3rd Person POV
Sector 3: Sandbox had been transformed for the occasion.
The vast, sterile white expanse—usually a blank canvas for Nami's industrial simulations—now held only a single long table at the center, surrounded by four floating holographic chairs. Above the table hovered a massive shared projection surface: the digital master copy of Spellcrafting Formulas, every page rendered in crisp, searchable layers. Git commit history scrolled slowly in one corner like a living heartbeat—Arto's original commits from years ago, Nami's efficiency blitz, Robin's hundreds of precision pull requests, and now… two new branches waiting to be reviewed.
Arto sat at the head of the table—posture relaxed but eyes sharp. Robin to his right—notebook open, red pen already uncapped. Nami to his left—tablet propped up, smirk restrained but unmistakably present.
Rias and Akeno stood side by side before the table—battlesuits swapped for simple black training uniforms, hair tied back, expressions calm but carrying that faint electric tension of people about to step onto a battlefield of their own making.
Arto spoke first—voice steady, formal, but warm underneath. "This is the instructor qualification test for Spellcrafting Formulas. You've both completed the prerequisite mastery. Tonight you prove you can do more than use the book—you can improve it. If your contributions are valid, significant, and defensible, they will be merged into the main branch under your names as co-contributors. The book will carry your work forward. That's not a small thing."
He gestured to the projection. "Rias. You begin. Present your proposed changes. Then we'll question, counter, and deliberate." Rias stepped forward—chin high, no tremor in her stance. She raised her hand; the hologram responded instantly, zooming to the foundational sigil chapter—the very first pages, the alphabet of magic itself.
"I'm not proposing a single fix," she began, voice clear and measured. "I'm proposing a fundamental recalibration of the core sigil set to better match this world's ambient mana harmonics." A small ripple passed through the council. Robin's brow lifted slightly. Nami leaned forward—interest piqued despite herself. Arto remained perfectly still.
Rias continued. "The Legion's original sigils were tuned for Hell's mana density—thicker, more aggressive, higher baseline pressure. This world's ambient mana is softer, more fluid, with gentler gradients. The old sigils still function—beautifully, even—but they're fighting against the flow instead of riding it."
She flicked her wrist; the projection highlighted a single foundational glyph—the basic intention-indexing rune at the heart of nearly every spell in the book. "If we extend the third and seventh spiral arms by 0.14 radians and introduce a micro-resonance node at the 4.5 o'clock position—here—" the hologram zoomed in, new lines appearing in crimson overlay "—the rune becomes more receptive to low-pressure mana without losing stability. The intake curve flattens earlier, reducing initial turbulence by 18–21%. Cascade effects across the book are significant but manageable."
She tapped again—dozens of dependent formulas lit up in connected webs. "I've recalculated every major branch: elemental invocations drop 9–14% mana cost on average. Intention-heavy spells—barriers, illusions, emotional anchors—gain 7–11% faster stabilization. Combat applications—Power of Destruction derivatives—see almost no change in peak output but 23% lower backlash on sustained casts."
She paused—meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "The risk is propagation error. One misaligned constant could cascade into thousands of downstream formulas. I've run 1,872 simulation passes in Sector 3—zero critical failures. Worst-case instability is 0.03% under extreme entropy. I've included full derivation chains, test logs, and rollback contingencies in the branch I've already pushed to the repo."
Silence followed—thick, evaluating. Nami broke it first—whistling low. "That's… ballsy. You're touching the alphabet itself. Most people would rather rewrite an entire chapter than risk the foundational layer." Robin's pen tapped once against her notebook. "Valid concern. The third spiral extension—why 0.14 radians specifically? And the micro-node placement—why 4.5 o'clock instead of a symmetric 3 or 6?"
Rias didn't hesitate. "0.14 radians is the exact offset needed to align the rune's harmonic node with this world's average leyline oscillation frequency—measured at Kuoh and cross-checked against three Underworld sites. Symmetric placement would over-dampen the flow; 4.5 o'clock exploits the natural asymmetry in ambient mana drift caused by planetary rotation. It's counter-intuitive, but the sims prove it reduces turbulence without introducing new harmonics."
Arto leaned forward—first time he'd moved since she began. "Show me the worst-case cascade." Rias flicked her wrist again—the hologram expanded into a branching tree of dependencies. Red warning lines flared briefly at three distant leaves—then stabilized as she overlaid her damping term. "Contained," she said simply. "Rollback to original in 0.8 seconds if needed."
Robin exchanged a glance with Arto—then with Nami. Nami finally spoke—smirk gone, replaced by genuine respect. "…That's not just an improvement. That's a re-tuning of the entire ecosystem. If the sims hold in live casting… this could become the new standard."
Arto studied the projection for a long moment—then looked at Rias. "Valid. Significant. Defensible." He turned to Robin and Nami. "Questions?" Robin shook her head once—smiling softly. "None. She's already answered them before we asked." Nami leaned back—arms crossed, grin returning but softer now. "Pass. With honors. Welcome to the co-author club, princess."
Rias exhaled—once, shaky—then smiled. "Thank you." Arto stood—slow, deliberate—and extended his hand across the table. "Co-contributor status granted. Your branch will be merged tomorrow after final review. The next edition will carry your name."
When Rias steps down from the presentation position is Akeno's turn. Akeno stepped forward—posture relaxed but eyes sharp, the faint crackle of violet static still lingering at her fingertips from the morning's practice. She didn't fidget or hesitate; she simply raised her hand, and the hologram responded instantly, zooming to Chapter 9: Elemental Phase Transitions & Manipulation Matrices.
The projection highlighted a dense cluster of formulas—dozens of interconnected equations governing mana-to-element conversion, phase stability, directional channeling, and output amplification. Lightning-specific paths glowed brighter in pale violet overlay. "I'm focusing on the elemental manipulation suite," Akeno began, voice calm and clear. "Specifically the subset dealing with high-speed, high-voltage transitions—lightning, plasma arcs, electrostatic barriers, chain discharges. These formulas are already very efficient for sustained elemental effects, but they bleed under rapid cycling or multi-target chaining."
She tapped once; red warning lines appeared across several nodes. "The core issue is the phase-lock constant between mana intake and element manifestation. In Hell's denser ambient field, the constant was tuned for slower buildup and longer sustain. Here, mana is thinner and more responsive—meaning the lock engages too aggressively, causing micro-spikes in resistance that cascade into heat loss and instability during chaining."
The hologram zoomed tighter—showing the problematic constant and its ripple effects. "My proposed change: introduce a dynamic damping coefficient that scales inversely with ambient mana density. It's a small recursive term—nothing flashy—but it smooths the intake curve without sacrificing peak output."
She flicked her wrist; a new overlay appeared in soft gold—her revised equation layered beside the original. "Sim results: 11–16% reduction in mana bleed during chain casts of 5+ targets. 22% faster stabilization on rapid-fire discharges. Backlash drops by 19% on average. No measurable increase in cast time. I've run 1,400 live casts in Sector 1—zero critical failures, even under simulated leyline turbulence."
She met the council's eyes one by one—Arto first, then Robin, then Nami. "I know it's safer than Rias's foundation-level rework. But safety wasn't my goal. Precision was. Lightning is my element. I feel every inefficiency like static on my skin. This change doesn't rewrite the book—it makes it sing when lightning is involved."
Silence followed—attentive, evaluating. Nami leaned forward first—tablet already open to the relevant pages. "Dynamic damping coefficient… that's clever. But you're adding recursion. How do you prevent runaway feedback under high-entropy conditions? One bad mana surge and the coefficient could oscillate itself into a meltdown."
Akeno didn't blink. "I capped the recursion depth at 3 iterations and tied the coefficient to a soft-threshold function based on real-time mana velocity. If surge exceeds 140% nominal, the coefficient clamps to 0.92 instead of scaling further. Sims show max oscillation amplitude of 0.07%—well below stability threshold."
Robin tapped her pen once—thoughtful. "Phase-lock recalibration is one thing. But chaining multi-target lightning without collateral damage is notoriously hard. Your stabilization gain—22%—is impressive, but show me the worst-case backfire scenario."
Akeno flicked the hologram again—pulling up a red-flagged simulation log. "Worst case: 7-target chain under 180% ambient surge. Original formula: 31% backlash, minor circle fracture. Revised: 12% backlash, no fracture. Contained within the caster's personal buffer zone. No collateral."
Arto leaned forward—first real movement since Akeno began. "Live cast data?" Akeno nodded. "Logged 5,400 casts. 5,398 perfect. Two minor flares—both caught by the clamp and dissipated harmlessly. Full log attached to the branch." Arto studied the projection for several long seconds—then looked at Robin and Nami. "Counter-arguments?"
Robin shook her head—smiling faintly. "None. She's addressed every major risk. The recursion cap is elegant. The soft-threshold function is conservative but effective. This isn't just an improvement—it's a meaningful evolution for anyone whose core leans toward lightning or rapid elemental cycling."
Nami leaned back—arms crossed, smirk softer now, almost impressed. "Pass. Clean. Precise. You didn't try to fix the whole book—you fixed what you know. That's how you earn the pen. Welcome to the club, thunder queen." Akeno exhaled—shoulders dropping slightly, relief washing across her face. "Thank you."
Arto leaned forward slightly, the holographic projection still suspended above the table—Rias's foundational sigil recalibration glowing in crimson overlay, Akeno's dynamic damping proposal layered beside it in violet-gold.
The council had asked their questions. Nami had no more counters. Robin had closed her notebook with a quiet nod of approval.
But Arto wasn't finished. He looked at Akeno—steady, calm, but with the same quiet intensity he used when he was about to raise the bar. "Your proposal is clean," he said. "Precise. Defensible. The dynamic damping coefficient is elegant; the recursion cap is conservative but effective. Under the original sigil set, it would pass without question. 11–16% bleed reduction, 22% faster stabilization, 19% lower backlash. Solid gains. Real improvement."
Akeno's shoulders relaxed a fraction—until Arto continued. "But Rias's change came first." He flicked his wrist. The hologram shifted—Rias's revised foundational runes now overlaid across the entire elemental manipulation cluster. The new micro-resonance nodes and extended spiral arms rippled through every dependent formula like a stone dropped in still water.
"Your phase-lock constant was tuned against the old sigils," Arto said. "Rias just retuned the sigils themselves. The third and seventh arms now pull mana differently—lower initial turbulence, gentler intake curve. That changes the baseline velocity your coefficient is scaling against."
He tapped once—red warning lines flared across Akeno's damping term. "Run the numbers again with Rias's sigils active. Your coefficient overshoots by 4–7% on the first two recursion steps. Constructive interference at the 4.5 o'clock node you added creates a secondary harmonic spike—backlash jumps back to 14% instead of dropping to 12%. The clamp saves the circle from fracture… but the whole chain becomes unstable after the fifth target."
He met Akeno's eyes—unflinching. "So here's the real test." The room went still. "Rias's improvement is foundational. It touches everything. Including what you built. You knew that when you watched her presentation. You knew your work would need adjustment. Did you talk to her about it? Did you trust her changes enough to preemptively recalibrate your coefficient before walking in here? Or did you decide to stand on your original proposal and hope the council wouldn't notice the conflict?"
Akeno's breath caught—just for a heartbeat. Arto continued—voice even, but carrying the weight of expectation. "If you adjusted according to Rias's sigils and the new proposal still holds… show us. Prove it. Merge the two changes right now—live. Let the sim run. If it improves the baseline even further, you both pass with honors."
He paused—then added the final layer. "If you didn't adjust… if you're still standing on your original numbers… then improvise. Right here. Right now. Take Rias's sigils as given. Recalibrate your coefficient on the spot. Make it work better than before. Show me you can adapt under pressure, not just prepare in safety."
He leaned back—arms crossed. "The council is watching. The book is watching. And so am I." Then Akeno exhaled—slow, steady—and stepped forward. She raised her hand. The hologram responded—Rias's crimson sigils locking in place across the entire elemental cluster. Akeno's original proposal reappeared beside it—violet-gold lines now visibly clashing in three places.
Akeno didn't speak immediately. She simply stared at the projection—eyes narrowing, lips moving silently as she ran mental calculations faster than most people could follow on paper. Then she began to speak—voice calm, precise, but carrying the quiet fire she always held in reserve. "Rias's micro-resonance node at 4.5 o'clock shifts the intake velocity curve downward by 0.09 m/s per mana unit. My original coefficient scaled linearly against the old baseline. That linearity is now the problem."
She flicked her fingers—new gold lines appeared, overwriting her damping term. "I replace the linear scalar with a quadratic soft-threshold function keyed to the new velocity gradient. The coefficient now peaks at 0.87 instead of 0.92 under surge conditions, then tapers exponentially. This absorbs the secondary harmonic spike at the 4.5 o'clock node without introducing new oscillation."
The hologram updated in real time—warning lines fading from red to amber to green. "Recursion depth stays at 3. Clamp threshold lowers to 1.32× nominal instead of 1.4×. Net result: bleed reduction climbs to 14–19% across 5–12 target chains. Stabilization gain holds at 22%. Backlash drops to 9–11% instead of 12%. No critical instability detected in 2,300 re-run sims."
She lowered her hand. The projection stabilized—clean, elegant, stronger than before. Akeno looked at Arto—then at Rias. "I talked to Rias this morning," she said quietly. "She warned me her sigil changes would ripple. I didn't fully recalibrate yesterday because I wanted to present the original first—prove it worked on its own merits. But I prepared the adaptive variant last night. Just in case."
She smiled—small, fierce, proud. "I trust her. Completely." Silence again. Then Nami let out a low whistle. "Holy hell. You two just merged your changes live and made the whole suite better than either of you alone. That's not passing. That's rewriting the damn chapter."
Robin closed her notebook—smile warm, approving. "No further questions. The combined proposal is valid, significant, and elegant. Merge both branches. Co-contributor status granted to both."
Arto stood—slow, deliberate—"Welcome to the author list," he said simply. "The next edition carries your names. But that's for after the test, now..." He clasps his hands firmly and the sector responds to his gesture
The Sandbox shifted around them with a low, resonant hum—white walls folding inward like origami, re-forming into a smaller, more focused chamber. The vast industrial simulation vanished, replaced by a simple testing room: long wooden table, four high-backed chairs (one for each supervisor, three empty for now), soft overhead lighting that cast no shadows, and two identical stacks of paper placed precisely in front of two seats.
Arto stood at the head of the table, expression calm but carrying the same quiet gravity he used when the stakes were real. Robin sat to his right—notebook open, red pen resting beside a fresh cup of tea. Nami lounged to his left—feet up on an empty chair, tablet balanced on her knee, smirk dialed back to something almost professional.
Rias and Akeno took their seats—side by side, shoulders brushing. The air felt thicker now, the playful tension of the earlier presentation replaced by something sharper, more focused. Arto placed a hand on each stack of paper. "Part two," he said simply. "The written examination."
He slid the packets toward them—each one a few pages thick, densely printed with equations, diagrams, and multi-part problems that made even the advanced chapters of Spellcrafting Formulas look like warm-up exercises. "120 minutes. When the time runs out, the test ends. Whoever doesn't score 80 or higher fails this portion. No partial credit for incomplete reasoning. Show your work. Every step. Every assumption."
He met their eyes—Rias first, then Akeno. "And don't try to look at each other's papers. Each test is tailored. I built them to exploit every weakness in your learning process so far. The questions are different. The pressure points are different. Copying won't help. It will only waste time."
Rias exhaled—once, slow—and opened her packet. Akeno did the same—fingers steady despite the faint tremor of adrenaline. Arto stepped back to his seat—sat down—then spoke one final time. "Begin." The holographic timer appeared above the table—120:00 in crisp white numerals. It began to count down.
Silence fell—broken only by the scratch of pencils, the occasional soft tap of a finger against paper, the faint rustle of pages turning. Robin watched them both—eyes flicking between Rias's focused frown and Akeno's narrowed gaze—red pen idle for now. Nami—despite her earlier bravado—sat unusually still. Her smirk had faded into something closer to respect. She knew how hard those sheets were. She'd taken them herself once.
Arto leaned back—arms loosely crossed—watching the two women he loved most pour themselves onto the page. He didn't need to see their answers to know they were fighting for more than a certificate.
They were fighting to prove—to themselves, to him, to the Legion whose legacy they now carried—that they belonged in the author line. That they could do more than inherit. They could advance. The timer ticked. 120:00 became 119:58.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by a clock ticking down and pencils moving on paper with frantic speed]
The holographic timer hit 00:00 with a soft chime—white numerals freezing in place like a verdict carved in light. Robin rose smoothly, collecting both stacks of papers with practiced efficiency. She tucked them under her arm without a word, then gave Rias and Akeno a small, approving nod. "Written portion complete. Results after review."
Before anyone could ask how long that would take, the Sandbox began to shift again.
The testing room dissolved—table, chairs, projection surface melting away like wax under heat. Walls folded inward and outward simultaneously; ceiling lifted into a soft, pastel-blue dome dotted with cartoon clouds. Floor tiles softened into colorful foam mats patterned with smiling stars and moons. Low, rounded tables appeared, scattered with crayons, building blocks, and plush magical-creature toys. Gentle nursery music played from nowhere—soft chimes and a lullaby xylophone.
In the center stood two simulated children—perhaps four or five years old in appearance—wide-eyed, rosy-cheeked, dressed in tiny overalls and little wizard hats that kept slipping over their foreheads. One had curly brown hair and freckles (the boy), the other pigtails and a gap-toothed grin (the girl). They blinked up at the adults with pure, unfiltered curiosity. Arto stepped forward—his usual calm demeanor now softened with just a hint of amusement.
"Kids," he announced gently, gesturing toward Rias and Akeno, "come meet your big sisters over there. They're going to teach you magic today." The children's eyes lit up like tiny stars. They squealed in unison—high-pitched, delighted—and bolted forward on chubby legs, arms outstretched. Rias and Akeno dropped to their knees instinctively—arms open, smiles blooming despite the pressure of the moment.
The boy crashed into Akeno's chest first—hugging her neck with surprising strength for a sim. The girl barreled straight into Rias, burying her face in crimson hair and giggling. "Big sis teach magic!" the girl chirped, voice high and bubbling. "Shiny magic!" the boy added, pointing at Akeno's violet eyes like they were the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.
Robin spoke from the side—voice calm, clinical, but kind. "You have until the children become bored and lose interest. No fixed time limit—could be ten minutes, could be forty. The moment both lose engagement, the test ends. Your goal: guide them from the absolute simplest concept of magic all the way to your proposed improvement in the book. Use only language a toddler can understand. Keep them engaged. Make them want to learn more. If both children can repeat the core idea of your improvement back to you correctly—using their own words—before they wander off, you pass."
Nami leaned against the pastel wall—arms crossed, smirk firmly in place. "No baby talk cheating," she added. "They have to get it. Not just parrot. If they go 'huh?' or start playing with blocks instead… tough luck." Arto remained standing—hands in pockets, watching with quiet intensity. Rias and Akeno exchanged one quick glance—silent communication passing between them in half a second—then turned back to the children with matching warm smiles.
Rias and Akeno exchanged one quick, silent glance—then dove in with the gentle, patient energy only someone who truly loved children could muster. Rias lifted the little girl (who had already declared her name was "Lulu") onto her lap, while Akeno scooped the boy ("Momo!" he announced proudly) into hers. The children immediately snuggled in, wide-eyed and trusting, tiny hands reaching for the sparkling motes of harmless mana that Rias and Akeno conjured like fireflies.
"Okay, Lulu and Momo," Rias began, voice soft and bright like a bedtime story. "Magic is like when your heart wants to give someone a really big hug. It makes a special picture inside you—whoosh!—and then magic helps that picture come true!" Lulu gasped—hands clapping. Momo bounced. "Like when I want cake?!"
"Exactly like cake!" Akeno laughed, making a tiny, safe spark of violet light dance between her fingers. "Your heart draws a yummy cake picture. Magic says: 'Okay! Let's help!' But magic needs a map so it doesn't get lost." Rias traced a big, glowing circle in the air—simple, round, sparkling like a hug that never ended. "This is the magic map! We call it a circle. Round and round, like a hug for the magic so it stays safe."
Lulu reached out—fingers passing through the harmless light. "It tickles!" Akeno giggled. "It tickles because it's happy! Now, inside the circle we put little magic letters. They tell the magic how to make the hug or the cake or the sparkles. These letters are called sigils."
She drew a tiny, simplified lightning sigil beside Rias's circle—nothing dangerous, just a cute zigzag with sparkles. "This one says: 'Make sparkles go zip-zip fast!'" Momo's eyes went huge. "Zip-zip! Can I have zip-zip?!" Akeno smiled. "Not real zip-zip yet, sweet boy. But soon. First we learn how to make the letters happy." Rias leaned in conspiratorially. "But sometimes the magic letters get tired when they work too hard—like when you run a lot and your legs get wobbly. So smart big sisters look at the letters and say: 'Hmm… maybe if we make this little curl a tiny bit longer…'"
She redrew the sigil—extending the third spiral arm with gentle golden light. "Now the magic doesn't get tired so fast! It can zip-zip longer, and nobody gets hurt!" Lulu clapped wildly. "Longer curl! Magic happy!"
Akeno added her part—drawing a soft, pulsing blanket shape around the sigil. "And this is a cozy blanket for the magic when it gets too excited. It says: 'Shhh, gentle now, don't spill the sparkles!' So the zip-zip stays safe and strong." Momo hugged Akeno's arm. "Blanket! Magic blanket!" The children repeated it like a song: "Longer curl!" "Magic blanket!" "Zip-zip safe!"
Rias smiled—soft, relieved—and conjured a tiny, harmless chain of three sparkles between her palms. "Now watch what happens when we use both big sisters' ideas together." She guided Lulu's chubby finger to "draw" the extended curl while Akeno helped Momo "tuck in" the blanket shape. The three sparkles zipped between their hands—bright, steady, no flicker, no wobble.
Lulu squealed. "Zip-zip dance! Happy magic!" Momo bounced so hard Akeno had to tighten her hold to keep him from falling off her lap. "Again! Again!" They did it again. And again. And again—each time the children repeating the words: "Longer curl makes magic strong!" "Blanket keeps sparkles safe!" After the seventh repetition, Lulu yawned hugely—then looked up at Rias with sleepy, trusting eyes. "Big sis… magic is love picture with map and letters and blanket?"
Rias's heart squeezed. She kissed the top of Lulu's head. "Yes, sweetheart. Magic is love with a map and letters and a blanket to keep it safe. You got it exactly right."
Momo rubbed his eyes—then looked at Akeno. "Zip-zip needs blanket or it gets ouchie?" Akeno nodded—voice thick. "That's right, baby boy. Zip-zip needs a blanket so it doesn't get ouchie. You're so smart." Both children beamed—then, almost simultaneously, snuggled deeper into the women's laps and began to yawn in stereo. Robin—watching from the side—quietly ended the simulation. The children faded into soft sparkles, leaving behind the echo of their giggles.
The Sandbox returned to neutral white. Then Robin spoke—voice soft, proud. "They understood. In their own words. They repeated the core ideas correctly before they lost interest." Nami let out a low whistle—feet dropping off the chair. "Damn. They didn't just pass. They crushed it."
Arto stood—slow, deliberate—and walked around the table to stand before Rias and Akeno. His expression was unreadable for a moment. Then he smiled—small, real, deeply proud. "You taught them magic," he said quietly. "Not as equations. Not as power. As love. As care. As safety. You showed them the heart of it before the mechanics. That's not just passing. That's mastery."
The Sandbox shifted one final time.
The colorful kindergarten dissolved in a gentle swirl of light—foam mats retracting, pastel walls folding away, toys and crayons vanishing into nothing. In their place rose the familiar, austere classroom setting: long wooden table, high-backed chairs, soft but focused overhead lighting. The air felt crisp again, the playful warmth replaced by quiet gravity.
Robin stood at the front—notebook closed, red pen capped, a small stack of graded papers in her hands. Arto sat at the head of the table, posture calm and expectant. Nami lounged beside him—feet up on an empty chair, arms crossed, smirk present but restrained.
Rias and Akeno sat side by side—still in their training uniforms, hair slightly mussed from the earlier emotional intensity, but backs straight, eyes clear. The toddler test had left them both flushed with quiet pride, but now the weight of the written portion settled back over them like a held breath.
Robin stepped forward—papers in hand. "The written examination has been graded," she announced, voice even and professional. "Full marks require 80% or higher. Partial credit was given only for complete, logically sound reasoning—even if the final answer deviated slightly from the expected solution. Errors in derivation, unstated assumptions, or incomplete proofs resulted in point deductions."
She placed one packet in front of Rias—then the other in front of Akeno. Rias opened hers first—fingers steady despite the faint tremor in her chest. Red ink marked every page—precise notes in Robin's elegant handwriting, occasional underlines, circled corrections, and at the bottom of the final sheet:
Score: 94/100Pass. Outstanding reasoning on Problems 1, 3, and 5. Minor deduction on Problem 4 for incomplete boundary analysis under surge conditions. Overall: exceptional.
Rias exhaled—shoulders dropping in visible relief—then smiled, small and bright.
Akeno opened hers next—eyes scanning quickly.
Score: 91/100Pass. Excellent handling of recursion depth and soft-threshold function. Strong worst-case mitigation. Deduction on Problem 2 for insufficient proof of phase-alignment under asymmetric weighting. Overall: highly competent.
Akeno's breath caught—then she laughed softly, almost disbelieving, and leaned sideways to rest her forehead against Rias's shoulder. "We did it," she whispered. Rias turned—pulled Akeno into a quick, fierce hug. "We did." Robin stepped back—small, proud smile curving her lips. "Both candidates pass the written portion with scores well above threshold. Combined with the presentation and toddler test results, the instructor qualification is complete."
She looked at Arto. "Final decision rests with the author." Arto stood—slow, deliberate—and walked around the table to stand before them. He looked at Rias first—then Akeno—taking in their flushed cheeks, tired eyes, and the quiet, unshakable pride radiating from both. "You didn't just pass," he said quietly. "You exceeded. Rias—you recalibrated the foundational layer of the entire book. Akeno—you adapted your work live under pressure and made the merged system stronger than either proposal alone."
He extended both hands. "Co-contributor status granted. Full Git access. Your branches merge tonight. The next edition carries your names beside mine, Robin's, and Nami's. You are now teachers of the Legion's legacy. Equals in every way." Rias and Akeno rose—took his hands—then pulled him into a three-way embrace. Robin stepped in next—arms wrapping around the group. Nami joined last—grumbling "fine, group hug" but squeezing just as tightly.
As the group stepped out of Sector 3 into the long white corridor of the Simulation Room, the soft pneumatic hiss of the door sealing behind them felt almost ceremonial. The air was cooler here—crisp, faintly metallic from the leyline conduits—carrying the lingering ozone tang of the tests they'd just passed.
Arto yawned—wide, unselfconscious—stretching his arms overhead until his shoulders popped. His voice came out rough with fatigue and a touch of dry amusement. "Welp… I've had, like… twelve students up to this point, and now four of them have joined me as teachers in… what, four months?" He shook his head, a small, incredulous smile tugging at his lips. "But I have no intention of expanding my class anytime soon. So who exactly are you two going to teach, really? Aside from being contributors to the book?"
Akeno—still flushed with the adrenaline of passing—didn't hesitate. She spun on her heel, blocking his path in one fluid motion. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling him down until their faces were inches apart. That signature smirk bloomed across her lips—sultry, teasing, utterly unapologetic. "Our children, of course, my darling~"
The corridor went dead silent. Rias choked on air—eyes going wide. Robin's eyebrows shot up—then she quickly covered her mouth to hide a delighted giggle. Nami actually froze mid-stride—tablet nearly slipping from her fingers. Akeno leaned in closer, lips brushing Arto's ear as she purred: "Little crimson-haired troublemakers with your eyes and my lightning. Or maybe violet-eyed hellions who can charm the scales off a dragon. Either way… they're going to need the best teachers in the Underworld, don't you think?"
She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze—smirk widening at the rare sight of Arto Abyssgard looking genuinely speechless. Lucky for them, the corridor was empty. No Gremory or Sitri scientists lingering to overhear, no curious interns peeking from doorways. Just the five of them—family, in the truest sense of the word. Rias recovered first—stepping up beside Akeno, cheeks flaming but eyes sparkling with mischief. "You're evil," she muttered, though her smile betrayed her. "Absolutely evil."
Nami finally found her voice—half-laughing, half-scandalized. "I mean… bold. Very bold. But also… valid marketing strategy. 'Learn magic from the parents who literally rewrote the textbook.' We could charge premium tuition." Robin laughed softly—covering her mouth again. "You two are incorrigible."
Arto—still caught in Akeno's arms—finally exhaled. His hands settled on her waist—gentle, grounding—and he looked between the three women who had just claimed not just his book, but an entire future."…Children," he repeated—voice low, almost testing the word.
"I get the children part, but the crimson-haired ones and violet-eyed ones, I don't have both of those traits...." Arto's eyes start darting between both Rias and Akeno, who have the traits he just mentioned, Rias' crimson hair and Akeno's violet eyes "Are you 2 saying....." his index finger start moving between pointing at Rias and pointing at Akeno
"What is it, Darling~? You look awed, what is wrong with....." Akeno eyes his dumbfounded face for a moment before she realizes something important "...oh right. Rias, care to explain the situation of devils's marriage for our dalrling? It seems he is still oblivious about the term 'sharing'"
Rias blinked once—then twice—her cheeks flushing a shade deeper than her hair as the implication finally hit her too. She looked at Akeno, then back at Arto, whose finger was still hovering uncertainly between the two of them like he was trying to solve a particularly tricky equation with only half the variables.
Akeno's smirk only grew—slow, wicked, delighted—as she watched realization dawn across Arto's face like sunrise over a battlefield. Rias cleared her throat, suddenly very interested in the pattern of the corridor floor. "Well…" she began, voice a little higher than usual, "devils—especially high-class pure-bloods—have… flexible views on marriage. Very flexible."
Arto's finger finally stopped moving. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "Flexible," he echoed—flat, stunned. Rias nodded—quick, almost frantic. "Historically—politically—strategically—marriages were about alliances, bloodlines, power consolidation. One husband, multiple wives—or one wife, multiple husbands—wasn't uncommon when it served the clan. It still isn't, really. Especially among the Pillars. Look at Sirzechs and Yelena—they're technically monogamous now, but only because they chose to be. The system doesn't forbid anything else."
Akeno's arms tightened around Arto's neck—playful but possessive. "And we chose," she purred against his ear. "Both of us. Together. With you. No politics. No alliances. Just… us. Crimson hair, violet eyes, and whatever traits our little hellions end up inheriting from their father." She pulled back just enough to meet his wide-eyed stare—smirk softening into something tender. "You didn't think we were going to make you choose, did you, darling?"
Arto blinked—slowly, like a man waking up from a very long dream. "I… thought…" He trailed off. Looked at Rias—then Akeno—then back again. "I thought… maybe one day… one of you…" Rias stepped closer—slipping her hand into his free one, linking their fingers. "No 'one of us,'" she said firmly, though her cheeks were still burning. "Both of us. Always. We talked about it—long before the mansion, before the book changes, before any of this. We're not competing. We're… completing."
Akeno leaned in—brushing her lips against his cheek. "Sharing isn't a dirty word in the Underworld, love. It's just… honest. And we're very honest people when it comes to you." Arto stopped walking entirely.
The corridor stretched long and quiet around them, but the air suddenly felt thick—charged, like the moment before a storm. His hands—still loosely held by Rias and Akeno—tightened once, almost involuntarily, before he slowly let them go.
He turned to face them fully—first Rias, then Akeno—searching their expressions with an intensity that bordered on raw. "Okay," he said again, quieter this time, voice rough around the edges. "So let me get this straight." He gestured between the two of them—slow, deliberate. "You two… are okay loving the same man? Even if that man is human—with a limited lifespan—who might not be able to walk with you till your eternal life?"
Rias's smile didn't waver. It softened—turned tender, almost aching—but it never faltered. She reached into the inner pocket of her school blazer and pulled out a single crimson chess piece—the Knight, glowing faintly with the unmistakable aura of demonic power. She held it between them like a promise made solid. "Oh, you don't have to worry about that, love~" she said—voice gentle, teasing, but carrying steel underneath. "I'm always prepared. Our promise of me turning you into a devil at death's door still stands."
She stepped closer—close enough that he could see the reflection of the crimson light in her eyes. "So you keep enjoying your human life. Taste every year. Every sunrise. Every stupid, beautiful, fleeting moment. Laugh too loud. Eat too much. Get old and grumpy and complain about your back. Fall asleep on the couch with us. Forget where you put your keys. Forget your age. Forget everything except that we're right here."
She pressed the Knight piece into his palm—cool metal against his skin. "And when the time comes—when that fragile human heart finally decides it's had enough—we'll be waiting. Eternity with us will be yours. No rush. No deadline. Just… whenever you're ready."
Akeno stepped in on his other side—slipping her arms around his waist from behind again, chin resting on his shoulder so she could speak directly into his ear. "We've already decided," she murmured—soft, possessive, loving. "You don't get to leave us behind. Not in fifty years. Not in a hundred. Not ever. Crimson hair, violet eyes, maybe some stubbornness from you… our children are going to grow up with a father who's lived long enough to teach them how precious every second is."
She pressed a kiss to the side of his neck—lingering, warm. "So stop worrying about 'limited lifespan.' You're not limited anymore. You're just… on loan. And we're very greedy about collecting what's ours."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias and chibi Akeno making pull requests]
The days after the teacher test settled into a rhythm that felt almost startlingly normal—almost as if the mansion, the Simulation Room, the new certificates, and the quiet promise of "both forever" had always been part of their lives.
Nothing outwardly changed in how Arto, Rias, and Akeno moved around each other. They had already been sleeping tangled together for months, already waking up to soft kisses and sleepy teasing, already sharing clothes and showers and late-night talks about nothing and everything. The only real difference now was that Arto no longer carried the invisible weight of "limited lifespan" like a secret debt he hadn't told them about. He still caught himself staring at them sometimes—Rias laughing at something ridiculous, Akeno stealing the last bite of his breakfast with that signature smirk—and realized with quiet wonder that they had both chosen eternity with him long before he even asked the question.
Meanwhile, Nami wasted no time weaponizing her new status.
Once a week—every Wednesday evening after dinner—she commandeered the mansion's second-floor lounge (the one with the massive whiteboard wall and the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden) and turned it into "Nami-sensei's School of Not Being Broke." Attendance was mandatory for anyone with a Stray Hunting Agency badge and a bank account balance that now regularly made six or seven figures per month.
All of them now pulling in serious money from B-rank and higher missions—sometimes 1–2 payouts a week, each one large enough to buy a luxury car or a small apartment in the human world. Nami refused to let that kind of cash flow turn them into "rich idiots who die broke and confused."
The class structure was brutally simple and brutally effective:
Week 1–2: Saving Track every yen (or underworld credit equivalent). Build the "emergency mochi fund" (3–6 months of living expenses). No impulse buys over 10,000¥ without 48-hour wait rule. Nami's Rule #1: "If you can't explain why you need it in writing, you don't need it." Week 3–5: Spending Wisely Needs vs. wants flowchart (drawn by Nami on the whiteboard with dramatic arrows and skull emojis for "dumb purchases"). Budget buckets: missions gear, training upgrades, family gifts, personal fun, long-term savings. Nami's Rule #2: "Luxury is fine. Stupidity is not. Buy the 500,000¥ enchanted coat that keeps you warm in Siberia. Do NOT buy seventeen limited-edition magical-girl figurines because they're 'collectible.'" Week 6 onward: Investing & Making Money Work Compound interest explained with visual timelines that made even Koneko's eyes widen. Safe options: underworld government bonds, Sitri/Gremory clan infrastructure funds, human-world index funds via offshore accounts. Riskier options: startup artifact ventures, black-market relic flipping (under strict NDA and legal oversight). Nami's Rule #3: "Diversify or die broke."
And then came the infamous closing pitch every single class:
Nami leaned forward on the table, eyes sparkling with predatory sweetness. "So… anyone who doesn't want to deal with spreadsheets and wants guaranteed returns… just hand your money to me. I'll invest it for you. I take 8% management fee—industry standard is 15–20%, so you're welcome—and you get passive growth while I do the heavy lifting. Win-win."
The room always went dead silent for three seconds. Then Rias and Akeno spoke in perfect unison: "No."
Rias folded her arms, eyes narrowed. "We know your résumé, Nami. Robin told us everything. Laundering billions for dark foundations? Fabricating paper trails that fooled entire governments? You're not touching our money without a leash."
Akeno smiled sweetly—dangerously. "We love you. We trust you with our lives. But our wallets? Those get guarded by paranoia and prenups." Nami clutched her chest like she'd been shot. "Betrayal! After everything we've been through!"
Sona—sitting primly with perfect posture—adjusted her glasses. "Statistically speaking, your past performance in high-risk laundering does suggest exceptional returns… but also exceptional legal risk. I'll pass." Kiba coughed politely. "I… think I'll stick to bonds." Koneko just stared at Nami—expression flat. "Mochi fund first. Then maybe you." Tomoe and Tsubasa exchanged glances and shook their heads in sync.
Momo and Reya hid smiles behind their hands. Nami threw her arms up. "Fine! Be boring responsible adults! See if I care when you're all old and poor because you didn't let genius handle your portfolio!"
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Nami sulking playfully]
The lounge on the second floor had transformed into an impromptu negotiation chamber within minutes.
Nami had dragged Robin in by the wrist—Robin letting herself be pulled with an amused, almost indulgent smile, like she was already three steps ahead of everyone in the room. The moment they entered, Nami released her and planted herself in the center of the space—arms crossed, smirk sharp enough to cut glass.
Rias, meanwhile, had stepped out into the hallway for thirty seconds. When she returned, Arto was right behind her—still in his apron from earlier, sleeves rolled up, expression calm but carrying that quiet, unreadable weight that always made the air feel heavier.
He didn't say anything at first. Just walked to the head of the long table, pulled out a chair, and sat. That single action shifted the entire dynamic. Robin's smile deepened fractionally. Nami's smirk flickered—only for a heartbeat—before firming back up.
Sona—sitting ramrod straight at one end of the table—cleared her throat first. "Let me restate the proposal clearly so there are no misunderstandings. She adjusted her glasses once—habitual, precise. "Despite the… understandable mistrust when Nami and large sums of money are mentioned in the same sentence, we all acknowledge she is a top-tier financial expert. Her track record with the Simulation Room contracts speaks for itself. We would like to take her consultation on investments—particularly in companies or funds where she already holds shares. That alignment of interest acts as a natural safeguard against any… less scrupulous behavior."
Tsubaki nodded from beside her—calm, composed. "Additionally, we propose Robin provide parallel consultation. Fact-checking. Risk assessment. Access to her… extensive network. No single advisor. Dual oversight. Nami proposes the opportunities; Robin verifies them."
Tsubaki glanced toward the two women in question. "Finally—consultation fees will be performance-based. A fixed percentage of realized profits only. No upfront costs. No flat retainers. You only get paid when we make money. That incentivizes dedication and alignment."
Silence for three heartbeats. Then Nami laughed—low, delighted, dangerous. "Oh my little sisters grew teeth," she purred, eyes glittering. "I love it. Truly. You're finally negotiating like you have something worth protecting." She leaned forward—elbows on the table, chin resting on laced fingers. "But here's where you made your first big mistake."
Her gaze flicked between Rias, Sona, and the rest of the peerage members seated around the table. "You put Robin and me on the same side of the table." Robin's smile turned faintly apologetic—almost sheepish—but her eyes were bright with amusement. Nami continued—voice velvet over steel. "You need us. We don't need you. Not for money—we're already drowning in it from the Simulation Room alone. Not for power—you're strong, but we're not exactly defenseless. Not for information—Robin literally knows more secrets than most governments. You want our brains, our networks, our risk tolerance, our ability to turn pocket change into empires. We're the scarce resource here. You're the abundant one."
She leaned back—spreading her hands. "So yes—we'll consult. Gladly. But the price is ours to set. Not yours to dictate. Performance fee? Sure. But the percentage starts at 25% of realized gains. Non-negotiable floor. We take the risk. We do the work. We deserve the lion's share." Rias opened her mouth. Arto raised one finger—quiet, commanding. Everyone stilled.
He looked at Nami first—then Robin—then back at the peerage. "Twenty-five is highway robbery," he said calmly. "Even for you." Nami's smirk didn't waver. "Market rate for elite private wealth management with zero downside risk to the client is 20–30%. We're offering 25% with perfect alignment. You can't get that anywhere else."
Arto tilted his head—just a fraction. "Fifteen percent. Capped at 20% on any single position exceeding 500 million credits. You get full transparency on our portfolios. We get full transparency on your positions and conflicts. Quarterly audits by an independent third party of Robin's choosing."
Robin's smile widened ever so slightly. Nami laughed—bright, delighted. "Eighteen percent floor. No cap. Audits are fine. But the third party is someone I choose. And we get first-look rights on any new investment opportunities you discover independently."
Arto considered for three seconds. "Seventeen percent floor. Cap at 22% on positions over 1 billion. Audits by mutual agreement. First-look rights mutual—both ways." Nami glanced at Robin. Robin inclined her head—once, almost imperceptibly.
Nami extended her hand across the table. "Deal." Arto shook it—firm, final. The room exhaled. Sona adjusted her glasses—small, satisfied smile. "Reasonable compromise."
Nami's laughter rang out—loud, bright, unrestrained—cutting through the lingering tension in the lounge like sunlight through fog. She threw her head back, one hand slapping the table hard enough to rattle the teacups, the other wiping at the corner of her eye where a genuine tear of mirth had gathered.
When she finally caught her breath, she looked around at every face—Rias, Sona, Akeno, Tsubaki, Kiba, Koneko, Momo, Reya, Tsubasa, Tomoe—then at Robin, then finally at Arto. "You lot…" she started, voice still thick with laughter but softening now, turning warm, almost tender. "You absolute gremlins."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on laced fingers—smirk gone, replaced by something realer, rarer. "I'm proud of you. All of you. Every single one who opened their mouth tonight—whether you were the ones throwing punches at me and Robin on the negotiating table or the ones standing quietly behind your Kings and Queens, listening, thinking, remembering every word. You treated this seriously. You went that far—fact-checks, leashes, dual oversight, performance fees, mutual transparency—just to make sure the blood, sweat, and tears you poured into those stray hunts actually turn into something that lasts. Something that grows. Something that doesn't vanish because someone got greedy."
Nami's gaze swept the table again—lingering on each peerage member in turn. "That means you've learned what the money is worth. Not just numbers in a bank. Not just shiny toys or fancy gear. It's time. It's risk. It's nights you didn't sleep because a mission went sideways. It's bruises, scars, close calls. You're not throwing that away on nonsense anymore. You're valuing your own labor. And that… that makes me happier than any royalty payout ever could."
She straightened—exhaling through her nose, smile returning but softer now, almost shy. "So here's the deal—no facade, no games, no bullshit fees or percentages or 'management floors.' From now on, if I get a solid investing lead—something real, something vetted, something I'd put my own money into—I'll bring it to you straight. No sugar-coating. I'll tell you when to go in, how much to commit, when to take profits, when to cut losses and run. I'll scream at you to sell if the market turns. I'll drag you back from the edge if FOMO gets you stupid. Because you're my family. My annoying, overachieving, way-too-serious little siblings."
She shrugged—almost embarrassed. "And yeah—I know the money we're talking about is pocket change compared to what Robin and I already swim in from the Simulation Room. But that's exactly why I'm dropping the act. You don't need to leash me or fact-check me through Robin. You just need to trust that when it comes to you… I'm honest. Seriously honest. Because losing your trust would hurt more than losing a few billion ever could."
Silence followed—soft, warm, heavy with everything unsaid. Then Rias stood—walked around the table—and pulled Nami into a tight hug before the orange-haired girl could protest. "You're the worst," Rias muttered into her shoulder, voice thick. "And the best. Thank you."
Akeno joined next—wrapping her arms around both of them from the side. "Big sis Nami~" she teased, but her eyes were suspiciously shiny. One by one the others rose—Sona with quiet dignity, Kiba with a respectful nod, Koneko simply stepping up and leaning her head against Nami's arm like a cat claiming territory. Tsubaki, Momo, Reya, Tsubasa, Tomoe—all of them closing ranks until Nami was at the center of a messy, laughing, slightly teary group hug.
Robin watched from the side—smiling softly, arms folded—then glanced at Arto. He hadn't moved from his seat. But his eyes were warm—quietly, deeply proud. Nami finally extricated herself—cheeks flushed, hair mussed, looking more flustered than she'd ever admit. "Okay, okay—enough mush. We've got portfolios to build. First lesson next Wednesday. Bring your mission payouts. We start with emergency funds, then diversification, then… we make your money work harder than you do."
She pointed at all of them—half-teasing, half-serious. "And if any of you blow it on limited-edition magical-girl figurines… I'm telling Arto."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Nami showing her money managing class jars for their money]
When Arto is in bed with Rias and Akeno that night, she asks "Love, about our coming vacation in the Underworld, there is this one tiny matter I need to you to have a look" Rias snuggled deeper into Arto's chest, her cheek pressed against the steady thump of his heartbeat. The bedroom was quiet except for the faint rustle of sheets and the soft ticking of the antique clock on the nightstand.
Arto had set his book aside—some dense tome on leyline harmonics—and removed his reading glasses, folding them neatly on the cover. His arm curled around her shoulders automatically, thumb tracing slow, absent circles on her upper arm. "Yes?" he prompted again, voice low and patient.
Rias exhaled—long, deliberate, the kind of breath people take before stepping off a cliff. "You know my brother Sirzechs's wife, right?" Arto nodded once against the pillow. "Yelena Lucifuge. What of her?"
Rias's fingers began to twirl together nervously against his sternum—small, unconscious spirals. "You see… Yelena has a little sister. Her name is Grayfia Lucifuge. Both sisters are considered… well… the most powerful pure-blooded female devils in Hell right now. Their mana density, their combat records, their lineage stability—it's all off the charts. Because of that, their genes are… widely desired. Very widely. For producing stronger descendants."
Arto's brow lifted—just a fraction. "Uh-huh…" Rias swallowed, then pressed on in a rush. "Yelena already has Sirzechs. She has no intention of taking other consorts, and they have Millicas. So she's out of the question. But Grayfia…"
"…Grayfia is unmarried. Unattached. And still young enough—by devil standards—that the pure-blood houses, even some of the Satans' advisors… are pressuring her to produce heirs. Preferably with someone of comparable or superior lineage...."
Rias doesn't stop, she keeps going "They've been… subtle about it for 20 years. Suggestions. 'suitable matches.' Diplomatic invitations to banquets where eligible bachelors just happen to be seated beside her. But it's getting less subtle. Sirzechs told me last week that Grayfia-sama has started refusing invitations outright. She's polite, but firm. And the elders are getting impatient. They're starting to talk about… obligations. Clan duty. The future of the Lucifuge bloodline."
Arto is in even more confusion when hearing this story because it seems this has nothing to do with him "Okay? That's normal in my eyes...." Rias puts her finger over his lips "Hush, let me finish, okay?"
Rias exhaled again—longer this time, almost as though the weight of the next sentence physically pressed on her lungs. "And the one who is at the top of the list of spouse candidates is...Razer Phenex. Leader of the Phenex Clan."
Arto's brow furrowed deeper. The name alone carried weight—old money, old fire, old ambition—but he still didn't see the personal connection. His confusion must have shown clearly on his face, because Rias quickly pressed on before he could interrupt. "But what's important isn't just his name," she said, voice dropping lower, "it's what he did to climb to that leading position."
She paused—letting the silence stretch just long enough for the implication to sink in. "He and his allies launched a war against the Gremory Clan. The one that...ended up with the arranged marriage between me and Riser." Arto's eyes widened—slowly, visibly.
The pieces clicked together with an almost audible snap. That wasn't just any war. It wasn't a territorial dispute or a border skirmish. It was a surgical political strike—carefully designed, perfectly timed, multi-layered.
A subtle intimidation toward Sirzechs Lucifer himself. A Satan cannot openly fight a clan war without risking accusations of abusing his position. Sirzechs's hands were tied behind his back the moment the first banner was raised. He had to stay neutral—publicly—while his own family bled. A public demonstration of strength to the elders and the old pure-blood houses. Razer Phenex didn't just win battles—he won perception. He proved he could force one of the most powerful clans in the Underworld to the negotiating table and walk away with a marriage alliance that would—eventually—merge Gremory blood with Phenex immortality. To the conservative elders obsessed with lineage and power, that made Razer look like the perfect match for Grayfia Lucifuge: ruthless, victorious, capable of delivering results. A long-term leash on House Gremory. The moment Rias married Riser, the Phenex would have a permanent foothold inside Gremory succession. Any child of that union would carry Phenex blood. Any future Gremory heir would be half-Phenex. One way or another—whether through direct conquest or slow generational absorption—Razer wins.
Arto's jaw tightened—only slightly, but enough for Rias to notice. She nodded—small, grim. "It was never about territory or resources. It was about control. And it worked. Beautifully. Sirzechs couldn't intervene without shattering his neutrality as a Satan. Father couldn't escalate without risking open civil war among the Pillars. So we compromised. I was betrothed to Riser. The war ended. Phenex gained legitimacy, prestige, and a direct path to Grayfia's hand. And the elders stopped whispering about 'Lucifuge stagnation' and started whispering about 'Phenex inevitability.'"
Akeno's arms tightened around Arto from behind—protective, grounding. Rias continued—voice quieter now, almost confessional. "Grayfia-sama has refused every single Phenex overture for twenty years. Every banquet seat beside Razer. Every private audience. Every 'diplomatic gift' that was really a veiled proposal. She's been polite. She's been firm. But the pressure is mounting again. The elders are running out of patience. They want heirs. They want the Lucifuge name tied to Phenex immortality. And they're starting to talk about… consequences… if she continues to refuse."
Arto's free hand came up—covering Rias's where it still rested over his heart, holding the crimson Knight piece between them. "So Sirzechs suggested me after seeing your battle log inside Sector 1,"
Rias met his gaze without flinching. Her other hand rose—fingers splaying over the Abyssgard crest etched into the cover of the heavy tome resting on his nightstand. The book that had once been a Legion war manual, now the foundation of everything they were building together. "I know you don't like fighting anymore," she whispered, thumb brushing the worn embossed lines of the crest. "I know you're tired of holding the sword against death every night in your Dark Arena. I know you came here to rest—to build, to love, to finally stop bleeding for other people's ambitions."
Arto's smirk widened—slow, dangerous, the kind that hadn't crossed his face in centuries but still fit like an old, well-worn glove. The crimson Knight piece caught the lamplight between his fingers, turning it into a tiny, burning ember against the dark. "Are you asking the last leader of the Abyssgard Legion," he repeated, voice dropping into a register that made the shadows in the room feel heavier, "the sword and shield of countless political wars…to go back to his old job?"
Silence stretched—thick, electric, almost holy. Then Arto laughed—low, rough, genuine—the sound of a man who had thought that particular mantle was buried forever. He lifted the Knight piece between them—twirling it once, slowly, like a blade catching light. "Consider it done."
Rias's eyes shimmered—relief, gratitude, fierce pride all at once. "But I do need a new identity stepping into that meeting room," he continued, voice already shifting into operational mode—calm, tactical, the old commander surfacing without fanfare. "I'm sure Sirzechs can help."
"Definitely," Rias breathed, nodding quickly. "He'll give you a seat at the table as a new devil noble. A freshly ascended house—minor enough to be unthreatening, strong enough to command respect. No one will question it. Not with Sirzechs's seal behind it."
Arto's smirk returned—sharper now, edged with something almost hungry. "What's left…" he finished for her, voice dropping to a velvet growl, "…is me wiping the floor with any bastards who think they can breed Grayfia for power."
He leaned down—forehead pressing gently against hers, the crimson Knight piece still held between them like a vow. "Consider it done, my princess. Your knight is now on duty."
Rias's breath shuddered out—half-laugh, half-sob of relief—and she surged up to kiss him, hard and deep and grateful, fingers tangling in his hair as though anchoring him to this moment, to her, to them. When they broke apart, Arto turns to Akeno to see she is on her phone, texting Elias goodnight "How is the man, love?" Arto loops her arm around her waist and pulls her closer to him "Stopped trying to kill himself? More opened with stories?"
Akeno glanced up from her phone at Arto's question, violet eyes soft in the dim lamplight. The screen still glowed faintly with the chat window—Loreen Ravenna at the top, the last message from Elias sent just minutes ago:
Elias (23:41): Good night, Loreen. Thank you again. I put the drawer key under the lamp tonight. First time in years it hasn't been in my hand. Sleep well.
She let the phone screen dim and set it face-down on the nightstand before turning fully into Arto's embrace. His arm was already looping around her waist, pulling her flush against his side so she could tuck herself under his chin.
"Better," she murmured, voice low and warm against his throat. "Much better." Rias shifted on Arto's other side—propping herself on one elbow so she could see Akeno's face, her own expression a mix of gentle concern and quiet hope. Akeno continued—fingers idly tracing the edge of Arto's collarbone where the Stabilizer tattoo curved. "He put the gun away tonight. Not just in the drawer—in the drawer and under the lamp so he has to move something to reach it. That's… progress. He said it felt strange. Heavy. But he did it anyway."
Arto's hand settled on the small of her back—thumb moving in slow, soothing circles. "And the stories?" Akeno's fingers paused on the edge of Arto's collarbone, the faint silver-blue glow of the Stabilizer tattoo catching the dim lamplight like a quiet heartbeat. She exhaled softly—almost a sigh of relief she hadn't realized she was holding.
"He shared some lovely stories tonight," she continued, voice barely above a whisper so as not to wake Rias fully. "Little things. How his daughter used to steal his reading glasses and wear them upside down while pretending to read his reports. How his wife would hum off-key lullabies just to make him laugh when he came home exhausted. They sounded… warm. Real. The kind of memories that hurt because they're so beautiful."
Arto's thumb kept its slow circles on the small of her back—steady, grounding, never stopping.
"But he always circles back to the same thing," Akeno murmured. "He was always busy. Always. Meetings. Missions. Contracts. He told me tonight he can't remember the last time he sat with them for a whole evening without glancing at a clock or a message. That's his biggest regret. Not the fire itself—he knows accidents happen—but the years he gave away before the fire ever started. The years he could have had more of those upside-down glasses and off-key lullabies."
She swallowed—once, quietly. "So he tortured himself. Mentally with accusations that never stop. Physically with… whatever would hurt enough to feel like punishment. Whips. Electricity. Anything that made the outside match the inside. But tonight he said the drawer won again. And when he woke up from the dream about her laugh… the tears weren't just guilt this time. There was something else in them. Something lighter. Like he's starting to believe the memories can exist without the punishment attached."
Arto shifted—just enough to press his lips to the crown of her head. "He's lucky to have you listening," he said low, rough with sleep and sincerity. "Even if he doesn't know it's you." Akeno turned her face into the crook of his neck—breathing him in like he was the safest place in the world.
"I think… he's starting to suspect it might be someone who understands more than they should," she whispered. "He asked tonight if I've ever felt like the person on the other end of the messages knows exactly what it's like to wake up missing someone who isn't coming back. I told him yes. That sometimes the dark talks back… and it sounds like someone who's carried the same weight for too long."
She kissed the hollow of his throat—soft, grateful. "He said he's starting to believe the voice might care whether he makes it through the day. That maybe it isn't just polite words. Maybe it's… someone who really gets it." Rias—half-awake now—shifted closer, her hand finding Akeno's across Arto's chest and lacing their fingers together over his heart. "He's right," she murmured sleepily. "Someone does care. Very much."
Akeno's smile trembled—small, real, tear-bright. "I know."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by the calendar flipping towards summer]
The final bell of the semester rang like liberation.
Kuoh Academy's hallways erupted into the usual chaos—lockers slamming, laughter echoing, students spilling out toward freedom—but in the quiet corner near the bulletin board outside the faculty office, a small group gathered under the posted ranking sheets like they were reading a prophecy instead of grades.
Rias, Akeno, Nami, Arto, and Sona stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the neatly printed list.
1st: Akeno Himejima – 100.00
2nd: Aruto Abyga – 100.00
3rd: Nami – 100.00
4th: Rias Gremory – 100.00
5th: Sona Sitri – 100.00
6th: Tsubaki Shinra – 100.00
(And then the rest of the peerages trailed behind with very respectable but mortal scores.)
Nami crossed her arms, staring at her own name like it had personally insulted her. "Stupid alphabet," she muttered. "A comes before N. That's literally the only reason I'm not first. If they sorted by score descending then name, I'd be tied for first. This is discrimination against oranges."
Rias snorted—trying and failing to keep a straight face. "You aced everything. Again. Without studying. You're allowed to be smug about it."
"I'm not smug," Nami lied instantly. "I'm offended. These tests were insultingly easy. The math section? Basic compound interest and probability distributions? I do harder mental math while eating breakfast. There should be differential equations. Game theory. At least one question about arbitrage in multi-dimensional mana markets. Something. Anything."
A few nearby second-years shuffled past with slumped shoulders and hollow eyes, clearly having just discovered their own scores. One boy actually whimpered when he saw the 100s lined up like a firing squad. Arto reached over without looking and gently clamped his palm over Nami's mouth. "Shhh," he murmured. "They're already dead inside. Don't kick them while they're down."
Nami made an indignant muffled noise against his hand but didn't fight it. Her eyes sparkled with mischief over his fingers. Rias leaned sideways to stage-whisper at her. "You're thirty. You're a financial warlord who just strong-armed two Pillar Houses into a generational monopoly. You're allowed to be better at math than high-school exams. Let the children have their moment of despair."
Nami peeled Arto's hand away with exaggerated dignity. "First: I'm seventeen when I walk through these gates. Second: I earned this smugness. Third: if the school board ever wants to make a test that actually challenges me, they know where to find me." She tapped her temple. "I'll write it myself. For free. Because I'm generous like that."
Akeno laughed—bright and delighted—looping her arm through Nami's. "You're insufferable. I love it." Sona—standing a respectful half-step behind—adjusted her glasses with a tiny, amused sigh. "Congratulations to all of you. Perfect scores across the board is… statistically improbable. But not surprising."
Tsubaki appeared beside her—quiet, smiling faintly. "The rest of us are merely human. Please don't rub it in too hard." Koneko wandered up last—tiny, expressionless. "Math was boring," she deadpanned. "No mochi questions." Nami gasped—clutching her chest. "Betrayal from my favorite gremlin."
Arto finally stepped between them—hands raised like a referee calling time. "Enough gloating. Exams are over. Semester's done. Vacation starts tomorrow. Underworld first—mandatory Gremory estate visit—then we vote on the rest. Beach? Mountains? Hot springs? All of it if we want."
He glanced at Nami. "And no—before you ask—we are not turning the vacation into a mobile investment seminar." Nami pouted—dramatic, theatrical. "You wound me." Rias laughed—bright, relieved—and linked her arm through Arto's. "Come on. Let's go home. We've got packing to do… and a certain someone needs to stop terrorizing the student body with her genius."
Nami grinned—sharp, unrepentant. "Genius is a public service. They should be grateful."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Rias typing on her laptop]
The mansion's rooftop terrace had become the unofficial "war room" for Rias's most ambitious project yet.
Late afternoon sun slanted golden across the low table where the laptop screen glowed with the near-final draft of her article. The title sat centered in stark black font:
The Butterfly Effect in Spellcraft: Methodical Output Modulation through Micro-Adjustments to Foundational Sigils
Rias sat cross-legged on a cushion, chewing her lower lip as she reread the abstract for the fifteenth time. Arto lounged beside her—back against the railing, one knee drawn up, reading over her shoulder with the quiet intensity he reserved for battle plans and spell derivations. Akeno sprawled on her stomach on the other side, chin propped on her hands, occasionally reaching over to steal a strawberry from the fruit plate Robin had left earlier.
Nami—perched on the edge of a chaise with her own laptop—had been pretending to check royalty statements for the last twenty minutes but was clearly eavesdropping. Robin stood at the railing—arms folded, watching the city skyline—quietly amused by the tension radiating off Rias in waves.
Rias finally closed the laptop with a soft click. "I think… it's ready." Arto nodded once—slow, thoughtful. "It's strong. The core argument is elegant: small, deliberate perturbations in foundational sigils can produce outsized, predictable changes in spell output. You grounded it in real data—your own live casts in Sector 3, cross-referenced against historical logs Robin gave you. The math holds. The examples are clear. The implications are… significant."
He paused—then added the part she needed to hear most. "And you did it without my name anywhere in the text. Not even an acknowledgment. Exactly as we agreed." Rias exhaled—shaky, relieved. "I still feel like I'm stealing your work."
"You're not," Arto said firmly. "You took the translation I did—the rough adaptation I threw together in days—and you found the deeper pattern. The butterfly effect in sigil structure. That insight is yours. The methodology is yours. The proposal for systematic modulation—that's yours. I gave you the alphabet. You wrote the poem."
Akeno reached over—squeezed Rias's knee. "And it's brilliant. You're going to be the youngest scholar ever published in Magic at seventeen. The Institute hasn't accepted anyone that young since… well, probably never. This isn't just an article. It's a coronation."
Nami finally looked up from her screen—smirking. "Assuming the peer review doesn't eat you alive. They're going to be brutal. You're young, you're female, you're from Gremory—they'll assume nepotism even though your name's the only one on it. Expect at least three rounds of revisions. Expect questions that feel like interrogations. Expect them to demand raw data, full simulation logs, even live casting demonstrations if they're feeling particularly sadistic."
Rias swallowed—then straightened her spine. "I'm ready. I've already drafted responses to the most likely counter-arguments. I've triple-checked every derivation. If they want data, I'll give them everything Sector 3 recorded. If they want live casts… I'll do them in front of the council if I have to."
Robin turned from the railing—smile small but warm. "That's the spirit. They'll test you because they have to. A paper this bold from someone your age threatens centuries of established theory. But if you hold your ground—if you defend every line with the same clarity you showed in the test—they won't just publish you. They'll celebrate you."
Arto reached over—covered Rias's hand where it rested on the closed laptop. "You don't need my name on it," he said quietly. "You never did. This is your work. Your voice. Your contribution to the next page of the book we're all writing together."
He squeezed once—gentle but firm. "Submit it. Let them question you. Let them try to tear it apart. And when they can't—when they see what you've built—they'll have no choice but to recognize you." Rias met his eyes—emerald steady now, no more doubt. "I will."
She opened the laptop again—navigated to the Institute of Magic's submission portal—and hovered the cursor over "Upload Manuscript." Akeno leaned in—chin on Rias's shoulder. "Ready to make history, princess?" Rias smiled—small, fierce, certain. "Ready."
Her finger clicked. The manuscript uploaded. A soft confirmation chime echoed across the terrace. Somewhere in the Underworld, in the ancient halls of the Institute of Magic—founded in the late 14th century, older than Nature, more prestigious than any mortal journal—an automated system registered the submission:
Title: The Butterfly Effect in Spellcraft: Methodical Output Modulation through Micro-Adjustments to Foundational Sigils
Author: Rias Gremory
Age at Submission: 17
Status: Under Review