3rd Person POV
Arto woke before dawn. The room was still dark, the first gray threads of morning light barely threading through the curtains. His body felt heavy—unfamiliarly heavy. He tried to move. He couldn't.
Two distinct weights pinned him down, one on each shoulder. Warm. Soft. Breathing. Two sets of arms were wrapped tightly around his torso, fingers interlaced across his chest like living restraints. Two pairs of legs had tangled with his own—Rias's slender but strong limbs on the left, Akeno's on the right—locking him in place with the casual possessiveness of people who had no intention of letting go.
He blinked once. Twice. Last night replayed in fragments:
Rias insisting she needed "more training time" in the Dark Arena. Akeno declaring she would "keep the nightmare away from her darling" and refusing to leave his side. Both of them climbing into his bed—half-teasing, half-serious—until exhaustion claimed them all.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. No nightmare had come. For the first time in… he couldn't remember how long… the Dark Arena had been quiet. Just a normal training session—monsters, waves, pain, adaptation. Nothing personal. Nothing cruel. Just the usual grind.
And the two women beside him had thrown themselves into it with terrifying enthusiasm.
Rias had refined her Power of Destruction into new shapes—lances, chains, spiraling discs—each one faster, deadlier, more creative than the last. She'd laughed—actually laughed—when she obliterated an entire wave with a single delayed-explosion barrage.
Akeno had been… something else.
The moment she appeared in the Dark Arena—violet lightning crackling around her, wings spread, eyes glowing—she hadn't hesitated. She'd adapted almost instantly. Lightning storms that targeted weak points. Thunder barriers that reflected attacks. Sadistic little whips of electricity that danced between monsters, paralyzing them for Arto's blade.
She fought like she was born in the dark. Like she belonged there. Arto stared at the ceiling, feeling the rise and fall of two breathing bodies against his.
Rias slept with her head tucked under his chin, one arm slung possessively across his ribs, fingers curled into his shirt. Akeno lay half-draped over his other side, face nuzzled against his neck, one leg hooked over both of his like she was staking permanent claim.
He was trapped. And he didn't mind. Not even a little. The first real ray of sunrise slipped through the curtain, painting a golden line across the bed.
The golden line of sunrise had thickened into full morning light by the time the two women began to stir.
Rias woke first—slowly, languidly, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. She blinked up at Arto, still pinned beneath her, and a dreamy, sleepy smile curved her lips. Without a word, she shifted higher, pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to his jaw, then one final gentle one to the scar at the base of his throat.
"Good morning," she murmured against his skin, voice husky with sleep.
Akeno woke a heartbeat later—stretching like a contented cat, spine arching, before rolling half on top of him. She nuzzled into the crook of his neck, placed a series of feather-light kisses along his pulse, then lifted her head just enough to capture his lips in a slow, sweet morning kiss that tasted like jasmine and promise. "Morning, darling~" she whispered, violet eyes half-lidded and glowing with affection.
Arto lay caught between them—heart thudding, face flushed, utterly surrounded by warmth and softness and the quiet certainty that he was exactly where he belonged. Rias propped herself up on one elbow, hair tumbling over her shoulder, expression turning thoughtful."So…" she began, tracing idle patterns on his chest with one finger. "How did we do last night? In the Dark Arena, I mean."
Akeno lifted her head from his neck, curiosity sharpening her gaze. "Yes—tell us, Sensei. Did we impress you?" Arto exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling for a moment as though replaying the entire night.
"You both did… more than impress me," he said quietly. "Rias—you've already started building countermeasures. Every time a new monster type appeared, you were analyzing it. Patterns. Weak points. How your Power of Destruction could exploit them. You didn't just fight—you studied. Adapted. That's high-level battlefield awareness. The Arena noticed. It's already adjusting for you."
Rias's eyes narrowed with interest, a small, fierce smile tugging at her lips. "Good. Let it adjust. I'll adjust faster." Arto's gaze shifted to Akeno.
"And you…" He paused, something almost like awe flickering across his face. "You were new to it. First time in the Arena. But you adapted faster than anyone I've ever seen. Lightning precision—targeting joints, eyes, mana cores. You read the flow of battle like you were born in it. "
"And you…" He paused, something almost like awe flickering across his face as he looked at Akeno. "You were new to it. First time in the Arena. But you adapted faster than anyone I've ever seen. Lightning precision—targeting joints, eyes, mana cores. You read the flow of battle like you were born in it."
Akeno's lips curved into a small, pleased smile, though her violet eyes remained serious. "But…" Arto continued, shifting his attention to include Rias. He met both their gazes steadily. "From what happened in the Dark Arena, you both lack close-quarter combat abilities."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, voice dropping into the calm, measured tone he used when teaching. "Do you remember when the Arena sent out agile monsters in large numbers? Small, fast, swarm-type. They slipped through every gap we left. Forced us to separate. Forced us to overextend. It noticed what was wrong with our formation."
Rias frowned, replaying the memory. She could still feel the moment those darting, clawed things had flooded the battlefield—too quick for her large-scale destruction orbs, too numerous for Akeno's wide-area lightning. They'd had to rely entirely on Arto's swordsmanship to carve breathing room.
Akeno's expression darkened slightly as she remembered the same thing. "The Arena learns," Arto said quietly. "Every night. Every cycle. It studies us. Our strengths. Our weaknesses. And last night, it learned that when the fight gets too close—when blades and claws are in your face—you both hesitate. Not from fear. From unfamiliarity."
He looked at Rias first. "Your Power of Destruction is devastating at range. But up close? When a monster is already inside your guard? You waste time trying to create space instead of finishing the threat immediately."
Then to Akeno. "Your lightning is perfect for crowd control and precision strikes. But when the enemy is already on you—when you can feel their breath—you still instinctively try to backstep and cast. That half-second hesitation is what the Arena will exploit next time."
Both women were silent for a moment, processing.
Rias broke it first, voice thoughtful. "So we need close-quarters options. Something that works when they're already in our face."
"Exactly," Arto said. "Not just stronger spells. Different ones. Immediate, point-blank, no wind-up. Techniques that let you turn their aggression against them instead of giving them that half-second to strike."
Akeno tilted her head, a spark of interest lighting her eyes. "You have ideas, don't you, Sensei~?"
"Yeah," he said, voice low and thoughtful. "I will help you learn close-quarter combat. I will personally train Rias with hand-to-hand combat because she is naturally strong—raw physical power, good leverage, excellent balance. We can build on that foundation: grapples, throws, joint locks, strikes that use her whole body weight. She'll be terrifying up close."
Rias's eyes lit up with competitive fire, already imagining the possibilities. She flexed her fingers unconsciously, crimson aura flickering for a split second around her knuckles. Akeno tilted her head, a spark of interest lighting her violet eyes. "And me, Sensei~?" she asked, voice lilting with playful curiosity, though there was real anticipation underneath. "What about little old me?"
Arto studied her for a long moment—taking in her elegant posture, the fluid grace in every movement, the way she carried herself like lightning contained in silk. "You're not as strong as Rias in raw muscle," he said plainly, no insult intended, just fact. "But you're faster. More precise. More… flexible. Your style should match that. Your weapon needs to be light, quick, long-reaching, and devastating when it connects. Something that turns your agility into lethality, lets you dance in and out of range, punish anything that gets too close."
He paused, thinking, fingers tapping once against his knee. "Like, uhhh…"
"A naginata?" Akeno suggests.
Arto sat up a little straighter against the headboard, the morning light catching the faint scars across his collarbone as he considered Akeno's suggestion. "A naginata?" he repeated, brow furrowing in genuine curiosity. The word was unfamiliar on his tongue—foreign even after three thousand years of war across countless battlefields. "A what now?"
Akeno's lips curved into a delighted, almost predatory smile. She shifted so she was sitting sideways on the bed, facing him fully, one leg tucked beneath her while the other dangled off the edge. The silk of her robe slipped slightly off one shoulder, but she made no move to fix it.
"A naginata," she repeated slowly, savoring the way the word rolled off her tongue. "It's a traditional Japanese pole weapon. Long shaft—usually about two meters—topped with a curved blade, like a very elegant glaive. Light enough to be fast in skilled hands, but the reach is devastating. It's perfect for someone who wants to keep enemies at bay while still being able to dance in close when needed."
She mimed the motion in the air between them—slow, graceful, deadly. An imaginary shaft held in both hands, blade sweeping in a wide, controlled arc, then snapping back to thrust with lethal precision. "Women in feudal Japan often trained with it," she added, eyes sparkling. "It was considered a noble weapon—beautiful, deadly, and perfectly suited to someone who fights with elegance rather than brute force."
Rias, who had been quietly listening with her chin resting on her hand, let out a soft laugh. "Of course you'd pick the most dramatic one," she teased. "You just want to look graceful while electrocuting people from a distance." Akeno shot her a mock-offended look, then turned back to Arto with exaggerated innocence. "What do you think, Sensei~? Would a naginata suit your lightning queen?"
Arto studied Akeno for a long moment—taking in the playful tilt of her head, the way her violet eyes danced with anticipation, the effortless grace even in the way she sat on the bed with one leg tucked beneath her. The morning light caught the silk of her robe, turning it almost translucent in places, but his gaze remained steady, thoughtful. "It could work," he said finally. "But from what you described… does it look like this?"
He raised his right hand. A soft silver-blue shimmer gathered in his palm, then extended outward in a smooth, fluid motion.
Mana coalesced—first into a straight shaft, then a narrow, slightly curved blade at the top. The weapon took shape in seconds: long pole, elegant curve, single-edged glaive-like head. It was unmistakably a polearm, but the proportions were off—too straight, too sword-like, the blade too short and thick compared to the shaft. It looked more like Arto had taken his own favored weapon—a straight sword with an extended hilt—and simply stretched the grip into a spear.
The mana construct hovered between them, perfectly stable, glowing faintly with inner light. Akeno stared at it for a heartbeat, then burst into delighted giggles. She reached out, fingers passing through the construct at first—testing—before Arto adjusted the density with a small flick of his wrist, letting her grasp it properly. "While I love your design, Darling," she said between laughs, turning the weapon slowly in her hands, admiring its balance even if the shape was wrong, "this looks nothing like a naginata."
She gave the shaft an experimental twirl—graceful, practiced, the blade whistling through the air with a soft hum of mana. "But…" Her eyes sparkled with mischief and genuine excitement. "I do need you to help me make something like this. Weapons made out of mana."
Arto watched her movements for another heartbeat, then the corner of his mouth lifted in a rare, crooked smirk.
"Smart words," he said, voice low and approving. "So you've already noticed its advantages?"
Akeno nodded, letting the mana weapon dissipate into harmless azure motes that drifted upward like fireflies before winking out.
"Indeed," she replied, stepping closer until the space between them was almost nonexistent. "Can be initialized at any moment—no need to draw it from a scabbard or summon it visibly. Can never be detected by conventional means—no metal to sense, no weight to betray it. Able to inlay any spell I want directly into the structure—lightning along the edge, thunderclaps on impact, paralyzing currents on contact. And best of all…" Her smile turned positively wicked. "It can look however I desire. Elegant one moment, terrifying the next. Whatever suits my mood~"
Arto's smirk deepened—just a fraction, but enough to show he was genuinely impressed.
"You're thinking like a battlefield mage already," he said, voice low and warm with approval. "Most people see a weapon and think 'stronger steel' or 'sharper edge.' You see a canvas."
Akeno's smile widened, eyes sparkling with delight at the compliment. She twirled the mana construct one last time—graceful, deadly—before letting it dissolve into harmless silver-blue sparks that drifted upward like dying fireflies.
"But…" Arto continued, expression turning more serious as he met her gaze directly. "It can't cover the fact that I know nothing about this weapon. I can't train you on it properly. My way of using a spear is nowhere near the elegant swordsmanship style you're describing. It's brute force, reach, and overwhelming strength—nothing graceful, nothing precise like what a naginata demands."
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost apologetic.
"I can help you create it—forge the mana structure, balance the weight, inlay your lightning exactly where you want it, make it feel like an extension of your arm. That part I can do perfectly. But the actual teaching—the footwork, the sweeps, the flowing stances, the philosophy behind it… that should come from someone else. Someone who truly understands the weapon."
Akeno tilted her head, violet eyes thoughtful rather than disappointed. She stepped closer, robe whispering against the floor, and placed a gentle hand on his chest—right over his heart.
"You're sweet to worry about that, darling," she murmured. "But you're already giving me more than enough. The creation alone will be a masterpiece. And as for the rest…" Her smile turned mischievous again. "I'll manage"
Before Rias could fire back with a retort, she suddenly beamed toward Arto, eyes sparkling with barely contained excitement. "Does that mean I will have you all to myself when you train me, right?"
Arto turned his head toward her, expression calm but carrying that quiet intensity she'd come to recognize as his "teacher mode."
While that is technically true," he said evenly, "don't expect me to be gentle on you, princess." He met her gaze directly—gray eyes steady, unyielding. "I will train you like how I trained my Abyssgard soldiers. So do know that I will not show mercy when sparring with you. Meaning I won't hesitate to make you bleed to make you into a warrior."
The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Rias blinked once—then twice—then slowly, a wide, almost feral grin spread across her face. Her crimson aura flickered briefly around her shoulders, excited rather than intimidated. "Promise?" she asked, voice dropping into something dangerously eager.
Arto's lips twitched—the barest hint of a smirk. "I don't make promises I can't keep." Akeno let out a delighted, delighted laugh, clapping her hands once. "Oh, this is going to be wonderful~"
Rias stood up from the bed in one fluid motion, stretching her arms above her head as though already warming up for the coming battles. "Then it's settled. Tonight, after school, we go back to the Arena. You train me until I bleed, Sensei. And when I'm done bleeding…" She turned to face him fully, eyes blazing with determination and something fiercer—something that looked suspiciously like love. "…I'll make you proud."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto sparring with chibi Rias]
The morning air in Kuoh was crisp, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms that still clung stubbornly to the last days of spring. The four of them walked the familiar path toward Kuoh Academy: Rias leading with her usual confident stride, Akeno beside her humming softly, Arto a step behind, and Kiba bringing up the rear—head already buried in a thick, leather-bound book titled Fundamentals of Alchemical Transmutation: Principles of Equivalent Exchange.
Kiba's pace had slowed to a crawl. He walked in an almost perfectly straight line, eyes never leaving the pages, completely oblivious to the world around him. Twice already Rias had tugged him back from veering into a flowerbed; Akeno had giggled and looped her arm through his to steer him straight for a full minute before he wandered off course again.
Now it was Arto's turn.
He sighed—long-suffering but fond—and reached out, placing one large hand firmly on Kiba's shoulder. The contact was gentle but unyielding, guiding the blond knight back onto the center of the sidewalk before he could collide with a lamppost. "I shouldn't have gotten that alchemical book for you," Arto muttered, half under his breath.
Kiba blinked, finally looking up from the page, eyes slightly unfocused as though surfacing from deep water. "Hm? Oh—thank you again, Arto. This text is remarkable. The chapter on mana-to-matter conversion ratios is particularly—"
Arto's hand squeezed once—lightly, but enough to make Kiba's words trail off. "Eyes on the path, Kiba. Not the book."
Kiba gave a sheepish smile and closed the volume with a soft thump. "Right. Sorry." Arto exhaled through his nose, keeping his hand on Kiba's shoulder like a living leash.
[Flashback – Yesterday Morning]
The backyard behind the Occult Research Club was still damp with morning dew. The sparring session had just ended—Kiba breathing hard, sword dismissed in a shimmer of light, sweat gleaming on his brow. Arto stood across from him, arms crossed, expression calm but expectant. "Kiba," Arto said quietly, stepping closer as the others began drifting back toward the clubhouse. "Have you thought about my recommendation of looking into alchemy?"
Kiba desummoned his blade completely, letting the last traces of holy-demonic energy fade. He leaned back against the grass, hands behind his head, staring up at the sky. "I have," he admitted. "And I want to give it a go. It might help me… change my concentration. Broaden my horizons beyond Sword Birth."
"But…" Kiba sighed, sitting up slowly. "There are so many learning materials out there. All revolve around the core of the Law of Equivalent Exchange, but each one is executed and perceived in a different way. It's hard to pinpoint which one to follow."
Arto nodded once—understanding. "I see. So that's your situation." He crouched down beside Kiba, elbows resting on his knees, voice low and serious. "But I ask you again, Kiba. Are you serious about pursuing alchemy?"
Kiba met his gaze without hesitation. "Yes. I am." Arto studied him for a long moment—searching for doubt, for hesitation. He found none. A nod of approval was given "Right," Arto said after a long moment, giving a single, decisive nod. "I'll help you get the best learning documents for your alchemy study. You just need to name me one author—or source—you think is the best."
Kiba exhaled slowly, looking off toward the distant school building as though gathering his thoughts. "After looking into it… I think I like the duo professor brothers Elric the most," he finally answered. "Edward and Alphonse. They're considered the best in the field of this generation. They run a prestigious alchemical academy together—Ametris."
Arto's expression didn't change—not a twitch, not a blink. "Yeah," he said flatly. "I don't know who they are."
Kiba blinked, surprised for a second, then smiled faintly—clearly remembering that Arto had been in this world for only a handful of days.
"Right… of course you wouldn't know them yet," Kiba said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Edward and Alphonse Elric are basically legends in the modern alchemical community. They're only in their early thirties now, but they're already considered the most brilliant duo of this generation."
He sat up a little straighter, voice taking on the tone of someone recounting a well-known story with genuine respect.
"Their biggest achievement is the complete reconstruction and formalization of Human Transmutation Theory—something everyone thought was impossible and taboo after the Xingese alchemists failed centuries ago. The Elric brothers didn't just theorize it; they proved it could be done safely under extremely strict conditions. They published the 'Equivalent Exchange Safety Protocols' that are now mandatory in every certified alchemical academy on the planet. Because of that single paper, the number of catastrophic rebound accidents dropped by over 94% worldwide."
Kiba's eyes lit up as he continued.
"Then there's the Ametris Alchemical Academy they founded eight years ago. It's the most prestigious school in the field right now—people from every continent apply, and the acceptance rate is under 3%. They don't just teach classical alchemy; they integrate modern chemistry, quantum theory, material science, even some sacred-gear-compatible mana-flow principles. Graduates from Ametris are basically guaranteed positions in any major research institute, military alchemy division, or private guild."
He paused, then added with quiet admiration:
"Edward is the more aggressive innovator—the one who pushes boundaries and creates new arrays that sometimes scare the older generation. Alphonse is the stabilizer—the one who makes sure the theories are safe, reproducible, and teachable. Together… they're basically the reason alchemy is experiencing a renaissance instead of slowly dying out like it was fifty years ago."
Kiba looked at Arto earnestly. "So yeah… if I had to choose one source to start with, it would be anything written or endorsed by the Elric brothers. Their textbooks are considered the current gold standard." Arto listened in complete silence, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
After a long moment he gave a single, slow nod. "Understood. But, if you know which author is the best, why didn't you get studying materials from their academy? They surely have some channels for outsiders to approach, right?"
Kiba rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little sheepish. "Yeah… that's the thing. They don't have such channels"
Arto raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed, waiting for the explanation.
Kiba sighed, glancing down at the ancient Abyssgard tome still in his hands before continuing.
"The Elric Academy—Ametris—isn't like normal universities. They don't accept applications from outsiders. Not really. Their admissions process is… unconventional. You don't apply. You get invited."
He gestured vaguely with the book.
"Every year, they select a handful of candidates based on rumors, published papers, or… honestly, no one knows exactly how they choose. The invitation usually arrives as a sealed letter that appears in your room overnight—no envelope, no stamp, just your name written in red ink on black wax. Inside is a single question. Solve it correctly, and you're in. Fail, and the letter vanishes. No second chances. No explanations."
Arto's expression didn't change, but his eyes sharpened with interest. "So it's a test of worthiness rather than credentials."
"Exactly," Kiba nodded. "Even people with doctorates from the most prestigious alchemy schools have failed the entrance question. Some say the questions are different for everyone—tailored to expose your weaknesses. Others say they're impossible on purpose, to filter out anyone who isn't willing to fail a thousand times before succeeding once."
He gave a small, wry smile. "Edward Elric himself once said in an interview: 'We don't teach alchemy. We teach people how to think like alchemists. If you can't solve the door, you can't handle what's behind it.'"
Arto was quiet for a long moment, processing. Then he uncrossed his arms and straightened. "Interesting." Kiba looked up at him curiously. "You're… not discouraged?" Arto's lips curved—just the faintest hint of a smile. "Nope, in fact, I will make you the first outsider to have internal studying documents of Ametris."
Kiba's eyes widened. "Internal documents? You mean… the restricted manuscripts? The ones only full academy members and approved researchers can access?"
Arto gave a single, calm nod. "All I need now is…" He turned toward the clubhouse entrance, where Koneko had just appeared—small, white-haired, expression as blank as ever, happily munching on a fresh bar of chocolate. "Koneko," Arto called, voice steady and polite. "Can you come into the clubhouse and ask Rias for me if there are any published articles of Edward or Alphonse Elric regarding alchemy? I would love it if it's posted on some prestigious magazines."
Koneko stopped mid-bite, chocolate bar hovering near her mouth. She stared at Arto for two full seconds—long enough that the silence became noticeable—then gave the tiniest nod. "…Fine."
She turned on her heel, chocolate still in hand, and disappeared back inside without another word. Kiba stared after her, then back at Arto. "You're really going to…?" Arto shrugged, almost casually.
After a short while, Koneko came back with a magazine, Magic, and hands it to Arto. Arto accepted the magazine from Koneko with a polite nod, flipping it open to the cover page.
MagicJournal of the Institute of MagicVolume 487 • Issue 3 • March 2005
The cover featured a stylized illustration of a complex mana array superimposed over a starry night sky, with the tagline in elegant silver lettering: "Where Arcane Meets Empirical: Bridging the Supernatural and the Observable"
He tilted his head slightly, studying the publication like one might examine an ancient artifact. "Okay? How prestigious is this?"
Kiba, who had finally closed his own book and was now standing beside him, answered immediately, voice carrying the quiet reverence of someone who understood exactly what he was looking at. "It's the most prestigious academic journal in the supernatural world. The Institute of Magic has been publishing Magic continuously since the late 14th century—long before the equivalent human journal, Nature, even existed. Having your work posted here is like receiving public recognition as a top scholar in the field. Even the most renowned human scientists would kill for a citation in Magic… though most of them don't even know it exists."
He pointed to the list of featured articles on the cover. "Look at the names: Archmage Seraphina Voss, Grand Alchemist Thaddeus Crowe, Dr. Elara Nightshade from the Grigori Archives… and there—" Kiba tapped a name near the bottom, "—Professor Edward Elric, co-authored with Alphonse Elric. 'Refinements to the Xingese Rebound Mitigation Matrix: A Quantitative Analysis of Equivalent Exchange Safety Thresholds.' Published just last year."
Arto's eyes narrowed slightly—not in skepticism, but in the focused way he used to assess battlefields. "I don't know any of these people, but this is the real thing. Not watered down. Not censored for public consumption?"
Kiba nodded solemnly. "Exactly. Magic is where the truly groundbreaking, dangerous, and paradigm-shifting research gets published. The kind of work that can rewrite entire fields… or get you quietly disappeared if you're not careful."
Arto flipped to the table of contents, scanning the titles and authors with the same intensity he once used to study enemy formations. After a moment, he closed the magazine with a soft snap and handed it back to Kiba. "Perfect," he said simply. "This is exactly what I needed."
Kiba took the journal, brows furrowing in confusion. "You… needed Magic specifically?"
Arto gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "Nope. I just need an article that the author poured their heart and soul into—one they would fight to the death to prove right."
He sat down at the nearby table with deliberate calm, the old wooden chair creaking slightly under his weight. Without preamble, he raised his right hand. A soft silver-blue shimmer gathered in his palm, then coalesced into a neat stack of crisp, cream-colored paper and a sleek black fountain pen that looked centuries old yet perfectly maintained. "I will write a rebuttal to Edward's work here," Arto said, voice level, almost conversational. "To challenge everything he wrote in the way he would turn this world upside down to find the one who wrote it."
Kiba blinked, stunned. "Wait… so you know alchemy?" Arto nodded once, already uncapping the pen. "There are little this old man doesn't know, Kiba. And alchemy is one aspect I found quite interesting."
Kiba stared at him for a long second, then asked the obvious follow-up. "And you know how to challenge Edward Elric's work posted in Magic?" Another nod—calm, certain. "I can turn every word he wrote against him."
Kiba's face twisted into pure confusion, the weight of the two books suddenly feeling much heavier in his arms. "Then… why don't you teach me yourself? Why waste your effort provoking Edward Elric? He's known for his hot head—people say he once blew up half a lecture hall because someone questioned his rebound calculations."
Arto dipped the pen in an invisible well of ink (a tiny mana construct that appeared only when needed), the nib gleaming briefly before touching paper. "Because," he said without looking up, "I am focusing on magic and technology at the moment, so I have no time to teach you alchemy properly. That's why I will give you what's best for you to learn."
The first stroke of the pen was smooth, confident—words forming in sharp, elegant script that somehow managed to look both ancient and razor-modern at once."Now, come back in an hour and help me send this to Ametris's address under the name of 'A', okay?"
Kiba stood frozen for several heartbeats, watching the pen move with the same lethal precision Arto used in combat. Finally he managed a small, dazed nod. "…Okay."
He took one step back, then another, still clutching the Abyssgard text and the copy of Magic like sacred relics. Arto didn't look up again. His focus was absolute—pen flowing across paper, line after line of surgical critique, each sentence a perfectly aimed thrust designed to provoke, to challenge, to demand attention from the one man who hated being proven wrong more than anything.
Kiba turned and walked toward the clubhouse door, mind spinning. Behind him, the soft scratch of pen on paper continued—steady, relentless. A single sentence stood out on the first page, already written in Arto's unmistakable hand: "To Professor Edward Elric: Your rebound mitigation matrix is elegant, but incomplete. Allow me to show you where the equivalent exchange truly fails."
[End of flashback]
Kiba had finally closed the leather-bound tome in his arms, though his fingers still lingered on the cover like it was made of glass. He looked up from Edward Elric's personal notes—handwritten margins filled with crossed-out theories, furious scribbles, and triumphant annotations—and fixed Arto with a stare of pure awe.
"Senpai," he said quietly, almost reverent, "what did you say to Edward to get him to give you this? This thing contains the entire alchemy field with personal notes from Edward himself."
Akeno, who had been walking arm-in-arm with Arto, pressed closer to his side, violet eyes gleaming with curiosity. "Yes, darling," she purred, voice sweet but edged with playful demand. "What did you talk about? I heard from Koneko that the elder Elric arrived in Kuoh one hour after the rebuttal was sent. One. Hour. That man doesn't leave his home for anything less than a national emergency… or a personal insult."
Arto kept walking, gaze fixed straight ahead, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward in a mischievous little grin. He said nothing. Rias, leading the group, glanced back over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "You're really not going to tell us?"
Arto's grin widened—just a fraction. "It's a secret." Kiba blinked. Akeno pouted dramatically. Rias rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips gave away her amusement. "You provoked the most famous alchemist alive, got him to personally deliver his own annotated masterwork to our doorstep, and you're just going to call it 'a secret'?" Rias asked, half-laughing.
Arto shrugged one shoulder, casual as if he'd only asked for a cup of sugar. "Some things are better left unsaid." Akeno leaned in until her lips were almost brushing his ear. "Even from your darling~?"
Arto's grin turned positively wicked for half a second before smoothing back into innocent neutrality. "Especially from my darling." Kiba stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You really wrote something that made Edward Elric drop everything and come here in person…"
Arto finally glanced sideways at him, expression calm but eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "I challenged him. Properly. Not with insults. With logic. With equations. With questions he couldn't ignore."
He paused, then added softly: "People like Edward Elric don't respond to flattery. They respond to someone who sees the flaws in their masterpiece… and cares enough to point them out."
Kiba swallowed. "And he… just gave you this?"
Arto's smile faded into something quieter, more thoughtful."Well, yes… something like a compliment for proving him wrong," he said softly. "And for showing that those peer reviewers left something unchecked when looking at his article."
He gestured at the tome—its cover worn but still bearing the faint gold imprint of the Ametris seal. "This book was the first version written by Ed," Arto continued. "But it was incomplete. Rough notes, half-formed theories, dead ends he never polished for publication. He gave me this incomplete version as a symbol of continuity—like a torch passing to the next generation."
Kiba's fingers tightened around the edges of the cover. "He's not that old," Arto added with a small, wry twist of his lips. "Over forty, maybe. But in that moment… he thought like a dying old man. Like he was leaving a message: 'I approve of you looking into my work. Continue it. Break it. Make it better. The way you want.'"
Arto's gaze lifted and fixed directly on Kiba—steady, unblinking, carrying the weight of someone who had lived long enough to know what legacy really meant. "But that work is for you now," he said, pointing one finger squarely at Kiba's chest. "Not me."
Kiba swallowed hard, the book suddenly feeling heavier than any sword he'd ever held. Arto's voice dropped lower, almost gentle. "So do make Ed proud, okay? He would be pissed if he knew someone who challenged him outright couldn't continue his legacy."
The words landed like a gauntlet thrown—quiet, but impossible to ignore. Kiba stared down at the book, then back up at Arto. His throat worked once, twice. "I… I will," he said, voice rough with something between awe and determination. "I promise." Arto gave a single nod—small, satisfied. "Good. Because it would be a waste if you don't"
He clapped Kiba once on the shoulder—firm, companionable—then turned back toward the academy gates.
[Kuoh Academy]
The front gate of Kuoh Academy stood wide open, iron bars gleaming under the morning sun. Students streamed through in waves—laughing, gossiping, rushing to beat the first bell—forming a colorful river of navy blazers, red ties, and pleated skirts.
Arto stopped just inside the entrance, boots planted on the stone path, gray eyes wide with quiet wonder. So many people. Hundreds of them. All moving at once. Voices overlapping. Footsteps echoing. Laughter rising in bursts. The sheer life of it—the chaotic, ordinary, human energy—hit him like a wave he hadn't expected.
He had fought armies numbering in the tens of thousands. He had stood on battlefields where the ground ran red for miles. He had watched cities burn and legions fall. But this…This was new. This was alive in a way war never was.
Behind him, Rias and Akeno walked side by side—Rias with her usual regal confidence, Akeno with that subtle, swaying grace that turned heads without trying. They flanked him like royal guards, yet it was impossible to miss that Arto was the center of gravity.
At 1.9 meters tall, he towered over most of the student body. Raven-black hair fell in slightly tousled waves across his forehead. Dark blue eyes scanned the crowd with the calm alertness of someone who had spent millennia reading battlefields. Slightly tanned skin spoke of forgotten suns and endless marches. The handsome, almost sculpted features—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, straight nose—looked like they belonged on a marble statue in some ancient forum, not walking through a modern high-school courtyard.
The Kuoh uniform did its best to contain him—white shirt stretched taut across broad shoulders, navy blazer fitted but still straining at the seams, red tie knotted with careful precision (Akeno had tied it for him that morning, fingers lingering far longer than necessary). Yet nothing could hide the physique beneath: the way muscle shifted with every step, the controlled power in his stride, the quiet, coiled strength of a warrior who had once carried shields the size of doors and fought things that would make most devils flee.
Heads turned. Whispers started. "Is that a new transfer student?" "He's huge…" "Those eyes… are they contacts?" "He's walking with Rias-senpai and Akeno-senpai?" "Gods, he looks like he stepped out of a historical drama…" "Is he a model? An actor? A yakuza prince?!"
Girls giggled behind their hands. Boys sized him up—some with envy, some with instinctive wariness, like prey recognizing a predator in human skin. Rias glanced back at him, lips curving in amusement. "Welcome to high school, Arto. You're already famous."
Akeno giggled, pressing closer to his side and looping her arm possessively through his. "Darling, you're causing a scene just by existing. I love it~" Arto's ears turned faintly pink, but he kept walking—steady, unhurried—letting the whispers roll off him like rain. "I've been stared at before," he said quietly. "Usually because people were deciding whether to run or fight."
Rias laughed—bright and warm. "This time they're deciding whether to confess or take your picture." Akeno leaned in, whispering just loud enough for him to hear. "Don't worry. If anyone gets too bold, I'll zap them~"
Arto's lips twitched. "I can handle myself." They reached the main courtyard. Lockers lined the walls. Students milled about. The bell would ring soon. Kiba finally caught up—book still clutched under one arm, eyes bright with lingering excitement from the morning's conversation. "First day," he said, falling into step beside them. "You ready?"
Arto looked around—at the sea of young faces, at the ordinary chaos of a school morning, at the two women who walked beside him like they belonged there, at the knight who now carried a legendary alchemist's legacy because Arto had believed he could.
He exhaled once—slow, steady. Then he smiled—small, real, almost boyish. "Yeah," he said simply. "I think I am."
[Class 2-B]
The bell had rung only moments ago, but the classroom 2-B already buzzed with the low, anticipatory hum of a new term. Students settled into familiar seats, whispering about summer gossip and club sign-ups, when the sliding door opened with a soft shhk.
Aruto Abyga stepped inside. At 1.9 meters tall, raven hair slightly tousled from the morning breeze, dark blue eyes calm yet bright with genuine curiosity, and the Kuoh uniform doing very little to conceal the physique of someone who had once carried shields the size of doors—there was no way he could have entered quietly.
The room reacted in two perfectly synchronized waves. The boys collectively deflated. Shoulders slumped. Smiles vanished. Several exchanged glances of pure, wordless despair. One muttered "We're so screwed…" under his breath. Another dropped his forehead onto his desk with a quiet thunk.
The girls, on the other hand—A wave of excited whispers and barely-suppressed squeals rippled across the female half of the room. "Oh my god, who is that?" "He's tall…" "Is he a model? He has to be a model." "Look at his face… he looks like he walked out of a drama…" "The uniform is literally fighting for its life—"
Aruto felt every pair of eyes on him at once. He didn't flinch. He'd been stared at before—usually by people deciding whether to run or fight. This was… different. Lighter. Almost harmless. He offered the class a small, polite smile—nothing flashy, just courteous—and inclined his head slightly in greeting. "Good morning," he said, voice low, steady, carrying easily across the suddenly quiet room.
The girls' whispers exploded into muffled excitement. The boys collectively sighed like their souls had left their bodies. At the back corner, Akeno was already waving enthusiastically from her seat, one hand fluttering in the air like she was hailing a ship. Beside her sat a girl with short raven hair, pink eyes, and a pair of oval glasses—Sona Sitri, student council president, looking mildly intrigued behind her composed expression.
Behind them both, in the very last row by the window, sat Rias Gremory—alone, legs crossed, arms folded, a knowing little smile playing on her lips. The seat directly beside her was conspicuously empty. Aruto walked toward it. Every step drew more eyes. The aisle felt longer than it should have. Whispers followed him like a wake. "Is he really sitting next to Rias?" "Of course he is. Look at her face—she's been waiting for him." "Those two beauties already claimed him…" "This year is going to be insane…"
He reached the back row without incident. Rias looked up at him, smile widening into something warm and proud. "Morning, Aruto Abyga," she said, voice soft enough for only him to hear. "Welcome to 2-B." Aruto slid into the seat beside her, setting his bag down with careful movements. "Thank you," he replied just as quietly. "For arranging this."
Rias leaned a little closer, red hair brushing his shoulder. "I wasn't about to let you sit anywhere else on your first day." From two rows ahead, Akeno twisted in her seat, chin resting on folded arms, grinning back at them both. "Darling~ You look perfect in uniform. I could eat you up."
Sona, sitting beside her, adjusted her glasses with a small sigh. "Try to restrain yourself until at least lunch, Akeno." Akeno only giggled. Aruto felt the eyes of the entire class still lingering on him—curious, admiring, intimidated, envious.
He exhaled slowly...First day...First class...First time in three thousand years he was simply… a student. Rias bumped his elbow lightly. "Nervous?" she asked, teasing but gentle. Arto glanced at her, then at Akeno's beaming face, then at the room full of strangers who were already whispering his name (or rather, his alias) like it was something precious.
He smiled—small, real, almost shy. "A little," he admitted. "But… I think I'll manage." The teacher walked in. The room quieted.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto writting something in his notebook]
The first period ended with the sharp ring of the bell, students shuffling papers and murmuring as they packed up. The mathematics teacher had spent the entire lesson reviewing basic calculus—derivatives, limits, simple integrals—material so elementary that Aruto Abyga (as the attendance sheet now officially called him) had spent most of it staring out the window with polite disinterest.
Rias turned in her seat the moment the teacher stepped out, leaning her elbow on the backrest, chin in hand, and fixed Arto with a curious smile. "So, how was the first lesson, Aruto?"
He shrugged one shoulder, expression calm and slightly bored. "Not quite interesting, to say the least. Because what she taught, I've already known." He reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a single sheet of ordinary-looking A4 paper, perfectly blank except for a faint, almost imperceptible silver-blue shimmer along the edges. "So I spent most of the time doing something else."
He handed the paper to her. Rias accepted it with a confused tilt of her head, turning it over in her fingers. "Try what out? And what is with this paper?"
Arto reached up casually, brushing his own ear once with two fingers, then gently touching the shell of hers. A soft, warm pulse of mana flowed between them—silent, invisible, intimate. "This would keep our talk private," his voice suddenly sounded inside her head, clear as if he were whispering directly into her ear, yet no sound escaped his lips.
Rias's eyes widened slightly, a delighted spark flashing across her face.
Telepathic link?
Arto's mental voice continued, calm and matter-of-fact. "This paper is the first prototype of the magic-tech I was talking about with your parents. Abyssgard Simulation Tech."
He leaned a little closer, keeping his expression neutral for any watching classmates. "You can safely simulate your spells here without any harm to the outside world. It will record and deliver every index regarding that spell for you to see—power output, mana consumption, casting time, stability curve, rebound risk, even projected area of effect and secondary effects. All you need to do is put your spell onto the page."
Rias stared at the innocent-looking sheet of paper in her hands. To the naked eye, it was nothing special. To her magical senses, however, it hummed with layered, impossibly dense mana circuits—thousands of micro-runes woven so finely they looked like mere texture at first glance.
She glanced up at him, eyes shining. "You built this… during class? While pretending to pay attention?" Arto's lips twitched—the smallest hint of pride. "I've had a lot of practice multitasking in worse environments."
Rias's grin turned positively predatory. "Then let's test it." She glanced around—classmates were already filing out, chattering about lunch and club meetings. No one was paying attention to the back row anymore. She focused. A tiny orb of Power of Destruction gathered in her palm—crimson, perfectly controlled, no bigger than a marble. She pressed it gently against the center of the paper.
The sheet drank it in without resistance. Instantly, the surface shimmered. Lines of silver-blue text and diagrams bloomed across the page like invisible ink revealed by heat:
Spell Type: Power of Destruction (Localized Annihilation Variant) Mana Cost: 0.47% of Rias Gremory's maximum reserve Output Energy: 1.82 × 10⁶ joules (equivalent to ~0.43 kg TNT) Casting Time: 0.62 seconds Stability: 99.8% (minimal rebound risk) Area of Effect: 0.8 m diameter sphere Secondary Effects: Thermal bloom (127°C surface temp), atmospheric ionization (trace ozone detectable) Simulation Result: Target material (concrete) → complete molecular disassembly in 0.14 seconds. No residual energy leakage.
A small 3D projection of the spell's detonation even hovered above the page—perfectly scaled, rotating slowly, showing every ripple of destruction in exquisite detail. Rias stared, mouth slightly open. "This is…"
Arto's voice continued directly in her mind—calm, steady, intimate—through the private telepathic link he'd established with a casual touch to her ear.
Accurate. Safe. Repeatable. You can iterate as many times as you want without risking the classroom… or the school… or the city.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, expression neutral for anyone watching, but his mental tone carried quiet satisfaction.
You can even change the testing conditions by writing on the paper your settings—or just choose from the control panel that appears when you focus.
Rias's gaze sharpened. She lifted the pen Arto had handed her earlier and—after only a second of hesitation—wrote a single line in neat, flowing script along the bottom margin:
Target: 5-meter-thick reinforced concrete wall. Distance: 50 meters.
The words sank into the paper like ink into water. Instantly, the simulation updated.
The projection reshaped itself: the classroom backdrop vanished, replaced by a cross-section view of a massive concrete barrier. The crimson orb reappeared—same size, same power—but now launched from 50 meters away. The detonation bloomed against the wall, cracks spiderwebbing outward in perfect, hyper-realistic detail. Chunks of simulated concrete vaporized, then reformed for the next iteration. A small side panel manifested beside the projection:
Penetration Depth: 4.87 meters Structural Failure Threshold: 92% Mana Efficiency: 0.47% → 0.51% (distance penalty) Rebound Risk: 0.02% (negligible)
Rias's breath caught. Arto's voice slipped into her mind again, soft and proud.
And it never runs out of battery because it runs on Stabilizer.
He paused, letting the weight of that sink in.
Consider this the first example of magic-tech. Make sure your parents know about this, okay? Because I want to scale this up—to a facility instead of just a piece of paper.
Rias slowly lowered the pen. Her fingers trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer potential radiating from the innocent-looking sheet. She looked at him—really looked—seeing the quiet intensity behind those storm-gray eyes, the mind that had spent millennia turning nightmares into precision instruments. "You built this… during class?" she asked through the link, voice hushed even in thought. "While everyone else was taking notes on derivatives?"
Arto's mental tone carried the faintest trace of dry humor.
I've had practice multitasking in worse environments.
Rias exhaled—a soft, almost disbelieving laugh that stayed entirely in her mind. "This changes everything." She folded the paper carefully and slipped it into her blazer pocket, right over her heart.
One row in front of Arto and Rias, Sona Sitri sat with perfect posture beside Akeno, notebook open, pen in hand, looking every inch the model student council president. On the surface.
Inside her mind, thoughts raced like lightning trapped in a bottle.
The man sitting directly behind her—Aruto Abyga, the new transfer student—was the same person her spy had identified weeks ago. The same one who had rendered the surveillance completely blind the night he demonstrated the Stabilizer to Lord and Lady Gremory. The same one who had solved stable ambient mana flow after centuries of failure by every major faction.
And she still had no idea how. The Spy's report had been frustratingly vague after that point—every attempt to re-establish observation met with the same impenetrable wall. Whatever countermeasures Arto had used were elegant, adaptive, and utterly alien to known devil, fallen, or angelic techniques.
Sona adjusted her glasses, a small, habitual motion to buy herself thinking time.
Asking directly was out of the question. He didn't know she was the one who had tried to spy on him that night. Confronting him now would only make him more cautious, more guarded. He had already refused Rias's offer of reincarnation—Rias had told her as much during their tense phone call last week. "He values his human life," Rias had said, voice carrying both pride and frustration. "Or maybe my offer simply wasn't enough."
Sona's lips pressed into a thin line. If the Gremory heiress's proposal hadn't been enough, then Sona's would need to be better. More logical. More appealing to someone who had spent three thousand years as a living weapon and clearly wanted something different now.
But first, she needed information. Real information. Not rumors. Not fragments. The how. She needed to know what the Stabilizer actually was—not just that it existed, but the underlying principle, the breakthrough that had eluded every genius in the Underworld for generations.
And she needed him to tell her willingly. A direct approach was too crude. A heavy-handed recruitment would only push him further away. So… lighter. Softer. Student council president to promising new student.
[Class 1-C]
Issei's POV
Matsuda's words hit me like a brick to the face...My pencil snapped in half...The doodle in my notebook—some very artistic oppai sketch I'd been perfecting during the teacher's monotone lecture on quadratic equations—suddenly looked stupid. Pointless. Irrelevant.
I stared at Matsuda, mouth half-open, brain short-circuiting. "That one?" I repeated, voice cracking like I was thirteen again. "The guy from the mall? The one carrying Rias-senpai's shopping bags like some kind of… knight in shining armor? The same bastard who went to a fancy dinner with Akeno-senpai and came back looking like he'd won the lottery?"
Motohama, who'd been pretending to read manga under the desk, slammed the book shut and leaned in so fast his glasses nearly slid off his nose. "Wait—that guy? The 1.9-meter-tall, dark-haired, built-like-a-statue..."
"Yup. Same dude. Aruto Abyga, they're calling him. And get this—he's in 2-B. With both Rias-senpai and Akeno-senpai. And they were walking with him. More like him behind them with that bastard Kiba like two bodyguards escorting their ladies."
My world tilted. The classroom noise faded into a dull roar. My heart was doing that thing where it tried to punch its way out of my chest. I could feel my face heating up—first embarrassment, then anger, then something hotter, uglier. "He's… in 2-B?" I croaked.
Matsuda leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing classified intel. "Front-row witnesses say Rias-senpai saved the seat right next to her. Like, blatantly. And Akeno-senpai kept turning around to talk to him. And smile at him. And touch him. Like, arm-linking, shoulder-bumping, the full girlfriend package."
Motohama adjusted his glasses with trembling fingers. "And the way he walks… dude looks like he bench-presses cars for breakfast. The girls in the hallway were literally stopping to stare. I saw three of them drop their phones."
I slammed my broken pencil down on the desk—harder than I meant to. The snap echoed. "That's my harem spot!" I hissed, keeping my voice low but failing miserably. "Rias-senpai! Akeno-senpai! They're supposed to be… they're supposed to be…"
Matsuda patted my shoulder like he was consoling a grieving widow. "We know, man. We know." Motohama pushed his glasses up again, eyes narrowing behind the lenses. "But get this—rumors are already flying. They say he's some kind of foreign noble. Or an athlete. Or a model. Or a yakuza heir. Nobody knows his deal, but he's got that… vibe. Like he could kill you with a look and then apologize politely afterward."
I buried my face in my hands. "This is the worst timeline." Matsuda leaned in closer. "And the worst part? He's not even trying. He just… exists. And the entire female population of Kuoh Academy is already writing his name in their notebooks surrounded by hearts." I groaned—loud enough that the teacher shot us a warning look from the front.
Motohama whispered, "We need a plan. We can't just let this guy steamroll our dreams." Matsuda nodded solemnly. "Operation Oppai Defense starts now."
I lifted my head, eyes burning with the fire of a man who had nothing left to lose. "Yeah," I said, voice low and dangerous. "We watch. We learn. And when the moment is right…" I cracked my knuckles. "…we strike."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto asking to join a baskerball court]
The long morning break hit like a lifeline. After surviving the first two classes where every girl in 2-B kept sneaking glances at the back row and every guy looked like he'd just been told his girlfriend was moving to another country, we needed a plan. A real one. Operation Oppai Defense couldn't just be "watch and despair." We had to do something.
We huddled in the hallway near the vending machines—me, Matsuda, Motohama—whispering like we were planning a bank heist. "Okay," I started, voice low. "First step: gather intel. We need to know who this Aruto guy really is. Where he's from. What his deal is. Why Rias-senpai and Akeno-senpai are suddenly glued to—"
A buzzing sound rolled through the corridor like distant thunder. We all froze. The usual morning break noise—chatter, laughter, squeaking shoes—was suddenly… different. Louder. Higher-pitched. Concentrated.
Matsuda's eyes narrowed. "That's coming from the basketball court." Motohama adjusted his glasses. "And it's mostly girls." We exchanged one look. Then we bolted. We ran down the hallway, dodging first-years and jumping over backpacks, until we burst out into the open courtyard. The basketball court was packed—students three-deep around the fence, almost all girls, phones up, squealing, whispering, bouncing on their toes.
And in the middle of that sea of excitement—Rias-senpai and Akeno-senpai.Standing courtside. Watching. Rias had her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in mild amusement. Akeno leaned against the fence, chin on her hand, smiling that dangerous, knowing smile that could melt steel.
This wasn't normal. Those two never came to the basketball court during break. They had better things to do. Like being untouchable goddesses. Something was wrong. Or… very, very right. We shoved our way through the crowd—elbows, apologies, more elbows—until we reached the fence. And that's when we saw him. Aruto Abyga.
Sleeves rolled up to the elbows, blazer discarded somewhere, white shirt clinging to every line of muscle from shoulders to forearms. The ball rested casually in one huge hand like it weighed nothing. Dark hair slightly damp with sweat. Gray eyes calm, focused, scanning the court like he was reading a battlefield.
He wasn't showboating. He wasn't dunking over people. He wasn't even scoring much himself. He just… controlled the game. No one could steal the ball from him. Not once. Guys twice his aggression tried—lunged, reached, fouled—and he simply pivoted, protected, passed. Every time.
The tactic was brutally simple. Pass the ball to Aruto. Run. He would deliver. Anywhere on the court. Under pressure. Double-teamed. Triple-teamed. Didn't matter. The pass always found its target—chest, hands, perfect arc, perfect timing. His teammates just had to be in position and the ball would arrive like it was magnetized.
Most of the crowd didn't notice. They cheered for the scorers. The flashy dunks. The three-pointers. But Motohama—Motohama, who had watched enough NBA and streetball videos to qualify as a religious scholar—saw it immediately.
He grabbed my sleeve so hard I almost choked. "Dude," he hissed, eyes wide behind his glasses. "Look closer. The scorers are flashy, but the center of the game isn't them. It's the delivery guy. The one who passes accurately every single time under pressure. That's him. That's Aruto."
Matsuda nodded like his head was on a spring. "He's playing point guard and center at the same time. He's not scoring a lot because he doesn't need to. He's making everyone else look good. And they're eating it up."
I stared. The other team tried everything—traps, presses, hard fouls. Nothing worked. He slipped through double teams like smoke. He anticipated steals before they happened. He passed behind his back, between legs, over heads—always perfect. And every time he did, the girls in the crowd screamed like it was a concert.
Rias-senpai watched with a small, proud smile. Akeno-senpai clapped lightly every good pass, eyes sparkling. The game ended with Aruto's team up by 18 points.
He didn't celebrate. Didn't chest-bump anyone. Just wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist, accepted a water bottle from one of his teammates, and walked off the court like it was nothing. The girls exploded.
Phones flashed. Screams. Sighs. A few actually fainted (I'm not kidding—two second-years had to be carried to the nurse). We stood there—me, Matsuda, Motohama—frozen. Matsuda whispered: "…We're so fucked."
Motohama pushed his glasses up with a trembling finger. "He's not even trying to impress. He's just… existing. And the entire female population of Kuoh Academy is already writing wedding vows in their heads."
I clenched my fists...My harem dream...My goddesses...My future...All of it… slipping away because some 1.9-meter-tall, stupidly handsome, stupidly talented transfer student decided to play basketball like it was a casual Tuesday.
I cracked my knuckles. "Okay," I growled. "New plan." Matsuda and Motohama looked at me. "Operation Oppai Defense just got upgraded."
"To what?" Motohama asked nervously. I stared across the court at Aruto, who was now walking toward Rias and Akeno—both of whom greeted him with smiles that could launch a thousand ships. I cracked my neck. "To war."
[Basketball court]
The basketball court still buzzed with leftover energy even after the final buzzer. Sweat glistened on flushed faces, sneakers squeaked on the polished wood, and the net was still swaying gently from the last made shot. Arto's team had won—spectacularly—by a margin that felt almost unfair, yet no one could quite put their finger on why it had been so one-sided.
A teammate—tall, lanky third-year named Takumi—slapped Arto's palm so hard the sound cracked across the court. "Dude! How did you do that?" Takumi laughed, still breathing hard. "You passed like they didn't even exist! I swear, every time I cut, the ball was already there—like you read my mind!"
Another teammate, shorter and stockier, joined in with a playful punch to Arto's chest. "And you said you don't know how to play!" he joked, grinning wide. "Liar. You're a monster."
Arto scratched the back of his head, looking almost sheepish under the praise. His sleeves were still rolled up, forearms corded with muscle and faint scars that no one had dared ask about yet. "I said I don't know the rules," he corrected mildly, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. "Not how to play. But hey—we won a spectacular game. You guys scored like crazy."
He glanced around at his teammates—five sweaty, exhilarated boys who suddenly looked at him like he'd personally handed them the championship trophy. "How about this," Arto continued, voice easy and warm. "We still have a few minutes before class. Let's cool down with some drinks. My treat."
Before anyone could protest, he turned toward the opposing team—still catching their breath near the bench, looking equal parts defeated and impressed. "You guys too," he called, raising his voice just enough to carry. "Come on. You played well today. Let this newbie treat you all to a drink."
The other team blinked—surprised—then slowly broke into grins. One of them, the point guard who'd spent the whole game trying (and failing) to steal the ball from Arto, let out a rueful laugh. "You're buying after that? Man, you're either really nice… or really confident."
Arto shrugged, smile turning just a touch playful. "Maybe both." The crowd around the court—mostly girls, but a fair number of curious guys too—watched the entire exchange with growing fascination. Whispers spread like wildfire: "Did he just invite the losing team?" "He's buying drinks for everyone?" "He's so chill about it… like it's nothing…" "And look at Rias-senpai and Akeno-senpai watching him like proud girlfriends…"
Sure enough, courtside, Rias leaned against the fence with arms crossed and a satisfied little smirk, while Akeno stood beside her, chin in hand, smiling like she'd personally orchestrated the entire scene. Takumi slung an arm around Arto's shoulders (or tried to—Arto was tall enough that it ended up more around his upper arm). "Bro, you're officially the coolest guy in school. Day one. That's gotta be a record."
Arto chuckled—quiet, genuine—and started walking toward the vending machines near the gym entrance, the entire victorious (and losing) team falling in behind him like ducklings. "Drinks first," he said simply. "Then we survive class."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto buying drinks]
The basketball court's excitement still echoed in the hallways as students hurried back toward classrooms, phones buzzing with fresh videos and group-chat screenshots. Arto walked slightly behind Rias and Akeno, sleeves still rolled up, a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, but otherwise looking completely unruffled—as though the game had been nothing more than a light warm-up.
When they reached Class 2-B, he slid into his seat next to Rias with the same calm grace he'd shown on the court. A few classmates stole glances—some openly staring, others pretending not to—but the initial shock of his arrival had settled into a kind of buzzing acceptance: the mysterious transfer student was real, and he was already leaving footprints everywhere he went.
Arto reached up, running a hand through his slightly damp raven hair to push it back from his forehead, then turned toward Rias with a small, knowing smirk.
"What do you think of my first impression?" he asked, voice low enough to stay between them.
Rias leaned her elbow on the desk, chin resting in her palm, and gave him a slow, appraising once-over—taking in the rolled sleeves, the faint flush of exertion still on his cheeks, the way the uniform somehow looked sharper on him than on anyone else.
She let the silence stretch just long enough to be teasing. Then her lips curved into a satisfied, almost proud smile. "Honestly?" she said softly, eyes sparkling. "You just walked in and casually conquered the entire school in under ten minutes. Without even trying."
She tapped her pen against her notebook once. "The boys already look like they want to challenge you to a duel. The girls are writing fanfiction in their heads. And the teachers…" She glanced toward the front where the next instructor was setting up slides. "…they're probably wondering how someone who looks like he bench-presses cars ended up in second-year math class."
Arto huffed a quiet laugh, the sound warm and low. "That bad?"
"That good," Rias corrected, leaning in a little closer. "You didn't show off. You didn't need to. You just… existed. Played like it was nothing. Treated everyone fairly. And now half the school is wondering who you really are."
She paused, smile softening into something more private. "And the other half—me included—is very glad you're sitting right here."
Aruto's smirk eased into something gentler. He reached over and brushed the back of his fingers lightly against hers on the desk—just a fleeting touch, gone before anyone else could notice. "Good to know," he murmured.
He pulled out his books for the next lesson—history, according to the schedule—flipping the textbook open with practiced ease. Rias watched him for another second, then turned back to face the front, still smiling. Behind them, Akeno had twisted in her seat again, chin resting on folded arms, watching the whole exchange with a delighted, cat-like expression.
She mouthed silently toward Arto:
You're already everyone's favorite.
Arto just shook his head once—small, fond—and settled in for the lesson. The teacher began speaking.