3rd Person POV
Arto stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in warm soapy water as he scrubbed the last of the stew bowls. The clubhouse kitchen was quiet now—only the soft clink of porcelain, the faint drip of the faucet, the distant murmur of voices upstairs where Rias, Akeno, Kiba, and Koneko were winding down for the night.
He moved methodically, almost mechanically, but his mind was elsewhere.
The Spy.
Sona's words from earlier replayed in his head like a looped recording: disembodied eyes and ears, spawned anywhere, gathering intel to sell to the highest bidder. A woman who had tried—and failed—to pierce the veil he'd wrapped around the Stabilizer prototype that night in the Gremory study. Failed again when she reached for the Spellcrafting Formulas a few days later. The Abyssgard Code had done its job: twisting, blurring, dissolving anything that tried to capture or transmit the contents.
Still… she had tried...And she was persistent...Arto rinsed the last bowl, set it in the drying rack, and shook water from his hands. He reached for the dish towel—then froze.
A prickle ran down the back of his neck. Not instinct. Not paranoia. Certainty. Someone was watching.
His eyes flicked upward, scanning the kitchen without moving his head. The corner opposite the sink—where the cabinets met the wall in a shadowed angle—was too clean, too still. A faint distortion shimmered there, almost invisible unless you knew exactly where to look: the air rippling like heat haze over pavement, a single unblinking eye hovering just above eye level, pupil dilated, iris the color of old parchment.
Arto didn't flinch. He dried his hands slowly, deliberately, then turned to face it. With a casual flick of his wrist—faster than thought—silver-blue mana lashed out like a whip. Not to destroy. Just to catch.
Arto held the captured eye closer, its iris contracting frantically under the cold scrutiny of his gaze. The silver-blue threads of mana binding it pulsed once—tightening like a noose made of starlight—ensuring the disembodied organ could neither flee nor transmit anything useful anymore. "Hello," he said, softer this time, almost gentle, as if speaking to a frightened child rather than a spy's remote sensory organ. "We meet again."
The eye quivered violently between his fingers. "I know what you came for," Arto continued, voice low and conversational, carrying the calm certainty of someone who had long ago stopped being surprised by surveillance. "And I know what you're trying to acquire. All futile, my dear."
His thumb brushed the surface of the eye—almost tender. Then—without warning—his other hand moved. A single, needle-thin filament of mana extended from his fingertip, silver-blue and razor-sharp. It slipped into the eye's pupil like a thread through the eye of a needle, riding the invisible reverse-flow of intel back toward its source. Not destructive. Not explosive.
Subtle...Maliciously patient...The filament was a seed—a tiny fragment of his own mana signature laced with a self-replicating instruction set. It would follow the connection all the way home, slip through whatever wards or proxies the Spy used, and quietly embed itself in her network. Not to cripple. Not yet. Just to watch. To listen. To remember every eye she spawned, every ear she placed, every report she sent.
And when the time came—when she inevitably tried again—he would know. Before she did. Arto leaned in until his lips nearly brushed the trembling iris. "I don't enjoy being watched," he whispered. "Especially not in my own home. Especially not while I'm cooking dinner for people I care about."
The eye spasmed once—final, panicked. Arto snapped his fingers. The mana threads constricted, then released. The eye popped like a soap bubble—dissolving into harmless silver motes that drifted upward and vanished into nothing. Silence returned to the kitchen.
Arto exhaled once—long and slow—then turned back to the sink. He rinsed the last fork, dried it, and placed it in the drawer with the others. The clubhouse was quiet again.
Upstairs, laughter drifted down—Rias teasing Akeno about something, her red-haired princess' yelling while running around the room, trying to catch her Queen. He turned off the kitchen light with a smile and goes to the yard for some air.
[Arto's bedroom]
Arto pushed open the door to his room, the faint scent of soap and warm stew still clinging to his hands even after drying them twice. He had planned to collapse onto the bed for a few minutes of quiet, or perhaps spread out the half-finished blueprints for the Simulation Room across the desk—nothing too intense, just enough lines and notes to keep the design moving forward before sleep claimed him.
Instead, he stopped short in the doorway...Rias and Akeno were already there...Both of them...On his bed.
Rias sat cross-legged near the headboard, back propped against the pillows, her copy of Spellcrafting Formulas open on her lap. A notebook rested beside her knee; she was scribbling furiously—small, precise diagrams of intention indexes branching off into hypothetical secondary effects. Her damp hair had been twisted into a loose bun, a few crimson strands escaping to frame her face, and she wore one of his oversized shirts (the dark gray one he usually slept in) over her sleep shorts. The sleeves were rolled up, the hem falling to mid-thigh.
Akeno lounged beside her—half-reclining on her side, propped on one elbow, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. Her own book lay open in front of her, pages marked with colorful tabs. She had borrowed one of Arto's hoodies (black, too big even on her), the sleeves dangling past her hands as she absentmindedly twirled a pen between her fingers. Her long black hair was still damp, falling in loose waves over one shoulder, and she was humming softly to herself while annotating a section on mana resonance.
Both looked up at the same moment.
Rias's face lit with a warm, tired smile. "You're back." Akeno's violet eyes sparkled with mischief. "Welcome home, darling~ We borrowed your bed. It's more comfortable than ours."
Arto blinked once—slowly—then closed the door behind him with a quiet click. "I can see that," he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "And my homework?"
Rias closed her book gently, setting it aside. "We thought we'd get a head start on the Intention exercises you assigned. The light orb variant we each made is already logged in our copies." She patted the space beside her on the bed. "Come see."
Akeno shifted to make room on her other side, patting the mattress invitingly. "We promise we're being very serious students. No funny business… yet."
Arto exhaled—a soft, almost fond sound—and crossed the room in three long strides, kicked off his shoes, and launched himself onto the bed with surprising lightness for someone his size.
The mattress dipped hard. In mid-air, his body shimmered—silver-blue mana rippling over skin, bones shifting with a low, painless crackle—and by the time he landed, he was no longer human.
A massive gray wolf sprawled across the foot of the bed, forepaws resting on Rias's lap, hindquarters draped over Akeno's thighs, enormous head pillowed comfortably between them. Thick silver-gray fur, darker along the spine and tail, caught the lamplight like frost on steel. His ears flicked once. Golden eyes—still unmistakably Arto's—blinked up at them with lazy amusement.
Rias froze, textbook halfway to her lap. Akeno's pen hovered in mid-air. Then both burst out laughing at the same time. "You—!" Rias managed between giggles, setting her book aside so she could bury both hands in the thick ruff around his neck. "You absolute show-off."
Akeno immediately plunged her fingers into the fur behind his ears, scratching with shameless enthusiasm. "When did you learn to do this?" she asked, voice delighted. "And why didn't you tell us sooner?"
A deep, rumbling voice emerged from the wolf's throat—Arto's timbre, but layered with a low growl that vibrated through their thighs. "I mastered Senjutsu a long time ago," he explained, snout twitching slightly as he spoke. "I can turn into a gray wolf whenever I like. Any size I like. Right now… this size feels right."
Rias blinked once—then twice—then slowly reached out and buried her fingers in the thick ruff behind his ears. "You're… ridiculously fluffy," she whispered, almost reverent.
Akeno recovered faster. Her hand immediately found the base of his tail and gave an experimental scratch.
The wolf's eyes half-closed in bliss. His tail thumped once—hard—against the bed. "Consider me your moral-boosting cushion," Arto rumbled, voice vibrating pleasantly through their laps. "And your fluffy desk. Do your homework. Lean on me. Pet me. Use me as a headrest. I don't mind."
He shifted slightly, settling more comfortably so his broad back formed a perfect sloped surface—warm, steady, alive. "But I won't help you with the exercises," he added, snout pointing toward their open books. "Human Arto gave you the homework. Wolf Arto is just… here. Lounging. Being fluffy. Boosting morale."
Rias laughed—soft, delighted—and leaned forward to press her forehead against the top of his head. "You're impossible," she murmured into his fur.
Akeno scooted closer, propping her notebook against the wolf's shoulder blade and resting her cheek on his neck. "I love impossible," she sighed happily, fingers already combing through the thick fur behind his ears.
The wolf huffed—a warm, contented sound—and closed his eyes. Homework commenced.
Rias balanced her book on his flank, occasionally reaching up to scratch under his chin when she hit a tricky index. Akeno used his back as a writing desk, doodling lightning-infused naginata variants while absently stroking the base of his tail. Every few minutes one of them would pause to bury their face in his ruff or run fingers along his ears, earning a low, pleased rumble that vibrated through their whole bodies.
The wolf—Arto—didn't move much. Didn't speak again. Just existed there: warm, solid, alive. A breathing, purring bolster that smelled faintly of cedar smoke and winter forest.
And for the next hour, the room contained only the soft scratch of pens, the rustle of pages, occasional murmurs of "Wait, rebound index goes here?" and "If I raise stability to 99.2%, does the chain probability drop too much?", and the steady, comforting rise-and-fall of a very large wolf's breathing beneath their hands and books.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Rias and Akeno hugging wolf Arto]
The homework session had stretched late into the evening, but eventually the last index was written, the last hypothesis scribbled, and the last frustrated groan at a tricky cascade effect escaped into the quiet room. Notebooks closed. Books were set carefully aside. And the two girls—exhausted, triumphant, and still buzzing with the thrill of discovery—finally turned their full attention to the enormous gray wolf sprawled across the foot of the bed like living, breathing furniture.
Wolf-Arto had not moved an inch in the last two hours. He lay on his side, head pillowed on Rias's lap, hindquarters draped comfortably over Akeno's thighs, tail giving the occasional slow, contented thump against the mattress. His thick silver-gray fur rose and fell with deep, even breaths; every so often one golden eye would crack open, check on them, then drift closed again in perfect trust.
Rias set her book on the nightstand with a soft thud, stretched her arms overhead, and let out a long, satisfied sigh. "That's enough brain-work for one night," she declared. Then she looked down at the massive wolf head in her lap, buried both hands in the thick ruff around his neck, and began to scratch with slow, deliberate strokes.
Arto's ears flicked. A low, rumbling purr—deep enough to vibrate through the mattress—started in his chest.
Akeno laughed softly and mirrored her—sliding her fingers under his chin, scratching along the jawline until his hind leg gave one involuntary twitch-kick. "Look at him," Akeno cooed, voice dripping with delight. "Our big, scary legion commander reduced to a giant fluffy cushion. Who would've thought?"
Rias leaned down until her forehead rested against the top of his head, breathing in the clean, wild scent of his fur—pine, earth, something faintly metallic like ozone after lightning. "He's warm," she murmured. "And soft. And… surprisingly good at staying still when he wants to."
She ran her hands along the sides of his neck, down the powerful shoulders, fingers disappearing into the dense coat. Arto's tail gave another slow wag—thump, thump—against Akeno's leg. Akeno shifted so she could reach his ears properly, rubbing the base of one until it flopped sideways in bliss. "I could get used to this," she said dreamily. "Homework, training, Arena fights… and then this big wolf to cuddle afterward. Best study buddy ever."
She leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, right between the ears. Wolf-Arto huffed—a soft, contented sound—and rolled just enough to rest his chin more fully on Rias's lap while stretching his forelegs toward Akeno, offering more surface area for petting. Rias laughed quietly, burying her face in the fur along his neck again.
"You're ridiculous," she whispered into his coat. "And perfect." Akeno's fingers drifted down to the thick base of his tail, scratching lightly. The tail immediately began wagging harder—slow, heavy sweeps that thumped rhythmically against the bed. "Tail wags when he's happy," Akeno observed with glee. "Noted."
They played with him like that for a long while—scratching, petting, running hands through fur, occasionally pressing kisses to the top of his head or the sensitive spot behind his ears. Arto let them. He didn't shift back. He didn't protest. He simply existed—massive, warm, solid—as the two girls who had fought beside him in his own nightmares now treated him like the safest place in the world.
Rias eventually slid down until she was lying beside him, head pillowed on his flank, one arm draped over his ribs. Akeno mirrored her on the other side—half-sprawled across his hindquarters, cheek resting on the thick fur of his hip.
Both sighed in perfect unison. "Best wolf," Rias mumbled, already half-asleep. "Best boyfriend," Akeno corrected sleepily, nuzzling closer. Wolf-Arto gave one last, deep, rumbling huff—almost a laugh—and closed his eyes.
Rias was the first to notice something was… different.
She had been absently scratching behind one of Arto's massive wolf ears—fingers buried deep in the thick silver-gray fur—when the low, rumbling purr in his chest shifted into a soft, playful woof. Not a word. Not his familiar telepathic voice. Just a genuine, goofy bark.
Her hand froze mid-scratch.
She blinked down at the enormous head pillowed across her lap. The golden eyes that had been half-lidded in smug contentment were now wide open, bright and… empty in a very specific way. Not sleepy. Not calculating. Just… happy. Pure, uncomplicated canine bliss.
The eyes weren't dark blue anymore. They were gray—storm-cloud gray, the same shade as Arto's human eyes when he was calm and unguarded.
Rias's brow furrowed. "Arto?" she asked softly, tilting her head to meet his gaze. "You there?" The wolf blinked once—slow, innocent—then tilted his own head the other way, ears flopping sideways in perfect mirror imitation of her. His tongue lolled out again, longer this time, and he gave another soft, hopeful woof, tail thumping twice against the mattress like he was asking for more pets.
Akeno, who had been lying half across his back while doodling lightning arrays in the margins of her book, froze too. She slowly sat up, violet eyes narrowing. "Darling…?" she tried, voice lilting with sudden suspicion.
The wolf turned his head toward her—ears perking straight up—then immediately leaned in and licked the side of her face in one long, enthusiastic swipe. Akeno squeaked, recoiling in delighted horror. "Eww—! Arto, that's not—!"
But he wasn't answering...Not in words...Not in her head. Just another happy huff and a full-body wag that made the entire bed shake. Rias leaned over and gently lifted one of his massive paws—turning it so she could see the rough pads, the faint scars hidden under the fur. She ran her thumb along the center pad, thoughtful.
Then she noticed the small scrap of paper tucked under his chin—torn from one of her own notebooks, folded once, and clearly placed there by human hands before the shift.
She unfolded it carefully. Arto's familiar, precise handwriting stared back at her:
I'm sleeping. The wolf will now function on half-instinct mode. To put it simple: he is a cute house dog with the power of Fenrir.
Rias read it aloud in a stunned whisper. Akeno peeked over her shoulder, then burst out laughing—bright, helpless, delighted. "Oh no," she wheezed, clutching her stomach. "He actually fell asleep and left us with the puppy version!"
The wolf—completely oblivious to their conversation—rolled onto his back, paws in the air, exposing a fluffy belly the size of a large pillow. His tail swept back and forth across the sheets like a happy windshield wiper, and he let out a soft, contented whuff while looking up at them with pure, golden adoration.
Rias stared down at the exposed belly, then at the note, then back at the belly. "…He's really gone to sleep," she said, half in awe, half in disbelief. "And left us with the fluffy idiot version."
Akeno reached out and poked the offered belly. It jiggled. The wolf's leg kicked once in pure bliss. "Best. Boyfriend. Ever," Akeno declared, immediately diving in to give proper belly rubs with both hands. "Look at this! He's got the power of Cerberus and he's using it to beg for tummy scratches!"
Rias hesitated for only a second—then joined in, both girls now kneeling on either side of the massive wolf, hands buried in thick fur, scratching and petting with unrestrained glee. The wolf—Arto's half-instinct self—wriggled in pure ecstasy. Tail thumping wildly. One hind leg kicking rhythmically. Soft, happy grunts and woofs every time they hit a particularly good spot.
Rias leaned down and pressed her forehead to his. "You absolute dork," she whispered fondly. "Falling asleep and leaving us with the good boy version."
Akeno laughed again, burying her face against his side. "I'm never letting him shift back," she declared. "This is peak boyfriend. Fluffy. Warm. Doesn't talk back. Just exists to be loved."
The wolf huffed once—almost indignant—but immediately rolled closer, pressing his massive head into Rias's lap and demanding more ear scratches.
Rias obliged, fingers working gently behind the ears until the wolf's eyes closed in pure bliss and the rumbling purr returned—deeper, louder, vibrating through both their bodies.
They stayed like that for a long while—two girls and one giant wolf—homework forgotten, Arena forgotten, everything forgotten except this ridiculous, perfect moment.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by size enhanced wolf Arto carrying Rias and Akeno on his back]
Morning light filtered softly through the curtains, turning the bedroom into a warm cocoon of gold and shadow. The air was still, carrying the faint, clean scent of wolf fur—pine, ozone, and something wild yet comforting.
Rias woke first.
She blinked slowly, registering the weight across her chest and legs—warm, solid, breathing. A massive gray wolf lay sprawled between her and Akeno, one enormous head pillowed on Rias's stomach, the other half-draped over Akeno's waist. His thick silver-gray coat rose and fell in steady rhythm, paws tucked neatly beneath him, tail curled possessively around both their ankles like a living blanket.
Rias's fingers were already buried in the fur along his neck—instinct from the night before. She hadn't let go even in sleep. The fur was… perfect. Fluffy beyond reason—soft as down, thick enough to lose her hands in—yet it didn't shed. Not a single strand clung to her skin or the sheets. No itch. No mess. Just endless, firm fluffiness that stayed exactly where it belonged, as if the wolf had decided shedding was beneath him.
Akeno stirred next, murmuring something sleepy and content as she nuzzled deeper into the fur along his side. "Morning…" she mumbled, voice husky. "Still fluffy…" Rias smiled, running her fingers through the dense ruff again. "Morning. And yes… still very fluffy."
The wolf's ears twitched at their voices. One golden-gray eye cracked open—then the other. He lifted his head slowly, blinking at them with that same pure, uncomplicated canine happiness from last night. No trace of Arto's usual sharp awareness. Just… good boy energy.
He gave a soft, hopeful whuff, tail thumping once against the mattress. Akeno giggled, reaching up to scratch under his chin. "Good morning to you too, big baby."
Rias sat up slightly—careful not to dislodge him—and looked around the sunlit room. Then she realized. "No Dark Arena," she said quietly. Akeno's hand paused mid-scratch. "…You're right." Her voice was soft, almost wondering. "I dreamed about… flying. Just flying. Over the ocean. No monsters. No fighting. Just… peace."
Rias nodded slowly. "Me too. I dreamed about the clubhouse. Everyone laughing. Eating brownies. Normal stuff." They looked at each other over the wolf's broad back. Then at the wolf himself—still watching them with bright, trusting eyes, tail giving slow, happy wags. Akeno's smile turned gentle. "You kept the nightmares away," she whispered to him. "Didn't you?"
The wolf huffed once—soft, affirmative—and rested his head back down across Rias's lap, eyes half-closing again in contentment. Rias's fingers resumed their slow path through his fur. "How long do you think he'll stay like this?" she asked quietly.
Akeno leaned her cheek against his shoulder, listening to the deep, steady rumble in his chest. "As long as he needs to," she murmured. "As long as he wants to."
Then—gradually—the gray of his eyes began to darken. It wasn't sudden. It was slow, like storm clouds rolling in over a clear sky. The bright, uncomplicated puppy joy dimmed… deepened… sharpened… until the familiar dark blue-gray returned—intelligent, aware, unmistakably Arto.
His ears flicked once—alert again. His breathing changed—deeper, more deliberate. The half-instinct doggy grin faded into something quieter, warmer, more human. And then his voice—low, rough from sleep, but clear—sounded. "…I'm back."
Rias lifted her head so fast her bun wobbled. "Arto!"
Akeno propped herself up on one elbow, hand still buried in his fur. "Welcome back, sleepy wolf~" she teased, but her eyes were soft with relief. "We missed your grumpy commentary."
The wolf—Arto—gave a low, rumbling huff that was almost a laugh. He shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so he could look at them properly without crushing either of them under his bulk. His tail gave one slow, contented wag. "I wanted to try something, he explained, voice gentle in their heads. An experiment. I shifted and put the human part of me to sleep completely—left the wolf running on half-instinct, guided only by memory and affection. No conscious control. Just… instinct to stay close. To keep you safe. To be here."
Rias's fingers stilled in his ruff. "You… blocked the Dark Arena," she whispered. "For us." Arto's ears flicked in quiet confirmation."It worked. You both slept peacefully. No nightmares. No blood. No monsters. Just normal dreams. For once."
Akeno's hand tightened in his fur. "But you didn't," she said softly. "You fought alone last night." The wolf's dark blue eyes met hers—calm, steady, a little tired. "I always have. I can handle it. But you two… you shouldn't have to. Not every night. Not when I can give you one peaceful sleep."
Rias leaned down and pressed her forehead to his—skin against fur, warmth against warmth. "You big, stupid, self-sacrificing wolf," she whispered, voice thick. "You don't get to carry everything alone anymore. That's not how this works."
Akeno slid closer until she could wrap both arms around his thick neck, hugging him fiercely. "You're not allowed to fight by yourself," she mumbled into his fur. "Not anymore. We're a pack now. You, me, Rias, Kiba, Koneko… we face the dark together. Even if you have to drag our sleepy asses into the Arena with you."
The wolf huffed again—soft, almost fond—and gently bumped his nose against Rias's cheek, then Akeno's forehead. A quiet promise. "Next time… we'll try together." Rias kissed the top of his head. "Next time," she agreed.
Akeno pressed her cheek to his. "And until then… you stay fluffy. We're not done cuddling yet." Wolf-Arto gave one last, deep, contented rumble… and flopped back down across their laps—tail wagging lazily, eyes half-closed in pure, shameless bliss.
[Dining table]
The kitchen table was set for three: steaming bowls of oatmeal topped with fresh berries and a drizzle of honey, mugs of coffee (black for Arto, latte for Rias, caramel for Akeno), and a small plate of extra-thick bacon strips because Arto knew Rias secretly loved them crispy.
Arto sat at the head of the table—but not like a man. He sat like a very large wolf who had decided to try being human at breakfast.
Hind legs tucked awkwardly under the chair, front paws resting on the tabletop (claws carefully sheathed), massive head tilted at an almost comical angle as he attempted to look dignified. His tail—still very much present—thumped slowly against the chair leg every few seconds. The gray fur along his neck and shoulders puffed out in a way that made him look twice as fluffy as last night. Golden-gray eyes blinked slowly, pupils round and bright with sleepy contentment.
Rias and Akeno stared. Then both burst out laughing at the same time. Rias covered her mouth with one hand, shoulders shaking. Akeno leaned forward, resting her chin on laced fingers, eyes sparkling with unrestrained glee. "You're… you're sitting," Rias managed between giggles. "Like that."
Wolf-Arto huffed—a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated the tableware. His mental voice echoed in their minds, warm and slightly sheepish: "I'm trying to be civilized. It's harder than it looks." Akeno reached over and scratched behind one ear. His hind leg kicked once—pure reflex—sending the chair leg thumping against the floor. "Civilized," she repeated, voice cracking with laughter. "You look like a very polite dire wolf trying to use a fork."
Arto's ears flattened in mock offense. He lifted one paw—carefully—and nudged the spoon in his bowl. It clattered loudly. "See? Manners." Rias wiped tears from her eyes and finally managed to speak. "Okay, okay—explain. Last night was peaceful. No Arena. No monsters. Just… normal dreams. You fought alone again, didn't you?"
The wolf's tail stilled. His head lowered slightly—ears tipping back in quiet guilt. "Yes." He settled more comfortably, paws sliding forward until they rested near their plates like a very large, furry table companion. "I wanted to test if I could shield you both completely. Keep the Dark Arena from reaching you at all. It worked. You slept. Really slept. No shadows. No fear."
Akeno's hand paused mid-scratch. "But you couldn't shield yourself."
"Correct." The voice was soft—almost tired. "The Arena is part of me. It scales with my knowledge, my adaptation, my growth. The more I teach you, the more it learns. The more it learns, the faster it counters. Right now… your learning curve isn't steep enough to keep pace with how quickly it adapts to my changes."
Rias's smile faded. She set her spoon down. "So we're still being overwhelmed. Even with the progress we've made."
"You're improving. Dramatically. Last night you held your own longer than ever before. But the Arena doesn't wait. It grows with me. Until you master the spellcrafting formulas completely—until you can create, adapt, and counter in real time as fast as I can—you will always need my intervention in the later waves."
He lifted his head, looking between them with those familiar dark-blue eyes. "That's why, from now on… I will sometimes sleep in wolf form beside you."
Akeno's fingers resumed scratching—slower, more thoughtful. "To give us peaceful nights."
"Yes." His tail gave one slow sweep. "You need uninterrupted rest. Time to study. Time to train. Time to grow without the constant drain of my nightmares. I can't give myself that peace yet… but I can give it to you."
Rias reached out and cupped the side of his muzzle—thumb brushing gently over the soft fur along his cheek. "You don't have to carry it alone," she whispered. The wolf leaned into her touch—eyes half-closing. "I know. A soft huff. But until you're ready to stand toe-to-toe with it beside me… I'll carry the nights. And you carry the mornings. Deal?"
Akeno pressed her forehead to his. "Deal." Rias kissed the top of his head—right between the ears. "Deal." Wolf-Arto's tail thumped once—slow, contented. Then he lowered his head again… and very deliberately pushed his empty bowl toward Rias with his nose. "More bacon?"
Rias laughed—bright and helpless—and reached for the plate. "You're impossible." Akeno leaned over and kissed his nose. "And we love you for it." The wolf huffed happily—tail wagging in slow, sweeping arcs—and accepted the extra bacon strip she offered him.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by wolf Arto napping with Rias' peerage using him as their pillow]
The final bell of the school day had rung twenty minutes ago, and Kuoh Academy had emptied out like a theater after the credits. Hallways that had been buzzing with lockers slamming and laughter now echoed only with the occasional distant footstep or the hum of a janitor's vacuum far off. The Student Council office, tucked at the end of the third-floor corridor, was a pocket of absolute silence—soundproofed wards, heavy curtains drawn, door locked from the inside.
Arto sat alone at the long conference table. He had arrived early. Habit from centuries of arriving at battlefields before the enemy even knew there was a war.
His uniform jacket was draped over the back of the chair; sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tie loosened just enough to breathe. The room's single lamp cast a warm circle over the polished wood, catching the faint silver-blue shimmer that sometimes still clung to his fingertips when he was thinking deeply.
He didn't fidget. He didn't pace. He simply waited—hands folded on the table, posture straight but relaxed, gray eyes fixed on the door.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily toward the agreed time.
Exactly on the hour, the door handle turned.
Sona entered first—uniform impeccable, glasses catching the light, posture as composed as ever. Behind her came two figures Arto had never met in person but recognized immediately from Rias's descriptions and the faint aura of old power that clung to them like smoke.
Lord Sora Sitri—tall, broad-shouldered, hair the same dark shade as Sona's but streaked with silver at the temples. His eyes were sharp, calculating, but not cruel. He carried himself with the quiet authority of someone who had spent decades balancing diplomacy and war.
Lady Sena Sitri—smaller, brighter, her long black hair tied back in a loose braid, pink eyes twinkling with curiosity rather than suspicion. She wore a simple but elegant dark dress that somehow managed to look both regal and approachable. Her smile was immediate and genuine when she saw Arto.
Sona closed the door behind them. The wards flared once—soft blue light running along the frame—sealing the room completely.
Lord Sora spoke first. "Aruto Abyga," he said, voice deep and even. "Thank you for agreeing to meet. I'm Sora Sitri. This is my wife, Sena." Sena waved cheerfully."Hi! We've heard a lot about you. Mostly good things~" Arto rose slowly—polite, unhurried—and inclined his head. "Lord Sora. Lady Sena. Thank you for coming."
He gestured to the chairs across the table. "Please." They sat—Sora and Sena side by side, Sona taking the chair to her father's right. Arto remained standing for a moment longer, then sat as well—back straight, hands resting lightly on the table where there is a chess board already set up.
Silence stretched for a beat. Then Arto spoke—voice low, calm, carrying the weight of someone who had faced down worse than nobility. "I appreciate the support your clans have offered—the funding, the materials, the protection. I understand the logic behind the alliance. I'm not here to reject it."
Arto moved the white knight forward with deliberate calm, placing it on c3. The soft click of the piece against the board echoed in the warded silence of the Student Council office.
He looked up at Sora and Sena—then at Sona—eyes steady, voice low and measured. "In fact, I am deeply honored for your care," he continued, "so much so that your daughter would go as far as hiring a hyper-spying operative to pry on my works."
The room stilled. Sona's shoulders stiffened by a fraction of a degree—almost imperceptible, but Arto saw it. Sora's expression remained composed, though his fingers paused on the edge of the table. Sena's cheerful smile didn't falter, but the twinkle in her eyes sharpened into something more alert.
Arto leaned back slightly, fingers interlaced on the table beside the chessboard. "The Spy," he said, naming her without inflection. "Disembodied eyes and ears. Persistent. Professional. She tried twice—once on the Stabilizer demonstration, once on the early drafts of the Spellcrafting Formulas. Both times she walked away empty-handed. The Abyssgard Code saw to that."
He tilted his head toward Sona. "I don't blame you, Sona. You were doing what any responsible heiress would do—checking on potential individuals that can assist your clan. Verifying the asset. I would do the same if I were you. Still, Spy's attempt and vague intel brought us here, facing each other in a transparent talk about our attitude on this alliance"
His gaze shifted back to Sora and Sena—steady, unhurried, carrying the calm weight of someone who had negotiated with gods and emperors long before either of them were born.
"Thank you, my lord, my lady, for your interest in what I am doing," he continued, voice low and even. "But I must be really clear about your—as well as Gremory's—access to what I am doing, now and in the future."
He folds his arms politely "What I am offering you is access to my work and the right to profit from it—not the core knowledge of what I made. The Stabilizer. The Simulation Room. Whatever comes next. You may use the results. You may build upon the applications. You may profit from the outcomes. But the root—the understanding, the formulas, the why—that stays with me. I will keep the door open as long as we are on the same boat and you treat me like a partner, not a disposable tool that you can throw away when running out of use."
He paused—long enough for the words to settle, long enough for the silence to carry its own weight. "Your move, my lord."
The office held its breath.
"I see," Sora said, voice measured and thoughtful, "you're keeping your value held high and your importance unquestioned. Restricting access with an open retreat for yourself. Clever. Defensive. But sustainable only so long as your position remains unassailable."
He settled the bishop on e7—developing the piece, opening lines toward the white kingside without overcommitting.
"But I must remind you," he continued, "what you're making has only been on paper, literally… and figuratively. Blueprints are powerful, yes. Prototypes are promising. But they are not yet infrastructure. Not yet deployed. Not yet proven at scale. And scale requires resources you do not currently possess in abundance—rare materials, secure facilities, political cover across borders both human and demonic, testing grounds that can withstand catastrophic failure without drawing every faction's attention."
Sora leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.
"So while I respect your smart condition, we must require your commitment with us for the access to those materials. You have ideas. We have resources. You need safety. We need innovation. Mutual dependence is the foundation of any lasting alliance."
Arto regarded the board in silence for a few seconds. The black bishop now threatened the white knight indirectly, while simultaneously opening a diagonal toward the white king's position. A subtle pressure—polite, but present.
He nodded once—acknowledging the point without conceding.
"I see, my lord," he said quietly. "Mutual benefits. We have what the other lacks. We need each other to thrive."
His hand moved to his rook on a1. He lifted it, paused for a heartbeat, then placed it firmly on a8—doubling rooks on the open file, claiming the vertical highway and placing immediate pressure on the black back rank.
"But how can I be sure you won't try to pry into my core knowledge?" he asked, voice low and even. "You have already employed a professional operative to do exactly that. Twice. Once is caution. Twice is pattern. What guarantee do I have that the next attempt won't come from your own house—or one you quietly endorse?"
Sora studied the chessboard for a moment longer—the two rooks now staring each other down across the open a-file like rival sentries—then lifted his gaze to meet Arto's without evasion.
"You needn't worry about that," he said, voice deep and measured, carrying the calm certainty of someone who had spent decades navigating alliances far more fragile than this one. "The surveilling attempt was stopped the moment the deal was made between Gremory and Sitri. Whatever the Spy did after that point, it's not us."
He leaned back slightly, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table.
"Besides, Gremory would terminate the deal between us if we did so. They found you first, and our access to you today was permitted by them. So I won't be dumb enough to provoke Zeoticus and lose our chance to elevate Sitri."
The words were plain, unadorned—no flourish, no threat, just the cold arithmetic of power politics laid bare. Sora's tone held no apology, but neither did it carry arrogance; it was simply fact, spoken from a man who understood that trust between great houses was never given freely—it was earned through mutual self-interest and the credible threat of consequences.
Then Sora continues with a gesture toward Arto, asking him to move "That's our side, what's left is your commitment and loyalty, we can't provide support for a person who might switch side when receiving a better deal, taking everything with him and left us with nothing after giving you all the support, right?"
Arto regarded the chessboard for a long moment—the black bishop now perched on e7 like a watchful sentinel, the white rook still claiming the open file, neither side willing to yield ground. The position was balanced, tense, a perfect mirror of the conversation itself.
He lifted his gaze to Sora—calm, unblinking, the gray of his eyes carrying the quiet weight of someone who had seen empires rise and fall over far less than a handshake and a promise.
"You speak plainly," Arto said, voice low and even. "I appreciate that. No honeyed words, no veiled threats. Just arithmetic. I respect arithmetic."
He reached forward and moved his white bishop to e6—developing the piece, placing it on a strong diagonal that now threatened the black king's side while simultaneously protecting the rook on a8.
"A reasonable fear, I can see that. But you needn't worry. I'm only thinking of keeping two things to myself: the core structure of the Stabilizer and the Spellcrafting Formulas. Every other invention of mine—every application, every scaled system, every new device or spell that comes from them—I will open fully to you. You may see them, rate them, modify them, upgrade them however you like. No gates. No hidden clauses. Full transparency on everything built upon those two roots."
Arto lifted a black pawn from the board—holding it between thumb and forefinger like a small, dark promise—then placed it on d4, completing the center pawn structure and locking the position into a symmetrical tension.
"I want to keep those two to myself because one is my lifeline," he continued, gaze steady on Sora, "and the other is too dangerous in the wrong hands. The Stabilizer is the only thing that lets me exist in this world without collapsing under my own mana. The Formulas… well. You've read enough of the reports to know what systematic spellcrafting can become when wielded without restraint."
He gestured toward Sora with an open palm—not accusatory, just clear.
"That way, even if we part ways—whether by choice, by time, or by circumstance—we can still maintain this relationship without resentment or hatred. You keep the fruits of the tree. I keep the roots. No one starves. No one burns the orchard."
The office was so quiet the soft tick of the wall clock felt almost intrusive.
Sora studied the new position—the center now contested, the diagonals now contested, neither side able to claim dominance without opening themselves to counterplay.
He exhaled once—slow, measured. He reached for his own piece—the black queen—and moved her to d6, placing her on the central d-file, contesting the open line and putting indirect pressure on the white rook while protecting the e7 bishop.
"I accept your line," Sora said. "The core remains yours. The Stabilizer and the Spellcrafting Formulas are your domain. Everything built upon them—every facility, every application, every scaled innovation—is shared. Full access. Full profit rights. Full collaboration. And should the alliance end… we part with what we have built together, no sabotage, no theft, no pursuit. Clean severance."
Arto leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table—close enough to the chessboard that his fingers brushed the edge of the white rook, but not touching it. The pieces remained locked in their tense standoff, a silent audience to the conversation.
"Now, to the final matter of this meeting, Lord Sitri, Lady Sitri…" he said, voice low and deliberate, each word measured like a step across thin ice. "It's the security of me and what I've made."
He paused—long enough for the room to feel the weight of what came next.
"I'm sure you've already calculated the value of what I've created. The Stabilizer alone solves a problem every major faction has bled over for centuries. Add the Simulation Room… the systematic spellcrafting… and whatever comes after. You know what happens when word gets out that Gremory and Sitri are holding those keys."
His gaze moved between Sora and Sena—calm, unflinching.
"Other clans won't send polite envoys. They'll send operatives. Assassins. Blackmail. Bribes. Threats to family. Anything to get inside the circle. Or to break it. And if they can't take it… they'll try to destroy it. And the people attached to it."
He let the silence sit for another heartbeat.
"I personally don't look for fame or recognition," he continued. "I never have. I don't need statues. I don't need titles. I don't need my name whispered in fear or awe. That should make it easier for you to keep me safe, right? No public profile. No parades. No announcements. Just… quiet. Discreet. Hidden in plain sight. A high-school student. A researcher. Nothing more."
He tilted his head slightly toward Sona—acknowledgment, not accusation.
"Your daughter already proved the risk exists. The Spy got close enough to try. Twice. If she could… others will. And they won't stop at observation."
Arto's fingers tapped once—lightly—against the white rook.
"So I need to hear it from both of you: how do you intend to protect me—and the work—when the inevitable happens? Because it will happen. The moment the first rumor leaks, the moment someone connects the funding to the results, the moment a rival clan smells opportunity… they'll come."
Then he spoke—voice deep, steady, carrying the weight of someone who had already run those calculations many times over.
"You're right to ask," he said. "And you're right to expect an answer."
He glanced at Sena—brief, shared look—then back to Arto.
"First: containment. Your identity remains 'Aruto Abyga, transfer student.' Nothing more. No public appearances. No interviews. No clan events. You exist only as a Kuoh Academy student under Gremory protection. Any leaks about your true nature or work will be treated as existential threats—handled immediately and without mercy."
Sena picked up smoothly.
"Second: redundancy. We're already establishing three separate secure facilities—two in the Underworld, one in the human world under heavy warding. None will be labeled as yours. Each will have identical capabilities: simulation chambers, material storage, testing ranges. If one is compromised, work continues at the others. No single point of failure."
Sora continued.
"Third: intelligence. The Spy is no longer on our payroll, but we've retained her services on a defensive contract. She now watches for threats to you, not from you. Any faction moving assets—operatives, scouts, financial probes—toward Kuoh or the Gremory-Sitri network will be flagged. We'll know before they knock."
Sena's smile turned just a touch sharper.
"And fourth: you. We're not asking you to hide. We're asking you to let us help you stay hidden while you work. You continue teaching. You continue building. You continue living as a normal student. But when the time comes that protection needs to become active defense… you will not be alone. You will have access to Sitri strike teams, Gremory wards, joint intelligence, and whatever else is needed. No hesitation. No debate."
He paused—then added quietly:
"We're not doing this because we're kind. We're doing this because we're smart. And because we believe the future you're building is worth protecting—even if it means putting our own necks on the line alongside yours."
Arto studied them—all three—for a long, silent moment.
Then he reached forward and moved his white queen to d8—mirroring Sora's earlier move, placing both queens face-to-face once more.
He looked at Sora first, then Sena, then Sona—dark blue eyes, calm, unhurried, carrying the same quiet certainty that had carried him through three thousand years of betrayal and survival. "I accept," he said simply.
Then he continued, voice low but carrying easily in the warded silence of the room.
"Thank you for the clarity. I'll send the first blueprints within the week. You'll have them. Make sure people from your side are ready to review them."
He paused—long enough for the offer to settle. "But I have one proposal to make."
His gaze moved back to Sora—the head of the Sitri clan, the one who had spoken of mutual dependence and arithmetic. "The process of building the Simulation Room will be done by me only."
The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. "I have not yet trusted others with the construction of this facility. It will use a ton of magitech—some of it still experimental, some of it deliberately undocumented. I don't believe anyone who reads the documents can keep their mouth shut. Not out of malice—out of habit, out of pride, out of simple human error. Loose lips sink ships. Loose minds sink worlds."
He gestured lightly toward the chessboard—where the pieces still stood in their careful standoff. "So the location and the building process should be left in a capable hand who understands the importance of the facility. Mine."
His tone remained even—neither challenging nor pleading. Just fact. "I'm not refusing your resources. I'll take your funding, your materials, your wards, your security. But the hands that assemble the core chambers—the Stabilizer arrays, the intention-mapping interfaces, the simulation fields themselves—those hands will be mine. Alone. Until the system is proven stable. Until I can be sure that no careless word, no overheard conversation, no intercepted blueprint can turn this into another weapon in someone else's war."
He looked directly at Sora. "I'm not asking for blind trust. I'm asking for the same thing you asked of me: mutual benefit without mutual destruction. You get the finished facility. You get the results. You get the applications. But the how—the root construction—stays in my hands until I'm certain it can't be turned against us. Against them."
He nodded once toward Sona—acknowledgment of her presence, her stake. "That's my line. Cross it, and the alliance ends. Respect it, and we build something neither clan could build alone."
Silence followed—thick, thoughtful, unbroken except for the faint tick of the wall clock.
Sora studied him. Then he studied the board. Then he reached forward and moved his own queen to d1—sliding it back to protect his king while simultaneously opening the d-file for his rook to contest.
A defensive retreat that still kept pressure. "I accept your proposal," Sora said quietly. "The construction core remains yours. We provide everything else—site selection, perimeter security, material delivery, funding, political cover. But when the facility is complete… we expect full access to its operation. No hidden backdoors. No private controls. Shared governance."
Arto inclined his head—small, sufficient. "Agreed. Once it's stable. Once I'm certain it can't be weaponized against its users. Then we share the keys."
The office door had barely clicked shut behind Sora and Sena when the air shimmered once—soft crimson and sapphire light flaring in unison—and the two elder Sitri vanished through a personal teleportation gate. The wards pulsed, re-sealing the room behind them, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and the quiet hum of reinforced privacy spells.
Arto and Sona were alone. The chessboard still sat between them—pieces frozen in their tense standoff, queens staring each other down across the open d-file like rival sentries who refused to blink first.
Arto exhaled—long, slow, almost theatrical—then leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Welp," he said, voice carrying a dry edge of relief, "that's the end of it."
He tilted his head toward the now-empty space where Sora and Sena had stood moments ago. "Now… let us talk about you, Sona."
Sona didn't move immediately. She remained seated—posture perfect, hands folded neatly on the table, pink eyes steady behind her glasses. But the atmosphere had shifted. The formal tension of clan negotiation had dissolved; what remained was something quieter, more personal.
She adjusted her glasses once—small, habitual—then met his gaze without evasion. "I'm listening," she said simply.
Arto studied her for a moment longer—gray eyes calm, searching, but not unkind. "You're not here just as the Sitri heiress anymore," he said. "You made that clear. You want to learn. Not because your parents told you to. Not because of clan obligation. Because you want to."
He leaned forward slightly—elbows on the table, hands loosely clasped. "I don't give the book to people who see it as a clan asset. I give it to people who see it as responsibility. As a way to protect what matters. As a way to build something bigger than themselves."
He paused—letting the silence carry the weight. "So tell me, Sona Sitri—not the student council president, not the heiress—just Sona: Why do you want in? Are you willing to accept the responsibity and burden this knowledge brings to every of its learner? And will you accept any consequences of crossing the lines I drew, even if it means your own death? Because let me tell you, if you, or any of my students misuse this knowledge, I will personally hunt you down and kill you to keep my knowledge from causing unnecessary destruction"
Sona remained perfectly still for several long seconds after Arto finished speaking.
The office was so quiet the faint tick of the wall clock felt almost obscene. No rustle of clothing, no shift of weight, no unnecessary breath. Only the soft, steady rhythm of two people breathing in a room sealed tighter than most bank vaults.
When she finally answered, her voice was quieter than usual—almost gentle—but carrying the same steel that had made her student council president at such a young age.
"I want in because I'm tired of being a spectator in my own future," she said. "I've spent my entire life preparing—strategy, politics, diplomacy, always one step removed from the actual power that shapes everything. I've read the reports. I've calculated the probabilities. I've modeled the outcomes. But calculation isn't understanding. Observation isn't creation. I want to create. Not for Sitri. Not for prestige. Not for my parents. For the same reason you're teaching Rias's peerage: because knowledge hoarded is knowledge wasted. Because the Underworld has spent too long fighting over scraps of power instead of building something that makes fighting unnecessary."
She leaned forward—mirroring his posture exactly, elbows on the table, hands loosely clasped. "I understand the responsibility. I understand the burden. I understand that this isn't just a book—it's a loaded weapon with no safety. And I understand the line you've drawn."
Her pink eyes never left his. "If I—or any student you authorize—ever misuse this knowledge… if we ever turn it toward unnecessary destruction, toward personal gain at the cost of innocent lives, toward anything that betrays the trust you're offering… then yes. I accept the consequences. Even if those consequences are my own death. Even if it's you who carries out the sentence."
A small, almost imperceptible pause. "I'm not saying that lightly. I'm saying it because I've already made the calculation: the risk of this knowledge falling into the wrong hands is higher than the risk of me dying for crossing your line. And I'd rather die knowing I tried to build something better than live knowing I helped destroy it."
She straightened—posture perfect again, but her voice remained soft. "So ask me again, Arto—not as the Sitri heiress, not as the student council president, but as Sona: Do I want in? Yes. Am I willing to accept the responsibility and burden this knowledge brings? Yes. Will I accept any consequences of crossing the lines you drew—even if it means my own death? Yes."
She extended her right hand across the table—palm up, middle and ring fingers extended straight in the legion consent handsign. "I swear it. On my name. On my future. On everything I hope to become."
The office held its breath. Arto studied her—long, silent, gray eyes searching for any flicker of hesitation, any shadow of calculation. He found none. Only clarity. Only resolve. Only the same quiet determination he had seen in Rias, in Akeno, in Kiba, in Koneko.
Slowly—very slowly—he raised his own hand. Middle and ring fingers extended. He brought them forward until they touched hers—tip to tip. The pact was sealed. A faint silver-blue rune shimmered between their joined fingers—rotating once, then sinking into both palms like a shared brand.
Arto lowered his hand first. "Then welcome," he said quietly. "You're in."