3rd Person POV
Arto stirred slowly, the familiar weight of the Sitri estate's guest bed settling around him like a quiet anchor. Sunlight—warm, golden, and suspiciously high—spilled through the tall windows, painting long rectangles across the silk sheets. He blinked once, twice, then pushed himself up on one elbow.
The room was already alive with soft, efficient movement.
Rias stood at the full-length mirror, adjusting the straps of a deep crimson one-piece swimsuit beneath a sheer cover-up, hair tied high in a loose knot that still managed to look regal. Akeno was slipping into a violet bikini top, wings half-folded as she hummed a tune and checked the fit in the vanity reflection. Nami—already in a bright orange two-piece with a sarong tied low on her hips—sat cross-legged on the rug, sorting through a small pile of sunscreen bottles and beach towels. Robin lounged on the chaise by the window—simple black one-piece, wide sun hat already on—reading a slim volume titled Aquatic Mana Flows of the Underworld while an extra hand idly braided her own hair.
All four looked ready. All four looked like they'd been awake for hours. Arto rubbed his face—still feeling the faint imprint of last night's long conversation with Robin—and frowned. "…What time is it?" he asked, voice rough from sleep. "Did I oversleep? Are we late?"
Nami didn't even look up from her sunscreen inventory. "Nope." She tossed something small and metallic toward him without warning. Arto caught it one-handed—reflex—then turned the object over in his palm.
A palm-sized disc of matte black alloy, etched with faint blue runes that pulsed in slow rhythm. A single thumb-switch on the side. A tiny digital display showing:
INTERNAL: 06:00:47
EXTERNAL: 01:00:12
He stared at the numbers for a long second. Nami finally glanced over, grinning like she'd won a bet.
"Time-dilation prototype. R&D division dropped it off while you were busy playing 24/7 diplomat with Grayfia, Atreides, and humiliating Phenex heirs. Built on the new architecture you sketched for the Simulation Room sectors—1 hour inside equals 10 minutes outside. You've been asleep for six hours real-time. They just stretched it for you so you could actually rest."
Arto turned the device over again—thumb brushing the runes. The faint hum of mana flow was familiar; he'd written the original equations months ago in a late-night burst of inspiration.
He shook his head—half admiration, half exasperation. "Admirable work," he muttered, "but still sloppy. The mana bleed at the edges is going to cause temporal drift after four hours continuous use. And the feedback loop on the outer shell isn't damped properly—long-term exposure will give the user a headache like a hammer to the temples."
He reached under the bed without looking—fingers finding the worn leather toolbox he always kept there—and pulled it out.
Rias laughed—soft, fond. "There he is. One night of actual sleep and he's already critiquing the R&D team." Akeno drifted closer—wings rustling—leaning over his shoulder to peer at the device.
"You're going to fix it now? We're supposed to leave for Crystal Lake in an hour." Arto popped the casing open with a thumbnail—revealing a delicate lattice of mana conduits and micro-runes.
"I'm going to fix it while you all eat breakfast," he said. "Go. Fetch me a couple breadsticks and some pâté on the way back. I'll have this recalibrated by the time you return. And maybe a few surprises for the lake trip."
Nami perked up immediately. "Surprises? Like what?" Arto's lips curved—just a fraction. "You'll see."
Robin closed her book with a gentle snap—extra hands already folding a beach towel. "Then we'll bring breakfast. And coffee. Strong." Rias leaned down—kissed his temple. "Don't get lost in the runes, love. We want you at the lake with us, not still tinkering when the sun sets."
Arto caught her wrist gently—pressed a kiss to her palm. "I'll be there." Akeno blew him a kiss from the doorway. "Bring the bird. She likes sunbathing."
Nami grabbed her bag—already halfway out. "Pâté, breadsticks, coffee. Got it. Don't blow up the room, boss."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto blowing a bubble and flies along with it]
The door burst open with the force of a sugar-rush explosion. "ARTO-CHAN!!" Serafall Leviathan launched herself across the room like a magical missile wrapped in ribbons and glitter. She collided with Arto's chest at full speed—arms locking around his neck, legs kicking the air for emphasis—nearly toppling both of them off the chair if not for his instinctive bracing. "Three months! Three whole months! Do you know how long that is in magical girl time?! That's like… forever!!"
She pulled back just far enough to cup his cheeks between her hands, squishing them together while her eyes sparkled with dramatic tears (whether real or theatrical was anyone's guess). "Look at you! Still handsome! Still broody! Still surrounded by gorgeous ladies! I'm so jealous I could cry sparkles!!"
Arto—used to this particular brand of Serafall-shaped hurricane—simply let her finish the mandatory cheek-squish ritual before gently prying her hands away. "Missed you too, Sera," he said, voice warm despite the dry delivery. "You're early."
"Early is when you're excited!" she chirped, hopping off him only to spin in place and take in the room. "And wow—look at this place! The Sitri estate is glowing! Literally glowing! I came here last year on my day off and it was pretty, but now? Now it feels like the whole domain drank a bottle of happiness potion!"
She spun back toward him, pointing excitedly out the window. "The river lanterns are brighter, the mist deer are fluffier, even the air smells like cotton candy and victory! What did you do? Did you sprinkle secret Arto magic dust everywhere?!"
Arto gave a small shrug—Radia chirped in agreement from his shoulder. "Just… helped a little." Serafall gasped theatrically, hands flying to her cheeks. "A little?! Sona-chan and her peerage are like… completely different people! More powerful, sharper, scarier in the best way! I'm so proud I could burst into magical confetti!"
Her expression shifted—suddenly serious, though still sparkling. "But… I'm not thrilled about the Auction House thing." She stepped closer—voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "She's seventeen, Arto-chan. Seventeen. Once you teach someone to read the real currents under the water… they can never unsee them. I have to pretend not to notice schemes half the time just to keep my mind bright and sparkly. Otherwise I'd only see strings and traps everywhere. I don't want that for Sona-chan yet."
Arto met her gaze—steady, unapologetic, but not defensive. "I know. I overstepped. I've already promised Sena and Sora it won't happen again without their word." Serafall studied him for a long moment—then broke into a beaming smile and hugged him again, this time gentler. "Okay! Forgiven! But only because you look so guilty and cute when you admit you're wrong~"
She pulled back, eyes catching on the small black disc in his hand—the time-dilation device, casing open, runes glowing faintly under his careful adjustments. "Ooh! What's that?!" Arto glanced down at the prototype—then back at her. "A secret," he said, voice dropping to a playful whisper. "One I'm only sharing with you right now."
Serafall's eyes went comically wide. She clapped both hands over her mouth, then nodded so vigorously her twin-tails bounced like excited springs. "Secret! I love secrets! Tell me tell me tell me!!"
Arto's lips curved—just a fraction. "I'm tweaking the dilation range," he explained, turning the disc so she could see the inner lattice of conduits. "Right now it's stable at 1 hour inside = 10 minutes outside. I want to push it wider. Wide enough to envelop the entire Crystal Lake area."
Serafall gasped—then squealed behind her hands. "You're gonna make a time-bubble around the lake?!"
"Exactly." Arto's fingers moved with practiced precision, etching a new stabilizing rune into the outer ring. "One day outside becomes two… maybe three inside. Enough time for Sirzechs and you to actually rest. Enough time for Millicas to play with his father without the world dragging them back. Enough time for you to cuddle Sona until she forgets—at least for a little while—what I taught her in the Auction House."
Serafall's expression softened—eyes shimmering with sudden, genuine emotion. "You're doing this… for us?" Arto didn't answer with words. He simply kept working—delicate adjustments to the feedback dampeners, a drop of dusk-berry concentrate to smooth the mana bleed.
Serafall watched in silence for a long moment. Then she stepped forward—wrapped her arms around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder, voice small and sincere. "Thank you, Arto-chan."
He paused—just for a heartbeat—then resumed his work. "You're welcome, Sera." Radia chirped happily—hopping onto Serafall's wrist like she approved of the hug. Serafall giggled—soft, watery—and squeezed him tighter. "You're the best worst influence ever." Arto huffed—almost a laugh. "I try."
Sirzechs's POV
[Sirzechs's house]
I opened my eyes to the same crimson ceiling I'd stared at for decades. The room was dim, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight against the morning light that dared try to creep in. My cloak—the cloak—lay folded across the back of the chair like a sleeping dragon, black edged in Lucifer crimson, the sigil of the King of Hell embroidered in threads that still shimmered with residual power even at rest.
I used to think it was enough.
A crown big enough to make the old Satans' descendants keep their distance. A mantle heavy enough to shield my family from the worst of the fallout. I told myself the title would be the wall between them and the knives that had always hunted Gremory blood.
What a fool I was.
I sat up slowly, muscles protesting after another twelve-hour shift of holding the Underworld together with nothing but willpower and the last scraps of goodwill I had left. The throne room had been quiet tonight—no open rebellion, no border flare-ups, just the usual slow poison of politics: endless petitions, veiled threats, alliances that shifted like sand under my feet. I'd smiled through all of it. Smiled while I signed decrees that kept Phenex and their allies from being openly sanctioned for what they did twenty years ago. Smiled while I pretended neutrality meant safety.
Neutrality.
They took my name—Sirzechs Gremory—and replaced it with Sirzechs Lucifer. They erased Zeoticus's son, Venelana's firstborn, Rias's big brother. They made me the perfect, impartial King… and in doing so they removed me from my own family.
Twenty years ago Phenex and their twelve allies marched into Gremory lands. My uncles, my aunts, my cousins—whole branches of the tree—died holding the western border so the heart of the clan could survive. I watched the casualty reports come in from a command tent three hundred leagues away, forbidden by my own council from taking the field. "The King cannot take sides," they said. "The King must remain above the fray." So I stayed above it. And I watched my blood burn.
If I'd been Sirzechs Gremory that day—if I'd still been allowed to be my father's son, my mother's heir—I would have torn the sky open and burned Phenex to ash. I would have walked through their regenerating legions until nothing remained but cinders and silence. Instead I sat on a throne and forced both sides to the table while my people were still dying. I brokered peace on top of their corpses.
And now… everything I should have done is being done by a human who appeared here four months ago...Arto Abyssgard...He trained Rias—turned my little sister into a warrior and a mage I sometimes barely recognize, someone who could stand on a battlefield and win. Something I, as her brother, should have done myself if I hadn't been chained to this chair.
He lifted our original home back from the debris—rebuilt what Phenex tried to erase. Something I, as the eldest son, the most powerful Gremory alive, should have done the moment the war ended.
He saved Grayfia—walked into a summit wearing someone else's name and broke Razer Phenex so thoroughly the elders had no choice but to void the contract. Something I, as her brother-in-law, should have done long before it ever reached that table.
I don't hate him. I respect him. More than I respect most of the devils who bow to me every day. But seeing him—watching him do what I was born to do, what I was made to do, while I sit here smiling and signing papers—it's like looking at the man I could have been if not for this crown.
If not for neutrality. If not for the name they forced on me. I try to get myself out of bed to reach the cloak for another day of work…but something warm, smooth and gentle, pull me back A gentle hand caught my wrist before my fingers could close on the velvet.
Yelana's voice—warm, sleepy, edged with that teasing frost only she could wield—brushed my ear. "Not today, my love."
She tugged me back under the blankets with effortless strength, rolling me into her embrace until my face was pressed against the curve of her throat. Her heartbeat was steady, calm, everything mine hadn't been in months. "I must depart to work again," I murmured, already trying to ease out of her hold. "Sleep a little more. Sorry for waking you so early."
Her arms tightened—soft but unyielding. She turned me swiftly, pinning me beneath her naked body with the same grace she used to wield a blade. Silver hair curtained us both; her eyes—pale frost over deep violet—held mine with quiet command. "First," she whispered, leaning down until her lips brushed mine, "your beloved wife needs her morning kiss."
The kiss was gentle at first—sweet, familiar, carrying that faint chill that had always reminded me of winter roses blooming in snow. Then it deepened, her tongue tracing the seam of my mouth until I opened for her, until the taste of frost and sweetness filled every corner of me.
She pulled back just enough to speak, breath warm against my lips. "Secondly… today is your day off, Sirzechs Gremory." I blinked—once, twice—trying to clear the fog of exhaustion and sudden, aching want. "Day off?"
Yelana giggled—low, delighted—and guided my hand to her breast, letting me feel the steady rise and fall, the soft weight that had always felt like home. "Yes, my love. Did the amount of sex we had last night—after so long—mess with your memory?" Her thumb brushed my lower lip. "Because if so, your beloved wife has something to inform you: you're not wearing that cloak in the next twenty-four hours."
She leaned down again—nipping my jaw lightly.
"We're heading to Crystal Lake. All of us. Gremory. Sitri. The whole family. Rias came up with the idea the moment she heard you had a day off. Millicas is already packing his favorite toys. Grayfia's been smiling like she used to—actually smiling. And I…" She rolled her hips once—slow, deliberate—drawing a low sound from my throat. "…intend to spend the entire day reminding my husband what it feels like to be Sirzechs Gremory again. Not Lucifer. Not the King. Just… mine."
I stared up at her—silver hair haloed by morning light, violet eyes bright with mischief and something deeper, something that looked dangerously close to hope. "Crystal Lake," I repeated—voice rougher than I intended.
Yelana nodded—smiling wider. "The place we first dated. Before the war. Before the council. Before they took your name and gave you a crown instead." She leaned down—forehead resting against mine. "So be ready for a memorable day with your wife, Sirzechs Gremory."
Her lips brushed mine again—soft, promising. "And maybe—when the sun sets and the children are asleep—your wife will remind you why you married her in the first place."
I exhaled—long, slow, the weight of twenty years shifting just enough to breathe. I wrapped my arms around her—pulling her down until our bodies aligned, until there was nothing between us but skin and truth. "Crystal Lake," I murmured against her mouth.
Yelana laughed—soft, victorious—and kissed me properly. "Yes, my love."
3rd Person POV
[Sitri domain]
The grand entrance of the Sitri estate's main mansion buzzed with the kind of lively chaos that only happened when two powerful families decided to travel together.
Zeoticus Gremory stood near the central fountain, arms crossed, a proud grin already tugging at his lips. Venelana stood beside him, elegant in a flowing summer dress, one hand resting lightly on his arm as though she knew exactly what was coming.
Sora Sitri—stoic as ever—stood opposite him with Sena at his side. The two lords locked eyes across the marble courtyard, and the familiar spark ignited.
"My Venelana," Zeoticus began, voice carrying with theatrical pride, "could brew tea so perfect it would make the heavens weep with envy. One sip and even the Old Satans would have surrendered without a fight."
Sora didn't even blink. "Sena's tea doesn't need to make anyone weep. It simply reminds them why they should behave. Quiet power. Lasting effect. Unlike certain dramatic blends that rely on spectacle."
Venelana sighed—soft, fond, long-suffering. Sena's sigh mirrored hers—pink eyes rolling skyward. Before either lord could escalate, a crimson portal flared open near the fountain steps.
Sirzechs stepped through first—still in his casual crimson coat instead of the heavy cloak of Lucifer, looking lighter than he had in years. Yelena Lucifuge followed, silver hair gleaming in the sunlight, arm looped through his. Millicas bounced out last—carrying a small backpack stuffed with toys and snacks, eyes wide with excitement.
Sirzechs took one look at his father and Sora already squaring off—and joined without hesitation.
"Father, Lord Sora," he said cheerfully, stepping between them. "If we're comparing wives, allow me to submit Exhibit A: Yelena Lucifuge. Grace under pressure, beauty that stops wars, and she still makes the best frostberry tarts in the Underworld. Sorry, but the crown goes to my wife."
Yelena laughed—bright, melodic—and patted Sirzechs's arm. "Don't drag me into your boys' game, love." Venelana and Sena exchanged identical looks of fond exasperation. "Men," Venelana murmured. "Always," Sena agreed.
The next arrival came on foot—Koneko padding silently beside Kiba. Koneko looked exactly the same: petite, white hair, expression serene, carrying a small bag that smelled suspiciously of fresh pastries. Whatever Damian's farm had fed her, it hadn't changed her outwardly—though she did seem… marginally fluffier around the cheeks.
Kiba, however… The young knight who stepped into the courtyard was barely recognizable.
Gone was the scholarly, gentle prince look. His hair was shorter, singed at the ends, streaked with soot. His forearms were corded with new muscle beneath rolled-up sleeves, faint burn scars crisscrossing the skin like badges. His eyes—still kind—now carried the focused intensity of someone who had spent months staring into forge fires and molten mana-alloys. The sword at his hip looked heavier, the hilt wrapped in fresh leather grips still smelling of oil and heat.
Rias blinked. "…Kiba?" Kiba offered a sheepish smile—white teeth flashing against soot-smudged cheeks. "Uncle Cedric is… thorough. I may have gotten carried away."
Koneko patted his arm once—calm, supportive—then promptly stole a macaron from the bag she carried and nibbled it with quiet bliss. Before anyone could recover from the sight of "new Kiba," the mansion doors opened again.
Arto stepped out first—casual shirt, sleeves rolled up, Radia perched happily on his shoulder. Behind him came Rias, Akeno, Robin, Nami, and Serafall—each dragging or carrying luggage ranging from sensible duffels to Serafall's glitter-dusted rolling suitcase that occasionally shot harmless sparkles.
At almost the same moment, Sona emerged from a side path—followed by her entire peerage, arms laden with market bags: fresh bread, fruits, cheeses, cured meats, bottles of chilled juice, and several large picnic baskets clearly intended for the lake camp.
The courtyard suddenly felt very full. Zeoticus clapped his hands once—loud, delighted. "Everyone's here! Perfect timing. Let's load up and head to Crystal Lake before Sirzechs starts another wife debate."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Sirzechs, chibi Zeoticus and chibi Sora debating about their wives]
The portal shimmered open like a tear in reality, spilling soft golden light and the faint scent of pine, wildflowers, and clean lake water across the gathered families.
One by one they stepped through—first the parents, then the children, then the peerages, until the entire group stood on a gentle rise overlooking Crystal Lake.
Time had been kind to this place.
The water still lay mirror-flat under the late-afternoon sun, reflecting the surrounding evergreens and the distant snow-capped peaks in perfect inversion. Floating lotus platforms drifted lazily across the surface, their pale pink blooms glowing faintly even in daylight. Small coves curved along the shore, each one framed by smooth granite boulders and clusters of fire-lilies that only bloomed at dusk. The air was cool, crisp, carrying the mineral bite of glacial melt and the sweetness of sun-warmed pine needles.
Sirzechs stopped at the edge of the rise, Yelena's hand already tucked into the crook of his elbow.
He stared—long, silent—then exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding for twenty years. "Almost nothing's changed," he murmured.
Yelena leaned her head against his shoulder. "The water's still the same shade of sapphire. The lilies still bloom in the same coves. I bet the little heart we carved on that boulder by the western inlet is still there… if the moss hasn't eaten it."
Sirzechs's lips curved—soft, nostalgic, almost boyish. "I'll check later. When no one's looking." Millicas—already tugging at Sirzechs' shirt—pointed excitedly. "Daddy! Can we swim now? Can we?!"
Sirzechs ruffled his son's hair. "Soon, little one. First… a walk. Your mother and I are going to be tour guides today."
He turned to the assembled group—Zeoticus and Venelana standing arm-in-arm, Sora and Sena close enough that their shoulders touched, Rias and her peerage already shedding outer layers in anticipation of the water, Sona's peerage quietly organizing the luggage, Arto standing slightly apart with Radia on his shoulder.
Before anyone could scatter toward the shore, Arto stepped forward. He held up a palm-sized black disc—runes pulsing a steady, deep blue. "Before we start the tour," he said, voice calm and carrying easily across the group, "a small adjustment to make the day… longer."
He thumbed the switch. A faint ripple of mana expanded outward—slow, almost invisible—like heat haze rising from sun-warmed stone. It rolled across the lake, climbed the surrounding hills, and settled over the entire cove in a perfect dome that shimmered once… then vanished from sight.
"Time-dilation zone," Arto explained. "One day outside equals three days inside. The lake, the high ground around it, the camp we're about to set up—all of it is now inside the bubble. We can stay as long as we want without the outside world dragging us back too soon."
Nami—already grinning ear-to-ear—punched the air. "Three whole days! Boss, you're the best!" Sirzechs blinked—then laughed, soft and genuine. "You really did it. Three days… Yelena, we might actually get some rest."
Yelena squeezed his arm. "And some uninterrupted time with our son." Millicas cheered—already running in excited circles. Arto let the group's excitement settle before continuing.
"If anyone wants to change the ratio—stretch it further or shorten it—say so now. Once it's locked, adjusting mid-use creates lag. Things will look faster or slower depending on direction. Better to set it right the first time."
No one objected. Three days felt like a gift no one wanted to shorten. Arto nodded once. "Then next: camp setup." He gestured toward Nami.
Nami stepped forward—holding up four small, matte-black capsules, each no larger than a thumb drive. "Compressed luxury suites," she announced proudly. "One press and they deploy into fully furnished private pavilions. Electricity, hot water, sound-proofing spells, climate control, the works. Nami-approved comfort."
She tossed one capsule to Zeoticus, who caught it with a grin. "Three one-room suites for the couples: Lord Zeoticus & Lady Venelana, Lord Sora & Lady Sena, Sirzechs & Yelena. Private. Quiet. No kids barging in."
Zeoticus waggled his eyebrows at Venelana. "Sound-proofing, you say?" Venelana swatted his arm—laughing. Nami continued—tossing the fourth capsule to Rias.
"Two larger suites for the peerages. One for Sona, Sona's peerage, and Serafall. One for Rias's peerage, Arto, Nami, and Robin. Millicas stays with Rias—where the aunties will spoil him rotten while his parents have their private time."
Millicas fist-pumped. "Yay! Aunties!" Serafall immediately hugged Sona from behind—cheek to cheek. "Cuddle pile with Sona-chan! This is the best day ever!"
Sona flushed pink but didn't pull away. Nami finished with a flourish. "The suites will surround a central fireplace—big enough for everyone to gather, cook, toast marshmallows, and tell embarrassing stories. No one gets left out."
Arto gave a small nod—quiet approval. "Set them up wherever feels right. We have three days. No rush." The group began to move—parents claiming spots near the water, peerages hauling luggage and capsules,
[Timeskip: Brought to you by the suites buzzing with sounds]
The group followed Sirzechs and Yelena down the gentle slope toward the water's edge, the soft crunch of pine needles and gravel underfoot blending with the distant lap of waves and the occasional trill of unseen birds. The late-afternoon sun hung low, turning the lake into a sheet of molten gold veined with sapphire. Floating lotus platforms drifted in slow circles, their pale pink petals beginning to glow with the first hints of dusk.
Sirzechs walked hand-in-hand with Yelena, his stride unhurried, almost reverent. Millicas skipped ahead of them, occasionally darting back to tug at his father's coat and ask "Are we there yet?" every thirty seconds. The rest trailed behind in a loose, comfortable cluster—Zeoticus and Sora still trading occasional barbs about whose wife brewed better tea, Venelana and Sena exchanging knowing glances, Rias and Sona walking side by side with their peerages fanned out around them like protective wings. Arto brought up the rear with Radia on his shoulder, the Hell Singer's soft melody weaving through the chatter like a quiet thread of calm.
Sirzechs stopped at a small, sheltered cove where a single granite boulder jutted into the water like a natural pier. Moss had claimed most of its surface, but one patch remained stubbornly clear—revealing a faint, weathered carving: two intertwined initials inside a rough heart, the edges softened by centuries of rain and wind. He ran his thumb across the carving—gentle, almost wistful. "Over five hundred years ago," he began, voice carrying easily across the group, "Yelena and I were… very different people."
Yelena laughed softly beside him. "You were a gangly scholar who talked too much about theory and never shut up about mana resonance. I was the ice queen who thought emotions were a waste of perfectly good brain cells." Sirzechs grinned—boyish, unguarded.
"We were both at the Magic Institute. Top of our year. Both obsessed with knowledge instead of power—back when I still believed power was something you earned through understanding, not through fear. The professors paired us for a field assignment: investigate reports of a massive creature living beneath Crystal Lake. A giant Gyarados, they said. Ancient. Possibly intelligent. Possibly dangerous. We were supposed to observe, document, and return with a report."
He looked out over the water—memories playing behind his eyes. "We hated each other at first. I thought she was cold, arrogant, dismissive. She thought I was loud, reckless, and far too enamored with my own voice. We bickered the entire way here. We bickered while setting up observation runes. We bickered while waiting for the creature to surface."
Yelena picked up the thread, her voice softer now—almost fond. "Then it did." The group leaned in instinctively—Millicas sitting cross-legged on the boulder, eyes wide. "A shadow moved under the water," Yelena continued. "Huge. Scales like polished obsidian and sapphire. Eyes like burning coals. It rose—slowly, majestically—until its head alone dwarfed our entire camp. We should have been terrified. Instead… we were fascinated."
Sirzechs chuckled. "We forgot we hated each other. We forgot the assignment. We forgot everything except the creature in front of us. We worked together without a word—her ice runes to calm its aggression, my destruction magic to shield us from stray water blasts, both of us scribbling notes at the same time. For three hours we studied it. Measured its mana signature. Mapped its behavioral patterns. Named it 'Aetheris' because it felt… ancient. Eternal."
Yelena's smile turned wistful. "And somewhere between the third hour and the fourth… something shifted. We weren't just colleagues anymore. We weren't even rivals. We were two minds that suddenly fit. Perfectly. My cold precision. His fiery intuition. My restraint. His passion. We balanced each other in ways neither of us had ever expected."
Sirzechs looked at her—eyes soft, unguarded. "When Aetheris finally dove back into the depths, we sat on this very boulder until sunset. Silent. Not because we had nothing to say… but because we didn't need words anymore. That was the day I realized love isn't always loud. Sometimes it's quiet. Steady. Inevitable."
Millicas's eyes were huge. "Did you kiss here, Daddy?" Sirzechs laughed—bright, unashamed. "Not that first day. But yes… later. Many times." Yelena swatted his arm—playful. "Behave." The group laughed—warm, easy. Even Sora cracked a rare smile. Venelana wiped a discreet tear from the corner of her eye. Sena squeezed Sora's hand—silent agreement. Sirzechs gestured toward the water. "That's the story of Crystal Lake. Not just a pretty view. A beginning. A place where two people who thought they were opposites… discovered they were exactly what the other needed."
He looked at Yelena—then at the gathered families. "So let's walk. Let's see the coves where we argued. The inlet where we first held hands. The boulder where we carved our initials. Let's make new memories… while remembering the old ones."
The trail around Crystal Lake was narrow, worn smooth by centuries of quiet footsteps—less a path and more a memory etched into the earth. Sirzechs and Yelena led the way, hand in hand, their pace slow and unhurried. Every few steps they paused at a familiar spot: the flat rock where Yelena had once sat reading while Sirzechs tried (and failed) to impress her with a poorly conjured firework; the shallow inlet where they had first held hands after finally admitting the "research trip" was something more; the overhanging willow whose branches still dipped into the water exactly as they had five hundred years ago.
Time had softened the marks they left behind—initials carved into bark now half-swallowed by moss, a tiny heart etched on a boulder worn almost smooth by rain—but they were still there. Lingering. Proof that even the King and Queen of Hell had once been young, foolish, and utterly in love.
Millicas darted between his parents like an excited comet, tugging at Sirzechs's coat every few seconds. "Daddy! What did you do here? Did you kiss Mommy? Did you fight a dragon? Did you make magic fireworks?!" Sirzechs laughed—low, warm—and swung Millicas up onto his shoulders. "No dragons. No fighting. Just… a lot of talking. And yes—lots of kissing your mother. She pretended she hated it at first."
Yelena swatted his arm lightly, but her smile was soft. "I pretended because you were terrible at flirting. You tried to explain mana resonance theory while asking me to dinner. I almost froze your tongue solid." Millicas giggled so hard he nearly slipped off.
Behind them, Zeoticus and Sora had—miraculously—stopped their wife debate. Zeoticus walked with Venelana's hand tucked into his elbow, their steps matching the slow rhythm of long familiarity. Sora did the same with Sena, though his arm was more protective than romantic—old habit from a lifetime of guarding what mattered most.
Venelana's voice drifted back, quiet but clear. "Do you remember the old vineyard on the southern slope? The one we used to sneak into after curfew?" Zeoticus chuckled. "How could I forget? You kissed me for the first time just to shut me up about grape varietals."
Sena—usually so composed—actually laughed, soft and genuine. "Sora and I had our spot too. The rooftop of the old library tower. He read me poetry he swore he wrote himself. It was terrible. I loved it anyway." Sora's stoic face softened—just a fraction. "I still have the notebook somewhere."
Serafall—usually a whirlwind of glitter and noise—had gone strangely quiet. She walked beside Sona, hand-in-hand, twin-tails swaying gently. The bubbly magical-girl persona had slipped away like a costume she no longer needed. What remained was softer, quieter—a woman who had carried the act for so long that letting it fall felt almost startling.
Sona glanced sideways—surprised by the change—and instinctively wrapped an arm around Serafall's waist. Serafall leaned into her—head resting on Sona's shoulder. "Thank you for walking with me, Sona-chan," she whispered. Sona tightened her hold—silent, steady. Behind them, Rias and Akeno had each claimed one of Arto's arms—Rias on the left, Akeno on the right—walking close enough that their wings and hair brushed against him with every step.
Rias tilted her head up at him—crimson eyes soft, teasing. "You heard the stories. Young love. First dates. Secret kisses. No duties. No wars. No politics." Akeno's hair swished lazily "We want that too, darling. Dates. Just us. No research. No innovation. No world-saving for a few hours. Just… you. Us. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere like this."
Arto looked down at them—then at the lake, at the families walking ahead, at the slow, gentle way the day was unfolding. He squeezed their hands—once, firm. "Soon," he promised. "I'll make time. Real time. Not stolen between crises. Real."
Nami—several paces behind—had somehow managed to scoop Koneko up in a bridal carry despite the Rook's Rook-level strength. Koneko dangled limply in her arms—white hair flopping over Nami's shoulder, expression resigned but not unhappy. "Let me go," Koneko mumbled around a macaron.
"Nope!" Nami sang. "You're my emotional support cat today. Deal with it." Robin walked at the very back—calm, unhurried—flanked by Sona's peerage and Kiba. Extra hands carried a small basket of snacks and a notebook where she occasionally jotted observations about the lake's mana flow. Kiba walked beside her—still soot-streaked from the forge, sword at his hip, but looking lighter than he had in months.
The trail curved around a small inlet where fire-lilies grew thick along the water's edge. Sirzechs stopped again—pointing to a cluster of stones just offshore. "That's where we first kissed," he said—voice soft, almost reverent. "She pushed me in afterward. Said I talked too much."
Yelena laughed—bright, clear. "You did. Still do." The group laughed with them—warm, easy. Millicas tugged at Sirzechs's coat again. "Daddy! Can we swim now? Please?!" Sirzechs looked at Yelena—then at the lake—then back at his son.
He smiled—wide, real, unguarded. "Yes," he said. "Now we swim."
[Back of the group]
Tsubaki walked a few paces behind the main group, her steps quiet and measured. The trail had narrowed here, forcing everyone into a loose single-file line, so she naturally fell in beside Kiba. He had been silent for most of the walk—content to listen to Sirzechs and Yelena's stories—but she had noticed the changes in him the moment he stepped out of the mansion earlier.
The scholarly softness was still there in his eyes and the gentle curve of his smile, but everything else had hardened. His shoulders were broader, forearms roped with new muscle and faint burn scars, hair cropped shorter and streaked with the ghost of forge soot. Even the way he carried Holy Eraser at his hip looked different—more grounded, more deliberate, like the sword had become an extension of bone instead of a tool.
She tilted her head, studying him sidelong. "You look… forged," she said quietly, the word carrying both literal and figurative weight. Kiba glanced at her, then gave a small, self-aware smile. "I've been with Lady Rias's uncle—Cedric Gremory—at the family forge. Learning smithing. Alchemy. How to inlay spells directly into steel so they become part of the blade instead of surface enchantments."
Tsubaki nodded slowly, processing. "I've been working on the opposite branch," she admitted. "Mana weapons. Pure-construct blades that exist only while the caster channels. Switch spells in and out on the fly. Reshape the edge mid-swing if needed."
She glanced at him curiously. "So why the painstaking route? Inlaying is slow. Permanent. One mistake and the sword is ruined. Mana weapons are faster—more flexible. I can swap a flame aura for a frost edge in two heartbeats. Why choose the harder path?"
Kiba's smile turned thoughtful. He looked ahead at Arto's back—Radia still perched on his shoulder like a living epaulette—before answering. "I see the appeal of your mana weapons," he said. "They're elegant. Adaptive. But they lean heavily on one thing most people don't have."
He nodded toward Arto again. "The Stabilizer. It gives the user an effectively bottomless well of mana. Optimization becomes almost irrelevant when you can brute-force any spell without worrying about burnout. That's why Arto rarely bothers with pure mana constructs—he doesn't need to. But take the Stabilizer away…"
He let the sentence hang for a moment. "…and suddenly maintaining a mana weapon through a long fight becomes a nightmare. You need perfect focus, an abundant mana pool, and rock-steady hands. One flicker—one moment of distraction—and the construct collapses. The fighter is left holding nothing but air while the enemy's blade is still very real."
Tsubaki's brows drew together slightly. "Arto still prefers physical swords," she murmured. "Even with perfect mana control."
"Exactly." Kiba's voice was quiet but firm. "Three thousand years of fighting has taught him that reliability matters more than flexibility when everything is on the line. A physical sword doesn't care if your concentration breaks. It doesn't vanish when your mana dips. It just… exists."
He touched the hilt of Holy Eraser—almost unconsciously. "Spell-inlaid weapons are the middle path. Yes, you can usually only embed one spell per blade. Yes, it's permanent. But that spell stays forever. It draws on ambient mana or the blade's own reservoir instead of the wielder's pool. No drain during combat. No risk of collapse when you're exhausted. And unlike mana weapons, there's no theoretical upper limit on spell strength—as long as the smith is skillful enough to anchor it properly."
Tsubaki considered that, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "So you're trading adaptability for certainty."
"Reliability," Kiba corrected gently. "In a long war, certainty wins more battles than adaptability. Mana weapons are glass cannons. Inlaid weapons are steel that remembers how to bite." He glanced at her. "But I'm not stopping at one spell."
Her head tilted—curious. "That's why Cedric's forge?" Kiba nodded. "I'm trying to create a mechanism that lets a single blade hold multiple inlaid spells—switchable, not simultaneous. Like having a sword that can shift from flame to frost to binding without losing integrity. Cedric thinks it's impossible. I think it's just… difficult."
Robin walked a few paces ahead of the main group, her steps unhurried and deliberate. She glanced over her shoulder and made a small, subtle gesture with one hand—fingers curling twice in quick succession, the universal signal she used with Sona's peerage when she wanted them to close ranks for instruction.
Tomoe noticed first. She tapped Momo's elbow, then Reya's, then Tsubasa's. The four girls peeled away from the larger cluster without drawing attention—moving up to Robin's side in a loose semicircle as the trail widened near a sun-dappled clearing.
Behind them, Tsubaki and Kiba continued walking together, their conversation low and focused, voices blending with the soft lap of lake water against stone. No one interrupted them.
Robin waited until the four were comfortably beside her before she spoke—voice quiet enough to stay private, loud enough to carry over the gentle rustle of leaves. "Everyone else is busy with their own conversations," she said, a faint smile touching her lips. "So let's find something worth talking about."
Tomoe tilted her head, already sensing a lesson coming. "What did you have in mind, sensei?" Robin's extra hands appeared—two of them opening a slim, leather-bound notebook she'd been carrying under her arm. The other two gestured toward Momo and Reya. "Healing magic," she said simply.
Momo and Reya straightened instantly—Bishops both, their expressions shifting from casual curiosity to sharp attention. Robin continued, tone calm and clinical. "It's one of the most complicated spell types in existence… and one of the most underrated. Everyone thinks healing is just 'wave hand, close wound, done.' But real healing magic—effective healing magic—requires the caster to understand actual medical science. Anatomy. Physiology. Pathology. Cellular regeneration rates. Blood chemistry. Neural pathways. Without that knowledge, you're not healing. You're just applying a very expensive bandage."
She tapped a page in her notebook—diagrams of mana flow overlaid on human musculature appeared in faint holographic lines above the paper, visible only to the five of them thanks to a small privacy ward. "Most battlefield healers never progress beyond first aid because they never study the body itself. They rely on templates—pre-made spells that knit flesh, stop bleeding, dull pain. Useful, but limited. A deep fracture? Nerve damage? Organ trauma? Those templates fail. Or worse—they leave scar tissue, phantom pain, or hidden weaknesses that surface years later."
Momo's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "So… you want us to learn actual medicine? Like human doctors?" Robin nodded. "More than that. By the end of this vacation, I'll begin teaching you the curriculum medical students at top human universities study—but accelerated, deeper, and explicitly linked to healing magic. You'll learn to cast spells that target individual cell types, that accelerate mitosis without risking tumors, that reconstruct neural pathways instead of just numbing them. You'll learn to diagnose before you heal—because the wrong spell on the wrong injury can kill faster than the wound itself."
Reya swallowed—both excited and slightly daunted. "That sounds… overwhelming."
"It is," Robin agreed. "But you're both Bishops. You already have the mana reserves and the fine control. What you lack is knowledge. Once you have it, you won't just be healers. You'll be walking hospitals. Capable of emergency surgery in the field with no tools except your spells and your mind."
She looked at Tsubasa and Tomoe. "You two aren't Bishops, so you don't need this level of mastery. But you should still pay attention. Respect those who weave healing spells on the battlefield. A good healer isn't just support—she's the difference between a casualty list and a surviving unit. And if you ever find yourself cut off from support in a dire situation… a healing wizard who truly understands medicine can perform field surgery, stabilize critical injuries, even restart a stopped heart. No operating theater. No backup. Just skill."
Tsubasa nodded slowly—respect flickering in her eyes. "I've seen healers collapse after long battles. I always thought it was just mana exhaustion." Robin shook her head. "Half the time it's knowledge exhaustion. They're trying to brute-force spells that require precision they don't have. That's why we're going to fix it."
Momo raised her hand—hesitant but determined. "How long will it take?" Robin smiled—small, reassuring. "Long enough that you'll curse my name at least once a week. Short enough that you'll thank me when the next crisis comes and you save someone who should have died."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Robin teaching medic]
One whole morning of walking, storytelling, and laughter around the lake had left everyone pleasantly exhausted. The group filtered back to the starting point—the wide grassy clearing where the carriages still waited and the central campfire had already been stoked high. The sun sat high but no longer punishing; the time-dilation bubble kept the afternoon feeling gentle and unhurried.
Lady Sena moved first. She set up her portable tea station on a low folding table—porcelain cups, a small spirit lamp, several tins of her personal blends. The moment the kettle began to whistle, the crisp scent of river-mint and star-anise drifted across the clearing. One by one people gravitated toward her without being asked. A hot cup pressed into tired hands worked faster than any spell: shoulders dropped, eyes brightened, quiet sighs of relief replaced the last traces of fatigue.
"Thank you, Lady Sena," Robin said first, accepting her cup with both hands like a ritual. "Drink slowly," Sena replied with a small smile. "This one has a touch of moonlit honey. It'll settle in your bones."
While the tea did its work, Lady Venelana took over the grill. She had already laid out the tools earlier—charcoal already glowing white-hot, long tongs, a stack of fresh herbs, and trays of marinated river trout, valley greens, and thick slices of Damian's farm bread. The moment she laid the first fillet on the iron grate, the sizzle and the smell of charring thyme hit like a second wind. Everyone straightened instinctively. Hunger replaced exhaustion in under thirty seconds.
Zeoticus and Sora—finally within arm's reach of their wives—opened their mouths at the same moment. "My Venelana's seasoning—" Zeoticus began. "Sena's tea is—" Sora started. Both women turned at once. "Help," Venelana said sweetly, pressing a pair of tongs into Zeoticus's hand. "Or starve."
Sena simply pointed at the chilled drink crates beside her table. "Drinks, dear. Everyone's thirsty." The two lords exchanged a single, resigned glance—then moved without another word. Zeoticus manned the grill beside his wife, turning fish with surprising competence. Sora knelt beside the drink crates, rolling up his sleeves.
Arto had been drifting toward the grill—ready to help with fire or knives—when he noticed the small crowd forming around Sora. He changed direction.
Sora Sitri stood behind the crate-turned-bar, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a row of bottles and shakers already arranged with military precision. He moved like a man conducting an orchestra no one else could hear: a flick of the wrist sent ice cubes tumbling into a shaker, a quick pour of clear spirit, a twist of citrus peel that released a burst of oil into the air, a final shake that sounded like distant rain. In under twenty seconds the first glass slid across the crate—pale gold, garnished with a single frost-kissed mint leaf.
"For the adults," Sora said simply, sliding it toward Sirzechs. The second version—same motion, different bottles—came out clear and effervescent, garnished with a thin slice of moonlit peach. "For everyone else." Arto stepped up beside Sena, watching her husband work.
"He's… very good," Arto said quietly. Sena giggled—soft, fond, the sound almost girlish. "He learned because of me," she answered. "Back when I was just Sena—not Sitri, not Pillar, just a girl from a lesser house who'd married into the family. Some of the relatives looked at me like I'd stolen something. Sora… decided the best defense was to get them drunk enough that they couldn't glare properly."
She watched Sora pour another round—perfectly balanced, no spill. "He said if they were too busy enjoying the drink to judge his wife, then the drink was doing its job. And yes—he makes the best drinks in the Underworld. Especially his signature…"
Sona appeared out of nowhere—hand clamping over her mother's mouth with practiced speed. "Mother. No." Sena's eyes sparkled mischievously over Sona's fingers. "…seme—" Sona squeaked and pressed harder.
Serafall—already laughing so hard she had to clutch her stomach—grabbed Arto's sleeve and dragged him toward the spectacle. "Come on, Arto-chan! You have to see Papa's flying-bottle show! He does this thing where he tosses three bottles at once and catches them behind his back—watch watch watch!"
Sora—without missing a beat—flipped a bottle of elderflower liqueur over his shoulder, caught it with his off-hand, spun a shaker in the same motion, and poured a perfect arc of liquid into six waiting glasses without looking. The bottles danced like they were charmed; the shaker never wobbled.
The group burst into applause—Millicas clapping loudest, Koneko giving a single, solemn nod of approval.
Arto drifted toward the grill after Sora's impromptu bartender performance wrapped up. The sizzle of fat hitting coals and the rich aroma of herbs already had his mouth watering before he even got close. Lady Venelana stood at the center of the setup—apron tied neatly, sleeves rolled to the elbows, tongs in one hand and a small bowl of marinade in the other. Every motion was economical, confident, almost musical. She flipped a thick trout fillet without looking, basted another with a flick of her wrist, then slid a skewer of valley greens onto the edge of the grate to char just enough for smokiness.
Lord Zeoticus worked in perfect parallel—chopping fresh thyme with a rhythm that matched her basting, passing her the next piece of fish before she even reached for it, wiping the cutting board clean the second she was done with it. They barely spoke; they didn't need to. Decades of shared kitchens had turned them into a single, seamless unit.
Arto stopped a respectful distance away, arms folded, genuinely impressed. "You wrote the cookbook I use at home," he said quietly to Venelana. "Seeing the author in action… it makes sense why every recipe works so well." Venelana glanced up, eyes crinkling with warmth. "Practice, patience, and knowing exactly how much fire a dish can take before it turns bitter." She nodded toward Zeoticus without breaking rhythm. "And a partner who knows the timing as well as I do."
Zeoticus grinned—wide, proud, utterly shameless. "We bonded in the kitchen a lot back in the day. Cook together, eat together, do the dishes together, all while having se—" Venelana's elbow snapped out like a piston—precise, not hard, but perfectly placed into his ribs. Zeoticus wheezed, laughed, and raised both hands in surrender. "Millicas is right there," she said sweetly, nodding toward the boy who was currently trying to convince Koneko to let him "taste-test" a raw slice of trout.
Arto caught the rest of Zeoticus's sentence on his lips anyway, the older man still smirking even while rubbing his side: "…Venelana is irresistible when wearing nothing but an apron. But you'll never see it because she only does that for me."
The sheer, smug pride in the man's expression pulled an involuntary chuckle out of Arto—low, appreciative, the sound of someone who recognized a husband utterly secure in his place. Arto tilted his head, letting a small, dangerous smile curve his own lips. "Bold claim, Lord Zeoticus."
He turned toward Rias, who had just wandered over with a curious look, clearly sensing the shift in energy. Zeoticus's eyes lit up like he'd just won the jackpot of father-in-law trolling opportunities. Before Arto could say anything—Zeoticus leaned forward, voice dripping with mock innocence and perfect timing. "Rias, darling—your future husband just asked if you'd cook for him wearing nothing but an apron so he can pretend you're your mother. Thoughts?"
Arto's hand shot up in pure panic. "That is not—" Too late. Rias's cheeks flared crimson—then her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. She looked between her father's shit-eating grin and Arto's suddenly very guilty expression. Zeoticus—still grinning—tapped his temple. "Future sight, son-in-law. Saw the whole sentence coming three seconds ago. Couldn't resist."
Rias stared at Arto for one long, lethal heartbeat. Then—without a word—she turned on her heel and walked away toward the drink table, shoulders stiff, ears scarlet. Arto exhaled through his nose, pinched the bridge of his nose, and shot Zeoticus a look that could have curdled milk. "You're evil."
Zeoticus laughed—loud, delighted, zero remorse. "Welcome to the family, Arto. You'll survive. Probably." Venelana sighed—long-suffering but fond—and pressed a fresh spatula into her husband's hand. "Help me flip the trout before you get yourself divorced from your daughter too."
Arto rubbed his face again, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "I'm never living this down." Radia—still perched on his shoulder—chirped once, almost smugly, as if to say you walked right into that one. Across the clearing, Rias was now aggressively accepting a drink from Sora—probably something non-alcoholic and very cold—while shooting occasional death-glances back toward Arto and her father.
Venelana glanced over her shoulder while turning a fillet of trout on the grill, the sizzle and herb smoke curling around her like a gentle halo. She caught Arto's eye and made a small, discreet come-here motion with her chin—subtle enough that no one else noticed.
Arto drifted closer without drawing attention, stepping around the side of the grill so he stood just behind her right shoulder, close enough to speak quietly without being overheard over the crackle of coals and the distant laughter of the children.
Venelana kept her eyes on the grill, voice pitched for his ears alone. "Arto… do you think the families here are using you?" She flipped the fish with a practiced flick of her wrist, buying a few more seconds of natural movement before continuing.
"You're a formidable player in political games. The Auction House. Atreides. The way you maneuvered everything tonight… you notice dynamics. You read people and power better than most nobles twice your age. So I have to ask—honestly—are you comfortable with what's going on between you and the Gremory and Sitri clans right now? Or do you feel used?"
Arto didn't answer immediately. He watched the flames dance for a long moment, then stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her from behind—gentle, careful, the embrace of a son-in-law rather than anything improper. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder; his voice was low, steady, meant only for her. "You are using me," he said simply. "And I'm using you."
Venelana didn't stiffen or pull away. She simply kept turning the fish, letting him speak. "You give me resources, protection, wealth, legitimacy—a place to stand when I had none. I give them innovations, stability, leverage—things that help them rebuild and grow stronger than before. It's mutual benefit. Pure transaction."
He exhaled against her hair—soft, almost fond. "And I believe mutual benefit is the core of every relationship—even among children. They play with each other because it's fun, and they have shared hobbies or joke sense. That's mutual emotional benefit. Adults do the same thing, just with higher stakes. There's nothing wrong with saying the clans are using me for their growth… because it serves both sides."
Venelana finally turned her head just enough to see the side of his face. "But…?"
"But as a politician and a strategist," Arto continued, voice dropping even lower, "I always keep a way out. Always." His arms remained loose around her—comforting rather than possessive. "I still hold the core architecture of the Stabilizer in my head. No one else has the full blueprint. If I ever need to withdraw—if the deals turn sour, if the terms break, if they try to chain me—I shut down every Stabilizer the clans are using. One thought. Everything grinds to a halt. They lose the edge overnight."
He tightened his arms just slightly—not a cage, just an affirmation. "But as long as you honor the deals—deliver what they promised, respect the boundaries—I won't go anywhere. You get growth, security, relevance. I get… this." He tilted his head toward the lake, the laughter, the families mingling. "A warm place to stand. People who look out for me. A family that chooses me every day. And—if everything balances out the way it should—eventually… a cute son-in-law."
Zeoticus—standing two steps away flipping greens—had been watching the entire exchange with narrowed eyes. The moment Arto's arms closed around his wife, his hand twitched toward a fist. Then he heard the answer. His fist unclenched. Slowly. He stepped closer—close enough that his voice carried only to the three of them. "Hands off my wife, boy," he said—gentle but firm, the warning unmistakable. "You gave a good answer. No boner while hugging her. I'll let it slide… this time."
Arto released Venelana immediately—hands raised in mock surrender, small smile tugging at his scarred lips. Zeoticus studied him for another long second—then clapped him once on the shoulder, hard enough to be felt but not enough to punish. "You're still on probation, future son-in-law."
Venelana swatted her husband's arm without turning around. "Behave." Zeoticus grinned—unrepentant. Arto stepped back—hands dropping to his sides. Venelana finally turned fully, eyes soft. "Thank you for answering honestly," she said. "And for the hug. It was… nice."
Arto inclined his head—small, sincere. "Anytime, Lady Venelana." Zeoticus snorted. "Not anytime." Venelana rolled her eyes and went back to the grill.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto imaging Rias in nothing but an apron before shaking his head and walks away]
The sun had climbed high enough to burn off the last traces of morning mist, turning the surface of Crystal Lake into a sheet of molten gold. The scent of grilled trout, charred herbs, and warm blackberry tarts drifted across the clearing, mingling with the clean mineral bite of lake water and pine.
Venelana stepped back from the grill, wiping her hands on her apron with the satisfied air of someone who knew exactly how good the meal smelled. Yelena—having commandeered a smaller secondary grill—was just setting down the last tray of her famous frostberry tarts, the pale blue berries glistening under a dusting of powdered sugar. Koneko stood beside her, solemnly nodding once after taking the final "quality control" bite. "9.9," Koneko announced. "The cream is perfect."
Yelena beamed like she'd just been knighted. Venelana clapped her hands once—sharp, cheerful. "Everyone! Food's ready. Come gather at the table—we're eating before it gets cold."
The group converged almost instantly, drawn by the smell and the promise of sitting down after a long morning of walking. Millicas scrambled onto a bench between his parents, already reaching for a tart. Sirzechs gently redirected his hand toward vegetables first, earning a dramatic pout. Rias and Akeno slid onto the bench beside Arto, Serafall dragging Sona along behind them like a reluctant kite. Kiba and Tsubaki took seats near the end, still quietly discussing blade inlays. Robin settled beside Nami, who was already photographing the spread for "posterity and blackmail material."
Zeoticus stood at the head of the long table—arms spread wide, grin as bright as the lake itself. "Eat hearty, everyone," he declared. "We've roamed the land this morning—now it's time for the water. Afternoon swim, floating platforms, maybe a little boat race if Millicas can convince his father not to cheat with magic."
Millicas pumped a fist. "I'm gonna win!" Sirzechs laughed—easy, unguarded. "We'll see, little one. No promises."
Plates were passed. Forks clinked. Laughter rose and fell like waves. Yelena's tarts vanished almost instantly—Koneko quietly hoarding two more while no one was looking. Nami declared the trout "better than anything in the East Blue" and demanded the recipe. Akeno teased Rias about "needing extra servings to keep up with her appetite," earning a playful swat. Sora poured drinks with theatrical flair, earning cheers every time a bottle spun through the air without spilling.
Arto sat quietly in the middle of it all—Radia perched on his shoulder, occasionally stealing a crumb from his plate—watching. Not analyzing. Not planning. Just… watching. Rias leaned against his side, stealing a bite of his trout. "You're quiet," she murmured. He pressed a kiss to her temple—soft, brief. "Just… enjoying the view."
She followed his gaze—parents laughing, children running, siblings teasing, friends sharing stories. Her smile softened. "Yeah," she whispered. "Me too." Venelana caught his eye from across the table and gave a small, knowing nod. Sena—sitting beside Sora—raised her teacup in a silent toast toward him.
Sirzechs met his gaze for a moment—long enough for a wordless understanding to pass between them—then looked away, ruffling Millicas's hair again. The meal stretched—unhurried, abundant, warm. When the last tart disappeared and the plates were mostly clean, Zeoticus stood once more. "Alright, everyone—lunch done. Time for the water. Suits on, sunscreen up, no pushing anyone in until at least one hour after eating."
The afternoon sun hung high and warm over Crystal Lake, turning the water into a mirror of liquid sapphire. The group had scattered across the shore and shallows like a living mosaic—some lounging on towels, some splashing in the shallows, some already drifting on floating lotus platforms.
Zeoticus and Venelana, Sora and Sena, stood together at the water's edge beside a long, elegant rowboat that had been moored since morning. Zeoticus was already untying the painter while Venelana arranged cushions and a small picnic basket. Sora held the oars, Sena beside him with a sun hat and a faint smile.
"We're going out to see if the old Gyarados is still around," Zeoticus announced to the group at large. "Five hundred years is a long time for a fish—even a magical one. Could be its descendants now… or maybe just bones. But we're curious."
Sora nodded once. "Best case: it's still alive and remembers them. Worst case: we find a very large skeleton and some good stories." Venelana laughed softly. "Either way, we'll bring back whatever we find." Sirzechs stepped forward—Yelena at his side, Millicas already clinging to his leg. "We're coming too," Sirzechs said. "If the big guy's still down there… we want to know. We visited him more times than I can count before the war. He used to surface just to watch us argue about research notes."
Yelena smiled—small, nostalgic. "He liked the sound of our voices. Or maybe he just liked the free fish we brought." Millicas looked up at his father with wide eyes. "Can I see the giant fish?!" Sirzechs ruffled his hair. "Not this trip, little one. We'll tell you everything when we get back." Millicas pouted—but was quickly distracted by Tsubasa, Momo, Reya, and Tomoe kneeling beside him with buckets and nets.
"Come swim with us instead," Tsubasa said gently. "We'll be your lifeguards. Kiba and Tsubaki too." Kiba—still faintly smelling of forge smoke—offered a reassuring smile. "We'll make sure you don't go deeper than your knees." Tsubaki nodded once—serious. "We've got you." Millicas perked up immediately. "Okay!"
Serafall had already claimed Sona's arm, tugging her toward a quieter path along the shore. "Sona-chan! Date time! We're going to look for the special glowing water-lilies that only bloom at twilight. No politics. No peerage stuff. Just us and pretty flowers." Sona sighed—but didn't pull away. "Fine. But if you start singing magical-girl transformation jingles again—" Serafall gasped dramatically. "I would never! …today."
She dragged Sona off—both laughing quietly as they disappeared down the trail. That left Arto's group. They had gathered at a small, rocky point that jutted farthest into the lake. Rias, Akeno, Koneko, Nami, Robin—and Arto—stood in a loose circle. Robin was already finishing the last of the underwater-breathing spells: faint blue glyphs shimmering across everyone's throats and chests like living tattoos. A second layer of pressure-resistant enhancement rippled over their skin.
Robin closed her notebook with a soft snap. "According to the mana echoes I mapped at noon," she said, "there's a structure down there. Not natural. Too symmetrical. Too deep. An ancient maze… or possibly a submerged city. The leyline distortions suggest it predates even the First Devil Civil War."
Nami's eyes lit up like treasure lamps. "Treasure," she breathed. "Ancient artifacts. Lost grimoires. Maybe even some kind of magical gold that doesn't tarnish. I'm in." Robin smiled faintly. "There will be unique creatures too. Some we've never documented. That's why Rias, Akeno, and Arto are going. Exploration. Discovery. Not just looting."
Rias grinned. "Though if we find something shiny…" Akeno's wings rustled in anticipation. "I call first dibs on anything that sparkles." Koneko crossed her arms—expression flat. "I'm only here because Nami dragged me." Nami slung an arm around her shoulders. "You love me. And you love adventure. And you love shiny things. Don't lie."
Koneko sighed—but didn't deny it. Arto looked at the water—surface calm, depths dark and promising. "Stay close," he said simply. "We don't know what's waiting. If anything attacks, we surface immediately. No heroics." Nami saluted. "Aye aye, captain."
Robin cast the final spell—a thin membrane of mana that would let them speak and breathe underwater without distortion. "Ready?" Five nods.