Chapter 23 - The messages

3rd Person POV

[Celebration Party]

Later that evening, the ORC clubhouse had been transformed into something far warmer and more intimate than a mere training facility. The lords and ladies of Gremory and Sitri had insisted on hosting a proper celebration right there—partly out of gratitude, partly because no one wanted to leave just yet. Long tables had been conjured and laden with an extravagant spread: glistening fruit platters, delicate sashimi, wagyu skewers still sizzling, Venelana's signature matcha financiers, rich chocolate tarts, chilled sake and sparkling rosé, and—because Serafall had declared it mandatory—several trays of pink-frosted cupcakes shaped like magical girls.

Laughter and quiet conversation filled the air. Millicas darted between adults, proudly retelling (with dramatic sound effects) how Aunt Rias and Sona-oneechan "totally destroyed the giant scary worm." Serafall had roped Yelena into an impromptu magical-girl pose tutorial, much to Yelena's long-suffering amusement. Zeoticus and Sora stood near the window sharing a glass of aged whiskey, occasionally glancing at their daughters with identical expressions of helpless pride. Venelana and Sena sat together on a couch, heads bent close, already planning how to spoil the peerages rotten for the next month.

In a quieter corner near the dessert table, Rias stood with a small plate balanced in one hand: a single, gloriously decadent slice of triple-chocolate cake topped with fresh strawberries and a dollop of whipped cream. She stared at it like it was both a lover and a mortal enemy.

Arto leaned against the wall beside her, arms loosely crossed, watching her internal war with quiet amusement. "You've been training like a machine for a month," he observed mildly. "One slice won't undo that."

Rias huffed—half pout, half laugh—and scooped up a forkful. "I'm doing this for you, you know." She pointed the loaded fork at him accusingly. "You kept saying you missed your 'soft princess.' Well, congratulations—this stone-like warrior body your Abyssgard regimen turned me into is finally getting some fat back. I'm doing you a favor. I'll be much softer to hug in bed now."

Arto's lips twitched. "Is that so?"

"Mm-hmm." She took the bite—eyes fluttering closed in bliss as chocolate and strawberry exploded across her tongue. A tiny, involuntary moan escaped her. "See? Worth it." He watched her savor it for another second—then stepped behind her.

His arms slid around her waist, pulling her gently back against his chest. Rias leaned into him without hesitation, head tipping back to rest against his shoulder, still holding the plate like a precious artifact. Arto lowered his mouth to her ear, voice a low, warm murmur meant only for her. "The vigorous phase is over."

She stilled—just a fraction. "I'm stretching the training schedule out," he continued softly. "More rest days. More flexibility work. More time to breathe. And a lot more food." His hand slid up to cover hers on the plate, guiding another forkful toward her lips. "You don't have to choose between being strong and being soft anymore. You can be both. You already are."

Rias swallowed the bite he'd fed her—then turned her head just enough to brush her lips against his jaw. "Promise?" she whispered. "Promise." She smiled—slow, content, the last of the tension bleeding out of her shoulders. "Then feed me another bite, husband-to-be. I'm officially off the warrior diet."

Arto laughed—quiet, warm—and obeyed. Arto tightened his arms around Rias just a fraction more, letting his chin rest lightly atop her head while the party hummed around them in the background. The scent of her hair—jasmine shampoo, a trace of battle-sweat that hadn't fully washed away, the warm skin-smell that was uniquely hers—wrapped around him like a blanket.

Arto tightened his arms around Rias just a fraction more, pulling her flush against his chest while the party hummed on around them. Laughter drifted from the dessert table where Serafall was attempting (and failing) to teach Millicas a new cheer routine, and the low murmur of Zeoticus and Sora discussing leyline routing carried from the window. No one paid attention to the quiet corner where he and Rias stood—exactly how he wanted it.

He lowered his mouth to the shell of her ear, voice pitched for her alone. "Rias," he murmured, barely louder than breath. "I need to ask you something. When Akeno's not close enough to hear."

Rias stilled instantly—her body language shifting from relaxed contentment to alert focus in the space of one heartbeat. She didn't pull away or turn her head; she simply tilted it slightly so her ear stayed near his lips. "Go on," she whispered back, tone calm but threaded with sudden tension. Arto inhaled once—slow, deliberate—letting his wolf-sharp senses do what they did best.

That faint, unmistakable scent signature every pure-blooded devil carried, and every reincarnated one eventually took on after the Evil Piece ritual had fully rewritten their body. Smoky-sweet, metallic, like ozone after lightning mixed with aged wine and something faintly floral. It clung to Rias, to Sona, to every member of both peerages, to Zeoticus and Venelana, to Sora and Sena—even to Sirzechs and Serafall, though theirs carried the heavier, regal undertone of Satanic power.

Robin didn't have it...Nami didn't have it...He didn't have it...Humans. But Akeno…Akeno carried the devil scent too—undeniably. It had grown stronger over the months, settling into her after her own reincarnation had fully taken root. Yet layered beneath it—woven through it like smoke through silk—was something else. Something older. Something that didn't belong to the neat, clean demonic signature of the others.

It had been there from the very first day they met.

Faintly spicy, almost incense-like, with a metallic bite that reminded him of old blood and older rituals. Not fallen-angel exactly—too warm for that—but not purely devil either. A hybrid note. Mixed. And it had never quite blended all the way.

Arto kept his voice velvet-soft, lips barely moving against her ear. "Akeno's scent," he said. "It's devil. But it's… layered. There's something else underneath. Something that doesn't match the rest of you. I noticed it the day we met. I've noticed it every day since. It's faint—most people wouldn't pick it up—but my nose doesn't lie. What is it?"

Rias went rigid in his arms for a single heartbeat.

Then she exhaled—slow, controlled—and leaned her head back against his shoulder so she could speak without turning. "You really are too sensitive sometimes," she murmured, a faint, wry note in her voice. But there was no deflection, no denial. Only quiet acceptance. She took another slow breath—buying herself a moment—then answered just as softly.

"Akeno is half-fallen....."

Rias dragged Arto to a hidden corner of the party—behind a tall ornamental screen draped with silk and fairy lights, far enough from the laughter and clinking glasses that their voices wouldn't carry. The noise of celebration became a soft, distant hum; the glow of lanterns painted warm gold across her face, but her eyes were shadowed, serious.

She kept her voice to a whisper—barely louder than breath—her fingers still curled around his wrist like she needed the anchor. "Akeno is half-fallen," she began, words careful, measured. "Her father was Baraqiel—one of the Grigori's Watchers. Her mother was a human shrine maiden from the Himejima clan. The devil part came later—when Riser's engagement mess forced her to accept a reincarnation piece from me. But the fallen blood was already there. It never fully mixes with the devil signature. It just… coexists."

Arto tilted his head slightly, brows drawing together—not in judgment, but in quiet processing. "Okay?" he murmured back, equally low. "A half-fallen, I see, but…" He paused, searching her face. "What is her attitude about it? I kind of see nothing bad about that matter."

Rias's gaze dropped to the floor for a second—long enough that he felt the weight of what came next before she even spoke. "She… hates it," Rias whispered. "Utterly despises her blood as a half-fallen. Because of it her mother was killed. Because of it she was hunted. All by those of the Himejima clan—those who deemed her a monster, an impure being that should not exist."

Her voice cracked—just the smallest fracture—before she steadied it again. "And because of it… Akeno was desperate enough to become a devil following my invitation. Both for her safety against the Himejima clan… and to… erase her heritage."

Rias swallowed. "But even when reincarnated, that part of her remained. She failed to erase it. And you don't know how long it took me to get her to stop calling herself a monster. To stop… doing self-harm. She even attempted to cut her own fallen wing once. I stopped her—forcefully. Held her wrists until she dropped the blade. Her cries back then were so… painful. Her screams were filled with self-loathing…"

Rias's fingers tightened around Arto's wrist—almost painfully. "She still carries it. Every day. She hides the wing when she can. She flinches if anyone mentions fallen angels in passing. She smiles brighter to cover it. But it's there. Always there."

Silence stretched between them—soft party noise filtering through the screen like distant waves. Arto didn't speak immediately. He simply lifted his free hand and brushed a strand of crimson hair behind her ear—gentle, grounding—then cupped her cheek so she would look at him. "Humu humu, I see, our Akeno is in distress, I'll go tend to her right away. But.....her father....Baraqiel, is he still around, did he make any attempt to....you know, talk?"

"He did, plenty of time to be exact, I set up for them after all, but it's always ended the same way, Akeno always leaves, or slammed the door at his face. Do you think I'm....ruining their family?"

Arto shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed on Akeno across the room—where she was laughing brightly at something Koneko had muttered, stealing another mochi from the girl's plate with practiced ease. "No," he said quietly, voice low enough that only Rias could hear. "You're not ruining their family. You're the only reason Akeno still has one at all. You gave her safety when the Himejima clan wanted her dead. You gave her purpose when she had none. You gave her us. That's not ruin. That's salvation."

He turned his gaze back to Rias, thumb brushing once more across her cheekbone—gentle, steady. "They're experiencing the same pain in two different ways, like you said. Akeno copes by hating—because hate is easier to hold than grief. Baraqiel copes by taking all the blame—because guilt feels like penance. Neither of them is wrong. They're both just… bleeding from the same wound. Akeno couldn't choose how she was born. Baraqiel couldn't choose how the Grigori would react. It's a tragedy that no one saw coming, and no one could stop once it started."

His eyes drifted back to Akeno. She was mid-laugh, head thrown back, violet eyes sparkling in the lantern light—completely unaware they were speaking of her. "And Akeno…" Arto's voice softened further, almost tender. "I don't think she hates her father. Not really. She hates the heritage that took her mother away. The wings. The blood. The thing that marked her as 'impure' in their eyes. She hates what it cost her. Not the man who loved her mother enough to break every rule for her."

Rias followed his gaze—watching Akeno tease Koneko into another reluctant smile. "I keep hoping one day she'll see it the way you do," she whispered. "That Baraqiel isn't the enemy. That the real enemy was fear… tradition… the clan that chose purity over a child's life."

Arto's arm tightened around her waist—just enough to remind her she wasn't carrying this alone. "She will," he said simply. "But not by your way, it's too direct, it's like pressing your finger against a wound, it could stop the blood, but causing immense pain, there is a subtler way to help Akeno heal"

Rias' eyes brighten "Then tell me"

"You need to stop setting up direct meetings between Baraqiel and Akeno, that's pressing into their wounds directly. But we need to help them talk under 2 new roles, a father who lost his wife and daughter, and a daughter who lost her parents. And...." Arto prompts

Rias answers "...let them fill the gap of the other, at their own pace. I like that idea, We can have her talk to him via phone messages without knowing who is on the other side, but we need a situation so that they can start talking"

"We can always add another job to Robin's jobs list, I'll...." Arto was about to say something "I see, I'm in~" Rias's grip on Arto tightened reflexively, her body pressing back harder against his chest as though she could hide inside him from the sudden voice that had materialized from nowhere.

Arto's arms locked around her waist in the same instant—pure protective instinct—his heartbeat jumping hard enough that she felt it thud against her spine. He exhaled in one sharp, unsteady breath, the sound somewhere between a curse and a laugh.

"I can never get used to this," he muttered, voice still low enough to stay in their hidden corner. His head tilted slightly, eyes scanning the silk screen as though he expected Robin to step straight through it.

She simply stepped fully into their little alcove—hands clasped behind her back, posture relaxed but attentive, raven hair shifting like ink in the soft lantern glow. The way she moved was almost silent; the only warning had been the faintest rustle of her coat against the fabric partition. "I heard enough," she said softly, smile small and knowing. "And lucky for you two… I love Akeno. So I won't charge any fee."

She paused—just long enough for the words to settle—then tilted her head. "I'll have an alias ready by tomorrow morning. 'Dr. Loreen Ravenna,' licensed psychological counselor who occasionally works pro bono for people in hardship. A quiet, compassionate therapist who happens to specialize in grief, identity conflict, and family estrangement."

Rias slowly loosened her death-grip on Arto's arms—though she didn't let go completely. She turned her head just enough to look at Robin without fully breaking the embrace. "So, Akeno will use that alias to....talk to her father?"

Robin's smirk softened into something gentler as she watched Rias and Arto slowly untangle from their protective huddle, though their hands remained linked—fingers interlaced like they were still afraid the other might vanish. "You thought right, princess," Robin said, voice dropping back to that conspiratorial whisper. "I'll contact Baraqiel tonight to set up a headstart for tomorrow's conversation."

Arto raised an eyebrow, half-impressed, half-exasperated. "And how exactly are you going to do that?" he asked, already knowing the answer would be both elegant and terrifyingly efficient. Robin's smile turned faintly wicked. "I'll text him directly," she replied. "Because I just heard from Grigori HQ—Azazel is asking Baraqiel to take some therapy sessions."

Arto blinked once—then let out a short, disbelieving huff. "Right," he muttered. "Your ears are everywhere. Forgot how dangerous when they're not on me anymore." Robin gave a tiny shrug, almost playful. "Well, I gotta remind you how much I know once in a while."

She stepped back half a pace—giving them space again—hands still clasped behind her. "Anyway," she continued smoothly, "I'll set up the talk tonight. A simple, anonymous outreach from 'Dr. Loreen Ravenna'—grief counselor specializing in family estrangement. Baraqiel will bite; Azazel already primed him. Tomorrow morning, when I go with Nami to deal with the contracts regarding the Simulation Room's usage, I'll hand Akeno the conversation. And when she finally messages… she'll be talking to her father without knowing it."

Rias exhaled—shaky, hopeful. "And you think… they'll actually talk? After everything?" Robin's expression turned quiet, almost tender. "Believe me, princess—when two people carrying the same grief meet each other in an anonymous space, they tend to talk. A lot. No faces. No names. No history staring them down. Just… pain recognizing pain. And once the first wall cracks, the rest usually follow."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by Robin flexing her diploma in psychology]

Robin's study was quiet, lit only by the soft blue glow of her laptop screen and a single low lamp on the desk. The rest of the clubhouse had gone still hours ago—guests departed, peerages retreated to their rooms, the last echoes of laughter and clinking glasses long faded. Outside, the night was deep and cool; inside, the air smelled faintly of old books, cedar incense, and the lingering trace of matcha from the party.

Arto sat beside her on the low couch—close enough that their shoulders brushed, far enough to give her space to type. He'd changed out of the tuxedo into loose black pants and a simple gray shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes stayed fixed on the screen, reading every word as it appeared.

Robin's fingers moved with practiced calm across the keys—slow, deliberate, no hesitation.

She had already opened a fresh, anonymous messaging app tied to the "Dr. Loreen Ravenna" alias. No traceable number. No metadata linking back to the clubhouse or the Simulation Room. Just a clean, professional profile photo (a soft-focus stock image of a kind-faced woman in her forties) and a bio that read:

Licensed counselor specializing in grief, family estrangement, identity conflict, and trauma from cultural/religious prejudice. Pro bono sessions available for those in need. Discretion assured.

She glanced at Arto once—small nod of confirmation—then began typing the first message.

Dr. Loreen Ravenna:

Good evening, Mr. Elias.

My name is Dr. Loreen Ravenna. I'm a counselor who occasionally works pro bono through referrals. Mr Lazale passed your contact information to me earlier today with your permission. He mentioned you've been carrying a long-standing family estrangement and might benefit from a neutral space to talk. There is no pressure here. No obligation.

If you'd like to speak—about anything at all—I'm available.

Anonymously, if you prefer. Just a listener who won't judge, won't interrupt, and won't share anything you say. |

If this isn't the right time, feel free to ignore this message. No hard feelings.

If it is… I'm here.

Take care.

She hovered the cursor over "Send" for half a second—then clicked. The message whooshed away into the digital void. Robin leaned back slightly—exhaling through her nose. "That's the opening," she said quietly. "Gentle. No mention of Akeno, no mention of fallen heritage, no supernatural language at all. Just a door cracked open."

Arto watched the screen—silent for a long moment—then nodded. "He'll bite," he said. "He's been waiting for any lifeline. Even an anonymous one."

Later that night, Robin's laptop screen glowed softly in the dim study. The anonymous chat window blinked with a new message—timestamped 23:47.

Baraqiel (alias: "Elias"): Good evening, Dr. Ravenna. Thank you for reaching out. Azazel said you might be able to help. I… don't know where to start.

Robin's fingers paused above the keys for only a second. Then she typed—slow, deliberate, every word chosen like a surgeon's incision.

Dr. Loreen Ravenna: There's no rush, Elias. Start wherever feels safest. Even if it's just one sentence. I'm here. No judgment, no clock. Whenever you're ready.

A long pause. The three typing dots appeared, vanished, reappeared—several times.

Then:

Elias: I'm over fifty. I lost my wife and my daughter in a fire twenty years ago. They were asleep when it started. I was… away. Working. I came home to ashes and silence. Since then I've been… punishing myself. Whips. Electricity. Anything that hurts enough to feel like penance. I've tried to end it—multiple times—but something always stops me. I don't know if it's cowardice or punishment. Every day I wake up and the grief is still there. Like a fist around my throat. I cry in private. I smile in public. I tell myself I deserve it. I don't know how to stop hating the man in the mirror.

Robin read the message twice—silently—then glanced at Arto, who had pulled his chair closer so he could see the screen without crowding her. His expression was unreadable, but his hand rested lightly on the back of her chair—steady, present.

She typed again.

Dr. Loreen Ravenna: Thank you for telling me, Elias. That took courage. Twenty years is a very long time to carry that weight alone. The fire wasn't your fault, but guilt doesn't need facts to survive—it feeds on "what if" and "if only." You're allowed to feel everything you're feeling: grief, anger, self-blame, even the moments when you hate yourself most. None of it makes you weak or unworthy. It makes you human. The self-punishment—the whips, the electricity, the attempts—it sounds like you've been trying to balance the scales. To make the outside match the inside pain. But pain isn't a debt that can be paid off with more pain. It's a wound that needs care, not more injury. May I ask… when you look at the man in the mirror, what do you think he deserves? Not what he's earned—what he deserves, right now, today.

Another long pause. The dots flickered on and off for almost two minutes.

Elias: He deserves… to be forgiven. But I can't give him that. Not while I'm still here remembering her screams. Not while I'm still the reason they're gone. Robin didn't rush to reply. She let the silence sit—for nearly a full minute—giving him space to feel the weight of his own words.

Then:

Dr. Loreen Ravenna: Forgiveness isn't something you give once and it's done. It's something you practice. Every day. Sometimes it's as small as letting yourself eat when you're hungry instead of punishing your body. Sometimes it's letting yourself sleep instead of staying awake to suffer. You're not "the reason they're gone." You were a man who loved his family, who worked to protect them in the only way he knew how at the time. The fire was a tragedy. Not a verdict on your worth. Would your wife—would your daughter—want you to keep paying this price? Or would they want the man they loved to find a way to breathe again?

The dots appeared almost immediately this time.

Elias: They would want me to live. But I don't know how. I don't even know who I am without the guilt.

Robin glanced at Arto—his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the screen.

She typed:

Dr. Loreen Ravenna: That's a very honest place to start. You don't have to know who you are right now. You just have to be willing to find out—one small, kind thing at a time. If you'd like, we can keep talking. No pressure. No expectations. Just a space where you can say the things you've never said out loud. I'm here whenever you need me, Elias.

A long pause. Then:

Elias: I think… I'd like that. Thank you, Doctor.

Robin leaned back—exhaling slowly through her nose. She didn't reply immediately. Instead she looked at Arto—eyes soft, steady. "He's ready to talk,"

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Akeno texting someone]

Akeno paused at the bottom of the stairs, one hand still on the railing, her damp hair clinging to the back of her neck from the morning shower. The living room was quiet except for the soft tap-tap of Robin's fingers on the laptop keys and the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

Robin didn't look up immediately—just kept typing, the blue light from the screen catching the sharp line of her cheekbone. But she knew Akeno was there; she always knew.

Akeno tilted her head, lips curving into a slow, teasing smile. "So this is the way you talk to your clients, Spy?" she drawled, voice low and playful. "All quiet and mysterious in the early morning? Should I be jealous?"

Robin's fingers paused. She glanced up—eyes warm, amused—and closed the laptop halfway so the screen wouldn't blind them both. "No, darling," she replied, tone soft but carrying that familiar dry edge. "This is me doing therapy. I have many jobs. I'm too smart for just being an intel broker."

Akeno padded closer—bare feet silent on the tatami—until she could lean one hip against the back of the couch and peer down at the screen (though Robin had already angled it away out of habit). "Therapy?" Akeno echoed, one perfect brow arching. "Since when do you moonlight as a shrink?"

"Since always," Robin said simply. "I just don't advertise it. People talk more freely when they think no one important is listening." Akeno laughed under her breath—soft, delighted. "You're terrifying, you know that?"

Robin's smile turned faintly self-deprecating. "I try." She opened the laptop fully again, but didn't resume typing yet. Instead she turned the screen just enough for Akeno to see the chat window without revealing the other party's messages. "I'll have to leave with Nami soon," Robin continued. "We're handling some contracting things with Gremory and Sitri—paperwork Arto is too busy—or too lazy—to do himself."

Akeno snorted. "Lazy. Definitely lazy." Robin's lips twitched. "While I'm gone, I want you to look out for this client for me." She tapped the screen lightly. "Male. Goes by Elias. Fifty or so. Lost his daughter and wife in a fire twenty years ago. He's… desperate. In grief. Has done some self-harming—whips, electricity. Tried to commit suicide multiple times but couldn't follow through."

Akeno's teasing smile faded. Her posture shifted—shoulders squaring, eyes sharpening. Robin kept her voice even, gentle. "If he texts anything stupid—anything that sounds like he's planning to hurt himself—just… tell him to stop. Or whatever you think is best in the moment. You can use this account. My fake name is Loreen Ravenna—his psychological counselor. No supernatural talk. No names. Just a normal therapist."

Akeno stared at the chat window for a long second—then looked back at Robin. "I don't think I have any experience doing this…" Robin reached over—covered Akeno's hand with her own. "Chill," she said softly. "You don't need experience when it comes to this kind of free service. He just needs someone to talk to so he won't touch the gun on his nightstand. Even if you haven't been through his exact situation, being online and listening to his story is enough. Sometimes that's all it takes to get someone through the next hour."

Akeno swallowed—once, hard—then nodded. "Okay," she whispered. "I can do that." Robin squeezed her hand once—then let go. "The burner phone is charging on the kitchen counter. It's already logged into the account. If he messages, you'll see the notification. Respond when you can. No pressure to be perfect. Just… be there."

Akeno nodded again—slower this time. Robin stood—closing the laptop completely and slipping it into her bag. "I'll be back by evening," she said. "If anything urgent happens, text my real number. Otherwise… trust your instincts. You're good at people, Akeno. Better than you think."

Akeno managed a small, crooked smile. "I learned from the best." Robin paused at the doorway—looked back over her shoulder. Then she was gone—footsteps fading down the hall toward the front door where Nami was probably already waiting.

Robin walked out of the clubhouse, phone already to her ear as she stepped into the crisp morning air. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality. "Arto," she said the moment he picked up, voice low and efficient. "The confession room is ready. The confessors are in. Campaign Anonymous Healing has started."

A brief pause—wind rustling leaves in the background. "By the way, I'm heading out with Nami to take care of the contracts. Remember to make lunch for Rias and Akeno. Something hearty—they burned a lot yesterday."

She didn't wait for a reply. "See you tonight." Nami was already waiting at the gate—arms crossed, foot tapping an impatient rhythm against the stone path. Her orange hair caught the sunlight like fire; her eyes gleamed with barely-contained glee. "Finally," she said the second Robin reached her. "I've been vibrating since 6 a.m. Today is the day money comes home. Big money. Obscene money. Let's go before I start levitating from sheer anticipation."

Robin's smile was small, indulgent. "The car's waiting. Contracts first, lunch reservations second. We'll be back before dinner." Nami practically skipped to the black sedan idling at the curb—already pulling up spreadsheets on her phone. "Royalty waterfalls. Tiered licensing. Kill-switch clauses. Blind trusts. Shell companies. I've got it all mapped. They won't know what hit them."

Robin slid into the passenger seat beside her. "They'll thank us later," she said dryly. Nami grinned—feral, delighted. "They'll thank us with zeroes." The car pulled away smoothly—disappearing down the quiet street toward the city.

[Clubhouse]

Meanwhile, inside the clubhouse… Akeno sat alone at the low table in the living room. Robin's laptop was open in front of her—screen angled so no one passing through would easily see. The anonymous chat window glowed softly under the alias "Dr. Loreen Ravenna."

She had been hesitant at first—fingers hovering over the keys for almost ten minutes after Robin left—but the moment she started typing, something inside her loosened. She didn't know the man on the other side was her father. He didn't know the woman he was pouring his grief into was his daughter.

And yet…

Elias: I keep thinking about her laugh. My daughter. She had this way of giggling when she was trying not to—small, hiccuping sounds like she was embarrassed to be happy. I haven't heard it in twenty years. Sometimes I dream I hear it again… then I wake up and remember why I don't.

Akeno stared at the words until they blurred. Her throat closed. She typed slowly—fingers trembling just a little.

Dr. Loreen Ravenna (Akeno): That laugh… it sounds beautiful. The kind of sound you want to bottle and keep forever. I'm sorry you only get to hear it in dreams now. Do you ever… talk to her? Even if it's just in your head? Tell her things you never got to say?

A long pause. Then:

Elias: Every day. I tell her I'm sorry. I tell her I love her. I tell her I failed her. She never answers. But I keep talking anyway. It's the only thing that feels like she's still here.

Akeno's breath hitched—once, sharp. She pressed the heel of her palm to her chest, hard, as though she could push the ache back down. Then she typed—faster this time, words tumbling out before she could second-guess them.

Dr. Loreen Ravenna (Akeno): Maybe she hears you. Maybe she's been waiting for you to say those things without hating yourself for saying them. Maybe… she misses your voice too.

Another long silence. Then:

Elias: Do you think… she could ever forgive me?

Akeno closed her eyes. Tears slipped down her cheeks—quiet, hot. She wiped them away with the back of her hand. Then typed—slowly, carefully, heart hammering:

Dr. Loreen Ravenna (Akeno): I think… she already has. She just needs you to believe it.

She hit send before she could overthink it. Then she sat back—arms wrapped around herself—staring at the screen like it might burn her.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Akeno texting under a blanket]

Robin stepped quietly into Akeno's room, the door barely making a sound as it closed behind her. The afternoon light slanted through the half-drawn curtains, painting long golden bars across the tatami and the rumpled bedsheets.

Akeno sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed—Robin's laptop balanced on a pillow in front of her, screen still glowing with the open chat window. Her back was slightly hunched, shoulders drawn in. The phone lay discarded beside her knee; she'd switched to the bigger screen sometime in the last hour. Her eyes were unmistakably red—rimmed, puffy, lashes clumped from crying she hadn't bothered to hide once she was alone.

She didn't look up immediately when Robin entered. Her fingers hovered over the keys, frozen mid-sentence. Robin crossed the room without a word and sat down beside her—close enough that their thighs touched, far enough to give Akeno space to breathe. She reached out slowly, thumb brushing away the fresh dampness under Akeno's left eye. "Akeno?" Robin's voice was soft, almost a murmur. "You okay? Your eyes are red. What happened?"

Akeno blinked—once, hard—then let out a shaky, watery laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "I'm… fine," she lied automatically. Then, quieter: "No. I'm not." She stared at the chat window. The last message from "Elias" was still visible:

Elias: I keep thinking—if I had been there that night… if I had chosen them over duty just once… maybe they'd still be here. Maybe she'd still laugh like that. I don't know how to live with the maybe.

Akeno's throat worked. She swallowed hard. Then—out of nowhere, voice small and cracking—she asked: "Robin… may I… continue to talk to him?" Robin's eyes brightened—only a flicker, but unmistakable. The connection had landed. The bridge was forming.

She nodded—once, gentle. "Of course," she said. "You can even take this alias completely if you want." 

Akeno's breath hitched. Robin reached over—covered Akeno's trembling hand with her own. "But are you sure?" she asked quietly. "The man is quite… traumatized. He's carrying twenty years of guilt and grief. If you keep going, you'll hear things that hurt. Things that might make you hate yourself all over again. Are you ready for that?"

Akeno stared at the screen—at the words her father had written without knowing who was reading them. Then she looked at Robin—eyes wet, but steady. "Don't worry, Robin, I think.....I can handle him" Robin's thumb brushed once across Akeno's knuckles. "Then keep talking," she said simply. "Whatever you need, you have us with you, all the way, all the time"

Nami burst in—practically vibrating—arms full of rolled-up blueprints and a sleek black folder stamped with the Gremory and Sitri crests.

"WE'RE MOVING!!" she shouted toward the kitchen. "No, not moving—upgrading! Lord Gremory just gifted us a new mansion! Full deed transfer signed, sealed, delivered! Pool, garden, private training grounds, panic room, the works! We close next week!"

Arto appeared in the kitchen doorway—apron tied around his waist, wooden spoon in hand—looking mildly shell-shocked. "A… mansion?" Nami spun in place—arms wide. "A mansion, boss! We're officially too rich for this cozy little clubhouse! Time to level up!"

Arto blinked—once—then let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. "Level up," he echoed. Nami bounded toward him—dropped the folder on the counter—and threw her arms around his neck. "We did it," she whispered against his shoulder. "You built it. I sold it. We're set for… forever."

Arto hugged her back—brief, fierce—then pulled away just enough to look at her. "Go tell the girls," he said. "They deserve to hear it from you." Nami grinned—bright, wicked, triumphant. "On it!"

She bolted up the stairs—already shouting. "Rias-chan! Akeno-chan! We're getting a MANSION!!"

[Kitchen]

The dinner table was warm with the scent of simmering miso, grilled mackerel, and fresh steamed rice—Arto's quiet, steady hands moving between stove and counter as he plated the last few dishes. The clubhouse felt lived-in tonight: soft lantern light, the faint clink of chopsticks being set down, Nami already halfway through her second bowl of rice while scrolling contracts on her phone with one hand.

Akeno sat across from her—smiling as always, but the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. They were still faintly red-rimmed, lashes damp at the edges, the kind of redness that came from hours of quiet tears rather than a quick cry.

Nami noticed first. Her chopsticks clattered against the bowl rim. She stood so fast the chair scraped back—phone forgotten, eyes narrowing with instant, protective fury.

"Akeno," she said, voice dropping into that low, dangerous register she usually saved for people who owed her money. She crossed the table in three strides, cupped Akeno's face between both palms—gentle but firm—and tilted it up.

"Who bullied you?" Nami demanded, thumbs brushing under Akeno's eyes like she could wipe the redness away. "Big sis Nami will pull them out of their pathetic hideout and beat them until they beg for your forgiveness. Names. Now."

Akeno blinked—startled—then let out a small, watery laugh that cracked at the edges. "Nami-chan… no one bullied me," she murmured, voice soft, almost fragile. "It's… complicated."

Arto turned from the stove at the sound of chopsticks hitting porcelain—spatula still in hand. His eyes flicked to Akeno's face: the telltale puffiness, the faint pink around the whites, the way she was trying (and failing) to keep her usual teasing smile in place.

He knew. Of course he knew. He'd been the one to suggest the anonymous bridge in the first place. But he couldn't say any of that. So he set the spatula down—slow, deliberate—and walked over, wiping his hands on the apron as he went. "Akeno," he said, voice low and gentle, crouching slightly so he was eye-level with her. "What happened to your eyes? Did you cry?"

He let just enough concern color his tone—no suspicion, no foreknowledge. Just a man who'd come home to find someone he loved hurting. Akeno looked up at him—then at Nami's fierce, protective grip on her cheeks—and something inside her finally cracked open. Her lower lip trembled.

Then she laughed again—soft, broken, almost disbelieving. "It's… nothing bad," she whispered. "I just… talked to someone today. Someone who… understood." Arto nods "I see, a soumate?"

Akeno blinked up at Arto through wet lashes, the word "soulmate" landing somewhere between surprise and a fragile, aching laugh.

She shook her head once—small, almost shy—then nodded once more, like she was testing the shape of the idea. "…Maybe," she whispered, voice cracking on the single syllable. "Not in the romantic way. Not like you and Rias-chan, or… anyone like that. But… someone who hurts the same way I do. Someone who lost the exact same pieces I lost. And hearing him say it out loud… it didn't fix anything. It just… made the hurt feel less lonely."

Her fingers curled into the front of Arto's shirt—clinging like she needed proof he wouldn't disappear. "I've spent so long thinking I was the only one carrying this," she continued, barely audible. "That if anyone really knew…But he… he feels like one too. And he's still here. Still breathing. Still trying. And for some reason… that makes me want to keep trying too."

Rias burst through the front door with her usual cheerful energy, voice ringing out like a bell through the quiet clubhouse. "I'm home, everyone!"

She kicked off her shoes in the genkan—school bag slung over one shoulder—and padded straight toward the kitchen, drawn by the lingering scents of miso and grilled fish. Her steps slowed the moment she crossed the threshold and saw Akeno.

Akeno was still perched on the edge of the low table—Robin's laptop closed now, pushed aside—her cheeks flushed and streaked with drying tears, eyes puffy but bright. Arto stood behind her, one hand resting lightly on her shoulder, expression soft but steady. Nami hovered nearby, arms crossed, looking equal parts protective and ready to commit light arson on someone's behalf.

Rias's smile dropped instantly. "Akeno, are you crying?" She hurried over, dropping her bag without a thought. "Did Arto say something bad again?"

Arto's head snapped up—mock offense flashing across his face as he pressed a hand to his chest. "What do you mean again, redhead?" he shot back, tone deliberately light and playful, already leaning into the familiar banter to lift the room's heavy air. "I've never made Akeno cry. I'm the innocent one here. Ask her—she'll vouch for me."

Akeno let out a small, hiccuping laugh—wet and surprised—and reached up to wipe at her eyes with the heel of her palm. "He didn't," she managed, voice still thick but steadier now. "He's… actually being very sweet. As usual." Rias slid onto the cushion beside her—close enough that their knees touched—and took Akeno's hand without hesitation, threading their fingers together.

"Then why the tears?" she asked gently, thumb brushing over Akeno's knuckles. "You can tell me. Or not. But I'm here either way." Akeno glanced at Arto—then at Nami—then back at Rias. Something in her expression softened, like a knot finally loosening. "I… talked to someone today," she said quietly. "Someone who… hurts the same way I do. About the same things. And it… it hurt to hear it out loud. But it also… helped. A little."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by the laptop screen lights up and turns off]

Arto stood frozen at the wrought-iron gates, mouth hanging open in a perfect, unblinking "O" of disbelief.

The "new home" Nami had so casually described turned out to be… a mansion didn't quite cover it. A sprawling, modern-traditional hybrid estate rose before them—three stories of dark cedar and smoked glass, sweeping eaves that echoed ancient Japanese architecture but with clean, almost futuristic lines. A koi pond shimmered in the front courtyard, fed by a gentle waterfall that cascaded over black basalt. Cherry trees—already mature—lined the gravel drive, petals drifting lazily in the late-afternoon breeze. Beyond the main house stretched private gardens, a walled training yard visible through an archway, and what looked suspiciously like an indoor pool pavilion glowing softly under frosted glass.

It was the kind of place that made old-money estates look understated.

Akeno stood beside him on tiptoe, index finger poking repeatedly at his slack cheek. "Darling? Hellooo? Earth to Arto?" She poked harder. "I think you broke him, Nami." Nami—arms crossed, smug as a cat with cream on its whiskers—leaned against one of the gateposts. "He'll reboot in a minute. Man's brain just bluescreened trying to calculate how many Simulation Room sectors he could fit in the basement."

Rias arrived then—striding up the drive with two sleek black delivery trucks rumbling behind her like obedient beasts. She carried a slim folder in one hand (probably the final deed transfer) and a small, triumphant smile. "Oh, what now?" she asked, slowing as she took in the scene. "Why is everyone standing at the entrance like lost tourists? Who is holding the key?"

Robin—standing a few steps behind Nami, hands clasped behind her back—tilted her head toward the paralyzed owner with a barely-suppressed giggle. "That would be this knight, princess. I think he needs a kiss to stop thinking how to innovate this place into another facility like the Simulation Room."

Rias laughed—bright and delighted—and closed the last few steps to Arto. She rose on tiptoe, slid one hand behind his neck, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his still-open mouth. He blinked once—hard—then blinked again. Reality rebooted. "...This is ours?" he managed, voice hoarse, like he'd forgotten how words worked.

Rias pulled back just enough to grin against his lips. "Lord Gremory's gift. Signed, sealed, no take-backs. Welcome home, husband-to-be." Akeno poked his cheek one last time for good measure. "Close your mouth, darling. You're catching flies."

Nami pushed off the gatepost—already pulling a massive keyring from her pocket. "Master bedroom has a walk-in closet bigger than our old living room. There's a rooftop terrace with a hot spring view. Panic room. Home theater. Private dojo. Helipad. Yes, helipad. Your father-in-law doesn't do subtle."

Arto finally closed his mouth—only to open it again. "...Helipad?" Robin stepped forward—giggling openly now—and pressed the key into his numb palm. "Lord Zeoticus said, and I quote, 'If my daughter is going to live with the man who built a reality-bending training facility under a school clubhouse, she deserves a proper roof over her head.'"

Rias looped her arm through Arto's—tugging him toward the gates. "Come on. Let's go inside before you start mentally redesigning the basement into another sector." The trucks behind them rumbled forward—delivery crews already unloading boxes labeled with names and room assignments.

Akeno skipped ahead—spinning once with arms wide. "Our new home~! First one to find the kitchen gets to claim the biggest mochi stash!" Nami bolted after her—laughing. "Not if I get there first!" Robin lingered beside Arto for a second—watching the chaos unfold. "Still in shock?" she asked softly.

Arto looked down at the key in his hand. Then up at the mansion. "Never thought a Slave Knight like me can live in such a place" he murmurs before heading into the mansion ahead of Rias and Robin. Before either of them could reply, he straightened—expression shifting back to something lighter, more familiar. "But because of this move," he continued, tone deliberately casual, "we had to skip magic class today. Which means homework is still due. Tonight. Online session. I hope you two have been diligent."

Rias froze. Her eyes widened—pupils shrinking to pinpricks. "Oh no." The assignment: a fifty-page comparative analysis of intention-indexing versus resonance-forgery in Chapter 12 of Spellcrafting Formulas, plus three original spell diagrams with full mana-flow annotations. Due tonight. Midnight sharp.

She hadn't touched it. Not one word. Not one diagram. Arto's rule for the students who lived with him—Rias and Akeno—was simple and merciless: 'No completed homework = no cuddle.'

No lap pillows. No being the little spoon. No falling asleep with his heartbeat under her ear. Just cold, lonely beds until the work was done. Rias bolted. She grabbed Akeno's wrist mid-stride—yanking her toward the mansion doors like a woman possessed. "Akeno—MOVE! Homework! NOW! We're dead if we don't finish before midnight!"

Akeno yelped—half-laughing, half-panicked—as she stumbled after Rias. "Wait—Rias-chan—my mochi—!"

"Forget the mochi! If we don't turn in those diagrams Arto will banish us to separate rooms again!" They disappeared through the front doors in a whirlwind of crimson hair and black ponytail—shoes flying off in the genkan, bags abandoned, voices echoing up the grand staircase. "Robin-sensei's notes—where did I put them?!" "Check your cloud drive—hurry!"

Arto watched them vanish—then turned back to Robin with a small, helpless shrug. Robin giggled—soft, delighted—covering her mouth with her sleeve. "They really do love you," she said. "Even when you're cruel." Arto sighed—rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm not cruel. I'm… structured."

Robin's giggle turned into a full laugh—quiet but bright. "Structured," she echoed fondly. "Of course." She slipped her arm through his—tugging him gently toward the doors. "Come on, 'structured' teacher. Let's go make sure they don't set the new study room on fire trying to finish in time."

Nami bounded up the grand staircase two steps at a time, her footsteps echoing off the polished marble like a victory march. By the time she hit the second-floor landing, her voice had already reached maximum volume—loud enough to penetrate walls, doors, and probably the neighbors' dreams.

"Rias-chan! Akeno-chan! You better be sprinting through those spell diagrams right now!" she bellowed, voice bouncing down the hallway like a cannon shot wrapped in sugar. "If I get to the study and find you two staring at blank pages instead of filling them with brilliance, I swear I'm claiming cuddle-pillow rights on Arto tonight! He made me a super-happy CFO today—those contract zeroes are singing my name—and I will steal him for victory snuggles! You've been warned!"

Inside the study (formerly a guest bedroom, now hastily converted into a shared workspace), Rias and Akeno jolted upright like they'd been electrocuted.

Rias—hair in a messy bun, sleeves rolled up, three textbooks open and a half-finished mana-flow chart glowing on her tablet—let out a strangled yelp. "She's coming! Faster, Akeno! I'm only on annotation 14!"

Akeno—perched cross-legged on the rug, laptop balanced on her knees, stylus flying—groaned dramatically but doubled her speed. "Nami-chan is terrifying when she's rich and victorious! If she gets Arto tonight I will cry actual tears!"

Downstairs in the kitchen, Arto and Robin had already begun unpacking the last of the delivery boxes—high-end induction ranges, a double-door fridge that looked more like modern art than an appliance, and an entire drawer set of Japanese chef knives that probably cost more than most people's rent.

Robin was calmly arranging spice jars on the magnetic rack while Arto tested the new gas burner (dual-fuel, naturally). Nami's voice boomed down again, slightly muffled by distance but still perfectly audible: "FIFTEEN MINUTES LEFT BEFORE I DECLARE CUDDLE EMERGENCY! HURRY UP OR I'M STEALING YOUR MAN!"

Arto sighed—long-suffering but fond—and turned the burner off. "She's going to bully them into finishing early," he muttered. Robin smiled without looking up from the spice labels. "She's motivating them with the only currency they currently care about. Effective leadership, really."

Arto shook his head—already reaching for a cutting board. "Help me start dinner before she actually storms up here and drags me away as war spoils." Robin laughed softly—setting the last jar in place. "Stir-fry? Miso soup? Or should we go full comfort—katsu curry?"

Arto thought for half a second. "Katsu curry. Extra rice. They burned a lot of mana today. And Akeno's been emotional—she'll want something warm and heavy." Robin nodded—already pulling chicken cutlets from the fridge. "On it."

Upstairs, two frantic girls scribbled faster—Rias muttering spell equations under her breath, Akeno cursing elegantly in Japanese every time her stylus lagged. Nami—having reached the study doorway—leaned against the frame with arms crossed, smirking like a very satisfied cat. "Fourteen minutes now," she announced cheerfully. "Clock's ticking, princesses~"

Rias threw a pillow at her. Nami caught it one-handed—then hugged it to her chest. "Missed me that much already? Cute." Akeno laughed—half-hysterical, half-relieved—and kept writing.

Arto's hand stilled on the wooden spoon. The curry continued to bubble gently, but his stirring had stopped completely. His smile remained—small, wry, almost gentle—but it no longer reached his eyes. The light in them dimmed, turning inward, and the kitchen suddenly felt smaller, colder.

In the kitchen, among all the commotions are stirring in the new home, Arto and Robin were cooking, Arto is stirring the curry pot while Robin is frying the katsu, Robin asks Arto "Now, Mr Abyssgard, it's about time you be honest with me, what is with that term, Slave Knight?"

Robin paused mid-turn, the katsu cutlet sizzling softly in the pan as she set it aside to rest on a wire rack. The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich aroma of curry spices and frying panko, but the air between them suddenly felt heavier, thicker—like the room itself had drawn in a slow breath and was waiting.

She turned fully to face Arto, wiping her hands on the dark apron she wore, movements deliberate and unhurried. Her blue eyes were calm, patient, but there was a quiet intensity behind them now—something deeper than curiosity.

Arto's hand stilled on the wooden spoon. The curry continued to bubble gently, but his stirring had stopped completely. His smile remained—small, wry, almost gentle—but it no longer reached his eyes. The light in them dimmed, turning inward, and the kitchen suddenly felt smaller, colder.

He stared down into the pot for several long seconds, watching the surface ripple with each slow bubble, as though the answer might rise up from the depths like steam.

Then he spoke—voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of centuries. "How to say this…" He set the spoon down carefully against the rim of the pot. The soft clink against ceramic sounded unnaturally loud in the silence. "Slave Knight," he repeated, tasting the words like old poison, "was the mocking name they gave us. The people of the surface rings. The nobles. The merchants. The priests who blessed the armies we died for. They called us that because three things made it sting."

He raised one finger—slow, almost mechanical. "First. They hated us for our wealth. We didn't inherit it. We earned it. Every contract, every noble house that hired us to guard their heirs, assassinate their rivals, or win their wars—we took our cut. We grew rich. Very rich. Rich enough that some of them owed us more than they owed their own blood. And they never forgave us for it."

Second finger. "Second. The original founders… were slaves. Escaped gladiators, freed laborers, runaways who banded together in the deepest ring because nowhere else would have them. They swore an oath in blood: protect the world from the Abyss. No matter who paid. No matter who hated them. That oath became the Legion. And the name stuck—even after we became the most feared and most expensive private army in Hell."

Third finger. "Third… the majority of us were the discarded. Exiles. Cast-offs. Orphans. Criminals. Disgraced nobles. Bastards. Anyone the surface rings didn't want. Whenever we said 'we need more people,' they sent us their trash. Their failures. Their problems. And we turned them into something unbreakable. We gave them purpose. Armor. A name. A family. We made them proud. And they still called us slaves."

He took a deep breath—slow, controlled. The curry bubbled on behind him, forgotten. "It was an insult to my people. To our goal. To our mission that they had long forgotten: guarding the world against the Abyss. A threat they no longer feared because we kept dying for them. No matter how noble our cause was, no matter how rich and powerful we became—being war merchants, blades and shields in political wars—we were still slaves wearing armor, holding swords. Slave Knights."

The last two words came out quieter than the rest—almost gentle, like naming something long dead. The kitchen was silent except for the low simmer of the curry and the faint sizzle of oil cooling in the pan. Robin didn't speak immediately. She simply watched him—really watched—the way she always did when someone finally let the mask slip.

Then she stepped closer—slow, careful—and rested her hand lightly on his forearm. "A slave who built an entire facility that could change the world, opening a new path to the future where magic and technology can walk side by side, guiding the a generation of elites that would change the world with the knowledge he gave for free. What a slave I must say~"

Arto smiles, almost bitterly "Well, it's a penance for what I did in the past, both intentionally, and unintentionally, slave or not, weapon or not, noble goal or not, I was a merchant of war, because of me millions died passively in the wars I ignited from the dark, serving my Creator(Arto's resentful way of calling his father)'s ambition. Even in my time as the leader, it never stopped, I was still a merchant of war, handing my soldiers into greedy hands, giving powers enough to be arrogant, enough for them to plan to eleminate their rivals, all for the reinforcement required for the eventual war with the Abyss"

He turns to Robin "I didn't do all this to my own world because it didn't treat me nicely, but you all here, I'm lucky to have those who truly care about me. I'm not saying I need your care unconditionally, win-win has always been the core of stable relationships, so I'll give you what I can give, in return,....."

Robin kept her hand on his forearm—light, steady, never pulling away even as his words grew heavier, darker.

She listened without interrupting, without flinching, without offering platitudes. When he finished, when the last syllable of "in return,....." hung unfinished between them, she simply waited—giving him the space to decide whether the sentence would end or remain open.

After a long breath, Arto continued—voice quieter now, almost confessional. "…in return, I get to wake up every day knowing someone in this world looks at me and doesn't see a weapon. Doesn't see a merchant of death. Doesn't see a Slave Knight. Just… me. The man who burns breakfast sometimes, who forgets where he put his keys, who gets stupidly happy when Akeno steals his hoodie because it smells like him. The man who can sit in a kitchen with you and talk about curry instead of kill counts."

He finally looked at her—really looked. "That's the win for me. That's the only win that still matters after everything else burned away." Robin's thumb moved once—slow circle against the inside of his wrist. "You're not asking for unconditional love," she said softly. "You're asking for reciprocal love. The kind that says: I see what you carry, I see what you've done, I see what you still regret—and I'm still choosing to stay. Not because you're useful. Not because you're powerful. Because you're you."

She stepped closer—until the space between them was barely a breath. "And you already have it, Arto. From Rias. From Akeno. From Nami. From me. We're not here because of the Simulation Room, or the Stabilizer, or the contracts that are about to make Nami richer than gods. We're here because the man who built those things is also the man who remembers how Akeno likes her tea, who notices when Rias is pushing herself too hard, who lets Nami rant about profit margins at 3 a.m. without ever telling her to shut up."

Her free hand lifted—cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing the sharp line of his cheekbone. "You're not a Slave Knight to us. You're not a merchant of war. You're Arto. The man who gave us a future worth fighting for… and then chose to stay in it with us."

She leaned in—pressed her forehead to his, eyes closing. "So when you say 'in return'… know that we're already giving it. Every day. Every quiet moment. Every time we choose you over fear, over ambition, over the easy path. That's our win. You're our win."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto setting the kitchen on fire, before subsiding it with a spell]

The dinner table was a battlefield of its own tonight.

Rias and Akeno sat side by side like two survivors of a war crime: hair still a glorious, uncombed disaster from their frantic all-nighter, eyes bloodshot, dark circles that no concealer could hide, uniform blouses half-tucked and sleeves rolled unevenly. Rias had a piece of katsu curry rice stuck to her cheek from when she'd face-planted into her plate mid-sentence ten minutes earlier. Akeno was nursing a mug of coffee like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

Across from them sat Nami—posture regal, chopsticks held like a scepter, a laminated Spellcrafting Formulas – Teaching Certificate (freshly printed, gold-foil edges, her own photo grinning in the center) propped up in front of her plate like a personal coat of arms.

She looked like she had personally invented the concept of winning. "See this?" Nami tapped the certificate twice with a fingernail. "Eternal shield. I am no longer a student. I am faculty. Homework immunity. Cuddle rights secured. You two—" she pointed at Rias and Akeno with her chopsticks "—still have midnight deadlines. I, however, have ascended."

Rias let out a hollow laugh that sounded more like a death rattle. "You monster." Akeno just stared at the certificate with genuine betrayal. "I helped you cheat on the practical exam last month…"

Nami leaned back, smugness radiating in waves. "Exactly. You created your own downfall. Beautiful, really." Arto—still wearing his apron, setting down a fresh pot of tea—looked between them with the expression of a man who has seen too much chaos and is now numb to it.

Robin entered from the hallway at that exact moment, carrying a slim stack of graded worksheets and a single red pen. Her steps were calm, measured, but the moment she laid eyes on Nami's certificate she stopped dead.

Silence fell like a guillotine. Robin tilted her head. "...Nami." Nami froze mid-smirk. Robin's voice stayed perfectly even—almost sweet. "That certificate is for teaching assistants who have completed the full pedagogy module, submitted lesson plans for three consecutive classes, and passed the practical evaluation with at least 92%."

She set the stack of worksheets down with a soft thump. "You submitted zero lesson plans. You missed two evaluation sessions. And the second class—Sona's peerage minus Sona, Momo, and Reya—has fallen three full chapters behind because you were 'too engrossed with money and contracts' to hold regular sessions."

Nami's chopsticks slowly lowered. Robin's smile did not waver. "You promised me they would catch up. You promised me you would treat both classes equally. You broke that promise." Then Robin's tone dropped into something colder, more precise. "As your supervising instructor, I am revoking your temporary teaching privileges. Effective immediately. The second class will resume under my direct supervision starting tomorrow evening. You will observe. You will take notes. You will not speak unless I call on you."

Nami opened her mouth. Robin raised one finger. "And tonight—" she continued, voice serene "—you will complete the three lesson plans you owe me. Plus a five-page reflection on why responsibility to students outweighs personal profit. Due by midnight. No extensions."

Rias and Akeno—suddenly wide awake—both turned to Robin with matching expressions of holy vindication. Rias slammed her palms on the table. "Finally!" Akeno pointed at Nami with her chopsticks. "Get wrecked, money demon!"

Nami stared at Robin like she'd been personally betrayed by gravity. "But… the certificate…"

"Is now decoration," Robin said pleasantly. "Unless you'd like it framed in the hallway next to the 'Employee of the Month – Self-Appointed' plaque you made last week."

Nami's eyes darted to Arto—pleading, desperate, the look of a gambler who just realized the house always wins. "Boss… supreme teacher… author of the sacred text… help?" Arto calmly set his teacup down. The porcelain clicked against the saucer with the finality of a gavel. "No."

Nami's mouth dropped open. Arto leaned back in his chair, arms loosely crossed, expression serene. "Robin has been teaching more hours than I have since I went underground to build the Simulation Room. She knows the students' progress—chapter by chapter, exercise by exercise—better than I do now. She tracks who's falling behind, who's rushing ahead, whose intention-indexing still collapses under pressure. I've been… absent from the classroom. Therefore—"

He spread his hands slightly. "—I am no longer the supreme instructor in this house. I have no say in disciplinary matters regarding teaching performance. Robin is currently the highest authority on pedagogy here. Anything she says…"

He looked straight at Robin—small, respectful nod. "…goes." Robin inclined her head in return, red pen still poised over Nami's revoked certificate like a judge's stamp. Nami made a strangled noise. "But—but the certificate—!"

Arto raised one finger—calm, unhurried. "There is one narrow path to appeal my ruling," he continued. "If you can point out a genuine mistake in Robin's interpretation or application of the material in Spellcrafting Formulas—a factual error, a pedagogical oversight that harms student outcomes, anything provably incorrect or suboptimal—and if you can defend your claim against her counterpoints with evidence from the text, from student results, or from spellcrafting theory… then I, as the author, retain the right to intervene."

He leaned forward slightly, eyes steady. "I've always been open to improvements. If you prove a change is valid and beneficial for students, I will update the book. I'll even credit the correction. And in that specific case—only in that case—I will overrule Robin's decision and restore your teaching privileges."

Then Nami's shoulders slumped so dramatically her forehead met the table with a soft thunk. "…You're evil," she mumbled into the wood. "Both of you." Rias—finally recovered enough to speak without wheezing—leaned over and patted Nami's head. "There, there. Welcome to the homework purgatory we've lived in for weeks."

Akeno—still red-eyed but now grinning wickedly—reached across and poked Nami's cheek. "Big sis Nami~ the eternal shield has fallen~" Nami lifted her head just enough to glare at them both. "I hate this family." Robin—perfectly composed—tapped the red pen once against the certificate.

"Reflection title remains the same. 'Why I Will Never Weaponize a Teaching Certificate Again.' Due midnight. No extensions." She paused. Then—almost gently: "You can start after dinner. The curry is getting cold."

Nami stared at the ceiling like she was praying for divine intervention. None came. Rias and Akeno exchanged a look—then simultaneously reached for their own untouched plates, suddenly ravenous now that vengeance had been served. Arto quietly picked up his chopsticks. "Eat," he said mildly. "You'll need the energy for writing."

Nami groaned—long, theatrical, defeated. But she reached for her bowl anyway.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto putting curry into boxes and wraps them cleanly, ready for delivery]

[Koneko's apartment]

Arto materialized in a quiet flash of silver-blue light at the edge of the familiar forest clearing—Koneko's personal training ground, the one he'd helped her carve out months ago. The air here was always cooler, heavier, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth. Moonlight filtered through the canopy in thin silver shafts, catching on the sweat glistening across Koneko's skin.

She had just finished a set. Her small frame stood rooted in the center of the oval dirt ring—knees slightly bent, breathing controlled but labored. White hair stuck to her forehead and neck in damp strands. The gravity spell shimmered faintly around her like heat haze: 3 tons tonight, judging by the way the ground beneath her boots had sunk an extra inch or two into compressed soil. Every movement looked deliberate, almost painful—yet she held perfect posture, tail flicking once in slow satisfaction as she released the last held breath of the rep.

Arto stepped forward without fanfare, two insulated bento boxes balanced in one hand, a small paper bag in the other.

Koneko's ears twitched. She turned—didn't startle, just shifted her weight—and her eyes lit up the moment she saw him. "Arto-senpai…" Her voice was quiet, a little hoarse from exertion, but unmistakably warm. He crossed the distance in a few strides, boots silent on the packed earth. "Dinner," he said simply, offering the first bento. "Katsu curry. Extra rice. Still hot."

Koneko's tail gave a single, happy flick. She accepted the box with both hands—almost reverently—then sniffed once, ears perking straight up at the rich aroma leaking through the lid. "…Smells like home." Arto's lips curved—just a fraction. "That's the idea." He held out the small paper bag next. "And dessert. Two bars of the dark chocolate with sea salt you like. Don't eat them all at once."

Koneko's eyes widened slightly. She took the bag, peeked inside, then looked back up at him—tail now moving in slow, contented sweeps. "…You remembered."

"I always remember." He crouched slightly so they were eye-level—his voice dropping to something softer, more direct. "There's something else." Koneko tilted her head. "The new place," he continued. "The mansion Lord Gremory gave us. It's… too big. Too empty. Five people rattling around in all those rooms feels wrong." He paused—letting that sink in. "I want you to come live with us. You and Kiba. There's plenty of space—private rooms, training yard, quiet corners, whatever you need. The kitchen's big enough for you to steal mochi without starting a war. And…"

His gaze softened further. "…I want you close. Both of you. You're family. You've been family for a while now. It's time the house reflected that." Koneko stared at him—unblinking—for several long seconds. Her grip tightened on the bento box. Then—quiet, almost shy—she nodded once. "…Okay."

Arto blinked. "That's it? Just… okay?" Koneko's ears flicked back—embarrassed—but her tail kept moving. "You already feed me. You already train me. You already… care. Moving in just makes it official." She looked down at the bento, then back up at him—small, stubborn smile breaking through. "Besides… more people means more mochi to steal."

Arto huffed a quiet laugh—relief and fondness mixing in equal measure. "Fair enough." He straightened. "I'll tell Kiba next. We'll get rooms ready by the weekend. Bring whatever you want—clothes, training gear, snacks. The place has a pantry bigger than your old apartment." Koneko nodded again—then hesitated. "…Thank you, Arto-senpai."

He reached out—ruffled her hair gently, careful not to disturb the lingering gravity spell. "Eat before it gets cold," he said. "And don't do any more sets tonight. Rest. That's an order." She huffed—small, fond—but nodded. "…Yes, Arto-senpai."

He gave her one last look—then stepped back, silver-blue light already gathering at his feet. "See you soon." The teleportation flare swallowed him.

[Kiba's apartment]

Arto materialized in a quiet flash of silver-blue at the narrow street corner outside Kiba's apartment building. The night air was cool, carrying the faint metallic tang of solder, ozone, and something sharper—transmutation residue, unmistakable to anyone who'd ever worked with alchemy. He inhaled once, deeply, and a small, resigned smile tugged at his lips.

Exactly as expected.

The scent was stronger than last time he'd visited—thicker, more layered. Edward Elric's book had done its work: Kiba had gone from disciplined swordsman to obsessed alchemist. Late-night transmutation circles, experimental alloys glowing under desk lamps, the occasional muffled boom when a formula went slightly sideways. Passionate. Brilliant. And—if Arto was honest—bordering on reckless.

He hoped Kiba hadn't skipped dinner again. The boy had a habit of forgetting to eat when he was chasing a breakthrough. Arto climbed the three flights of stairs—boots quiet on worn concrete—and knocked twice on the plain wooden door. No answer. He knocked again, then simply turned the knob. "Unlocked. Of course."

Inside, the small one-room apartment was a controlled explosion of organized chaos. The kitchenette counter had been completely overtaken by a portable transmutation array—chalk lines still faintly glowing, a half-finished steel gauntlet prototype sitting in the center like a trophy. Books were stacked everywhere: Spellcrafting Formulas (Arto's own), Edward's notes, old grimoires on material resonance, even a dog-eared manga volume on alchemy from some human-world series Akeno had lent him. A single desk lamp cast harsh light over it all; the rest of the room was dim.

Kiba sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the array—shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms smudged with chalk and metal dust—staring intently at the gauntlet as though willing it to speak. His blond hair was mussed, eyes bright with that particular manic focus Arto recognized all too well. He hadn't noticed Arto yet. Arto cleared his throat—softly. Kiba's head snapped up. "Arto-senpai!"

He scrambled to his feet—almost knocking over a stack of notebooks—then froze when he saw the bento boxes and paper bag in Arto's hands. "You… brought dinner?" Arto stepped inside, nudging the door shut behind him with his heel. "Katsu curry. Extra rice."

Kiba's ears went faintly pink. "I… wasn't going to skip," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just… close to a breakthrough on the self-repair rune integration." Arto set the boxes down on the one clear corner of the counter. "You always are."

He looked around the room—then back at Kiba. "This place is too small for what you're doing. Too isolated. You're burning out without realizing it. Skipping meals. Sleeping on the floor when you crash mid-experiment. You need space. You need people who'll drag you away from the circle before you hurt yourself."

Kiba opened his mouth—then closed it. Arto stepped closer—voice dropping to something quieter, more direct. "The mansion is too big for five of us. There are empty rooms—big ones. Private workshops if you want them. A kitchen that's always stocked. A dojo. A rooftop terrace. And people who'll notice when you haven't eaten in twelve hours."

He met Kiba's eyes—steady, unyielding. "I want you to move in. With us. With Rias, Akeno, Robin, Nami… and soon Koneko too. You're family, Kiba. You've been family for a long time. It's time the house reflected that."

Kiba stared at him—eyes wide, throat working. Then—slowly—he nodded. "…Okay." Arto blinked. "That's it? Just… okay?" Kiba gave a small, sheepish smile—rubbing the back of his neck again. "You already feed me half the time. You already train me. You already… care. Moving in just makes it official." He glanced around the cramped apartment—then back at Arto.

"Besides… more people means more people to test my prototypes on." Arto huffed a quiet laugh—relief and fondness mixing in his chest. "Fair enough." He reached out—ruffled Kiba's hair once, quick and brotherly. "Pack what you need. Bring the books, the tools, whatever. We'll get a workshop set up for you this weekend. The rest can wait."

Kiba nodded—smile growing steadier. "Thank you, Arto-senpai." Arto picked up one of the bento boxes and pressed it into Kiba's hands. "Eat first. Then pack. That's an order." Kiba laughed and opened the lid. The scent of katsu curry filled the tiny apartment. Arto watched him for a moment longer—then turned toward the door. "See you soon." Silver-blue light gathered at his feet.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Koneko and chibi Kiba moving into the new house]

One month had passed since the grand move into the new mansion, and the initial chaos of relocation had finally given way to a rhythm that felt almost… normal. Almost.

The old ORC clubhouse had been quietly repurposed—now serving as a secondary training annex and overflow guest space—but the heart of everything had shifted to the sprawling estate on the city outskirts. Marble floors, cedar-lined corridors, a rooftop onsen under open sky, private dojo with reinforced leyline dampeners, and a kitchen large enough that Nami had claimed an entire island counter as "CFO command central."

Down in the Simulation Room's Sector 3 (and now Sectors 4 through 23), the real revolution was humming 24/7.

Gremory and Sitri had moved swiftly after the contracts were inked. Rather than compete for sector space, they chose synergy. Joint sectors for overlapping fields—mana-steel forging, enchanted textile production, alchemical reagent synthesis—allowing both clans to share infrastructure costs while keeping proprietary final-assembly lines separated. Gremory's heavy-industry muscle (armored plate, siege weaponry, large-scale mana-enriched fertilizers) paired perfectly with Sitri's precision light-industry finesse (medical prosthetics, logistics drones, consumer-grade mana appliances). The result was terrifyingly efficient.

Factories that once sprawled across city outskirts now existed only as storage depots and decoy sites. Real production had migrated underground—endless conveyor belts, robotic arms dancing in perfect silence, quality-control arrays scanning every piece at 10–20× real-time speed. Material waste hovered at 0.004%. Mana consumption per unit was laughably low. Defects were statistically nonexistent.

The market impact was immediate and merciless.

Gremory-branded mana-steel armor was suddenly 40% cheaper, 300% more durable, and self-repairing under ambient mana conditions. Sitri's new line of portable healing arrays—once luxury items for high-ranking devils—were now affordable enough for mid-tier adventurers and even some human black-market channels. Logistics drones delivered packages across continents without recharging. Agricultural towers in remote Gremory territories produced rice and vegetables in weeks instead of months—blight-resistant, nutrient-dense, and already branded with the joint Gremory-Sitri sigil.

Competitors scrambled. Prices plummeted across entire industries. Rumors swirled about "secret Sitri-Gremory tech" but no one could prove anything. The two clans took the public glory; the real engine stayed hidden beneath a school clubhouse that no longer housed students. Up in the mansion kitchen, the morning sun slanted through tall windows.

Arto stood at the island counter—sleeves rolled up, apron tied around his waist—methodically slicing lotus root for miso soup. The scent of dashi stock filled the air, mingling with fresh coffee Nami had just brewed. Rias wandered in first—hair still sleep-mussed, wearing one of Arto's oversized hoodies that reached mid-thigh. She yawned hugely, then immediately beelined for the coffee pot. "Morning, husband-to-be."

Arto didn't look up from the cutting board. "Morning, wife-to-be. Sleep well?"

"Like the dead." She poured two mugs, slid one across to him, then hopped up to sit on the counter beside his workspace—legs swinging. "Any explosions from Sector 3 overnight?"

"None reported." He transferred the sliced lotus root into the simmering pot. "Nami's automated alerts stayed green all night. Production at 18× real-time across joint sectors. Gremory just shipped their first batch of self-regenerating tank armor to the border garrisons. Sitri's new portable dialysis arrays are already in hospitals in three territories."

Rias whistled low. "We're going to need a bigger vault for the royalties." Arto huffed a quiet laugh. "Nami's already shopping for one." Akeno drifted in next—hair tied in a loose ponytail, wearing an old Kuoh Academy hoodie and tiny sleep shorts. She yawned, stretched like a cat, then wrapped her arms around Arto from behind—chin resting on his shoulder.

"Smells amazing," she mumbled into his neck. "You're spoiling us."

"You earned it," he replied simply, tilting his head so their cheeks brushed. Rias watched them—soft smile on her face—then hopped off the counter to steal a piece of lotus root straight from the cutting board. "Any word from the parents?" she asked around the crunchy bite. Arto nodded."Zeoticus sent a message at 5 a.m. Gremory board meeting yesterday—unanimous vote to expand joint-sector usage to 28 total. Sitri matched it this morning. They're projecting quarterly savings in the nine-figure range already. And they want to schedule a family dinner here next weekend. All of us. Including the peerages."

Akeno perked up. "Does that mean more of Venelana-sama's financiers?" "And Sena-sama's red-bean mochi," Rias added instantly. Arto chuckled—low, warm. "Probably both." The front door banged open somewhere down the hall. Nami's voice echoed through the mansion like a victory siren. "GOOD MORNING, MONEY-PRINTING FAMILY! Sector 3 overnight report just dropped—another 0.001% waste reduction! We're basically gods now!"

She burst into the kitchen—still in yesterday's clothes, hair a glorious orange mess, eyes glittering with caffeine and capitalism. "Morning, losers," she sang, snatching a piece of lotus root from Rias's hand. "Who's ready to get even richer today?"

Rias swatted at her. "That was mine!"

"Finders keepers," Nami shot back, popping it into her mouth. "Anyway—Arto, Robin's already downstairs running the morning diagnostic. She says the new joint-sector load-balancing algorithm is holding at 99.999% stability. We're ready to pitch premium access tiers to the next three Pillar Houses… under strict NDA, of course."

Arto sighed—fond, resigned. "One step at a time, Nami." She grinned—feral, unstoppable. "Every step prints money, boss."

The breakfast table was unusually quiet that morning—only the soft clink of chopsticks against porcelain and the occasional sip of coffee breaking the hush. Sunlight streamed through the tall kitchen windows of the new mansion, catching on the steam rising from miso bowls and the golden edges of fresh tamagoyaki.

Nami sat at the head of the island counter like a queen on her throne, one leg crossed over the other, tablet propped in front of her half-eaten onigiri. She looked disgustingly pleased with herself—eyes glittering, smirk sharp enough to cut glass.

Arto—still in his apron from morning prep—set a fresh pot of green tea down in the center of the table. Rias and Akeno were already halfway through their second helpings, hair still sleep-tousled, clearly not ready for whatever Nami was about to unleash.

Nami didn't wait for permission.

She tapped her tablet twice. A holographic market dashboard bloomed above the counter—stock tickers, sales graphs, social-media sentiment clouds, all branded in Gremory crimson and Sitri sapphire. "Gentlemen. Ladies. My fellow trillionaires-in-training." She spread her arms wide, grin feral. "The market? Obliterated. First batches hit shelves three days ago under joint Gremory-Sitri branding. We're not talking 'strong sales.' We're talking category annihilation."

She flicked her wrist. The hologram zoomed in on a live sales tracker.

"Gremory self-regenerating mana-steel armor? Sold out in 47 minutes across all three Underworld territories. Pre-orders for the next run are already at 380% of projected quarterly capacity. Sitri portable healing arrays? Hospitals are literally fighting over allocation quotas. Consumer-grade mana appliances—rice cookers, air purifiers, personal barrier generators—are moving so fast the logistics drones can't keep up. We had to double the sector allocation overnight just to meet demand."

Rias paused mid-bite, eyes widening. "That fast?" Nami's smirk turned positively vicious. "Faster. And here's the beautiful part: the Maintenance Centers are already operational. Every single product ships with the embedded kill-switch policy exactly as we designed. First curious idiot tries to pry open the black box—snap. The unit bricks itself. Cleanly. Silently. No explosion, no mana surge, just… dead. Customer service line lights up like a Christmas tree. They either pay the premium repair fee to one of our certified techs—who replace the proprietary core under NDA—or they buy a brand-new unit at full price."

She flicked to a second graph—red bars labeled "Repair Revenue" climbing almost vertically. "We're making almost as much from maintenance fines as we are from initial sales. It's glorious. They're literally paying us to punish their curiosity." Akeno laughed—bright, delighted—nearly choking on her tea. "That's evil. I love it."

Nami pointed at her with chopsticks. "Thank you. Someone appreciates art." Arto—quiet until now—finally spoke, setting his own bowl down. "Any signs of reverse-engineering attempts beyond the usual?"

Nami's expression sobered slightly. "A few. Three confirmed cases in the first 72 hours—two Gremory military contractors, one independent Sitri hospital chain. All bricked instantly. Maintenance Centers dispatched, cores replaced, NDAs signed under threat of blacklisting. No leaks. No cracked tech. The kill-switches are holding like iron."

She leaned forward—eyes gleaming again. "But here's the kicker: customer satisfaction is up. People are calling it 'the most reliable tech on the market.' They're bragging about how their armor 'self-heals in the field' and their healing arrays 'just work.' The brand loyalty is insane. We've created addiction to quality they can't get anywhere else."

Rias stared at the hologram—then at Arto. "We really did it," she whispered. Arto reached over—squeezed her hand once. "We did." Nami leaned back—smugness returning full force. "And we're just getting started. Next phase: tiered premium sectors for exclusive clients. Military black-ops sims. Medical R&D acceleration. Agriculture testbeds for new strains. We control the supply. We control the quality. We control the kill-switch. And we control the money. And once everything is settled, the maintenance service will keep them hooked forever"

The breakfast table had settled into a comfortable rhythm—plates half-cleared, tea cups refilled, the morning sun slanting across the long island counter. Nami was still scrolling through royalty reports with one hand while stealing bites of tamagoyaki with the other, but the conversation had naturally shifted from market domination back to the peerages themselves.

Rias set her chopsticks down and pulled out her phone. "Speaking of effort," she said, tapping the screen a few times, "let's get the full picture."

A soft chime, and a holographic projector embedded in the tabletop flared to life. Sona's face appeared in crisp, life-sized clarity—sitting at her own breakfast table across the city, glasses catching the light, posture as impeccable as ever. She offered a small, composed nod to the group. "Good morning," Sona greeted. "Dual report, as agreed."

Rias smiled—tired but proud—and leaned forward. "Quality of missions first. Both peerages have almost completely abandoned flyer errands. The time saved has gone straight into spellcrafting study groups, bond-building activities, and non-combat skill training—alchemy basics, barrier theory, negotiation drills, even basic survival foraging. We're aiming for individual pacts from clan higher-ups in fields outside fighting—logistics support, artifact appraisal, diplomatic escort, medical triage. Broader utility. Real influence."

Sona picked up seamlessly. "Missions themselves have come almost exclusively from the Gremory and Sitri Stray Hunting Agencies. Over the past month: four joint operations. Two S- rank, two A+. All clean executions—no casualties, minimal civilian exposure, relic recovery or elimination confirmed in every case. Rias's peerage also completed four additional B- solo missions from the Gremory agency. Total for her side: eight hunting pacts. Same count on my side."

Rias glanced around the table—meeting each set of eyes. "We've also run two more joint sessions in the Adaptive Training Ground—once every two weeks. Sector 1. Full team integration drills. The Arena's still brutal, but we're starting to anticipate its adaptations. It's learning us… but we're learning it faster."

Sona nodded once. "Progress is steady. No major injuries. Mana efficiency up 28% across both groups. Bonds are stronger. Trust is absolute." Arto listened in silence—spoon paused halfway to his mouth. When they finished, he set the spoon down carefully and leaned back in his chair.

"I appreciate the effort," he said quietly, voice carrying that calm authority that always made everyone pay attention. "More than appreciate it. You've turned a frantic cramming phase into something sustainable. Study groups. Non-combat skills. Individual pacts. That's not just training—that's building real power. Real futures."

He looked from Rias to Sona—then swept his gaze across the rest of the peerage members present. "But I need to know: are you pushing too hard?" Silence fell—soft, attentive.

"We're out of the cramming phase," Arto continued gently. "The breakneck pace was necessary to survive the first month. Now it's time to stretch the schedule thinner. More rest days. More free time. More moments to be students, to be youngsters, to breathe. You're not machines. You're not soldiers on the front line every day. You're allowed to enjoy this life you're building."

Rias exchanged a quick glance with Sona—then spoke for both peerages. "We've been… careful," she admitted. "The joint sessions are only once every two weeks now. Study groups meet three evenings a week, no more than two hours. Non-combat training is optional—most people treat it like a club. And the solo missions… we've started turning down B- rank offers unless they're strategically valuable. We're not burning out."

Sona adjusted her glasses—voice steady. "But we'll take your advice. We'll add one more rest day per week. No training, no missions, no studying. Just… living. Movies. Dates. Sleep. Whatever we want."

Arto nodded—once, slow. "Good. That's all I needed to hear." He looked at them—really looked—taking in the faint shadows under eyes, the proud posture, the quiet strength that hadn't been there a month ago. "You've already exceeded every expectation I had when I first opened Sector 1. You don't need to prove anything else to me. You've already proven it to yourselves."

Rias smiled—small, real. "Thank you, Arto." Sona inclined her head. "We'll keep the balance. Promise."

[On the way to Kuoh Academy]

The morning walk to Kuoh Academy felt almost ordinary again—sun filtering through the cherry trees along the sidewalk, the faint scent of spring mixing with the distant hum of traffic. Rias, Akeno, and Nami walked ahead in a loose triangle, chatting in that easy, overlapping way girls do when they've known each other long enough that sentences don't need to finish. Behind them—exactly two steps back, like silent sentinels—Arto and Kiba kept pace, shoulders nearly brushing, eyes scanning the street out of habit more than necessity.

Koneko had peeled off earlier toward her junior high, giving a small wave and a flick of her tail before disappearing down a side path.

Up front, Akeno's thumbs flew across her phone screen—quick, practiced, a soft smile playing at the corners of her lips. Rias noticed first, leaning sideways to peek. "Who's got you smiling like that?" Rias asked, voice teasing but genuinely curious. "New love interest? Because if so, I'm going to have words with him. The most perfect man is literally two steps behind you."

Nami immediately crowded in on Akeno's other side, chin practically on her shoulder. "Yeah, spill. If he's hotter than Arto I need photographic evidence for blackmail purposes."

Akeno laughed—soft, warm, not the usual sultry giggle she used to deflect. She tilted the phone so both girls could see the chat window. "No new love interest," she said gently. "Just… someone I've been talking to. For about a month now."

Rias and Nami leaned closer. The screen showed a simple messaging app—anonymous handles, no profile pictures, just text.

Loreen Ravenna: I'm glad you felt safe enough to share that memory. It sounds like your daughter had your laugh. That's a beautiful thing to carry with you.

Elias: She did. Every time I hear a child laugh now it hurts and heals at the same time. I never thought I'd feel both things at once.

Akeno scrolled up a little—weeks of messages, gentle back-and-forth, no pressure, no names, just two people trading pieces of grief like fragile gifts. "I'm using Robin's alias," Akeno explained quietly. "Dr. Loreen Ravenna. Robin set it up so I could talk to this man—Elias—without him knowing it's me. And he doesn't know it's me either. We both think we're just… talking to a stranger who understands."

Rias's teasing expression melted into something softer. "You've been his counselor?" Akeno nodded. "And he's been mine, in a way. We've both lost… so much. He lost his wife and daughter in a fire. I lost my mother and… everything else. The same wound, different scars. It's easy to share with him because he never judges. He just… listens. And tells me his own pain. It's… endearing. Comforting."

Nami's smirk faded too. She studied the screen for a long moment—then looked at Akeno with rare gentleness. "You're helping him," she said quietly. "And he's helping you. That's… really beautiful, Akeno-chan."

Akeno's smile trembled—just a little—but she held it. "I think so too. I don't know who he is. He doesn't know who I am. But somehow… that makes it safer. We can say the ugly things. The angry things. The things we're ashamed of. And the other person just… stays."

Behind them, Arto and Kiba had slowed their pace—close enough to hear, far enough to give privacy. Kiba glanced at Arto—question in his eyes—but Arto only shook his head once, signalling him not to intervene in ladies' talk.