quickly the effect fades.
Secondary effect probability: what else might happen as a side consequence.
And more—specific to spell type."
He looked up, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "If you only visualize 'fireball,' the mana guesses. It might give you a candle flame. It might give you an explosion that burns your arm off. But if you define every index—power at 1.2 × 10⁶ joules, stability 99%, rebound risk 0.01%, duration 3 seconds, environmental interaction 'open air only,' secondary effects 'none'—then the mana obeys. Exactly. No more. No less."
Rias leaned forward, already making notes. "So the Intention chapter is essentially… spell engineering. Turning a vague desire into a blueprint."
"Precisely," Arto said. "And that's why it's the hardest. Because humans—and devils—don't naturally think in indexes. We think in feelings. In images. In wants. But mana doesn't care about your emotions. It cares about precision."
Akeno tilted her head, pen tapping against her lips. "So if I want a lightning naginata that chains between targets… I need to define not just the blade and the shock, but the chain probability, the jump distance limit, the mana drain per chain, the risk of self-electrocution if I'm too close to the target…"
Arto nodded. "All of it. Every variable. Or the spell will decide for you—and it rarely decides kindly."
Kiba raised a hand—tentative but eager. "Does the chapter cover how to balance conflicting indexes? Like high power versus high stability—usually one comes at the cost of the other."
"It does," Arto answered. "There's a whole section on trade-off matrices. We'll cover it in detail next lesson. Tonight is just the foundation: learning to see a spell as a collection of indexes instead of a single idea."
Koneko, who had been quietly chewing her way through another brownie, finally spoke. "…Sounds hard." Arto looked at her—gentle. "It is. That's why we start here. If you master Intention, the rest of the book becomes tools instead of mysteries. If you skip it… you'll hurt yourself. Or worse."
He continued, voice steady and deliberate, carrying the weight of someone who had once spent decades perfecting the very process he was now teaching.
"This process of visualization—turning a vague vision into a complete spell—normally takes years to make something new. Most casters stumble through trial and error: cast, fail, adjust, cast again, fail again, maybe die if the rebound is bad enough. They rely on intuition, on feeling, on luck. And luck runs out eventually."
He tapped the open page where the Intention chapter began—dense lines of Abyssgard Code now perfectly legible to all four of them.
"But here, we do the same traditional way as every other caster when they create a new spell… only more efficient. Because we already know exactly what to consider, what to increase, what to decrease. We dissect the spell into its magical indexes before a single drop of mana leaves your body."
He raised his right hand. A small, simple orb of silver-blue light formed above his palm—basic illumination spell, nothing flashy. "Take this light orb. Most casters think: 'I want light.' Mana flows, the spell forms, and maybe it works… or maybe it blinds you, or drains you dry, or flickers out in two seconds because they didn't define duration. But we define everything first."
The orb pulsed once—steady, soft. "Power index: 0.8 lumens. Stability: 99.7%. Duration: 300 seconds. Mana cost: 0.02% of average caster reserve. Rebound risk: 0.001%. Environmental interaction: neutral in air, dims 20% underwater. Secondary effects: none."
The orb brightened slightly, then dimmed again—perfectly controlled. "When you can analyze vague thoughts into precise numbers like this, you save years of imagining, testing, and failing. You know exactly how it will turn out before you even process the intention into a complete spell. What's left is simply using the formulas to shape the mana flow."
He let the orb fade. "All that time saved… it can reduce the creation of a spell from years to hours. From hours to minutes. From minutes to… seconds for simple spells. Meaning in battle, you can craft and deploy something perfectly suited to the situation in real time—without anyone being able to predict what you're going to do next."
Rias leaned forward, eyes shining with fierce understanding. "So we become unpredictable. Adaptive. Every fight becomes a new equation we solve on the spot."
Arto nodded once. "Exactly. The enemy can prepare for known spells. They can't prepare for something you invent mid-combat, tailored to their exact weakness, because you already visualized every index and accounted for every variable."
Akeno's smile turned sharp and delighted. "Lightning naginata one second. Chain thunder prison the next. A localized storm after that. All without ever repeating the same thing twice."
Kiba's fingers tightened around his pen. "It's like Sword Birth… but for any spell. Infinite variety. Infinite adaptability."
Koneko—still licking chocolate from her fingers—tilted her head. "…Scary."
"It can be scary," he repeated, nodding to Koneko's earlier comment. "That's why Intention comes first. Without perfect control over what you want, the spell controls you. But master Intention… and you control everything."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"And to practice that, we can start by taking a glance at what you're facing in the future. Let's begin with spell analyzing exercises."
He placed both hands flat on the simulation paper. A soft glow flowed from his palms into the sheet—mana threading through invisible circuits. "I will give you spells. What I want you to do is list out the indexes along with my intention behind each one. Be precise. Look for power, stability, rebound risk, mana efficiency, environmental interaction, duration, secondary effects—everything the chapter describes. Don't guess. Analyze."
The paper shimmered. A small 3D projection rose from its surface—crisp, rotating slowly, visible to everyone in the circle.
The first spell appeared: a simple sphere of silver-blue light, no larger than an apple, hovering at eye level. It pulsed gently, steady and harmless.
Arto didn't look at the projection. He kept his eyes on them. "Analyze this one. What are the indexes? What was my intention?"
Silence for a few heartbeats as four sets of eyes studied the orb.
Rias spoke first—voice steady, analytical.
"Power index: low—around 1.2 lumens, bright enough for reading but not blinding.
Stability: 99.9%—no flicker.
Mana efficiency: extremely high—0.01% draw or less.
Duration: indefinite while maintained, but passive decay if released.
Rebound risk: negligible—0.0001%.
Environmental interaction: neutral—works in air, dims slightly underwater.
Secondary effects: none. No heat, no ozone trace."
She paused, then added: "Your intention: safe, sustained illumination. No threat. Pure utility. You wanted something we could all see clearly without danger or distraction."
Arto nodded once—small approval. "Good. Next." Akeno leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Addendum: the mana flow is smooth—no turbulence in the projection. You intended perfect visual clarity—no distortion, no color shift. It's almost… calming."
Kiba chimed in. "Environmental resonance is tuned to ambient light levels—brighter in darkness, softer in bright rooms. Adaptive intention." Koneko—after swallowing her last bite of brownie—pointed one small finger at the orb. "…No sound. You wanted silence too."
Arto's lips curved faintly. "All correct."
He waved his hand through the projection. The orb vanished. The paper shimmered again. A new spell formed—this one more complex: a thin, translucent barrier, faintly silver-blue, curved like a small shield in front of him. It pulsed once—solid, unyielding—then faded slightly, showing controlled transparency. "Same task. Indexes. Intention."
Rias spoke faster this time.
"Power index: moderate deflection—can block mid-level physical and low-level magical attacks.
Stability: 97%—flexible but strong.
Mana efficiency: 0.8% per minute while maintained.
Rebound risk: 1.2% if overloaded.
Duration: 180 seconds active, 30 seconds passive decay.
Environmental interaction: solid against physical, semi-permeable to light and low-energy mana.
Secondary effects: minor kinetic feedback—attackers feel pushback."
She met his eyes. "Your intention: personal defense. Quick to summon, low drain, allows visibility through it. You wanted protection without isolation." Akeno added: "The curve is angled to deflect rather than absorb—intention to redirect force, not just stop it."
Kiba: "Feedback is intentional—deters without killing. Non-lethal." Koneko: "…Pretty."
Arto allowed himself a small chuckle. "Close enough."
He dismissed the barrier. The paper shimmered once more. The next spell rose: a thin violet thread—lightning-thin, crackling faintly, coiling like a whip but hovering still. It looked delicate… until it snapped once—sharp, deafening in the small room, leaving a faint ozone scent.
Everyone leaned forward. Arto's voice stayed calm. "Analyze." The room went silent—four minds racing. Rias started.
"Power index: high localized discharge—enough to stun or burn through armor.
Stability: 94%—volatile by design.
Mana efficiency: 2.1% per snap.
Rebound risk: 4.8% if caster is grounded poorly.
Duration: instantaneous discharge, 0.3-second channel.
Environmental interaction: conducts through metal, dissipates in water.
Secondary effects: temporary paralysis on contact, chain potential if multiple targets grounded."
Akeno's eyes gleamed. "Intention: precision strike. Fast. Lethal if needed. Controlled chain possibility. You wanted something that punishes closing distance without wide-area collateral." Kiba: "The whip form is for reach and control—intention to keep enemies at bay while still threatening close range." Koneko: "…Hurts."
Arto nodded—slow, approving. "All accurate."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto standing before class teaching his students, but not tall enough to reach the board]
The lesson wound down as the clubhouse living room grew dimmer, the late-afternoon sun giving way to the soft glow of lamps. Notebooks were closing, pens set aside, the faint hum of mana from earlier practice still lingering like static in the air.
Arto reached into the inner pocket of his discarded blazer and withdrew a small stack of papers—four sheets, each one identical in size but distinctly different in content. He handed one to each of them: Rias, Akeno, Kiba, Koneko.
Each paper contained a single spell array—carefully drawn in Arto's precise hand—complete with the magic circle, sigils, and mana flow lines, but deliberately missing the critical annotations. No indexes. No intention description. Just the raw framework, waiting to be dissected.
"This will be your homework today," Arto said, voice calm but carrying the quiet weight of expectation. "Practice your analyzing skill with this. You will cast this spell into the simulation paper placed at the last page of your book and write down the indexes along with the intention of the spell."
He tapped the master copy on the table for emphasis. "We'll see your results two days from now. No collaboration. No hints. Each of you received a completely different exercise. I want to see your individual understanding—no copying, no shortcuts."
Rias took her sheet first, eyes already scanning the unfamiliar array with sharp focus.
Akeno accepted hers with a delighted hum, folding it carefully into her book like a treasured secret.
Kiba held his as though it were fragile glass—already mentally breaking it down into components.
Koneko stared at hers for a long moment—brow furrowed—then tucked it safely between the pages of her own copy without a word.
Arto stood, gathering the scattered notes and the master book. "Two days," he repeated. "Come prepared. We'll go over each one together—strengths, gaps, corrections. This isn't about perfection yet. It's about honesty. If you miss something… say so. What's coming is not going to tolerate oblivion. Neither will I."
He looked at each of them—Rias's fierce determination, Akeno's eager curiosity, Kiba's quiet resolve, Koneko's steady focus. "Dismissed. Everyone go take a shower and change your clothes, I'm cooking for you all today, so Kiba, Koneko, stay for dinner before heading home, will you?
Rias stood first—stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied sigh, ponytail swaying as she rolled her shoulders. "Shower sounds heavenly right now," she said, flashing Arto a quick, grateful smile. "And dinner cooked by you? I'm staying even if you tried to kick me out."
Akeno rose next—graceful despite the lingering ache in her arms from Tsubaki's drills—already drifting toward the stairs with a playful hum. "I'll borrow your shampoo again, darling~" she called over her shoulder to Arto, violet eyes sparkling. "The one that smells like cedar and storms. It's addictive."
Kiba stood more formally, bowing slightly toward Arto. "I'd be honored to stay for dinner, Arto. Thank you."
He glanced at the alchemy tome still in his hand—then carefully set it on the side table, as though reluctant to take it upstairs and risk getting distracted again.
Koneko hopped off the couch last—small frame still carrying the faint stiffness of the gravity spell's aftereffects, even though it had been lifted. She gave Arto a long, considering look… then nodded once. "…Stayin'," she muttered, already heading toward the stairs with the determined waddle of someone who knew food was waiting at the end of a shower.
The cookbook opened with a soft creak of aged leather, pages parting almost eagerly under Arto's fingers. Lady Venelana's elegant handwriting greeted him like an old friend—neat loops and flourishes, little marginal notes in her own hand: Rias likes extra garlic here, Sirzechs always asks for seconds of this, Works well with leftover herbs.
Arto exhaled slowly, letting his thumb rest on the spine as he murmured again, quieter this time: "Lady Venelana… give me something to feed them."
The book didn't literally answer, of course. But as he let the pages fall open naturally—guided more by instinct than deliberate choice—the book settled on a double-page spread titled:
Quick Comfort: Venelana's One-Pot Herb Chicken & Vegetable Stew(Note: 45 minutes total. Filling, forgiving, feeds a hungry crowd. Perfect after training or long days.)
A small heart was sketched beside the title in red ink, and beneath it, in her familiar script: "When they come home tired and bruised, feed them warmth first. Strength follows."
Arto's expression softened—just a fraction—as he read the ingredients list.
Chicken thighs (bone-in, skin-on for flavor) Carrots, potatoes, celery, onion Garlic (lots—Rias loves it) Fresh thyme, rosemary, bay leaf Chicken stock (homemade if possible, boxed if rushed) White wine (just a splash) Salt, pepper, paprika Optional: cream or milk at the end for richness
The method was simple, straightforward, forgiving—exactly what he needed tonight. No complicated reductions. No need for perfect knife work. Just chop, sear, simmer, let time do the rest.
He set the book open on the counter (using a small stone weight to keep the pages from closing), rolled up his sleeves again, and began.
First the chicken—patted dry, seasoned generously with salt, pepper, and a touch of paprika. Into the hot pot with a little oil, skin-side down. The sizzle filled the kitchen almost immediately, rich and promising.
While the chicken browned, he chopped—carrots into thick coins, potatoes into chunks, celery and onion into rough dice. No precision needed here; the stew would forgive uneven cuts. Garlic—four fat cloves smashed and roughly chopped (Rias would notice and approve).
The chicken turned golden; he flipped it, added the vegetables, let them soften and caramelize a little in the chicken fat. Thyme and rosemary from the small herb pots on the windowsill—snapped fresh, stems and all—went in next, followed by a bay leaf and a generous splash of white wine. The alcohol hissed and bubbled, lifting the fond from the bottom of the pot in fragrant steam.
Stock poured in—enough to cover everything. A pinch more salt. A grind of pepper. Lid on. Low simmer. Twenty-five minutes later the kitchen smelled like home in a way Arto had never quite known before—warm, savory, layered with herbs and comfort.
He tasted. Adjusted salt. Added a final swirl of cream (because why not?), stirring until the broth turned velvety...Perfect...He turned off the flame. Covered the pot. And leaned against the counter for a moment, listening to the distant sound of water running upstairs, muffled laughter, the occasional squeak of floorboards.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by the steamy pot of food Arto made for Rias' peerage]
The clubhouse dining area filled with the soft clatter of footsteps descending the stairs and the low murmur of tired but content voices. Steam still curled from the large pot on the stove as Arto ladled generous portions into five deep bowls—thick, hearty stew rich with tender chicken, vegetables that had melted into the broth, and the subtle herbal brightness of fresh thyme and rosemary.
Rias appeared first—hair still damp from the shower, wearing loose lounge pants and an oversized crimson hoodie that slipped off one shoulder. She inhaled deeply as she stepped into the kitchen, eyes closing in bliss. "That smells even better than it did before," she said, sliding into her usual seat at the table. "You've officially surpassed Mama's recipe. I'm telling her."
Akeno followed—wrapped in a fluffy black robe, hair towel-dried but still slightly wild, violet eyes bright despite the faint shadows of fatigue under them. She inhaled dramatically, then floated to the table like she was drawn by the scent alone. "My hero," she sighed, dropping into the chair beside Rias. "I could smell this all the way from the bathroom. You're spoiling us rotten, darling."
Kiba came next—hair still wet, uniform traded for a simple white t-shirt and sweatpants. He carried his alchemy book under one arm but set it carefully on the side table before sitting. His eyes lit up when he saw the bowls. "This looks… incredible, Arto. Thank you."
Koneko was last—small feet padding softly, still in her oversized hoodie and shorts, cheeks flushed from the hot shower. She didn't speak—just climbed into her chair, pulled her bowl closer, and immediately picked up her spoon. Her golden eyes flicked to Arto once—silent acknowledgment—before she dove in.
Arto set the last bowl in front of himself and took his seat at the head of the table. For a moment, no one spoke. Only the soft clink of spoons against ceramic, the occasional hum of appreciation, the quiet rhythm of five people eating together after a long day.
Rias broke the silence first—voice warm, almost reverent. "This is really good," she said again, as though she still couldn't quite believe it. "You followed Mama's recipe perfectly… but it tastes like you. Like comfort. Like home."
Akeno nodded enthusiastically around a mouthful. "Seriously. I'm stealing this recipe. And you. Mostly you."
Kiba swallowed his first bite, eyes wide. "The balance is perfect. The herbs, the depth of the broth… you've turned military rations into something this good in just a few days?"
Koneko didn't speak—just gave a small, decisive nod while chewing, then reached for a second helping without asking.
Arto ate quietly for a few moments, letting the praise wash over him without comment. Then he looked up—small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I followed the instructions," he said simply. "Lady Venelana's notes helped. The rest… I just tried to make it taste like something worth coming home to."
The table fell quiet again—not awkward, just full. Rias reached over and squeezed his hand once—brief, warm. "You succeeded."
Akeno leaned her head against his shoulder for a second. "Best dinner ever." Kiba smiled—soft, genuine. "I'm glad I stayed."
Koneko—already on her third helping—mumbled around a mouthful: "…More tomorrow?" Arto chuckled—low, quiet, real. "If you want it."
They finished slowly—bowls emptied, spoons set aside, the kind of satisfied silence that only comes after good food and good company.