[ Motohama POV ]
It was at this moment I realized I was an addict for the Gacha Rewards.
The notification sat in my vision like a dealer outside a convenience store at midnight, knowing full well I'd already slowed down.
I opened the notification anyway, because willpower was a stat I'd apparently dumped into the negatives somewhere around character creation and never bothered fixing.
[[ You've received: Armament Haki ]]
The description unpacked itself in my head with the kind of absurd detail that suggested someone had written this documentation while heavily caffeinated, possibly concussed, and definitely not paid enough for their efforts.
Willpower made physical. An invisible coating that sat on your body and whatever you held, let you hit harder and block more, and—most importantly—let you reach through Logia-type Devil Fruit bullshit to punch the actual person hiding inside their smug intangibility.
Zoro ran it through all three swords simultaneously, because subtlety had never been in his vocabulary and probably never would be. Mihawk had probably done it so consistently for so long that his blade stayed permanently black, which was either incredible dedication to the craft or a very committed aesthetic choice. Possibly both. The line got blurry at that level.
Right now I had access to Hardening and Imbuement, the basics, essentially. Everything else sat behind a paywall cheerfully labeled *extensive training required* in a font that strongly suggested I wasn't going to enjoy the grind, and the grind wasn't going to go easy on me just because I asked nicely.
The reward exceeded my ever-present low expectations, which meant either I was improving as a person or reality was lowering its standards to match mine.
If the *God of War* games had taught me anything useful—and they had, surprisingly—it was this one foundational principle: keep your expectations low, and disappointment becomes structurally impossible. Genuinely inspirational stuff.
I focused inward and circulated the new energy through my body, feeling it flow along pathways I hadn't known existed thirty seconds ago.
It wasn't like chakra at all. Chakra moved through pre-established pathways in your body, followed patterns it already knew, behaved like muscle memory that had been there since birth. This energy had *opinions* about where it wanted to go. It moved like it was actively considering my suggestions and reserving the right to tell me to fuck off if my ideas didn't meet its standards. I pushed it deliberately toward my right arm, focusing my intent into something resembling a coherent instruction. It resisted for exactly two seconds—stubborn, like a cat deciding whether I'd earned the effort of acknowledging my existence—then apparently concluded I'd passed whatever arbitrary test it had been running and relented.
My forearm went black from elbow to fingertips.
No shine, no glow, no dramatic particle effects or convenient lighting changes. Just black sitting on my skin like it had always been there and I'd simply failed to notice it until this exact moment. I scratched at the surface with my other hand's finger nails, nothing. Not even a mark. Then I rapped my knuckles against it twice, testing the density. The sound that came back was clean and metallic, sharp and final, knuckles meeting cast iron, the kind of sound that bypasses your ears and goes straight to your survival instincts to inform them that *this surface will hurt you if you hit it wrong*.
One solid punch with this coating could probably drop a grown man cold. Unless that man happened to be bald, in which case all established logic, reason, and power scaling went directly out the window and just start accepting death as an inevitable outcome.
I dropped the coating with a thought and flexed my fingers, working feeling back into them while my brain caught up to the implications.
What would happen if I punched someone like Riser Phenex with this? Would his vaunted regeneration get shut down the same way Logia users got introduced to the concept of consequences?
High probability, actually. If Armament Haki could walk directly up to Ace's fire, Crocodile's sand, and Kizaru's light-speed bullshit, look them dead in their smug faces, and calmly inform them that they were sitting the fuck down now whether they liked it or not, then one self-obsessed phoenix who'd confused being fireproof with being genuinely invincible probably shouldn't pose a problem.
But that particular karmic appointment already had Issei Hyoudou's name on it, written in permanent marker and underlined three times for emphasis with "PROTAGONIST MOMENT - DO NOT STEAL" scrawled in the margins. Riser's chapter closure was Issei's to deliver.
I wasn't in Rias's peerage. I had zero narrative obligation to play hero in a story that already had its designated disaster handler locked in and warming up in the bullpen. Let Issei be loud, break every rule, and deal catastrophic property damage to the surrounding area. That was literally his job description.
I stretched out my arms and shoulders, working through the residual tension that the ring had already mostly handled on its own. Stamina wasn't a concern anymore, the damn thing kept me topped off at a recovery rate that would get sports manga editors asking extremely uncomfortable questions about my bloodwork and possibly requesting samples.
If I kept pushing forward, kept clearing quests as they appeared, and successfully avoided pulling a Dazai Osamu by walking into a river with rocks in my pockets, I'd probably end up somewhere genuinely worth inhabiting.
All I had to do was stay calm, keep my head down, and avoid getting dragged into problems that were already in the process of resolving themselves through their own.
Knowing myself and my track record? This plan had the life expectancy of an unsecured motorcycle in downtown Detroit. I gave it two days, maybe three if I was lucky, before something exploded in my face and I had to deal with it anyway.
I'd look the other way when opportunities for involvement appeared. Unless the quest rewards were too good to ignore, in which case principles were negotiable.
Given today's track record of decision-making, that optimism seemed wildly misplaced.
---
[ Third Person POV ]
Occult Research Club Room.
Rias Gremory moved her queen forward three spaces on the board and leaned back into the leather couch.
The piece clicked softly against the wood as it settled into position. She folded her hands in her lap and watched Akeno across from her, who was currently holding her king piece between two fingers and staring at the board like it had just insulted her entire family line going back six generations.
Their end-of-day chess match was routine at this point. A small ritual that closed out whatever shape the day had taken and filed it away neatly. They'd been doing this since Rias arrived here with her peerage. Some nights the games went quick, fifteen minutes of comfortable silence and easy moves. Other nights they stretched longer, thirty or forty minutes when both of them were tired and thinking slowly.
Today it was different.
The match had already stretched past forty minutes and showed no signs of concluding. Neither of them had moved a piece in the last five minutes. The board sat between them like a prop in a theatrical production where both lead actresses had simultaneously forgotten their lines and were now engaged in an improvisational standoff neither one knew how to resolve.
"You're distracted today, Akeno" Rias asked "Did something happen that's bothering you?"
Akeno's fingers rolled the king piece absently between her thumb and forefinger. Her gaze stayed fixed somewhere past the board, focused on something Rias couldn't see "Mm. It's about Motohama-kun, actually"
That got Rias's full attention immediately. She straightened slightly, her expression sharpening from casual interest into genuine curiosity.
"During our magic lessons this afternoon, I asked him why he was so determined to stay human" Akeno said using particular tone she used when something was actually bothering her but she didn't want to show it directly "And he gave me an answer I couldn't actually find a flaw in. I've been thinking about it since"
Rias leaned forward, elbows coming to rest on her knees "What did he say?"
Akeno relayed every point Motohama had raised about expectations, about how accepting someone's Evil Piece meant accepting their vision of what you should become, their plans for your future, their structure for your life. How being part of someone else's peerage meant fitting yourself into their design rather than pursuing your own path.
How the moment you took that piece, everyone, your King, your peers, Devil society itself immediately began forming expectations about what you'd do, who you'd be, how you'd develop your powers and spend your time. She presented it plainly and without embellishment.
Rias listened carefully. She tried more than once to construct a rebuttal, to find a logical hole she could exploit to dismiss the argument entirely. Each attempt assembled itself about halfway before encountering a fact it couldn't get around and collapsing under its own logical inconsistencies.
Winning an argument against someone who dealt exclusively in facts and possessed zero interest in cushioning them for your emotional comfort was like trying to punch fog.
The silence stretched between them.
The chess match stayed exactly where it was, unfinished.
---
[ Motohama POV ]
I got home later that evening after punching nearly every tree within range of my standard training route.
The Armament Haki hadn't just increased my close-range damage output. The Cross Tail wires moved differently when I threaded Haki through their length, tighter and more responsive, like they'd suddenly developed high standards and decided to start meeting them. A large boulder sitting at the clearing's edge had ended up in two remarkably neat pieces before my brain fully caught up to what my hands had done. Just one swing with Haki-coated wire and the thing split like someone had run it through an industrial saw.
Now I just needed to figure out the actual mechanics of stacking it properly with Earthbending. Haki-coated earthen constructs that hit harder and lasted longer. Wires that struck with the impact of someone who'd taken the target's continued existence extremely personally. The possibilities sprawled out in front of me like an all-you-can-eat buffet I hadn't actually earned access to yet but could see through the window.
*Growwwwl*
My stomach interrupted my thoughts with an opinion it wanted heard immediately.
I stood in my kitchen doorway with one hand pressed flat against my stomach and the facial expression of a man who'd just spent two solid hours being genuinely impressive at violence and was now getting thoroughly humiliated by basic logistics. Nearly 9 PM according to the wall clock. Completely out of groceries. Depressingly out of money. The trifecta of poor planning, worse timing, and questionable life choices.
A cooking skill would be genuinely appreciated on the next gacha roll. Preferably one that didn't require ingredients I didn't currently possess, which was all of them.
I collapsed onto my couch with zero expectations of my circumstances improving in any meaningful way.
Then my eyes caught on the summoning pamphlet sitting on the side table, right where I'd left it three days ago.
The one Rias had handed me after the Stray Devil trial, back when she'd been explaining how the whole Devil contract system worked. Glossy professional print job, full-color graphics, the works. Devils had apparently mastered the service industry sometime before most humans figured out that writing things down was useful. The pamphlet looked like something a Fortune 500 company would hand out at a recruitment fair, complete with fine print and a satisfaction guarantee I absolutely did not trust.
I flipped through it until I found the section I vaguely remembered skimming past the first time.
[[ ...contracted services include, but are not limited to: administrative assistance, security detail, companionship (various levels available upon request), domestic services including meal preparation, and specialized skill instruction. Additional services may be negotiated on a case-by-case basis. Please refer to your assigned Devil for current pricing and availability... ]]
Right. That was a thing I could do apparently.
I didn't have Akeno's phone number yet. We'd talked plenty, trained together multiple times, had the kind of philosophical conversation that left a crater where solid ground used to be. But I'd never actually thought to exchange contact information like a normal person with functional social skills, because I was me, and apparently it required a literal pamphlet to remind me that basic logistics existed and should probably be addressed at some point.
I held the pamphlet in both hands, closed my eyes, and thought deliberately about her, specifically that particular head tilt she did when she was genuinely curious about something instead of just performing curiosity for effect and focused my intent through the paper.
Nothing happened for about three seconds.
Then a crimson magic circle bloomed into existence in the center of my living room, utterly silent and disturbingly precise in its geometry. It rotated once, painting my walls red for a suspended moment that lasted exactly long enough to feel ominous, then folded shut on itself and disappeared completely.
Akeno Himejima stood in my apartment like she'd been there the whole time.
School uniform slightly disheveled from the day's activities. Dark hair loose at the edges, a few strands out of place. And that smile—the one she wore the exact same way Gintoki Sakata carried his wooden sword. Constantly. Casually. With the complete understanding that it functioned as both decoration and weapon depending entirely on what the current situation required.
"Ara~" The sound rolled out warm and amused, her head tilting just slightly to the right, like she was already savoring a joke she'd heard the punchline to five minutes ago. "Summoning me this late in the evening, Motohama-kun. I didn't realize you missed spending time with me *quite* this much."
The way she emphasized *quite* made it sound like she knew something I didn't, and was enjoying that knowledge immensely.
"I'm completely out of food," I said flatly, deciding honesty was probably the safest route here. "And money. The pamphlet says contracted domestic services include meal preparation upon request. So. Request."
"It does say that, doesn't it." She stayed exactly where she'd appeared, smile fixed perfectly in place. Not moving. Just watching me with those eyes that saw way too much. "How remarkably responsible of you to actually read the documentation thoroughly instead of just skimming it."
Something about the way she emphasized *responsible* made the word sound like its complete opposite. Like I'd just walked face-first into something that looked like a solution but was actually a very polite trap, and she was graciously not pointing out that I'd triggered it.
"So," I said carefully, suddenly aware I was navigating a conversation with significantly more landmines than I'd initially estimated. "Will you? Make food, I mean. Since that's technically part of the service contract."
She studied me for a long, suspended moment, smile absolutely unchanging, dark eyes evaluating something I couldn't identify.
Then she moved, gliding past me toward my kitchen like coming uninvited in someone's apartment at 9 PM on a weeknight was completely standard operating procedure that raised zero questions.
"Go shower, Motohama-kun." Her voice stayed light as she pulled open my refrigerator door to assess whatever disaster awaited her inside. She paused for exactly one second at whatever emptiness greeted her, then said absolutely nothing about it, which was somehow significantly worse than if she'd actually commented. "I'll have something ready for you in a bit. Go on now."
---
Twenty minutes later I was sitting at my kitchen table in clean clothes with damp hair, watching Akeno move through my kitchen with the casual efficiency of someone who'd already determined what the final result would be and was simply walking the necessary process through its required steps.
She'd materialized ingredients from somewhere I absolutely was not going to ask about. The whole thing felt like watching a magic trick—asking where the food came from seemed like asking where the rabbit went after it left the hat. Some mysteries were better left unexamined, especially when you were hungry and someone was actively cooking for you.
She set dishes down one at a time, each one clicking softly against the table as it settled into place. Miso soup still steaming, heat rising in visible waves that distorted the air above the bowl. Grilled salmon with some kind of glaze that smelled like it had strong opinions about its own excellence. Rice cooked perfectly—which seemed like a low bar until you'd eaten rice prepared incorrectly enough times to understand the difference was actually massive. Tamagoyaki sliced into even yellow portions, each piece the exact same size as the others.
The smell hit me like the opening four seconds of a Yoko Kanno composition—the specific kind that played right before an episode decided to remind you that you'd been emotionally invested in these characters the entire time and really should have seen the devastation coming.
I looked at the spread in front of me for exactly one second, just long enough to process that it was real and actually sitting there.
Then I started eating, because staring at good food was wasting time and my stomach had already filed several formal complaints about the delay.
Akeno settled gracefully into the chair directly across from me, hands folded neatly in her lap, watching me eat with the quiet satisfaction of someone who'd created something good and required zero external validation to confirm it had landed exactly as intended.
"Where are your parents, Motohama-kun?" The question came casual, curious. Genuinely interested rather than just making conversation.
"Business trip" I answered between bites, because manners and hunger were currently engaged in intense negotiations that my hunger was winning decisively. "They left last week. Should be back in two or three weeks, probably. They're not great about giving me exact timelines."
"Ara." She glanced around my apartment briefly—taking in the space, the emptiness, the signs of someone living alone. Then her eyes came back to me. "So do you often live alone?"
"I'm used to it," I said honestly. "They travel for work constantly. International consulting or something. I stopped keeping track of where they are half the time."
"Mm." She rested her chin delicately on one hand, studying me with an expression that was only partially the smile. "Does it bother you at all? Them being away so often, leaving you here by yourself?"
I set my chopsticks down deliberately and met her gaze directly across the table.
The smile was still sitting in its usual position on her face, but the question underneath it was genuine, not the performance version she kept deployed out front to keep people off-balance and guessing at her real intentions. She actually wanted to know the answer.
"No" I said after a moment "Honest answer? I'd probably be more annoyed if they stayed here. I don't want to get scolded for getting covered up in dirt after our sparring sessions"
Akeno's laugh came out soft and genuine, like I'd just told her an excellent joke instead of stating a plain fact about my family dynamic. She thought I was being amusing or self-deprecating. I absolutely was not.
I picked my chopsticks back up and thanked her properly for the meal, because my parents had at least managed to teach me basic manners before they'd started traveling constantly.
"You know, Motohama-kun," she said, her voice taking on that particular lilt that preceded incoming trouble, "most boys your age, alone in a house with me at this hour, would be considerably less composed than you're being right now."
"Most boys my age haven't figured out yet that composure is literally the only leverage they have in situations like this."
"Ara." Her smile widened fractionally, gaining edges I hadn't seen before. "And here I thought you summoned me simply because you were hungry and needed food."
"I did summon you because I was hungry and needed food. That's exactly why I summoned you."
"Mm." The smile got sharper, more defined. Her head tilted slightly. "Then you won't mind at all if I start coming over every single night from now on, will you?"
I stared at her. Chopsticks frozen halfway between the bowl and my mouth. My brain tried several different responses and discarded all of them as inadequate.
"I know you're just teasing me, Akeno-senpai" I managed what I desperately hoped passed for a confident smirk. The confidence felt approximately 60% genuine. The remaining 40% was rapidly evacuating the premises through whatever emergency exits it could locate.
She held my gaze without blinking, smile completely unwavering, leaning more of her weight onto her hand. The silence stretched between us like someone had grabbed both ends of a wire and pulled it taut enough to vibrate.
I lowered my chopsticks very, very slowly back toward the table.
"...Right?"
. . .
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