Rias's POV
I sat on the edge of my bed, legs crossed, phone balanced on my knee as the screen lit up my face in the dim evening light of my room. The notification chime had just come through—another deposit from the Sitri Stray Hunting Agency, timestamped less than an hour ago.
¥14,800,000
Reference: Joint Operation – A+ Rank Stray Extermination
Split: 50% Gremory Peerage / 50% Sitri Peerage
I exhaled slowly through my nose, thumb hovering over the balance figure that had climbed far higher than I'd ever imagined possible in three short weeks.
Four more missions. Two A+ ranked joint operations—both of them brutal, both of them flawless. Two B+ ranked solo runs I led my peerage through—clean, efficient, no casualties on our side. All of them paid obscenely well. All of them proof that the training—the relentless positional drills, the macro/micro coordination sessions with Sona, the late-night spell optimization with Nami and Robin—was paying dividends we could actually see on a bank statement.
We moved like one squad now. Joint or separate, it didn't matter. Akeno and Tsubaki could cover each other's blind spots without speaking. Kiba and Tomoe flanked like they'd been fighting together for years instead of weeks. Koneko and Tsubasa became walking siege engines—unstoppable when they released gravity, unbreakable when they didn't. Momo and Reya had turned low-cost containment into an art form; barriers that used half the mana but held twice as long. Sona and I… we trusted each other's calls now. Even when one of us wanted to charge and the other wanted to wait, we listened. We adapted. We won.
And all of it traced back to him...To Arto...I locked my phone and set it on the nightstand, heart suddenly kicking harder against my ribs. The basement door had been unlocked since yesterday afternoon. He wasn't underground anymore.
The power layer, the Git system, the dream-projecting mechanics for Sector 1, the AI core—all of it was done. What remained was the surface layer: the interface, the access points, the final polish on the physical structure that would let people actually walk into the Simulation Room instead of just knowing it existed beneath their feet.
That meant he was here. I stood up so fast my vision blurred for a second, then steadied.
School had ended hours ago. I could have come straight home. But I'd lingered—talked to Sona about tomorrow's joint drills, helped Koneko stretch out a sore shoulder, let Akeno drag me into a quick café stop for matcha lattes. Part of me had been… afraid. Afraid that when I walked down those basement stairs, I'd find him still buried in blueprints and mana conduits, still half-lost in the work, still not quite here.
But the door was open. And the hum coming up from below wasn't the deep, tectonic pulse of leyline reactors anymore. It was quieter. Softer. The sound of final calibration, of systems coming online, of something finished and waiting to be used. I slipped out of my uniform jacket, swapped my school shoes for house slippers, and headed downstairs—heart in my throat the whole way.
The basement stairs were cool under my feet. The air smelled faintly of ozone and cedar—clean, alive, done. I reached the bottom. And there he was. Arto stood in the center of what had once been an empty stone chamber. Now it was… something else.
The operational layer had risen around him like a living thing—smooth black panels veined with silver-blue conduits, floating holographic interfaces drifting at eye level, sector markers pulsing softly in mid-air like constellations. A single access archway stood open in the far wall—leading into Sector 1, where the Dream Mirror's gentle opalescent light spilled out like moonlight on water. The air thrummed with quiet power, stable, contained, ready.
He hadn't noticed me yet. He was running his hand along one of the interface panels—checking readouts, murmuring something under his breath, expression focused but… calm. Peaceful, almost. Like a man who had finally finished building the impossible and was now simply admiring it.
My throat tightened. I stepped forward—slippers whispering against the stone floor. "Arto." He looked up. The moment his eyes met mine—dark blue, warm, alive—the last week of distance dissolved. He straightened. Smiled—small, real, exhausted but so relieved it hurt to see. "Rias."
I crossed the distance in three strides and threw myself at him—arms around his neck, face buried in the crook of his shoulder. He caught me instantly, strong arms wrapping around my waist, lifting me just enough that my feet dangled off the floor. "You're back," I whispered into his neck. "You're really back."
He buried his face in my hair—inhaling like he'd been starving for the scent of me. "I'm back," he murmured. "And it's done. The Room is done." I pulled back just enough to look at him—hands cupping his face, thumbs brushing the faint shadows under his eyes.
"I want to see it," I said. "All of it. But first…" I kissed him—slow, deep, pouring every second of worry and pride and love into it. He kissed me back—gentle at first, then fiercer, like he'd been holding his breath for a week and could finally exhale.
When we finally parted—foreheads pressed together, breathing each other's air—he spoke against my lips. "Tell me everything," he said quietly. "The mission. The training. How you all moved together. I want to hear it from you."
I smiled—tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. "Only if you tell me about this place first," I whispered. "Show me what you built."
Arto's hand stayed warm around mine as we stepped through the white door.
The moment we crossed the threshold, the world shifted.
Not dramatically—no flash of light, no vertigo—just a seamless stretch of reality. The hallway unfolded before us, impossibly long, walls smooth and featureless white, ceiling and floor mirroring each other in perfect symmetry. I could feel the spatial manipulation humming faintly under my feet, like standing inside a dream that had learned to bend physics without apology. The corridor seemed to go on for hundreds of meters, yet I knew—instinctively—that if I turned around, the entrance door would still be only a few steps behind us.
Only two doors waited at the far end...Sector 0...Sector 1.
Plain white panels, no handles, no visible seams—just a soft silver-blue rune pulsing gently at the center of each, like a heartbeat.
Before I could ask anything, a voice filled the air—clear, calm, feminine, and unmistakably familiar, yet stripped of Robin's warmth and replaced with crystalline precision. "Welcome to the Simulation Room, Miss Rias Gremory." I startled—just a little—before recognizing the cadence beneath the synthetic tone.
"I am Celine," the voice continued, "AI assistant of this facility. You can ask me any question about the new facility. I will do my best to answer." Arto squeezed my hand once—reassuring—then released it so I could step forward. "Celine," I said, voice steadier than I felt. "You sound like Robin."
A short pause—almost thoughtful. "My vocal model is based on Nico Robin's speech patterns and timbre, per Creator Arto's specifications. It promotes familiarity and trust for authorized users. Would you prefer a different voice profile?" I shook my head quickly. "No. It's… perfect. Just unexpected."
Arto's lips curved—just a fraction. "I thought it would make the place feel less… sterile." I turned to him, eyes wide. "It's already is, now, show me what's inside this Adaptive Training Ground"
Arto led me through the white corridor, our footsteps echoing softly in the impossible length of it. The spatial manipulation made the distance feel both endless and instantaneous—every step forward compressed the space ahead, pulling the Sector 1 door toward us like a magnet. When we finally reached it, the door didn't slide or swing. It simply parted—the matte black surface rippling like dark water, revealing a softly lit chamber beyond.
We stepped inside.
The control room was breathtaking in its quiet elegance. A wide, circular space with a domed ceiling that glowed with faint constellations of silver-blue light. Comfortable reclining seats—sleek, ergonomic, upholstered in deep charcoal—were arranged in a gentle arc facing a massive curved screen that wrapped half the room. Smaller holographic displays floated at each station, showing real-time mana flow diagrams, biometric readouts, environmental variables, and a live feed of… nothing yet. Just an empty black expanse waiting to be filled.
"This is the control room for Sector 1: Adaptive Training Ground," Arto said, voice low and steady as he guided me around the perimeter. "Completely isolated from the arena itself. Safe. No bleed-through. From here we can monitor everything—vitals, mana expenditure, psychological stress markers, environmental shifts. We have full-spectrum observation: thermal, arcane resonance, emotional spectrum, even subconscious intent mapping. Emergency extraction is one gesture away. Full session abort is a single command. All battle data is recorded—every move, every decision, every heartbeat—and can be retrieved, analyzed, replayed. Nothing is lost."
He paused beside one of the seats, running a hand along its backrest.
"Multiple admins can operate at once. Robin can run observation and AI coordination. Nami can track efficiency metrics and resource usage. You or Sona can oversee strategy. Everyone else can watch from the gallery seats behind the main console."
I looked around—trying to take it all in. It felt like standing inside the brain of something alive and waiting.
Arto continued walking until we reached the center of the room. A single round platform rose gently from the floor—smooth obsidian disc, three meters across, ringed with faint silver-blue runes that pulsed in slow rhythm.
"This is where you'll enter the training ground," he said, stepping onto it himself and offering me his hand. "Just stand here. The admin—me, right now—will do the rest. Transfer is instantaneous. No disorientation. You'll appear exactly where the system decides is optimal for the scenario."
I stepped onto the obsidian platform beside him, the faint silver-blue runes underfoot pulsing once in recognition—like the room itself was breathing, acknowledging my presence. The surface was cool and perfectly smooth beneath my bare feet, but it didn't feel cold; it felt… alive. Waiting.
Arto's hand stayed wrapped around mine, thumb brushing slow, reassuring circles over my knuckles. He didn't let go.
"Currently it can carry up to two full peerages," he continued, voice low and steady, the way he always spoke when he was explaining something that mattered deeply. "About thirty-two people at once. Tomorrow your parents will sit right here—" he nodded toward the curved console seats behind us "—watching through the live feed. They'll see you and your peerage fight alongside Sona's in a full joint operation. Real stakes. Real time. No safety net."
My stomach did a slow flip at the thought—Sirzechs Lucifer and Yelena Lucifuge watching me fight inside my boyfriend's personal nightmare dimension. Not as a spectator sport. As a demonstration of what we'd become capable of.
Arto must have felt the tension in my fingers, because he squeezed once—gentle but firm.
"But beware, okay?" he said, turning to face me fully now. His dark-blue eyes searched mine, serious in a way that made my chest ache. "You've been inside my Dark Arena plenty of times. It already knows you. It's noticed you. And it's had time to build measures specifically against you—terrain that counters your Power of Destruction, monsters that exploit your patterns, psychological pressure tailored to your fears. Akeno too. The Arena learns. It adapts. It doesn't forgive complacency."
I swallowed—nodding once.
"I know," I whispered. "I remember the first time. The way the shadows kept reaching for me… the way every safe-looking path turned into a trap. It felt personal. But I haven't been in your dream realm for 4 weeks, you know? And I've developed a lot in those time, so don't worry, Arto, I'll bring surprises to your dream tomorrow"
Arto's eyes held mine for a long moment—searching, weighing, the way he always did when he was trying to decide how much truth to give me versus how much protection. The silver-blue runes around the platform pulsed once, softly, as though the room itself was listening.
Then he exhaled—slow, almost reluctant—and the tension in his shoulders eased just a fraction.
"Four weeks," he repeated quietly, like he was tasting the number. "You're right. It's been four weeks since you last stepped into the Dark Arena. And you've changed. All of you have."
He lifted our joined hands, turning my palm up so he could trace the faint calluses that hadn't been there a month ago—the marks of relentless drills, of nights spent perfecting intention under Robin's watchful eye, of mornings spent bleeding into the grass with Akeno's lightning still crackling in my hair.
"The Arena will notice," he continued, voice low. "It always notices. But you're not the same Rias who walked in last time. The shadows that used to reach for you… they'll find someone faster now. Someone who's learned to shape Power of Destruction into shields as easily as blades. Someone who's trained under my regimen for soldiers until her body gives out. Someone who's fought beside Sona's peerage and come out stronger."
His thumb brushed over the center of my palm—gentle, grounding. "You'll bring surprises," he said, a small, proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I know you will. And the Arena will adapt to them. It'll throw things at you that even I didn't expect. But that's the point. That's why I built it this way. Not to break you. To make sure nothing else ever can."
I felt my throat tighten—not with fear, but with something warmer, fiercer. "I'm not afraid of it anymore," I told him honestly. "Not like before. I'm… excited. I want to see what it thinks of me now." Arto's smile deepened—just a little—and he leaned down until our foreheads touched again. "Then tomorrow," he murmured, "you show it. All of you do. And when the dust settles… we'll see how much it's learned from you."
[Simulation Room - Main hall]
"Arto, Arto...What is inside Sector 0?"
Arto turned to me fully now, the faint silver-blue glow from the runes around us reflecting in his dark eyes. His smile was small but warm—tired around the edges, but unmistakably proud.
"Sector 0?" he repeated softly, like the question itself carried weight. "It's the admin room of the entire facility. I just got out of there, so it's visible right now. Normally it stays… folded away. Invisible. Only I can access it—its creator."
He gestured vaguely toward the far end of the white corridor, where the space seemed to shimmer slightly, as though reality itself was thinner there.
"Inside is where I do my real work as admin. Creating or deleting sectors—sometimes with custom facilities, sometimes blank slates. Cleaning dead branches from the Git system so no corrupted or obsolete versions linger. Adjusting energy distribution between leylines and reactors. Fixing bugs, resolving conflicts between sectors, adding new features on the fly… maybe even changing Celine's voice one day if she starts sounding too much like Robin and it gets weird."
He chuckled quietly at that last part—self-deprecating, almost shy.
"It's also the gateway down to the operational layer and the power layer. Direct access for maintenance when something goes wrong deep in the infrastructure. I can't let you in there—not yet. Maybe not ever. It's… personal. And dangerous. One wrong edit and the whole facility could destabilize."
I felt a small pang—curiosity warring with understanding. I knew better than to push. Some things were his alone.
"But," he added, smile turning a little mischievous, "I can give you an example of how it works."
He raised his right hand—middle and ring fingers extended, the rest folded in that familiar challenger sign—and traced a small, precise sigil in the air. Silver-blue light followed his fingertips, forming a floating, semi-transparent window no larger than a tablet screen.
The projection stabilized—showing a clean, minimalist interface: a dark background with crisp white and silver-blue text, holographic panels drifting like constellations.
SECTOR 0 – ADMINISTRATOR CONSOLE
Active User: Arto Abyssgard
Current Status: Surface Layer Finalization – 98.7%
Sector Count: 2 (0 & 1)
Git Branch Overview: 0 active branches |
Energy Draw: 1.42% nominal (leyline stable)
AI Assistant: Celine v1.0 – Personality Matrix: Neutral
Arto's fingers danced across the holographic interface with practiced ease, the silver-blue glow reflecting in his eyes as he pulled up the sector creation menu. The sub-options cascaded like a waterfall of light: Blank Slate, Custom Dimensions, Intention-Linked Environment, Dream Anchor Compatible, Multi-User Support…
He paused over Custom Dimensions, then glanced sideways at me with that small, knowing smile that always made my stomach flip.
"Akeno told me you have a secret stash of anime and manga," he said, voice low and teasing. "Overflowing, apparently. She said you've been hiding boxes under your bed since high school, and the collection's gotten… ambitious."
My face heated instantly. I opened my mouth to protest—then closed it again because, well… she wasn't wrong. The shame was real.
Arto chuckled—soft, warm—and tapped the panel.
Custom Dimensions expanded into a dizzying array of sliders, presets, and freeform tools.
"Sector 10," he murmured, already typing the name into the designation field. Sector 10: Rias' Hideout.
I watched, half-mesmerized, as he began shaping the space.
First the dimensions: he dragged the length slider far beyond standard—stretching the room into something cavernous yet cozy. Walls appeared in the preview window—warm wood paneling stained the color of aged cherry, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining every surface. He added a second level—a loft accessible by a spiral staircase of dark iron and frosted glass—more shelves up there, plus a reading nook with a massive beanbag the color of midnight sky.
Lighting came next. Soft, adjustable lanterns hung from exposed beams, mimicking the warm glow of paper lanterns in Kyoto cafés. He dialed in ambient color temperature—2700K, golden-hour cozy—and added hidden strips that could shift to cool blue when I wanted to marathon late into the night.
Furniture materialized piece by piece. A low kotatsu table in the center, surrounded by floor cushions. A long couch upholstered in deep burgundy velvet. A desk large enough for dual monitors (he smirked when he added those—"for streaming and cataloguing"). Floating shelves for figurines—pre-scaled to fit the most popular series I owned (he'd clearly gotten intel from Akeno). A dedicated display case for limited-edition merch, backlit with soft white LEDs.
Then the manga and anime storage.
He created modular shelving—sliding panels, pull-out drawers, even climate-controlled glass cabinets for older volumes and collector's editions. The system auto-sorted by series, release date, and rating
Arto tapped the final confirmation on the floating interface. The silver-blue glow pulsed once—bright, approving—then settled into a soft, steady rhythm. The preview window dissolved, and the room around us seemed to exhale, as though the space itself had just accepted its new purpose.
He turned to me fully, the holographic controls fading behind him like dying stars.
"You can store all your collection in here," he said quietly, gesturing to the endless shelves that now stretched in every direction—some already half-filled with perfect digital twins of my physical manga volumes, others waiting, empty and patient. "As much as you want. No space limit. No weight limit. No dust. No creases. I'll change the owner of this sector to you right now. Meaning you hold every right to adjust this place to your liking—add new series, rearrange shelves, change the lighting, summon snacks, whatever you need. If you make any mistake, just ask Celine to roll everything back for you. Git doesn't lie. Every version is saved."
My throat tightened so hard I almost couldn't speak.
I stepped forward—slowly, like I was afraid the room might vanish if I moved too fast—and ran my fingertips along the nearest shelf. The spines felt real—soft paper, faint embossed titles, even the slight texture of wear on older volumes I'd read a hundred times. I pulled one out at random: a worn copy of Fruits Basket volume 1, the one I'd bought second-hand in high school with my first allowance money. The pages smelled faintly of old ink and memories.
I looked up at him—eyes stinging. "You… made this for me?" Arto shrugged one shoulder—almost shy, which was so unlike him it made my heart stutter. "You deserve somewhere that's just yours," he said simply. "Somewhere safe. Somewhere you can disappear into when everything gets too loud. Missions, training, family politics, the weight of being a Gremory… this room doesn't care about any of that. It's yours. Completely."
I set the volume back—carefully, reverently—then closed the distance between us and wrapped my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek to his chest. "Thank you" He wrapped his arms around me in return—strong, warm, steady. "You're welcome, my princess" I laughed—soft, shaky—and tilted my head back to look at him. "Can I… test it? Right now?"
His smile returned—small, indulgent. "Of course." I stepped away from him and raised my voice just enough. "Celine?"
"Yes, Sector Owner Rias Gremory?" the AI answered instantly—still that calm, polished version of Robin's voice. "Show me… my favorite scene from Fruits Basket. The one where Tohru meets the zodiac for the first time. Full immersion. Soft lighting. No combat mode." "Immersion mode engaged. Scene selected. Adjusting environment."
The room shifted. The shelves receded gently into soft-focus background. The kotatsu table expanded slightly. A gentle spring breeze—impossible indoors—brushed my cheek, carrying the scent of cherry blossoms and fresh laundry. The floor beneath us became tatami. Paper lanterns glowed overhead.
And there—projected in perfect, lifelike detail—was Tohru Honda, wide-eyed and earnest, stepping into the Souma house for the first time. The moment the zodiac curse revealed itself in flashes of light and animal silhouettes.
I watched—breath caught in my throat—as the scene played out exactly as I remembered it. Every line. Every expression. Every heartbeat of awkward, beautiful hope. When the scene faded—softly, gracefully—back to the quiet room, I turned to Arto. Tears were running down my cheeks now. Happy ones.
[TImeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto disappearing behind the door of sector 0]
3rd Person POV
Rias stepped through the portal she'd conjured in the corner of Sector 10—her new hideout—and emerged directly into her bedroom in the Gremory estate. The familiar scent of jasmine candles and old books greeted her like an old friend, but tonight the room felt strangely small, almost cramped compared to the endless shelves she'd just left behind.
She didn't waste time.
With a soft wave of her hand, crimson-black mana flared around the dozens of carefully labeled cardboard boxes stacked under her bed, against the walls, and even tucked behind the wardrobe. Titles she'd collected since middle school—dog-eared volumes of Fruits Basket, pristine first-print runs of Hunter x Hunter, limited-edition artbooks, figurine cases, Blu-ray sets still in shrink-wrap—began to float upward in neat, orderly rows.
One by one they vanished through the still-open portal, reappearing on the other side in Sector 10. The room's auto-sorting system took over immediately: volumes slid into their assigned places on the emotional-resonance shelves, artbooks floated to illuminated display cases, figurines arranged themselves in perfect lines under soft LED backlighting. The kotatsu table even sprouted a small side shelf that perfectly fit her favorite ramune bottles.
Within ten minutes her entire collection—years of secret hoarding—was gone from the Gremory estate bedroom.
The space felt strangely empty now. Lighter.
Rias let the portal close with a final flicker of crimson light.
She stood in the suddenly quiet room for a long moment, fingers brushing the empty spot under her bed where the boxes used to be.
Then she smiled—small, secret, satisfied—and whispered to the empty air:
"Thank you, Arto."
Meanwhile, in the main corridor of the Simulation Room facility, Arto stepped out of Sector 10's access archway. The white hallway folded closed behind him like it had never existed. He looked… lighter than he had in weeks. Shoulders relaxed, eyes clear, the faint silver-blue glow of the Stabilizer tattoo on his back now dimmed to a gentle undercurrent instead of the constant flare it had been during construction.
Robin and Nami were already waiting near the central hub.
Robin stood closest to the floating holographic console, conversing quietly with Celine. Her head was tilted slightly, dark hair falling over one shoulder as she listened to the AI's perfectly modulated voice—eerily similar to her own, yet stripped of warmth. "Voice matrix calibration at 87%. Emotional nuance simulation pending user feedback. Would you like me to adjust pitch by 0.3 Hz for better differentiation, Administrator Robin?"
Robin laughed—soft, delighted, a sound she rarely let anyone hear. "You sound exactly like me when I'm trying to be professional," she told the air. "It's uncanny. I almost want to keep it this way just to confuse people."
"Flattery detected. Adjusting sass level +5%." Robin laughed again—brighter this time. Nami, meanwhile, was pacing a slow circle around the hub console—phone in one hand, stylus in the other—already sketching rough monetization models on a digital notepad projected from her device.
Nami staggered backward in exaggerated slow-motion, one hand pressed to her forehead like a Victorian lady about to faint from vapors, the other still clutching her phone as though it were a live grenade.
Robin moved first—stepping smoothly behind her and catching Nami under the arms with gentle but firm hands, steadying her like she'd done this exact routine a hundred times before.
Arto—still standing near the console—simply raised one eyebrow and extended an arm, letting Nami lean against it like a human crutch. His expression hovered somewhere between fond exasperation and genuine concern that she might actually topple.
"Millionaires?" Robin asked mildly, voice warm with amusement as she propped Nami upright. "Or billionaires?"
Nami's eyes were still wide, pupils darting back and forth across invisible spreadsheets only she could see.
"Billionaires," she wheezed, clutching Arto's sleeve for dear life. "Maybe trillionaires. Do you have any idea what Gremory spends annually on R&D alone? On land reclamation for mana-enriched crops? On military training grounds that get blown up every other month?"
She waved her phone wildly—projecting a rough holographic bar chart that looked suspiciously like a hockey stick on steroids.
"This facility cuts 87–94% of those costs overnight. No more massive training fields. No more wasting months on trial-and-error spell development. No more rebuilding after live-fire exercises. Just… rent the sector, train until they drop, reset, repeat. And we take a slice of every single transaction. Plus the magic-tech products we're about to flood the market with—prosthetics, mana-efficient appliances, weapon prototypes, all coming out of simulated factories that cost pennies to run."
She spun to face them both—eyes manic, cheeks flushed. "We could undercut every single R&D department in the Underworld by an order of magnitude. And the best part? They'll thank us for it. They'll line up to pay us to make them obsolete."
Arto rubbed his temple with two fingers, the universal gesture of someone who had just realized his girlfriend's best friend was about to turn his life's work into the most profitable monopoly in supernatural history.
"Trillionaires," he echoed faintly.
Robin—still holding Nami steady—tilted her head, clearly doing mental calculations of her own. "If we cap utilization at 60% capacity to avoid drawing too much attention from the leylines… and tier pricing aggressively… and sell anonymized battle-data analytics to the Pillar Houses…" She trailed off, then smiled—slow, almost predatory. "Yes. Trillionaires is conservative."
Nami clutched Robin's arm like it was a lifeline. "Hold me tighter. I think my soul just left my body and is currently swimming in a vault of gold coins." Robin obliged—wrapping one arm around Nami's waist while still looking at Arto over her shoulder.
"You built the engine," she said softly. "We just attached the money printer." Arto stared at the two of them—then at the glowing console that represented years of isolation and impossible work finally paying off in ways he'd never even dreamed of.
Arto leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the console's soft blue glow as though it might argue back. When he spoke again his voice was quieter, but the steel in it was unmistakable. "But despite all that," he said, "we shouldn't get too comfortable about this matter."
Robin tilted her head, the faint smile fading into attentive stillness. Nami stopped pacing; her stylus froze mid-stroke on the projected notepad. "I say we limit as much of the other Pillar clans' access—or even awareness—of this facility as possible," Arto continued. "Let Gremory and Sitri take all the glory from the innovations. Let them be the ones striding decades ahead while wasting almost nothing to do it. We just sit in the dark and get our cut."
He looked up—first at Robin, then at Nami—eyes steady, unblinking. "Tomorrow I'll discuss this with the two clans' leaders. Especially the part where we must defend the core structure of the technology in every magic-tech product as fiercely as possible. Selling them out there means curious minds will try to pry—reverse-engineer, bribe engineers, steal prototypes, send spies. Failsafes and kill switches come first. Mandatory. Non-negotiable. Every single unit leaves this facility with layered redundancy that only we control. If anyone gets too clever… we brick it. Remotely. Silently. No exceptions."
Nami slowly lowered her phone. The predatory gleam in her eyes sharpened into something colder, more calculating. "So we're not just selling products," she said slowly. "We're selling addiction to products that only work as long as we allow them to. Planned obsolescence on steroids. And if they ever try to crack the black box…" She mimed pressing a button in the air. "Lights out. Warranty voided. Permanently."
Robin's expression hadn't changed, but the air around her grew marginally heavier. "Knowledge is the asset," she murmured, echoing Arto's earlier thought. "Not the reactors. Not the sectors. Not even the Mirror. The knowledge of how everything fits together. Once that leaks—even a fragment—the advantage erodes. And we spent too long building it to watch it bleed away for someone else's ambition."
Arto nodded once—sharp, final. "Exactly. Gremory and Sitri get the spotlight, the prestige, the political capital. They get to be the visionaries. We get the royalties, the data, the veto. And we get to keep the real engine—the part that can't be copied—locked behind more layers than anyone will ever breach."
He leaned back again, exhaling through his nose. "I don't want war with the other Pillars. I don't want them to even suspect they're being left behind on purpose. Let them think they're leading the race. Let them pour their pride and their budgets into products stamped with their crests. As long as the core stays ours… we win. Quietly. Completely. Forever."
Nami let out a low whistle—half admiration, half disbelief. "You really did think three moves ahead, didn't you?" She shook her head, almost laughing. "Fine. I'll draft the licensing agreements with kill-switch clauses so airtight even Lucifer's lawyers couldn't crack them. And I'll start modeling the royalty waterfalls—Gremory and Sitri get public glory and a fat public slice; we get the quiet majority under shell companies and blind trusts. Untouchable."
Robin's gaze drifted back to the console. "I'll reinforce the digital and arcane locks on Sector 0," she said softly. "Celine's root access will only respond to your biometrics and intention signature. If anyone ever tries to brute-force their way in—even with relic-level power—the system will self-delete the compromised sectors before they can read a single line of code."
Arto looked between the two women—his strategist and his financier—and felt something settle deep in his chest. "Not just wealth," he said quietly. "Not just power. Control. Real control. The kind that lets us decide what the next thousand years look like… without ever having to stand in the spotlight."
Nami's smirk softened into something almost tender. "Then we keep the spotlight on them," she said. "And the knife in our sleeve." Robin placed a gentle hand on Arto's shoulder. "And the family at our back."
Arto covered her hand with his own—brief, grateful—then looked up at the ceiling where faint status lights still pulsed like distant stars. "Tomorrow we test the Arena," he said. "The day after… we start writing the contracts."
[ORC clubhouse - Living room]
Arto stepped into the living room of the clubhouse, the faint scent of cedar incense and cooling tea still lingering from earlier. The space felt warmer than the sterile white halls below—lived-in, familiar, home.
Akeno was already there.
She'd clearly just returned from her training session with Tsubaki—hair slightly mussed, gym clothes clinging to her skin with the faint sheen of sweat, naginata already dismissed. The moment she saw him standing in the doorway, her entire face lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside her chest. "Arto!"
She crossed the room in three quick strides and threw herself into his arms. He caught her easily—arms wrapping around her waist as she buried her face against the side of his neck, inhaling deeply like she was trying to memorize the scent of him all over again. "You're finally back," she mumbled into his skin, voice muffled but thick with emotion. "Four weeks. Four whole weeks of you being a ghost in the basement. I missed you so much it hurt."
Arto tightened his hold, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head, fingers threading gently through her damp hair. "I missed you too," he said quietly—voice rough from disuse and something deeper. "All of you."
Akeno pulled back just enough to look up at him—violet eyes shimmering, cheeks flushed from training and feeling. "The girls at school have been asking about you nonstop," she continued, half-laughing, half-serious. "Every time I walked past a group of second- or third-years, I'd hear 'Where's Abyga-senpai?' or 'Has anyone seen him?' They're convinced you transferred or got kidnapped or something dramatic. I had to keep telling them you were on a 'special training retreat.'"
She rolled her eyes dramatically. "The boys, though? Most of them looked… relieved. Like a weight had been lifted off their shoulders. No more perfect grades, no more stealing the spotlight in gym class, no more girls whispering about how cool you are in the hallways."
Arto huffed a quiet laugh. "Except the basketball team," Akeno added, smirking. "They've been miserable without their main passer. Lost three straight practice matches last week. The coach keeps muttering about 'where the hell is Abyga' under his breath. I think they're planning to kidnap you back the moment you show your face in the gym again."
Arto's smile turned wry. "I'll make it up to them. Eventually."
Akeno's expression softened again. She cupped his face with both hands—thumbs brushing the faint shadows under his eyes. "But seriously," she whispered. "Don't ever disappear that long. We were fine—stronger, even—but it wasn't the same without you here. The house felt… empty."
Arto leaned down until their foreheads touched. "I won't," he promised—voice low, sincere. "Not for that long. Not again." Akeno searched his face for a long moment—then smiled, small and real. "Good. Because I have four weeks of cuddles to make up for, and I'm not letting you out of my sight tonight."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Akeno cuddling with chibi Arto]
Arto woke slowly, the way a wolf does—first the ears twitching at distant sounds, then the nose flaring to catch every familiar scent in the room (jasmine from Rias's hair, faint ozone from Akeno's lingering mana, the warm cotton of bedsheets, and underneath it all the steady, comforting beat of two hearts pressed against his fur).
His eyes opened last. The soft gray of half-instinct mode lingered for only a heartbeat—then darkened steadily back to deep, familiar blue. Human awareness flooded in behind it: the weight of Rias's arm draped over his ribs, the way Akeno's cheek rested against the thick ruff at his neck, the slow rise and fall of their breathing in perfect sync with his own.
He didn't shift back yet...He stayed wolf.
The decision had crystallized sometime during the night while the warrior part of him slept: if he'd slept beside them in human form, if he'd let the Dark Arena taste their presence through his dreaming mind, it would have noticed. Analyzed. Adapted. Every new reflex Rias had drilled into muscle memory, every lightning-chain pattern Akeno had perfected with Tsubaki, every subtle shift in timing and intent—they would have been catalogued, countered, turned into traps waiting to spring when the girls finally stepped through the Sector 1 archway today.
The Arena was mercilessly efficient. It learned from him. And he had spent four weeks deliberately not letting it learn from them. So he remained wolf.
Big. Gray. Fluffy. Harmless-looking (to anyone who didn't know better).
He opened his jaws in a slow, luxurious yawn—fangs glinting briefly in the morning light filtering through the curtains—then let his head drop back down onto the pillow with a soft huff. His body settled heavier between them, fur warm and thick, a living blanket of muscle and softness.
Rias stirred first. A sleepy murmur against his neck—then her fingers flexed in his ruff, realizing. "Still wolf…" she mumbled, voice thick with sleep and fondness. Her arm tightened around him, face nuzzling deeper into the fur behind his ear. "Good. Stay like this a little longer. You're the best pillow."
Akeno hummed in agreement—half-awake, shamelessly snuggling closer until her entire front was pressed along his side. One leg hooked lazily over his hip. "Biggest, fluffiest boyfriend award goes to you," she whispered, lips brushing the sensitive fur along his jaw. "I could get used to waking up like this."
The wolf—Arto—gave a low, rumbling huff that vibrated through his whole chest. It wasn't quite a laugh, but it was close. His tail gave one slow, contented sweep across the sheets, thumping softly against Rias's calf.
Rias giggled—quiet, muffled in his fur. "He says 'don't get too comfortable.' We've got training in a few hours. And Sector 1 is waiting." Akeno made a dramatic whining sound. "Five more minutes. The Arena can wait. This is more important."
She scratched gently under his chin. The wolf's eyes half-closed in bliss—tail thumping again, slower this time. Rias lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze—blue on blue. "You kept the Arena blind to us," she said softly. "Thank you."
Another huff—warmer this time. Acknowledgment. Affection. You're welcome. Akeno pressed a kiss to the top of his muzzle. "We're going to surprise it today," she whispered. "All of us. And when we come back… we're cuddling you like this again. Human form optional."
The wolf rumbled—deep, pleased—and rolled slightly so he could nose at Rias's cheek, then Akeno's temple. A silent promise. They stayed like that for a little while longer—three bodies tangled together, two girls wrapped around one very large, very content wolf.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by wolf Arto comes across the screen and takes the camera that with him]
Arto stepped into the living room, still rubbing sleep from his eyes, hair slightly tousled from the pillow. The scent of fresh coffee hit him first—strong, dark, the good kind Robin always brewed when she needed to think clearly. Then he saw them.
Robin stood at the counter, calmly pouring a second mug, her long black hair tied back in a loose knot, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She looked perfectly composed, as though she'd been up for hours instead of… however long she'd actually been awake.
Nami, on the other hand, had claimed defeat at the dining table. Her cheek was pressed flat against the wood, one arm dangling limply off the side, the other still clutching her phone like a lifeline. Her orange hair fanned out in a messy halo, and a half-finished energy drink sat forgotten beside her elbow. She was clearly fighting a losing battle against sleep—eyes fluttering, head jerking up every few seconds before drooping again.
Arto paused in the doorway, taking in the scene, then let out a quiet huff of amusement. "Morning," he said softly, padding over to the table. "Or… whatever time it is." Robin turned, offering him a small, knowing smile as she slid the second mug across the counter toward him. "7:42," she supplied. "And Nami has been here since approximately 2:14 a.m."
Nami made a muffled groaning sound without lifting her head. "…Efficiency… insane…" she mumbled into the table. "Tell him… Robin… tell him…" Arto pulled out the chair beside her and sat, resting one elbow on the table so he could gently poke her shoulder. "Nami. Talk to me. I left you Sector 3: Sandbox for a reason. What did you build in there that kept you up all night?"
Nami finally lifted her head—just enough to squint at him through bleary eyes. Mascara smudges under her lids. Hair sticking to her cheek. She looked like a beautiful disaster.
"Whole… automated industrial zone," she croaked, voice hoarse from too much coffee and not enough sleep. "Fully simulated. Conveyor belts, robotic arms, quality-control arrays, mana-forging stations, even a logistics AI routing raw materials from the warehouse imports straight to finished-product output. No human workers. No downtime. No defects. Ran it at 10× real-time speed for six subjective hours. Zero failures. Power draw flatlined at 0.8% of nominal capacity. Material waste… 0.004%. That's not efficiency, Arto. That's obscene."
She dropped her head back onto the table with a soft thunk. "We're not just cutting costs," she continued, words slurring slightly. "We're obliterating them. Gremory's current mana-steel foundries run at 22% material efficiency on a good day. We just hit 99.996%. And that's before I even start tweaking the AI. Give me another week in Sandbox and I'll have it running at 10,000× real-time with predictive failure modeling so perfect we can pre-schedule maintenance before anything breaks."
Arto took a slow sip of coffee—watching her over the rim of the mug.
Robin leaned against the counter, cradling her own cup. "She also stress-tested the sector boundary integrity," Robin added, voice warm with quiet pride. "Pushed output to 150% of theoretical maximum. No spatial shear. No mana leakage. The Git system rolled back cleanly when she intentionally introduced a cascading error—just to see how fast recovery would be. 0.7 seconds. Full rollback, no data loss."
Nami lifted her head again—just long enough to point a shaky finger at Arto.
"That's why I'm dying," she croaked. "Because your stupid perfect room just proved we can manufacture anything—anything—at near-zero marginal cost. And if we license even 10% of that capacity to Gremory and Sitri while keeping the core tech black-boxed… we're not millionaires. We're not billionaires. We're…"
She trailed off, eyes glazing over again. "…something that doesn't have a name yet." Arto set his mug down. Reached over. And gently pushed Nami's head back down onto her folded arms. "Sleep," he said—firm but fond. "You've done enough damage for one night."
Nami mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like "trillionaires" before her breathing evened out into soft snores. Robin watched the exchange with quiet amusement, then met Arto's eyes over Nami's sleeping form. "She's right," Robin said softly. "The numbers are… staggering. Even conservative estimates put monthly net revenue in the mid-nine figures once we open limited commercial access. And that's before we factor in data sales, premium sector rentals, or military contracts."
Arto leaned back in his chair—gaze drifting toward the basement door. "We keep it quiet," he said after a moment. "Gremory and Sitri get the public face. We keep the keys. And we never—never—let the core architecture leak. Not one line of code. Not one Stabilizer schematic. Not one AI seed."
Robin nodded once—serious now. "Agreed. I've already locked Sector 0 behind intention-locked biometrics. Only you can enter. Celine's root access is keyed to your signature alone. If anyone tries to brute-force it—even with relic-level power—the system will initiate cascading deletion before they can read the first variable."
Arto exhaled—long, slow. "Good, now, let's prepare to welcome the lords and ladies of Gremory and Sitri clan this afternoon. Some fruits, snacks and wines would be nice for them to enjoy the training session of their children. Do you recommend anything for our guests, Robin? Let's see."
He took out a small list of guests from his pocket and glanced over it again.
"Lord and Lady Gremory, Lord and Lady Sitri, Sirzechs and Serafall (possibly), and maybe some people from their R&D division, but the watchers will only be parents and the siblings while those scientists go play with simulations. Alright, time for the food for our guests. I'll make some pastries from Lady Venelana's cookbook. Can you take care of the fruits and wines?"
Robin tilted her head slightly, considering, then gave a small, decisive nod.
"Of course. For fruits I recommend a selection that looks elegant but isn't overly heavy—something refreshing to contrast the pastries and keep everyone comfortable during a long viewing session. Seasonal Japanese strawberries, perfectly ripe persimmons, sliced kiwifruit and dragonfruit for color, Kyoho grapes (the large dark ones Venelana favors), and a few honeydew melon balls for lightness. I'll arrange them on tiered platters with edible flowers and mint sprigs—presentation matters with this crowd."
She paused, tapping one finger against her chin.
"As for wines—nothing too overpowering; we want them relaxed, not intoxicated. A chilled white Burgundy (Chablis Premier Cru or a good Meursault) for the lighter palates, a medium-bodied red from Tuscany (Chianti Classico Riserva) for those who prefer depth, and a sparkling rosé from Provence as an aperitif. I'll decant the red early so it breathes properly. And a non-alcoholic sparkling pear juice for anyone abstaining—Serafall will appreciate the gesture even if she doesn't drink it."
Robin smiled faintly. "I'll add a small selection of Japanese green teas and herb infusions as well—sencha, hojicha, and a light genmaicha—so Lady Venelana and Lady Sitri have familiar options. The scientists from R&D can be offered black coffee or energy drinks if they insist on staying wired."
Arto nodded, already mentally cataloguing the tasks. "Sounds perfect. I'll handle the pastries—Venelana's matcha financiers, the small fruit tarts with the almond cream base, and those butter sable cookies she always brings to family gatherings. Should be enough variety without overwhelming the table."
He glanced toward the kitchen. "I'll start preheating the oven. You handle the fruits, wines, and teas?"
"Already on it," Robin replied