3rd Person POV
[Gremory Estate - Arto's room]
Arto sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around his waist like spilled ink. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven bursts—not from exertion, not from the phantom heat of Razer's flames yesterday, but from the cold, familiar dread that always followed a failed night in the Arena.
He turned his head first left, then right.
Rias lay closest on his right—crimson hair fanned across the pillow, one arm flung over his ribs as though anchoring him even in sleep. Akeno curled against his left side, violet nightgown ridden up to mid-thigh, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, long black hair spilling like ink over both of them. Robin slept a little farther out—back to him, spine curved gracefully, one hand resting near Nami's. Nami sprawled on the far edge—orange hair a glorious mess, one leg kicked free of the covers, snoring softly with the shameless abandon of someone who had fought dream-wars all night and still planned to conquer breakfast.
All four were breathing evenly. No blood. No burns. No bruises that hadn't been there before bedtime.
He leaned down anyway—careful, almost reverent—and brushed the backs of his knuckles against each forehead in turn. Rias—warm, steady pulse under silk skin. Akeno—slight frown even in sleep, but her breathing deepened at his touch. Robin—cooler than the others, calm as ever. Nami—slightly feverish from exertion, but nothing alarming.
Stable. Alive. Whole. Arto exhaled—long, ragged—and collapsed back onto the pillows, one arm thrown over his eyes. They looked… peaceful...No bruises...No burns...No haunted eyes waking up screaming about tentacles the color of nothing.
But he knew better. He knew the dreamscape had shattered again last night—four carefully woven lands torn apart like wet paper. He'd felt it through the link they'd built: Rias's house crumbling into ash, Nami's golden island swallowed by black tides, Robin's endless library collapsing shelf by shelf, Akeno's sakura garden uprooted and drowned in void. The giant dark tentacles—thicker now, faster, hungrier—had wrapped the merged realm like a fist around an eggshell and squeezed. Tsukuyomi's blessing had flared—moonlight cutting through the dark for one defiant second—before it too was smothered. Raw power, layered spells, even Akeno's gates—nothing held.
Five nights in a row...Five failures. And every time, the Arena dragged him back down anyway. Arto stared at the ceiling—ornate crimson-and-gold filigree that suddenly felt too much like bars.
They were getting hurt for him. Not physically—not yet—but emotionally, spiritually, in the only place they were supposed to be safe. Every night they poured themselves into protecting him, and every night the Arena tore it apart and made them watch. He could still feel the echoes of their panic through the fading link—Rias's sharp gasp when her childhood bedroom cracked open, Akeno's quiet sob when the sakura petals turned to ash, Nami's furious swearing as her vaults sank into nothing, Robin's steady voice cracking for the first time when the last shelf fell.
They didn't complain...They never complained...But he saw it.
The shadows under their eyes in the morning. The way Rias held him a little tighter before sleep. The way Akeno's teasing smile faltered when she thought no one was looking. The way Nami joked louder, brighter, to cover the strain. The way Robin read late into the night—searching for one more answer, one more spell, one more anything.
They were breaking themselves to save him from his own mind. And it wasn't working. Arto closed his eyes—hard—until spots danced behind his lids. He had two paths now. Find a way to kill the Arena—really kill it, not just delay it. Or… push them away. Let them keep their dream lands separate again. Let them sleep peacefully in houses and islands and libraries and gardens that didn't end in black tentacles and war. Let them rest.
Even if it meant he faced the dark alone. Arto's grip tightened around the four women sleeping against him—careful not to wake them, but unable to loosen his hold either. Rias's steady heartbeat thrummed against his ribs like a metronome he didn't deserve to hear. Akeno's slow breaths ghosted across his collarbone. Robin's fingers twitched once in sleep, brushing his wrist as though even unconscious she was checking he was still there. Nami's leg had somehow ended up thrown across both his thighs—possessive even in dreams.
He stared up at the ceiling of the Gremory guest suite, crimson-and-gold filigree mocking him with its elegance. "It's only right," he told himself again, the thought looping like a worn prayer. "They can't keep doing this. I'm used to it. I've been evolving every night just to stay alive for three thousand years. The Arena is… normal. It's home. They don't belong there."
Another thought slipped in quieter, colder: "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve them. They deserve better than this… monstrosity." The word tasted like rust. He closed his eyes again—harder this time—until the pressure behind his lids hurt more than the phantom burns from last night's flames.
Three thousand years. He could still count the nights he hadn't bled in his sleep on one hand. He could still feel the exact texture of every tentacle that had ever wrapped around his ribs and squeezed until something cracked. He could still hear the exact pitch of his own voice screaming orders to soldiers who no longer existed.
And now four women were willingly stepping into that same dark with him—every night—pouring their dreamscapes into a shield that shattered anyway. They woke up tired. They woke up quiet. They woke up holding him a little tighter, smiling a little brighter, teasing a little louder—as though sheer force of will could outrun the thing inside his head.
It couldn't. And he was starting to hate himself for letting them try. He opened his eyes again—stared at the ceiling until the filigree blurred. Two paths. Kill the Arena. Or kill the link. The first felt impossible. The second felt like betrayal. He shifted—just enough to press his lips to the crown of Rias's head. Then to Akeno's temple. Then reached across to brush Robin's hair back from her face. Then—carefully—eased Nami's leg higher so it wouldn't slip off the mattress when he eventually moved. "I'm sorry." he whispers
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto being pulled by the tentacles of Dark Arena into a dark hole]
The first to stir was Rias.
She shifted against his side—small, instinctive—then froze when she felt the tension in his body. Her emerald eyes opened slowly, searching his face in the dim pre-dawn light filtering through the heavy crimson curtains. She didn't speak right away. She just looked. And whatever she saw made her expression crumple—disappointment, helplessness, and a flicker of helpless anger she tried (and failed) to hide.
Akeno woke next—violet gaze lifting from where her cheek had been pressed to his chest. She took one look at Rias's face, then at Arto's, and the teasing smile she usually wore first thing in the morning never arrived. Instead her lips pressed into a thin line. Robin opened her eyes last—calm as ever—but the way her fingers tightened on his wrist betrayed her. Nami was the slowest—mumbling something incoherent about "five more minutes and compound interest"—before she registered the mood and sat up abruptly, orange hair a chaotic halo.
For several long seconds no one spoke. The silence was heavy—full of everything they'd all felt five nights in a row: the crack of dreamscapes shattering, the cold grip of tentacles, the helpless rage of watching something they built together get torn apart again and again. Arto exhaled—slow, ragged—and sat up carefully, keeping all four of them cradled against him as long as possible. "I'm calling it off," he said quietly. No preamble. No softening the blow. "For now. Until I find a real solution for the Arena… we stop."
Rias's hand clenched in the sheet over his heart. Akeno's breath hitched. Robin's fingers stilled on his wrist. Nami's teasing grin vanished completely. He looked at each of them—meeting every pair of eyes without flinching. "You rebuild your dreamscapes every night. Every single night. You pour everything into shielding me—your homes, your gardens, your islands, your libraries—and the Arena rips them apart like they're nothing. You wake up exhausted. You wake up angry. You wake up pretending you're fine so I won't feel worse. I see it. I feel it. And I can't—" His voice cracked—just once—before he forced it steady again. "I can't keep watching you break pieces of yourselves to protect me from something that's mine. Something that's always been mine."
He reached up—brushed a strand of crimson hair from Rias's cheek, then traced the line of Akeno's jaw, then squeezed Robin's hand, then ruffled Nami's chaotic orange locks. "You deserve your dreams back. Peaceful. Whole. Yours. Not war-zones. Not battlegrounds. Not places where black tentacles wait to drag everything down. The Dark Arena is my dreamscape. My war. My cycle. I've lived in it for three thousand years. I'm used to it. I'm built for it. You're not. And you shouldn't have to be."
Rias opened her mouth—eyes already flashing with protest—but Arto shook his head before she could speak. "I know what you're going to say. 'We chose this.' 'We're stronger together.' 'We'll find a way.' I know. I've heard it every morning for five days. And every night I still end up back there—alone—while you wake up picking up the pieces of worlds you built for me. That's not fair. That's not right. And I won't keep letting it happen."
He looked at them—really looked—voice dropping to something rawer, quieter. "You've done enough. More than enough. You've given me five nights of hope I didn't think I'd ever feel again. Five nights where I wasn't completely alone in the dark. That's… it's more than I ever thought I'd get. But it's time to stop. For your sakes. I need you to have your dreams back. I need to know you're sleeping peacefully in houses and gardens and islands and libraries that don't end in war. Even if it means I go back to facing the Arena alone. I'm used to it. I'll survive it. I always have."
He swallowed—hard—then forced a small, crooked smile that didn't reach his eyes. "So tonight… no link. No merged dreamscape. No shields. You sleep in your own worlds. You rest. You heal. And I'll… figure out the rest. Alone. Like before."
Silence again—thicker this time. Rias's fingers dug into his shirt—knuckles white. Akeno's eyes shimmered—violet turning glassy. Robin's grip on his wrist tightened—almost painful. Nami sat up fully—arms crossed, glaring at him like he'd personally insulted her entire bloodline. "You absolute idiot," Nami said—voice cracking despite the attempt at sharpness. "You think we're just gonna… what? Go back to our separate dream islands and pretend we don't know you're getting dragged down every night? You think we can sleep peacefully knowing you're alone in that hell?"
Arto met her glare—unflinching. "I think you deserve to try." Rias shook her head—fierce, stubborn. "No." Akeno echoed her—soft but unyielding. "No." Robin simply said—quiet, certain: "We're not leaving you there alone."
Nami leaned forward—forehead almost touching his. "We chose this fight. We're not un-choosing it because it's hard. We rebuild. We reinforce. We adapt. We keep going. That's what family does." Arto closed his eyes—once—hard. "I'm trying to protect you."
Rias cupped his face—gentle but firm—making him look at her. "And we're trying to protect you. You don't get to decide we're done fighting for you just because you're scared we'll get hurt. We're already hurt. Every night we fail to keep you safe—we hurt. But we'd hurt a hell of a lot more if we left you alone in there."
Akeno pressed closer—forehead against his temple. "We're not fragile, darling. We're furious. And we're not stopping until that Arena is dead… or we are." Robin's voice—soft, steady—cut through the ache. "We built those dreamscapes together. We'll rebuild them together. Again. And again. Until they hold. Until you wake up beside us instead of screaming in the dark."
Nami reached out—grabbed his hand—squeezed hard enough to hurt. "So shut up about 'alone' and 'used to it.' You're not alone anymore. You don't get to kick us out of the fight because you feel guilty. We're in. All the way. Deal with it."
Arto looked at each of them—really looked. At the stubborn set of Rias's jaw. At the fierce shimmer in Akeno's eyes. At the quiet, unbreakable certainty in Robin's gaze. At the defiant spark in Nami's glare. He exhaled—long, ragged—then let his forehead drop forward until it rested against Rias's. "…Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
He wrapped his arms around all four of them—pulling them in until there was no space left for doubt, no space left for the Arena to slip between. "We keep fighting," he said against Rias's hair. "Together. Until it's done. Until we win. Or until we find a way that doesn't break you every night."
Robin exhaled slowly—her usual calm voice carrying an undercurrent of quiet frustration she rarely let show. "Our moral power is strong," she said, sitting up a little straighter, one hand still resting on Akeno's hip as though anchoring the whole bed together. "I'll give us all that, including myself. We've rebuilt those dreamscapes five nights in a row without complaint. We've layered every protection spell we know, invoked blessings, rewritten the rules of the shared space. Love. Devotion. Willpower. We've thrown everything at it."
She met Arto's eyes—unflinching. "But none of it has been enough. The tentacles don't care about our feelings. They don't negotiate with devotion. They are the enforcers of the Arena—ruthless, mechanical, eternal. They exist to drag you back down. And every time we try to hold the line… they remind us how futile sentiment is against something that has no heart to appeal to."
Rias's fingers tightened in Arto's shirt. Akeno pressed closer—silent but trembling faintly. Nami's usual smirk was gone; she just stared at the ceiling like it personally offended her.
Robin continued—voice softer now. "We're strong together. We've proven that. But strength without the right key is just… endurance. And endurance has limits. Even ours."
Arto glanced at the antique clock on the nightstand...4:07 a.m...He sighed—long, bone-deep—and gently eased himself up against the headboard, careful not to jostle anyone too much. "Sleep," he said—voice rough from the night's screaming he hadn't let them hear. "All of you. Go back to sleep."
Rias lifted her head—eyes already protesting. "Arto—"
"I mean it." He cut her off gently but firmly. "It's only four. Yelena won't kick the door down for breakfast for at least another three hours. You still have time. Use it. Go back to your own dreamscapes—separate, safe, whole. No merging. No shields. No tentacles. Just… rest. Enjoy them. You deserve that."
He looked at each of them in turn. "I lost last night. That's on me. The penalty is mine: no sleep. I'm used to it. I've gone longer. But you're not used to waking up feeling like you failed someone you love. I won't keep doing that to you."
Akeno sat up—violet eyes glistening. "We're not leaving you—"
"You're not leaving me," Arto interrupted—soft but unyielding. "You're giving me room to think without watching you bleed for it. This is my dream. My war. My subconscious that refuses to let me rest without a battlefield. I know it better than anyone. I've lived inside it for three thousand years. If there's a way to break this cycle… it starts with me facing it alone again. At least until I find the real solution. Not another patch. Not another bandage. Something permanent."
Nami opened her mouth—then closed it. For once, she didn't argue. She just looked… tired. Robin studied him for a long moment—then nodded once. One by one they settled back down—reluctant, but trusting him enough to close their eyes.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto waiting for Rias, Akeno, Robin and Nami to sleep]
Arto slipped out from under the covers with the care of a man defusing his own heartbeat.
The four women remained asleep—breathing patterns soft and even, limbs tangled in the sheets like they had unconsciously formed a living barrier around the space he had just vacated. Rias's arm still reached toward where his chest had been. Akeno's hair fanned across the pillow he'd used. Robin lay on her side, one hand half-curled as though she'd been holding his wrist even in dreams. Nami had rolled onto her stomach, one leg kicked free, snoring tiny, indignant puffs against the pillow.
He stood barefoot on the cool rug for several seconds—watching them—then turned away before the sight could root him back to the mattress. The room was large enough to pace. He started near the windows—slow circuits at first, silent steps so the floorboards wouldn't creak. Hands behind his back. Jaw tight. Mind running the same loop it had run for three thousand years, only now with four new variables sleeping a few meters away.
Survive. That had always been the answer. Evolve every night. Change the battlefield inside his skull faster than the Arena could adapt. Outlast the tentacles. Outlast the war-dreams. Outlast himself.
But surviving wasn't defeating. And defeating had never been on the table. He had never once—not once—in three millennia actually killed the Arena. He had only delayed its victory. Pushed the inevitable back one more night. And another. And another.
Until now. Now the delay was costing four other people their rest. Their peace. Their dreams. He moved to the fireplace—low embers still glowing red beneath a fresh log someone (probably a maid) had added while they slept. He sank into the armchair facing it, elbows on knees, water cup cradled between his palms. The liquid was room-temperature; he hadn't even remembered picking it up.
Stared into the coals. Kill the Arena. How? It wasn't a place. It wasn't an enemy with a heart to stab or a core to shatter. It was him, more like, his own survival mechanic born from his endless torments in the arena back in his home world, where he was denied food or drink if he loses, so his mind made this place, a training ground for his mind to prepare him for the next battle in the waking world, all for survival, for food, for drink, for another breath.
Back in the old world—back when Abyssgard still had walls and banners and ten million voices answering his orders—the arena beneath the citadel had been real. A pit carved into the ninth circle's bedrock. No food. No water. No rest. Only combat. Lose → starve another day. Win → eat. Drink. Breathe one more sunrise.
Simple mathematics. His mind—younger then, sharper, more desperate—had done what any survival engine does when the body is pushed past breaking: it built a simulation. A training ground inside the skull. Every night the waking arena closed its gates, the dream-arena opened its. Same rules. Same stakes. Same tentacles—only now they wore the faces of every enemy he'd ever faced, every ally he'd failed, every soldier whose name he still carried like shrapnel.
It had kept him alive. Three thousand years later the waking arena was gone—citadel dust, legion dust, home dust—but the simulation never received the stand-down order. It kept running. Kept enforcing. Kept demanding he prove he deserved the next breath.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by a fire sword lighting up the entire dark scene]
Arto sat motionless in the armchair by the dying fire, notebook forgotten on his lap, eyes fixed on nothing at all. The clock on the mantel struck 7:00 a.m.—a soft, almost apologetic chime that felt deafening in the quiet room.
And then it clicked. Not a grand revelation. Not a sudden spell or hidden weakness uncovered. Just a pattern he had stared at for three thousand years without ever truly seeing. He had never defeated the Dark Arena.
He had only ever survived it. Survived long enough for it to… stop. But why did it stop? Every time—every single time—he or his forces had pushed through to the final wave, the final boss, the absolute pinnacle of adaptation: a single entity stitched together from every countermeasure, every nightmare, every lesson the Arena had ever learned from his mind and body. Kill that final synthesis… and the war ended.
Not because the Arena was truly defeated. Because it had run out of moves. And every time that happened—whether in the real Arena centuries ago or inside Sector 1 during the last four months when Rias and Sona's peerages repeatedly cleared the highest difficulty simulations—the same thing occurred:
A sword of blue flame fell from the sky. Planted itself into the ground with a sound like a struck bell. Blue fire surged outward in a perfect circle—annihilating every remaining shadow, every lingering tentacle, every echo of the war. Wounds closed. Exhaustion lifted. The sky cleared. The Arena… reset. Went dormant. Stopped adapting for that night.
Arto's breath caught. He had always assumed it was part of the punishment/reward cycle. A cruel little flourish from his subconscious: "Congratulations, you survived again. Here's your reset button. Now do it all over tomorrow."
The reset wasn't mercy. It was enforcement. Every time the synthesis—the final boss—died, the Arena didn't simply concede the night. It tried to learn.
He could still see the pattern now that he was looking for it: After the blue-flame sword planted itself, there was always a brief window—five, maybe ten seconds—where new shadows stirred at the edges of his vision. Smaller silhouettes. Faint echoes of the moves he'd just used. A half-formed tentacle mimicking the arc of his last slash. A claw testing the exact timing of his dodge. The Arena adapting. Stealing. Preparing the next evolution for tomorrow's cycle.
And every single time—without fail—the sword's blue surge arrived at the exact moment those proto-shadows began to solidify. It washed outward in that perfect circle—annihilating not just the remnants of the current war, but the seeds of the next one. Every adaptation attempt snuffed out before it could take root. Every new tactic strangled in the cradle.
The sword wasn't a reward...It wasn't even a reset.It was a kill-switch...A forced hibernation.
The Arena—his own mind turned jailer—had built an automatic override: when computational load (adaptation attempts) exceeded a certain threshold, when it had spawned and lost so many iterations that no new strategy could form fast enough, it triggered the blue-flame purge.
Not because it wanted to let him win. Because it had to. Otherwise the feedback loop would continue indefinitely inside a single night—endless spawning, endless dying, endless refinement—until his mind itself collapsed under the strain. Three thousand years of war compressed into eight hours would have burned his psyche to cinders long ago.
So the Arena—ruthless, mechanical, survival-driven—had no choice but to stop itself when pushed past the breaking point. The synthesis boss wasn't the end of the war. It was the signal that the Arena had reached maximum entropy—too many variables, too many counters tried and failed in too short a time. And the sword was the emergency shutdown.
Arto's sudden shout—"Eureka!"—cut through the quiet room like a thunderclap.
Rias jolted upright first, hair a crimson tangle, eyes wide and already glowing with mana as though ready to incinerate an intruder. Akeno sat up more slowly, blinking sleepily, one hand automatically reaching for the naginata that wasn't there. Robin opened her eyes calmly—too calmly—already scanning the room for threats before relaxing. Nami flailed upright with a muffled yelp, sheets tangling around her legs, orange hair exploding in every direction.
"Wha—?! Boss, if this is about taxes again I swear—" Nami started, then registered Arto's face: bright, almost feverish with excitement. She shut up instantly. Arto was already on his feet—notebook clutched in one hand, sword propped against the chair, pacing three steps before turning back to them. "Girls," he said—voice rough from hours of silence but vibrating with something they hadn't heard in him before: real hope. "Wake up. All the way up. I think… I think I found it. Our chance. To actually defeat the Dark Arena. Not survive it. End it."
Rias swung her legs over the side of the bed immediately. Akeno slid closer, violet eyes sharpening. Robin sat up fully—posture perfect even half-asleep. Nami untangled herself and scooted to the edge, suddenly very awake. "Talk," Rias ordered—soft but steel-edged. "Now." Arto exhaled—once—hard—then held up the notebook so they could see the frantic scrawl on the open page. "I've been wrong for three thousand years," he started. "We all have. The blue-flame sword isn't a reward. It isn't mercy. It isn't even part of the punishment cycle."
He tapped the page—hard. "It's the kill-switch." He paced one step—two—then stopped in front of them. "Every night—every single night—the Arena has one unbreakable rule: session ends at exactly eight hours. No matter what. Win or lose. Boss dead or still fighting. At 08:00:00.000 sharp, the sword falls. Purge. Heal. Reset. Extraction."
He looked at each of them in turn. "But the timing of the sword itself… isn't fixed to the clock. It's tied to adaptation overload. When the Arena has spawned and lost so many iterations—so many counters, so many evolutions—that it literally can't produce a new viable strategy fast enough… it hits critical mass. It runs out of ideas. And when that happens—whether at hour 3 or hour 7:59—the sword triggers early. It wipes the board before the next wave can even form."
Nami leaned forward—eyes narrowing. "So the sword isn't the Arena saying 'good job, you survived.' It's the Arena saying 'oh shit, I'm out of moves, I need more time to calculate, emergency purge now.'"
"Exactly," Arto said—voice fierce with realization. "It's not letting me win. It's protecting itself from crashing. From infinite spawning loops that would fry my mind in a single night. The sword is the failsafe. The off switch. The Arena's own panic button." He flipped the notebook page—pointing to the timeline he'd sketched. "Look at Sector 1 logs. When Rias and Sona's peerages cleared the synthesis boss early—6, 7 hours—the sword appeared immediately after the kill.
He tapped the notebook. "That gap—the golden window between sword manifestation and extraction—is our target. If we can force the sword to appear early every night—consistently, deliberately—then stretch that window longer each time… we can study the sword. Reverse-engineer its trigger. Learn to summon it manually. And once we can call the blue-flame sword whenever we want…"
He looked at the sword leaning against the wall—the same one he'd used yesterday. "…we can end the cycle whenever we want. Permanently. Meaning we can train when we want and rest when we don't."
Nami's eyebrow arched higher, her usual smirk creeping back despite the exhaustion still clinging to her eyes. "Okay, boss," she said, crossing her arms and tilting her head. "I get the logic. Overload the system, force the panic button, steal the sword, repeat until we can summon it on command. Solid plan. Ruthless, even. But if it's that 'simple'…" She made air quotes with her fingers. "…why didn't you figure this out sooner? Three thousand years is a long time to miss the obvious escape hatch."
Arto didn't hesitate. The answer had been waiting inside him for centuries; it just needed the right question to pull it out. "Because I've never had enough time—or space—to think about it."
He met her gaze, then looked at each of them in turn—Rias's steady emerald eyes, Akeno's quiet violet watchfulness, Robin's calm analytical stare. "I've always been fighting the Arena alone. Every single night. Eight hours of non-stop war—waves, bosses, tentacles, the synthesis entity that learns everything I do the second I do it. By the time the sword finally drops and the reset hits… I'm barely conscious. My mind is shredded. My body feels like it's been run over by a legion. All I can do is collapse into real sleep the moment extraction pulls me out."
He tapped the notebook again—gentler this time. "There's never been a 'golden window' when I'm alone. The sword appears in the last few seconds—if I even reach the synthesis boss at all. Most nights I don't. Most nights I'm still drowning in tentacles when the clock hits eight and the sword falls anyway. No time to examine it. No strength left to question it. Just… relief that the night's over. Then the next night starts, and the cycle repeats."
Nami snorted—half laugh, half exhale. "So tonight we go full speedrun. No shields. No holding ground. We blitz the synthesis boss as fast as humanly possible—hell, faster than humanly possible—and force the sword to drop early. Then we grab it, study it, figure out how to make it come when we call."
Arto nodded—once—sharp and certain. "Exactly. We don't survive the night anymore. We break it. We push so hard, so fast, that the Arena can't keep up. We make it spawn the synthesis early. We kill it early. We trigger the sword early. And every minute we get in that golden window… we use to crack its code."
Rias's concern hung in the air like smoke. She sat cross-legged now, facing him fully, emerald eyes sharp and searching. "But Arto… aren't you worried about telling us this now? The Dark Arena is your subconscious. It's always listening. It's always adapting. If it knows what we're planning—if it knows we're going to try forcing the overload early—won't it just… change the rules? Delay the sword? Make the synthesis boss spawn later? Stretch the fight out until 8:00 exactly so the window never opens?"
The other three leaned in instinctively—silent but tense. Akeno's fingers tightened around the sheet. Robin's gaze narrowed with calculation. Nami's smirk was gone; she just watched him, waiting.
Arto didn't flinch from the question. He'd already asked it of himself a hundred times in the last few hours. He raised one finger—slow, deliberate. "First boundary," he said. "My knowledge."
He met Rias's eyes without blinking. "The Arena adapts fast—faster than anything living. It learns every move I make the instant I make it. Every feint, every spell, every tactic. But it can only adapt to what I already know. It can't invent new knowledge on its own. It can't reach outside my mind for inspiration. It can't accelerate its own learning rate beyond what my own experience allows. There is a hard ceiling: the total sum of everything I've ever fought, survived, or witnessed in three thousand years. That's its library. Nothing more."
He raised a second finger. "Second boundary: the structure of the Arena itself."
He tapped his own chest lightly—right over his heart. "This thing has been built and rebuilt every night for three millennia. Layer upon layer of trauma, guilt, memory, rage—all fused into a single, self-sustaining battlefield. The rules of engagement inside it are as rigid as the laws of reality. The waves always come in escalating order. The synthesis boss always spawns at the peak of adaptation load. The sword always drops when that load breaks the system. My subconscious can spawn more monsters, change terrain, remix old nightmares into new shapes—but it cannot rearrange the fundamental architecture. It can't rewrite the eight-hour clock. It can't make the sword appear later than 8:00. It can't remove the kill-switch without destroying the entire framework—and destroying the framework would mean destroying me."
He lowered his hands—voice dropping quieter, almost reverent. "The Arena is ruthless. It's merciless. But it is also bound. Bound by its own nature. Bound by the mind that created it. And that mind—however broken—still has rules it can't break without ceasing to exist."
He looked at each of them again—slowly. "So yes. It will know what we're planning the moment we step inside tonight. It will throw everything at us—harder, faster, meaner. It will try to stretch the fight, delay the synthesis, buy time. But it can't change the clock. It can't stop the sword from falling at 8:00 sharp if we push it past breaking point. And it can't invent new knowledge to counter us faster than we can use what we already know."
A small, fierce smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "That's our edge. We know the rules better than it does—because we're awake while it's still dreaming. We have four minds working together instead of one mind fighting itself. And tonight… we're not going to defend. We're going to flood it. Every spell. Every combo. Every dirty trick we've ever learned. We force the synthesis early. We kill it early. We trigger the sword early. And then we spend every second of that golden window tearing its kill-switch apart until we can summon it ourselves."
Rias exhaled—sharp, almost a laugh. "So we drown it in our own momentum." Akeno's smile turned wicked. "I like drowning things." Robin's eyes gleamed. "We redesign the dreamscape tonight. Turn it into an escalation trap. Maximize pressure per second. Minimize downtime."
Nami cracked her knuckles—grinning wide. "And when the sword drops… I call dibs on studying it first. I want to know how much emotional damages I can charge it for three thousand years of bullshit."
He looked at Nami and Robin specifically, eyes steady, the morning light catching the faint scars on his face. "You two," he said—voice low but carrying that same quiet certainty that had carried him through three thousand years of war—"will be our secret weapons tonight."
Nami blinked, her grin faltering for the first time since the meeting began. She pointed at herself again, slower this time, as if making sure Arto was really talking about her. "Me?" she repeated, voice pitching up in genuine disbelief. "The one who throws weather at problems and counts coins in her sleep? You're saying I'm the nuclear option?"
Arto's gaze didn't waver. "Yes. You." He stepped forward, planting both palms flat on the obsidian table so he could lean in slightly — close enough that everyone felt the weight of his next words. "The Dark Arena adapts poorly — very poorly — to first-time entrants. It has no archive on them. No behavioral data. No combat patterns. No emotional tells. When someone new steps into its domain for the first time, it starts from zero. It observes. It probes. It tries to map them like it mapped me over three thousand years. And while it maps… it lags."
He turned his head toward Robin first, respectful but matter-of-fact. "Robin. You are exceptional. Your network of eyes and ears turns any battlefield into an open book. You read intent before it forms, you strike from angles no one sees, you teleport through your own limbs like they're portals. But—"
He met her calm eyes without flinching. "—when we first crossed paths, I planted a dormant malware fragment in one of your spawned limbs. It lingered undetected for three days. The Arena has tasted echoes of that structure through my memories. It knows the topology of your network. It will adapt. It will spawn blind spots, feedback loops, sensory overload traps, limb-disrupting curses. It will counter you — not easily, but inevitably."
Robin tilted her head, a faint, knowing smile curving her lips. "Darling, I expected as much. I'm flattered it needed three days to even notice." Arto inclined his head once — acknowledgment — then shifted his attention to Nami. "You, however… are different."
Nami leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, eyebrows raised high enough to disappear under her bangs. "Lay it on me, tall-dark-and-strategic."
"Your power does not manifest outward in flashy displays the Arena can immediately catalog. There are no extra limbs sprouting, no lightning storms, no visible mana signatures screaming 'threat.' Your weapon lives entirely inside your skull: numbers, probabilities, optimization curves, cost-benefit ratios, spatial mathematics precise enough to track an invisible man by air displacement alone. The Arena cannot see your calculations. It cannot read your mental ledger. It has no precedent for someone who turns a battlefield into a balance sheet and then audits it to death."
He straightened, pointing one finger directly at her chest — not accusing, but declarative. "You are the blind spot it has never encountered. A fresh variable it cannot map in real time. And because of that, you are the lever we use to force the Synthesis to spawn early."
Nami's mouth opened, closed, then curved into the widest, sharpest grin yet. "So… what you're saying is, I get to go full chaotic accountant on its ass? No holding back, no playing nice, just pure, unfiltered number-crunching destruction?"
"Exactly," Arto said. "Robin will be our macro strategist — eyes everywhere, teleport strikes, network dominance to keep the lesser waves contained and buy us time. But you are the main cannon. You enter first. You start calculating. You optimize every variable on the fly: mana efficiency, monster spawn patterns, terrain weak points, Synthesis emergence thresholds. You turn the Arena's own adaptive delay against it. The longer it takes to understand you, the faster we push toward the Synthesis. The faster the Synthesis appears… the sooner we kill it… the sooner the sword falls."
Robin's extra hand gently tapped her chin. "A beautiful asymmetry. The Arena is built to counter visible, physical, experiential threats. But an invisible mind that treats war like arbitrage? That is outside its dataset."
Akeno laughed softly, wings fluttering in delight. "I love it. Nami gets to be the scary one for once."
"Hey," Nami shot back, mock-offended, "I've always been scary. You just never paid attention when I was doing the math." Rias stood, rolling her shoulders as though already preparing for the night ahead. "Then tonight we test it in Sector 1 first — controlled run with Nami as primary variable. Push for Synthesis under six hours. If it works there, we know the principle holds. After that…" She looked straight at Arto. "You take her — and Robin — into the real thing. We'll be watching from the observation deck. And if the sword drops early, we'll have our first real data on how to summon it on command."
Arto nodded once — sharp, certain. "Tonight, we do not survive the night. We break it." He looked at Nami last, the ghost of something almost like respect in his otherwise flat gaze. "Are you ready to make the Dark Arena regret ever trying to balance its books?"
Nami cracked her knuckles again, louder this time, grin feral. "Baby, I was born ready to make anything regret existing. Let's go bankrupt that nightmare."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias taking chibi Arto on a trip to see her relatives]
Nami curled tighter against Arto's side like a very expensive, very orange cat who had just discovered the concept of mortal peril. Her arms looped around his waist, face half-buried in his shirt, voice muffled but unmistakably dramatic.
"Adoption papers are being drafted as we speak," she declared, words vibrating against his ribs. "Rias, start mentally preparing yourself. You're getting an adoptive big sister soon. I'm already calling Lady Venelana 'Mom' in my head. She didn't even flinch when I tested it earlier. I think she's considering it."
Rias—propped against the headboard with a half-read book still open on her lap—blinked once, slowly, the way one does when processing an unexpected corporate merger. "…You're adopting yourself into my family. Tonight. After one day of following my mother around."
Nami lifted her head just enough to fix Rias with wide, traumatized eyes. "One. Single. Day. She had me sit in on a contract renegotiation with House Belial's third son. I thought I was good at reading people? I thought I could haggle? No. She smiled the entire time—gentle, motherly, like she was offering him cookies—and by the end he was thanking her for letting him reduce his family's tribute by only thirty percent instead of the forty he came in asking for. Thirty. Percent. He left looking like he'd been spiritually hugged to death."
Akeno—lounging at the foot of the bed in silk pajamas—laughed so hard she nearly rolled off. "Venelana-sama is a national treasure. And a national disaster. Depending on which side of the table you're sitting."
Robin—cross-legged beside Akeno, calmly turning pages in an ancient-looking grimoire—didn't look up but her lips curved. "I did warn you, Nami. Lady Venelana's negotiation style is best described as 'velvet glove over an iron fist… that is also wearing a velvet glove.'"
Nami groaned—burying her face back into Arto's shirt. "I followed her around like a baby duckling all day. 'Nami-chan, could you take notes?' 'Nami-chan, what do you think of this clause?' 'Nami-chan, have some tea, you look pale.' By hour three I was calling her 'Lady Mother' unironically. I'm compromised. I'm adopted. Send help. Or adoption papers. Preferably both."
Arto—still holding his own book (a dense treatise on leyline harmonics he'd been pretending to read)—finally set it aside. He raised one eyebrow, looking down at the orange-haired woman currently using him as a human security blanket. "Okay," he said, voice warm with amusement and a trace of genuine concern, "you're actually scaring me now. What happened? Did she make you sign something in blood? Threaten your merch royalties? Steal your entire wardrobe while complimenting your taste?"
Nami lifted her head again—just enough to glare at him with the exhausted dignity of someone who had stared into the abyss and found it wearing an elegant day dress. "She offered me tea. And pastries. And then casually renegotiated an entire trade agreement while asking me about my day. I think I blacked out for twenty minutes. When I came to, Belial's son was bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor and thanking her for 'educating' him on fair pricing. I have never felt more financially inadequate in my life. And I once haggled with a dragon over gem royalties."
Rias snorted—finally closing her own book. "That's just how Mother negotiates. She makes you feel like you're disappointing her if you don't accept her terms. It's psychological warfare disguised as maternal concern." Akeno giggled, reaching over to pat Nami's head. "Welcome to the family, Nami-chan~ You lasted longer than most people do on their first day."
Nami flopped dramatically backward across Arto's lap, one arm flung over her eyes. "I'm filing the papers tomorrow. Lady Venelana already said 'of course, dear, we'll have to get you fitted for a proper Gremory dress.' I'm doomed. I'm loved. I'm adopted. Send prayers. Or lawyers. Preferably lawyers who can negotiate with smiling iron ladies."
Arto chuckled—low, fond—and absently ran his fingers through her orange hair. "You'll survive. Probably. Venelana likes you. That's more dangerous than any negotiation tactic."
Nami flopped sideways across Arto's lap like a very dramatic orange cat claiming new territory, chin propped on his thigh, eyes glinting with curiosity. "Okay, boss," she said, poking his chest for emphasis, "you've been suspiciously quiet about your little Underworld road-trip with Rias. Spill. I need details. Was it awkward noble-family dinners? Did you have to bow to a hundred grand-aunts? Or did you just hide in the corner while Rias did the polite small-talk?"
Arto set his book aside with a small, fond sigh—already knowing resistance was futile. "It was… meaningful," he admitted, voice quieter than usual. "More than I expected." Rias—curled against his other side with her head on his shoulder—lifted her chin just enough to add context without stealing his story. "We started at the grand graveyard outside Runeas. It's not some gloomy crypt—it's beautiful. Rolling hills of black marble headstones veined with silver, night-blooming roses everywhere, lanterns that never go out. Every Gremory who's fallen is there. Generations. But the newest section… that's what hits hardest."
Arto's gaze drifted to the window—distant, remembering. "Twenty years ago the war with Phenex and their twelve allies left scars that still haven't fully healed. The graves from that conflict are still fresh in people's minds. Zeoticus's uncles and aunts. His own siblings. Rias's cousins—some barely older than her when they died. We walked every row. Paid respects to each one. Rias does it every summer. She says it's to thank them for the peace we have now. The one they bought with their lives."
Nami's teasing grin softened. She rested her cheek against his knee, listening without interruption for once. "Then we visited the living relatives," Rias continued. "Father's direct siblings—uncles, aunts—mostly living in their own estates around the domain. Some grandpas and grandmas still around, either staying with their children or keeping their own small manors. Everyone was… warm. Genuinely happy to see us. They kept calling Arto 'the one Rias chose' and asking when the wedding is."
Arto huffed a quiet laugh. "They fed us until I thought I'd burst. And every single one of them had the mark." He traced an invisible line across his own collarbone. "A small silver sigil—right here. Rias explained it on the way to the first house. It's a pact. Zeoticus made it at the last full clan gathering after the war. Every member of House Gremory—blood or peerage—carries it now."
Nami sat up a little, intrigued. "A pact? Like… magical NDA?"
"Exactly," Arto said. "The mark binds them to secrecy about my existence—my real identity, the Simulation Room, the Stabilizer, everything. In exchange… they receive the benefits of everything I've built. Mana-efficient infrastructure. Healing arrays. Agricultural runes. The same magic-tech that turned war-torn land into thriving cities in four months. Anyone who breaks the silence loses the boons. The mark fades. The perks vanish. No second chances."
Rias nodded against his shoulder. "It's ruthless… but it works. No leaks. No rumors outside the clan. Father calls it 'the most expensive secret we've ever kept—and the most valuable.' They all know what you've done for us. They've seen the cities rebuild, the ley-lines stabilize, the children growing up without rationing mana. They're grateful. And they're loyal."
Nami whistled low. "So basically… the entire Gremory clan is running on your tech stack, and in return they all signed a magical 'keep Arto a secret or lose your Wi-Fi' contract."
Arto nods "Yes, but what were you negotiating about?" Nami answers immediately "It's about the input materials for the magic-tech product. That was where lady Venelana display her absolute dominance on a leverage we all know Gremory and Sitri is currently wielding, the power of the technical holder"
Robin looks up from her book "Hoh?~Go on, Nami, I want to hear. Rias, put that book down and come over here, Akeno also, I want you both to hear the position your clan is now because of Arto's innovation"
Nami straightened her back—still draped across Arto's lap like she owned it—gesturing with one hand as though conducting an invisible board meeting. "Right, so here's the position Gremory and Sitri are sitting in now, thanks to boss's tech stack. We hold the manufacturing lines and the technical IP. That means every magic-tech product—mana-efficient infrastructure, self-healing architecture, leyline stabilizers, healing arrays, agricultural runes, you name it—gets produced in our controlled facilities. We don't need anyone else's factories. We don't need their patents. We just need raw input materials."
She ticked off on her fingers. "Materials are the only thing we actually buy from outside. And because the end products are so valuable—so irreplaceable—the leverage is insane. We can basically name our price. If a supplier tries to gouge us on ore, crystals, rare herbs, whatever… we smile, say 'thank you for your time,' and switch to internal sources. Or synthetic substitutes we've already developed. Or we just… pause production of that particular line until they come crawling back with better terms."
Rias set her book down fully now—leaning forward, eyes narrowing with interest. "That's exactly what happened today, isn't it?" Nami nodded—vigorously. "Belial's third son came in asking for a 25% markup on their void-quartz shipments. Said 'production costs have risen.' Lady Venelana just smiled that gentle-mother smile, poured him more tea, and said, 'Oh my, that's unfortunate. We'll have to look at our internal refining options then. Thank you so much for understanding.' The poor guy went white. Started stammering about 'reconsidering.' By the time we finished tea he'd dropped the markup to negative 8%—he's basically paying us to take the quartz off his hands for the next three quarters just to keep the contract alive."
Akeno let out a delighted laugh—half delighted, half horrified. "Mother really is terrifying when she wants to be. She never raises her voice. She just… makes you feel like disappointing her would be a personal failing."
Robin closed her grimoire with a quiet snap—smile small but sharp. "So the power dynamic is clear: Gremory-Sitri holds the technical monopoly. Everyone else holds commodities we can eventually replace or bypass. That gives us near-absolute pricing power on inputs. And because the end products are so transformative—cities rebuilding in months, mana abundance, healing on demand—the Underworld literally cannot afford to lose access to them."
Nami nodded—grinning now, all traces of earlier trauma replaced by greedy satisfaction. "Exactly. We're not just selling tech. We're selling the future. And the future doesn't negotiate from weakness." Rias opened her mouth again, clearly still turning the implications over in her mind like puzzle pieces that didn't quite fit yet. "But if they decided to—"
Robin's voice cut in—soft, calm, but carrying the same unshakeable certainty she used when reading the final page of a centuries-old grimoire. "War?"
She closed the book in her lap with a quiet snap and set it aside, turning fully toward Rias. "You should go on a tour tomorrow. See the new magic-tech defense grid Arto designed for the Gremory domain. Trust me—nothing like what happened twenty years ago will ever happen again. Not because we're simply reinforcing the clan. Because we're no longer building a fortress."
Robin's smile was small, almost gentle, but the words landed like steel. "We're building a web."
She leaned forward slightly—fingers interlacing in her lap as though diagramming the concept in the air. "Gremory domain is the central hub. Every allied smaller clan, every border territory we've quietly integrated through material supply deals and tech-sharing agreements, becomes an extension of that web. The magic-tech isn't just weapons or barriers anymore. It's infrastructure. Mana relays that double as early-warning arrays. Automated repair drones that also function as rapid-response turrets. Leyline amplifiers that boost allied spells while simultaneously feeding battlefield data back to Runeas in real time."
She tilted her head toward Arto—acknowledgment without flourish. "Your beloved Arto Abyssgard didn't design a wall. He designed a nervous system. Touch one node—an outlying clan under attack—and the entire web reacts. Faster than any conventional army could mobilize. Stronger than any single fortress could withstand. And the moment someone tries to sever a thread… the rest of the web constricts."
Nami picked up the thread seamlessly, still half-sprawled across Arto's lap but now gesturing like a general explaining a campaign. "Exactly. If the big houses try to bind together and choke our material flow? Fine. We flip the switch. Shut down every leased machine in their territory. No more self-healing buildings. No more zero-waste factories. No more mana-efficient agriculture. Their working efficiency drops by half—maybe more—overnight. Meanwhile we quietly shift those same production lines to the smaller clans we've been cultivating. Offer them sweetheart deals: lower material prices, higher tech access, long-term protection contracts. They get rich. They get safe. They get dependent. And dependence becomes loyalty."
She grinned—sharp, satisfied. "Suddenly the 'coalition' trying to strangle us has a dozen new enemies on their periphery—former neutrals who now owe their entire economic miracle to House Gremory. And those little clans? They're already hooked into the web. One attack on them is an attack on us. The whole system lights up."
Rias slowly leaned back against the headboard—processing. "So we're not just holding leverage over suppliers anymore. We're turning the entire border into a living shield. One that fights back automatically."
Robin nodded once. "Precisely. The old way was static defense—walls, armies, peerages. The new way is dynamic. Distributed. Adaptive. If someone tries to cut a supply line, the web reroutes. If someone attacks a node, the web retaliates. If someone tries to form a counter-coalition… the web already has agents of influence inside their economy, their politics, their supply chains."
Akeno let out a low, delighted whistle. "Mother really has been busy. And here I thought she was just terrifying merchants over tea." Nami snorted. "Tea was the opening act. The real performance is happening in the background while everyone's distracted by the porcelain."
Arto—still gently combing through Nami's hair—gave a small, crooked smile. "Venelana doesn't negotiate. She educates. And right now the Underworld is getting a very expensive lesson in what happens when you try to strong-arm the people who own the future."
Rias looked at him—emerald eyes soft but searching. "And you're okay with this? Turning your innovations into… a web that can strangle entire regions if they step out of line?" Arto met her gaze—honest, unflinching. "I built the tools so people could live better. Safer. Freer. If someone tries to turn that into a weapon against us—against you—then yes. I'm okay with the web protecting what matters."
He shrugged one shoulder—small, almost casual. "Besides… the best defense is never needing to use it. The more terrifying the web looks, the less likely anyone will test it." Nami lifted her head just enough to smirk up at him. "That's my boss. Ruthlessly benevolent." She turned her head toward Rias, eyes glinting with mischief. "But is he this lovable when he's out visiting your relatives, Rias? Or does he turn into a brooding knight the moment he steps outside the bedroom?"
Rias laughed softly—warm, fond—and leaned her head against Arto's shoulder. "He's… memorable," she said, choosing her words carefully. "In the best way." She paused, gaze drifting toward the window where the first hints of dawn were turning the crimson sky a softer rose. "The trip started at the grand graveyard just outside Runeas. It's not some gloomy crypt—it's beautiful, actually. Rows of white marble steles under black cherry trees that bloom year-round, petals falling like snow even in summer. We went there first. Paid respects to every generation of fallen Gremory. Especially the ones from twenty years ago—the war with Phenex and their allies."
Her voice quieted. "Some were Zeoticus's uncles and aunts. Some were his siblings. A lot were my cousins—people I grew up with, people I played with as a child. I visit every summer. I bring flowers, tell them about the year… show them we're still here. That their peace wasn't for nothing."
Arto's hand moved gently over her back—slow circles, wordless comfort. Rias continued, softer still. "After the graveyard, we visited the cities where the living relatives live. Mostly Zeoticus's direct siblings and cousins. There are grandpas and grandmas scattered along the line too—some living with their children, some in their own estates. They welcomed us with open arms. Food, stories, questions about the human world. They treated Arto like he'd always been part of the family."
She smiled—small, private. "But the most special thing… they all have the same mark on their bodies. A small, silver sigil—usually on the wrist or collarbone. It's the mark of a pact Zeoticus made at the last full clan gathering." Nami lifted her head fully now—curiosity overriding exhaustion. "A pact?"
Rias nodded. "Every member of the clan—blood or married in—agreed to keep Arto Abyssgard's existence completely secret. No leaks. No rumors. No careless words to allies or enemies. In exchange… they receive the perks of his innovations. Priority access to magic-tech infrastructure. Subsidized mana crystals. Healing arrays in every home. Defense grids that make their cities untouchable. The Simulation Room's training modules routed to their personal estates. Basically… everything that turned our war-scarred lands into the thriving domain you saw from the train."
She looked at Arto—eyes soft with something deeper than gratitude. "It's not just protection. It's loyalty forged in mutual benefit. Anyone who breaks the pact loses every boon. Instantly. No appeal. Zeoticus made it clear: Arto is the most valuable individual the clan has ever sheltered. His contributions—the Simulation Room, the magic-tech renaissance—brought us back from the brink in four months. A spectacular remontada no other house could dream of matching. The clan knows it. They feel it in their daily lives. So they keep the secret. Willingly."
Nami let out a long, impressed whistle. "So it's not just 'don't talk about the human.' It's 'don't talk about the human who literally rebuilt our economy and defense grid from the ground up.' Yeah… that'll do it." Akeno giggled—soft, delighted. "Lady Venelana must have loved writing that clause. 'Break silence, lose your free mana grid and your kids' training sim access.' Ruthless. Elegant. Very Gremory."
Robin closed her book—smile small, approving. "A perfect balance of carrot and stick. The clan protects Arto because protecting him protects them. Mutual survival elevated to sacred duty." Nami propped herself up on one elbow, still half-draped across Arto's lap like she had no intention of moving for the next hour. Her eyes flicked toward Rias with the kind of gleam she usually reserved for spotting untapped profit margins.
"Okay, but forget the politics and the perks for a second," Nami said, voice dropping into that conspiratorial purr she used when digging for gossip. "Your relatives—what did they actually think of him? Like… the man. Not the walking innovation machine. Was he too quiet? Too intense? Did they whisper 'who is this scary human?' behind his back or…?"
Rias's cheeks pinked instantly. She ducked her head, suddenly very interested in smoothing an invisible wrinkle on the bedsheet. "They… liked him," she mumbled. Nami's grin widened to predatory levels. "Liked him how? Spill. I need details. Scale of one to ten. Did they adopt him on sight? Did they try to feed him? Did they ask when the wedding is?"
Rias's face went from pink to full crimson. She buried it in her hands with a muffled groan. "Stop—!"
Akeno laughed—bright and delighted—rolling onto her side so she could poke Rias's flaming cheek. "Oh no no no, Buchou. You don't get to hide now. Mother already has the guest list half-written in her head. Tell Nami what they said."
Rias peeked through her fingers—voice small, mortified, but warm. "They said he's… surprisingly sociable. For someone who looks like he walked out of an old battlefield painting." She lowered her hands, glancing sideways at Arto—who was suddenly very focused on staring at the ceiling like it contained the secrets of the universe. "He's quiet, yes. But not cold. He knows exactly where he stands in any room—knows his value, knows he doesn't need to shout to be heard—but he never lords it over anyone. He's polite. Humble. Listens more than he speaks. And when he does speak… it's always kind. Thoughtful. Like he actually cares about the answer."
Nami whistled low. "So big scary war-machine man is secretly a gentleman scholar who treats grandmas like queens?" Rias nodded—blush deepening. "Exactly. Every single relative—uncles, aunts, cousins, even the great-grandparents who usually just grunt and complain about the weather—pulled me aside at some point. 'Rias, he bowed properly.' 'Rias, he asked about my garden like he really wanted to know.' 'Rias, he helped carry the tea tray without being asked.' 'Rias, when are you getting married?'"
She groaned again—flopping backward onto the pillows and covering her face with both hands. "They asked about the wedding. Multiple times. Multiple relatives. They kept saying he has the perfect combination: strength and gentleness. Intelligence and kindness. Courtesy that doesn't feel fake. They said any man who can be that polite to a room full of old devils who've seen everything… while carrying that much power… is worth keeping. Forever."
Akeno giggled—reaching over to pry Rias's hands away from her face. "And you blushed every single time, didn't you~?"
"Every. Single. Time," Rias wailed into the pillow. Nami cackled—rolling onto her back so she could stare up at the ceiling with pure glee. "Oh my god. Your entire clan adopted him in spirit. They're already planning the reception. I bet Lady Venelana has the dress picked out."
Robin's smile was small—quietly amused. "He earned it honestly. No posturing. No arrogance. Just… presence. The kind that makes people feel safe rather than threatened. That's rare. Especially for someone who could end most rooms with a thought."
Arto—still staring at the ceiling like it owed him money—finally let out a low, embarrassed huff. "They were just being polite," he muttered. Nami snorted so hard she nearly choked. "Polite? Boss, they basically proposed to you on Rias's behalf. Multiple times. You're basically Gremory family property now. Congratulations. You're getting a crest tattoo whether you like it or not."
Rias peeked up from the pillow—face still scarlet but eyes sparkling. "They're not wrong, though," she said softly. "You were… perfect. With all of them. Gentle with the elders. Patient with the children. Respectful with everyone. And you never once acted like you were doing them a favor by being there. You just… were. And they loved you for it."
Akeno leaned over—kissing Arto's cheek. "Our quiet knight-scientist. Terrifying when he needs to be. Adorable when he doesn't even try."
Rias turned to Robin next, curiosity lighting up her eyes as she tucked a strand of crimson hair behind her ear. "Okay, Robin, your turn. How was your day shadowing Yelena? What did you pick up from watching the head maid of this entire estate manage everything—while also raising Millicas? Studying, training, the works?"
Robin closed the grimoire in her lap with a soft snap, setting it aside on the bed. She shrugged one shoulder—elegant, unhurried, the way she always did when something was simultaneously impressive and faintly amusing to her. "Well, the training part with Millicas was taken over by Akeno today," she said, tilting her head toward the violet-haired woman currently using Arto's shoulder as a pillow. "We'll interrogate her later for the full report. As for me…"
She leaned back against the headboard, folding her hands in her lap. "…it was quite boring, honestly. In my opinion." Nami snorted from Arto's lap. "Boring? You spent the day with the woman who runs this place like a military operation crossed with a five-star hotel. How do you make that boring?"
Robin's smile was small, almost indulgent. "Because the estate is mostly empty right now. No major clan gathering on the horizon, no visiting dignitaries, no diplomatic delegations. That leaves only the central mansion humming along on minimal staff—maintenance crews, a skeleton crew of maids and butlers, the kitchen rotating light meals, the gardens tended by automated runes and a handful of groundskeepers. It's… quiet. Peaceful, even. Almost sleepy."
She paused—then added with quiet respect: "But don't misunderstand. That didn't make Lady Yelena any less impressive. Quite the opposite." Rias leaned in—genuinely curious now. "How so?"
Robin's gaze drifted toward the window for a moment—recalling. "She manages the place with terrifying efficiency. Every corridor, every schedule, every supply requisition—there's a system. Not rigid, not micromanaged, but… elegant. Like a spiderweb. She knows exactly where every thread is, and she only needs to pluck one to make the whole thing vibrate in response. Maids report to her with a single glance. The head chef brings her a tasting tray every afternoon without being asked. Millicas's tutors submit progress reports directly to her desk drawer—she reads them while sipping tea, signs off with one elegant flourish, and never raises her voice."
Nami whistled low. "So she's basically running a small country with the staff of a luxury hotel."
"Precisely," Robin said. "And she does it while being a mother at the same time. Millicas wandered into her office twice today—once with a scraped knee from playing in the garden, once just to show her a drawing. She didn't miss a beat. Knee cleaned and kissed in under thirty seconds. Drawing admired, hung on the wall beside her desk in under ten. All while she was mid-sentence dictating tomorrow's menu adjustments to the head chef via communicator. No frustration. No 'not now.' Just… seamless."
Akeno lifted her head from Arto's shoulder—violet eyes sparkling. "She's terrifyingly good at making chaos feel like choreography." Robin nodded. "That's exactly it. The estate runs itself because she's already anticipated every possible hitch. Spare linens rotated before anyone notices the old ones are wearing thin. Gardens pruned before the blooms even think about wilting. Millicas's training schedule adjusted so he gets both sword drills and storytime without ever feeling rushed. She doesn't command. She orchestrates."
Robin turned to Akeno with a small, knowing smile, resting her chin lightly on her hand. "Akeno, your turn. Tell us—how did little Millicas react when the one teaching and training him today was this gentle aunty Akeno… other than his mother Yelena with her freezing love?"
Akeno immediately lit up—violet eyes sparkling with mischief and genuine fondness. She rolled onto her stomach at the foot of the bed, kicking her feet in the air like a teenager recounting the best gossip. "Ohhh, you have no idea how adorable he was~"
She propped her chin on both hands, voice dropping into a delighted stage-whisper. "So I show up in the training courtyard—simple yukata, naginata over my shoulder, hair tied back—and Millicas is already there doing warm-up swings with his little wooden practice sword. The second he sees me, his whole face goes bright red. Like, tomato-level red. He freezes mid-swing, sword pointing straight up, and squeaks—actually squeaks—'A-Aunty Akeno?!'"
Rias snorted into her hand. Nami cackled openly. Akeno continued, eyes crinkling with joy. "He drops the sword—clatter—then immediately tries to pick it up again like nothing happened, but his hands are shaking so bad he almost stabs his own foot. I kneel down to his level, smile all sweet and gentle, and say, 'Your mother said you've been working very hard lately. Would you like Aunty Akeno to train with you today?'"
She paused for dramatic effect. "His eyes got huge. Like saucer huge. Then he nods so fast I thought his head would fall off. 'Yes please Aunty Akeno!!!'—practically shouting. And then he immediately tries to look cool again—puffs out his chest, picks up the sword properly, and says in this tiny serious voice: 'I'm ready for anything!'"
Nami was already wheezing. "He's so cute I'm going to die." Akeno nodded enthusiastically. "He really is. So we start with basic forms—nothing too hard, just footwork and grip. Every time he does something right I clap and say 'Very good, Millicas-kun~' and he turns even redder—if that's possible—and tries twice as hard on the next swing. When he finally lands a clean diagonal cut I cheer like he just won a tournament. He freezes again… then gives me this enormous grin and says, 'Did you see that, Aunty Akeno? I did it just like Papa!'"
Robin's smile softened—genuine warmth in her eyes. "He idolizes Zeoticus, doesn't he?"
"So much," Akeno confirmed. "But today he kept sneaking glances at me like he was checking if I was proud too. Every time I nodded he'd puff up like a little bird. By the end of the session he was exhausted—sweaty, panting, wooden sword dragging—but he still bowed perfectly and said, very seriously, 'Thank you for teaching me today, Aunty Akeno. I'll practice hard so I can protect everyone… especially you and Mama and aunties!'"
Rias made a soft, involuntary "awww" sound—hand over her heart. Nami clutched her chest theatrically. "I'm deceased. He's too powerful. We need to protect him at all costs."
Akeno giggled—rolling onto her back and staring up at the ceiling with dreamy eyes. "He hugged me at the end—tiny arms around my waist, face buried in my stomach. Then he looked up with those big red eyes and whispered, 'You're really strong and pretty and nice… like Mama, but with lightning.' Then he ran off to tell Yelena everything—still holding his practice sword like a trophy."