3rd Person POV
Rias leaned forward, eyes sparkling with unrestrained excitement. "Abyssgard? I've never heard that name before, but it sounds so cool! Are you from some mysterious ancient clan with out-of-this-world powers or something?" Tiny cartoon stars practically danced in her crimson irises.
Akeno's hand came down in a swift, precise karate chop—thwack—right on top of Rias's head. "You've been watching way too much anime lately, Rias."
"But… but… his name is so cool! I just thought—"
Another chop. This one gentler, but firm enough to make Rias pout and rub the top of her head.
Akeno turned to Arto with an apologetic smile that didn't quite hide her amusement. "Sorry about her, Abyssgard-kun. She usually hides this giddy otaku side very well… or maybe she just wants to be herself around you. I'll have to re-educate her later."
Arto's expression softened, a quiet chuckle rumbling in his chest. "It's all right. She's quite cute like that."
Rias's face instantly matched her hair again. She buried it in her hands with a muffled squeak. "Another thing," Arto continued smoothly, "since I can call you both by your first names, please call me Arto. No titles. I've had enough of 'sir' and 'my lord' for several lifetimes."
Rias peeked out from between her fingers, suddenly remembering her station. "Hey—wait a second. Who's the boss here? I'm your King, you know."
Arto blinked, genuinely surprised. "King? You're a king? At this age? I'm impressed. So this entire town is your kingdom?"
"No, no, you've got it all wrong!" Rias waved her hands frantically. "I'm just the King of my peerage…"
"Peerage?" Rias took a steadying breath, glad to be back on familiar ground. "Are you familiar with chess, Arto?"
"Yes. What of it?"
"An army in chess has sixteen pieces: one King, one Queen, two Bishops, two Knights, two Rooks, and eight Pawns. That structure is called a peerage. I'm the King. Akeno here is my Queen. The blond boy who blocked your strike earlier is my Knight—Kiba. The small white-haired girl who cut off your escape path during the chase is my Rook—Koneko. We have two more members who haven't arrived yet."
Arto nodded slowly, processing. "Got it. But what does a peerage actually do? Are you some kind of hero group that saves people from evil?"
Rias laughed lightly. "Not quite. We're more like… mercenaries. If the job pays, we take it. While human mercenaries usually handle military contracts, ours can be anything—cleaning houses, cooking for events, helping with homework… all the way up to hunting monsters, assassinations, or dealing with supernatural threats."
Arto's brows lifted slightly. "So your working radius is just this town, or…?"
Akeno leaned in with a teasing smile. "Not just this town. Our flyers have teleportation sigils. Wherever a client summons us, we go. Distance is irrelevant."
"Convenient," Arto murmured. "And how do people pay? Do they have to offer their souls?"
Rias shook her head. "Payment is negotiated case by case. Money, antiques, favors, handshakes… or souls, if they can afford the price." She added the last part with a playful, devilish lilt.
Arto sipped his tea thoughtfully. "If money isn't always the priority, then what is?"
Akeno's smile turned sly. "Our real priority is getting clients to sign contracts with us. Each contract increases our power… wait a minute…"
Rias and Akeno exchanged a quick glance, realization dawning simultaneously. "You know?" they asked in unison.
Arto set his cup down with a soft clink. "Of course I know you're devils. I just wanted to understand how you operate. You both did an impressive job suppressing your demonic aura—very disciplined—but it's enormous. Some leaked out anyway. You tried hard, though. Really."
Rias blinked, caught between flattered and flustered. "Thank you for the compliment… but how much do you actually know about devils?"
"Not much," Arto admitted. "I know you live in Hell—that much is obvious from the aura. I also know you fought a war against Fallen Angels and gods in the past."
Rias tilted her head. "You mean Angels?"
Arto frowned slightly, confused. "Angels? Oh—you fight angels? That's… impressive. In my world, true angels are extremely rare. The beings who live among the clouds are gods—sent down from a higher realm. The angels serve there, attending the ones who created the gods."
Akeno's eyes narrowed with sudden, sharp interest. "You mean… God?"
Arto shook his head slowly. "I don't know the God you're referring to. Where I come from, it's never a single entity. They're a collective—usually called the High Gods. Their influence on the mortal world is almost nonexistent. Almost no one knows of them." His gaze grew distant, voice quieter. "As far as I can remember… only one person I ever knew—well, used to know—had any direct knowledge of them."
The room grew still again. Sunlight slanted through the windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the beams, but the atmosphere had shifted—lighter moments giving way to the first real glimpse of the abyss behind Arto's scarred skin and ancient eyes.
Rias and Akeno exchanged another long look, unspoken questions piling higher.
A human who recognized devils on sight. Who spoke of multiple creator gods as casually as weather. Who carried scars no mortal should survive. And whose surname—Abyssgard—felt like it belonged to a myth older than their own history.
Rias was the first to break the silence, voice gentle but firm. "Arto… where exactly is 'your world'?"
Arto set his teacup down with deliberate care, fingers tracing an old, pale scar that ran across the back of his hand like a dried riverbed. His gaze drifted to the window, as though searching the blue sky for something long lost. "That's the thing," he said quietly. "I don't know anymore."
He exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with centuries of weight. "I fell from my world… through the Void. For millennia. Time doesn't flow the same there—no light, no sound, no up or down. Just endless falling, endless dark. I lost count of the years. I thought I would fall forever."
Rias's eyes widened slightly. Akeno's teacup paused halfway to her lips. "When I finally broke through—when something pulled me here, into that underground chamber—I didn't know where I was. Or when. All I knew was that I wasn't in the Abyss anymore."
He looked down at his hands, flexing them as if confirming they were still real. "I don't know if I can ever return to my old home. The path I took… it doesn't work both ways. But I'll try. Somehow."
His voice softened, almost breaking. "There are still people waiting for me… I hope."
The last two words hung in the air like fragile glass. Rias felt something tighten in her chest—an ache she couldn't name. Akeno's usual playful mask had slipped entirely; her violet eyes held only quiet empathy. For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Rias leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees, crimson hair falling like a curtain around her face. "You've been alone for a very long time, haven't you?" Arto met her gaze, and for the first time, the guarded wall behind his eyes cracked—just enough to show the exhaustion beneath. "Longer than you can imagine," he admitted.
Rias, who had been listening with quiet intensity, suddenly leaned forward in her armchair, crimson hair spilling over one shoulder as her eyes fixed on Arto with unabashed curiosity.
"You've been falling through the Void, right?" she asked, voice soft but direct. "So… how old are you, really?"
Akeno's teacup paused mid-air again. Both girls watched him, the question hanging like a delicate thread in the sunlit room.
Arto blinked, surprised by the bluntness, then leaned back against the sofa, gaze drifting upward as though sifting through layers of forgotten time. His fingers drummed once on the armrest—an unconscious habit from centuries of waiting.
He considered for a long moment. "If we don't count the time I spent… drifting through the Void," he said slowly, "I'd be around three thousand years old. Give or take a few centuries. I stopped keeping precise count after the first millennium."
He shrugged lightly, as if discussing the weather. "But…" He tilted his head, a faint, almost playful glint appearing in his dark blue eyes as he looked between the two stunned teenage devils. "How old do I look?"
Silence. Rias's jaw actually dropped a fraction. Akeno's usual composure cracked; her violet eyes widened, and the teacup finally clattered softly back into its saucer.
"Three… thousand…?" Rias echoed, voice barely above a whisper. She straightened up, staring at him as though seeing him anew. The scarred man sitting casually on her club sofa—wearing borrowed gym clothes and sipping tea—was older than most recorded devil history.
Akeno recovered first, letting out a low, appreciative whistle. "Ara ara… an ancient knight straight out of legend. No wonder you dismantled six of Sirzechs-sama's mimics like they were toys."
Rias, still processing, leaned even closer, elbows on her knees, eyes sparkling with a mix of awe, academic fascination, and something warmer. "You look…" she started, then caught herself, cheeks tinting pink. "You look… maybe mid-twenties? Late twenties at most. Definitely not a day over thirty."
Akeno nodded, smirking. "I'd have guessed twenty-seven. The scars add a rugged thirty, perhaps, but the face itself? Twenty-five on a bad day."
"Mid-twenties," Arto repeated, shaking his head with quiet amusement. He glanced between the two girls, a thoughtful expression crossing his scarred features. "So… if I hide the scars—maybe some makeup, a little illusion magic—could I… go to school like you two?"
Rias raised a perfectly arched eyebrow, leaning back in her chair. "School? Why would you want to go to school?"
Arto's smile turned sheepish, a faint flush coloring his cheeks—an expression that looked almost boyish despite the ancient weight in his eyes. "Well… you're both wearing uniforms, so you're clearly still students, right?"
The playful atmosphere in the living room evaporated like morning mist under harsh sunlight. Rias's teasing smile vanished. Akeno's violet eyes, usually dancing with mischief, darkened with something between horror and quiet fury.
Arto's voice had started light—almost shy—but as he continued, it grew quieter, rougher, as though each word dragged old chains behind it.
"I was raised in complete isolation from birth," he said, staring into the empty teacup as if it held memories he'd rather drown. "Not as a child. Not even as a person, really. As a weapon. A tool to be sharpened."
He set the cup down with deliberate care. "No one spoke to me—not kindly, not at all. For years, the only sounds I heard were my own breathing… and the things they sent to kill me in training. I didn't learn to speak full sentences until I was well into my thirties. Reading came even later. By the time I could string words together, I'd already killed more than most armies ever see."
His fingers tightened around each other, knuckles whitening. "Education wasn't necessary for a living weapon. They taught me only what I needed to survive the next trial: how to kill with blade, spell, fist, or tooth. Everything else—math, history, art, even simple conversation—was considered a waste."
A bitter smile twisted his lips, painful and sharp. "Even the killing… no one actually taught me. They threw me into arenas, pits, labyrinths filled with horrors, and let pain do the teaching. You learn fast when every mistake is punished with wounds that should have ended you. The agony carves the lesson into your bones: fight better, faster, wilder, or die. Survive one day, and the next is worse—just upgraded torment."
He finally looked up. The ancient weight in his dark blue eyes was fully visible now—no walls, no gentle humor. Just exhaustion older than civilizations. "I never had a childhood. Never sat in a classroom. Never had friends to talk to, or teachers who cared if I passed or failed. I didn't even have a name until I earned one in blood."
The heavy silence that followed Arto's words was broken by the soft click of the clubroom door opening.
Two figures stepped inside, both in the standard Kuoh Academy uniform.
The first was a slim, handsome boy with neatly combed blond hair and clear dark blue eyes that scanned the room with calm politeness. At his side walked a petite girl with short white hair, a black cat-shaped hair clip pinning her bangs, and impassive golden eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. She carried a small paper bag that smelled faintly of fresh pastries.
Both paused just inside the threshold, sensing the weight in the air. Rias seized the moment like a lifeline, rising swiftly from the sofa with a bright—perhaps slightly forced—smile.
"Ah! Perfect timing." She gestured welcomingly. "Here they are. Kiba, Koneko—come in, come in. I'd like you to meet our guest."
The tension in the room eased a fraction, like a breath finally released. The blond boy—Kiba—smiled warmly and stepped forward first, offering a polite bow. "Good morning, President. Akeno-senpai."
His gaze shifted to Arto, curiosity flickering behind the courteous mask. "And… good morning to you as well. I'm Yuuto Kiba, first-year. It's a pleasure."
The white-haired girl—Koneko—followed at her usual unhurried pace, stopping beside Kiba. She gave a small nod, voice quiet and flat but not unfriendly. "…Koneko Toujou. Junior high's third-year. Nice to meet you."
She lifted the paper bag slightly. "…Brought donuts." Arto blinked, the raw vulnerability in his eyes receding behind a veil of practiced calm. He stood—slowly, carefully, as though remembering manners from a very old book—and inclined his head in return.
"Arto Abyssgard," he said, voice steady again. "Thank you for the warm welcome. And…" His gaze dropped to the bag Koneko held, the sweet scent of sugar and fried dough wafting gently through the room. A faint, awkwardly hopeful smile tugged at his lips. "But, um… what is a… donut?"
The room went perfectly still for half a heartbeat. Rias blinked. Akeno's hand paused mid-reach for the bag. Kiba's polite smile froze in place.
Koneko tilted her head like a puzzled cat, staring up at Arto as though he'd just asked what air was. Then Akeno burst into soft, delighted laughter, covering her mouth with one hand. "Ara ara~ He really is from another world."
Rias recovered next, a mix of sympathy and amusement lighting her face as she stepped forward to take the bag from Koneko. "They're a kind of sweet pastry," she explained gently, opening the bag to reveal half a dozen glazed, powdered, and chocolate-covered rings and filled varieties. "Fried dough, usually with sugar or icing. Some have cream or jam inside. They're… well, they're delicious."
She selected a classic glazed donut and held it out to him on a napkin. "Here. Try this one first—it's the simplest." Arto accepted it carefully, turning the soft, golden ring over in his large hands as though it were a rare artifact. He brought it closer, inhaling the warm, yeasty sweetness, eyes widening slightly in genuine wonder.
He took a cautious bite. The glaze cracked softly under his teeth, giving way to pillowy dough that melted on his tongue with buttery sweetness. His eyes closed for a brief moment. When they opened again, the ancient exhaustion in them had receded just a little further—replaced by something small and boyish and utterly human. "…It's good," he said quietly, voice carrying quiet awe. "Really… really good. So much better than military rations"
Rias's smile bloomed—genuine, warm, and just a little triumphant. "I'm glad you're happy with your dessert, Arto. But now that everyone's here…" She glanced around the room at her peerage, drawing a steadying breath. "I have a proposal for you."
Arto lowered the donut, dark blue eyes sharpening with curiosity. "What is it?" Rias straightened, her usual confidence returning full force, though a faint hopeful tremor hid beneath it.
"We have an offer for you, Arto. Will you join my peerage… as my Knight?" She raised her own hand high. "Everyone—do you want Arto to join us? If yes, raise your hand."
Akeno's hand shot up instantly, violet eyes sparkling with mischief and something deeper. "Of course I want you to join~ You're a fascinating individual, and I very much want to know more about you."
Kiba followed smoothly, hand raised and a welcoming grin on his face. "I'll always welcome a new member—especially a fellow Knight. Someone to spar with properly at last. And more importantly…" He glanced sideways at the girls with mock exasperation. "I won't be the only male in the peerage anymore."
Koneko lifted her small hand without hesitation, golden eyes steady on Arto. "Everyone agrees, so I have no reason to refuse." A pause, then the faintest upward twitch of her lips. "Besides… you don't look like a pervert."
Rias's smile widened, relief and pride shining through. "Unanimous. Now it's your turn to decide." She nodded to Akeno. "Akeno?"
"Yes, President."
Akeno rose gracefully and retrieved a neat stack of papers from a nearby drawer, placing it on the coffee table with a soft thud. At the same moment, Rias opened her palm; crimson light coalesced into a single gleaming chess piece—a Knight, carved from translucent ruby that pulsed faintly with demonic power. She set it gently atop the documents.
Rias tapped the stack with one finger. "These outline the benefits you'd receive as a member of my peerage—protection, strength enhancement, a family, a home, resources, and a place in the devil world should you ever want it. Take your time reading them, Arto.
We can discuss or negotiate any terms you like. We'll wait for your decision—no pressure."
Arto stared at the papers and the glowing Knight piece for a long moment. His scarred fingers hovered over the contract, not quite touching it yet.
Finally, he looked up at the four devils watching him with varying degrees of hope, curiosity, and quiet support.
"This will take some time to read," he said, voice low but steady. "You should enjoy yourselves while I consider my decision."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto reading the stack of paper]
The clubroom settled into a comfortable quiet, each member finding their own corner of peace while Arto pored over the contract.
Kiba sat at a side table, textbooks open, pencil moving smoothly across homework problems. Koneko perched on the windowsill like a small cat in sunlight, slowly savoring a bar of dark chocolate. Rias had retreated to her presidential desk, fountain pen scratching steadily through stacks of paperwork—reports on the stray devil incident, territory updates, and the usual bureaucratic headaches of a high-class devil heiress.
Akeno, however, had claimed the spot right beside Arto on the sofa. She rested her head lightly on his shoulder—close enough to read along, far enough not to crowd—her voice a soft, melodic guide as he worked through the dense legalese.
"So I have full access to these training grounds?" Arto asked, brow raised at one clause. "There are… this many?"
Akeno hummed affirmatively. "Indeed. The Gremory domain in the Underworld is roughly the size of Japan. Plenty of space for dozens of full-sized facilities—arenas, obstacle courses, magical proving grounds. They're massive."
Arto's eyes widened slightly as he flipped pages. "And half the Grand Library's collection? How many books is that?"
"Millions," Akeno replied, tracing a finger down the margin. "Everything from advanced mathematics and poetry to spellcraft, history, fiction… even cookbooks. The truly restricted tomes—ancient grimoires, forbidden arts—are locked behind higher clearance. You'd earn access over time."
"Fair enough." He turned another page. "Wait—monthly wages? You get paid just for being in the peerage?"
"Yes. Base salary plus performance bonuses—contracts signed, missions completed. Stray devil hunts pay extra, scaled by danger level. The more vicious the target, the bigger the bonus."
Arto gave a low whistle. "Interesting. And the insurance?"
Akeno smiled. "Fully covered by the Gremory family. Medical, resurrection if needed, property damage—everything. To them it's pocket change. And after a few years of solid contribution…" She tapped another section. "You'd be granted real estate of your own in the Underworld. A home. Permanently."
"The Gremory are remarkably generous."
"Of course," Akeno said proudly. "This peerage belongs to the clan heiress. We're famous for treating our people well—and we have resources to spare."
Arto nodded slowly, clearly impressed. Then his finger paused on a particular paragraph. "This clause, though…"
Akeno's smile turned gently apologetic. "Yes. Reincarnation into a devil means surrendering your human life cycle. Mortality becomes… optional."
Arto was quiet for a long moment. "But there is one thing I want to keep."
Akeno lifted her head from his shoulder, violet eyes searching his face. "Then you've made your decision?" "I have." He met her gaze steadily. "And it won't disappoint you." Across the room, Rias's pen stilled. She rose and crossed to the coffee table, sitting opposite Arto with careful composure. "So… what is it, Arto?"
Arto reached out slowly, fingers brushing the glowing red Knight piece. He lifted it, held it for a heartbeat—then gently slid it across the table toward Rias. "I must decline your offer, Rias." Rias's shoulders fell. She exhaled softly, a sad but understanding smile touching her lips. "May I ask why?"
Arto's voice was quiet, but unwavering. "Because I finally understand the value of a life. My old one was wasted—spent entirely in war, killing, pain. Every moment of peace I've tasted here—the sunlight, the tea, the donuts, just sitting in this room with all of you—has shown me what I was missing for three thousand years."
He looked around at the peerage—at Kiba and Koneko who had paused to listen, at Akeno beside him, at Rias across the table. "If I accept now, I'd be throwing away the one gift this world has given me: the chance to live a single, ordinary human life. I can't do that. Not yet."
Rias's eyes glistened faintly, but she nodded. "It's okay, Arto. I understand. Life is precious to you. I respect your decision."
She reached to take the Knight piece back. But Arto's hand closed gently over hers, stopping her. "…For now."
Rias froze. Hope flickered across her face like dawn breaking. "For now?"
"Yes." Arto guided her hand to open, palm up, and carefully placed the Knight piece back into it—closing her fingers around the warm crimson gem. "I may join your peerage one day. But I want to stay human a little longer—long enough to go to school, to eat more donuts, to watch seasons change without a sword in my hand."
He met her eyes, earnest and steady. "But promise me one thing, Rias."
She swallowed, nodding. "When I am truly on the verge of death—when there's no other way—use this piece to save me. I love this life you've shown me. I'm not ready to lose it. I don't ever want to die regretting I didn't live it fully."
Rias's fingers tightened around the Knight piece. A single tear slipped free, but her smile was radiant. "I promise," she whispered. "With everything I am."
Akeno rested her head back on his shoulder, softer this time. Kiba grinned wide enough to show teeth. Even Koneko's golden eyes curved in quiet approval.
Arto exhaled—a long, slow breath that seemed to release centuries of tension. "Then I'll stay," he said simply. "As your friend. As a human. For as long as this life allows."
Rias laughed once—wet, relieved, joyful—and reached across the table to squeeze his free hand. "Welcome to the family anyway, Arto Abyssgard. We'll keep that piece safe… and we'll keep you safer."
The clubroom filled with soft laughter and the rustle of papers being tucked away. The weight of the decision lifted, replaced by a buoyant warmth that seemed to chase away the chill seeping through the windows.
Arto looked around at the four devils—his new, self-chosen family—and spoke quietly, but with unmistakable sincerity.
"In the meantime, I'll still be your ally. Your friend. I'll help with anything you need… because you've given me something I thought I'd lost forever." His eyes softened. "A warm feeling. Like I finally have a family again."
Akeno's reaction was immediate. She slid closer and wrapped both arms around his right arm, hugging it to her chest with a delighted squeal. "Awww~ You're so cute when you say things like that!" She nuzzled his shoulder lightly. "Of course we'll be your family. Thank goodness you didn't leave us—it would be so lonely without you here."
Rias cleared her throat, cheeks pink but eyes sparkling with quiet joy. "Now that everything's settled… time to officially welcome our new unofficial member to the Occult Research Club."
She stood decisively, hands on hips. "I'll go first. Arto really needs some new clothes. You're not going to wear Kiba's spare gym uniform forever." She shot the borrowed T-shirt and shorts a pointed look. "We're going shopping. Right now."
Arto blinked, then gave an easy, accepting shrug. "Really? I mean… okay. But I don't know the first thing about fashion. Most of my life I wore armor—or nothing at all during training. It'll be entirely up to you to choose."
Rias's grin turned positively devilish. She puffed out her chest proudly, crimson hair swaying. "It won't be hard at all. You're already very...."
She hesitates for a moment before his face. And to distract herself, she looks down "And that perfect body of yours would make anything look good. With my help, you'll be the hottest face in Kuoh in no time."
Arto's ears tinted pink, but he met her gaze with a small, genuine smile. "Well then… I'm all yours."
Rias's confident expression faltered for a heartbeat—cheeks flaring bright red. Akeno pounced instantly, latching onto his left arm with a playful pout. "Hey, no fair! Be mine too, Arto~"
"Stop it, Akeno!" Rias grabbed his right arm and tugged firmly, pulling him toward the door. "You'll have your chance later today. Right now, we're heading to the mall."
Arto let himself be dragged along without resistance, an amused, almost bewildered smile on his face as the two devils playfully vied for position on either side of him. The playful tug-of-war paused the moment Arto stopped at the door.
His right hand rose, palm open. A faint glow kindled there—soft silver at first, threaded with runes Rias had never seen before: angular, archaic, carrying the weight of a magic system far older than devil or fallen angel script. "Oh, right," he murmured, almost to himself. A quiet sigh escaped him, as though he'd just remembered an old habit.
From an inner pocket of the borrowed shorts he produced a small, flat crystal lens—no larger than a coin, etched with microscopic sigils. He placed it gently on the glowing circle hovering above his palm. "Okay… a little tweak here…"
His scarred fingers began to move—gliding, twisting, tracing invisible lines in the air with the precision of a master conductor. The runes in the circle responded instantly, shifting, rearranging, folding into new patterns at his command. It wasn't brute force; it was artistry. Every motion was economical, deliberate, born of centuries of practice in the dark.
Rias, still holding his left arm, leaned in without thinking. Her breath caught. She had studied advanced demonic magic since childhood. She could dismantle most modern spells with a glance. But this—this was something else entirely. The way he coaxed the sigils into obedience was like watching a swordsman dance with a blade he had forged himself. There was no waste, no hesitation. Just pure, effortless mastery from hands she had assumed knew only violence.
After perhaps a minute, Arto gave a small nod of satisfaction. "Done."
He released the spell.A ripple of cool light washed over him from head to toe. When it faded, every scar had vanished—skin smooth and unmarred, as though the millennia of torment had never etched their story into his flesh. The illusion was flawless, seamless even to devil senses.
He turned to Rias, noticing her stunned expression and the way she still leaned close, staring at his now-perfect forearm. "What's the matter, Rias?" he asked softly, a touch of gentle amusement in his voice.
Rias blinked, realizing she'd been openly gawking. Heat rushed to her cheeks. "I… that spell," she managed, voice quieter than usual. "I've never seen anything like it. The way you rearranged the sigils—it was beautiful. Like art."
Arto glanced down at his hand, flexing it once as the glow faded completely. A faint, sheepish smile tugged at his lips. "It's called magic adaptation—or magic translation, depending on who you ask. Let's talk while we walk."
He took the first step forward onto the snow-dusted path leading away from the old school building. Rias followed immediately, matching his stride without thinking, her curiosity burning brighter than her earlier embarrassment.
The streets of Kuoh were quiet in the late-morning. A few pedestrians hurried past with shopping bags, breath fogging in the cold air, but the three of them walked in their own small bubble of conversation.
Arto opened his palm again. The small crystal lens materialized there once more, hovering just above his skin.
"This lens is something I forged long ago," he explained, tilting it so the sunlight caught its etched surface. "It lets me see the flow of mana—the way energy moves through a spell, through a body, through the world itself. Like tracing rivers on a map."
Rias leaned closer, fascinated. "A mana-flow diagnostic tool? We have similar artifacts, but nothing this compact… or this precise."
Arto nodded. "It showed me why the illusion failed the first time. The sigils I used were from my old world." He summoned the original circle again—a hovering ring of sharp, angular runes that felt alien and harsh compared to the smooth, flowing demonic circles Rias knew. "Here, the underlying laws of magic are different. The way mana naturally flows from a caster's body, the way it interacts with the environment—it's all subtly shifted."
He gestured, and the circle began to transform in real time. Runes softened, curved, realigned themselves into patterns that felt instinctively familiar to Rias—elegant, efficient, harmonious with the demonic energy she wielded every day.
"When I change them like this," Arto continued, "the spell adapts to the natural flow of mana in this world. Like the old saying—'When in Rome, do as the Romans do.' The magic stops fighting the environment and starts working with it."
Rias watched the final sigils lock into place, her blue-green eyes wide with academic awe.
"That's… incredible," she breathed. "You're essentially translating entire spell matrices on the fly. Most high-class devils need years of study and ritual preparation to adapt foreign magic systems even slightly. You just… did it. In under a minute."
Arto dismissed the circle with a small wave, the lens vanishing smoothly back into his pocket. He shrugged, a touch of color rising on his cheeks under Rias's unabashed admiration.
"I can teach you, if you want."
Rias stopped walking entirely, causing Akeno to bump lightly into them from behind. "Teach me?" she repeated, eyes wide with barely contained excitement.
"Yes." Arto resumed his stride, hands in his pockets, voice calm but earnest. "In my world, magic isn't treated as a miracle or an innate gift. It's an equation. A science. We developed a detailed system of formulated spellcrafting—precise, repeatable. It lets you create or adjust spells on the fly, from the smallest sigil to an entire layered incantation."
He glanced sideways at Rias, noting the way her gaze had turned intensely focused.
"But I'd need time to translate my sigils into your demonic script. The underlying principles should be compatible, just… expressed differently. Consider it my first contribution to the peerage."
Rias's heart skipped. "You'd really share that kind of knowledge with us?"
"Of course. You're giving me a life. This is the least I can do."
Rias ignored the teasing, tilting her head curiously. "And what do you need to start?"
Arto answered without hesitation. "A book of basic magic. The kind every child uses when they first learn."
Her mouth fell open slightly, blue-green eyes wide with disbelief. "You're serious?"
"Very." Arto stopped beside her, hands still in his pockets, expression calm but firm. "Never underestimate the basics. They're the core of everything. A children's primer contains the purest, most fundamental sigils—uncluttered by advanced theory or personal flair. Those sigils show exactly how mana flows are bent and directed. That's the entire point of magic: taking raw mana and weaving it into specific effects."
He gestured lightly with one hand, as though sketching invisible lines in the air.
"Once I understand how your basic sigils manipulate flow, translating my formulas becomes straightforward. A few custom sigils might need to be created to bridge gaps in your system, but after that… I can adjust the equations to match your demonic energy signature. Then we're good to go."
Rias stared at him for a long moment, the breeze tugging at her hair.
Then she laughed—soft at first, then brighter, the sound carrying down the quiet street. "You want a kindergarten-level magic textbook… to revolutionize devil spellcraft."
Arto's lips twitched into a small, sheepish smile. "When you put it that way, it sounds ridiculous. But every great thing has basic, simple start, but I'm not talking about just devil spellcraft, I'm talking about magic in general"
"It sounds brilliant," Rias corrected, resuming their walk with renewed energy. She slipped her arm through his again—casual, natural, as though it belonged there. "I have the perfect book at home. Standard curriculum for young devils. I'll bring it to you later."
She glanced up at him, eyes sparkling with genuine excitement. "And when you're done translating your 'equations'… I want to be the first student."
Arto looked down at her, something soft and wondering in his expression. "I'd like that," he said quietly. "Very much."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Akeno trying on lipsticks]
The bustling indoor mall was alive with energy—families browsing sales, couples sharing hot drinks, and clusters of teenagers lingering near arcade entrances. Yet as Rias and Arto walked side by side through the marble-tiled atrium, conversation flowing easily between them, a subtle ripple followed in their wake.
Heads turned. Whispers trailed.
A group of high school girls near a boutique window clutched their shopping bags tighter, eyes wide.
"Look at him… He's like a model. Tall, perfect face, those shoulders…"
"And that girl? So unfair. It should've been me."
Across the walkway, a cluster of boys loitering by a gadget store nudged each other, staring openly.
"Damn… that lucky bastard. Walking arm-in-arm with the that busty girlfriend? And those… assets?"
"Why him? I'd treat her way better. Should've been me, man."
Rias and Arto remained blissfully oblivious, too absorbed in their discussion to notice the envious stares or hushed gossip swirling around them. "Arto?" Rias asked, glancing up at him as they ascended the escalator toward the upper-level clothing stores. "Yes?"
"I've been curious about your name—Abyssgard. I've never heard of any clan or house by that name, even in old records. Can you tell me about your… family?"
Arto's expression turned thoughtful, a shadow passing briefly over his illusion-smoothed features. "Sure. Though I wouldn't exactly call it a family." He paused, choosing his words. "Abyssgard isn't a clan. It's a legion."
Rias's eyes lit up with instant understanding. "A legion? Oh—that's why it sounds so… specific. You fought against the Abyss itself, didn't you?"
He nodded, gaze distant. "For thousands of years. It all ended with the Second Abyssal War. Ten million Abyssgard warriors against billions of creatures from the depths."
Rias's steps slowed on the escalator. She stared at him, mental math racing behind her eyes.
Ten million against billions. One warrior for every hundred monsters—maybe more.
The numbers were apocalyptic. She tried to imagine it: endless hordes pouring from darkness, clashing against a thin, desperate line of human defenders. Blood, screams, the stench of death stretching horizon to horizon.
"You… won?" she asked quietly.
"Barely," Arto replied, voice low. "At terrible cost. 10 millions were reduced to none at the end of the battle with me being the last to sacrifice in the heart of the Abyss, died with the Queen of it, but until now I'm not sure if we won or not, I could only assume that we won since it was the thing that has the highest probability to happen because the Queen died with me. But I'll say we won and defeated the Abyss completely, just to be....positive"
Rias stared at him for a long moment. The escalator reached the top floor; shoppers streamed past them toward clothing boutiques, but neither moved. "You saved your entire world," she whispered. "Alone, at the end."
"Not alone," Arto corrected gently. "Ten million stood with me at the start. I was just… the last one standing."
He offered a faint, bittersweet smile. "Enough old stories. We're here for clothes, right? Something that doesn't scream 'ancient blood-soaked warrior'?"
Rias blinked, then laughed—soft, a little shaky, but real. She squeezed his arm and pulled him toward the nearest high-end menswear store. "Right. No more abyssal wars today. Today, we're finding you jeans that actually fit and a coat that makes girls faint."
The boutique's warm lighting and soft instrumental music enveloped them as they stepped inside. Racks of impeccably tailored suits, casual wear, and seasonal pieces lined the walls, the faint scent of new fabric and cedar hangers in the air.
A sharply dressed female employee—mid-twenties, professional smile—approached immediately. "Welcome to our store! How can I help you, young couple?"
Rias's face ignited in an instant, crimson spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She waved both hands frantically in denial. "N-no, no! We're not anything yet!" The words tumbled out faster than she intended. She gestured quickly toward Arto. "I just need to find some new clothes for my friend here."
Arto, unfazed, gave the employee a polite wave and a small, awkward smile.
The employee's eyes flicked between them—taking in Rias's flustered state, Arto's striking features, and the way they had walked in arm-in-arm—and her professional smile turned knowingly amused. "You two should be," she said with a playful wink. "Now, please follow me. We just received new batches that would fit your man perfectly."
Rias's blush deepened, but she didn't correct the "your man" part this time.
The employee led them deeper into the store, past displays of cashmere sweaters, crisp shirts, and tailored coats. Rias's eyes lit up like a child in a candy shop. Within minutes, she was in full command—pulling items off racks with decisive speed and piling them into Arto's arms.
Casual jeans and hoodies for daily wear. Light linen shirts and shorts for summer. Thick wool coats and scarves for. Semi-formal button-downs and slacks. Even a full black tuxedo "just in case."
Arto accepted the growing mountain without complaint, disappearing into the spacious fitting room with mild bewilderment.
The first few outfits—jeans with a fitted sweater, a casual blazer over a T-shirt—earned enthusiastic approval from Rias and teasing commentary from the employee.
But when he stepped out in the tuxedo…
The tailored black fabric hugged his broad shoulders and tapered waist perfectly. The crisp white shirt contrasted sharply with his dark hair (still a little tousled), and the slim-cut trousers emphasized his height and build. He adjusted the cuffs self-consciously, looking every inch the elegant gentleman from a bygone era. "How do I look, Rias?"
Rias froze. Her eyes went wide. Her brain short-circuited. A thin stream of blood trickled from her left nostril. "You look… wonderful," she managed, voice faint and slightly nasal.
Arto's brow furrowed in concern. "Rias, your nose…" He dropped to one knee in front of her chair without hesitation, pulling a tissue from the box on the nearby table. Gently, carefully, he reached up and pressed it to her nose, tilting her head forward with practiced care.
The sight of him—tuxedo-clad, kneeling attentively in front of her like some chivalrous knight tending to his lady—sent a fresh surge of blood rushing.
The trickle became a full stream. "Rias? You okay? Do I need to call—"
"There is no need, Arto!" she squeaked, snatching the tissue and clamping it over her nose with both hands. "I was just… overwhelmed! By how good you look! That's all!"
The employee, standing a discreet distance away, hid her grin behind a clipboard.
Arto remained kneeling, dark blue eyes worried but soft. "…Should I change back?"
"No!" Rias said instantly, then coughed, lowering her voice. "I mean—we're definitely buying the tuxedo. And everything else you've tried on. All of it."
She paused, peeking over the tissue, cheeks still flaming. "You really do look wonderful, Arto."
He smiled then—small, genuine, and just a little shy. "Thank you, Rias."
The employee finally stepped forward, eyes twinkling. "I'll ring these up. And maybe add a few more pieces—on the house. For the lovely couple."
Issei's POV
"Dude, Issei—look over there!"
Matsuda's voice cut through the post-arcade haze like a knife. I followed his pointing finger, already grumbling about how he was probably just spotting another cosplayer or something.
Then I saw her.
Crimson hair catching the mall lights like fire. That perfect hourglass figure in the Kuoh Academy uniform skirt and coat combo. And those breasts—God, those heavenly, gravity-defying breasts that haunted half the guys' dreams at school.
Rias Gremory. The Rias Gremory.
My heart did that stupid flip it always does when I see her. She's perfect—elegant, smart, untouchable. The ultimate woman I want in my future harem. One day, I swear, I'll be the guy walking next to her, getting to enjoy that view up close.
But… wait...She wasn't alone.
Some tall, dark-haired serious jackass who looks like a yakuza boss was walking right beside her, loaded down with like a dozen shopping bags. And Rias—my Rias—was smiling up at him, talking animatedly, her arm looped through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And her chest—those glorious oppai—were pressed right up against his arm. My brain short-circuited. "Wha— Who the hell is that guy?!" I hissed, gripping my soda cup so hard the lid popped off.
Motohama adjusted his glasses, squinting. "Never seen him before. Transfer student? He's carrying all her bags like some kinda boyfriend."
"Boyfriend?!" Matsuda and I yelled at the same time.
People turned to stare. I didn't care.
Rias laughed at something the guy said—actually laughed, that perfect rich-girl laugh—and leaned in closer. The dude looked down at her with this soft, almost shy smile, like he didn't even realize he was living every guy's fantasy right now.
Then they turned toward the big lingerie boutique on the second floor. Victoria's-something. The one with all the lacy displays in the window.
My eyes nearly popped out. They're… they're going in there. Together. Rias is gonna try on lingerie. With him waiting outside. Or—oh God—maybe inside. Maybe he's gonna see—
My nose started bleeding. I didn't even notice until Matsuda shoved a napkin at me. "Issei, you're drooling blood, man."
I wiped it away frantically, mind racing.
I have to see this. I need to burn whatever she tries on into my memory forever. This is prime harem research material. Future motivation. The stuff dreams are made of. "C'mon," I whispered, already creeping toward the escalator. "We're following them. Stealth mode."
Matsuda grinned like an idiot. Motohama nodded vigorously. As we tailed them from a (totally safe and not creepy) distance, I couldn't shake the burning in my chest. Who is this guy? How does he get to walk arm-in-arm with Rias Gremory? And why does it feel like… like she's actually happy around him?
I clenched my fists...One day, that'll be me...One day, I'll have the ultimate harem—and Rias will be smiling at me like that.
But right now… I've got some very important reconnaissance to do. For science.
We sauntered toward the lingerie store like we owned the place, already lost in the fantasy—rows of lacy bras, sheer panties, mannequins in poses that would make any healthy guy's brain melt. Heaven. Pure heaven.
And then—bam. A wall of muscle in a security uniform stepped right in front of us.
This guy was huge. Like, pro-wrestler huge. Early forties, shaved head, arms thicker than my thighs, and a stare that could freeze lava. "Where do you think you're going, young men?" he rumbled, voice low and gravelly.
I put on my best innocent grin. "We're heading in—"
He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the store entrance. "There? This is the women's lingerie section. Men's underwear is one floor up." His eyes narrowed as a couple of actual female customers walked past. "Good day to you, ladies. Please come in."
Then he turned back to us, disgust plain on his face. "Why are you like this? Peeking on women changing—have you no shame?"
My blood boiled. I pointed past him, straight at the comfy boyfriend couch near the fitting rooms where that guy was sitting—tall, dark-haired, surrounded by shopping bags, looking way too relaxed. "Then why did you let that guy in?!"
The guard didn't even blink. "Two reasons. One: he has explicit permission from the young lady he's with. Two: he's not a pervert like you three."
Matsuda sputtered. "How do you even know he's not a pervert?!"
The guard sighed like he'd had this conversation a thousand times. "Kid, I've been doing security here for fifteen years. I know a pervert when I see one. That's why they put me on this store specifically—to keep creeps like you from flocking in and making the ladies uncomfortable." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Kids these days… Now get out of here before I drag you out."
We backed away slowly, hands up in surrender. No way we were tangling with that mountain. As soon as we were out of earshot, I slammed my fist into my palm. "That's so unfair! How does that pretty-boy get a free pass but we don't?! I bet he's secretly peeking when no one's looking. He's probably got a hidden camera or something!"
Motohama nodded furiously. "Definitely. Guys like that are the worst—acting all calm and respectful while mentally undressing every girl in sight."
Matsuda fake-sobbed. "And he's getting to see Rias Gremory in lingerie… actual changing-room waiting privileges… This world is cruel, man. Cruel!"
3rd Person POV
The upscale lingerie boutique was a vision of soft lighting, silk displays, and hushed elegance. Women browsed delicate lace sets and satin robes, while a few curious boyfriends or husbands waited on the plush couches near the fitting rooms.
Arto sat on one of those couches, posture straight, hands resting calmly on his knees. His illusion-smoothed face was perfectly neutral—eyes fixed solely on the curtained changing cabin where Rias had disappeared ten minutes earlier. He didn't glance left or right, didn't acknowledge the lingering stares or the several women who had tried—unsuccessfully—to strike up conversation.
"Rias," he called quietly, voice even. "Are you done?"
From behind the curtain came a slightly flustered reply. "No… I'm having a problem, Arto. Could you come in and help me, please?"
A few nearby women perked up, eyes widening. Arto merely shook his head once—more at the situation than at her request—then stood. The small crowd parted instinctively as he walked forward, his presence calm but commanding. With the same neutral expression, he slipped inside the spacious changing cabin and immediately checked the curtain, tugging it fully closed and secured.
Only then did he turn.
Rias stood with her back to him, crimson hair swept forward over one shoulder. The black lace bra she was trying on hung unclasped, the delicate straps loose against her pale skin. "Splendid, you're here," she said, voice a little breathless. "Can you help me with this?"
Arto exhaled a soft sigh—resigned, not annoyed—and stepped closer. His fingers, steady and careful, fastened the clasp with practiced efficiency. No hesitation, no lingering touch. "Done."
Rias turned slowly, cheeks already flushed. The black lace contrasted beautifully against her skin, the design elegant and daring in all the ways that suited her perfectly. "So… what do you think of it?"
Arto met her eyes directly, expression softening just a fraction. "You look very beautiful, Rias," he said, voice low and sincere. "I cannot describe your beauty with words."
The compliment—simple, unadorned, and utterly genuine—sent fresh color flooding her face. But then something clicked. She studied his steady eyes, the way they hadn't once drifted downward. "Arto," she asked slowly, a teasing note creeping in despite her blush, "what color is my bra?"
He blinked. "Uhhhh… ree~~ed?"
Rias glanced down at the unmistakably black lace, then back up at him, lips twitching. "That's my hair, Arto." She stepped a little closer, voice softening. "I asked you in here because I wanted you—and only you—to see this. So please… look down just this once and tell me what you really think?"
Arto hesitated, then—trusting her—let his gaze drop. He took in the sight: the delicate black lace, the way it framed and accentuated her figure, the quiet confidence she wore it with.
Yet his expression remained calm. No widening eyes, no flush, no stammer. Just quiet observation. "I'll be honest with you, Rias," he said gently. "I've never seen a woman in lingerie as far as I can remember. I don't have the words for how it's supposed to make me feel."
Then he stepped forward, closing the small distance between them. His hands—scarred beneath the illusion, but warm and careful—rose to cup her face tenderly, thumbs brushing lightly along her cheekbones.
His voice dropped to something softer than she had ever heard from him. "But the woman who took in a stranger covered in blood and scars… who treated me like a person without fear or hatred from the very first moment…"
His deep ocean eyes held hers, steady and warm. "She is more beautiful than anything in my eyes. Lingerie or armor or nothing at all—it doesn't matter. You are beautiful because you are you, Rias."
Rias's heart stuttered in her chest.
Arto's hands were warm against her cheeks, his eyes steady and earnest, his voice soft in a way that made the small changing cabin feel impossibly intimate. The compliment—simple, profound, and utterly without artifice—struck her deeper than any flowery line ever could.
Her face flushed a shade that perfectly matched her crimson hair. Steam might as well have been rising from her ears.
Idiot~ she whispered, the word barely audible, laced with affection and overwhelming embarrassment.
With both hands, she pressed gently but firmly against his chest—pushing him toward the curtain.
Arto let her guide him, stepping backward without resistance, a faint, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he slipped out of the booth.
The curtain fell closed behind him. Outside, he resumed his seat on the boyfriend couch with the same calm posture as before—hands on knees, gaze politely forward, ignoring the curious glances from other shoppers.
If anyone noticed the slight pink tinge on his own ears, they were too intimidated by his quiet presence to comment.
Inside the changing cabin, Rias leaned her back against the wall, hands pressed to her burning cheeks. "Idiot…" she muttered again, softer this time, a helpless smile breaking through.
She glanced at her reflection in the mirror—black lace, flushed skin, eyes bright and dazed.
He hadn't ogled her. He hadn't stammered or turned into a blushing mess. He'd looked at her—really looked—and seen past the lingerie, past the teasing, straight to who she was.
And then he'd said the most dangerously sincere thing anyone had ever said to her.
Rias took a slow, steadying breath, trying to wrestle her heartbeat back under control. "…Definitely buying this set," she murmured to herself.
Then, louder, toward the curtain: "Arto? I'm keeping this one. And… maybe a few more. Be ready for a long wait."
From outside came his quiet, amused reply. "Take all the time you need, Rias."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto waiting for Rias inisde a buzzing changing booth]
The sun was high enough to warm the sidewalks as Rias and Arto made their way back from the mall, arms swinging in easy rhythm. Arto carried every single shopping bag—dozens of them dangling from his forearms and looped over his shoulders—without the slightest sign of strain. Rias walked beside him, occasionally glancing up with a mix of exasperation and lingering embarrassment.
"You really shouldn't have done that, Arto," she said, voice half-scolding, half-amused. "Stepping out of the changing booth in just boxers? Do you have any idea how many women nearly fainted? You're lucky we went in the morning when it was quiet. If we'd gone in the evening rush, the store would've descended into chaos."
Arto tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. There wasn't a trace of guilt or smugness on his face—just honest confusion. "Is that a bad thing, Rias?" He stopped walking for a moment and, without any self-consciousness, lifted the hem of his new fitted T-shirt.
Well-toned abs came into view—defined but not overbuilt, skin carrying a faint, natural tan from who-knows-what forgotten sun in his ancient past. A few faint (real, non-illusion) training scars traced across the muscle, only adding to the effect.
He looked down at his own torso like he was examining a mildly interesting object. "I don't see anything wrong with it," he said earnestly. "It's just… a healthy body, isn't it? Why did they have to look so… awed?"
Rias stared. For a full three seconds, her brain refused to supply words. Her face went from light pink to full crimson in record time. Then she slapped both hands over her eyes with a groan. "Arto! Put your shirt down! We're on a public street!"
He obeyed immediately, dropping the hem back into place, still looking bewildered. "Did I do something wrong again?" Rias peeked through her fingers, saw that the shirt was safely down, and lowered her hands—though the blush remained.
"You didn't do anything wrong exactly," she muttered, resuming their walk a little faster than before. "It's just… most men don't casually flash perfect abs in the middle of a busy mall. Or on the sidewalk. Women aren't used to it. Especially not when the abs in question belong to someone who looks like…" She gestured vaguely at all of him. "…you."
Arto fell into step beside her, bags rustling softly. "I trained every day for centuries," he said, as if that explained everything. "A body is a tool. If it's functional and healthy, it should be fine to show, shouldn't it? In the legions, we train everyday to look like this."
Rias gave him a sideways glance, lips twitching between amusement and fond exasperation. "This isn't an abyssal legion, Arto. This is modern Japan. There are… rules. Unwritten ones. About shirts. And public decency. And not causing mass swooning."
He considered that seriously. "So… shirts must stay on at all times unless bathing or sleeping?"
"Pretty much, yes. Especially if you don't want to be mobbed by admirers." Arto nodded slowly, committing the rule to memory. "Understood. Shirts stay on." A pause. "But in summer, when it's hot…?"
Rias sighed dramatically, though her eyes danced. "We'll negotiate tank tops. Maybe." Arto accepted this with the same calm gravity he once reserved for battle briefings. "Thank you for the guidance, Rias."
She bumped his arm lightly with her shoulder, smiling despite herself. "You're impossible. And way too honest for your own good."
But as they continued toward the old school building, bags swinging and sunlight glinting off the snow, Rias couldn't quite suppress the warmth in her chest.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias gawking at one of Arto's photos]
The backyard behind the Occult Research Club had been cleared into an impromptu training ground—grass worn flat from countless spars, a few old wooden posts marking boundaries. Sunlight slanted through bare tree branches, casting long shadows across the makeshift arena.
Arto stood relaxed in the center, borrowed sword resting lightly against his shoulder. Across from him, Kiba rolled his wrists, the holy-demonic blade Sword Birth gleaming in his grip.
"You're saying you want to fight me, right?" Arto asked, tone neutral but curious. "Yes," Kiba replied with an easy smile. "Just a friendly spar. Best way I know to get to know someone."
Arto nodded. "Sure. What are we using?"
"Swords."
With a flicker of demonic power, Kiba summoned a second blade—perfectly balanced, identical to his own—and tossed it underhand. Arto caught it by the hilt, examined the edge with genuine interest, and gave an approving nod. "Good quality. And you summon them from thin air. Impressive." He glanced up. "That's how you blocked me so quickly the other night."
Kiba laughed lightly. "It was close. You're the fastest human I've ever seen. I'm hoping to learn something from this, Sensei."
Arto's brows rose slightly at the title, but he inclined his head politely. "Well-mannered. I hope to learn from you as well. I'll try not to disappoint your expectations of a 'seasoned warrior.'" A pause. "Rules? Time limit? Disarm? Last man standing… or deathmatch?"
Kiba's smile faltered. "I hope you're joking about the last one. Last man standing is fine."
"Very well." Arto turned to the sidelines where Koneko stood, chocolate bar half-eaten. "Koneko, will you referee?"
She shrugged. "Whatever."
Koneko stepped between them, glanced at both fighters as they settled into stances—Kiba low and fluid, Arto relaxed and upright—then raised one small hand. "AND… BEGIN!"
Kiba exploded forward in a blur of gold and steel. A flurry of slashes—high, low, diagonal, thrust—came in rapid succession, each strike precise and lightning-fast.
Any normal opponent would have been shredded. Arto didn't move his feet once. He simply shifted—minimal, economical motions of torso, shoulders, and wrists—letting every blade pass within inches of his body. Not a single cut touched him.
Kiba's frustration grew with each missed strike. "Stop messing around, Arto," he said between clashes, voice tight. "Don't treat me like a kid. Fight me."
"I'm not," Arto replied calmly, still dodging. "I'm learning your style." An overhead strike came down with full force. Arto finally raised his sword—blocking cleanly, locking blades. "Now…" he said quietly, dark blue eyes steady.
He slid sideways. Kiba, committed to the downward momentum, stumbled forward half a step. Arto's pommel struck the back of his head with controlled precision—hard enough to sting, not to injure.
Kiba recovered instantly, spinning into a renewed assault—faster now, fueled by pride.
Steel rang against steel. Sparks flew. Small cuts appeared on Kiba's uniform sleeves and cheek—shallow counters from Arto's blade whenever an opening presented itself.
Rias watched from the sidelines, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "Arto isn't giving his all," she murmured. "He's leaving openings on purpose—teaching Kiba how to read and punish overextensions."
Koneko nodded, chocolate forgotten for once. "Kiba did call him Sensei."
At that moment, the back door slid open. Akeno stepped out, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed, breathing a touch heavy as though she'd just finished intense exercise.
"How's the fight going?" she asked brightly, eyes immediately locking onto Arto with open appreciation. "Ara ara… he looks so hot when he fights like that~"
Rias shot her a sideways glance. "Where were you? You locked yourself in your room all morning. And now you show up sweaty and exhausted. What exactly were you 'exercising'?"
Akeno's smile turned mysterious. "Just some private training. Don't worry—I'm perfectly fine~" Back in the arena, Kiba disengaged, breathing hard. Determination flashed in his eyes.
He blurred forward again—this time a single, blinding thrust. The strike was so fast it left only a yellow afterimage, a streak even Rias and Koneko barely tracked.
Arto sidestepped. One simple, minimal motion. His leg snapped out in a precise kick to Kiba's ribs—not cruel, but solid. The impact lifted the Knight off his feet and sent him skidding across the grass several meters before he caught himself in a crouch.
The backyard arena fell silent for a heartbeat after Arto's kick sent Kiba skidding across the grass.
Rias stepped forward instinctively, concern etched on her face. "That's enough, Kiba. Let's—" Kiba raised one arm without looking, palm open in a clear gesture: stay back.
His eyes burned with unyielding determination as he pushed himself upright, breath coming in measured gasps. Rias hesitated, read the resolve in his expression, and nodded once before retreating to the sidelines.
Kiba straightened fully. Demonic power flickered briefly as he summoned a second sword into his off-hand—now dual-wielding. He settled into a new stance: lower center of gravity, weight balanced, grips firm but relaxed.
Arto's neutral expression cracked into a genuine, approving smile. He leveled his own blade in salute. "That's the spirit!" he called, voice carrying a rare spark of excitement. "Come fight me like the knight you are, Kiba!"
Kiba took a deep, steadying breath… and charged. This time there was no blinding burst of speed. No reliance on raw velocity to overwhelm. He moved at human limits—deliberate, controlled, every step and swing refined.
The difference was immediate: footwork cleaner, strikes more precise, guard tighter. Each clash rang clearer, truer.
Arto met him gladly. Their blades danced—steel singing as it met steel. Arto still held the upper hand, landing light taps and shallow cuts that marked Kiba's uniform and skin, but now Kiba answered back. A parry here, a riposte there.
He blocked strikes that would have ended the fight minutes earlier. His form grew steadier with every exchange.
Arto's encouragement came between clashes, voice warm and steady. "Good—weight on the back foot!" "Better grip—yes!" "There, you felt the opening!"
Rias watched with folded arms, pride and worry warring on her face. Akeno leaned against a tree, violet eyes bright with appreciation. Koneko stood motionless, chocolate forgotten.
The duel stretched on—back and forth, relentless but controlled. Kiba's breaths grew ragged, sweat darkening his blond hair, bruises blooming beneath torn fabric. Yet he refused to yield.
Finally, legs trembling with exhaustion, he gathered everything left for one last push. He stepped in deep, committing fully.
A single, perfect thrust—guided by everything he'd learned in the span of minutes—exploded forward. Arto's eyes widened a fraction in genuine respect.
The borrowed sword in Arto's hand shattered under the impact, fragments scattering like silver rain. The broken tip grazed Arto's cheek, leaving a thin red line—the first blood drawn from the ancient warrior all day.
Kiba's momentum carried him one more step before his body gave out. He collapsed to one knee, then fully to the grass, unconscious but smiling faintly even in collapse.
Rias, Akeno, and Koneko rushed forward as one. Rias knelt first, gently checking Kiba's pulse and breathing. "He's okay—just completely spent."
Akeno brushed damp hair from his forehead, already channeling soft healing light. Koneko slipped her small but incredibly strong arms under him, lifting the taller boy effortlessly.
They carried him inside the clubhouse, laying him on a couch with pillows and blankets. Minor cuts closed under Akeno's care; bruises would fade by evening.
Once Kiba was settled and breathing evenly in exhausted sleep, Rias stepped back outside where Arto waited quietly, touching the shallow cut on his cheek with mild curiosity. "You didn't need to go that far, Arto," she said, voice soft but firm.
Arto met her gaze, expression calm but earnest. "I know. But I had to." He gestured toward the broken sword fragments still scattered on the grass.
"Did you see how much he learned in one fight? He rebuilt his entire foundation—stance, grip, timing. At the start he relied only on speed to create openings. By the end…"
He touched the thin cut again, a small, proud smile breaking through. "…he earned this. An 8 out of 10 for his first real lesson."
Rias exhaled, worry easing into reluctant understanding—and quiet admiration. "You're a harsh teacher."
"I'm an honest one," Arto replied. "Pain carves lessons deepest. But I never gave him more than he could bear… or learn from."
He looked toward the clubhouse door where Kiba rested. "He'll wake stronger. And prouder."
Rias stepped closer, reaching up to gently brush her thumb near the cut on his cheek—careful not to touch the wound itself. "And you let him mark you. On purpose?"
Arto's smile turned almost boyish. "A teacher should reward progress. Besides…" He shrugged lightly. "It's been a long time since anyone drew blood from me in training. Felt good."
Rias lowered her hand, shaking her head with a fond sigh. "You're impossible."
But her eyes were warm, and the sunlight caught the faint flush on her cheeks as she turned back toward the clubhouse. "Come on, Sensei. Let's get that cut cleaned before Akeno decides to kiss it better."
[Timeskip: brought to you by a chibi Rias and Akeno cooking]
The clubhouse living room was quiet in the late afternoon, sunlight filtering through half-drawn curtains. Kiba lay on the couch, blankets tucked around him, minor bruises already fading under Akeno's earlier healing. The others had stepped out to give him space—Rias to handle paperwork, Akeno and Koneko to the kitchen for tea and snacks.
Only Arto remained, sitting in an armchair opposite, elbows on knees, watching patiently.
Kiba's eyes fluttered open. He blinked once, twice, then focused on the ancient warrior across from him. "Did I… do well?" he asked, voice hoarse but steady.
Arto's expression softened into a small, genuine smile. "You did a good job. You fixed a lot of problems mid-fight—which is impressive improvement for one spar."
Kiba pushed himself up slightly on an elbow, wincing only a little. "When did you see those problems?"
"From the beginning," Arto said simply. "When I stood still and let you swing. Your fundamentals are solid—footwork, grip, blade control—but you lean too heavily on speed to create openings. It breaks your stance, leaves you overextended. Against someone who can read that pattern, it becomes a liability."
He leaned forward, tone turning instructive rather than critical. "Practice the basics until they're instinct—slow, perfect form. Master balance and positioning first. Then layer speed on top, a little at a time. You'll end up faster and more stable than relying on raw velocity alone."
Kiba absorbed it quietly, nodding. A faint, determined smile touched his lips.
"I'll keep that in mind. You're a great teacher, Arto." Arto rubbed the back of his neck, a touch sheepish. "Am I? Well… thank you. If you're calling me that, I suppose I should finish the lesson properly."
He paused, studying Kiba thoughtfully. "Try looking into alchemy. You have talent for it." Kiba blinked, surprised. "Alchemy?"
Arto nodded. "Your Sacred Gear—Sword Birth—lets you create blades with specific properties. That's not far from alchemical transmutation: imbuing materials with intent, altering their nature. Your precision, your feel for metal and balance… it would translate well. You could forge swords that aren't just sharp, but carry elemental affinities, curses, blessings—whatever the fight needs."
He gestured lightly, as if sketching runes in the air. "Start small. Study basic elemental theory, how mana binds to matter. Combine it with your birth ability, and you won't just summon swords—you'll craft masterpieces mid-battle."
Kiba's eyes lit up with genuine interest—the same spark he got whenever a new path of swordsmanship opened before him. "I… never thought of it that way. I'll look into it. Thank you, Sensei."
Kiba extended his fist, a tired but satisfied grin on his face. Arto met it with a solid bump—two knights, one ancient and one reborn, sharing a quiet moment of mutual respect.
From the clubhouse doorway, Rias's voice rang out, warm and carrying the faint clatter of dishes. "It's time for lunch, you two!"
Arto glanced over his shoulder, already rising. "Coming! Need any help?" Kiba pushed himself up from the couch, waving him off with a small laugh. "Nah, I can walk on my own."
Arto's grin widened—just a touch proud, just a touch fond. "That's my student." He started toward the door, calling back without turning. "Be quick—the food's getting cold."
Kiba steadied himself, took a testing step, and nodded. "Right behind you." The two walked into the main room together—Arto a half-step ahead, Kiba moving with the careful but determined gait of someone whose pride refused to let exhaustion win.
Inside, the long table was already set: steaming bowls of miso soup, grilled fish, rice, pickled vegetables, and a towering stack of tamagoyaki that Koneko was eyeing with quiet intensity. Akeno stood at the head, ladle in hand, while Rias arranged the last of the chopsticks.
The smell of home-cooked food filled the space—simple, warm, alive. Rias glanced up as they entered, her earlier worry melting into a soft smile. "Perfect timing. Sit—both of you. You've earned it."
Arto pulled out a chair for Kiba first—an old, instinctive courtesy—before taking his own seat. Kiba lowered himself carefully, still catching his breath, but his eyes were bright. "Thanks, President. Smells amazing."
Akeno leaned over Arto's shoulder as she served him soup, voice teasing. "Our newest member has been working hard today. Extra portions for the teacher and the student~"
Koneko silently slid the plate of tamagoyaki closer to the center—equal distance from both Arto and Kiba.
Arto looked around the table—at the food, the easy banter, the people who had become his unexpected family in less than a day—and felt something settle deep in his chest.
For the first time in three thousand years, lunch wasn't rations eaten alone in the dark between battles. It was a meal shared with people who cared whether he came to the table at all.
He picked up his chopsticks, small smile hidden behind the first sip of miso. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For everything."
Rias met his eyes across the table and smiled back—no words needed.
Then Akeno clapped her hands lightly. "Enough mushy stuff. Eat before it really gets cold!" Laughter rippled around the table.