Arto stepped out of the bathroom, steam still curling from his skin, towel slung low around his hips. The hallway light was dim, the clubhouse quiet save for the faint hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional creak of settling wood. He rubbed a hand through his damp hair, already mentally running through the next three layers of the Simulation Room schematics he planned to finalize tonight.
He pushed open the door to his room. And stopped. Rias stood near the foot of the bed in a thin silk nightgown the color of fresh blood—almost translucent in the lamplight, clinging softly to every curve. Her hair was loose, spilling over her shoulders like molten crimson. She held her phone to her ear, free hand resting on her hip.
Her eyes flicked up to meet his the moment he entered. She didn't smile. She didn't speak to him. Instead, into the receiver, she asked one quiet question: "Are you real?" A pause. A low male voice answered—calm, professional, faintly amused. "Yes, Lady Rias. I'm real."
Only then did Rias's shoulders relax a fraction. She walked straight to Arto without breaking eye contact, pressed the phone into his hand, and wrapped both arms around his bare waist in a tight, affectionate hug. Her cheek pressed to his still-warm chest; he could feel her exhale against his skin. Arto lifted the phone to his ear. "Joseph," he said, voice low, one arm automatically circling Rias's shoulders to hold her close.
"Sir," came the crisp reply from the other end—Gremory investigative division, senior field agent. "We've secured everything on the material requisition list you sent. All items are in secure storage at the secondary site in the Underworld. The beryllium-copper, the doped quartz, the graphene composites—everything except the one outlier."
Arto's thumb traced a slow circle between Rias's shoulder blades. She nuzzled closer, content to listen. "The Dream Mirror," Joseph continued. "We've confirmed its existence. It's not called Noctus Veilstone here—local designation is Dream Mirror. High-purity quartz variant, naturally occurring, rare beyond measure. The broker who claims to have actionable intel on its current location insists on speaking to you personally."
A beat. "She won't give coordinates, won't name the site, won't even confirm the country until you're on the line. She says you'll know why." Arto's eyes narrowed slightly...The Spy...Of course.
Arto's gaze drifted down to Rias, who was now tracing lazy circles on his back with her fingertips, clearly listening in but content to let him handle it. He felt the old network stir—the faint mana thread he'd buried deep in the Spy's intel web long ago, dormant until now. He nudged it awake with a subtle pulse of will.
The response came almost immediately: a location ping. Akita City, not far at all. Close enough that she could have slipped in under the radar. The thread trembled slightly— she'd noticed the intrusion, then. Not alarmed enough to cut it, but enough to withhold the meet-up coordinates. A door cracked open just for him, perhaps. Or a challenge.
He exhaled softly. "Understood, Joseph. I'll handle the broker. Keep the materials on lockdown until I return with the Mirror." He ended the call and set the phone aside on the dresser. Rias tilted her head up, chin resting on his chest now, eyes gleaming with curiosity and something warmer.
Rias pulled back just enough to look up at him—blue-green eyes searching his face. "Dream Mirror?" she asked softly.
He nodded once. "The last piece. The one that can anchor a true dream-domain into Sector 1. If we get it… the Adaptive Training Ground becomes more than a simulation. It becomes real—my Dark Arena, projected outward. Scalable. Accessible to anyone we authorize. No more relying on me sleeping next to someone to pull them in."
Rias's fingers traced a slow line down his spine. "And the Spy has it." "Or knows where it is," Arto corrected. "And she wants to talk to me. Alone." He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. "But tonight," he murmured against her skin, "I have a princess to tend to."
Rias's expression softened instantly—fierce protectiveness melting into something warmer, hungrier. She rose on her toes and kissed him—slow, deep, claiming. When they parted, she whispered: "Then tend to me." Arto smiled—small, real, a little wicked. He scooped her up in one smooth motion—her legs wrapping around his waist, arms looping around his neck. The nightgown rode up her thighs as he carried her toward the bed.
He ran one hand slowly up the elegant curve of her spine, fingers threading into her hair at the nape of her neck, while the other settled possessively on the small of her back. "…Where's Akeno?" he asked quietly, voice low against the crown of her head. "I haven't seen her since dinner."
The change was instant. Rias went still. Then she lifted her head just enough to fix him with a look that was equal parts wounded and indignant. Her lower lip pushed out in the most devastating pout he'd ever seen—full, glossy, trembling at the edges like she was one breath away from either crying or biting him. "You're asking about Akeno right now?" she murmured, voice dangerously soft. "While I'm literally lying on top of you? In this?" She shifted deliberately, letting the thin straps of her nightgown slide another teasing inch down her shoulders. "While I'm wearing practically nothing and you still have the nerve to wonder where she is?"
Arto felt his heart do a traitorous little flip. The pout was lethal. Always had been. Something about the way her lashes lowered and her emerald eyes turned glassy with exaggerated hurt made every rational thought in his head scatter like startled birds. "Rias—"
"No." She planted both palms on his chest and pushed herself up so she was straddling him properly now, hair curtaining them both in scarlet privacy. "You have me here. Perfectly willing. Perfectly yours. And you're still thinking about the girl who calls you 'Darling' every five minutes like it's her job." Her voice cracked on the last word, tiny and vulnerable despite the bravado. "Am I… not enough?"
The question hung between them, fragile and raw. Arto's hands came up immediately, cupping her face between his palms, thumbs brushing away the sheen that had gathered at the corners of her eyes even though no tears had actually fallen. "Stop," he said, firm but gentle. "Look at me."
She did—reluctantly, sulk still in full force. "You think I'm looking for her because you're not enough?" He shook his head once, emphatic. "Rias. You're the reason I'm even here to look for anyone." Her brows furrowed, confusion cutting through the pout.
"You took me in," he continued, voice dropping to something quieter, almost reverent. "I had nothing—no name that mattered, no past anyone could verify, no record in any world. I was a ghost wearing someone else's skin. And you… you didn't just give me shelter. You gave me a life. You let me walk into Kuoh Academy like I belonged there. You handed me books, a uniform, friends, a future. You gave me a chance to prove I wasn't just some stray you pitied."
He slid one hand down to cover hers where it still rested over his heart. "You were the first person who ever fought beside me in the Dark Arena. Not behind me, not in front of me—beside me. You trusted me with your back and I trusted you with mine. That night changed everything. You changed everything."
Rias's pout had softened, lips parting slightly as she listened. "Akeno…" Arto exhaled, a faint, rueful smile tugging at his mouth. "She's important. She's my dream guardian, my partner in ways I never thought I'd have. But none of that—none of it—exists without you opening the door first. You're not just enough, Rias. You're the foundation. The most important person in this entire second life I've been given. I can never thank you enough for that. I don't think I ever will."
Silence stretched, thick and warm. Then Rias let out a shaky little breath and collapsed forward again, burying her face against the side of his neck. Her arms wound tightly around his shoulders, clinging like she never intended to let go. "You're so stupid," she mumbled into his skin, voice muffled and thick. "Saying things like that… how am I supposed to stay mad?"
"You're not," he murmured, pressing a slow kiss to her temple. "You're supposed to let me take care of you tonight. Like you deserve." She shifted, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "Then stop talking about other girls," she whispered, half-teasing, half-serious, "and start showing your princess exactly how important she is."
Arto's hands slid down her sides, finding the hem of her nightgown and dragging it slowly upward. "Consider it done," he promised, voice rough with something deeper than words.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto sleeping with Rias]
Morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains of Arto's room, soft and pale gold, painting long stripes across the tangled sheets. Arto woke slowly, the way one does when the body is deeply satisfied and reluctant to leave that warm, heavy state. His arms were still wrapped around Rias—had never really let go during the night—one hand splayed protectively over the gentle curve of her stomach, the other tucked beneath her, fingers loosely curled around the swell of her hip.
She was curled into him like she belonged there: back to his chest, head tucked under his chin, crimson hair spilling everywhere. Her breathing was slow and even, the kind of rest that only comes after true exhaustion—and last night in the Dark Arena had been brutal.
He let his palm drift idly upward, tracing the new definition along her side. Rias had changed noticeably in the past few weeks. The training sessions—his relentless drills, her stubborn determination—had carved lean muscle where softness used to pool. Her shoulders were stronger, more squared; her arms carried clean, elegant lines of power when she flexed. Her abdomen had tightened into subtle ridges that only showed when she moved just right, and her thighs… gods, her thighs had gained a firmness that made every kick and pivot in combat look devastatingly precise.
She'd used it all last night.
He remembered the way she'd read the enemy spell mid-cast—Intention, the first chapter of the book he'd written for her, had finally clicked. She hadn't just blocked the incoming lance of void-flame; she'd dissected its weave in a heartbeat, saw the anchor-thread of malice the caster had tied into it, and unraveled it with a flick of her own Power of Destruction. The backlash had scorched the caster's own gauntlets instead. Then she'd closed the distance in three explosive steps—footwork cleaner than it had ever been—and driven her knee into his solar plexus with enough force to lift him off the ground.
Warrior. The word fit her now in a way it hadn't before.
And yet…Arto pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, breathing her in—still that faint rose-and-amber scent that was pure Rias, untouched by sweat or arena dust. He tightened his hold just enough to feel her stir.
She made a small, sleepy sound and arched lazily into him, stretching like a cat in sunlight. "Morning already?" she mumbled, voice thick with sleep. "Mhm." His hand slid back down, settling over the flat plane of her stomach again, thumb brushing idly along the faint definition there. "You were incredible last night."
A pleased little hum vibrated through her. "I had a good teacher." "You had the chapter click," he corrected, kissing the spot behind her ear. "Intention's not easy to internalize. You read the weave like it was written in your native tongue."
She turned in his arms then, rolling to face him. Sleepy emerald eyes blinked up at him, hair a glorious mess around her face. The sheet slipped down to her waist as she propped herself on one elbow, giving him an unobstructed view of everything the training had sculpted—and everything it hadn't erased.
Her breasts were still full and soft, nipples a dusky rose against pale skin. Her waist still dipped in that devastating hourglass curve before flaring into hips that begged to be gripped. Even with the new muscle, she retained that lush, feminine give in all the places that drove him quietly insane.
But she wasn't soft the way she used to be. Not the pampered, silken princess who used to melt against him like warm honey. He missed that version of her more than he wanted to admit. Rias caught the shift in his gaze. Her lips curved, half-knowing, half-teasing. "You're staring like you're trying to decide whether to compliment me or complain."
Arto exhaled through his nose, caught. "I love what you've become in the Arena," he said honestly, tracing one finger along the newly defined line of her oblique. "You're lethal now. Elegant. Precise. Last night proved it." Her smile widened—proud, a little smug.
"But…?" she prompted, because she knew him too well. "But I still want my princess back, too." He met her eyes, unflinching. "The one who wears silk dresses that slip off one shoulder when she laughs. The one whose thighs are plush enough to leave fingerprints when I grab them. The one who feels like she'll bruise if I hold her too hard—even if we both know she won't."
Rias blinked. Then she laughed—soft, surprised, delighted. "You want me softer."
"I want you both," he corrected, pulling her closer until her chest pressed flush to his. "Warrior in the Arena. Princess in my bed. I don't want to trade one for the other. I want the girl who can destroy an enemy with a thought and then let me spoil her rotten the next morning."
She studied him for a long moment, expression going soft in a way that had nothing to do with muscle tone.
Then she leaned in and kissed him—slow, lingering, the kind of kiss that said she understood. "I can do that," she whispered against his mouth. "I'll keep training—because I like being strong beside you—but I'll stop pushing so hard for definition. Let the curves come back. Eat the damn cakes again. Wear the stupidly short skirts just to watch you lose your mind."
Arto groaned low in his throat, already imagining it. "Good girl."
She nipped his lower lip in retaliation. "And you," she said, poking his chest, "are going to pamper me shamelessly to make up for even thinking about complaining when I'm literally naked in your arms."
"Deal." He rolled them so she was beneath him now, hair fanned across the pillow like spilled wine. "Starting right now."
Her laughter turned breathy as his mouth found the sensitive spot beneath her jaw. "Careful," she teased, even as her legs parted to let him settle between them. "You might make me too soft to fight tomorrow night."
"Worth it," he murmured, already trailing kisses lower.
[Kitchen]
Arto sat at the head of the breakfast table, coffee mug cradled in both hands like it was the only thing keeping gravity from winning. The stew from last night had been reheated into a hearty morning meal—thick slices of bread on the side, butter melting slowly on top. Rias and Akeno were already eating, though both kept stealing glances at him, concern hidden behind casual smiles.
He took a slow sip, then set the mug down with a quiet clink. "I'm not going to school today," he said, voice low but firm. "Tell the teachers I'm sick. Flu. Food poisoning. Whatever works. I'll be back by evening." Rias's spoon paused halfway to her mouth. Akeno's eyes narrowed instantly—sharp, protective. "Where are you going?" Rias asked, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it.
"Akita City," Arto replied. "The Spy's there. She knows I know. That's why she didn't give Joseph a location—she pruned the trace I left in her network. She's waiting for me to come to her." Akeno set her spoon down, smile gone. "You're not going alone."
"I am." He met both their gazes—steady, unyielding. "This isn't a fight. It's a negotiation. She wants something from me in exchange for the Dream Mirror's location. She's smart enough not to try force. She knows what I did to her eyes the last time she got too close."
Rias's jaw tightened. "What does she want?" Arto exhaled through his nose—slow, tired. "Two possibilities. The book—full access, no revocation. Or the core structure of the Stabilizer. I'm leaning toward the Stabilizer. With the book, she knows I can revoke her authorization the second she steps out of line. She's not stupid. The Stabilizer, though… that's leverage. Immortality in a bottle. No more mana sickness. No more collapse. She could sell that knowledge to anyone and vanish before the fallout hits."
He picked up his coffee again, staring into the black surface like it held answers. "But she's not getting either. Not fully. I'll meet her. I'll hear her terms. I'll counter. And if she pushes too hard… I'll remind her why trying to corner me has never ended well for anyone."
Akeno leaned forward, voice soft but edged. "You're still going alone." Arto looked at her—really looked. "I have to. This is my mess. My trace. My knowledge. If she's pruned the malware, she's already expecting me to come personally. Bringing anyone else turns it into a hostage situation. I won't risk that."
Rias reached across the table and covered his hand with hers. "Then promise us three things," she said quietly. Arto waited. "One: you come back tonight. No heroics. No letting her bait you into a trap. Two: you tell us everything when you return—no editing, no 'it's fine.' Three: if she even hints at wanting the Stabilizer core… you walk. We find another way. We make our own Dream Mirror. We don't need her."
Arto studied her face—fierce, worried, beautiful—and felt the same quiet ache he always did when she looked at him like he might disappear. "I promise," he said. Rias squeezed his hand once—hard—then let go. Akeno stood, walked around the table, and hugged him from behind—chin on his shoulder, arms wrapped around his chest.
"Bring back coffee from Akita," she whispered. "And yourself. In that order." Arto huffed a small laugh—tired, real. "Deal." He finished the coffee in three long swallows, stood, and pulled both girls into a quick, fierce hug—Rias first, then Akeno. "I'll be careful," he said against Rias's hair. "I have too much to come back to."
Then he stepped back, grabbed his coat from the chair, and walked toward the door.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto waiting for the train at the train station]
Arto stared out the train window, the endless green of rice paddies and distant mountains sliding past in hypnotic silence. The coffee was long gone; the empty can sat crushed in his palm like a small, metallic trophy. He rotated it slowly between his fingers while the calculations ran in the background of his mind—cold, patient, layered.
He had leverage. Real leverage. Not the kind that came from threats or stolen secrets alone, but the kind that came from understanding exactly what the other person feared most.
Nico Robin—the Spy—didn't fear death. She didn't fear exposure in the conventional sense. What she feared was instability.
Her entire empire was built on being the perfect neutral party: no permanent enemies, no permanent allies, only temporary clients who paid well and asked no questions. She sold to devils and angels, governments and cartels, Pillar Houses and rogue factions alike. Today's buyer could be tomorrow's target if the price was right. That made her untouchable… right up until the moment someone realized she had sold them out.
And Arto now held proof of exactly that. Three days of unrestricted access to her network had given him fragments—names, dates, transaction hashes, overlapping client lists. Not enough to burn her completely (she was too good for that), but enough to light a match and hold it very close to the fuse.
If he leaked even a single verified overlap—proof that she had sold intel on Clan A to Clan B while simultaneously selling Clan B's countermeasures to Clan A—the dominoes would fall. Her clients wouldn't just stop paying. They'd start hunting. Every faction she had ever double-crossed would suddenly have a shared interest: removing the one woman who knew too much about all of them.
She would become the most valuable bounty in the underworld overnight...And she knew it...That was why she pruned his trace the moment she detected it—because she understood exactly what three days of unrestricted access could mean.
But she hadn't run. She hadn't gone dark. She had pruned the malware… and then deliberately left a trail leading straight to Akita City...She was waiting...She was inviting him. Which meant she already had her counter-offer prepared.
Arto crushed the coffee can a little tighter, metal creaking under his grip...His own position was stronger than she probably realized.
The Dream Mirror was a luxury, not a necessity. The Simulation Room would function perfectly well without Sector 1's Adaptive Training Ground. It would cost more mana, require more active processing, limit concurrent users—but it would work. He could build it tomorrow with the materials already secured and simply omit the dream-anchor lattice entirely. No loss of core functionality. Only a reduction in elegance and efficiency.
He could walk away from the table at any moment...She couldn't...Because while she held the location of one rare artifact… he held the location of her entire life. And he could burn it down with a single encrypted message to the right people. But burning it down wasn't the goal. Turning her into an asset was. He wanted her eyes. Her ears. Her network. All of it—turned outward, watching for threats against the Simulation Room, against the Gremory–Sitri alliance, against his students.
In exchange, he could offer her the one thing her current life could never give: stability. Not just protection (though the backing of two Pillar Houses would make most hunters think twice). Not just money (she already had plenty)...Permanence... A place where she no longer had to sell to both sides to survive. A place where yesterday's client couldn't become tomorrow's assassin. A place where loyalty actually paid better than betrayal.
He could give her a seat at the table—not as a contractor, not as a broker, but as a partner. Access to sanitized, non-core magitech (enough to extend her life and stabilize her own casting without giving away the kingdom). A guaranteed safe harbor for her Organization (the orphanage included). A non-aggression pact backed by Gremory and Sitri oaths.
But that's his advantages. Hers? Staggering...The Spy (Nico Robin) wasn't sitting at the table as a seller of rare artifacts. She was sitting there as a nuclear option. She knew. She knew about the Stabilizer—stable, industrial-scale mana filtration. She knew about the Spellcrafting Formulas—systematic creation of new magic in minutes instead of decades. She had seen enough fragments during those three days to understand the scope, even if the Abyssgard Code had garbled the details.
And she had kept that knowledge off the market. Why? Not out of loyalty. Not out of fear. Because she was waiting for the highest bidder.
Sona had bought her silence once—paid to take the intel "off the pricing shelf." But silence bought is silence rented. The moment Nico Robin decided the price was right—or the moment she decided she no longer needed to play nice—she could speak one sentence to the right person and light the fuse on a supernatural arms race.
One whisper: "There exists a human researcher under Gremory–Sitri protection who has solved stable ambient mana flow at scale." Or: "There is a system that lets any caster design custom spells in minutes instead of centuries." The fallout would be immediate.
Devil clans would move first—desperate to reclaim dominance after their losses. The Fallen would send assassins. The Church would declare a crusade. Even human governments with supernatural black-budget divisions would scramble to secure (or eliminate) the source. Gremory and Sitri would face a multi-front siege—political, economic, military. They might hold for a while. But the pressure to hand Arto over (or at least his secrets) would become existential.
And if they refused? War. Not skirmishes. Not proxy battles. Full-scale war between the Pillars, with Arto at the center—either as prize or as pyre. He crushed the empty coffee can in his fist, metal crumpling without effort.
Nico Robin wasn't just selling the location of the Dream Mirror. She was selling her silence. And she knew he couldn't afford to let her auction it to the highest bidder. That changed everything. His original plan—walk in, offer partnership, threaten exposure if she refused—had just become far more dangerous.
Because if she refused… and then walked away… she could still sell what she knew. And once the knowledge was out, it could never be put back in the bottle. He needed her to accept terms that bound her permanently.
Arto stared down at the notebook page, the pen still resting across the last line he'd written: If she speaks → war. If I leak first → her empire burns. First mover wins.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto looking intensely at a big, red button]
Arto stepped onto the platform at Akita Station, the cold northern air hitting him like a slap after the warm, recycled atmosphere of the Shinkansen. Late winter wind carried the faint salt tang of the Sea of Japan and the distant cry of gulls. The station was quiet mid-afternoon—commuters sparse, tourists nonexistent this far north in the off-season. His boots clicked against the concrete as he walked toward the exit, coat collar turned up, hands in pockets, coffee long gone.
He didn't look around. He didn't need to. The prickle at the back of his neck had started the moment the train doors opened. Not paranoia. Not imagination. Eyes. Multiple. Subtle.
One on a pillar support beam twenty meters to his left—blending into a security camera housing so perfectly most people would never notice the lens was a fraction too large, too still. Another in the shadow of a vending machine near the ticket gate—disguised as a small crack in the paneling, iris the color of aged concrete. A third drifting lazily above the platform awning—nothing more than a mote of dust caught in sunlight until it turned to follow him, pupil contracting as it focused.
Nico Robin. She wasn't even trying to hide anymore. She wanted him to know she was watching.
Arto kept his pace steady—neither hurried nor slow—hands still in his pockets, expression bored. He recalled the last clean ping from the mana trace before she pruned it: a small public library three kilometers north of the station, tucked in a quiet residential neighborhood near the port. Old brick building. Few visitors. Perfect for a private meeting disguised as coincidence.
That was the rendezvous. He exited the station, turned left toward the bus terminal, then—once out of the main flow of people—cut right down a side street. No need to check if she followed. She was already everywhere. The walk took twenty minutes.
Akita's streets were narrow here, lined with low-rise apartments, small family-run shops, bare cherry trees waiting for spring. Snow lingered in dirty patches along the curbs. The library appeared at the end of a quiet block—two stories, faded red brick, a single lantern above the entrance reading Akita Minato Library in peeling gold letters.
Arto stepped deeper into the library's labyrinth, the air thick with the scent of aged paper, dust, and something faintly metallic—like old coins left in salt water. The shelves rose higher than they should have in a public building of this size, aisles twisting at unnatural angles, books shifting subtly as he passed as though the entire collection was breathing, watching, deciding whether he belonged.
He didn't rush. He walked with the same calm stride he used in the Dark Arena—measured, unhurried, aware of every shadow that moved when it shouldn't. The path narrowed. Turned back on itself. Doubled. Tripled. A normal person would have felt lost by now. Arto felt only mild amusement. He rounded a final corner and stopped.
There, nestled between two towering shelves like a secret kept too long, was an ear. Small. Delicate. Perfectly formed. Floating half a meter off the ground, no visible support, no mana signature he could detect at first glance. Only the faintest ripple in the air betrayed it—like heat haze over summer pavement.
Arto reached out slowly, palm open. The ear drifted toward him, settling lightly into his hand like a moth choosing to land. Warm. Soft. Living. He brought it close to his lips. "I'm here to bargain," he whispered. The shelves groaned—low, ancient wood protesting—then began to part. Rows slid aside like curtains drawn by invisible hands. Aisles widened into a perfect circle. And at the center, illuminated by a single brass reading lamp, sat the Spy.
Nico Robin.
She lounged in a high-backed chair that looked older than the building itself, one leg crossed over the other, a thick tome open on the desk before her. Long black hair fell straight as ink over one shoulder. She wore a dark coat—simple, elegant, tailored—and gloves of thin black leather. Her face was hidden behind a mask of polished obsidian, smooth and featureless except for two narrow slits where eyes should be. No mouth. No expression. Just black glass reflecting the lamp's warm glow back at him like twin voids.
She closed the book with a soft thud. The ear in Arto's palm shivered once—then dissolved into motes of shadow that drifted upward and vanished. Robin tilted her head. "Arto Abyssgard," she said, voice smooth, sweet, carrying the faintest trace of an accent he couldn't place. "You're earlier than I expected. And far more polite than your reputation suggests."
Arto slipped his hands into his coat pockets—casual, open, but positioned so he could move in any direction in less than half a second. "You invited me," he replied. "I came." Robin's masked face remained impassive, but he could feel her amusement behind the obsidian. "Indeed. And you came alone. No Gremory princess. No thunder queen. No knight. No nekomata. Just you." She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the desk. "That tells me two things. Either you're very confident… or very desperate."
Arto didn't smile. But the corner of his mouth twitched. "I'm neither," he said. "I'm here because we both know what happens if this conversation ends badly. You speak. The world burns. I speak. Your Organization burns. Neither of us wants that." Robin's head tilted the other way—birdlike, curious. "Mutual destruction," she mused. "How romantic."
Arto stepped forward—one measured pace—into the circle of lamplight. "I'm not here to destroy you," he said quietly. "I'm here to offer you something you've never had. But I want to know your price first. What do you want for the location of Dream Mirror? Or should I say...your silence?"
A light laughter was heard "You're smart, Mr Abyssgard, I can see you've taken that into consideration before coming here. I do appreciate a man who does his homework. So I'll be blunt, I want that core structure of Stabilizer"
Arto nodded slowly, the motion deliberate, almost courteous—like a man acknowledging a well-played hand at cards. "As expected," he said, voice low and even. "But why would you want the core structure when the fruit is right at your mouth? I can give you a sample of the Stabilizer—limited, safe, enough to stabilize your own mana, extend your lifespan, sell derivatives on the black market if you wish. You could do whatever you want with it. So why dig deeper?"
Robin's laughter returned—soft, melodic, but carrying the faintest edge of steel now. "Because samples are leases, Mr. Abyssgard. And leases can be revoked." She leaned forward slightly, gloved fingers interlacing on the desk. The obsidian mask reflected the lamp's glow in twin black mirrors, hiding every micro-expression, every tell. "A sample means you retain the master key. You could neuter it with a single command—remote kill-switch, mana-frequency shift, whatever failsafe you've buried in the design. I would be dependent on your goodwill. And goodwill, in my line of work, is the most perishable currency there is."
She tilted her head—birdlike, assessing. "I want the core because I want ownership. Not a loan. Not a lease. The full schematic—blueprints, principles, failure modes, everything. Enough to rebuild it from scratch if you ever decide to cut me off. Enough to make my own version, independent of you, Gremory, Sitri, or anyone else. That's the only way I sleep soundly at night."
Arto remained still—hands loose at his sides, posture relaxed but never careless. "You think I'd give you the keys to immortality-grade mana filtration," he said quietly, "knowing you could sell it to the highest bidder tomorrow? Knowing Phenex, Astaroth, or the Grigori would pay planets for it?"
Robin's mask gleamed as she shifted. "I think you're smart enough to understand that I don't want war. I want survival. Selling the full core would be suicide—every faction would hunt me for it, just like they'd hunt you. I'd be dead before the ink dried on the first contract."
She spread her hands—open, empty. "What I want is insurance. The knowledge that if our partnership ever sours—if you or your Pillar backers ever decide I've outlived my usefulness—I can disappear with something that guarantees my own safety. Something that lets me vanish and rebuild. That's all."
A beat of silence. Then she added, softer: "And in return… you get the Dream Mirror. Exact location. Authentication phrase. Security bypass codes. Delivered the moment I confirm the core schematic is genuine and in my possession. No dead-man switches. No copies sent to third parties. Just a clean exchange."
Robin's voice stayed sweet—almost gentle. "And you understand that if you ever try to revoke my freedom after this deal… I'll speak. One sentence. To the right person. And your new family will face every faction at once. Especially Gremory, the once glorious Gremory"
Arto's eyes narrowed "What do you mean by that?" Robin's laughter faded into a soft, lingering hum—almost melodic, like wind through broken glass.
She leaned back in her chair, gloved fingers drumming once against the desk, the obsidian mask reflecting the lamp's glow in twin black mirrors. "So they didn't tell you?" she repeated, voice sweet but laced with genuine surprise. "No wonder you're so committed to this clan. They kept you oblivious about their own state and stroked deals behind your back. They even used their beautiful daughter as a distraction to gain power directly from you, Abyssgard."
Arto's eyes narrowed—only a fraction, but enough that the silver-blue shimmer at the edges of his pupils flared briefly, like distant lightning behind storm clouds. "Explain," he said. One word. Low. Flat. The tone of a man who had just been handed a blade he hadn't asked for.
Robin tilted her head—birdlike, curious. "House Gremory is dying, Aruto. Not tomorrow. Not next year. But dying. Slowly. Inevitably. The Phenex war bled them dry—territory, vassals, mana reserves, bloodlines. The marriage contract with Riser Phenex was never about love or alliance. It was a blood price. A leash. A way to keep the wolves from the door while they rebuilt. But the clock is ticking. The contract comes due soon. And if Rias refuses… Phenex will come collecting. With interest."
She spread her hands—open, empty, mocking innocence. "And you? You're the miracle they didn't expect. A human with knowledge that could reverse centuries of decline. The Stabilizer alone could refill their depleted reserves. The Simulation Room could train a new generation of devils strong enough to make Phenex think twice. So they did what any dying house would do: they locked you in. Not with chains. With kindness. With trust. With a crimson-haired daughter who smiles like she means it."
Robin's voice dropped softer—almost sympathetic. "Rias may love you. Truly. I don't doubt that. But love doesn't stop politics. And politics doesn't stop survival. They need you, Aruto. More than you need them. And they know it."
Silence stretched—thick, cold, heavy. The air around Arto grew heavier—mana pressure rising so subtly that the lamp above flickered once, dimming for half a heartbeat before steadying. Robin watched him—unreadable behind the mask.
Then she added, very quietly: "I'm not telling you this to hurt you. I'm telling you because you deserve to know the board you're playing on. Gremory and Sitri aren't your saviors. They're drowning men who found a rope… and they're tying it around your neck while they smile and call it protection." She leaned forward again. "So ask yourself, Mr. Abyssgard: How much are you willing to give to people who see you as salvation instead of a person? And how long will that salvation last once they realize they can't keep you forever?"
Arto remained motionless. "I see, so they are in desperation, meaning they would try extra hard to keep me away from every other faction, I'll make sure the dependence is well used. But I must ask, war against Gremory? From Phenex?" Robin leaned back in her chair, the obsidian mask catching the lamp's glow in twin black mirrors. For a moment she said nothing—letting the silence stretch, letting Arto feel the weight of his own question.
Then she spoke, voice soft but carrying the calm certainty of someone who had already read the ending of this story. "Years ago, Phenex clan and their allies launched a siege on Gremory domain. Every direction, all at once. The war was brutal—lives taken, lands devastated, entire peerages reduced to ash. Zeoticus Gremory, the leader of the clan, was put in a desperate position to protect his land and his people. His peerage was almost purged; only one remained, Heinrich. Even his eldest son, Sirzechs—the current Lucifer of the Underworld—couldn't intervene to protect his own family because of his neutral position despite his power. He was no longer a Gremory; he could only make the two sides sit down and settle a peace treaty."
She paused, gloved fingers interlacing slowly on the desk. "And in that time of despair, Zeoticus made a sacrifice. His next child would be married into the Phenex clan to stop the war. The term was accepted. And that child… is Rias Gremory."
Robin's masked face remained unreadable, but her voice carried no mockery—only the flat, factual tone of someone recounting history that had already been written in blood.
"The contract was signed in the ashes of the last battlefield. Phenex withdrew. The siege ended. Gremory survived… but only on borrowed time. The wedding was never meant to be love or alliance. It was blood-price. A leash. A way to keep Phenex from simply finishing what they started. And the clock has been ticking ever since."
She leaned forward again—slow, deliberate. "Rias knows. She's known since she was old enough to understand contracts and consequences. She's spent her entire life preparing to either marry Riser Phenex… or find a way out. You, Aruto Abyssgard, are that way out. A miracle they didn't expect. A human who can refill their depleted reserves, train a new generation, give them leverage they haven't had in decades. So they locked you in. Not with chains. With kindness. With trust. With a daughter who smiles like she means it… because she probably does. But love doesn't stop politics. And politics doesn't stop survival."
Robin's voice dropped softer—almost gentle. "So yes, Mr. Abyssgard. They're desperate. Desperate enough to treat you like salvation… because without you, they're finished. Phenex won't need to fire a single spell. They'll just wait for the clock to run out. And if Rias refuses… Phenex can call it a breach. They can demand compensation. They can seize assets. They can—legally—demand Rias herself as collateral if the terms allow it. And the terms do allow it."
She spread her hands—open, empty. "That's the board you're playing on. Gremory isn't your savior. They're drowning… and you're the rope they found. The question is whether you'll let them tie it around your neck… or whether you'll use it to pull them both to shore." Arto remained motionless—dark blue eyes fixed on the obsidian mask. Then—quietly, almost conversationally—he asked: "And you're telling me this… why?"
Robin's laughter faded into that same soft, almost fond hum, like wind over broken glass. "Because your intelligence is something I have never seen before," she said, voice sweet but carrying the calm certainty of someone who had already read the ending of this story many times over. "But the awareness of your own position in this world… that is something you still have to learn. Consider this an addition from my side—for your Stabilizer. A free gift. A nudge toward clarity."
She leaned forward slightly, gloved fingers interlacing once more on the desk. "So… do we have a deal? Those intel fragments I've gathered, my continued silence, and the Dream Mirror's location—all of it—for the core structure of the Stabilizer?" The question hung between them—clean, precise, stripped of pretense.
Arto didn't answer immediately. He let the silence do the work for him—let it press against her mask, let it fill the small space between them until it felt like the room itself was waiting for his next breath. Then he spoke—voice low, steady, carrying the weight of three thousand years of being the one who had to choose between chains and freedom. "No."
Robin's masked face remained perfectly still, but the shadows around her desk seemed to tighten—coiling like defensive serpents. Arto continued, unhurried. "I won't give you the core. Not the full schematic. Not the self-sustaining loop. Not the kill-switch codes. Not the principles that let it scale to industrial levels without collapse....I'm offering you something else, an alliance"
Robin's head tilted slightly—birdlike, reassessing. Arto met the obsidian voids where her eyes should be. "Not a contract. Not a deal. Not a leash disguised as partnership. A real alliance. One where you stop being the neutral broker who sells to both sides and starts being someone who has a side worth protecting."
He took another slow step—close enough now that the lamplight caught the faint silver-blue shimmer still clinging to his fingertips. "You've spent your life balancing on a knife-edge—selling secrets to everyone, trusting no one, always one step ahead of the people who paid you yesterday. It works. Until it doesn't. And when it doesn't… you're alone."
Robin didn't move. But the air around her grew colder. Arto continued—voice low, calm, carrying no threat, only clarity. "I'm building something bigger than factions. Bigger than clans. Something that could make wars obsolete. I'm offering you a seat at that table. Not as a contractor. Not as a broker. As a partner."
He lifted one hand—palm open, no mana flaring. "Protection from Gremory and Sitri—both Houses. A limited, non-core derivative of the Stabilizer—enough to stabilize your own mana and extend your lifespan. No kill-switch. No revocation. Yours forever. A permanent place in the new order—access to sanitized magitech, shared governance of the Simulation Room's public sectors, a voice in how the knowledge is used. And in return… The exact location and authentication method for the Dream Mirror. A binding vow—magical or otherwise—to never target me, my students, or the alliance again. Your network turns outward—watching for threats against the project, against my people. Not spying on us. Protecting us."
Robin's gloved fingers drummed once against the desk—slow, thoughtful. "You're offering me permanence," she said softly. "A future where I don't have to sell my own grave to survive." Arto nodded once. "That's exactly what I'm offering. But there is more, you know the Stabilizer, it will be the center of a new field, magic-technology. And for a person who sees it all, hears it all, and knows it all, a little journey into the unknown has always been welcomed, when the omniscience gets to feel....curious. Am I right, Robin?"
Robin's fingers stilled on the desk. The soft drumming ceased, leaving only the faint tick of the library's old wall clock and the distant murmur of wind against the windows. She tilted her head—slowly, deliberately—the obsidian mask reflecting Arto's silhouette back at him like dark water. "Omniscience," she repeated, tasting the word as though it were a rare vintage. "A pretty word. A heavier burden."
Her voice remained sweet, but the playfulness had drained away, replaced by something quieter, older, almost weary. "You're not wrong," she admitted. "After so many years of seeing everything… hearing everything… knowing everything worth knowing… the world starts to feel small. Predictable. The same patterns repeating in different costumes. The same greed. The same fear. The same betrayals dressed up as loyalty."
She leaned forward again, elbows on the desk, gloved hands interlaced beneath her chin. "And then someone like you appears." The mask caught the lamplight; for a moment the reflection made it seem as though her eyes—hidden behind the slits—were glowing faintly silver-blue. "A man who builds things that should not be possible. A man who dreams nightmares into training grounds. A man who walks into the den of the world's most dangerous information broker… and offers her a seat at a table that doesn't exist yet."
She laughed once—soft, genuine, almost surprised. "Curiosity," she said, "is the only thing that still tastes sweet after years of ashes. And you, Arto Abyssgard… you taste like the unknown." Robin rose—graceful, unhurried—coat whispering against the chair back. "I accept your offer. Not because I fear your threat—though I do respect it. Not because I crave your protection—though I will take it. But because, for the first time in longer than I care to remember… I am curious."
She extended her hand again—this time palm up, not in surrender, but in invitation. "The Dream Mirror is yours. The coordinates, the phrase, the bypass codes—all of it. No tricks. No dead-man switches. A clean gift… to a man who might finally show me something I haven't already seen."
Arto took her hand—firm, equal, no mana flaring between them. Robin's grip lingered a second longer than necessary. "And when you build that future," she said softly, "save me a chair. I want to see how it ends." Arto released her hand. "I will." He turned toward the door. Paused. Looked back. "If you ever decide you want more than curiosity… come find me. The table will have room."
Robin's laughter followed him—light, genuine, almost relieved. "I know where to find you, Mr. Abyssgard."
[On the way back to the train station]
Arto stepped out of the library into the biting Akita wind, the heavy wooden door closing behind him with a dull thud that felt final. The maze of shelves and secrets resealed itself the moment he crossed the threshold—as though the building itself had exhaled and decided the conversation was over.
He pulled his coat tighter, breath fogging in the cold northern air, and walked a few paces away from the entrance until the faint glow of the lantern above the door no longer touched him. Only then did he raise his right hand, palm open toward the sky.
A thin thread of silver-blue mana spiraled upward from his fingertips, twisting into a perfect communication sigil—small, private, keyed only to Rias's signature. The sigil pulsed once, soft crimson light answering from far away, and the connection snapped into place.
Rias's voice came through instantly—warm, alert, edged with the same worry she'd tried to hide at breakfast. "Arto? You're done?"
"I just finished," he said quietly. No preamble. No softening. "The deal is done." A short pause. He could almost see her straighten, feel the shift in her breathing even across hundreds of kilometers.
"Tell me."
"I have the exact location of the Dream Mirror. Warehouse 17, North Port District. Shelf 42-B. Crate marked 'Maritime Survey Equipment – 1987.' Authentication phrase: 'The sea remembers what the shore forgets.' I'll retrieve it tomorrow, I'm heading home."
Another beat of silence—longer this time. "And the Spy?" Rias asked, voice carefully neutral. "Alliance secured. She keeps her silence. Her network turns outward—watching for threats against the project, against all of us. In exchange, she gets a limited Stabilizer derivative—enough for personal permanence, not enough to rebuild the full core. And a seat at the table when the future we're building actually arrives."
Rias exhaled—slow, controlled, the sound of someone weighing relief against suspicion. "You trust her to keep that vow?"
"I trust her to be smart," Arto replied. "She knows what happens if she breaks it. And she knows I keep my word when the other side does the same." A soft huff—half laugh, half sigh—came through the link. "You always did play the long game."
Arto's voice dropped lower, quieter, carrying the weight he'd been carrying since the library. "Rias." She went still on the other end. He could feel it. "When I get home tonight… I want the truth. The entire situation. No more omissions. No more 'it's handled.' No more protecting me from things I need to know. I've been left in the dark long enough about the family I'm contributing to."
Silence again—thicker this time. Arto continued, unhurried, but every word deliberate. "I don't care how desperate Gremory is. I don't care how many contracts were signed in blood before I arrived. I don't care what Phenex thinks they're owed. As long as I can help, I will. And I will not let anyone take my precious princess away from me."
His voice hardened—just a fraction, but enough that even through the mana link, Rias would feel the edge beneath the calm. "Even if I have to become that living weapon again… even if I have to show no mercy to anyone who tries to hurt the people I care about… I will do it. Without hesitation. Without regret."
The wind tugged at his coat. He didn't move. "But I want to know everything before I decide how far I'm willing to go. No more surprises. No more secrets kept 'for my own good.' I'm not a child. I'm not a tool. I'm the man who chose you. And I need you to choose me back—completely. Truthfully."
Another long silence. Then Rias spoke—voice softer, rawer, stripped of every layer of heiress composure. "…Okay."
"When you get home," she said, "we talk. All of it. No holding back. No pretty lies. You deserve that much. More than that."
Arto exhaled—slow, steady—the tension in his shoulders easing by the smallest degree. "I'll be back tonight."
"Be careful," she whispered. "Come home to me."
"Always." The sigil flickered once—soft crimson light fading—and the connection dissolved. Arto slipped his hand back into his pocket. Looked north toward the port district. Then turned south toward the station.