3rd Person POV
Arto sat at the low table in the clubhouse living room, afternoon sunlight slanting through the half-drawn curtains in warm golden bars that caught the dust motes drifting lazily above the pages. Spread before him were three things:
A freshly returned digital blueprint packet from the Gremory–Sitri joint research division: stamped, annotated, certified, and annoyingly thorough. Margin notes in Sona's neat script, cross-references to existing mana-stabilization patents, even a few cautious questions about thermal bloom tolerances in the cooling arrays. A small 3D holographic projection hovering above the table—palm-sized, slowly rotating—showing the Dream Mirror as Robin had described it: a 1.47 kg pyramid-shaped crystal, edges sharp enough to draw blood, core faintly opalescent with internal fractures that caught and refracted light in soft, shifting rainbows.
Robin sat cross-legged on the floor cushion beside him—still engrossed in Spellcrafting Formulas, though her eyes flicked up every few minutes to glance at the projection. She hadn't spoken in almost an hour; the only sound from her side of the table was the occasional soft turn of a page and the faint scratch of her pen making notes in the margins.
Arto didn't disturb her.
He focused instead on the hologram.
With a small gesture, he expanded the projection—scaling it up until the pyramid floated at eye level, roughly the size of a basketball. He rotated it slowly with two fingers, studying every facet, every internal flaw, every subtle color shift in the core.
"Pyramid geometry," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Stable base, four triangular faces converging to an apex. Classic resonance amplifier shape—focuses mana upward like a lens. The weight suggests high density… probably quartz lattice with heavy rare-earth doping. If the fractures are intentional, they're acting as natural waveguides. Channeling dream-mana from the base to the point."
He pinched the projection at the apex and pulled downward—zooming in on the tip. "Focal point here. If I seat it apex-down in Sector 1's anchor pedestal… the dream projection would radiate outward symmetrically. Stable radius. Even distribution. Minimal edge distortion."
Robin's voice came from beside him—quiet, thoughtful, not looking up from the book. "You're planning to mount it inverted," she observed. "Base up, point down. Like an hourglass channeling sand."
Arto nodded once. "Keeps the dream-field from collapsing inward. The apex becomes the emitter instead of the collector. Less risk of feedback loop frying the user's mind."
He spun the hologram again—now viewing it from below. "The fractures… they're not random. They form a natural spiral. If I align the spiral with the room's intention-mapping arrays, it'll amplify the subconscious bleed without needing extra power draw. Sector 1 could sustain itself almost indefinitely once anchored—no constant reactor drain for monster generation or adaptation. The Arena would pull directly from my sleeping mind. Real. Adaptive. Merciless."
Robin finally looked up—closing the book gently on her finger to mark the page. "You're going to use your own nightmares as the training algorithm," she said. Arto's expression didn't change. "Yes." Robin studied him for a long moment—bright eyes unreadable. "That's… brave," she said at last. "Or insane. Or both."
"Probably both," Arto agreed without humor. "But it works. It's already worked. Every time Rias or Akeno or any of them step into the Dark Arena with me, they come out stronger. Sharper. More certain. If I can project that outward—make it accessible to the whole peerage, to Sitri's people, to whoever we decide to train—then Phenex won't just lose a contract. They'll lose the illusion that they're untouchable."
He shrank the projection back to palm-size with a flick of his fingers. "The Mirror's the last piece. Once I retrieve it tonight, we can start integration testing tomorrow. If the lattice holds… Sector 1 becomes the real thing. No more power lack. Just the Arena. My Arena. Scaled to whoever walks in."
Robin's gaze drifted to the book in her lap—then back to him.
"You're giving me access to that book," she said quietly. "And now you're telling me you're about to turn your personal hell into a training ground anyone can walk into. You don't do things halfway, do you?" Arto met her eyes—steady. "No," he said simply. "I don't." A beat of silence. Then Robin smiled—small, real, almost fond. "I'm starting to like this place more than I expected."
She reaches her hand towards the blueprint of the Simulation Room and reads it for a moment "Nice," she murmured again, voice soft with genuine appreciation. "There are things I don't understand in here… and that's saying something."
Her hand glided along the outer containment shell—where the mana-attenuated graphene composite would eventually sit—then drifted inward to the cooling lattice and the intention amplifiers. "This facility…" she continued, eyes flicking across the schematics, "will make factories obsolete. Labs, too. The cost of prototyping anything—from a simple enchantment to a city-level ward—drops to almost nothing once you have the room running. No material waste. No trial-and-error explosions. No years spent on R&D. Just intention, mana, and time."
Robin's voice trailed off as she stared at the holographic projection, her fingers hovering just above the floating Sector 1 anchor point without touching it. The pyramid-shaped placeholder crystal rotated slowly in the center of the model, catching and refracting the afternoon light in soft prismatic flashes across the table.
She exhaled—long, slow, almost reverent.
"You're not just building a training ground," she said quietly. "You're building a creation engine."
Her gaze drifted across the rest of the blueprint layers—manufacturing bays outlined in pale blue, modular lab templates in green, climate-controlled cultivation domes in soft amber, maintenance and testing sectors in steady gaze.
"Once this is online… the manufacturing lines can be moved in here. Factories. Labs. Weather-controlled gardens. Even training camps. Operating costs, maintenance, experimenting… they drop to almost zero. Quality stays high. No environmental pollution. No supply-chain delays. No geopolitical bottlenecks. All we need is input materials and the processing phase is done by this facility with almost no cost at all."
She finally looked up at Arto—dark eyes wide with something very close to awe. "You even have Git integrated," she murmured, almost to herself. "Version control for sectors. Branching, merging, rollbacks… you can iterate on physical reality like it's code. And an assistant AI to monitor stability, flag anomalies, suggest optimizations…"
Robin laughed once—short, incredulous, delighted. "Damn."
She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing loosely over her chest, still staring at the hologram as though it might vanish if she blinked. "I've spent my life trading secrets for survival," she said. "Buying and selling fragments of power that people would kill for. And you just… casually drew the blueprint for the single most disruptive piece of infrastructure in supernatural history."
Arto stared at the now-empty space where the hologram had floated moments earlier. The natural afternoon sun streamed through the window, warming the table, but it did nothing to thaw the quiet chill that settled over his expression.
"It's not casual," he said quietly, voice low enough that it almost blended with the faint bubble of the stew pot in the background. "It took a lot of effort from my legion to make something like this."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers interlaced so tightly the knuckles turned white. For once, the calm, unreadable mask he usually wore cracked—just a hairline fracture—and something older, heavier, rawer slipped through.
"Abyssgard Legion lived in the lowest ring of Hell, right at the mouth of the Abyss. Manufacturing or growing crops in such coldness… it wasn't sufficient for the survival of millions of people. Back then we used massive mana crystals to fuel this infrastructure. Huge veins of them, mined day and night. We carved entire cities out of ice and stone just to keep the population alive. We powered forges, greenhouses, heating arrays, water purifiers… everything. The crystals were the only thing between us and extinction."
His gaze drifted to the window, but he wasn't seeing Akita's rooftops or the distant sea.
He was seeing black ice caverns lit by crimson crystal light. He was seeing soldiers with frostbitten hands hauling glowing shards the size of coffins. He was seeing children who had never known anything warmer than the heat leaking from a mana furnace. "The leyline that maintained the barrier over the pit leading to the Abyss… it ran directly beneath the mining veins. Every crystal we pulled out weakened the seal. We knew it. We measured it. We argued about it. But we were starving. Freezing. Dying in droves. So we kept digging. We traded time for survival."
His voice dropped even lower, almost to a whisper. "And because of that mining process… the leyline weakened. The Abyssal War—the one that claimed my life and every last soldier under my command—arrived sooner than we expected. Centuries earlier than our preparation rate. We weren't ready. We were still trying to feed people. Still trying to keep the lights on."
He exhaled through his nose—a slow, controlled breath that did nothing to ease the tightness in his jaw. "We won in the end. We sealed the Abyss. We killed whatever crawled out. But the cost was steep. All of us died to do it. Every single legionnaire. Every last one."
Arto's fingers unclenched slightly. He stared at his own hands like they still remembered holding dying soldiers, still remembered swinging blades that broke against things that should not exist. "I can always say that the legion served its original purpose and could be put to rest," he continued, voice rougher now. "But in the end… we traded the time we had to prepare for the final war just to sustain our current survival. I don't know if it was a good trade or not. Because without it, we might not have lasted long enough to even reach the final war."
Arto finally looked up again, his face displaying a bitter smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Ironically, the very thing that could have saved my soldiers and bought us more time to prepare—this Stabilizer—was made thousands of years after the death of the Abyssgard Legion. Thousands of years after the war. After my own death. When the soul of its last leader was wandering inside the Void… going through what I carried with me from the distant home. I made it… too late."
A single tear rolled down his cheek—slow, silent, almost reluctant, like it had been waiting centuries for permission to fall. He didn't try to hide it. "Only now that I'm here, in this new home, I got to verify and confirm that it works. That it could have saved my people if it had been made earlier…"
His voice cracked—just once, barely audible—then steadied. He stood abruptly from the couch, wiping the tear away in a quick, almost angry motion with the back of his hand. "I'll go prepare to retrieve the Dream Mirror," he said, voice rougher now, forcing normalcy back into it. "Sorry for making you hear this old man's nonsense, Robin."
He turned toward the hallway—shoulders squared, steps already purposeful—ready to bury the moment beneath action. But before he could take more than two strides, Robin's voice stopped him. "Arto."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto putting on his suit to go]
Arto's POV
I step out of the portal Robin opened for me—right into the shadow of Warehouse 17—and immediately feel my left eye twitch. This isn't a warehouse. It's a goddamn fortress.
The structure looms ahead like a squat concrete monolith, easily three football fields long and half as wide. No windows. No visible doors on the near side. Just smooth, reinforced gray walls that scream "military-grade" even from fifty meters away. Faint blue-white runes pulse along the upper edges—anti-magic wards, layered so thick I can taste the ozone on my tongue. The air itself feels heavy, mana-suppressed, like someone took a blanket soaked in nullification and draped it over the whole site.
"Son of a…" I bite the curse back before it fully leaves my mouth. Robin, you absolute menace. I can practically hear her laughing her ass off back at the clubhouse right now—probably curled up on the couch with my book in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, fully aware of exactly what she just dropped me in front of.
My teleportation got blocked the second I tried to phase inside. Not just disrupted—reflected. Cleanly. Professionally. Whoever built this place didn't want uninvited guests. And now that failed attempt has almost certainly tripped their alarms. Great. Just great. I exhale through my nose—slow, controlled—and pull out the encrypted burner phone Robin gave me before I left. One tap. It rings once.
She picks up on the first ring. I don't bother with greetings. "Robin," I say, voice flat. "You dropped me in front of a functioning anti-magic fortress. Explain. Now." A soft, delighted giggle comes through the speaker—exactly the sound I expected. "Oh, darling," she says, voice warm and teasing, "you should see your face right now. I can feel the twitch from here."
"Robin."
"Alright, alright." Her tone shifts—still amused, but more professional. "Warehouse 17 isn't abandoned. It never was. It's a black-site vault operated by a private consortium—former Soviet military defectors, rogue mages, and a few very wealthy collectors who didn't like the way the post-Cold War world was handling 'sensitive artifacts.' They call it the Vault of Forgotten Things. Think of it as a supernatural Swiss bank vault, but instead of gold, they store things too dangerous, too valuable, or too cursed to let float around freely."
I glance up at the pulsing wards again. "And the Dream Mirror is in there because…?"
"Because it's one of the few remaining natural dream-anchoring crystals left on Earth. The consortium acquired it decades ago from a dying Soviet research lab—the same one my clan used to work in before everything went silent. They sealed it away because they didn't know how to use it safely, and they didn't trust anyone else to try. It's been sitting in crate 1987 ever since."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "And the security?"
"Anti-magic fields, mana-dampening lattice in the walls, automated sentries, layered illusion arrays, physical locks keyed to biometric and soul-signature scans. No teleportation in or out without pre-authorized keys. No scrying. No remote viewing."
She pauses—then adds, almost cheerfully: "Oh, and they're very aware someone just tried to portal inside. You've probably got about five minutes before the first response team arrives." I glance toward the main gate—still closed, but I can already feel the faint shift in ambient mana as internal defenses wake up. "Robin."
"Yes, darling?"
"You could have warned me."
"Where's the fun in that?" She laughs again—light, unrepentant. "Besides, you're you. You'll be fine. The authentication phrase will get you past the outer vault door. After that… well, use your judgment. I'd offer to spawn an eye inside to guide you, but the dampening field would eat it alive."
I sigh—long, tired—before the sound of boots on concrete and the sudden flash of tactical flashlights sweep across the warehouse yard. Damn it.
I flick my wrist. From the small spatial pocket I keep on my person, a thin, matte-black band materializes—cool metal against skin. I snap it around my left forearm like a bracelet. The Null Zone hums to life with a faint, almost inaudible vibration: a localized dampening field that swallows every mana signature, heat trace, electromagnetic emission, and even scent molecules my body puts out. Add a basic concealment weave on top, and I become a walking blind spot. "Oohh~ What is that?"
Robin's voice—clear, amused, intimate—suddenly rings right inside my ear canal. I nearly flinch hard enough to drop the bracelet. "What the hell…?" My finger instinctively jabs into my ear, probing for whatever tiny horror she just planted there while I keep my voice to a harsh whisper. "Don't worry, Arto," she purrs, clearly enjoying this far too much. "I just placed a tiny mouth inside your ear so we can talk. Think of it like a Nico's communicator… But seriously, what is that device?"
I grit my teeth, forcing my hand back down before I look like I'm having a psychotic episode in the middle of an infiltration. "It's called Null Zone," I mutter, already moving—low, silent, hugging the shadow of a rusted shipping container. "Blocks every signal my body emits. Archrival of sensors. I can layer a simple concealment spell on top and walk in there casually without anyone noticing. Completely invisible. Device made by my legion. I still have the blueprint somewhere…"
"Found it," Robin hums cheerfully in my ear. I can practically hear the smug little grin.
"This house really has some serious privacy issues since having you, Robin," I growl under my breath, already weaving the thin shimmer of a basic optical-bend spell over my skin. The world around me blurs slightly—light refracting just enough to make me a ghost.
"Oh, come now," she replies, voice lilting with mock innocence. "Privacy issues only exist the moment you know I'm around~"
I don't dignify that with a response.
Robin's teasing giggle still echoes in my ear like a ghost—soft, smug, infuriating—but I clamp down on the urge to snap back. No time. The courtyard isn't empty anymore.
A low rumble rolls in from the north side of the warehouse complex—boots on gravel, the metallic clink of tactical gear, suppressed rifles being shifted. I press my back against the cold concrete of a storage container, breath shallow, Null Zone humming steadily around my wrist like a second heartbeat. The concealment weave bends light around me; I'm a shadow wearing a man's shape.
They're close. A full squad—twelve, maybe fourteen—moving with practiced silence. Black tactical fatigues, night-vision goggles flipped down, suppressors glinting under the sodium lights. No insignia. No national colors. Private contractors. Mercs. The kind that get hired when someone wants something quiet and deniable.
I let my senses stretch—mana, heat, sound. The Null Zone is doing its job perfectly: they sweep the yard with thermal scopes, motion detectors, even low-frequency mana pings—and find nothing. I'm a hole in the world. Invisible. Inaudible. Untouchable.
I could walk away right now. Slip past them. Teleport out. Leave the Mirror behind and build without it. But I don't. Because I hear them. One of the mercs—squad leader, judging by the way the others orient toward him—mutters into a throat mic, voice low but clear enough for my enhanced hearing. "Target trace confirmed. Mana spike at entry point 17-B. No visual, but the wards lit up like Christmas. Whatever it is, it's inside."
Another voice—female, clipped, professional. "Boss wants it secured. Dream Mirror's in play. If the buyer gets it first, we're looking at a bounty drop. Move in, containment pattern Delta. Lethal force authorized if it resists." I freeze. Dream Mirror. They know the name. They know it's here. They're not random security. They're here for the same thing I am.
And they're already inside the perimeter. My grip tightens on the coffee can—metal creaking under my fingers. Robin's voice—still in my ear, still amused—cuts through the tension. "Ooh. Company. Looks like someone else wants your shiny pyramid, darling." I grit my teeth. "You knew."
"Of course I knew," she purrs. "I told you—my eyes are everywhere. They arrived two hours ago. Private military company, contracted by a shell corp in Liechtenstein. Ultimate buyer is a Grigori black-budget division. They've been sitting on the Mirror for months, waiting for the right moment to move it. You just gave them a reason to accelerate." I force my breathing to stay even. "You could have warned me."
"I could have," she admits cheerfully. "But where's the fun in that? Besides… you're you. I wanted to see how you handle being hunted for once." I don't dignify that with a response either. The mercs are moving—splitting into two fireteams, one sweeping left, one right. They're good. Disciplined. Quiet. They don't know I'm here, but they're treating the site like it's hot. Which means they're not going to leave without checking every crate.
And I'm not leaving without the Mirror. I slip deeper into the shadows, keeping the container between me and the nearest fireteam. The Null Zone keeps me invisible to their tech. The concealment spell keeps me invisible to their eyes. I'm a ghost in their perimeter.
[Warehouse 17]
I slip past the outer perimeter guards like smoke through a keyhole.
The Null Zone on my wrist hums steadily, a low-frequency blanket that swallows every signature I could possibly give off—heat, mana, even the faint sound of my heartbeat if someone were listening hard enough. Layered on top is the concealment spell I wove on the move: simple light-bending, nothing flashy, just enough to make eyes slide right over me. I'm not invisible in the classic sense; I'm just… uninteresting. A shadow that doesn't deserve a second glance.
The first checkpoint is a biometric scanner beside the personnel door. Two guards stand at ease, rifles slung, chatting about weekend plans. I don't slow down. I raise my right hand, middle and ring fingers extended in the old Abyssgard challenger mark—then twist my wrist ninety degrees, folding the index finger in to complete the secondary sigil from Chapter 4: Mimicry Matrices. A faint silver-blue thread of mana—too thin to trip any ward—snakes out from my fingertip and brushes the scanner pad.
The device beeps green. The lock disengages. I step through. One guard glances my way—then looks right past me, scratching his neck like he thought he felt something but decided it was nothing. Robin's voice purrs in my ear, soft and delighted. "Chapter 4, page 487. Mimicry of authorized biometric signature. Elegant. You didn't even pause."
I don't reply. No need. Deeper in, the corridor narrows—motion sensors every ten meters, red laser grids crisscrossing at ankle and chest height, mana-dampening fields pulsing in the walls like a heartbeat. The air tastes like copper and ozone. I keep walking. A laser grid flares to life ahead—crimson lines slicing the hallway into neat slices.
I extend two fingers again—middle and ring straight, index curled inward this time—and trace a quick, looping sigil in the air. Chapter 6: Phase-Shift Vectors. The spell is barely a whisper of mana, just enough to bend the laser light around my body like water around a stone. I step through the grid. The sensors don't twitch.
Robin's voice again—breathier this time, almost reverent. "Phase-shift on the fly. No pre-cast circle. You're using the Intention-to-Mana matrix from Chapter 1 as a live scaffold… beautiful. I'm recording this, by the way. For study purposes. The students are going to lose their minds when they see it."
I grit my teeth. "You're recording?"
"Of course, she hums. You didn't think I'd let a masterclass like this go undocumented, did you? Don't worry—it's encrypted, Abyssgard-grade, keyed only to the five of us. Rias, Akeno, Kiba, Koneko… and me."
I almost stop. Instead I keep moving—another checkpoint, another lock. This one's a soul-signature reader—crimson crystal embedded in the wall, pulsing faintly. I raise my hand again. Chapter 9: Resonance Forgery. I don't mimic a specific soul; I simply create a blank resonance that matches the expected frequency range for authorized personnel. The crystal flickers—green—then accepts.
The door hisses open. Robin's voice is softer now, almost awed. "You're chaining formulas live. Intention scaffold from Chapter 1, mimicry from 4, phase-shift from 6, resonance from 9… all woven together without a single pre-drawn array. It's like watching someone solve differential equations by feel." I finally mutter under my breath—barely audible. "Stop narrating."
"Can't help it, she whispers back. This is the most beautiful spellcraft I've seen since… ever."
I reach the cold-storage sub-level. The door here is heavier—triple-layered steel, biometric + mana + soul lock combo. I don't hesitate. Middle and ring fingers extended again. I layer three formulas at once—Chapter 1 for intention clarity, Chapter 12 for multi-signature overlay, Chapter 17 for temporal echo forgery. My mana flows like water through the scaffold I've built in my mind—no paper, no circle, just pure, distilled will.
The locks cycle...Green...Green...Green. The door opens. I step inside. Cold air washes over me—sterile, biting. Rows of crates stretch into shadow. Shelf 42-B is at the far end. I move—fast, silent, invisible. Robin's voice returns—hushed, almost reverent. "You just bypassed a triple-lock vault with nothing but your fingers and Chapter 17. I'm… impressed doesn't cover it."
I reach the crate and place my palm on the lock. The phrase came out as whispers "The sea remembers what the shore forgets."...Click....The lid lifts....There it is. 1.47 kg of pale, opalescent quartz—pyramid-shaped, edges sharp enough to cut light, internal fractures spiraling like frozen lightning.
"Stop it right there, whoever you are" I turn slowly—deliberately—not because I'm afraid, but because I need to see her face. There she stands: framed in the doorway I just passed through, long orange hair catching the red emergency lights like fire. Slim, confident posture. A black leather jacket over tactical gear, gloves, boots, and a small satchel slung low on her hip. No weapon visible, but the way she holds her hands—loose, ready—tells me she's not bluffing about being dangerous.
Robin's tiny mouth in my ear whispers immediately, voice soft but urgent. "She is Nami, aka the Cat Burglar. Infamous thief in the criminal underworld. Slipped in here under a false identity. Goal… same as you, Arto. I don't think she can see you, but she might have calculated your position. This woman is known to be sensitive with numbers."
Nami's eyes narrow—sharp, analytical, sweeping the exact spot where I stand even though the Null Zone and concealment spell should make me a void. "I don't know how you got through this door," she says, voice steady, "but if you want to get out of here safely, hand over the Dream Mirror. Or I'll raise the alarm." A pause. Her head tilts slightly. "Invisible man… you won't be able to get away."
My jaw tightens. She's not guessing. She's measuring. Air displacement. Sound echoes. The way the emergency lights bend just a fraction differently around my outline. She's doing math in her head—geometry, acoustics, refraction indices—and she's damn good at it. Robin's voice again—whispered, amused. "She's already triangulated you using the door frame's micro-vibrations and the way the air pressure shifted when you breathed. Clever girl. Want me to spawn something to distract her?"
I don't answer Robin out loud. Instead I speak—voice low, calm, projected just loud enough for Nami to hear but not echo down the corridor. "You're fast," I say. "Most people don't notice the air moving when someone's cloaked. Fewer still can pinpoint me in under ten seconds."
Nami's lips curve—just a touch. "Most people don't steal from vaults for a living. Now—Mirror. Hand it over. Or I scream. Your call." I don't move. My hand stays near the crystal—close enough to grab it in an instant, far enough that she might think I'm hesitating. "You want it for a buyer," I say. Not a question. "Grigori? Some rogue mage faction? Or are you freelancing?" Her eyes narrow further. "Does it matter? You're not walking out with it."
I tilt my head, letting the faintest smirk tug at the corner of my mouth even though she can't see it. "It doesn't matter," I say, voice low and calm, "because not everyone is as smart as you, Galileo."
Before she can respond—before she can even draw breath to counter—I make my move. I close my fingers around the pyramid. The crystal is cold—shockingly cold—like holding a shard of winter itself. Its internal fractures ignite at my touch, spiraling light flaring bright enough to throw jagged rainbows across the vault walls. The moment I lift it from the foam cradle, every ward in the facility wakes up screaming.
Red emergency lights strobe. Klaxons wail—deep, throat-rattling. Boots thunder from multiple directions at once. Nami's eyes widen—just a fraction—realization hitting her like a slap. I don't wait. I shove the Mirror into the spatial pocket on my wrist. Then I step backward—still cloaked, still invisible—and speak, loud enough for her to hear over the alarms. "Enjoy being captured, decoy."
Her face twists—shock, then fury, then cold calculation in the span of a heartbeat. "You son of a—" She lunges toward the crate—too late. The vault doors behind her slam shut with a hydraulic hiss.
The corridor lights beyond flash red. I'm already moving—slipping past her in the opposite direction, Null Zone still swallowing every trace of me, concealment spell bending light like water around a stone. Nami spins, eyes darting, trying to track the air displacement, the faint sound of my boots on concrete—but I'm not breathing hard. I'm not running full-out. I'm gliding—silent, precise, a ghost in her blind spot.
She swears under her breath—sharp, vicious—then raises her wrist to her mouth, throat mic activating. "Intruder confirmed. Dream Mirror compromised. Lock the entire level. Lethal force authorized." Too late. I'm already at the maintenance stairwell Robin directed me to earlier.
I take the steps three at a time—down, not up—muscles burning from the sprint, Null Zone humming like a second pulse against my wrist. The alarms wail behind me, red strobes flashing off the concrete walls, but I'm already in the sub-basement service tunnel Robin promised. Narrow, damp, reeking of rust and stagnant water—old pipes dripping overhead, the faint echo of my breath the only sound cutting through the distant klaxons.
But my luck just slapped me in the face.
The tunnel ends abruptly in a reinforced grate door—rusted hinges, padlock hanging loose but a squad of guards already clustered there, rifles slung low, tac lights sweeping the space. And at the front, Nami—orange hair wild under the helmet light, eyes locked on the grate like a predator who's scented blood. She's directing them—hand gestures sharp, voice clipped over their comms—pointing exactly where I stand, even though the concealment spell should make me a void in their sensors.
She's calculated it. Air displacement. Footstep echoes. The way the damp air shifts when I breathe. Her math is flawless—down to the centimeter. "Welp, Robin," I think, keeping my voice to a harsh whisper in the mental link. "You might want to stay down a little. I'm in deep need to play hide and seek here."
Her voice purrs back—calm, amused, not a trace of worry. Oh, darling, you've got this. She can't see you. They can't track you. Use the tunnel side passages—service ladder to the old storm drain at your three o'clock. I've got an ear on their comms. They're splitting: half to your position, half to the main vault. You've got ninety seconds.
Nami's voice cuts through the grate—sharp, urgent. "He's right there—beyond the grate. Air pressure shifted 0.2 pascals, footstep echo at 1.4 meters/second squared. Breach it. Lethal if he resists."
The squad leader nods—barks orders—and two mercs move forward with a breaching charge. I don't wait. Middle and ring fingers extended—Challenger's mark. Quick twist of the wrist—Chapter 6: Phase-Shift Vectors. Mana flows thin and precise, bending the molecular bonds of the grate just enough to let it swing open silently on ghost hinges. No spark. No sound. No alarm trip.
I slip through—close enough to feel the heat from their tac vests—and melt into the side passage Robin mentioned. Service ladder ahead—rusted rungs descending into black water. Nami's eyes narrow—sweeping the empty space where I was. "Lost visual," she snaps. "He's moving—tunnel network. Check the storm drain exits!"
They pour through—boots splashing, rifles up—but I'm already dropping rung by rung, Null Zone swallowing the scrape of metal on gloves, concealment bending the faint light from their beams.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by the red alarm light flickering wildly]
I stay pressed against the wall in the sub-basement corridor, just outside the open vault door, breathing so shallow it barely fogs the cold air. The Null Zone keeps me a perfect ghost—zero heat, zero mana, zero sound profile—but Nami's little mathematical brain is still trying to pin me down with sheer deduction. She's good. Too good. But right now, she's losing ground fast.
The guards have her in a loose ring now. Rifles lowered but fingers near triggers. The squad leader—a broad man with a scarred jaw and a headset—has his back to me, speaking low into the comms. I catch fragments of the higher-up's voice bleeding through his earpiece even from here. "…only signature in the vault was yours, Nami. No second trace. No breach log. No anomaly on thermal, motion, or mana sweep. Explain."
Nami's posture is still confident—chin up, hands visible—but I see the micro-twitch at the corner of her eye. The calculation running behind it. She's smart enough to know she's cornered. "There was someone else," she says, voice steady but edged with frustration. "Invisible. Null-signature tech. I felt the air displacement, the refraction shift. He's here. Somewhere."
The squad leader doesn't even blink. "Feelings don't show up on logs, miss. Signatures do. And right now the only signature we have is yours. Standing over an empty crate. With the alarm you tripped." A long silence. Nami's jaw tightens. "You're making a mistake."
"No," the squad leader says. "You are. Hands behind your back. Slowly." Two guards step forward with mag-cuffs. That's when I decide. She's too valuable to leave in a black-site cell. Too clever to waste on torture chambers or interrogation drugs. She's the kind of mind that could be useful—very useful—if redirected properly. And right now she's about to become the scapegoat for my heist.
I can't let that happen. Not when there's a better play. I raise my right hand—middle finger and thumb forming a tiny, precise gap—and begin tapping out Morse against the metal wall beside me. The impacts are light, almost inaudible to normal ears, but sharp enough to carry through the concrete as micro-vibrations. Morse is old-school, analog, no mana, no tech. Only someone with perfect pitch and pattern recognition will catch it.
I tap slowly, deliberately, letting the rhythm sink in. '.. ..-. / .. / . ... -.-. --..-- / ..- / .-. / ..--- / -... .-.. .- -- . --..-- / . ... -.-. / .-- / -- .' (IF I ESC, U R 2 BLAME. ESC W ME)
Nami's head snaps toward the wall—toward me—faster than any of the guards notice. Her eyes narrow. She heard it. She understood it. For one heartbeat she freezes—processing, calculating risk/reward, escape vectors, betrayal cost. Then her lips twitch—just the tiniest smirk. She raises both hands slowly, palms out, as if complying with the cuffs. "Fine," she says to the squad leader, voice suddenly meek. "I'll come quietly. But you're making a mistake."
The guards close in. One reaches for her wrists. That's my window. I move—fast, silent—sliding behind the nearest guard, then the next, using their own bodies as momentary shields. Null Zone keeps me undetectable. Concealment keeps me unseen. I reach Nami just as the cuffs click around one wrist.
I lean in—mouth near her ear, voice the barest whisper. "Play along. Three seconds. Then run." She doesn't flinch. Doesn't look at me. But her free hand gives the tiniest twitch of acknowledgment. I tap the Null Zone band twice—activating the secondary burst mode. A five-second omnidirectional pulse of white-noise mana and EM interference. Enough to blind every sensor in a fifteen-meter radius for a heartbeat.
The guards' night-vision flickers. Their comms screech static. Their flashlights strobe. I grab Nami's uncuffed wrist and pull. She doesn't resist. We move—together—back toward the open vault door, then left down the corridor Robin mapped earlier. Behind us, the squad leader barks: "What the hell—? Re-calibrate! Find her!"
But we're already gone. I release Nami's wrist the moment we're around the first corner. She doesn't slow down. We run side by side—matching stride—through the service tunnels, up the emergency stair, out the storm grate I scouted earlier. Cold night air hits us both like a slap.
She stops first—panting lightly, orange hair wild, cuffs still dangling from one wrist. She looks at me—really looks—even though I'm still cloaked. "You're insane," she says, but there's a grin behind the words. "You just framed me, then saved me. Why?"
I drop the concealment spell—just enough for her to see my outline. "Because you're too useful to rot in a cell," I say. "And because I need someone who can think three steps ahead when the Underworld comes knocking." She tilts her head—studying me. "And what do I get out of it?"
"Protection. Permanence. A place where you don't have to run forever. And a front-row seat to something bigger than any heist you've ever pulled." Nami laughs—short, sharp, genuine. "You're recruiting me now?"
"I'm offering you a choice," I correct. "Come with me. Or walk away. But if you walk… don't come back looking for the Mirror. It's already gone." She looks at the cuffs on her wrist—then at me. Then she smiles—slow, dangerous, delighted. "I think I'll take door number one." I nod once. "Good."
I reactivate the concealment—full strength this time. "Keep up." We disappear into the night.
[Outside Warehouse 17]
I slow to a walk once we clear the last storm drain grate and emerge into the narrow alley behind the waterfront warehouses. The cold sea wind hits us both—sharp, salty, carrying the distant clang of buoys and the low thrum of a cargo ship somewhere out in the bay. Red emergency lights still strobe across the facility roof in the distance, but the alarms are muffled now, swallowed by concrete and night.
Safe zone. For the moment. I drop the concealment spell completely—no point wasting mana when we're clear—and let the Null Zone band on my wrist power down to standby. The sudden return of my own heat signature and mana presence feels oddly heavy after being a void for so long.
Nami stops a step behind me, breathing hard but controlled. Her orange hair is wild from the run, cuffs still dangling from one wrist like broken jewelry. She's scanning the alley instinctively—left, right, rooftops, shadows—before her shoulders finally ease a fraction.
I turn to face her fully. "We're at the safe zone now," I say, voice low but clear over the wind, "but I must ask you, Nami—are you in any kind of service to anyone, or are you under any restraint? Because I want you and your talents to be with us. At the moment."
She studies me—really studies—eyes flicking over my face, my posture, the way I stand between her and the only exit from the alley. Calculating. Weighing. Always calculating. Then she laughs—short, sharp, genuine. "You just framed me, saved me, and now you're offering me a job?" She shakes her head, amused despite herself. "You don't do anything halfway, do you?"
I don't smile. I just wait. She exhales through her nose—decision made—and leans back against the brick wall, crossing her arms. "No service," she says finally. "No boss. No handler. No leash. I freelance. Always have. Take contracts when the payout's right, ghost when it isn't. The consortium hired me under a false ID to 'consult' on security vulnerabilities. They didn't know I was planning to take the Mirror for myself. Higher bidder was waiting in Vladivostok—Grigori money, seven figures in untraceable souls. Nice nest egg. Or it would've been."
She shrugs one shoulder. "But you ruined that plan. So now I'm unemployed, wanted, and cuffed to a man who can disappear better than I can." She holds up her free wrist—the mag-cuff still locked around it—and raises an eyebrow. "You gonna do something about this, or am I your new fashion accessory?"
I step forward—slow, non-threatening—and place my hand over the cuff. A faint silver-blue thread of mana snakes out from my fingertip—Chapter 17 resonance forgery again, this time tuned to overload the locking mechanism instead of mimic it. The cuff sparks once, then clicks open and falls to the ground.
Nami rubs her wrist—more habit than pain—and looks at me with fresh appraisal. "So what's the pitch?" she asks. "You want me to steal for you? Navigate? Count cards in whatever cosmic poker game you're playing?"
"I want your mind," I say plainly. "Not just your hands. You see numbers where other people see chaos. You calculate angles, probabilities, escape vectors faster than most supercomputers. That's useful. More useful than another set of eyes or ears. I also heard from a certain friend of mine about you being a financial expert, right?"
[Flashback - Inside Warehouse 17]
"It's a waste indeed, Arto...letting her being captured like that. She can be a good addition" Robin spoke into my ear "Elaborate"
Robin's voice gets serious "Nami isn't just some theif, she is a financial expert with years of experience both in the light and in the dark, she used launder billions for criminal empire, and stroke deals with giant corporation. Her sensitivity in number makes her efficience in financial matters better than me. That's right, the Spy is admitting someone is better than her in thinking in a certain field"
[End of Flashback]
I meet Nami's gaze—steady, unflinching—while the distant red strobe of Warehouse 17 still paints the alley walls in bloody flickers behind us.
"I want your mind," I say plainly. "Not just your hands. You see numbers where other people see chaos. You calculate angles, probabilities, escape vectors faster than most supercomputers. That's useful. More useful than another set of eyes or ears." I pause, letting the words settle. "I also heard from a certain friend of mine about you being a financial expert, right?"
Her eyes narrow—sharp, suspicious, but curious. "How did you know about that?" she asks, head tilting slightly, orange hair catching the weak streetlight like embers.
I don't smile. I don't lie. "Just know that I have a good informant." She studies me for three long heartbeats—searching for the bluff, the angle, the catch. Then she exhales through her nose, half-laugh, half-sigh. "Fine. Let's say I believe you. What exactly do you want from my 'financial expertise'?"
I step closer—close enough that the wind carries the faint scent of sea salt and scorched metal from her jacket. "I'm receiving a lot of income in the near future when a project of mine goes online," I tell her. "Big income. Steady. Legitimate on paper, but… complicated underneath. I'm too busy focusing on research, on building, on keeping people alive and training them to survive what's coming. I need someone to manage and multiply that wealth in my stead. Investments. Businesses. Offshore structures. Laundering if necessary—clean if possible. Any means required. I believe you can handle that?"
Nami's smirk returns—slow, dangerous, delighted. "You're asking me to be your money manager?" she says, almost laughing. "Your shadow CFO? For whatever insane empire you're quietly building?"
"Essentially." She crosses her arms, cuffs finally gone, rubbing the faint red mark on her wrist like it's already a memory. "And what do I get?" she asks—straight to the point, no games.
"Everything you've ever wanted from money, but never quite managed to keep." I count it off on my fingers.
"Semi-full autonomy over the portfolio—your decisions, your strategies, your cut.
Protection—real protection. Not just from the consortium or the Grigori, but from anyone who's ever put a price on your head.
Two Pillar Houses and my personal guarantee. Permanence. A place to stop running.
A roof that doesn't come with a bounty attached. And equity. Not salary.
Equity. A percentage of whatever this project generates. Long-term. Generational if you want it to be."
Nami's eyes narrow further at the word "semi-full," her smirk sharpening into something almost predatory. "Semi-full autonomy?" she repeats, drawing out the phrase like she's tasting poison. "So I get to play with your money… but only when you feel like watching?"
I shrug—casual, unapologetic—leaning one shoulder against the alley wall while the distant red strobe of Warehouse 17 finally fades behind the rooftops. "Yes," I say plainly. "I can't let you do whatever you want with my money, right? Whenever you want to put it down, you persuade me. Full presentation. Numbers. Projections. Risks. Upside. What I get in return. I'm just not serious enough about managing it myself—don't think I'm oblivious about my own wealth."
She studies me for three long seconds—head tilted, calculating, the way she probably calculates escape vectors or compound interest in her sleep. Then she laughs—low, genuine, the sound bouncing softly off the brick. "You're paranoid," she says, almost approvingly. "I like that."
She uncrosses her arms, steps closer—close enough that I can smell the faint salt and adrenaline still clinging to her jacket. "Most people who offer me 'equity' try to lock me in with contracts, blood-oaths, or threats. You're just… honest about the leash. Semi-full. Persuasion required. I respect it."
She holds up one finger—then another. "Counter-offer." I raise an eyebrow—waiting. "Full transparency on the income sources," she says. "No black-box bullshit. I need to know where every soul, every yen, every favor is coming from. If I'm laundering or multiplying it, I need clean inputs. Or at least inputs I can clean."
"Done."
"Second: veto power on anything that smells like suicide. If your 'project' starts looking like it's about to attract every Maou, Pillar House, and Grigori kill-team at once, I get to pull capital or reroute it. No questions. No arguments. Just my professional opinion as your shadow CFO."
I consider it—then nod once. "Reasonable. Veto on existential-risk moves. But I get final say on strategy." She smirks. "Fair. Third: ten percent equity vesting over five years, performance bonuses tied to net growth, and a kill-switch clause—if you ever try to freeze my accounts or cut me out, I walk with my vested share, no clawback."
I meet her eyes—steady on calculating. "Ten percent," I agree. "Vesting schedule negotiable. Bonuses tied to audited growth. Kill-switch clause accepted—but only if the freeze is malicious. If it's for security—say, you're compromised—I retain temporary administrative hold until cleared."
Nami tilts her head—impressed despite herself. "You really do think three steps ahead."
"I've had time to practice." She extends her hand again—this time slower, more deliberate. "Deal." I take it.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Rias, Akeno and Robin sitting together in bed, watching footages]
3rd Person POV
Arto stepped through the portal with Nami right behind him, the silver-blue rift snapping shut the moment her boots touched the wooden floor of the clubhouse living room. The familiar scent of old books, faint incense, and leftover stew greeted them—warm, lived-in, home.
The space was empty. No footsteps. No voices. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the distant tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Nami looked around slowly—taking in the mismatched furniture, the scattered spellbooks on the coffee table, the faint glow of a single lamp left on in the corner. Her orange hair caught the light like embers. "So this is where you live?" she asked, tone light but genuinely curious. "Does need some renovations, but I won't complain. I can live here."
Arto huffed a quiet laugh—half exhaustion, half amusement—and rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes," he said. "Where my family and I live. I think they're upstairs. Let's meet them first before we settle a room for you. We still have some to spare."
Nami raised an eyebrow but followed without argument—her steps silent, professional, even though the cuffs were gone and the immediate danger was behind them. They climbed the stairs together. The clubhouse was quiet except for faint voices drifting from the end of the hallway—his room. The only door with light spilling underneath.
Arto pushed it open slowly. Inside, the scene stopped him cold for half a heartbeat.
Rias, Akeno, and Robin were all on his bed—propped against the headboard under a shared blanket, pillows everywhere, a floating holographic projection hovering in mid-air above the comforter. The footage was unmistakable: grainy but clear night-vision of Warehouse 17's interior. Himself—cloaked, invisible to the cameras—slipping past guards, weaving spells on the fly, bypassing locks with nothing but two fingers and intent.
Robin was pointing at the projection, voice animated, almost professorial. "Look close here, you two—see how masterfully Arto used the formulas to make spells on the spot? Chapter 4 mimicry layered with Chapter 17 resonance forgery, no pre-cast circle, no wasted mana. It's like watching someone solve differential equations in real time. Beautiful."
Rias leaned forward, eyes bright with pride and fascination. "He didn't even pause to think. Just… did it." Akeno—curled against Rias's side, chin on her shoulder—nodded slowly. "He makes it look easy. Too easy."
None of them had noticed the door yet. Arto cleared his throat—soft, but deliberate. Three heads turned at once. Rias's face lit up first—pure relief, then joy. "You're back!" She was off the bed in a heartbeat, crossing the room to throw her arms around him. Akeno followed a second later—wrapping around his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder.
Robin stayed on the bed—legs crossed under the blanket, book still open in her lap—but her smile was small, warm, and very real. "Welcome home," she said simply. Arto returned Rias's hug with one arm, then reached to pull Akeno closer with the other. He glanced at Robin over their heads. "You recorded it," he said—dry, but not angry.
Robin shrugged one shoulder—unrepentant. "For educational purposes. The students need to see what live spellcrafting looks like when it's done by someone who actually understands the Intention-to-Mana matrix. Besides…" Her smile turned faintly teasing. "You looked very impressive dodging those lasers."
Nami—still standing in the doorway—finally cleared her throat. All eyes turned to her. Rias blinked. Akeno's eyebrows shot up. Robin's smile widened—delighted. Nami lifted one hand in a casual wave. "Hi," she said. "I'm Nami. Apparently your new… financial advisor? Money manager? Shadow CFO? Still working on the title."
Rias's laughter broke the stunned silence like sunlight cracking through clouds—bright, startled, and unmistakably relieved. She stepped forward first, eyes sweeping over Nami from head to toe with the quick, appraising look of someone who had long ago learned to size people up in seconds. "You brought home another one?" she repeated, half-exasperated, half-delighted. "And a beautiful one too? This is slowly becoming a habit, Arto. Who are you bringing home next, Gabriel?"
Akeno burst out laughing—head thrown back, the sound rich and unrestrained—while Robin's smile curled wider, clearly enjoying the chaos she'd helped create. Arto rubbed the back of his neck, looking mildly pained but not surprised. "I'm not collecting strays," he muttered, though the faint upward twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "She's… useful."
Nami—still in the doorway, orange hair catching the hallway light like fire—raised both hands in mock surrender. "Useful," she echoed dryly. "I've been called worse." She glanced around the room—at Rias's amused curiosity, Akeno's sparkling mischief, Robin's quiet amusement—and finally landed on Arto. "So this is the family you mentioned? Cozy. I like it."
Rias crossed the room in three graceful strides and stopped in front of Nami—close enough to be personal without crowding. "Rias Gremory," she said, offering her hand. "Heiress, occasional headache, and apparently the unofficial welcome committee tonight." Nami took the hand—firm, equal—and shook it once. "Nami. Thief, navigator, and—according to your boyfriend—your new shadow CFO. Pleasure."
Rias's eyebrows rose at "boyfriend," but her smile only grew. "He's not subtle about collecting talent," she said, shooting Arto a teasing glance over her shoulder. "But he has good taste." Akeno sauntered over next—hips swaying, violet eyes gleaming with pure interest. She didn't offer a hand; she simply leaned in, close enough that Nami could smell the faint jasmine and ozone still clinging to her from training.
"Akeno Himejima," she purred. "Resident lightning hazard and unofficial taste-tester of Arto's cooking. Welcome to the madhouse. Try not to steal anything shiny on your first night." Nami laughed—short, sharp, genuine. "No promises."
Robin finally rose from the bed—book closed, tucked under one arm—and approached more slowly. She stopped a respectful distance away, dark eyes meeting Nami's without flinching. "Nico Robin," she said simply. "Informant. Now apparently… roommate and occasional medical consultant. You'll fit right in."
Nami tilted her head—studying Robin with the same calculating look she'd given Arto earlier. "I think I've met you somewhere, but couldn't remember" Robin's smile turned faintly apologetic. "Oh, don't worry about it."
She looked around the room one last time—taking in the mismatched furniture, the scattered spellbooks, the faint scent of stew still lingering from dinner—and exhaled through her nose. "Okay," she said. "I'm in. But I'm claiming the room with the best natural light and the closest outlet. I need my screens."
Rias laughed again—brighter this time. "Deal. But first, you 2 haven't had dinner, you can have what Robin cooked in the kitchen, how do you call it, Robin, Botch?" Robin giggles "Great attempt, but it's Borcht, it's good, according to these 2 girls. Or you can go get yourself some late night ramen and talk about your contract while we 3 set up Nami's room"
Nami glanced toward the kitchen, then back at the three women watching her with varying degrees of amusement and curiosity. The scent of something rich and beet-heavy drifted in—earthy, warm, unmistakably homemade.
"Borcht?" she echoed, one eyebrow lifting. "That's… surprisingly wholesome for a spy's first meal in a new house." Robin's giggle was soft, almost musical. "It's borscht," she corrected gently, "and yes, I cooked it. Old recipe. Very forgiving. Even someone who's been on the run for years can manage it."
Rias stood up from the bed, stretching her arms overhead with a satisfied groan. "Then it's settled," she said brightly. "You two—Arto and Nami—go eat. Robin made enough for an army, so don't hold back. We'll handle the room setup. Best natural light is the corner room on the east side—big window, faces the garden. Closest outlet is right under it. I'll grab fresh sheets and towels."
Akeno slid off the bed next, already heading toward the hallway linen closet. "I'll set up a power strip and some extension cords," she called over her shoulder. "And maybe ward the window so no one peeks in while you're counting your imaginary billions."
Nami snorted, but the corner of her mouth lifted. "You people move fast." Robin rose last—book tucked under one arm, posture relaxed but still carrying that quiet, watchful grace. "We've had practice," she said simply. "Come on. Let's get you fed before you start negotiating rent."
Arto stood too, offering Nami a small nod toward the door. "Kitchen's this way. Borscht is better hot." Nami followed—still a little wary, but the sharp edges of her suspicion had softened into something closer to cautious interest. The hallway lights were low, the house quiet except for the soft creak of floorboards and the distant sound of Rias and Akeno already rummaging through the linen closet.
Down in the kitchen, the borscht still simmered on the stove—deep red, flecked with dill and sour cream swirled on top. Two fresh bowls waited on the counter, steam curling upward. Arto ladled a generous portion for Nami first, then one for himself. She sat at the table without ceremony, spoon in hand, and took her first bite. Her eyes closed for a second—pure, unguarded pleasure. "…Okay," she said after swallowing. "This is unfairly good. You sure Robin's the spy and not the chef?"
Arto sat across from her, taking his own bite before answering. "She's both. Multitalented." Nami laughed—short, surprised. "Figures." They ate in companionable silence for a minute—only the clink of spoons and the soft bubble of the pot. Then Nami looked up, meeting his eyes directly.
"So," she said. "About that equity deal. I want the full financial picture tomorrow. Income streams, projected revenue..."
Arto raised a hand, stopping her mid-sentence. "Hey, don't need to rush. I haven't even started my big project yet. It should be done in about a month from now. From that point on, I want you to help strategize a plan for pricing the usage of the Simulation Room—because that will become our primary income source. I'm looking forward to turning the place into a full manufacturing hub for magic-tech."
He tapped his fingers lightly on the table as he continued, voice steady and deliberate.
"All we need is imported raw materials. The simulated factories inside will process them with near-perfect efficiency—zero waste, zero pollution, minimal energy cost thanks to the Stabilizer. We hold the core technique and keep our internal material mines secured for two reasons: environmental protection, and to maintain leverage on the market price of raw inputs. We'll always have stock on hand; if suppliers try to squeeze us, we simply stop buying and use our reserves. That alone keeps them honest."
Nami stopped eating, spoon hovering halfway to her mouth, eyes narrowing with sharp interest as he went on. "The core of this model is the Stabilizer itself," Arto said. "It solves the chaotic mana-flow problem that's kept magic and technology from truly merging for centuries. Our machines won't just run well and clean—they can run almost forever. That's where we step in again with maintenance services. Scheduled, high-margin contracts. Keeps the income steady even if product sales fluctuate. But every unit we sell will need multiple failsafes—both on paper and inside the hardware—to deal with curious customers trying to pry our core tech open. Some clever mechanics to ensure maintenance is genuinely required every few months won't hurt either."
He took a deep breath, leaning back slightly. "I could hand all of this to the financial departments of Gremory and Sitri. They'd love it. But I won't—because they might start prying into my own secrets for their own gain. That's why I need you as my voice between me and the clans. You know how to talk numbers, you understand tech enough to strategize properly, and you're close enough to me that I can keep an eye on things. The products will be released under the Gremory and Sitri names—so we don't have to worry about reputation. We'll soon dominate the market."
Nami slowly lowered her spoon, resting it against the bowl. For several seconds she said nothing, just stared at him—calculating, weighing, the gears visibly turning behind her eyes.
Then she let out a low, appreciative whistle. "You're not building a business," she said quietly. "You're building a monopoly disguised as a public good. And you want me to be the one who makes sure the numbers add up… and that no one steals the keys while you're looking the other way."
Arto gave a single nod. "Exactly."
She picked up her spoon again—but didn't eat. Instead she pointed it at him like a conductor's baton. "Ten percent equity still stands," she said. "But I want veto power on any deal that smells like it could expose the Stabilizer's core mechanics—even indirectly. And I want a personal R&D budget—five percent of net profits, non-negotiable, for my own private experiments. Things that might not fit the clan-approved product line."
Arto considered it—then nodded. "Veto on core-exposure risks. R&D budget approved—five percent, audited quarterly, your discretion." Nami's smirk returned—slow, satisfied. "Then we have a deal, boss." She finally took another bite of borscht—chewing thoughtfully. "By the way," she added after swallowing, "if we're really going to dominate the market… we should start with something small but visible. Something that screams 'Gremory–Sitri quality' while quietly proving the tech is leagues ahead. Medical prosthetics, maybe. Or mana-efficient household appliances. Low-risk, high-impact. Let the world taste what's coming before we flood them with it."
Arto looked at her—really looked—and felt a small, rare flicker of genuine respect. "That's for Gremory and Sitri to think of, and I think I know what they want to sell already, Gremory would likely be crops of heavy industry, Sitri with medical products, services and logistic, all their flagship products"
Arto looked at her—really looked—and felt a small, rare flicker of genuine respect. "That's for Gremory and Sitri to think of," he said, setting his spoon down with a soft clink. "And I think I know what they want to sell already."
He leaned back slightly, arms resting on the table edge, voice dropping into the calm, measured cadence he used when laying out strategy. "Gremory will likely go heavy industry first—crops, raw materials, large-scale mana processing. They've always been the powerhouse of production and resource control. With the Simulation Room, they can prototype entire production lines in days instead of decades: automated forges, hydroponic arrays, alloy refineries, all running on Stabilizer-grade mana flow. Zero emissions. Near-zero marginal cost after setup. They'll flood the market with superior steel, rare-earth composites, even magically enhanced crops that grow faster, resist blight better, and yield more per hectare. It's not just food security—it's economic dominance disguised as humanitarian aid."
He tapped one finger lightly on the table. "Sitri, on the other hand, will lean into what they're already best at: precision, service, and reputation. Medical products and services first—prosthetics, organ-regrowth therapies, mana-channel repair treatments, accelerated recovery serums. All of it powered by the same core tech, but branded as Sitri innovation: clean, reliable, luxurious. After that, logistics—mana-efficient transport arrays, teleportation relays that don't fry the user, supply-chain optimization platforms that predict shortages before they happen. They'll sell the 'soft' side of the revolution: healthcare that feels like magic, delivery that feels instant, comfort that feels earned."
Nami listened without interrupting, spoon forgotten in her bowl, eyes flicking back and forth as though she were already running spreadsheets in her head. "So Gremory takes the heavy, dirty, visible muscle of production," she summarized slowly. "Sitri takes the clean, high-margin, reputation-shaping services. And the Simulation Room sits in the middle—feeding both, owning neither, quietly collecting usage fees and data from every sector they spin up."
Arto gave a single nod. "Exactly. The clans get to keep their branding and political capital. We get the royalties, the data, and the chokehold on the underlying platform. Everyone wins… except anyone who tries to reverse-engineer or steal the core tech."
Nami finally picked up her spoon again, but only to point it at him like a conductor's baton. "Smart," she said. "Very smart. Keeps the Pillars invested instead of threatened. Gives them shiny toys to show off while you quietly own the factory that makes the toys."
She took another bite of borscht—chewing thoughtfully—then swallowed and met his eyes again. "Which means my job just got a lot more interesting. I'll need full visibility on the royalty structure, licensing agreements, and any side-channel revenue—data sales, maintenance contracts, premium sector rentals. If I'm going to multiply this money, I need to know exactly how the river flows… and where the leaks might be."
Arto nodded once. "You'll have it. Tomorrow. Encrypted ledger, full access, audited trail. No black boxes. But before any of that happen, are you interested in going to highschool again?"
"Huh?"