Highschool DxD: Abyssgard

Rias's POV

I slumped into the chair behind my desk in the Occult Research Club room, exhaustion and frustration weighing heavily on me. My peerage trailed in behind me, all of us drenched in sweat, caked in dirt, and reeking of those foul-smelling bombs the stray devils had hurled to cover their escape. Once again, they'd slipped through our fingers.

My peerage collapsed onto the sofa, panting tiredly. Akeno, my Queen, stepped behind me, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder.

"I can't believe how fast they blend into the crowd," I muttered, rubbing my temples.

"Indeed," Akeno replied softly. "We've been dealing with them for weeks now. This group of strays is adapting to the environment here far too quickly. They scatter the moment we arrive. Even Sona is struggling, despite having more pieces than we do."

Kiba, my Knight, leaned forward from the sofa. "I think they're recruiting more devils into their gang. No matter how many we take down, their numbers seem to stay the same the next time we face them."

Koneko, my Rook, padded over to me quietly and held out her hand. "Chocolate?" A faint smile tugged at my lips despite my mood. I reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a bar, handing it to her. "Here you go."

She took it with a cute little smile, then returned to her seat and began nibbling contentedly. I sighed. "Well, it's been a long day. You're all dismissed. Go home and rest. We'll get them next time."

Kiba and Koneko stood, bowing lightly. "Goodnight, President."

"Goodnight, you two. Rest well." They headed out of the clubhouse, leaving Akeno and me alone. She leaned closer, her voice taking on that familiar teasing lilt. "Ara ara~ Look at you, President~ All sweaty and dirty. I want to borrow your shower here. Care to join me~?"

I shrugged, too tired to resist. "Sure." We made our way to the shower, and honestly, it was a relief to have company. Akeno and I had been sharing showers for a long time now—it was comforting, intimate in a way that eased the stress of the day. I loved when she washed my hair and scrubbed my back; I returned the favor, my hands gentle on her skin. Soon, we were soaking in the bathtub, my arms wrapped around her from behind.

"Have you thought of any countermeasures against those strays?" she asked, leaning back against me. "It was fun at first, but now it's just frustrating."

"The only thing I can think of is luring them to an open place with few hiding spots," I said. "Then we deal with them all at once. They're not particularly strong, just annoying and fast."

Akeno asks while putting some shampoo on my head "Why don't we track down their headquarters?" her gentle hands start scratching gently like a massage session for my head, I can feel the tension relieving itself, this is heaven.

But business is business, so instead of relaxing, I answer "Sona's tried that and failed miserably. They change locations constantly and leave no traces." I still remember that face of Sona when she got those stinking bomb all over her, took over an hour in the shower to wash them all off, and 2 more days of complaining.

"So where do you think we should ambush them?" Akeno suggests as she takes the shower head and rinses my hair gently, like how we always do when bathing together. After the soap is washed down my head, I answer her "I'm thinking the park. Not many places to hide, and it's empty at night. We just need bait—something they'll all want. They've been stealing and killing in my territory for weeks. It's unacceptable."

Akeno gets in front of me and sits down, waiting for her turn "What bait?" she asks.

I think while taking the shampoo into my palm "I'm still thinking. A mimic chest, maybe? Or a high-value relic..."

The mention of mimic might have made Akeno excited as she interupted "Let's use a mimic chest," Akeno suggested. "It's hard to resist, cruel in the best way, and it can fight on its own until we arrive. I'll put a magical alarm on it to alert us when they bite. But will it lure them all out?"

I apply the shampoo onto her hair and starts scratching "Don't worry. I'll enhance the lock so it takes their full effort to open. That's the plan. I'll call my brother to borrow the mimic chests." Akeno nods and stay still for me to wash her hair.... "Sirzechs-sama still keep those violent chests? How surprising?" Akeno leans closer to my hands, she seems to enjoy this a little too much, but can I blame her? My hand is comfortable.

"Yes, he still keeps them to store his....I can say important stuffs, but those he doesn't want others to touch, even himself....you know how things get when they wake up, it's not pleasant to wake them up usually" I takes the shower and wash the soap away for Akeno. "I still remember when one of those chests almost ate Millicas" 

Akeno let out a soft giggle at that, the sound echoing gently off the tiled walls of the bathroom. "Ara ara~ Poor little Millicas. I can just imagine Sirzechs-sama panicking as the chest snapped at his precious son. Those things are vicious when provoked."

I smiled faintly, remembering the chaos of that day. Sirzechs had turned the entire Gremory estate upside down trying to subdue the mimic before it could do any real harm. Yelena had been furious—for weeks afterward. "Yeah, he learned his lesson about leaving them unattended. But they're perfect for this. Reliable guards that don't need feeding or rest."

I finished rinsing Akeno's long, raven-black hair, watching the suds swirl down the drain. She turned slightly in the warm water, her violet eyes meeting mine with that mischievous spark I knew all too well. "You'll have to be careful when you pick them up, President~ We wouldn't want one mistaking you for a thief."

"Please," I scoffed lightly, wrapping my arms around her waist again as she settled back against my chest. "I'm family. They know my scent... mostly. Besides, Sirzechs owes me for covering that incident with the strays last month. He'll send a couple over without complaint."

We finished up, drying off and glancing at the clock as we stepped out. "Would you look at the time," I said with a smirk. "It's so late now. You have no choice but to sleep here, Akeno~"

She looks at me with a smirk "Ara ara~If you want to sleep with me that badly, all you need to do is ask~" WIthout her consent, I wrap my arms arounf her "It's not my fault you're the perfect hugging pillow. Now get in bed."

Akeno lets out a fabricated resigned sigh, hiding her true excitement, I know this woman too well "As you wish~" We headed to my bedroom, slipping out of our towels and sliding under the covers. We hugged each other tightly, our bodies pressed close, chests touching in that comforting way that made everything feel right, just like how we grew up together. "Goodnight, Akeno~"

"Sweet dreams, President." she teases "Who?" She giggled softly. "My apologies. Sweet dreams, Rias~"

[Timeskip: Brought to you by the mimics sleeping soundly in the treasure chamber]

The next morning came too quickly. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the Occult Research Club room, turning dust motes into lazy golden sparks. I sat behind my desk with a fresh cup of tea—black, strong, no sugar—trying to shake off the lingering haze of last night's stakeout. Akeno lounged on the sofa nearby, legs crossed elegantly, flipping through a fashion magazine while Koneko methodically worked her way through a family-sized bag of cookies. Kiba was out on morning patrol, keeping an eye on the park just in case any of the strays had circled back after we left.

The mimic chests were still the best idea we had, but after feeling that… thing… rip through reality last night, I wasn't about to take chances. If the strays had any decent detection magic—or worse, if they'd picked up a stray mage or two in their little gang—they might see right through a simple illusion and spot the trap before they even got close.

I set the teacup down and pulled out my personal communication circle, the crimson Gremory crest glowing faintly as I fed it a thread of demonic power. A heartbeat later, the circle expanded into a familiar projection: my brother's face, smiling that warm, disarming smile that always made me feel like I was still ten years old and he'd just caught me sneaking sweets from the kitchen.

"Rias," Sirzechs greeted cheerfully. "You're up early. Everything alright in Kuoh?"

"Mostly," I replied, leaning forward. "We're dealing with a persistent group of strays. They're slippery, adaptive, and apparently recruiting. We've got a plan to lure them into the open tonight—using mimic chests as bait. But I have a question before I commit."

His eyebrows lifted with interest. "Go on."

"Can they look through the chests with detection spells? See that there's nothing valuable inside, or spot the living nature of the mimics before they commit?"

Sirzechs chuckled, the sound rich and fond. "Smart girl. Yes, a decent scrying or object-piercing spell could reveal the interior if the illusion is too thin. But there's an easy fix." He leaned closer to the projection, voice dropping conspiratorially. "Make them appear stuffed to bursting with jewelry—gold chains, gemstones, ancient coins, the works. Layer the glamour so thick it hurts to look at directly. Even if they pierce the surface illusion, the sheer density of 'treasure' signatures will overwhelm basic detection spells. They'll assume it's the real deal and get greedy. The mimics themselves are already layered with anti-divination wards; my personal craftsmen built them that way centuries ago."

I nodded, already picturing the adjustment. "That'll work. Thank you."

"Of course." His smile turned a shade more serious. "And yes—you can borrow them. Six, in fact. I'm having them packaged and sent through a secure portal by the end of the morning. Grayfia will oversee the delivery personally so nothing… unexpected happens en route."

"Six?" I blinked. "I was thinking two or three at most."

"Six gives you redundancy," he said smoothly. "And honestly, it's a good time for them to stretch their legs. Or jaws. Whichever." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking faintly sheepish—the same expression he wore whenever family matters got messy. "Truth is, I've been using a few of them as long-term storage for things I don't want anyone touching. Dangerous artifacts, sealed grimoires, a couple of… sentimental items I haven't had the heart to deal with. They've been in there far too long. I want them out without having to level half the estate to get to them. Yelena would have my head if I destroyed another wing of the house just to retrieve my old research notes."

I couldn't help a small laugh. "So I'm doing you a favor by borrowing them?"

"Precisely." He winked. "Feed them well, Rias. Let them eat their fill of those strays. But try to kill the mimics cleanly once the job's done—without shattering my precious contents in the process. If you can't manage that without collateral damage to the artifacts, just ship the chests back to me when they're finished digesting. I'll find another way to extract what's inside. Maybe sedation spells, maybe a very patient exorcist. Either way, I'd rather not explain to my wife why her favorite heirloom necklace is now in six different stomachs."

"Understood," I said, fighting a smile. "I'll be careful. And thank you, nii-sama. This should end the stray problem tonight. But how can I trick them about the whereabouts of the treasure?"

Sirzechs tilted his head, a small, nostalgic smile creeping across his face. He rubbed his chin absently, the way he always did when pulling up old memories.

"Ah… good point. You want a hook beyond the chests themselves. Something to draw them in deeper, make them think they've stumbled onto a real score."

He paused, then brightened as if a lightbulb had gone off.

"You can always use Mother's Box of Play," he said, voice warm with fondness. "Her favorite toys—the little enchanted dioramas and figurines she used to make dramatic scenes for us when we were small. Remember? She'd set them up on the parlor table after dinner, narrating epic tales of knights and dragons, or silly adventures with talking animals. Millicas loves them now for his bedtime stories; she keeps the whole set at home just for him. It's harmless magic—mostly illusion and minor animation spells—but it's perfect for staging a 'discovery.'"

I raised an eyebrow, already picturing it. "A scene? Like… what?"

"Exactly. Ask Mother to lend you the box. You can set up a small, convincing tableau near the chests—say, a miniature map room or treasure vault illusion projected from the toys. Have tiny animated figures 'argue' over a glowing map that points to an 'underground cache' hidden beneath the park. Make it look like careless thieves left clues behind. The strays spot the scene, overhear the 'dialogue,' get greedy for the bigger prize… and follow the trail right into your mimic ambush. The Box's enchantments are subtle enough not to scream 'trap' to basic detection spells, but vivid enough to sell the story."

He chuckled softly. "Mother always did have a flair for the theatrical. She'll probably be delighted you're borrowing them for 'practical' use. Just promise her you'll return everything in one piece—no stray drool on the little dragon figurine, or she'll never let you hear the end of it."

I felt a genuine smile tug at my lips despite the tension. Venelana's Box of Play was one of those quiet family treasures—nothing world-shattering, just pure Gremory whimsy. The idea of weaponizing childhood bedtime props against stray devils was absurdly fitting for our family.

"That could work," I admitted. "Layer the map illusion with a faint demonic signature to make it feel authentic. The strays chase the 'lead,' hit the chests on the way, and we close the net."

"Precisely." Sirzechs winked again. "Mother's toys have survived two rambunctious children and one very energetic grandson. They can handle a few greedy strays. I'll let her know you'll be contacting her soon—she'll want to hear all about your plan anyway. She misses fussing over you."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias on her phone]

The call to Mother connected almost instantly, the crimson Gremory crest blooming into a warm, familiar projection. Venelana appeared on the other side, seated in the sunlit conservatory of the family estate, a cup of tea in hand and that ever-present, knowing smile on her lips. She looked as youthful and radiant as ever—no trace of the centuries she carried.

"Rias, darling," she greeted, voice like velvet. "Sirzechs mentioned you might need something from my collection. The Box of Play, was it? For your little stray problem?"

I nodded, leaning forward slightly. "Yes, Mother. The mimic chests will handle the heavy lifting, but we need a convincing lure—something to draw them in with a story they can't resist. Sirzechs suggested your enchanted dioramas. The animated scenes you used to put on for us when we were children. I thought we could stage a 'treasure hunt' discovery near the park, with figures talking about a hidden chamber beneath one of the old trees. It should pull the strays right into the trap without them suspecting anything."

Venelana's eyes sparkled with delight. "How clever of you—and how delightfully devious. Using my old toys to hunt devils? I love it." She set her teacup down with a soft clink. "Of course you may borrow the Box. It's been gathering dust between Millicas's bedtime stories anyway. The little dragon figurine is his favorite; he insists the dragon always wins in the end."

She paused, expression shifting to something gently firm—maternal authority wrapped in affection.

"But there is one condition, Rias. Bring it back in one piece. No stray saliva, no scorch marks from Power of Destruction, no missing knights or broken princesses. Those pieces have sentimental value, even if they're just enchanted wood and illusion. Understood?"

"Understood, Mother," I said immediately, smiling despite myself. "I'll treat them like Millicas's favorites. Promise."

"Good girl." Venelana blew a kiss through the projection. "Grayfia will bundle it with the chests. It should arrive by late morning. Have fun, dear—and tell me how it goes. I want details."

The circle faded. Akeno, who'd been listening with her head tilted, let out a soft laugh. "Ara ara~ Your family really does have the most charming heirlooms. Bedtime stories turned into devil bait. Only the Gremorys."

Koneko gave a tiny nod from her spot on the sofa, already finishing another cookie. "…Efficient. And cute."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by shipments of sleeping mimic chests stacking on each other]

By late morning the delivery arrived exactly as promised: a quiet spatial ripple in the center of the ORC room, and six sturdy crates materialized alongside a smaller, polished wooden box etched with delicate silver runes. Grayfia's signature was unmistakable—no fuss, no fanfare, just flawless efficiency.

I started with the mimic chests. One by one I opened the crates carefully, peering inside. The six mimics were curled up in their dormant state—wooden surfaces smooth and innocuous, brass fittings gleaming, tiny clawed feet tucked beneath like sleeping hounds. A faint, rhythmic rumbling came from within, almost like snoring. They were content, sated from whatever Sirzechs had last fed them, and their anti-divination wards hummed quietly under my touch.

"Good," I murmured. "Sleeping fine. No cranky surprises."

Akeno stepped forward, violet lightning already dancing at her fingertips. "Shall I?"

"Please." Together we worked quickly: she wove her thunder-based alarm spells into each chest's core—the moment a stray forced the lid or tried to pry it open, a violet bolt would spike skyward, visible only to our peerage. I added my own crimson runes for reinforcement, making sure the mimics would stay dormant until triggered but explode into action when fed.

With the chests secured, I turned to the smaller box. Venelana's Box of Play looked deceptively simple on the outside—polished mahogany, no larger than a large jewelry case—but when I lifted the lid, a soft golden light spilled out. Inside lay a single blank sheet of enchanted parchment, glowing faintly, waiting.

I placed it on the desk and picked up a quill. The script came quickly, my handwriting precise:

A group of treasure hunters—three rugged human adventurers (two men, one woman)—wander near the edge of Kuoh Park at dusk. They speak in hushed, excited tones about a "forgotten chamber" beneath the ancient oak tree in the central clearing. One pulls out a glowing map fragment, pointing to the spot where the mimic chests will be placed. They argue over shares, hint at vast riches (gold, artifacts, demonic relics), then "accidentally" drop the map fragment before hurrying off, as if spooked. The scene loops subtly, drawing attention without repeating too obviously.

I finished the last line and set the quill down. The parchment shimmered. The Box of Play responded instantly—wood creaking softly as internal mechanisms shifted. Tiny motes of light rose from the interior, swirling and expanding until they coalesced into the figures I'd described: three normal-sized illusory humans (the box's magic scaled them perfectly for realism), dressed in worn adventurer gear. They blinked into existence around the desk, frozen for a moment, then began their scripted performance in miniature scale at first—testing the scene—before I mentally nudged them to full projection size for the real trap.

The woman (a sharp-eyed rogue type) whispered urgently: "The map says it's right under that big oak in the park. Chamber full of relics—Gremory-stamped, even. We drop the clue here, let some fool find it, then circle back after they crack it open."

One of the men grunted. "Greedy bastards'll swarm it. We just wait for the chaos and pick the bones."

They "dropped" a glowing parchment map fragment (another illusion from the box), then hurried "away" toward the door in a loop, voices fading and restarting seamlessly.

After the tiny figures completed their first full run-through of the script—voices hushed and urgent, the "map fragment" fluttering to the ground in perfect dramatic fashion—I raised my hand and spoke clearly.

"Cut!"

The single word carried the weight of a director's absolute authority. The magic woven into the box recognized it instantly. The three illusory treasure hunters froze mid-step, mouths half-open, expressions locked in mid-greed. The glowing map fragment hung suspended in the air like a paused frame. Even the faint rustle of their illusory cloaks stilled. The entire scene became a perfect, motionless tableau—silent, obedient, waiting for my next cue.

Akeno let out a soft, appreciative hum from behind me. "Ara ara~ You sound just like a real theater director, President. So commanding."

I allowed myself a small, satisfied smile. "It's useful when the actors can't argue back."

With a gentle wave of my hand, I guided the frozen figures to shrink back down to miniature scale, then closed the lid of the Box of Play. The golden light dimmed. The characters dissolved into motes that spiraled inward like fireflies returning to their jar, leaving only quiet polished wood behind.

I tucked the box under my arm. "Time to set the stage for real. Koneko, Akeno—stay here and finish double-checking the mimic alarms. I'll handle the placement."

Akeno tilted her head, violet eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Teleporting already? You're not taking us along for the fun part?"

"I need focus. Fewer signatures, less chance of tipping off any strays who might be watching early. I'll call if I need backup."

Koneko gave a small nod, already reaching for another cookie. "…Be careful. That cold thing from last night… still feels wrong."

"I know," I said quietly. "I feel it too."

I stepped into the center of the ORC room, crimson power coiling around my feet like liquid fire. A teleportation circle bloomed beneath me—smaller and more precise than the grand ones Sirzechs favored—focused solely on location rather than spectacle. With a soft whoosh of displaced air, the clubhouse vanished.

I reappeared in the deepening twilight of Kuoh Park.

The central clearing was empty, as expected. Streetlamps hadn't yet flickered on, and the old oak tree loomed at the heart of the space, its branches spreading wide like protective arms. The six mimic chests waited in their crates nearby—Grayfia's delivery team had placed them discreetly behind a cluster of bushes, exactly where I'd marked on the map earlier.

First things first.

I knelt beside the largest root of the oak, set the Box of Play down on the grass, and opened the lid once more.

Golden light spilled out again, brighter this time in the open air. The three treasure hunters materialized at full human size—solid-looking illusions, their forms detailed down to the scuffs on their boots and the sweat on their brows. They stood motionless, awaiting direction.

I moved with purpose.

The rogue woman I positioned near the edge of the path leading into the clearing—half-hidden behind a low hedge so she'd appear to have just "emerged" from the trees. One of the men I placed a few paces behind her, crouched as though examining the ground. The third I set closer to the oak itself, "holding" the glowing map fragment in his outstretched hand, body angled toward the mimic chests' eventual placement spots.

I walked the perimeter, adjusting angles, nudging shoulders, tilting heads—small corrections that sold realism. The illusions didn't resist; they simply flowed like soft clay under my direction, expressions locked in the greedy excitement I'd scripted.

When everything looked natural—three treasure hunters who'd clearly been careless enough to drop a valuable clue—I stepped back to survey the scene.

It was convincing.

From a distance, especially at night with only moonlight and faint lamplight, it would look like real people caught in a moment of hushed conspiracy. The map fragment glowed just enough to draw the eye without screaming "trap." The trail of subtle demonic energy I'd laced into the illusion would lead any curious stray straight past the "dropped clue"… and directly into the circle of six waiting mimics.

Satisfied, I whispered, "Begin loop. Soft volume. Natural pacing."

3rd Person POV

The evening deepened over Kuoh Park, shadows stretching long and thin beneath the old oak tree. The peerage had arrived in staggered teleports to avoid drawing attention—first Kiba, silent and precise as always, then Koneko slipping in like a small white ghost, and finally Akeno, who materialized with a soft crackle of violet lightning and a delighted little hum.

The illusory treasure hunters continued their looping performance near the treeline: hushed arguments, the "dropped" map fragment glowing faintly on the grass, greedy glances toward the central clearing. Rias had already returned to the Occult Research Club room to monitor from afar and prepare contingency spells, leaving the three of them to finalize the kill zone.

Kiba surveyed the clearing with calm, professional eyes. "The path is set. The strays will follow the map fragment here—" he gestured to the faint trail of illusory energy that snaked from the hunters' scene straight into the heart of the park—"and then descend."

He knelt beside a patch of ground near the oak's massive roots. With a quiet murmur and a flash of Sword Birth, he summoned a thin, elegant blade that shimmered like moonlight on water. The sword sank into the earth without resistance, carving a hidden staircase downward—illusion-cloaked from above, perfectly real beneath. Stone steps materialized one by one, descending into a pocket dimension Rias had authorized: a small, artificial chamber no larger than a modest basement, lit by faint crimson runes along the walls.

Koneko padded down first, her nose twitching as she tested the air. "…Smells like old stone and greed. Good."

Akeno followed, her long black hair swaying as she descended the steps with exaggerated grace, heels clicking softly against the summoned stone. "Ara ara~ It's almost romantic, isn't it? Leading desperate little strays down into the dark with promises of riches… only to feed them to hungry little mouths."

Kiba allowed himself a faint, wry smile. "Sadistic, Akeno-senpai."

"Cruel in the best way," she corrected sweetly, violet eyes sparkling. "President said we could make it entertaining. I intend to."

The chamber itself was sparse but convincing: rough-hewn walls carved with fake demonic sigils that pulsed like real wards, scattered piles of illusory gold coins and broken chalices along the edges (courtesy of Rias's layered glamour spells), and at the far end—a raised stone dais guarded by six very real, very awake mimic chests.

Kiba had released them from dormancy one by one. Now they crouched in a semicircle like patient predators: wooden lids slightly ajar to reveal glints of "treasure" inside (Sirzechs's actual artifacts, carefully shielded behind illusion so the mimics wouldn't accidentally digest them), brass fittings gleaming, tiny clawed feet scratching restlessly at the stone floor. Each one emitted a low, rumbling purr—half growl, half anticipation.

Koneko crouched beside the nearest chest and gently patted its lid. The mimic leaned into the touch like an oversized, murderous cat. "…They're excited. Hungry."

Akeno laughed softly. "Of course they are. Look at all this delicious setup." She walked the perimeter of the dais, trailing her fingers along invisible threads of magic. With delicate flicks of her wrist, she wove additional traps:

Thin violet lightning webs stretched across the entrance stairs—harmless to touch at first, but if a stray tried to flee upward, they would snap tight and deliver a stunning jolt, herding them right back down. Pressure plates disguised as loose flagstones that, when stepped on, would trigger small bursts of illusory flame—enough to make the strays think the treasure was fiercely protected by ancient curses, driving them deeper in panic. A final layer: scent traps laced with Akeno's own thunder essence, releasing a tantalizing whiff of "powerful demonic core" mixed with the unmistakable smell of fresh blood and gold. Greed would override caution.

Kiba finished reinforcing the chamber walls with additional Sword Birth barriers—thin, invisible blades that would activate only if the mimics were overwhelmed, slicing through any stray who got too close to Sirzechs's precious contents.

He stepped back, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "The chamber is ready. Six mimics at the end, traps layered to build hope, then shatter it. They'll see the 'guarded treasure,' think they've won… and then the chests will remind them why greed is dangerous."

Akeno clasped her hands together, practically vibrating with glee. "Ara ara~ Imagine their faces. First the excitement—'We found it! So much wealth!' Then confusion when the lids creak open wider. Then terror when teeth and claws emerge instead of gold. And finally…" She mimed a dramatic swoon, pressing the back of her hand to her forehead. "…nothing at all. Just digestion and despair."

Koneko tilted her head, expression blank but eyes faintly amused. "…Very Akeno."

"Very effective," Kiba corrected mildly. He glanced up the stairs toward the surface, where the illusory hunters still looped their performance. "The strays should arrive soon. The energy signature from the map fragment is strong enough to draw them from half the town."

Akeno's smile turned sharper, almost predatory. "Then let's make sure the show is unforgettable. For them… and for us."

She snapped her fingers once. The lightning webs hummed brighter for a heartbeat, then dimmed to near-invisibility. The mimic chests let out synchronized, eager growls—low enough not to carry topside, loud enough to promise violence.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias watching the play going back and forth with a smile]

Night had fully settled over Kuoh Park, the moon a thin silver crescent barely piercing the canopy of the old oak. The illusory treasure hunters continued their eternal loop near the treeline—whispers of greed, the soft clink of imagined coins, the glowing map fragment lying innocently on the grass—exactly as Rias had directed. Above ground, everything appeared serene. Below, in the pocket-dimension chamber, six mimic chests crouched in hungry silence, their low rumbles blending with the faint crackle of Akeno's lightning webs.

Back in the Occult Research Club room, the peerage waited.

Rias sat at her desk, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on a small scrying orb that projected a bird's-eye view of the park. Akeno lounged sideways on the sofa, one leg dangling, idly twirling a strand of her hair. Kiba stood near the window, arms crossed, sword at his hip. Koneko perched on the armrest beside Akeno, nibbling the last of her cookies, ears subtly twitching as she monitored distant sounds through senjutsu.

The alarm hadn't triggered yet.

Meanwhile, several blocks away, the stray devil pack moved through the shadowed alleys like a pack of wolves on the hunt. Twenty-two strong—mostly low-to-mid-class devils who'd abandoned their masters for freedom and easy prey—they had grown bolder over the weeks. Tonight's target was a small black-market cache rumored to hold low-grade demonic artifacts. Easy pickings.

Until one of them froze mid-step. The one with oversized, bat-like ears—former familiar scout named Vex—tilted his head sharply. "Boss," he hissed, voice low and urgent. "Listen."

The leader, a hulking brute named Garrick with jagged horns and scars crisscrossing his bare chest, raised a fist to halt the group. The pack went still. Vex's ears swiveled. Faint voices drifted on the night breeze—human-sounding, excited, careless. "…chamber's right under that oak… Gremory relics… enough to set us up for life…"

Garrick's yellow eyes narrowed. A slow, predatory grin split his face. "Treasure," he rumbled. "Under the park. Real talk, not whispers." The group exchanged glances—greed igniting in every pair of eyes. "No coincidence," Vex muttered. "We were already heading that way."

Garrick didn't hesitate. "Move. Quiet until we see it." They melted into the shadows, faster now, drawn like moths to the scripted flame. Minutes later they reached the clearing. The three treasure hunters stood in plain sight, still looping their conversation—oblivious, vulnerable.

The leader raised a clawed hand. "Take 'em. Get the map." The pack surged. It was over in seconds.

The illusory hunters didn't even have time to scream convincingly. Blades, claws, and crude demonic energy ripped through them. Fabric tore, flesh parted (the Box of Play's realism enchantment made the wounds look horrifyingly authentic—blood, torn limbs, glassy eyes staring at nothing). One "hunter" was bisected at the waist; another's head rolled free with a wet thud. The third tried to run—only to be tackled and gutted from behind.

The corpses slumped, twitching once, then still. To the strays, it looked real. Felt real. Smelled real. The Box of Play had done its job perfectly—down to the coppery tang of fresh blood lingering in the air.

Garrick knelt beside the "bodies," snatching the glowing map fragment from the dead rogue woman's clenched fist. He unfolded it, eyes scanning the crude but clear markings: a path leading straight to the old oak, then downward to a marked "chamber" beneath the roots.

"Jackpot," he growled. "Heavily guarded, it says. Good. Means it's worth protecting." The pack laughed—low, ugly sounds. Vex licked blood from his claws. "Let's go collect."

Garrick led them to the base of the oak. The map's energy signature pulsed once, bright and inviting. The ground shimmered faintly—Rias's illusion staircase revealing itself only to those who carried the map's resonance.

One by one, they descended. The stairs were narrow, forcing them single-file. Perfect for control. Perfect for panic. They reached the chamber. The sight hit them like a drug.

Rough stone walls etched with pulsing wards. Scattered piles of gold that caught the crimson rune-light and threw it back in dazzling shards. Broken chalices, jeweled goblets, faint glimmers of power radiating from the far end. And there, on the raised dais at the chamber's end: six ornate chests, lids slightly ajar, overflowing with even more treasure—chains of gold, gemstones the size of fists, artifacts that sang with latent demonic energy.

Guards? None visible. Just the chests. Just the promise. Garrick's grin widened until it was almost splitting his face. "Look at that," he breathed. "Heavily guarded, my ass. They left the real prize sitting out." One of the strays—a wiry female with glowing tattoos—stepped forward eagerly. "We take it all." Another laughed. "Split it even? Or the strongest first?"

"Strongest first," Garrick said, already moving toward the dais. "And that's me." They advanced as a group, weapons drawn, eyes bright with avarice.

[Treasure chamber]

The chamber's traps continued to spring in cruel succession as the remaining strays pressed forward.

Akeno's lightning webs lashed out in staggered bursts, coiling around ankles and wrists like violet serpents—stinging, burning, but never quite lethal. Illusory flames roared from the walls in timed waves, forcing the group to duck and roll while the heat scorched their skin and singed fur and scales. Pressure plates triggered bursts of concussive force that hurled bodies against stone; razor-thin barriers of Kiba's Sword Birth shimmered into existence at ankle height, slicing calves and thighs deep enough to draw blood but not sever limbs. Every few steps, a new trap activated—falling stalactites (illusion-enhanced to feel real), sudden pits lined with illusory spikes, bursts of choking smoke laced with paralytic essence.

By the time the pack reached the far end of the chamber, their numbers had thinned from twenty-two to sixteen. Bruised, bleeding, panting, clothes and flesh torn, but still alive. Still hungry.

The final stretch opened into a wider antechamber. At its center stood a single raised platform, and beyond it—through an archway of black stone—gleamed the promised treasure room: piles upon piles of gold, artifacts pulsing with power, Sirzechs's actual relics carefully shielded behind the last layer of glamour so the mimics wouldn't accidentally consume them. The sight made every surviving stray's eyes dilate with feral want.

But one last obstacle barred the way.

Lying motionless on the ground directly in front of the archway was a suit of ancient armor—dark, weathered steel etched with faint, almost forgotten runes. It resembled the legendary gear once worn by a fallen knight from tales whispered in other worlds: broad pauldrons, a tattered blue cloak draped over one shoulder, a great helm with a narrow visor that swallowed all light. One gauntleted arm rested limply at its side; the other was folded across the chest in a loose guard. The entire suit looked abandoned, rusted, empty.

Garrick, blood dripping from a gash across his forehead, raised a clawed hand to halt the group. "Careful," he growled. "Another guardian. Probably rigged to wake if we step wrong." Vex's bat-like ears twitched. "No heartbeat. No breath. Maybe it's just decoration." A smaller stray—a wiry imp with glowing tattoos—snorted. "Decoration my ass. Everything else tried to kill us. This thing's the final boss."

They spread out instinctively, circling the armor in a loose semicircle, weapons drawn, demonic energy crackling along claws and blades. Garrick took point. He stepped forward slowly, testing. One boot scraped stone inches from the armor's boot.

Nothing. He took another step. Still nothing. The pack relaxed fractionally—then surged. "Rush it!" Garrick roared. "Take the head off before it wakes!" They charged as one. And the armor moved. It did not rise dramatically. It simply unfolded—fluid, mechanical, with the terrifying economy of something that had done this a thousand times before.

The limp arm snapped up in a blur. The other hand—previously resting across the chest—drove forward like a piston. A single gauntleted fist connected with the chest of the nearest stray (the tattooed imp). There was no dramatic wind-up, no roar. Just a wet crunch. Ribs caved inward; the imp flew backward twenty feet and hit the wall hard enough to crack stone. He slid down, gurgling, already dead.

The pack faltered for half a second. That was all it took.

The armored figure pivoted on one heel—impossibly fast for something so heavy—and the loose-hanging arm whipped around in a horizontal arc. The back of the gauntlet caught two strays at once: one lost his jaw in a spray of blood and teeth; the other's neck snapped sideways with an audible pop. Both dropped without a sound.

Garrick bellowed and lunged, claws extended, demonic fire wreathing his fists. The armor met him mid-stride.

One armored forearm blocked the flaming claws without effort—metal screeching against scale—then the other hand drove upward in a brutal uppercut. Garrick's lower jaw shattered; his head snapped back so violently his spine cracked. He collapsed in a heap, twitching.

The remaining strays screamed and scattered, but there was nowhere to run. The lightning webs at the rear had already reactivated, sealing the only exit.

The armor advanced. It fought with one arm primarily—the other hung loose, almost lazily, as though the wearer found the opposition unworthy of both limbs. Every movement was precise, economical, devastating:

A sidestep avoided a hurled bolt of demonic energy; the same motion brought an elbow crashing into a stray's temple, caving the skull. A low sweep with one leg shattered three kneecaps in a single pass; the fallen strays were stomped through the chest before they could scream. A single overhead smash with the active gauntlet pulped a fleeing back into the stone floor, armor cracking like eggshell.

When a particularly desperate stray tried to blast it point-blank with concentrated hellfire, the armor simply raised the loose arm—absorbing the blast without flinching—then retaliated with a backhand that tore the caster's upper body clean off.

[ORC clubhouse]

Above, in the Occult Research Club room, the scrying orb flared with violent crimson and violet flashes before settling into stillness.

Rias's eyes widened. "That… wasn't one of our traps." Akeno leaned forward, smile fading for the first time that night.

Kiba's hand tightened on his sword hilt. Koneko's ears flattened. "…Not stray. Not mimic. Something else."

Rias rose slowly, Power of Destruction coiling around her like living flame. "Change of plans," she said quietly. "We're going down there. Now."

[Treasure chamber]

The chaos in the antechamber reached a fever pitch as the armored figure continued its methodical, one-armed dismantling of the stray pack. Screams echoed off the stone walls—cut short one after another—while the mimic chests in the treasure room beyond remained eerily silent, waiting.

Garrick, the hulking leader, saw the tide turning in seconds. His yellow eyes flicked from the slaughter to the open archway leading to the glittering chamber beyond. Loyalty? Honor among thieves? None of it mattered. Survival and greed did.

Without a word, without even a backward glance at his screaming underlings, Garrick bolted.

He shoved past a staggering subordinate who reached for him in panic—"Boss—!"—and sprinted through the archway. The massive stone gate—half-ajar, illusion-crafted to look like an ancient vault door—loomed ahead. Garrick slipped behind it, pressing his back to the cold surface, using the thick slab to shield himself from the armored knight's line of sight and the dying cries of his pack.

The screams continued for a few more heartbeats, then tapered into wet gurgles and silence.

Garrick exhaled shakily, wiping blood—some his, most not—from his face. He turned.

Before him lay the treasure chamber proper.

Six enormous chests sat in a loose semicircle on the raised dais, lids closed, surfaces gleaming with false opulence. Gold chains draped over the edges, gemstones catching the crimson rune-light and throwing fractured rainbows across the walls. The air smelled of metal, old magic, and promise.

Garrick's lips curled into a triumphant sneer.

He raised one clawed hand, demonic energy coiling around his fingers in a sickly green glow. A simple scrying spell—nothing fancy, just enough to peer past illusions and confirm the haul.

The spell washed over the chests. Inside each one: mountains of gold coins, overflowing jewelry, ancient relics pulsing with latent power. Exactly what the map had promised. No tricks. No empty shells.

His heart hammered with exhilaration. "Mine," he whispered hoarsely. "All mine." He strode forward, claws extended, reaching for the nearest lid.

The chest moved first.

A long, slick, pale tongue—far too long for something made of wood—shot out from the narrow gap beneath the lid. It wrapped around Garrick's waist like a whip, yanking him forward with terrifying strength. The lid snapped fully open, revealing rows upon rows of jagged wooden teeth lined with brass and iron, dripping viscous saliva that hissed against the stone floor.

Garrick roared in terror and twisted free just in time, the tongue lashing past his face close enough to slice a shallow cut across his cheek.

He stumbled back. Then the other five chests stirred.

One by one, lids creaked open wider. Pale, slender limbs—unnaturally long and thin, jointed like spiders—unfolded from beneath the wooden bodies. Clawed feet scraped stone as the mimics rose to their full, grotesque height, mouths gaping, teeth gnashing in wet, eager anticipation. Low, screeching laughter bubbled from their throats—half glee, half hunger.

Garrick's bravado shattered. He hurled a bolt of demonic fire at the nearest one. The mimic caught it on an upraised limb, the flames sizzling harmlessly against its reinforced hide, then retaliated with a whip-like lash of its tongue that cracked across his chest and sent him skidding backward.

The pack of mimics advanced in perfect, predatory unison—limbs clicking, mouths drooling, screeches rising in pitch.

Garrick fought desperately. A claw swipe severed one slender limb at the elbow; the mimic didn't even pause, simply sprouted a new one from the stump in seconds. Another tried to tackle him; he drove both fists into its wooden maw, shattering teeth—but the mimic clamped down anyway, grinding bone and scale.

They were too many. Too fast. Too strong. One mimic lunged, wrapping both long arms around his torso and lifting him off the ground effortlessly. Garrick thrashed, roaring.

The mimic's head tilted curiously—almost playfully—then its jaws opened wide. With a wet rip, it tore his right arm clean from the socket. Garrick's scream was raw, animal-like.

The mimic held the severed limb up like a trophy, then shoved it into its mouth whole. Teeth crunched through bone and muscle with obscene satisfaction. Dark blood sprayed across its wooden face as it chewed slowly, savoring.

Garrick's vision tunneled. Pain and shock drowned out thought. Desperation gave him one last burst of strength.

He slammed both palms together—his remaining hand and the bloody stump—and unleashed a blinding flash spell. Pure white light exploded outward, searing retinas and filling the chamber with actinic glare.

The mimics screeched in fury, recoiling, limbs flailing blindly. Garrick didn't wait. He staggered through the gap between them, blood pouring from his shoulder, and hurled himself toward the giant gate.

He burst back into the antechamber—and froze.

The knight in ancient armor stood motionless in the center of a carpet of broken bodies. Sixteen strays lay scattered like discarded dolls—limbs twisted at impossible angles, chests caved in, heads crushed, blood pooling beneath them in dark mirrors. The armored figure hadn't moved since finishing its work; one arm still hung loose at its side, the other lowered, dripping.

The knight moved.

It bent with deliberate slowness, gauntleted fingers closing around the hilt of a fallen stray's sword—a crude, jagged blade still slick with its owner's blood. The weapon looked small and toy-like in the knight's massive grip, yet the figure hefted it effortlessly, the steel singing faintly as it cut through the air in a single test swing.

Then it began to walk toward Garrick.

Each step rang against the stone floor—slow, unhurried, inevitable. The loose arm dangled at its side, dripping crimson; the other raised the scavenged sword in a low, ready guard. No flourish. No roar. Just the quiet certainty of something that had ended countless lives and would end one more.

Garrick's eyes widened. He pushed off the gate, staggering backward into the treasure chamber. "Stay back—stay the fuck back!"

Behind him, the six mimics had already scented fresh prey.

The leaderless pack of slender-limbed horrors had finished licking the blood from their wooden jaws after Garrick's severed arm. Now their beady eyes locked onto the groaning, bleeding figure limping through their midst. Tongues lolled hungrily. Pale limbs clicked and flexed. A chorus of wet, eager screeches rose from their open mouths as they surged forward in a wave of gnashing teeth and grasping claws—six starving guardians abandoning their post for the easy meal that had just presented itself.

They lunged. The knight reacted instantly. It pivoted on one heel—faster than anything so heavily armored should have been able to—and the scavenged sword flashed in a single, perfect arc.

The nearest mimic never even touched Garrick.

The blade cleaved through its wooden body from collar to hip in one clean stroke. No resistance. No spray of splinters or ichor—just a sudden parting of pale limbs and snapping jaws. The two halves of the mimic collapsed in a twitching heap, tongue still whipping uselessly before going still. The strike was surgical, economical, final.

The other five froze mid-leap.

Their screeches cut off into confused, hissing growls. Beady eyes darted from the fallen kin to the armored figure now standing between them and their meal. The knight lowered the sword slowly, point toward the floor, but the posture was unmistakable: a warning.

The remaining mimics hesitated. One took a tentative step forward, testing—long limb reaching, mouth opening wider.

The knight shifted its weight. The loose arm lifted slightly—not in threat, but in readiness. The helm tilted a fraction, the black void of the visor seeming to deepen.

The mimic stopped. Then retreated. One step. Two. 

The others followed, limbs folding back, tongues retracting, low whines replacing their earlier hunger-crazed shrieks. They backed away from the knight, circling wide, keeping the fallen half of their kin between them and the armored intruder. For the first time since Sirzechs had crafted them, the mimics looked… uncertain.

Garrick stared, mouth hanging open, the pain in his shoulder momentarily forgotten.

Rias and her peerage materialized at the chamber entrances in synchronized flashes of crimson light—Rias at the central archway, Akeno to her left, Kiba to her right, Koneko dropping silently behind them. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood, the acrid burn of spent demonic energy, and something colder, older, that made the hairs on the back of Rias's neck rise.

They took in the scene in an instant.

The six mimic chests—Sirzechs's prized, vicious guardians—lay in ruined heaps across the treasure dais. Each one had been bisected or decapitated with surgical precision: clean cuts through reinforced wood and brass fittings, no splintering, no scorch marks, no collateral damage to the relics still gleaming untouched inside their split-open bodies. Gold chains and gemstones spilled out like entrails, but not a single piece bore so much as a scratch.

Standing amid the wreckage was the knight.

The ancient armor—dark steel, tattered blue cloak, greathelm swallowing all light—held a scavenged stray sword loosely in one gauntleted hand. Fresh blood dripped from the blade in slow, rhythmic drops. The other arm hung at an unnatural angle, the pauldron cracked, the vambrace bent inward as though something inside had shattered against unyielding force. The figure's chest rose and fell with heavy, mechanical pants that echoed strangely in the helm.

It turned its back on the dying stray leader—Garrick—who was slumped against the far wall, clutching his severed shoulder stump, wheezing and staring with wide, glassy eyes at the armored silhouette that had just saved his life by accident.

The knight faced Rias's peerage. A low, guttural sound rasped from the absolute darkness beneath the hood. "There's… more?" The words were clipped, rough, barely human—more grind of stone on stone than speech. Rias opened her mouth, Power of Destruction already flaring in her palms. "Wait—we're not—"

Too late. The knight exploded forward. The movement was a blur—faster than any devil in the room had anticipated, faster than most high-class devils could track. The scavenged sword whipped up in a rising diagonal aimed straight for Rias's throat.

Kiba was already moving.

His Sacred Gear flared to life in a silver shimmer; a longsword materialized in his grip just in time to intercept. Steel met steel with a ringing crash that echoed through the chamber. Sparks flew. Kiba slid back three feet, boots scraping grooves in the stone, but he held.

Rias's eyes widened. If Kiba had been half a second slower…

Koneko reacted next—pure instinct. She launched herself like a white comet, fist cocked back with senjutsu-enhanced strength that could shatter castle gates. The punch aimed for the knight's cracked pauldron, intending to cave it in completely.

The knight twisted at the last instant—impossibly fluid for something so heavily armored. Koneko's fist whistled through empty air; the knight's loose, broken arm snapped up in a reflexive parry that redirected the blow just enough to send Koneko skidding sideways instead of through him.

Akeno's lightning crackled to life, violet arcs coiling around her fingers—but the knight was already gone.

He spun on his heel, cloak snapping like a banner in a storm, and vanished up the hidden staircase in the same blinding burst of speed he'd used to attack. One heartbeat he was there; the next, only the echo of ringing footsteps and the faint scent of old iron and void lingered.

Silence crashed down. Garrick wheezed once, twice—then slumped sideways, unconscious from blood loss. Rias exhaled sharply, flames flickering out in her hands. "…What the hell was that?"

Kiba lowered his sword slowly, eyes still locked on the empty staircase. "Fast. Too fast. And that block—it wasn't just strength. It anticipated." Koneko rubbed her wrist where the parry had numbed it. "…Broken arm. Still moved like that. Not normal."

Akeno stepped forward, peering at the bisected mimics with a mix of fascination and irritation. "Ara ara~ He killed my poor little pets without even scratching the shiny toys inside. How rude." Her teasing tone didn't quite reach her eyes. "And then he runs? After saying 'there's more'?"

Rias stared up the staircase, Power of Destruction reigniting in faint crimson wisps around her fingers. "He thought we were more enemies. Or… part of whatever he's hunting." She glanced at the carnage—the dead strays, the ruined mimics, the untouched treasure—and then at the dark tunnel the knight had fled through. "He's wounded. Badly, from the look of that arm. But he still outsped us."

Kiba sheathed his blade with a soft click. "We should pursue. If he's loose in Kuoh…"

"No." Rias shook her head once. "Not yet. We don't know what he is, what he wants, or why he's here. Chasing a wounded predator that just one-shotted six mimics and twenty-two strays would be suicide without preparation."

She turned to the others, voice steady despite the adrenaline still thrumming in her veins. "First: secure the chamber. Bind the leader if he's still breathing—Sirzechs will want to interrogate him later. Collect the relics; we'll return them personally. Second: alert Sona. Whatever that thing is, its arrival caused the disturbance we felt last night. Third…"

She looked back at the empty archway, where the knight had vanished. "…we find out who—or what—'there's more' refers to."

"Kiba, Akeno, Koneko—pursue him. Now. Do not engage in lethal combat unless he forces your hand. Keep him contained, slow him down, prevent him from reaching populated areas or causing civilian casualties. He's moving too fast and too recklessly for someone that injured. We cannot let him rampage through Kuoh."

Kiba nodded sharply, already summoning a second sword to his off-hand. Akeno's smile returned, though it carried a sharper edge. "Ara ara~ A supersonic knight playing hide-and-seek. How thrilling." Koneko cracked her knuckles once. "...Won't let him hurt people."

Rias's crimson eyes flashed. "Go." The three vanished in bursts of movement—Kiba leading with sword-enhanced speed, Akeno trailing violet lightning arcs for rapid repositioning, Koneko bounding along rooftops with strength enhanced leaps.

What followed was thirty minutes of relentless, almost absurd pursuit. The knight did not slow.

Even with one arm visibly shattered—bone fragments grinding audibly inside the cracked pauldron whenever he made a sharp turn—he moved at speeds that blurred the line between supersonic and outright impossible for anything remotely human. Rooftops shattered under his boots as he vaulted from building to building; streets cracked where he landed after clearing multi-block gaps in single bounds. 

Every time Kiba closed to striking range, the knight twisted mid-air with preternatural awareness, parrying or evading without ever looking back. Akeno's lightning bolts curved beautifully toward him—only for the knight to roll under one, vault over another, and vanish around a corner before the third could connect. Koneko's earth-shaking punches cratered concrete where he had stood a fraction of a second earlier.

He never counterattacked aggressively. He simply fled—efficiently, ruthlessly, like a wounded predator refusing to be cornered. Rias kept pace via short-range teleports and scrying orbs, watching the chase unfold across the city. She noted every detail with growing fascination. No demonic power signature…No holy light…No fallen aura…No youkai essence, no dragonic flame, no sacred gear fluctuation.

Just raw physicality. A human body—exhausted, bleeding internally, one arm mangled—pushing past limits that should have killed any normal person ten times over. Supersonic dashes. Near-perfect evasion against coordinated attacks from a high-class devil peerage. Endurance that bordered on the obscene.

Rias's mind raced. 'If he's human… if this is pure flesh and will…'

She spoke into the peerage comm link, voice calm but edged with excitement. "Observe closely. He has no demonic or angelic energy. That means he's baseline human—or was. And yet he's sustaining this output while clearly on the verge of collapse. That speed, that strength, that endurance… it's absurd. But it's also perfect."

Kiba's voice came back, slightly winded from a near-miss dodge. "President… you're thinking—"

"A Knight Piece," Rias confirmed without hesitation. "If we can get him to stop long enough to talk, if we can convince him… he would be an unparalleled Knight. Speed to outpace almost any foe, reflexes to evade sacred gear strikes, durability to survive what should kill him. And no faction allegiance we can detect. He's a blank slate. A monster forged from nothing but pain and training."

Akeno laughed softly over the link. "Ara ara~ You're already imagining him in your colors, aren't you, President?"

"Focus on containment first," Rias replied. "But yes. If he agrees—if we can reach him before he bleeds out or forces us to put him down—this could be the single greatest addition to our peerage since… ever."

Koneko's quiet voice cut in. "…He's heading toward the industrial district. Fewer people. But he's slowing. Just a little."

Rias's eyes narrowed. "Then we press. Herd him to an open area—old warehouse district if possible. No civilians. No collateral. We corner him, we talk. If he won't listen…"

She let the sentence hang. "…we do what we must."

After fifteen more grueling minutes of pursuit, the chase finally reached its breaking point in the abandoned industrial district on the northern edge of Kuoh. The area was a graveyard of rusting warehouses, cracked concrete, and skeletal cranes—empty at this hour, no civilians, no witnesses.

The knight's supersonic dashes had slowed to something almost mortal: heavy, staggering strides that left deep boot-prints in the pavement. Blood—dark and thick—trailed from the cracked pauldron of his broken arm, spattering the ground in irregular drops. His breathing echoed inside the greathelm like wind through a ruined cathedral—ragged, wet, on the verge of collapse.

Kiba appeared first, blocking the only clear exit between two derelict buildings with twin swords crossed in a defensive X. Akeno materialized on a nearby rooftop, violet lightning coiling lazily around her fingers like living chains. Koneko dropped from above, landing in a crouch that cracked the concrete, senjutsu aura flaring faintly around her small frame. Rias teleported in last, stepping out of crimson light directly in front of the knight—close enough to talk, far enough to give him space.

The knight stopped.

He turned slowly, scavenged sword rising in a trembling guard. The blade wavered—not from fear, but sheer exhaustion. The loose, broken arm dangled uselessly; the pauldron was now visibly deformed, metal edges digging into whatever flesh remained beneath.

His voice rasped from the black void of the helm—low, gravelly, each word forced out between heaving breaths. "What… do you want… from me?"

Rias raised both hands, palms open, Power of Destruction extinguished. No flames. No threat. "I want to talk," she said clearly. "My name is Rias Gremory. These are my peerage. We are not your enemies. We saw what you did in the park—how you destroyed the mimics, how you slaughtered those strays. You're hurt. Badly. Let us help you."

The knight's helm tilted slightly, as though scenting the air.

A low, bitter grunt escaped him. "You… smell like them." Rias blinked. "Them?" The knight took one step back, sword still raised, though his stance was beginning to falter. "The… things. The wooden mouths. The hunger. Your scent clings to you. All of you."

Rias's mind raced. Then it clicked. The mimics.

When she had examined the bisected chests—leaning close to confirm the relics were unharmed—some of the viscous, acrid saliva had splashed onto the hem of her skirt and the sleeves of her uniform. Akeno had handled the chests during setup, Kiba and Koneko had helped position them in the chamber. The scent—thick, oily, metallic—was unmistakable once she focused on it. It had transferred to all of them.

Hyper-acute senses. Not just speed and strength—this knight could smell intent, track prey across a city, distinguish friend from foe by scent alone. Even now, wounded and exhausted, his perception hadn't dulled.

Rias took a single, deliberate step forward—slow, no sudden movements. "That smell… it's from the mimics," she explained calmly. "The living chests in the park. They belonged to my brother—powerful guardians we used as a trap for those strays. We didn't know you would be there. We didn't send them after you. The scent clung to us when we inspected the aftermath. That's all it is."

She paused, letting the words sink in. "You saved lives tonight—whether you meant to or not. Those strays were killing in my territory. You ended them cleanly. Efficiently. We are grateful."

The knight's sword wavered again. His breathing grew shallower, more labored.

Rias took another careful step, hands still raised. "You're bleeding out. Your arm is shattered. You've pushed your body far beyond what any human should endure. Let me heal you. I can close the wounds, stabilize the break—nothing more. No bindings. No tricks. Just healing."

Silence stretched between them. The knight's helm lowered slightly, as though weighing her words against centuries of betrayal and pain. Then—without warning—his knees buckled. The scavenged sword clattered to the concrete.

The armored figure pitched forward, collapsing in a heap of dark steel and tattered cloak. The greathelm struck the ground with a dull clang; the broken arm flopped limply to the side. No groan. No final words.

Just unconsciousness—deep, total, the body finally surrendering after pushing past every limit.

Kiba lowered his swords instantly, rushing forward to check for a pulse through the armor's gorget. "He's alive. Barely. Pulse is thready, breathing shallow. Massive internal bleeding, shock, exhaustion."

Akeno descended gracefully, lightning fading from her hands. "Ara ara~ He really did run himself into the ground. Poor thing."

Koneko approached cautiously, sniffing once. "…Smells like old blood. And something… empty."

Rias knelt beside the fallen knight, crimson healing magic already blooming softly in her palms. She placed one hand gently on the cracked pauldron—careful not to jar the broken arm—and began channeling restorative energy.

Warm light seeped into the armor, knitting torn vessels, slowing the bleed, easing the shock. It wouldn't fix everything—not instantly—but it would keep him from dying in the next few minutes.

"We take him back to the clubhouse," Rias said quietly. "Secure room. Restraints only if he wakes violent—but I don't think he will. He's too far gone."

[ORC clubhouse]

The spare room in the Occult Research Club clubhouse had been hastily prepared: a simple cot dragged from storage, fresh sheets, a single lamp casting soft amber light. The knight—now very much a fallen, unconscious man—lay motionless on the bed, armor still encasing him like a dark cocoon. His breathing had steadied under Rias's initial healing, but it remained shallow, labored.

Rias stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, watching the rise and fall of the steel-plated chest. "Kiba, Koneko," she said quietly, not taking her eyes off the figure. "You've both done more than enough tonight. Go home. Rest. I'll handle the rest here."

Kiba hesitated for only a second, glancing at the armored form. "President… are you sure? If he wakes—"

"I'll call if anything changes. Promise." Her tone left no room for argument, though her expression softened. "You need sleep. Both of you."

Koneko gave a small nod, already turning toward the door. "...Call if he moves weird." Kiba bowed lightly. "Goodnight, President." The door clicked shut behind them.

Rias exhaled slowly, then turned to Akeno, who had been leaning against the wall with her usual relaxed poise.

"Akeno, could you fetch one of the stronger healing potions from the infirmary stock? The phoenix-tear grade if we still have any left. I want to make sure the internal damage is fully stabilized before he wakes."

Akeno pushed off the wall with a graceful motion, violet eyes flicking to the bed. "Ara ara~ Leaving you alone with our mysterious, terrifying guest? You're braver than you look tonight, President."

Rias gave her a small, tired smile. "I'll manage. Just hurry back." Akeno's fingers brushed lightly across Rias's shoulder as she passed—a brief, comforting touch—then she slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.

Silence settled over the room…Rias stepped closer to the bed…She began with the helm.

Her fingers found the clasps beneath the gorget—old, worn mechanisms that gave way with surprising ease after a little coaxing. The greathelm came free with a faint metallic sigh. She set it carefully on the side table.

Raven-black hair, short and sweat-matted, spilled across the pillow. The face beneath… Rias's breath caught.

Gray-pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, almost corpse-like in tone. Sunken eyes ringed with deep, bruised shadows. And the scars—gods, the scars.

They ran everywhere: jagged claw marks across the cheeks and brow, burn-like welts along the jaw, deep gouges that had healed poorly and pulled the features into something harsh and monstrous. One long slash bisected his left eyebrow and continued down to split the upper lip. Another cluster of puncture scars dotted his throat like someone had tried to tear it out more than once. The ruin of his face was so complete it stole any trace of ordinary humanity, leaving only something forged in endless violence.

She swallowed hard. Talking to him from beneath the hood earlier had been easier—safer, somehow. Face-to-face, even unconscious, he looked like a nightmare given flesh.

Carefully—almost reverently—she began removing the rest of the armor.

Pauldrons first, then vambraces. The left arm was the worst: the metal had crumpled inward around the bicep and forearm like tin foil crushed by a giant hand. She had to work slowly, prying sections apart without jostling the break. When the last plate came free, she set it aside with the rest.

And then she saw the rest of him.

His torso was a map of carnage—old whip scars crisscrossing the ribs, blade wounds that had healed into thick white ropes, burns that mottled the skin in irregular patches, bite marks that looked suspiciously like they came from something with too many teeth. The scars layered over one another in places, some so deep they must have reached bone. His back, when she gently rolled him to check, was no better: long parallel gashes from shoulders to waist, as though something enormous had raked him repeatedly.

And yet…Beneath the ruin, his body was a masterpiece of lethal efficiency.

Not bulky. Not showy. Every muscle was carved with purpose—lean, dense, perfectly proportioned. His shoulders were broad but tapered sharply to a narrow waist; arms corded with steel-like definition even in unconsciousness; abdomen etched with deep ridges that spoke of endless core tension and explosive power. His legs were the same: thighs and calves built for speed, endurance, devastating kicks. Even now, slack in sleep, the body radiated coiled strength.

Rias placed a careful hand on his uninjured shoulder. The muscle beneath her palm felt… unnatural. Not just hard—almost metallic in density, as though every fiber had been tempered beyond human limits. She could feel the latent power there, the same power that had let him outrun devils, parry sacred-gear strikes, bisect mimics with casual precision.

And yet one arm—the left—was still grotesquely broken. Compound fracture in at least two places, bone fragments grinding beneath the skin. Whatever had done that to him must have been monstrous beyond imagining.

She traced a fingertip lightly along one of the older scars on his chest—long, straight, surgical in placement. Not a battle wound. Something deliberate. Torturous.

Her stomach twisted. Who did this to you? she thought. And how are you still alive?

The door opened softly. Akeno stepped back in, holding a small crystal vial filled with shimmering golden liquid. "Phoenix-tear grade, as requested." Her teasing tone faltered when she saw Rias's expression—and the man on the bed. "...Oh."

Rias didn't look up. "Help me sit him up. Carefully. We need to get this into him before the shock sets in again."

Akeno moved to the other side of the bed without another word. Together they eased him upright, supporting his weight between them. His head lolled forward; raven hair fell across the ruined face.

Rias uncorked the vial. The potion smelled faintly of sunlight and clean earth. She tilted his head back gently, parted his scarred lips, and poured the liquid in slow increments.

He swallowed reflexively—once, twice.

The golden glow spread beneath his skin almost immediately: faint light tracing veins, knitting torn tissue, dulling the worst of the inflammation. The broken arm didn't fully mend—the fracture was too severe for one dose—but the bleeding stopped, the swelling eased, and his breathing deepened into something closer to true rest.

Rias lowered him back to the pillows.

Akeno watched her president for a long moment. "You're going to offer him a place, aren't you?" she asked softly. Rias looked down at the scarred, pale face—so monstrous, yet so achingly human beneath it all. "If he'll listen," she murmured. "If he'll stay."

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi knight swinging his sword and broke the screen]

The first ray of sunlight slipped through the thin gap in the curtains, striking the knight's bare chest

like a gentle, forgotten promise…Warmth…

Real warmth—not the scorching heat of abyssal flames, not the cold burn of void frost, not the artificial glow of mana crystals in endless simulation chambers. Just… sunlight. Soft. Golden. Living.

His eyes snapped open.

For a long moment he lay still, letting the sensation wash over him. It had been thousands of years—how many exactly, he no longer counted—since anything touched his skin that wasn't meant to hurt. The light painted faint stripes across his scars, turning the worst of them from pale white to something almost… soft. He exhaled slowly through his nose, tasting the air.

He sat up without thinking, the cot creaking under his weight. The room came into focus: small, unfamiliar, wooden desk in one corner, his armor plates stacked neatly on top like discarded relics. Someone had cleaned the blood off them. The broken left pauldron still bore the deep dent, but the arm beneath it…

He lifted both hands, flexing fingers. The compound fractures, the grinding bone shards, the torn muscle—all gone. The skin over the old break sites was still mottled with fresh scar tissue, but the limb moved freely. Strong. Whole.

The red-haired woman. Her people. They had done this. He made a quiet mental note: Thank them. If they let me speak first.

He looked down at himself. Only rough black trousers remained—simple, borrowed, slightly too short at the ankles. No shirt. No armor. His torso was a battlefield map laid bare: layered scars, old burns, claw rakes, blade cuts, puncture wounds that had healed crooked. The muscles beneath were still taut, dense, forged in the same crucible that had ruined the skin above them. Steel made flesh. He had no shame in it. Shame required caring what others thought.

He stood. Bare feet met cool wooden floorboards. Strange. No stone. No ash. No blood-soaked sand. He walked to the window, pushed the curtain aside, and leaned out.

A breeze immediately greeted him—cool, carrying the scent of cut grass, distant flowers, morning dew. Birds sang in sharp, bright bursts that his hyper-sensitive ears picked up as individual notes rather than noise. Somewhere far off, a child laughed. A dog barked once, happily.

All of it new. All of it… good.

He closed his eyes for a second, letting the wind brush across the ruined landscape of his face. The scars pulled tight when he did; he could feel every ridge, every divot. When he opened his eyes again, the world outside was still there—peaceful, ordinary, oblivious.

He turned back into the room. A small standing mirror leaned against the wall near the desk. He approached it slowly, almost warily, as though expecting the reflection to attack.

The man staring back was exactly what he remembered.

Gray-pale skin stretched too tight over sharp bones. Sunken eyes ringed in permanent shadow. Scars everywhere—deep, jagged, overlapping until the original features were barely recognizable. One long slash had pulled the left corner of his mouth into a perpetual half-snarl. Another cluster across the brow made his expression look angry even at rest. Monstrous.

He raised a hand, touched the worst scar on his cheek. The fingertip came away dry. No fresh blood. Just old pain. Would anyone speak to this?

He tried to smile. The result was worse: the scars twisted the expression into something predatory, almost grotesque. Even he flinched slightly at the sight. They would run. Or scream. Or try to kill it.

He had seen it before—countless times—in the eyes of soldiers, nobles, captives, allies who turned foe the moment the helm came off.

Maybe a mask. Maybe the hood. He glanced at the desk. The greathelm sat there, visor dark and empty, waiting. He walked over, lifted it with careful hands. The metal was cool, familiar, heavy with memory. He turned it once in his grip, then slid it over his head.

The darkness inside swallowed his face completely. The narrow visor slit let in only a thin line of light—enough to see, not enough to be seen. The weight settled on his shoulders like an old friend. Comforting in its familiarity. Concealing in its totality.

No one would have to look at the monster.

No one would have to run.

He exhaled—a low, steady sound muffled by steel—and straightened.

The armor plates on the desk remained untouched. No war here. At least… not yet. And even if one came, he no longer needed the full suit to fight. The body beneath had been trained for thousands of years to be weapon enough.

For now, he would keep the helm.

[Rias's bedroom]

In the soft hush of her private bedroom within the Occult Research Club building, Rias Gremory stirred awake. The first thing she registered was how deeply, how cleanly she had slept—no dreams of strays slipping through shadows, no half-remembered echoes of lightning webs or mimic teeth. Just rest. Pure, restorative rest. Her body felt light, languid, the pleasant ache of yesterday's exertion already fading into memory.

She stretched both arms high above her head, arching her back until her spine popped softly. Naked skin slid against cool silk sheets; the morning air kissed every inch of her as she rose. A small, contented sigh escaped her lips. Good morning to me, she thought, lips curving.

Still bare, she padded across the warm wooden floor to the tall standing mirror framed in dark cherry wood. Habit more than vanity—she liked to see herself clearly first thing, to remind herself who she was before the day's duties layered themselves over her.

Today, however, she had another reason.

Rias raised her right hand. Crimson light gathered at her fingertips, delicate threads weaving into a viewing spell. The mirror's surface rippled like disturbed water, then cleared to show not her reflection—but his.

The spare room. The cot. The desk stacked with dark armor plates.

And him.

He stood directly in front of his own small mirror, bare-chested, wearing only the borrowed black trousers. The morning sun slanted across his scarred torso, turning old wounds silver and new bruises faint violet. His posture was straight, military, yet there was something almost hesitant in the way he regarded his own reflection.

Then he tried to smile.

The expression pulled every scar taut. Lips twisted, one corner dragged higher than the other by an old knife-cut, cheeks creasing into deep furrows that made the already harsh features look predatory, almost feral. It was not a cruel smile, not mocking—just broken. A smile that had forgotten how to be soft.

Rias felt her own body give a tiny, involuntary shiver. Not fear, exactly. Recognition. The kind of shiver that comes when you see something that has suffered so much it no longer remembers gentleness.

She watched, silent, as he studied the result for several long seconds. His shoulders sagged—just a fraction—before he reached for the greathelm resting on the desk. With careful, practiced motions he slid it over his head. Darkness swallowed the ruined face once more. Only the narrow visor slit remained, a thin line of shadowed blue peering out.

Safe again…Hidden again…Rias was about to let the spell fade when he paused. He leaned closer to his mirror. A slow exhale fogged the glass—deliberate, controlled. Then, with one scarred fingertip, he drew in the condensing mist: ☀️,👩‍🦰

A sun…A woman…'Good morning, my lady.'

Rias's breath caught. He knew she was watching.

He bowed—deep, formal, one hand over his heart, the other loose at his side. The gesture was textbook knightly courtesy: spine straight, head lowered just enough to show respect without submission. No leer. No lingering glance at her bare skin through the mirror link. Only solemn gratitude.

He straightened. Another slow breath fogged the glass again. New symbols appeared beneath the first: 🙏 🚑 🦾 'Thank you for healing my arm.'

Finally he pressed both palms together in front of his chest—clasped hands, fingers interlaced, head inclining once more in silent, profound thanks.

The entire sequence took less than thirty seconds. No words spoken aloud. No demand. No threat. Just quiet, deliberate communication—and utter respect.

Rias stood frozen before her mirror, one hand still raised to maintain the spell, the other unconsciously pressed to her sternum as though to steady her heartbeat.

Rias let her hand fall. The mirror rippled back to her own reflection: wide violet eyes, parted lips, cheeks faintly flushed.

She exhaled shakily. 'He saw me naked… and the only thing he cared about was saying thank you.'

Rias was still staring at the mirror, the faint flush on her cheeks not yet faded, when warm arms suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind.

She jolted with a sharp gasp—heart slamming against her ribs—only for a familiar, teasing giggle to brush against her ear. "Ara ara~ Jumping already, President? Did I interrupt something naughty?"

Rias spun around so fast her she almost jump out of the room through the roof

Akeno stood there in her usual morning yukata, hair slightly tousled from sleep, violet eyes sparkling with mischief. She hadn't even bothered to tie the sash properly; the fabric gaped just enough to show teasing glimpses of skin.

"Akeno!" Rias hissed, clutching the robe closed. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

Akeno tilted her head, smirk widening. She leaned in closer, voice dropping to that sultry, playful purr she knew drove Rias half-mad.

"So… did you have fun with our mysterious knight after I went home last night? I left you alone with a half-naked, scarred, devastatingly strong man in nothing but a pair of borrowed trousers. One might wonder what happened next~"

Rias's face went scarlet. "I did nothing!" she snapped, voice rising an octave in indignation. "I healed him—that's all! I don't even know his name yet! We haven't spoken until… until this morning, through the mirror spell. That's it!"

Akeno's eyebrows rose in mock innocence. "Oh? This morning? So you were watching him first thing after waking up? Naked, I presume?" She glanced pointedly at Rias's disheveled robe. "My, my. Quite the dedicated president."

Rias opened her mouth to retort—then froze.

Akeno's teasing expression had shifted. Her gaze had slid past Rias, back to the still-open mirror link.

The knight was still there.

Hooded once more, the dark slit of the visor pointed directly at the two women. He stood motionless for a heartbeat—then bowed again. Deep, formal, one armored hand over his chest. The gesture carried the same solemn respect he'd shown Rias moments earlier.

Then he stepped closer to his side of the mirror. He leaned in. A slow exhale fogged the glass again. A single symbol appeared in the mist: 👕?

A shirt. Question mark.

Akeno blinked once, then let out a delighted laugh.

"He's asking for clothes," she translated, eyes sparkling. "Smart man. Walking around in just trousers might start rumors."

She leaned in closer to study him through the link—taking in the sheer scale of him even in the small mirror frame. Broad shoulders that filled the entire width of the glass, arms thick with corded muscle, height that had to push at least 1.9 meters judging by how the top of his hood nearly brushed the top edge of his own mirror.

"Kuoh Academy's storage room has some extra-large uniforms," Akeno mused. "The basketball and judo clubs have a few really bulky third-years. Their spare tracksuits and shirts should fit him—maybe even be a little tight in a flattering way." She winked at Rias. "I'll go fetch some right now. You just… keep entertaining our guest."

Rias narrowed her eyes. "Akeno—"

"Oh, come on~" Akeno leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Keep flashing that beautiful naked body at him. Distract him. Seduce him a little. He's been locked in a helmet for who-knows-how-long. A little eye candy might make him more cooperative when we actually talk face-to-face."

Rias opened her mouth to retort— But on the other side of the mirror, the knight had clearly been watching. He tilted his head slightly, visor fixed on Akeno's lips as they moved. Then—without hesitation—he raised his good hand and began signing: slow, clear, deliberate gestures even someone with no formal training could read.

First: palm flat, shaking head → Not

Then: hands outlining an hourglass figure in the air → body

Then: finger tapping his own temple → mind

Finally: hand over heart, then pointing upward → soul… priority

The sequence was unmistakable. Not body. Mind. Soul. Priority.

He finished by clasping both hands together again—the same grateful gesture from earlier—then bowed once more, deeper, almost apologetic, before stepping back from the mirror and turning partially away, giving them privacy without being asked.

Rias stared…Akeno stared…Then Akeno burst into delighted laughter, clapping her hands once. "Oh my Satan," she wheezed. "He just turned down my seduction attempt without saying a single word. And he did it politely!"

Rias's blush had migrated to the tips of her ears. She quickly tied the robe closed, suddenly hyper-aware of her state of undress. "He… lip-read us," she muttered. "And he's more concerned with honor than… anything else."

Akeno wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, still giggling. "I like him already. A real knight—body, mind, and soul. President, you may have just found the most dangerous romantic prospect in existence: one who actually has principles."

Rias shot her a look that could have melted steel.

"Go get the clothes, Akeno."

"On my way~" Akeno sang, already heading for the door. She paused in the threshold, throwing one last teasing glance over her shoulder. "Try not to seduce him too hard while I'm gone. He might draw a chastity belt next."

The door clicked shut. Rias exhaled slowly, then looked back at the mirror. The knight had moved to stand near the window now—back partially turned, hood still low, simply… waiting. Patient. Respectful. Not staring. Not demanding.

She touched the mirror's surface lightly. Who are you, really? she thought.

Then, out loud—soft, almost to herself: "Good morning to you too… Sir Knight."

On the other side, through the fogged glass he hadn't yet cleared, she swore she saw the hooded head dip once in acknowledgment.

[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Akeno throwing things around looking for the clothes for the knight]

Akeno stood outside the spare room door, a neatly folded stack of clothes cradled in her arms: one extra-large black tracksuit top and bottoms from the Kuoh Academy athletic storage, plus a plain gray hoodie that might actually fit across those broad shoulders without looking comical. She had chosen dark, simple colors—nothing flashy. Something practical. Something that wouldn't make him feel like a spectacle.

She knocked gently—two soft raps. A few heartbeats passed before the door opened.

The knight filled the frame. Hood already drawn low, the narrow visor slit dark and unreadable. He stood perfectly still, posture straight but not rigid, one hand resting lightly on the doorframe. Even without the full armor he looked… imposing. 1.9 meters of quiet lethality wrapped in borrowed trousers and nothing else above the waist except scars.

Akeno offered her warmest smile. "Good morning, Sir Knight." He inclined his head slightly. When he spoke, the voice that emerged from beneath the helm was low, ragged—gravel dragged over iron, every syllable measured as though speech itself was an unfamiliar muscle.

"…Thank you."

Two words. Simple. But the gratitude in them was so raw, so unguarded, that Akeno felt it land somewhere deep in her chest.

She held out the clothes. "These should fit. Or at least come close. The tracksuit is from the school's storage—extra-large for the bigger athletes. The hoodie is just in case you want another layer."

He accepted the bundle with careful hands—both now moving freely, the left no longer hanging limp. His scarred fingers brushed hers for the briefest instant; he pulled back immediately, as though afraid of lingering contact.

Again: "…Thank you."

Akeno tilted her head, smile softening. "Everyone's gathering for breakfast downstairs in a few minutes. Rias is already setting the table. Would you join us? We'd like to talk properly—get to know you." She paused, then added gently, "And… I'd like to see you without the hood. Just once. If you're comfortable."

The knight went very still. After a long silence, his voice came again—lower this time, threaded with something vulnerable. "…If I take it off… will you still talk to me? Or will you look away? I would rather… speak like this. Concealed. Able to connect. Than show this—" he gestured vaguely toward his face "—and stand alone again."

Akeno's expression didn't falter. She stepped half a pace closer—not crowding, just enough to make her presence feel steady. "I've seen worse," she said softly. "And I've loved people who carried worse. Faces don't scare me, Sir Knight. What's behind them might. But the face itself? Never."

He exhaled—a slow, shaky sound muffled by steel. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached up. Fingers hooked beneath the rim of the greathelm. He lifted it away.

Raven hair, short and still slightly damp from sleep, fell across his forehead. The morning light caught every ridge of scar tissue: the long slash pulling his lip into a permanent half-snarl, the burn mottles along his jaw, the deep gouges across both cheeks that made his expression look perpetually angry even at rest. Sunken dark-blue eyes—storm-sea deep—met hers without flinching. They were tired. Wary. But not hostile.

He forced a smile. It looked painful. The scars twisted the expression into something fierce and broken, more grimace than grin. But he held it—held it like a shield he wasn't sure would work.

Then, quietly: "…Are you afraid? Seeing… this." Akeno studied him for several long seconds—taking in every line, every mark, every story etched into skin.

Then she reached out. Not to touch his face. Just to rest her fingertips lightly against the sleeve of the hoodie he still held. "No," she said simply. "I'm not afraid."

His eyes widened—just a fraction. Surprise. Real, unguarded surprise. "…Why not?"

"Because," Akeno answered, voice gentle but firm, "the man who drew a little sun and a thank-you in fog this morning… is not a monster. And the man who asked if we would still talk to him even after seeing his scars… is not someone to fear. He's someone worth knowing."

She smiled—warm, teasing at the edges, but utterly sincere. "Now come downstairs. Breakfast is waiting. And so are we."

The knight—stood there a moment longer, helm cradled in one arm, scars bared to the light. Then, slowly, he nodded.

[ORC Clubhouse - Kitchen]

The knight descended the staircase slowly, one careful step at a time.

The borrowed tracksuit hugged his frame tightly across the shoulders and chest—snug, but not restrictive. The gray hoodie's sleeves were a touch short, ending just above his scarred wrists, but the fabric was soft against skin that had known only cold metal and rougher things for far too long. The hood remained up, casting deep shadows over his face; he had not yet found the courage to lower it again so soon.

Halfway down, a new sensation stopped him cold…Smell…Not the metallic tang of blood, not the acrid burn of mana crystals, not the sulfurous rot of the Abyss. Something warm. Layered. Alive.

Bread—fresh, golden, still steaming somewhere. Butter melting into it. Eggs frying with a faint sizzle of fat. Coffee—bitter and dark and strangely comforting. A hint of fruit, sweet and bright. Herbs. Salt. Life.

His nostrils flared beneath the hood. For a man whose senses had been honed to detect the faintest shift of enemy breath or the distant scrape of claws on stone, this was overwhelming in the gentlest possible way.

He had never smelled food like this before—not real food meant to nourish rather than merely sustain. Not once in thousands of years. His stomach gave a low, unfamiliar growl. He placed a hand over it, startled.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the kitchen, the scents grew stronger, wrapping around him like an embrace he didn't know how to return.

Rias and Akeno stood side by side at the counter. Rias wore a simple crimson apron over casual clothes, hair tied back in a loose ponytail; she was flipping pancakes with practiced ease, a small smile on her lips. Akeno leaned against the island, stirring something in a pan—eggs, perhaps—while chatting animatedly, her laughter light and musical.

Neither noticed him at first. He cleared his throat—low, rough, still unused to casual speech. "…Is there anything I can help with?"

Both women turned at once. Rias's eyes brightened. "Good morning, Sir Knight. You're just in time."

Akeno's smile turned teasing. "Ara ara~ Look who's dressed and ready for the day. No, darling, we've got it under control. Go sit. Breakfast is almost ready."

He hesitated for only a second before nodding once and moving to the small dining table in the adjoining nook. He lowered himself into a chair—careful, as though afraid of breaking it with his weight—and folded his hands in his lap. The hood stayed up; shadows kept his face private.

He watched them work.

Rias slid golden pancakes onto plates. Akeno sprinkled chopped chives over fluffy scrambled eggs. A pot of coffee bubbled on the counter. Fresh fruit—strawberries, sliced bananas—gleamed in a bowl like tiny jewels.

When the plates were finally set before him—pancakes dripping with syrup, eggs steaming, a side of crispy bacon, a mug of black coffee, and a small pile of fruit—the knight stared.

This was… a meal. Not nutrient paste forced down his throat in the simulation chambers. Not raw meat torn from a fresh kill during campaigns.

Not the green vial that kept his body from dying after every near-fatal wound. Real food. Made for enjoyment. Made for people. He lifted his head slowly. "Thank you," he rasped, voice thick with something he couldn't name.

Rias sat across from him, smiling gently. "You're very welcome. I'm Rias Gremory. This is Akeno Himejima—my Queen."

Akeno took the seat to his right, propping her chin on her hand. "And you are…?" The knight—exhaled slowly. He reached up. Fingers hooked beneath the edge of the hood.

He drew it back.

Raven hair fell forward. Scars caught the morning light—jagged, layered, merciless. Sunken dark-blue eyes met theirs without flinching. The half-snarl of his scarred lip made his expression look severe, but there was no aggression in it. Only quiet resolve.

"…Arto," he said. "Arto Abyssgard."