Chapter 27 - The meeting

3rd Person POV

The four women emerged from the sleeping carriage in a loose, satisfied cluster—hair tousled in that post-sleep way that somehow looked intentional on all of them, skin glowing faintly from whatever dream-work they'd been doing, matching soft smiles that spoke of secrets shared and victories won.

Rias led the way, barefoot, still in her oversized sleep-shirt that belonged to Arto. Akeno followed close behind, stretching like a cat in sunlight, violet nightgown slipping off one shoulder. Robin came third—serene as ever, hair already neatly re-braided, though her usual composure carried an unusual lightness. Nami brought up the rear, yawning hugely, orange hair a glorious mess, wearing nothing but one of Arto's black dress shirts that reached mid-thigh on her.

They all collapsed into the seats around Arto's table with various degrees of grace—Rias curling immediately into his side, Akeno draping herself across his lap sideways, Robin taking the seat opposite with perfect posture, Nami sprawling in the remaining chair like she owned it.

Arto—still nursing the same cup of tea he'd been holding for the last hour—raised one eyebrow at the collective glow of satisfaction radiating from them. "…Okay," he said slowly, setting the cup down. "What exactly did the four of you do in there that has you all looking like you just won the lottery and got away with it?"

Rias laughed softly against his shoulder. "We succeeded," she said simply. "The dream experiment worked. We all built our own dreamscapes." Arto's brow lifted higher. "Explain."

Akeno propped her chin on his chest, grinning up at him. "Rias made a simple house—her old bedroom in the Gremory estate, but softer. Sunlight through the curtains, the smell of her mother's baking, the sound of Millicas laughing somewhere downstairs. Safe. Warm. Home."

Rias nodded against him. "Nami built an island," Akeno continued. "Gold beaches, pearl sand, treasure vaults carved into cliffs, a mansion made of coins and jewels. She spent half the dream swimming in a literal money pool."

Nami preened without shame. "Robin's was a library," Akeno said, glancing at the raven-haired woman with obvious fondness. "Endless shelves under starlight, comfortable chairs that remember your favorite reading position, every book she's ever wanted to read or re-read waiting exactly where she expects to find it." Robin inclined her head—small, pleased smile. "And mine…" Akeno's voice softened, turning almost reverent. "A sakura garden. Endless pink petals falling like slow snow, a wooden bridge over a koi pond, a small Shinto shrine at the center. Peaceful. Eternal spring. I could feel my mother's lullabies on the wind."

"But we were separate. We couldn't reach each other." Akeno's grin returned—brighter, mischievous. "Until I did."

She sat up straighter in his lap, hands gesturing animatedly. "In my garden there's a temple. Inside the temple are torii gates—red, sacred, glowing. One gate for every dream I can reach. Three, in this case: Rias's house, Nami's island, Robin's library. I walked through them. One by one. I visited each land, talked to each of them, brought back little souvenirs—Rias's favorite teacup, a gold coin from Nami's vault, one of Robin's rarest books. Then I went back to my temple…"

She paused for dramatic effect. "…and I danced." Rias groaned fondly. "She danced. Full shrine maiden regalia, bells, fan, the whole ritual." Akeno ignored the interruption, eyes sparkling. "I prayed to Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto—the moon god, guardian of night and dreams. I asked him to pull the separated lands into one. To weave them together so we could all stand in the same place. And… somehow… it worked."

She spread her hands. "The garden grew bridges of moonlight. The house extended verandas that touched the island's shore. The library's shelves became part of the temple walls. Nami's treasure vaults turned into glowing lanterns hanging from the sakura trees. Everything merged into one single, shared dreamscape. Four pieces, one land. And as long as at least one of us is asleep, the whole place stays solid."

Robin—still seated across from them—leaned forward, elbows on knees, looking more fascinated than Arto had ever seen her. "I still can't fully explain the mechanism," she admitted. "Dream-walking between separate minds is rare. Connecting them permanently into a stable shared space is… unprecedented, at least in any record I've encountered. The torii gates acting as portals makes mythological sense—sacred gateways between realms—but the dance, the prayer to Tsukuyomi… that shouldn't have been enough. Yet it was."

She looked at Akeno with quiet awe. "You didn't just connect us. You anchored us. The shared space only collapses when all four of us wake. As long as one remains asleep, the sanctuary holds." Nami whistled low. "So basically… Akeno just invented group-dream real estate. With divine zoning permits." Akeno preened. "I'm very proud."

Rias shifted closer on the bench seat, her hand sliding up to rest over Arto's heart while she kept her eyes locked on his. "The dreamscape is stable now," she said quietly, almost reverently. "Four anchors. Four gates. Four pieces of us woven together so tightly that the shared land holds even when one of us wakes up. It's beautiful, Arto. Peaceful. Safe. The Arena can't find the edges anymore."

Akeno's fingers joined Rias's over his chest—warm, steady. "But there's still one thing missing," Akeno murmured against his ear. "You." Arto's brows lifted slowly. Rias continued before he could speak. "To pull you away from the Dark Arena's pull… we need to do it together. All of us. Sleeping with you. All four of us."

The compartment went very still.Arto blinked once—slowly—then looked from Rias to Akeno, then past them to Robin (who was calmly sipping tea like this was a normal Tuesday conversation) and finally to Nami (who had propped her chin on her hand and was grinning like she'd just won the jackpot). "Four," he repeated—voice flat, almost testing the number out loud. "As in… all four of you. In the same bed. With me."

Rias nodded—cheeks faintly pink but eyes unwavering. "Every night. Until the Arena stops reaching for you. Until you wake up in our garden instead of bleeding on obsidian. Until you can sleep through the night without tasting blood in the morning." Akeno's smirk was back—soft, teasing, but underpinned with something fiercely protective. "You already handle two of us just fine~" she purred, tracing idle circles on his collarbone. "Three would've been a stretch. Four… well, we'll just have to get creative with the blanket distribution."

Arto's gaze slid to Nami. "And you're… agreeing with this?" Nami shrugged one shoulder—casual as if they were discussing dinner plans. "Why not? I mean—" she spread her hands "—there's no clause in our contract that says 'CFO must maintain minimum 3-meter distance from CEO's bed at all times.' Handshake deals are very flexible like that."

Arto stared at her. Nami stared back—utterly unrepentant. "Look," she said, ticking points off on her fingers, "one: I'm already in the family group hug pile every other night anyway. Two: I'm not about to let Rias and Akeno have all the cuddly dreamscape real estate without me. Three: if we're building a permanent safe zone to protect you from your own head, I want in. Four—" her smirk turned downright wicked "—I look fantastic in silk pajamas. You'll thank me later."

Robin set her teacup down with a soft clink. "From a purely tactical standpoint," she added mildly, "four anchors are stronger than three. The dreamscape's stability scales nonlinearly with the number of conscious participants holding the weave. And since Nami is already emotionally invested in this family unit…" She gave a tiny, elegant shrug. "Why exclude an available and willing node?"

Arto looked at each of them in turn—Rias's earnest determination, Akeno's playful possessiveness, Robin's calm certainty, Nami's shameless opportunism—and finally let out a long, slow breath that was half-sigh, half-laugh. "You're all insane," he muttered. Rias leaned in—brushing her lips against his jaw. "We're yours," she corrected softly. "Insane or not."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by 4 lands merge into one]

The soft chime of the Crimson Line's announcement system echoed through the carriage—elegant, almost musical, carrying the unmistakable cadence of old demonic courtesy.

"Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests of House Gremory and House Sitri. We have now entered Sitri territory. The next stop is the Sitri family estate. Passengers disembarking here, please prepare for arrival in five minutes. We thank you for traveling with the Crimson Line."

The train slowed imperceptibly—still silent, still smooth—as the crimson skies outside the windows deepened into the familiar indigo hue of Sitri lands, dotted with glowing mana-lanterns and distant spires of pale blue crystal. The compartment door slid open with a whisper of oiled metal.

Sona stood framed in the doorway—summer dress fluttering slightly in the draft from the corridor—her peerage arrayed behind her like a quiet honor guard. Tsubaki at her right shoulder, Momo and Reya close behind, Tsubasa and Tomoe bringing up the rear. They all looked relaxed, content, a little sleepy from the journey, but their eyes brightened the moment they saw the group inside.

Sona offered a small, composed bow—more formality than necessity. "Thank you for the shared journey," she said, voice clear and warm. "It was… pleasant to travel together." Her gaze settled on Arto—steady, respectful, but carrying the quiet intensity of someone who had spent the night thinking about macro-mana governance and the man who might help her write it into existence.

"Arto," she continued, stepping forward just enough to make the invitation personal, "once your business in the Gremory domain is concluded… I would like to invite you to visit the Sitri estate. My peerage would be delighted to host you again. They've spoken of you often—your lessons, your patience, the way you explain things that once felt impossible. They miss their teacher."

Behind her, Momo and Reya nodded vigorously; Tsubasa offered a small, genuine smile; Tomoe bowed her head in quiet agreement. Sona's lips curved—just a fraction. "My parents also wish to see you again. They were… quite impressed by the Simulation Room demonstration and the Stabilizer's implications."

Arto rose smoothly—setting his phone aside—and inclined his head in return. "I'd be honored," he said simply. "Once the summit is over, I'll come. I'd like to hear more about your chapter proposal in person anyway. Diagrams on paper are one thing. Seeing how you think about it in real space… that's another."

Sona's composure flickered with quiet satisfaction. "Thank you. We'll prepare a proper workshop for you. And… perhaps some quiet time away from politics." Tsubaki stepped forward—offering a small, respectful bow. "We look forward to it, Arto-sensei."

The peerage echoed soft agreements—murmurs of "thank you," "see you soon," "safe travels." Arto inclined his head—once, deeply. "Noted. Thank you, everyone." One by one, Sona's peerage bowed—then turned and stepped out into the corridor, disappearing toward their own carriage.

[Timeskip: Brought to you chibi train of Crimson Line gliding across the screen]

The Crimson Line emerged from the final bank of clouds like a blade cutting through silk, and the full expanse of the Gremory domain unfolded beneath them in breathtaking clarity.

Arto stood at the window—hands braced on the sill—unable to look away.

Twenty years ago this land had been a wound: blackened craters from Phenex flame-storms, shattered spires, leyline scars that bled corrupted mana for years. He had seen the after-action reports, the reconstruction estimates measured in decades, the quiet despair in Zeoticus's voice when he spoke of "recoverable territory." Even the most optimistic projections had placed full recovery somewhere around the next century.

And yet… The ground below was building itself. Not in the slow, human way of brick-by-brick labor. In the living, breathing way of mana-infused architecture that learned, adapted, grew.

Skyscrapers rose in graceful spirals—facades of living crystal and self-healing mana-steel that shifted color with the sun, reflecting crimson skies in soft gradients of rose and gold. Flying thoroughfares wove between them like threads of light—personal mobility platforms, cargo drones, emergency response skiffs—all moving in perfect, silent harmony. No exhaust. No roar of engines. Just the faint, musical hum of mana induction coils and the whisper of anti-gravity fields.

In the lower districts, entire neighborhoods were being re-knit by autonomous builder swarms—tiny constructs no larger than birds that danced across ruined foundations, extruding fresh material from ambient mana and recycled rubble. Parks bloomed where craters once gaped—trees engineered to purify residual corruption, flowers that glowed softly at night like living lanterns.

And everywhere—everywhere—people. Children chasing glowing orbs on rooftop gardens. Couples walking hand-in-hand along sky-bridges. Workers directing construction drones with nothing more than gestures and intent. Daredevils on personal jet harnesses matching the train's speed for a few exhilarating seconds, waving wildly at the tinted windows before the automated warning klaxons shooed them away with polite but firm sonic pulses.

Arto's throat tightened. This wasn't just recovery. This was renaissance. Every clean line, every silent engine, every self-healing surface bore the fingerprints of the Stabilizer and the Simulation Room's output. Mana-efficient architecture. Zero-waste fabrication. Adaptive infrastructure that grew with the population's needs instead of being imposed upon them.

And nowhere—nowhere—was his name carved into a cornerstone. No statues. No plaques. No shouted praises echoing through the streets.

Just… better lives.

A child laughing on a rooftop as a tiny drone delivered a kite. An elderly couple sitting on a bench that adjusted its height and warmth to their comfort. A young healer directing a portable triage array that hadn't existed twenty years ago—saving someone who might otherwise have died.

He felt Rias step up behind him—arms slipping around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. "You did this," she whispered—voice thick with the same awe he felt. "Not alone. But you gave us the engine. The rest… we just dared to use it."

Akeno pressed against his other side—cheek to his, watching the same view. "They don't know your name," she murmured, "but they know your work. Every time a light turns on without wasting mana, every time a building heals itself overnight, every time a child grows up breathing clean air… that's you. That's the legacy you left without ever asking for credit...."

Nami's voice cut through the tender moment like a well-aimed dart—sharp, playful, and utterly shameless. "Blah, blah, blah… no shit, Sherlock." She leaned back against the opposite bench, legs crossed, arms folded behind her head in the universal posture of someone about to ruin a perfectly good heartfelt scene for fun. "Just look at his credit card and you'll see credit, girls. Don't get all sentimental about Arto being a selfless generic hero. He's benefiting in his own way."

Rias lifted her head from Arto's shoulder so fast her hair whipped Akeno in the cheek. "Nami!"

Akeno rubbed her face but was already giggling. Nami just grinned wider—completely unrepentant. "What? I'm the only one brave enough to say it out loud?" She pointed one manicured finger at Arto without moving from her sprawl. "You think this man built the Stabilizer and the Simulation Room out of the pure goodness of his heart? Please. He's sitting on the biggest passive-income printer in the Underworld. Every light that turns on, every building that heals itself, every kid breathing clean air—he gets a royalty cut. Tiny percentage? Sure. But tiny percentage of trillions is still a very comfortable number with a lot of zeros."

She spread her hands like she was displaying a winning hand. "He's not selfless. He's strategically generous. Big difference. He didn't just give the world a gift—he gave it a subscription service he quietly owns the backend of. And honestly? Respect. That's how you win at life."

Silence for half a heartbeat. Then Rias burst out laughing—head dropping forward onto Arto's chest again, shoulders shaking. Akeno joined her—bright, delighted peals that filled the compartment. Robin covered her mouth—eyes crinkling at the corners.

Even Arto—still staring out at the glowing landscape below—let out a low, rough chuckle that vibrated through his whole frame. He reached over without looking and flicked Nami's forehead—light, affectionate. "You're the worst." Nami caught his wrist mid-flick and kissed the back of his hand with exaggerated drama. "And you love me for it, boss. Admit it. I'm the only one who'll call you out when you're busy being tragically noble."

Rias lifted her head—wiping at her eyes, still giggling. "She's not wrong, though. You are getting paid. A lot. Quietly. Very quietly." Arto shrugged—smirk returning. "I never said I was poor." Akeno leaned in—kissing the corner of his jaw. "Our sugar daddy with a heart of gold~"

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto swimming in a sea of gold]

The Crimson Line slowed to a whisper-soft halt at Runeas Central Station—the beating heart of the Gremory domain—with the same graceful silence it had maintained the entire journey. A final, melodic chime sounded through the carriages:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at Runeas Central Station, capital of the Gremory domain. All passengers for this stop, please disembark. Thank you for choosing the Crimson Line. Safe travels."

Outside the windows, the station platform unfolded like a living tapestry: crimson marble floors veined with molten gold, towering columns carved to resemble entwined dragons, mana-lanterns floating in lazy orbits overhead like captive stars. Uniformed Gremory retainers stood at perfect intervals—black-and-crimson livery immaculate—ready to receive their lady and her guests.

Arto rose first, stretching once to loosen the stiffness from hours of sitting. He glanced toward the rear of the carriage where Rias had already slipped away. "I'll handle the staff," he said quietly to Akeno, Robin, and Nami. "Go help Rias wrangle the sleepyheads."

Akeno blew him a kiss as she followed Rias down the corridor. Robin offered a small nod of acknowledgment. Nami just grinned and saluted lazily before sauntering after them. Arto stepped into the vestibule where Old Man Haru waited—cap in hand, posture straight as ever.

The old inspector bowed deeply as Arto approached. "Lord Arto," Haru said with quiet respect, using the cover identity without missing a beat. "It has been our honor to serve you and the ladies." Arto returned the bow—shallow but sincere. "Thank you, Haru. For the smooth ride, the excellent service, and for making sure no one was disturbed. The Gremory Line still sets the standard."

Haru's eyes crinkled at the corners—pleased, but too disciplined to show too much. "You honor us. The Line remembers its friends… and its debts." Arto clasped the older man's forearm briefly—warrior to warrior. "Safe journeys back," he said. "And tell the crew… they have my thanks."

Haru bowed again—deeper this time. "Until the next ride, my lord." Arto stepped down onto the platform just as Rias and Akeno returned—each towing one very sleepy peerage member. Kiba was blinking hard, hair mussed on one side, trying to finger-comb it back into place while simultaneously yawning. Koneko—still half-asleep—had simply latched onto Rias's side like a koala. Her eyes were open, but only technically.

Rias laughed softly—adjusting Koneko's grip so the younger girl didn't trip. "They slept through three time zones," she explained, amused. "I had to threaten no mochi for a week to get them moving." Akeno ruffled Kiba's hair—earning a half-hearted swat. "They'll wake up properly once they smell Venelana-sama's cooking."

Outside the station entrance, a sleek black limousine waited—Gremory crest gleaming on the hood, crimson-and-gold pennants fluttering from the fenders. Two retainers stood at attention beside the open rear doors. Arto guided the group forward—Koneko still clinging to Rias, Kiba finally managing to look halfway presentable. As they approached, the senior retainer bowed deeply. "Lady Rias. Lady Akeno. Lord Arto. Honored guests. The estate is prepared. Lady Venelana awaits your arrival."

Rias smiled—warm, regal. "Thank you. Let's go home." They piled into the limo—Koneko immediately claiming the spot between Rias and Arto, Akeno sliding in on Arto's other side, Robin and Nami taking the opposite bench. The doors closed with a soft, expensive thunk.

The car pulled away smoothly—gliding through Runeas's wide boulevards lined with mana-lanterns and blooming nightshade trees. Inside, the atmosphere was warm, sleepy, anticipatory. Koneko yawned hugely—then mumbled against Arto's arm: "Food soon?"

Arto chuckled—ruffling her hair. "Soon, kitten. Venelana's chefs are waiting."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by a limousine crossing the screen]

The Crimson Line's final stop at Runeas Central Station gave way to a short, smooth transfer: a sleek black limousine already waiting at the private platform exit, Gremory crest gleaming under the crimson sky. The ride through the capital's wide boulevards—past mana-lit towers, floating gardens, and streets alive with quiet evening bustle—was brief but breathtaking.

Then the mansion appeared. Not a mansion. A palace-city.

The Gremory estate dominated the skyline at the heart of Runeas like a crimson crown: multiple wings radiating outward from a central spire that pierced the clouds, walls of living mana-crystal veined with gold, gardens suspended in mid-air on invisible leyline platforms, towers that spiraled like frozen flame. From the limousine's tinted windows, Arto watched it grow larger and larger until scale itself lost meaning. The place could have housed an entire town—easily. Barracks, ballrooms, libraries, training fields, private lakes, even what looked like a small coliseum tucked into one quadrant. It made the "mansion" they lived in back in the human world look like a modest townhouse.

"How many people live here?" Arto asked—voice low, almost disbelieving—as the limo glided through the massive front gates.

Rias—sitting beside him, head on his shoulder—laughed softly.

"Currently? About forty to fifty full-time residents. My parents, Millicas and Yelena, a few aunts and uncles who prefer the central estate, and the core household staff. Everyone else—cousins, distant relatives, branch families—lives in their own estates across the domain. They govern their own cities, their own regions. This place only fills up completely during grand clan summits, succession ceremonies, or when the entire family needs to gather under one roof for safety or ritual."

Arto stared out the window as they passed row after row of manicured gardens, fountains that danced without water, statues that shifted poses when no one was looking. "So most of it is… empty?"

"Most of it," Rias confirmed. "The staff keeps it pristine. They rotate in shifts, maintain the enchantments, tend the grounds. It's less about daily life and more about legacy. A statement. When the Gremory family gathers here, the Underworld is reminded who we are."

The limousine rolled to a gentle stop at the grand entrance: a sweeping double staircase of polished obsidian and crimson marble, flanked by two towering statues of winged lions whose eyes glowed softly with internal mana.

As the doors opened, two perfect lines of household staff—maids in black-and-crimson uniforms, butlers in tailcoats—formed instantly along the stairs and entrance hall. They bowed in perfect unison as Rias stepped out first. "Welcome home, Lady Rias."

"Welcome home, honored guests." The voices overlapped in a soft, harmonious wave. Arto followed—still processing the sheer scale—then paused as the lines parted slightly to reveal two familiar figures at the top of the stairs.

Venelana Gremory—elegant in a flowing crimson gown—stood beside Zeoticus, who wore a simple but impeccably tailored black suit. Millicas bounced on his toes between them, waving frantically, while Yelena Lucifuge—silver hair pinned in a flawless chignon, black maid uniform pristine—stood one step behind, hands folded, expression calm but warm.

Venelana descended first—arms open. "My darling girl," she said, pulling Rias into a tight embrace. "And all of you—welcome home." Millicas bolted down the stairs next—straight into Arto's legs. "Uncle Arto! You're here! Did you bring mochi?!"

Arto laughed—lifting the boy easily into his arms. "No mochi this time, little man. But I brought your aunts. That's better, right?" Millicas nodded vigorously—then spotted Akeno and reached for her next. Yelena approached more slowly—bowing deeply to the group, then straightening to meet Arto's eyes. "Lord Arto Abyssgard," she said—voice smooth, respectful, using the cover name without hesitation. "The household is prepared for your stay. Your rooms are ready. If there is anything you require…"

Arto inclined his head. "Thank you, Lady Yelena. For the hospitality… and for everything else." Yelena's expression softened—just a fraction. "The honor is ours."

Yelena stepped aside with perfect grace, gesturing toward the woman beside Venelana.

"Lord Arto Abyssgard," she said, voice carrying the same calm authority as always, "allow me to introduce my younger sister—Grayfia Lucifuge."

Grayfia inclined her head—deeply, formally—silver hair spilling forward like liquid moonlight before she straightened again. Up close, the resemblance to Yelena was striking: the same elegant bone structure, the same flawless posture, the same black maid uniform tailored to perfection. But where Yelena's eyes were a cool, piercing blue, Grayfia's were a deep, smoldering crimson—sharp enough to cut through steel, yet somehow carrying a quiet, guarded stillness.

Her long hair reached past her waist in a single, thick braid, the tip swaying gently as she moved. She offered a small, polite smile—professional, composed, revealing nothing. "A pleasure to meet you, Lord Arto Abyssgard," she said. Her voice was smooth, measured, carrying the faintest trace of frost that made every word feel deliberate. "My sister has spoken of you. Welcome to the Gremory estate."

Arto returned the bow—shallow but respectful—masking the sudden jolt that ran through him. The woman he had been texting for days—the one who had slowly begun to open up about regrets, loneliness, and the weight of duty—was standing right in front of him. And she had no idea.

The name "Arasto Atreides" had never crossed her lips here. The mask, the altered voice, the fabricated crest—none of it was present. To her, he was simply Arto Abyssgard: the human who had somehow earned the trust of House Gremory, the one Yelena had quietly vouched for, the one standing beside Rias like he belonged there.

He met her crimson gaze—steady, calm—and inclined his head again. "The honor is mine, Lady Grayfia." No flicker of recognition. No narrowing of eyes. No sudden tension in her shoulders. Just polite curiosity and the same careful distance she had shown in every text message… until the very last ones, when the walls had begun to thin.

Rias—standing close to his side—slipped her hand into his and squeezed once. Akeno—on his other side—leaned in just enough to brush her shoulder against his arm, a silent we're here.

Venelana stepped forward—warm smile breaking the formality. "Come," she said, gesturing toward the grand staircase. "You must all be tired from the journey. Rooms are prepared, baths are drawn, and dinner will be served in two hours. Millicas has already insisted on sitting beside 'Uncle Arto' tonight."

Millicas—still clinging to Akeno's hand—nodded vigorously. "Uncle Arto sits next to me! And Aunt Akeno! And Aunt Rias! And—" Before Millicas could take another eager step toward his cool uncle Arto—arms already outstretched, tiny wings fluttering with excitement—he was suddenly intercepted mid-stride.

Robin moved first—swift, silent, graceful as always. One moment she was standing beside Nami; the next she had scooped Millicas up into her arms with the practiced ease of someone who had handled far more dangerous things than a bouncing toddler. The boy let out a delighted squeak as he was lifted skyward.

Nami was right behind her—laughing brightly as she stepped in and claimed Millicas's other side, turning the lift into a shared hug-swing. "Gotcha, little prince!" Nami crowed, tickling his ribs just enough to make him giggle helplessly. "You thought you could run straight to Uncle Arto without paying auntie tax first? Rookie mistake!"

Millicas squirmed—half-protesting, half-thrilled—his small hands grabbing at Nami's orange hair while he kicked his legs in pure joy. Robin cradled him securely against her chest, smiling down at him with that soft, almost maternal warmth she rarely showed anyone outside this family circle. "We didn't get to spoil you properly the first time we met," she said quietly, brushing a stray lock of red hair out of his eyes. "Back then it was all tests and chaos in Sector 1. Now… no duties. No schedules. Just you, and us, and as much spoiling as a growing boy can handle."

Millicas beamed—gap-toothed and incandescent. "Auntie Robin! Auntie Nami! Can we play? Can we play the flying game? Can Auntie Nami make gold rain again?!" Nami laughed—bright, delighted—and bounced him once in her arms. "Gold rain coming right up! But only if you say 'pretty please, coolest aunties in the Underworld' first."

"Pretty please, coolest aunties in the Underworld!!" Robin's smile widened as she adjusted her hold, letting Millicas perch comfortably on her hip. "Deal sealed." Rias—watching from Arto's side—laughed softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "They've been waiting for this moment since the first time they saw him," she murmured. "Robin especially. She's never said it out loud, but she's always wanted to be someone's gentle aunt."

Akeno slipped her arm through Arto's—smiling with quiet fondness. "And Nami just wants to be the fun aunt who teaches him how to count money before he can count to ten." Arto watched Robin and Nami carry Millicas toward the grand staircase—Nami already conjuring tiny, harmless golden sparkles that drifted down like coins from nowhere, Millicas squealing in delight as he tried to catch them all.

Venelana—standing nearby with Zeoticus—smiled warmly. "They'll be fine," she said. "Let them have their fun. Dinner won't be ready for another hour. Plenty of time for aunties to spoil their nephew rotten." Yelena—standing a respectful step behind—inclined her head. "I'll make sure the kitchen prepares extra sweets. Master Millicas has… particular tastes."

Grayfia—still standing beside her sister—watched the scene with quiet, unreadable eyes. But the corner of her mouth lifted—just a fraction—when Millicas turned in Robin's arms and waved frantically at her. "Auntie Grayfia! Come play too!"

[Gremory mansion's bathhouse]

The grand bathhouse of the Gremory main mansion was a marvel even by Underworld standards.

A vast domed chamber of polished black marble veined with crimson, lit by floating orbs that drifted lazily overhead like captive fireflies. The central pool—large enough to swim laps in—was fed by a cascading waterfall that poured from the open maw of a carved lion's head high in the ceiling. Steam rose in gentle spirals, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine and healing herbs. Along the edges were tiered benches of heated stone, trays of chilled fruit and chilled Underworld wine already waiting, and soft towels folded into perfect swans.

Venelana sank into the steaming water first—sighing with pure maternal contentment as the heat soaked into her shoulders. Grayfia and Yelena followed a step behind, both still in their maid uniforms until the last moment before they shed them with practiced efficiency and slipped in. Rias, Akeno, Koneko, Nami, and Robin entered last—already down to towels or bare skin, laughing softly at some private joke from the changing room.

The moment Rias stepped into the water, Venelana's eyes sharpened. "Come here, darling," she said, beckoning with one manicured hand. Rias obeyed—wading over until she stood directly in front of her mother. Venelana reached out without preamble—fingers tracing the newly defined lines of Rias's abdomen, the corded strength in her shoulders, the lean power in her arms and thighs.

"My word," Venelana murmured—half awe, half concern. "This isn't the body of a noble heiress anymore. This is… a soldier. A special-forces operative. Someone drilled you like a legionnaire." Rias gave a small, sheepish smile—letting her mother continue the inspection. "Arto's Abyssgard regimen," she admitted. "For months. Strength, endurance, mana efficiency, combat conditioning. He didn't hold back. Said I needed to be unbreakable… just in case."

Venelana's fingers paused over the faint scars along Rias's ribs—marks from training blades and controlled mana burns. "And now?" Rias shrugged—small, almost shy. "Now I'm trying to train less. Eat more. Gain some softness back." She glanced toward the doorway where Arto had disappeared with Kiba and the staff to handle luggage. "He wants me softer to hug in bed. Says the warrior body is impressive, but the princess body is what he misses most at night."

Venelana's expression melted—pure maternal fondness. "Good man," she said softly. "Very good man." Across the pool, Koneko had already been captured. Nami—wearing nothing but a mischievous grin—had wrapped both arms around the Nekomata from behind and refused to let go.

"Koneko-chan~" Nami sang, nuzzling into white hair. "You're so strong now, look at these little abs! But you still can't escape big sis Nami's cuddle power!" Koneko squirmed—half-hearted, but made no real effort to break free. "…Nami-oneechan's grip is stronger than gravity training…" Akeno—floating nearby—laughed brightly. "I'm in the same boat. Endurance, flexibility, speed—everything a naginata user needs. No heavy legionnaire bulking. I stayed… me. Just faster. Stretchier." 

Venelana's gaze shifted to Nami and Robin—both of whom had slipped into the water with far less muscle definition and far more deliberate softness. "You two, however…" Venelana tilted her head, appraising. "Still beautifully feminine. No legionnaire hardening. No visible battle wear." Nami cracked one eye open. "CFO privileges. I crunch numbers, not iron. Robin's the same—intel work, research, long nights arguing magical theory with Arto. No time for full legionnaire grind. We keep the softness. It's strategic."

Robin smiled—small, self-possessed—letting the water lap at her collarbones. "Different roles. Different training. Arto never forced the regimen on us. He knew we'd break ourselves trying to keep up. So we adapted it. Flexibility for me. Cardio and core for Nami. Enough to stay sharp… without losing what makes us us."

The grand bathhouse fell into a quieter rhythm as the initial chatter about travel and training faded. The steam curled thicker now, carrying the faint scent of Underworld herbs and mineral springs. Venelana leaned back against the smooth marble edge, eyes half-lidded, but her gaze kept drifting toward her sister-in-law.

Grayfia sat a little apart from the others—knees drawn up, arms loosely wrapped around them, silver hair plastered dark against her back and shoulders. The water lapped gently at her collarbones. She hadn't spoken more than three sentences since entering the bath, and each one had been polite, clipped, distant.

Yelena sat closest to her—close enough that their shoulders almost touched—silently rinsing Grayfia's long braid with careful hands, working conditioner through the strands the way she had when they were both children. The gesture was wordless, intimate, protective.

It was Venelana who finally broke the hush. "The summit is in four days," she said softly—voice carrying just far enough to reach everyone without sounding forced. "The elders have already sent the formal summons. They're not even pretending it's optional anymore."

Grayfia's shoulders tensed—just a fraction—but she didn't look up. Yelena's fingers never faltered in her sister's hair. "They want heirs," Yelena said—voice flat, matter-of-fact, but carrying the weight of someone who had already fought this battle once and lost. "Lucifuge blood is too valuable to 'waste' on celibacy. Yelena has Sirzechs. Millicas exists. So the pressure falls on the younger sister. Always has."

Akeno—floating on her back nearby—let her head tip sideways until she could see Grayfia's profile. "And the leading candidate is still… Razer Phenex." It wasn't a question. Grayfia's crimson eyes finally lifted—slowly, heavily. "Yes."

Rias—sitting on the opposite edge, knees tucked under her chin—winced. "The same Razer who orchestrated the war against us twenty years ago," she said quietly. "The one who used the conflict to raise his own standing, to force Father into the marriage contract with Riser, to paint himself as the only man strong enough to 'tame' a Lucifuge."

Grayfia's lips pressed into a thin line. "He didn't orchestrate it alone. But he was the public face. The one who smiled for the elders while his allies burned Gremory fields and bled our borders. And now… the elders see him as proven. Ruthless. Capable. Immortal bloodline. Perfect match for the last Lucifuge daughter who hasn't yet produced an heir."

Venelana's voice turned hard—rare anger flickering beneath her usual warmth. "They're not even hiding the math anymore. 'Phenex regeneration + Lucifuge raw power = unstoppable descendants.' They speak of Grayfia like she's a pedigree mare at auction."

Yelena's hands stilled in Grayfia's hair. "They've been speaking of her that way since she came of age," she said—voice dangerously quiet. "I escaped it because Sirzechs chose me before they could arrange anything worse. Grayfia… had no such shield."

Grayfia finally spoke—voice low, controlled, but carrying the faintest tremor. "I've refused every proposal for twenty years. Every banquet seat beside Razer. Every private audience. Every 'gift' that came with strings. I've been polite. I've been firm. But the elders are done being patient. They're talking about invoking old clan clauses. 'Duty to the bloodline.' 'The continuation of the house.' They're preparing to make refusal… difficult."

Akeno drifted closer—slowly—until she could rest her chin on the edge of the pool near Grayfia. "And the summit is the deadline," she said gently. Grayfia nodded—once. "If I refuse again… they will not ask a fourth time. They will decide for me."

[Gremory mansion's dining hall]

The grand dining hall of the Gremory estate was already alive with quiet, purposeful movement when Arto and Kiba stepped through the arched doorway.

Long crimson banners hung from the vaulted ceiling, embroidered with the roaring lion crest in threads of molten gold that seemed to shift and breathe in the candlelight. Three massive chandeliers—each one a constellation of floating mana-orbs—cast a warm, living glow over the polished obsidian table that could easily seat fifty. Servants in immaculate black-and-crimson livery moved like shadows, adjusting silverware, folding napkins into perfect fans, arranging crystal goblets that caught the light like captured rubies.

At the far end of the hall stood Lord Zeoticus Gremory himself—sleeves of his fine black shirt rolled to the elbows, apron tied around his waist—directing the final placement of the centerpiece: a towering arrangement of night-blooming roses and glowing star-lilies that shifted color in slow, hypnotic waves.

He didn't need to raise his voice. A single gesture, a quiet word, and the servants adjusted a plate half a millimeter to the left with perfect synchronization.

Arto and Kiba paused just inside the threshold—then stepped forward together. "Lord Zeoticus," Arto said, inclining his head with the exact degree of respect that acknowledged both the man's rank and the warmth of family. Kiba mirrored him—deeper bow, voice steady. "Good evening, my lord."

Zeoticus turned—face lighting with genuine pleasure the moment he saw them. "Arto. Kiba." He wiped his hands on the apron and strode forward, clasping Arto's forearm in a firm warrior's grip before pulling him into a brief, paternal embrace. "Welcome home, both of you."

He repeated the gesture with Kiba—adding a fond ruffle of the younger man's hair that made Kiba smile despite himself. Arto glanced toward the open doors of the attached kitchen—where the air carried the unmistakable scent of slow-roasted venison, spiced root vegetables, fresh-baked rosemary bread, and something sweeter underneath, perhaps caramelized fruit. "You're cooking tonight yourself?" Arto asked—genuine surprise coloring his tone.

Zeoticus laughed—deep, warm, unbothered. "I am. Venelana usually claims the kitchen when the family gathers, but tonight I wanted to remind everyone that Gremory men can hold their own with a knife and flame." He gestured toward the long table. "Besides… it's a special occasion. My daughter and her chosen family are home. My son-in-law-to-be is finally under my roof. And tomorrow…" His smile turned wry. "Tomorrow will be long enough. Tonight should be good food, good wine, and better company."

Kiba's eyes widened slightly. "You're really preparing the entire meal?" Zeoticus shrugged—almost boyish. "Not as hard as it looks. Rias sent me a few… gifts… from her studies with you." He tapped his temple. "Little spells. Automation runes etched into the countertops. Temperature-regulating charms on the ovens. Self-stirring pots. The kitchen practically cooks itself once I give it the starting command. I just have to taste, adjust, and pretend I did more work than I actually did."

Arto's mouth curved—small, impressed. "She never mentioned she'd modified your kitchen." Zeoticus chuckled. "She wanted it to be a surprise. Said you taught her how to make the runes self-adapting—so the spells learn the cook's preferences over time. My sauces have never been more consistent. My roasts have never been more tender. I told her she's wasted on combat training; she should open a magical culinary academy."

He clapped Arto on the shoulder—firm, grateful. "Whatever you've been teaching her… thank you. Not just for the spells. For giving my daughter something she loves that isn't war or duty. She glows when she talks about the book. About the work you do together. About you."

Arto inclined his head—quiet, sincere. "She's the one who makes it matter. I just gave her the tools." Zeoticus studied him for a moment—then smiled. "Come. Help me taste the reduction sauce before Venelana declares it 'too masculine' and adds more honey."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by Zeoticus cooking]

The dining hall of the Gremory estate was a vision of crimson and gold splendor under the floating chandeliers—long obsidian table polished to a mirror sheen, every place setting gleaming with silver and crystal, the air rich with the scents of slow-roasted venison, rosemary-infused bread, caramelized fruits, and spiced wine already breathing in decanters. Servants moved like silent shadows, placing the final dishes as the family and guests gathered.

Rias—now in a flowing evening gown of deep garnet silk that caught the light like liquid flame—sat to Arto's right. Akeno—violet dress shimmering with subtle starlight embroidery—took his left. Nami and Robin sat nearby, both radiant in their chosen summer-formal attire. Sona and her peerage were seated as honored guests, while Zeoticus presided at the head, Venelana at his side, Millicas bouncing excitedly between his parents, and Yelena and Grayfia positioned with quiet dignity near the family core.

As the last servant stepped back, Arto rose—slow, deliberate. The room stilled instantly. Even Millicas froze mid-bounce, wide eyes fixed on his cool uncle.

Arto cleared his throat once—then spoke, voice carrying without effort, warm but carrying the quiet authority that always made people listen. "Lord Zeoticus, Lady Venelana… thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you for opening your home to us tonight. For gathering your family, your time, your care—despite every duty and demand on your shoulders—to welcome us when we stepped off that train. To greet not just Rias and her peerage, but three humans who arrived with nothing but gratitude… and now leave with everything."

He paused—letting his gaze sweep the table: Zeoticus's steady nod, Venelana's warm smile, Millicas's eager grin, Yelena's quiet approval, Grayfia's calm crimson stare, Sona's attentive poise, and every face of the peerages who had become family. "That generosity deserves more than thanks. So before we eat—before we laugh, before we drink—I want to share two pieces of good news. One is praise for your daughter. One is a gift… for the family that believed in every impossible project I ever brought to your door."

He turned first to Rias—eyes softening as they met hers. "Rias Gremory," he said—voice dropping with quiet pride, "you have done nothing short of spectacular these past four months. Your body—stronger, sharper, more disciplined. Your senses—honed to a razor's edge. Your leadership—clearer, kinder, more decisive. Every mission record from the Gremory Stray Hunting Agency sings your name. Director Iroh has sent personal commendations to Lord Zeoticus praising not just your peerage's performance… but yours above all."

Zeoticus nodded—once, solemn, proud. "Iroh doesn't hand out praise lightly. He's called your team ' one of the finest units under my watch in twenty years.' And he reserves his highest words for you, Rias." Arto smiled—small, real. "But that's all secondary to the true wonder you achieved just two days ago."

He gestured toward her—open-palmed, almost reverent. "You submitted an original academic article to Magic—the oldest, most prestigious journal of the supernatural world, founded in the late 14th century, older than any mortal equivalent. Your topic: the Butterfly Effect in Spellcraft—how micro-adjustments to foundational sigils can produce massive, predictable changes in spell output. A systematic method to modulate power without rewriting entire formulas. Work born from your own insight… and from watching someone else adapt old knowledge to a new world."

Rias flushed—cheeks pink—but her chin lifted with quiet pride. The table erupted in soft, warm applause—Zeoticus and Venelana loudest of all. Arto waited until it faded. "The Institute will take weeks—perhaps months—to review it. They will question every line, demand every proof. But when they finish… they will see what I already know: Rias Gremory is not just a warrior, not just a leader. She is a scholar who will redefine how we understand the bones of magic itself. And at seventeen… she will become the youngest contributor ever published in Magic."

The dining hall quieted as Zeoticus set his goblet down with deliberate care, the soft clink echoing like a gavel. Venelana's hand paused mid-reach for a spoon, her eyes already shining with the kind of pride that only a mother can carry without apology. "Published in Magic," Zeoticus repeated slowly, as though tasting the words for the first time. "At seventeen. The youngest ever."

He looked at Rias—really looked—his stern, statesman's face cracking into something softer, almost boyish. "My daughter… an academic immortal." Venelana's laugh was watery and delighted; she pressed a palm to her chest as though to steady her heart.

"We knew you were brilliant, sweetheart. We've always known. But this…" She gestured helplessly toward Rias, toward the invisible weight of the journal's name hanging in the air. "This is legacy. Not the kind measured in territories or alliances. The kind that outlives empires."

Rias flushed—cheeks pink under the chandelier light—but she didn't look away. She simply reached sideways under the table and found Arto's hand, squeezing once. Zeoticus leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes narrowing with the sharp calculation of a clan head who had spent decades reading political currents. "What are the actual odds, Arto?" he asked—direct, but not doubting. "Magic rejects ninety percent of submissions from established masters. A first-time author—seventeen, no prior publications—how high are we really talking?"

Arto met his gaze without hesitation. "Near certain," he answered plainly. "I walked her through every line myself. Every derivation, every counter-argument she might face, every edge case the reviewers will try to weaponize. Sector 3 ran the live test cases—thousands of controlled casts, full logs, raw data. Celine handled the statistical validation and error modeling. We fabricated plausible external test locations—abandoned leyline nodes, remote human-world ruins, neutral zones—nothing that points back to the Simulation Room. Robin sourced the cover stories and cross-checked every detail against publicly available records. There are no holes."

He paused—just long enough for the weight to settle. "If the council rejects it, it won't be because the work is flawed. It'll be because they're too proud to admit a teenager rewrote a foundational assumption they've taught as gospel for centuries."

Zeoticus exhaled—a long, satisfied sound—and leaned back in his chair. Venelana dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, laughing softly through it. "Our little girl," she whispered. "The youngest name ever inked in Magic. They'll have to rewrite the contributor index. They'll have to cite her before she's even twenty." Zeoticus's expression turned thoughtful—then quietly fierce. "And if—when—this succeeds…" He looked around the table, gaze lingering on Rias. "I will finally have an ironclad answer for every cousin, every uncle, every distant branch family member who keeps whispering about 'alternative heirs' and 'the Phenex marriage clause.'"

His voice dropped—low enough that only the family core could hear the edge in it. "They've been loud lately. Too loud. 'Rias is promised to Riser, so the line should pass to my son/daughter/niece.' As if an arranged betrothal from twenty years ago overrides blood, merit, and love. But a paper in Magic—a first-author contribution at seventeen, recognized by the oldest and strictest magical academy in existence—that isn't politics. That isn't marriage alliances. That is undeniable proof of worth. Of capability. Of the future."

He looked at his daughter—eyes shining with something close to reverence. "You've done what even Sirzechs couldn't achieve in his youth." Yelena—silent until now—spoke softly from beside Grayfia. "The Institute rejected him three times," she said. "Each refusal was polite, each critique devastating. He was brilliant, but he was young. Impatient. After the third letter… he stopped submitting. He turned toward power instead of scholarship. And he became Lucifer." Her voice softened further. "Powerful. Respected. Lonely."

She looked at Rias—then at Grayfia. "My little sister-in-law has already surpassed him. At seventeen. Without ever needing to prove it with flames or titles." Grayfia's crimson eyes lifted—meeting Rias's across the table. For a moment neither spoke. Then Grayfia inclined her head—small, genuine. "Congratulations," she said quietly. "Truly." Rias returned the nod—soft, understanding. "Thank you, Grayfia-sama."

The table fell into a warm, charged silence—pride thick enough to taste. Millicas—finally recovering from the grown-up atmosphere—tugged at Arto's sleeve. "Uncle Arto… does that mean big sis Rias is the smartest in the whole Underworld now?" Arto chuckled—ruffling the boy's hair. "She's certainly one of them, little man."

Arto rose once more—glass in hand—waiting until the warm applause for Rias's achievement had fully settled and the clinking silverware quieted to a soft murmur. Every eye in the hall turned to him again, expectant, curious, already softened by pride and wine.

He cleared his throat once—then spoke, voice carrying without strain across the vast table. "I have one more thing to share tonight," he began. "Something that isn't about prestige or papers or power… but about the one thing every person in this room—every leader here—has been quietly running out of for far too long."

He looked around the table—meeting each gaze in turn: Zeoticus's steady crimson eyes, Venelana's warm emerald ones, Yelena's cool blue, Grayfia's guarded scarlet, then the younger faces of the peerages who had grown up watching their parents sacrifice time for duty. "Time."

The word landed soft but heavy. "Time for family. Time for rest. Time for laughter that isn't squeezed between meetings. Time for dinners like this one—where no one is checking a pocket-watch or mentally drafting tomorrow's war council agenda. Duties have eaten so much of your days that even a normal evening together has become as rare as an eclipse. Bonding time with your children, your spouses, your siblings… rarer still."

He set his glass down—hands spreading open on the table like he was laying out a blueprint only he could see. "While Rias spent the last few weeks refining her paper… I spent them building something new inside the Simulation Room. A function I've wanted to create since the first time I saw how exhausted all of you were after a long day of ruling, protecting, negotiating, commanding."

He paused—letting the anticipation build. "Time dilation." A ripple of quiet gasps moved through the room. "Inside certain sectors—starting with Sector 6, which I'm designating The Office—one hour outside equals multiple hours inside. The ratio is adjustable: 1:5, 1:10, 1:24, whatever you need. Complete your work, your reports, your strategy sessions, your training drills… in what feels like a full day or more. Then step out—still the same hour on the clock—and spend the rest of your real day with the people who matter most."

He looked directly at Zeoticus and Venelana. "You could finish clan business in the morning, then have an entire afternoon and evening together—without ever neglecting duty." To Yelena. "You and Sirzechs could finish Satan-level obligations in a handful of real hours… and still read Millicas three bedtime stories instead of one rushed one."

To the younger generation. "And all of you—Rias, Sona, your peerages—could train, study, rest, live… without ever feeling like there aren't enough hours in the day." Millicas—eyes huge—tugged at Zeoticus's sleeve. "Grandpa… does that mean more stories? More Papa-and-Mama time?"

Zeoticus laughed—soft, moved—ruffling his son's hair. "It might, little lion." Arto continued—voice steady. "The idea is still on paper. Blueprints, mana-flow schematics, safety interlocks, dilation stability matrices—everything is ready for review. But it requires rare materials: pure void-crystal lattice from the deepest Abyssal mines, stabilized leyline condensers from Sitri territory, and a few esoteric catalysts only Gremory's private vaults hold. I'll hand the full technical package to your R&D divisions tonight. If they approve… and if the materials can be delivered… I'll begin implementation the moment this vacation ends. Two weeks of work—down in the operational layer—and Sector 6 will be online."

He looked around the table once more. "This isn't charity. This isn't a gift I'm giving out of pity. This is me saying: you believed in me when I had nothing. You gave me a home, a family, a future. Now I want to give some of that time back. Not just to you… but to Millicas. To every child who deserves parents who aren't always half-absent. To every couple who deserves evenings that aren't stolen from duty."

Millicas—too young to grasp most of the words but old enough to understand more Papa time—slammed both little hands on the table. "YES! Approve now! More Papa! More Mama! More stories!"

Arto let the applause fade completely before raising his glass one last time—higher now, voice carrying the same calm certainty that had silenced rooms full of devils and monsters alike. "But that's not all the time dilation can do." The table quieted instantly. Even Millicas stopped mid-chew, eyes wide. "Sector 6—The Office—is just the beginning. The function isn't limited to paperwork or strategy sessions. Every sector can have it integrated. Production sectors especially."

He looked directly at Zeoticus, then Venelana, letting his gaze sweep to include the Sitri representatives across the table. "Rush orders. Emergency repairs. Broken batches that need to be remade before a deadline. A sudden surge in demand from allied territories. All of it can be handled inside the dilation field. One real hour outside becomes ten, twenty, even thirty inside—whatever ratio keeps the line moving without sacrificing quality."

He set the glass down—slow, deliberate. "Yes—it consumes more energy per real hour. The mana draw scales with the dilation factor. But when the situation demands speed—when money can't buy the extra hours—time dilation becomes the one thing money can't replace. We'll have it available in every major production sector within the next expansion cycle. Controlled access. Strict logging. Safety interlocks so no one gets trapped inside. But when it's needed… it will be there."

Zeoticus leaned forward—elbows on the table, eyes sharp with calculation. "You're talking about turning production bottlenecks into non-issues. A factory that can fulfill a month's quota in a single real afternoon. A repair bay that can rebuild an entire line of damaged mana-engines overnight while the rest of the world sleeps."

Arto nodded. "Exactly. The Underworld has always been powerful. Now it can be fast without burning out its people—or its resources. And because the dilation is opt-in, controllable, and metered… it stays a tool, not a crutch....."

Arto paused mid-sentence—mouth still open on the next breath of explanation—when Zeoticus raised one hand in gentle but firm interruption. "Arto," the Gremory patriarch said, voice warm but carrying the quiet authority of someone who had steered entire domains through crisis, "breathe. Eat. Let the food breathe too."

He gestured toward the laden table: steaming platters of herb-crusted venison, golden roasted root vegetables glistening with honey-balsamic glaze, fresh-baked rosemary loaves still trailing thin wisps of steam, crystal bowls of jewel-toned salads, and—because Venelana insisted—a towering tiered stand of delicate matcha financiers, rosewater macarons, and dark-chocolate-dipped strawberries.

"Your idea is spectacular. Time dilation for production rushes, emergency repairs, quality-control re-runs… it's revolutionary. But right now, the only thing that needs rushing is this venison before it gets cold and Millicas starts staging a coup for the last piece." Millicas—already halfway out of his chair—froze guiltily with one hand reaching toward the meat platter.

Zeoticus chuckled—deep and fond—then looked back at Arto. "We'll discuss blueprints, energy budgets, sector integration, material requisitions—all of it—after dessert. Thoroughly. With Sora and the Sitri R&D heads looped in by secure line tomorrow morning. But tonight…"

He lifted his wine glass—simple, crimson liquid catching the chandelier light like molten garnet. "…tonight is for family."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto sleeping at a gazebo]

After dinner, the dining hall gradually emptied—servants clearing plates with practiced silence, Millicas finally dragged off to bed by a gently insistent Yelena, Zeoticus and Venelana retiring to discuss the summit agenda in private. Arto lingered just long enough to hand Zeoticus the sealed folder containing the time-dilation blueprints: dense schematics, mana-flow matrices, safety interlocks, projected energy curves, and a concise cover letter explaining integration priorities for Sector 6.

Zeoticus accepted it with both hands—serious now, no trace of dinner levity. "I'll review this tonight," he promised. "Sora Sitri will receive a copy by secure courier before dawn. If the R&D heads give the green light—and I suspect they will—we'll have materials staged by the time you return from the summit."

Arto inclined his head. "Thank you. I'll start the moment we're back." Zeoticus gripped his forearm once—firm, fatherly. "Rest tonight. The summit will demand everything you have." Arto nodded—then slipped away from the hall before anyone could pull him into after-dinner drinks or conversation.

The night air in the Gremory gardens was cool and fragrant—night-blooming roses and moonlilies releasing their perfume under a sky the color of old blood. Gravel paths wound between sculpted hedges and floating lanterns that drifted like fireflies the size of dinner plates. Somewhere distant, a fountain sang softly to itself.

He walked without destination—hands in pockets, letting the quiet settle his thoughts—until he rounded a curve of tall jasmine and saw her...Grayfia Lucifuge...She sat alone in a small open-sided gazebo—silver hair unbound now, cascading down her back like molten moonlight. She wore a simple night-robe of deep indigo silk over her shoulders, but her posture was still perfect: spine straight, hands folded in her lap, staring at nothing in particular. The lanterns floating nearest her dimmed slightly, as though even they sensed she wanted solitude.

Arto hesitated—then kept walking. Not toward her exactly, but along the path that would naturally bring him past the gazebo. When he drew level, he slowed—casual, unhurried—and spoke as though he'd only just noticed her. "Evening, Lady Grayfia." She startled—only a tiny flinch in her shoulders, quickly mastered—then turned her head. Crimson eyes met his. No recognition. No suspicion. Just polite wariness. "Lord Arto Abyssgard," she returned—voice smooth, measured. "I didn't expect to see anyone out here this late."

He stopped at the gazebo steps—hands still in pockets, posture deliberately open. "Couldn't sleep," he admitted easily. "Too much on my mind. The gardens help. Quiet. No agendas." Grayfia studied him for a long moment—then gestured to the bench opposite hers. "You may sit, if you wish." He did—slowly, leaving plenty of space between them.

For several heartbeats neither spoke. Then Arto tilted his head toward the moonlilies drifting past. "Beautiful night," he said simply. "But you look like your thoughts are heavier than the air out here." Grayfia's lips pressed into a thin line—almost a smile, almost a grimace. "You're observant."

"I try to be." He leaned forward slightly—elbows on knees, voice dropping to something quieter, more human. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to. But… what's on your mind? You look too sad for someone with a face that gorgeous."

The compliment landed soft—not flirtatious, not calculated, just honest observation. Grayfia blinked—once—then let out a small, surprised breath that was almost a laugh. "You speak plainly."

"Habit," Arto said with a small shrug. "I've spent too much time around people who hide everything behind titles and polite words. I prefer the direct route when I can."

Grayfia looked down at her folded hands—then back up at him. She said quietly, "a council of elders will decide my future. Not mine. Theirs. They will discuss bloodlines, heirs, alliances… and which man is 'worthy' to continue the Lucifuge name. They will speak of duty. Of legacy. Of necessity. And they will expect me to smile and agree."

She paused—voice dropping lower. "I have refused every suggestion for twenty years. Every banquet seat beside Razer Phenex. Every private audience. Every veiled proposal. But in a few days… they will not ask again. They will decide."

Arto listened—really listened—without interrupting. When she fell silent again, he spoke. "Why don't you use a not-so-polite way to get out? I mean, you're Yelena's sister, and Yelena is the strongest Queen so I assume you're within that rank as well. Why not stand before the whole council announcint that the only one who you would marry is the one who can defeat you. I think it would save you more time...."

Grayfia's bitter smile lingered in the lantern light, sharp and fleeting, like moonlight on a blade. She looked down at her hands again—long fingers laced together so tightly the knuckles showed white—then back up at Arto. "You're right," she said quietly. "It would buy me time. Decades, perhaps centuries. No one would dare propose again until they could prove themselves on the sparring floor… and very few would ever succeed. The announcement would carry the full weight of the Lucifuge name behind it. The elders couldn't ignore it without losing face. Razer Phenex would be humiliated. The pressure would vanish overnight."

She exhaled—slow, controlled, the breath of someone who had already run the scenario in her mind a thousand times. "But it would also build a wall I might never climb down from."

Her voice dropped lower—almost confessional. "I don't want a husband who defeats me. I don't want someone who proves their worth by breaking mine. I want… someone who doesn't need to prove anything at all. Someone who looks at me and sees Grayfia—not the strongest knight, not the last eligible Lucifuge, not a vessel for perfect heirs. Just… Grayfia. The woman who still remembers how to laugh at stupid jokes. Who reads forbidden romance novels in the dark when no one is watching. Who sometimes stands at windows and wonders what it would feel like to choose something—anything—because it makes her happy, not because it serves the bloodline."

She looked away—toward the drifting moonlilies, their pale glow reflecting in her crimson eyes. "If I draw that line—if I say 'only the one who defeats me'—then every man who approaches will come as a challenger. Every conversation will be a prelude to combat. Every smile will hide a calculation of strength. And even if someone did defeat me… would he ever truly see me? Or would he only see the prize he won?"

Arto stayed silent—letting her words settle between them like fallen petals. Grayfia turned back to him—searching his face. "I'm tired of being a prize. I'm tired of being a weapon. I'm tired of being a bloodline. I just want to be… asked. Not commanded. Not conquered. Asked. And I want the person asking to actually wait for the answer."

She gave another small, bitter smile—almost self-mocking. "So no. I won't draw that line. Not yet. Not unless they leaves me no other path. Because the cost is too high. I'd rather keep refusing politely until the elders force my hand… than build a cage around myself so perfect that even the right person couldn't reach through it."

Arto nods to her answer, he has understood her desire, but the point still stands "Then what are you going to do? This stalemate is going to break soon by the time the summit happens" Grayfia looks towards the night sky, then down at the gazebo she is in "I'm not sure, I've been trying not to think about it like this man, Arasto Atreides, adviced me to, and while it gives me some ease in mind, the clock is still ticking and my time is running out. I know Sirzechs, Yelana, and other are trying to support me, but would it be enough when the time comes?"

Arto smiles "You won't know until you walk through that door....but tell me, do you trust this....Atreides person? What is his way of getting you out?" Grayfia's gaze drifted upward again—following the slow drift of the Underworld's twin moons across the crimson sky—before settling back on Arto. The lanterns floating past the gazebo cast shifting patterns across her face, highlighting the quiet exhaustion etched into the lines around her eyes.

"Trust him?" she repeated—testing the word like it was something fragile she hadn't held in a very long time. "I… don't know yet. Not fully. We've only spoken through messages. Short ones. Careful ones. He's been… kind. Patient. He never pushes. Never demands answers. He just… asks questions that no one else has ever bothered to ask. And he waits for me to decide whether I want to answer them."

She let out a small, almost soundless breath.

"That alone makes him different. Everyone else—every elder, every suitor, every advisor—has always come with an agenda. Even the kind ones. Even Sirzechs, in his own way, carries the weight of what the family needs. But this Arasto Atreides… he writes like someone who has nothing to gain and nothing to lose. Like he's simply… curious. Like he actually wants to know what I think instead of what I should think."

Grayfia's fingers tightened in her lap—barely noticeable, but there. "As for his way of getting me out…" She shook her head once—small, helpless. "He hasn't told me. Not explicitly. He says he'll be there. That he'll listen. That he'll speak if I want him to. That he'll stand beside me while I look at whatever I need to look at… without judgment, without a leash. He says the choice is mine. Always mine."

She looked at Arto then—really looked—crimson eyes searching his face for any hint of mockery, calculation, hidden motive. "I don't know how he plans to do it," she admitted. "I don't know if he can. The elders are old. Stubborn. They've waited twenty years; they won't be swayed by words alone. But… for the first time in a very long time… I don't feel completely alone facing them. And that…" Her voice cracked—just the tiniest fracture—before she steadied it again. "That matters more than I expected it would."

Arto stayed silent—letting her words breathe between them. Grayfia looked away—toward the drifting moonlilies again. "I suppose… I'll find out whether this Arasto Atreides is just another polite stranger… or someone who actually means what he writes."

Arto cackles slightly "So this man's name is truly Atreides, or did he just read too much Dune?" Grayfia turns to him "You read it too?" Arto gave a small, rueful shrug, leaning one shoulder against the gazebo post. "It's quite famous in the human world. I read it… a while ago." He looked up at the twin moons drifting overhead, their light turning the moonlilies into pale silver lanterns. "Now that I think about it," he continued quietly, "your situation reminds me of that book. Reminds me of Lady Jessica."

Grayfia tilted her head—intrigued despite herself. "Jessica?" Arto nodded—slow, thoughtful. "She was told exactly who she was supposed to be: a Bene Gesserit tool, a breeding vessel for the Kwisatz Haderach program. Her entire life was planned around producing the right genetic outcome for the sisterhood. Love, choice, personal desire—none of it mattered. She was supposed to obey. She was supposed to be… useful."

He met Grayfia's gaze again—steady, without pity or judgment. "But she defied the orders. She fell in love with the Duke. She chose to bear a son instead of the daughter they demanded. She chose Paul. Not because it served a grand design, but because she loved his father. Because she wanted the child she carried. Because—for once—she let her heart decide instead of her duty."

A small, almost wistful smile touched his lips. "The sisterhood never forgave her. The Bene Gesserit spent decades trying to contain the consequences. But Jessica… she never regretted it. She built something real in the middle of everyone else's plans. Something that couldn't be controlled or engineered."

Grayfia listened—completely still—her fingers loosening in her lap for the first time since he'd sat down. "And you think… that's me?" she asked—voice barely above a whisper. Arto shook his head gently. "I don't think you're Jessica. I think you're Grayfia. But I do think you're standing at the same kind of crossroads she did. The elders, the clans, the bloodline—they all want you to be useful. To produce the perfect heir. To fulfill the design. And they're running out of patience."

He leaned forward slightly—elbows on knees, voice dropping lower. "But at the summit… someone is going to walk into that summit room and ask you the question Jessica was never asked until it was too late: What do you want? Not what the Lucifuge name needs. Not what the elders demand. Not what the Underworld expects. Just… you."

Grayfia's breath caught—small, almost inaudible. Arto straightened—giving her space again. "I don't know what you'll answer. I don't know if you'll say 'I still don't know.' I don't know if you'll say 'leave me alone.' I don't know if you'll say anything at all. But whatever it is… it'll be yours. And that's worth more than any crest, any title, any heir they could ever force."

[Gremory's archive]

In Gremory's archive, Arto steps into the place to see Robin is already there, waiting for him. He comes to her at a desk and takes a seat next to her "So...." She turns to him, smiling that shining smile "I've done what you asked, I've looked at the war between Gremory and Phenex Alliance. And I must say, what happened was a little too....much for the victors to mention in their own victory speech" Arto nods "I expected that much....so tell me, how much did Phenex lose just to defeat Gremory?"

Arto leaned back in the chair beside Robin, the ancient leather creaking softly under his weight. The Gremory archive smelled of aged vellum, faint ozone from preserved mana-scrolls, and the ever-present undertone of rosewood polish that Venelana insisted on. Shelves towered around them in near-darkness, only a single desk-lantern and the soft blue glow of Robin's tablet breaking the gloom.

"Three-quarters," he repeated—quiet, almost tasting the number. "They threw three out of every four soldiers into the grinder just to claim a quarter of Gremory's land… and still had to force an arranged marriage to make the victory stick."

Robin nodded once—her expression calm, clinical, but the faint tightening around her eyes betrayed how deeply the numbers had affected even her. "Exactly. The Phenex-led coalition had numerical superiority, better regeneration on their core troops, and twelve allied clans throwing everything they had into the meat-grinder. Yet the kill-ratio was horrific. Gremory's defensive arrays, terrain advantage, and Zeoticus's tactical brilliance turned every meter of ground into a slaughter-pen. Five clans were effectively wiped from existence—houses that had stood for centuries reduced to a handful of survivors and scattered retainers. Phenex itself lost entire legions of regenerating elites; they had to recall reserves from three different territories just to keep the front from collapsing."

She tapped the tablet; a simple casualty pie-chart appeared—garish crimson for Phenex losses, deep Gremory scarlet for theirs. "Gremory's military was annihilated—peerage members dead, veteran knights gone, conscript legions shredded. Zeoticus's own peerage was reduced to Heinrich alone. The clan had to rebuild almost from scratch. But Phenex didn't win a clean victory. They won a pyrrhic one. The marriage contract with Rias was the only way to salvage political capital from the bloodbath. Without it, the elders would have called the whole campaign a catastrophic failure."

Arto stared at the chart—silent for several long seconds. "So they bled themselves white… just to force a wedding that might one day merge the bloodlines."

Robin closed the tablet—screen going dark. "Precisely. Razer Phenex didn't just want territory. He wanted legitimacy. Immortality in the history books. And a direct path to Grayfia Lucifuge. The war was never about land. It was about perception. About proving to the old houses that Phenex could bend Gremory to its will—even if it cost them three lives for every one they took."

Arto exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled. But still quite doubtful about the numbers "Are you sure, Robin? This could be just an exaggeration to make the loss look less ugly and desperate? Have you checked the intel from Phenex's side, Spy? Anything they tried to hide or alter?"

Robin leaned back against the archive's ancient bookshelf, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp as she studied Arto's face in the dim glow of the mana-lantern. The tablet rested dark in her lap, but she didn't need it to recall the details—her mind was a vault far more secure than any Gremory lock.

"I'm certain," she said quietly, voice carrying that unshakable calm she always fell back on when the intel was solid. "And no, it's not exaggeration. If anything, the Gremory records understate the coalition's desperation. They focused on their own losses to justify the marriage contract as a 'necessary compromise.' The victors' speech was all glory and 'strategic mastery'—but the numbers don't lie."

She tapped the tablet once; it flickered back to life, pulling up a second set of charts overlaid in faint orange—the Phenex side. "I cross-checked everything," she continued. "Hacked into Phenex's private war archives three nights ago—through a backdoor in one of their allied clans' old ledgers. They tried to hide plenty. Casualty reports were scrubbed; official histories claim 'acceptable losses' of 45–50%. But the raw field logs—unredacted versions buried in encrypted vaults—tell the truth. 74% dead or permanently maimed. Reserves depleted so badly they had to conscript civilians from border territories. Razer Phenex himself lost two peerage members he never publicly acknowledged—one to a Gremory counter-strike, the other to desertion when the front lines started breaking."

She swiped; a redacted document appeared, faint watermarks of Phenex flames glowing beneath the text. "They altered supply manifests to hide how close they came to starvation sieges. Forged death certificates to list 'honorable combat' instead of 'mana-exhaustion collapse' or 'friendly fire from resonance overload.' One clan—House Vepar—tried to erase an entire battalion's records after they mutinied and were executed en masse. But I found the originals in a forgotten cache. The five extinct clans? They weren't just 'lost'—they were sacrificed. Razer used them as cannon fodder to soften Gremory defenses, then claimed their territories as 'war reparations' when the dust settled."

Arto's jaw tightened—only slightly—but enough for Robin to notice. "They weren't desperate at the end," she added softly. "They were desperate from the beginning. Razer knew Gremory would fight like cornered lions. He gambled on sheer numbers to overwhelm them… and it almost bankrupted Phenex. The marriage contract was his Hail Mary. Without it, the elders would have stripped him of command. Maybe even dissolved the alliance entirely."

She closed the tablet again—screen going dark. "So yes. I'm sure. The war wasn't a triumph. It was a bloodbath Razer barely survived. And at the summit… he'll be sitting at that table pretending it made him worthy of her....or....there is still a deeper reason behind all this that I haven't found yet, but that's for another time, you have your card, Arto, or should I say, Arasto Atreides" Robin hands him a USB filled with the documents she found and verified with her usual smile "Go prove them unworthy and claim Lady Jessica back, Duke Atreides"

[Gremory mansion's gazebo]

Grayfia lingered in the gazebo long after Arto's footsteps had faded into the jasmine-scented night. The floating lanterns drifted slower now, as if the garden itself were breathing more gently in deference to her solitude. She let her head tip back against the wooden pillar, eyes half-closed, savoring the simple act of being—no summons, no agenda, no elder watching from the shadows to judge whether her posture was sufficiently regal.

The phone buzzed once against the marble bench beside her—soft, almost apologetic. She didn't reach for it immediately. Instead she watched one last moonlily float past, its pale glow reflecting in the still pond below, and allowed herself one full, unhurried breath. Only then did she pick up the device.

Arasto Atreides: Forgive the long silence. Business that couldn't wait. I'm back now. If you're still awake… we can pick up where we left off.