3rd Person POV
Sona paused at the threshold of the Occult Research Club clubhouse, hand still on the half-open door, blinking once—then twice—as her brain tried (and failed) to reconcile the scene in front of her with reality.
The room was set up like a makeshift classroom: low table pushed aside, several chairs dragged into rows, a large portable whiteboard standing at the front. Rias, Akeno, Kiba, and Koneko were all present, notebooks open, expressions ranging from amused to mildly traumatized.
At the head of this bizarre lecture stood—no, sat—a massive gray wolf.
Not a small wolf. Not a cute puppy. A horse-sized wolf with silver-gray fur that caught the afternoon light like polished steel, paws the size of dinner plates, and gray eyes that were unmistakably intelligent.
The wolf had one forepaw raised, claws gently tapping a diagram on the whiteboard that looked suspiciously like a layered intention index array. His tail was sweeping slow, lazy arcs across the floorboards. And from his mouth—perfectly synced with the movements of his jaws—came Arto's familiar, low, patient voice. "…so the rebound index here is tied directly to the stability coefficient. If you drop stability below 92% without compensating in the mana efficiency index, you'll see cascade failure within 0.7 seconds of cast. Questions?"
Rias and Akeno were losing it.
Rias had her face half-buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Every few seconds she peeked through her fingers at the wolf, bit her lip hard, then dissolved again. Akeno wasn't even trying to hide it—she had her head thrown back, one hand slapping her thigh, tears of mirth gathering at the corners of her eyes as she wheezed: "'Cascade failure within 0.7 seconds'—he said it with a straight face! In dog!"
Kiba—bless him—was valiantly trying to maintain composure. His notebook was open, pen moving, but his lips kept twitching every time the wolf's tail thumped in punctuation.
Koneko had dragged her chair to the absolute farthest corner of the room from the giant canine. She sat with arms crossed, cheeks puffed out, glaring daggers at the wolf while simultaneously inching her chair even farther back whenever his tail swept in her direction. Every few seconds she muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "…big stupid fluffy traitor…"
The wolf—Arto—finally noticed Sona standing frozen in the doorway. His ears perked straight up. Tail gave one slow, embarrassed wag. Gray eyes blinked once—twice—then narrowed in what could only be described as wolfish mortification. His voice—still perfectly Arto's "…Sona. You're early."
Rias lost it completely—head dropping onto the table with a muffled thunk as her shoulders shook harder. Akeno had to clutch her stomach to breathe. Even Kiba finally cracked, hiding his face behind his notebook while his shoulders trembled. Koneko just glared harder, as if this entire scene was personally offensive.
Wolf-Arto sighed—a long, dramatic, rumbling canine sigh that shook his whole frame—then sat back on his haunches with as much dignity as a three-hundred-pound wolf could muster while wearing the expression of a man who had clearly lost a bet. "They cheated," he grumbled mentally (and aloud in a low growl that somehow still sounded embarrassed). "Double-teamed me in rock-paper-scissors. Said if I lost I had to teach today's lesson like this. I lost."
Rias lifted her head just long enough to wheeze: "He tried to use his claws! We said no claws! Fair is fair!" Akeno wiped tears from her eyes. "He's been like this for twenty minutes. Every time he tries to explain the rebound cascade his tail starts wagging. It's killing me."
Wolf-Arto's ears flattened in pure, dignified suffering. "I hate you both." Rias reached over and scratched behind his left ear. His hind leg started kicking involuntarily. He immediately looked betrayed. Sona—still standing in the doorway—slowly closed the door behind her. She adjusted her glasses. Once. Twice. Then—very calmly—she walked to an empty chair, sat down, opened her copy of Spellcrafting Formulas, and takes a seat at the couch with a notebook.
Sona—still standing in the doorway—slowly closed the door behind her with a soft click. She adjusted her glasses. Once. Twice. Then—very calmly—she walked to an empty chair near the back, sat down, opened her copy of Spellcrafting Formulas, placed her notebook on the armrest, and crossed her legs as though she had just entered a perfectly normal lecture hall.
Not a classroom being taught by a three-hundred-pound wolf who was clearly sulking.
Wolf-Arto's ears perked up when he noticed her. He straightened as much as a massive canine could while sprawled across the couch like living furniture, cleared his throat (a low, rumbling harrumph), and let out a long, dramatic howl—half welcoming, half embarrassed resignation.
The sound echoed off the walls—deep, resonant, surprisingly melodic for a wolf.
Rias and Akeno immediately burst into applause—clapping enthusiastically, giggling between claps. Kiba joined in politely, hiding his smile behind his hand. Koneko—still sitting as far from the "big stupid fluffy traitor" as possible—gave three slow, sarcastic claps without looking up from her notebook.
Wolf-Arto's tail wagged once—betraying him again—before he huffed in dignified suffering. "Okay, everyone," his voice rumbled in their heads (and out loud in a low growl for dramatic effect), "let's pay a warm welcome to our new student today: Sona Sitri."
Another short, cheerful howl. More clapping. Sona inclined her head slightly—perfect composure, though the corners of her mouth twitched just once. Arto shook himself once—fur rippling like a silver wave—then turned back to the whiteboard, one massive paw lifting to point at the diagram he'd drawn earlier (somehow managing to hold chalk without breaking it). "Alright, so… a little catch-up should be done in order," he continued, voice steady and professorial despite the fact that he was currently a wolf. "Let's start with the definition of magic. Can anyone help our Sona?"
Rias immediately raised her hand like an eager first-year. Arto's ears flicked toward her. "Go ahead, Rias."
Rias cleared her throat—still fighting giggles—and spoke clearly. "When a spell is cast, stable mana—filtered, controlled mana—flows from the caster's body or mana-storing items through the magic circle. It is bent, shaped, and directed by the magic sigils. That shaping creates the effect. And that effect… is what we call Magic."
She glanced at Sona with a small, welcoming smile. "Arto's version adds that the effect is always the core focus—everything we do in spellcrafting starts and ends with defining exactly what that effect should be. No more. No less."
Akeno leaned forward, chin on her hand. "Basically, magic isn't just 'boom, fireball.' It's 'boom, fireball with exactly 1.2 × 10⁶ joules, 99% stability, 3-second duration, 0.8-meter radius, minimal thermal bloom, zero rebound, and no secondary effects unless I want them.'"
Kiba nodded from his seat. "The chapter on Intention forces you to break that down into precise indexes so the mana can't misinterpret your desire." Koneko—still sulking in the corner—muttered: "…And if you mess it up, it explodes in your face."
Wolf-Arto's tail gave one slow wag of approval. "Exactly." He turned back to the board, paw tapping the diagram again."So, Sona… welcome to the lesson. We're starting with Intention today—dissecting spells into their magical indexes before we cast. You've read the first chapter?"
Sona opened her book to the marked page—calm, composed, as though being taught by a giant wolf was just another Tuesday. "I have," she said evenly. "Three times. I'm ready." Wolf-Arto huffed once—almost a laugh. "Good. Then let's begin."
He lifted his paw again, pointing to the first index on the board. "Power index. Define it for me." Sona didn't hesitate. "Raw energy output. Measured in joules or equivalent mana units. Determines the spell's strength and scale." Wolf-Arto's tail thumped once—approval. "Correct. Next: stability index."
The lesson continued.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by wolf Arto playing rock, paper scissor with Rias but he could only use paper]
The morning sun was still low and gentle over Kuoh Academy's gates when Arto stumbled out of the clubhouse with Rias and Akeno flanking him like worried bodyguards.
He looked like he'd been hit by a truck full of caffeine and regret. Dark circles shadowed his usually sharp dark blue eyes, hair more tousled than usual, tie crooked in three different directions. In his right hand he clutched a large travel mug of black coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence. His steps were slow, mechanical—half-asleep autopilot.
Rias walked on his left, one hand lightly gripping his elbow to steer him away from drifting toward a lamppost. Akeno took the right, looping her arm through his and tugging gently every time his eyelids drooped too long.
Kiba trailed a step behind—already wide awake, alchemy book tucked under one arm—watching the spectacle with quiet amusement. "I can't believe you didn't sleep at all last night, Arto," Rias complained, reaching up to straighten his tie for the third time in as many minutes. "Look at your eyes. You look like you fought the Arena twice."
Arto took a long, slow sip of coffee, then muttered around the rim: "I needed to complete the blueprints and material documents to send to my investors."
Akeno sighed dramatically, resting her cheek against his shoulder as they walked. "You're hopeless, darling. We told you to rest after the wolf cuddles. Instead you stayed up until dawn drawing magic-tech schematics like some caffeinated mad scientist."
Rias fixed the knot of his tie with a final tug—then smoothed the collar of his blazer. "You're going to fall asleep in first period at this rate. And if you do, I'm drawing on your face."
Arto blinked slowly—once, twice—like even that took effort. "I'll manage." Kiba stepped up on Akeno's other side, gently nudging Arto's shoulder when he started veering left toward a flowerbed.
"You said the same thing yesterday when you were herding us to school with our noses in the book," Kiba pointed out, voice calm but amused. "Now look who's the bookworm."
Arto gave a low, tired huff that might have been a laugh if he'd had the energy. "Fair." Rias slipped her arm through his free one—sandwiching him between her and Akeno. "You're not allowed to pass out before lunch," she declared. "We have training later. And I want you conscious for it."
Akeno leaned in and kissed his cheek—quick, soft. "We'll get you more coffee at the cafeteria. And maybe a nap during history. I'll take notes for you." Arto sighed—long, resigned, but not unhappy. "You're all impossible."
Rias squeezed his arm. "Takes one to know one." They reached the school gates just as the warning bell rang—students streaming past in the usual morning chaos. Several heads turned at the sight: the towering transfer student looking half-dead on his feet, flanked by Rias Gremory and Akeno Himejima like royal escorts, Kiba trailing behind with the calm patience of someone used to herding sleep-deprived geniuses.
A few whispers followed them down the hall.
"Is he okay?"
"Did he pull an all-nighter?"
"He looks like he fought a war and lost."
"With those two? I'd lose sleep too~"
Arto ignored them all—eyes half-lidded, coffee mug clutched like a lifeline. Rias steered him toward their classroom door. "Come on, Sensei. One class at a time." Akeno giggled and rested her head on his shoulder. "We'll keep you awake. Promise."
Kiba opened the door for them. Arto stepped inside—still half-zombie—muttered "Thanks" to no one in particular, and sank into his seat like gravity had personally betrayed him.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto sleeping at his desk while chibi Rias is patting him]
The funny thing about Arto sleeping in class is that he's simply too smart for any teacher to scold him.
It's not history today—no ancient wars or forgotten dynasties to keep him awake—so he doesn't even try to pretend. The moment the math teacher starts writing quadratic equations on the board, Arto's head slowly drops onto his folded arms. Within thirty seconds he's out: breathing deep and even, dark hair falling over his eyes, tie still crooked from Rias's morning attempt to fix it.
The teacher notices immediately.
She pauses mid-sentence, chalk hovering, eyebrows raised. The entire class turns—some whispering, some openly staring, a few phones already sneaking photos under desks.
"Mr. Abyga," she says, tone somewhere between stern and bewildered. "If you're going to sleep, at least make it less obvious." Arto doesn't even lift his head. His voice comes out muffled against his sleeve, calm and half-asleep "y = 3x² + 4x – 7. Vertex at x = –2/3. Opens upward. Minimum value –25/3 at that vertex. Next question?"
The teacher blinks. The class goes dead silent. She clears her throat, recovers, and points at the next problem. "Solve for x in 2x² – 5x + 3 = 0." Still no head lift. "Quadratic formula. Discriminant 25 – 24 = 1. Roots x = 1 and x = 3/2."
Another pause. She tries again—harder this time. "Prove that the sum of the roots of ax² + bx + c = 0 is –b/a." Arto sighs—tiny, exhausted—then mutters: "From Vieta's formulas. Product of roots is c/a. Done." The teacher stares. Then sighs. "…Carry on, Mr. Abyga." She turns back to the board and continues the lesson as if nothing happened.
The class explodes into whispers.
"Did he just solve it in his sleep?"
"He's literally asleep and still answering."
"Why is he even here if he already knows everything?"
"Maybe he's just here for Rias and Akeno…"
"Bro, look at him—he's drooling a little. That's dedication."
Rias—sitting beside him—has her hand subtly under the desk, fingers laced through his, thumb rubbing small circles on the back of his hand. She's biting her lip to keep from laughing, eyes sparkling every time another classmate glances over in awe or confusion.
Akeno—one row ahead—keeps twisting around to check on him, grinning like she personally invented this chaos. Every time the teacher glances her way, she snaps forward with perfect innocence, pen moving across her notebook like she's the model student.
Arto snores softly once—barely audible—then shifts, cheek still pillowed on his arm, hand still holding Rias's under the desk. The teacher sighs again. "Class… let's move on to the next example." No one moves on. Half the room is staring at the sleeping genius who somehow manages to answer university-level math questions without opening his eyes.
The other half is taking notes—some on the lesson, some on "how to look cool while napping in class." Rias leans over and whispers into his ear—soft enough that only he hears: "You're ridiculous."
Arto—still asleep—squeezes her hand once. His lips twitch into the tiniest, sleepiest smile. And he keeps sleeping.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto sleeping while Rias is patting him]
Arto woke up to the sound of a cafeteria tray clattering onto the table in front of him.
His eyes cracked open—groggy, bloodshot, still carrying the weight of an all-nighter—and he realized three things at once: He was no longer at his desk in the classroom. He was sitting at a long table in the middle of the Kuoh Academy canteen. Rias had both hands on his shoulders, gently but firmly shaking him awake while Akeno slid a steaming bowl of ramen under his nose. "Rise and shine, genius," Rias said, voice warm but teasing. "You slept through three periods and the entire morning break. I had to carry you here like a sack of potatoes."
Arto blinked slowly. His tie was still crooked. There was a faint ink smudge on his cheek from where his face had rested on his blueprints. "…I finished the material list at 4:17 a.m.," he mumbled. "The cooling array needed recalibration for thermal bloom…" Akeno laughed—bright and delighted—and ruffled his already messy hair. "We know, darling. You were muttering equations in your sleep. It was adorable."
She slid into the seat beside him, pressing her shoulder against his while Rias took the other side—effectively boxing him in between the two most beautiful and terrifying girls in school. The entire canteen was staring. Not subtle glances. Full-on, open-mouthed, phones half-raised staring. Because Arto Abyga—the mysterious, stupidly tall transfer student—was currently sandwiched between Rias Gremory and Akeno Himejima, both of whom were casually feeding him bites of ramen like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Rias lifted a spoonful of noodles to his mouth. "Eat. You look like death." Arto opened his mouth automatically—too tired to argue—and swallowed. Across the room, Takeshi Hamuda—third-year, built like a refrigerator with anger issues—froze with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. His face slowly turned the color of old brick. He had spent the better part of two years trying (and failing) to get either Rias or Akeno to even look in his direction. He'd flexed. He'd bragged. He'd "accidentally" bumped into them in hallways. He'd even asked them out—loudly, publicly—only to be shot down with polite smiles and colder rejections.
And now this random giant transfer student was sitting between them, half-asleep, being spoon-fed ramen while doodling blueprints on a napkin with his free hand. Takeshi's knuckles went white around his chopsticks. Several of his cronies leaned in, whispering furiously.
"Is that the guy?"
"Yeah, the one who played basketball like a pro yesterday."
"He's literally sleeping on Rias-senpai's shoulder right now."
"Dude… he's done for."
Arto didn't notice any of it. He was too busy sketching the final thermal dissipation layout for the Simulation Room's primary chamber—pen scratching across the napkin, eyes half-lidded, occasionally accepting another bite of ramen from Rias without looking up.
Akeno leaned her chin on his shoulder, watching him draw. "You're still working on it?" she murmured. "Even half-dead?"
"Cooling array was unstable at 87% load," he mumbled. "Fixed it. Needs beryllium-copper alloy for the heat sinks… Sitri can probably source it faster than Gremory…"
Rias sighed—fond, exasperated—and wiped a smudge of broth from the corner of his mouth with her thumb. "You're impossible."
She glanced around the canteen—meeting the stares head-on with a single raised eyebrow that said yes, he's ours, what of it? Takeshi stood up abruptly—chair scraping loud enough to draw more eyes. He took one step toward their table.
Then stopped. Because Akeno had looked up—violet eyes suddenly sharp, smile still in place but carrying a very clear message: try it. Takeshi swallowed. Sat back down. His friends wisely shut up. Rias turned back to Arto—completely ignoring the room—and gently tugged the pen from his fingers. "Eat first. Blueprints later."
Arto blinked at her—slow, sleepy—then nodded like a tired child. "Okay." He picked up his chopsticks.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto drinking coffee]
Arto stepped away from the vending machine with the cold coffee can in hand, the familiar metallic clunk of the dispenser still echoing in the quiet corner of the school courtyard. The afternoon sun was low, casting long shadows across the pavement, and the usual post-class bustle had thinned out—most students already gone home or to clubs. He popped the tab, took a slow sip (black, bitter, exactly how he liked it after an all-nighter), and turned to head back toward the clubhouse.
That's when the grumpy voice cut through the stillness. "Hey, new guy." Arto paused mid-step.
He turned slowly—calm, unhurried—and found himself facing Takeshi Hamuda, third-year, built like a walking brick wall, arms crossed over a chest that strained the buttons of his uniform blazer. Behind him stood four of his usual hangers-on—broad-shouldered, sneering, the kind of guys who thought volume and size made up for brains.
Hamuda's eyes were narrowed, jaw set, the look of someone who had spent the entire day stewing over something he couldn't punch.
Arto took another slow sip of coffee—completely unbothered—then lowered the can. "How can I help you?" he asked politely, voice even, almost gentle. The question seemed to throw Hamuda off for half a second. He'd clearly been expecting defiance, posturing, maybe a fight. Not… courtesy.
He recovered quickly, stepping forward until he was looming over Arto (though Arto's 1.9-meter height meant Hamuda still had to tilt his head up slightly to glare). "You think you're hot shit, huh?" Hamuda growled, voice low and rough. "Strutting around with Rias-senpai and Akeno-senpai like you own the place. Think you're some big man now?"
His gang snickered behind him—right on cue. Arto blinked once—slow, almost sleepy—then took another sip. "I'm just going back to the clubhouse," he said mildly. "I have blueprints to finish."
Hamuda's eye twitched. "Blueprints? You hear that, boys? He's got blueprints." More snickers. Hamuda took another step closer—close enough that Arto could smell the cheap body spray and lingering cafeteria grease. "You listen here, transfer student," Hamuda said, jabbing a thick finger toward Arto's chest. "This school had a nice little order before you showed up. Rias and Akeno didn't waste their time on nobodies. Now they're glued to you like you're some kind of prince. You think you can just waltz in and take what's ours?"
Arto took one final, slow sip of his coffee—eyes never leaving Hamuda's—then lowered the can with a soft metallic clink against the vending machine. "I see," he said, voice calm, almost thoughtful. "So you're short on girlfriends, right?"
The courtyard went dead quiet. Hamuda's face flushed a deeper red, veins bulging at his temples. His cronies exchanged uneasy glances, unsure whether to laugh or back him up.
Arto stepped forward—close enough that Hamuda had to tilt his head up slightly to maintain eye contact. He tilted his own head, expression still perfectly polite, but with the faintest edge of something older, colder, and infinitely more dangerous lurking behind it. "Alright," Arto continued, voice dropping to a low, almost gentle drawl. "Maybe I can't get Rias and Akeno to like you. But…"
He set the coffee can down on the vending machine ledge with careful precision, then spread his arms slightly—open, relaxed, inviting. "…I can let you punch me." Hamuda blinked—thrown off-balance by the sheer absurdity of it. Arto leaned in just a fraction closer, voice turning soft and mocking, the way one might tease a child throwing a tantrum. "If you can throw a proper one."
That did it. Hamuda's face twisted into pure rage. He snarled, reared back, and swung a wild haymaker—telegraphed from a mile away, shoulder rising first, weight shifting forward too aggressively, feet sliding on the pavement like he'd forgotten how to stand.
Arto didn't even step back. He simply tilted his upper body—minimal movement, barely a sway—and the fist whistled past his cheek, close enough to ruffle his hair. Hamuda stumbled forward from the momentum, off-balance. Arto's voice came from right beside his ear—calm, instructive, like a coach correcting form during sparring. "Your footing is unstable. Stand your ground firmly. Plant your back foot. Otherwise you're just punching air and hoping."
Hamuda whirled around—furious, humiliated—chest heaving. "You—!" Hamuda angrily cements his footwork and throws another punch, but it was dodged again "Don't just use your arm, use your whole upper body as well, the momentum would knock your enemy out"
And again, somehow, the big bully follows the instruction and try again, but failed like the last 2 times. But Aruto was smiling wider "Congrat! You have finally been able to throw a proper punch. Now, it's time to work on accuracy, let's see if you can hit the right target" Aruto taunts
Hamuda bellowed—wordless, primal—and launched himself again, arms wide like he meant to tackle Arto into the next prefecture.
Arto sidestepped once more—smooth as water around stone—and Hamuda's momentum carried him stumbling forward another five meters… straight toward the open-air corridor leading to the kendo dojo.
That was when the sound hit. Distant at first—then rapidly closer. Sharp kiai yells slicing through the air. The unmistakable thunder of twenty pairs of zori sandals pounding wood and concrete in perfect unison. And beneath it all, the unmistakable panicked shrieking of three very familiar voices:
"RUN FASTER, MATSUDA!"
"THEY'RE GAINING—!"
"ISSEI, YOUR PANTS ARE FALLING AGAIN—!"
Arto's smile turned positively wicked.
Right on schedule, time to make the bully the hero, hope this would get him a girlfriend and get him away from me.
He kept retreating—slow, deliberate—drawing Hamuda deeper into the narrow corridor like a fisherman playing a particularly angry marlin. Every time Hamuda lunged, Arto slipped aside just enough to keep the bully off-balance, momentum carrying the bigger boy forward… forward… toward the place where the perverts are heading towards.
The kendo girls rounded the corner first—twenty of them, shinai raised like spears, faces flushed with righteous fury, uniforms fluttering like battle flags. At their head was the club captain—tall, ponytail swinging, eyes blazing murder.
Arto leaped back one final time—light on his feet, almost playful—landing just in front of Issei, Matsuda, and Motohama right as the Perverted Trio skidded to a halt, panting and wild-eyed.
Issei, pants still half-down, waved his arms frantically. "Hey, get out of the way! Don't you see we're in a hu—!" The sentence died as Hamuda—red-faced, roaring, completely tunnel-visioned—threw the wildest haymaker yet. Arto tilted his head a fraction; the fist whistled past his ear, close enough to stir his hair… and slammed directly into Issei's cheek with a meaty CRACK.
Issei's eyes rolled back mid-word. He dropped like a sack of bricks—pants finally giving up and sliding to his ankles as he hit the ground face-first. Matsuda and Motohama froze—mouths open in identical horrified O's.
Before either could scream, Hamuda—still off-balance from the missed swing—stumbled forward and threw two more sloppy hooks out of sheer momentum.
Thwack. Matsuda's glasses flew off in a perfect arc. He crumpled backward, out cold before he hit the pavement.
Thump. Motohama's head snapped sideways. He folded like cheap cardboard, joining his friends in a heap of unconscious limbs and shame.
The courtyard went dead silent for half a heartbeat. Then the thunder of twenty pairs of zori sandals arrived. The kendo girls poured into the corridor like a black-and-white tidal wave—shinai raised, kiai yells splitting the air, ponytail captain at the front with murder in her eyes.
"THERE THEY ARE!" she bellowed. "THE PERVERTED TRIO—AND HAMUDA TOO?!"
Hamuda finally registered what he'd done. He looked down at the three unconscious perverts sprawled at his feet—Issei's pants around his ankles, Matsuda's stolen bra still clutched in one hand like a sad trophy, Motohama's cracked glasses glinting in the sun.
Then he looked up at twenty furious kendo girls charging straight at him. Then he looked back at where Arto had been standing. Arto was already gone—leaping lightly onto a low wall and vanishing around the corner toward the clubhouse, coffee can still in hand, a wide, wicked smirk on his face.
The courtyard had become a battlefield of bamboo and bruised egos.
Twenty kendo girls formed a perfect semicircle around the fallen Perverted Trio—shinai held at the ready, faces flushed with righteous fury. Issei lay face-down in his own drool, pants around his ankles like a tragic flag of surrender. Matsuda was curled fetal around the stolen sports bra as if it could shield him from the coming storm. Motohama's cracked glasses glinted pathetically in the sun, one lens completely spiderwebbed.
And standing in the middle of it all—chest heaving, fists still clenched—was Takeshi Hamuda, third-year terror of Kuoh Academy, suddenly looking like a man who had just realized he'd walked into the wrong room at the wrong time.
The kendo captain—Chiyoko Kawata—strode forward from the line of girls. Tall, ponytail swinging like a metronome of doom, eyes narrowed to slits. She stopped in front of Hamuda, shinai resting on her shoulder like a judge's gavel.
For one terrifying second, everyone thought she was about to swing. Then her expression… softened. "Hamuda," she said, voice carrying genuine gratitude, "thank you so much for stopping them. They've really gotten out of line this time." Hamuda blinked. Once. Twice. Brain still rebooting. "Huh—?"
Chiyoko turned to her club members—voice snapping back to steel. "Girls, yank them back to the dojo. We need to personally deliver judgment before bringing them to the school board. No mercy. They've been warned." A chorus of fierce "Yes, Captain!" rang out.
Twenty pairs of hands descended on the unconscious perverts—dragging them by collars, ankles, whatever was handy. Issei's pants finally gave up the ghost and were left behind like a sad white flag on the pavement. Matsuda whimpered once in his sleep. Motohama's broken glasses were picked up and tucked into a girl's pocket like evidence.
Chiyoko watched them go—then turned back to Hamuda. Her face softened again—almost gentle. "You did good," she said quietly. "We've been chasing those idiots for weeks. You just saved us a lot of trouble." Hamuda stood there—sweaty, red-faced, knuckles bruised—looking like a man who had just been handed a medal for accidentally winning the lottery. "I… uh…"
Chiyoko reached up and—before he could process what was happening—patted him once on the shoulder. Firm. Respectful."Come by the dojo sometime," she said. "We could use someone with your build for sparring practice. Proper form, though. No wild swings."
She gave him a small, genuine smile. "Thanks again, Hamuda." Then she turned on her heel and marched after her club—ponytail swinging, shinai tapping against her thigh like a metronome of victory. The courtyard slowly emptied. Hamuda stood alone in the middle of it—chest still heaving, fists slowly unclenching—staring at the spot where Chiyoko had disappeared.
Slowly—very slowly—his face turned from rage-red to something softer. Something almost… hopeful. He looked down at his bruised knuckles. Then at the abandoned pants on the ground. Then at the direction the kendo girls had gone. A tiny, disbelieving smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "…Huh."
Back near the vending machines, Arto watched the whole scene unfold from around the corner—coffee can still in hand, expression perfectly neutral. He took one last sip. Crushed the empty can. Tossed it into the recycling bin without looking. And started walking toward the clubhouse again—hands in his pockets, small, satisfied smile on his face.
Because sometimes the best way to deal with a bully… was to let him accidentally become the hero of someone else's story.
And sometimes the best reward… was watching a third-year terror discover he might not be a monster after all.
[ORC clubhouse]
Arto pushed open the clubhouse door with his shoulder, the faint scent of rain and cherry blossoms clinging to his uniform from the walk back. The building was quiet—Rias and Akeno still out on their stray hunt, Kiba probably buried in alchemy notes somewhere, Koneko either napping or terrorizing the vending machines again. Perfect.
He went straight to the kitchen...No preamble...No hesitation.
He rolled up his sleeves, tied on the plain black apron that had become his unofficial uniform, and pulled Lady Venelana's cookbook from the shelf. The pages fell open naturally to the beef stew recipe he'd used last time—the one with the little heart next to the note: "Extra thyme when they're tired. They won't say it, but they feel it."
He smiled—just a small, private thing—then got to work.
First the meat: beef chuck cut into generous chunks, patted dry, seasoned with salt and pepper. Into the hot Dutch oven with a generous glug of olive oil. The sizzle was immediate, rich and promising. While the beef browned, he chopped—onions into thick half-moons, carrots into rolling chunks, celery into crescents, garlic smashed and roughly sliced. No precision needed tonight; the stew would forgive uneven cuts and turn them into something better.
The beef browned on all sides. He pulled it out, added a knob of butter, then the vegetables. They hissed and softened, releasing their own sweetness into the fat. A bay leaf, two sprigs of fresh thyme (Rias loved the aroma), a small bundle of rosemary, black peppercorns cracked under the flat of his knife. A splash of red wine—enough to deglaze the fond, the alcohol hissing up in fragrant steam.
Stock poured in—homemade from the freezer, dark and gelatinous. The beef went back in. Lid on. Flame down to the lowest simmer. Forty-five minutes to an hour, and it would be perfect—flavors melding, beef falling apart, broth thick enough to coat a spoon...Plenty of time.
He wiped his hands on the apron, turned off the overhead light so only the small lamp above the stove stayed on, and carried his laptop and a thick folder of notes to the living room table.
The blueprints. He opened the laptop, pulled up the CAD file he'd been refining since 3 a.m., and spread the printed material list beside it. This was the delicate part.
The Simulation Room wasn't just a bigger version of the prototype sheet. It was a living, breathing chamber—walls lined with layered intention-mapping arrays, ceiling embedded with adaptive mana diffusers, floor etched with micro-scale stabilization runes that would channel excess rebound into harmless dissipation. The core would be a massive, self-sustaining Stabilizer matrix—capable of filtering ambient mana from the entire room and recycling it into clean, usable flow.
But the materials…
Some existed in this world under different names. Some had equivalents he could substitute with minor adjustments. Some… didn't exist at all.
He needed to be crystal clear.
He opened a new document and began typing—methodical, precise, the way he'd written legion orders centuries ago.
Material List – Simulation Room Core Construction(Notes for Gremory & Sitri procurement teams. All items must be sourced or synthesized exactly as described. Substitutions require my direct approval.)
Beryllium-Copper Alloy (BeCu 172) Purpose: Primary heat-sink lattice for Stabilizer core. High thermal conductivity + exceptional fatigue resistance under cyclic mana load. Required quantity: 1,200 kg (plate stock, 12 mm thick). Alternative names in human world: "Alloy 25", "C17200". If unavailable: High-purity copper + 1.9% beryllium (exact ratio critical). Do not substitute with aluminum bronze. Orichalcum-infused Quartz Crystal (synthetic) Purpose: Intention-mapping array substrate. Must resonate at 7.83 Hz ambient frequency without damping. Required quantity: 84 kg (cut into 40 × 40 cm slabs, 8 mm thick, double-sided polish). Note: Natural orichalcum is extinct in this world. Use lab-grown quartz doped with 0.02% tellurium + 0.015% gold nanoparticles. Exact doping ratios attached in Appendix B. Mana-attenuated Graphene Composite Purpose: Containment shielding for simulation field boundaries. Must absorb 99.7% stray mana rebound without structural degradation. Required quantity: 320 m² (single-layer sheets, 0.5 mm thick). Human-world equivalent: CVD-grown graphene on copper substrate, post-treated with proprietary mana-dampening coating (formula provided separately). Do not use commercial graphene oxide.
And so on. Page after page. Rare earths. Exotic ceramics. Crystals doped with elements that barely existed in trace amounts on Earth. Metals that had been myth in this world for centuries.
Each entry included:
Exact chemical composition Required purity level Intended function in the system Acceptable substitutes (if any) Critical tolerances (±0.001% on some ratios)
By the time he finished, the document was thirty-seven pages long. He saved it. Encrypted it with a personal Abyssgard cipher keyed only to his mana signature and those of Rias and Sona. Attached it to an email draft addressed to both Gremory and Sitri liaison officers.
Subject: Simulation Room – Phase 1 Blueprints & Material Procurement List
Body: one sentence.
Review attached. Contact me directly with questions or sourcing issues. Construction begins only after mutual approval.
He hit send. Then leaned back in the chair, closed the laptop, and exhaled. The stew was probably ready by now.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto stirring the pot with a big spoon]
Arto sat alone at the long dining table, elbows resting on the wood, chin propped on interlaced fingers. The stew pot still bubbled gently on the lowest flame—rich, dark aroma curling through the clubhouse like a slow promise. Five place settings waited: bowls, spoons, glasses of water already poured. The room was quiet except for the soft glug-glug of the simmer and the occasional creak of the old building settling in the evening.
His laptop lay open in front of him—blueprint software glowing on the screen, layers of 3D wireframes rotating slowly. Sector 1: Adaptive Training Ground. The words were highlighted in red, a single note pinned to the viewport:
Core Intention: Manifest user's internal "Dark Arena" as physical training space. No external computation required for monster generation / adaptation / scaling.
He stared at the line for a long time.
It had started as a late-night impulse—something he'd scribbled at 3:47 a.m. while fighting off sleep with black coffee and sheer stubbornness. The original Simulation Room design was elegant: intention-mapping arrays, real-time mana-flow simulation, adaptive difficulty based on challenger performance metrics. Powerful. Scalable. Safe.
But it was still computational.
Every new monster, every environmental shift, every tactical counter the Arena threw at them required active processing power—massive, mana-hungry processing power. Even with the Stabilizer at its heart, the reactor would eventually strain under prolonged high-level sessions. And if two peerages (or more) started using it simultaneously? The energy draw would spike into the red.
Then there was the access problem.
The real Dark Arena only opened when someone slept close enough to Arto for his dreaming mind to pull them in. No workaround. No keycard. No portal spell. Just proximity and trust.
But what if…What if he could project that dream-space outward? Not simulate it. Not recreate it with code and mana arrays. Manifest it.
Bring the actual Dark Arena—the one that lived inside his skull, that scaled perfectly to his own growth, that adapted faster than any computer ever could—into Sector 1 as a physical pocket reality. A training ground that drew directly from his subconscious, requiring zero external computation for enemy generation. Monsters would appear because he dreamed them. Difficulty would scale because he feared them. The Arena would remember every lesson, every failure, every breakthrough—because it was literally part of him.
Benefits cascaded in his mind like dominoes:
Massive energy savings. The reactor would only need to maintain spatial stability and mana containment—nothing more. No real-time monster AI, no adaptive scripting. The Arena itself would do the work. Perfect scaling for any challenger. As long as Arto stayed outside the sector, the difficulty would adjust to whoever entered. A first-year could face fodder demons. Rias could face lieutenants. Sona's peerage could face elite knights. No artificial caps. No unfair mismatches. Mass training capability. No more "only those sleeping near Arto can enter." Sector 1 could be walked into like any other room. Entire squads. Entire peerages. Military units from both Gremory and Sitri could rotate through—learning to survive in a place that never lied about how dangerous the real world could be.
He exhaled slowly through his nose. The catch, of course, was the material. To anchor a true dream-domain into physical space required something that didn't quite exist in this world: a Dream-Anchor Lattice—a crystal matrix capable of resonating at the exact frequency of Arto's sleeping mind without fracturing under the strain of sustained manifestation. In Abyssgard they'd called it Noctus Veilstone. Here? Nothing might came.
He'd listed it anyway.
Noctus Veilstone (or closest analogue)
Required: 1.47 kg, cut into 12 perfect octahedrons (edge length 1,8 cm ± 0.05 mm). Properties: Must maintain coherent wave resonance at 0.0004–0.0007 Hz under 1.2 × 10¹⁴ Pa internal pressure. Zero micro-fracture tolerance. Human-world candidates: Synthetic quartz doped with rare-earth elements (proposed: 0.003% dysprosium + 0.001% erbium). Natural herkimer diamond clusters (if large enough specimens can be sourced). Theoretical: lab-grown oscillating bismuth crystal lattice under zero-gravity conditions. Note: If no match is found, Sector 1 will be built without the Dream-Anchor. Adaptive Training Ground will fall back to conventional simulation (higher energy cost, lower scalability).
He stared at the note he'd added at 4:12 a.m.
If no match is found…
He didn't want "if no match is found."
He wanted the Arena itself—alive, adaptive, merciless—standing in Sector 1 like a living forge. He wanted Rias and Sona's peerages to walk into his nightmare and walk out stronger. He wanted entire squads to train against something that remembered every mistake they'd ever made and threw it back in their faces the next time.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias hugging wolf Arto who is protesting wildly]
A few days had slipped by since Arto sent the blueprints and the exhaustive material requisition list to the Gremory–Sitri joint liaison office. No reply yet. No urgent courier. No teleport flare announcing a breakthrough or a crisis. Just silence.
He wasn't worried.
Silence from devil clans usually meant one of two things:They were still hunting down the more exotic items on his list (Noctus Veilstone analogues, mana-attenuated graphene composites, oscillated bismuth lattices grown under zero-gravity conditions…). Or their rune-scribe and engineering teams were still chewing through the design layers—cross-referencing, stress-testing virtual models, arguing over thermal bloom tolerances and intention-mapping fidelity.
Either way, it wasn't his problem tonight. Tonight was for the students.
The ORC clubhouse living room had become a permanent classroom. The low table was pushed against the wall. Chairs formed a neat semicircle. The whiteboard still bore yesterday's diagram of the rebound cascade chain. Four copies of Spellcrafting Formulas lay open in front of Rias, Akeno, Kiba, and Sona (the fifth copy had been quietly added to the circle four days ago without fanfare). Koneko sat a little farther back—still wary of the "big stupid fluffy traitor" even when he was human—but her own book was open and annotated in her small, precise handwriting.
Arto stood at the whiteboard, sleeves rolled to the elbows, marker in hand. He looked rested—finally. The dark circles had faded. His tie was (mostly) straight.
He tapped the board once—sharp, deliberate—drawing everyone's attention to the single, sprawling magical formula that now dominated the center:
Formula 1 – Intention-to-Mana Translation Matrix (Core Intention Weaver)
The array was enormous: nested circles, interlocking sigils, directional flow arrows branching like a nervous system, tiny subscript runes indicating index dependencies. It looked less like a spell diagram and more like the wiring schematic of a god's brain.
"This," Arto said, voice low and steady, "is the single most important formula in the book. Everything else—every offensive array, every defensive lattice, every utility construct—builds on top of this one. If you master this, the rest of the book becomes tools. If you don't… the rest of the book becomes landmines."
He turned to face them fully.
"You've all spent the last week internalizing the Magical Indexes. You can now look at any spell—mine, yours, a stranger's—and break it down into power, stability, rebound risk, mana efficiency, environmental interaction, duration decay, secondary probability, and so on. That's the skeleton. Tonight we add the nervous system."
He tapped the center of the array. "This formula takes a fully-defined Intention—your precise, indexed visualization—and translates it into actual, directed mana flow. No guesswork. No intuition. Pure, repeatable translation. The caster thinks the indexes clearly → the formula reads them → mana obeys exactly. No more. No less."
He drew a small arrow from the Intention block to the first sigil ring.
He drew a small arrow from the Intention block to the first sigil ring. "The difficulty isn't the complexity of the drawing. The difficulty is keeping your mind clear and focused on exactly what you want. Like I said, visualization is the key to this. The indexes are only the means to keep the spell clarified and transparent so that you can understand the scale of what you're trying to make."
Arto stepped back from the board and let the words settle. He looked at each student in turn—Rias's fierce concentration, Akeno's eager curiosity, Kiba's analytical focus, Sona's composed precision, Koneko's quiet determination. "Before we go any further, let me be very clear about what happens if you skip this step or half-ass it. Mana doesn't care about your feelings. It doesn't care about your good intentions. It only obeys what you actually visualize. If your Intention is vague, incomplete, or conflicted, the formula will still execute… but it will execute whatever half-formed mess your mind fed it. That's how people burn out their circuits, scar their mana channels, or worse—create something that spirals out of control and hurts people who weren't even in the fight."
He tapped the board again—right on the Intention block.
"So tonight isn't about memorizing lines or drawing pretty circles. Tonight is about training your mind to hold a complete Intention without flinching. We start simple. One spell. One perfect visualization. No shortcuts."
He reached into his jacket and withdrew five small simulation sheets—pre-charged, edges shimmering silver-blue. "One sheet each. Your task: create a basic light orb. But you do it the hard way. No pre-made circle. No reference diagram. You hold the full Intention in your head—every single index we've drilled—and you draw the Intention-to-Mana Translation Matrix freehand while maintaining that visualization. Then you feed it into the sheet. We'll watch the projection together and see exactly where your mind wavered."
He handed out the sheets. Rias took hers with steady fingers. Akeno accepted hers with a delighted hum. Kiba took his reverently. Sona accepted hers with perfect composure. Koneko stared at hers for a second… then snatched it like she was daring it to bite her.
Arto stepped back to the whiteboard and erased everything except the core Intention block. "Begin when you're ready. No rush. No judgment. Only honesty."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Akeno sticking a scribble at the screen]
After a while, the room fell into a hush broken only by the soft scratch of pens and the occasional frustrated huff. One by one, the students lowered their simulation sheets, staring at what they had produced.
Rias's paper looked like a toddler had attacked it with a crayon during a sugar rush—lines zigzagging wildly, sigils half-formed, arrows pointing in contradictory directions. Akeno's attempt had beautiful violet flourishes but was structurally a mess; the intention block bled into unrelated flow paths like spilled paint. Kiba's was the neatest of the bunch—precise, almost elegant—but the index connections were incomplete, leaving gaping holes where mana would leak. Sona's was clinically accurate in layout but lacked any intuitive flow; it resembled a wiring diagram drawn by someone who'd never seen electricity. Koneko's… was basically a single angry circle with a frowny face in the middle.
They all looked up at Arto with varying degrees of embarrassment, pride, and resignation.
Arto walked over without comment, starting with Rias. He picked up her sheet, studied it for three seconds, then gave a small nod. "Not bad for a first attempt." He moved to Akeno—another nod. Kiba—nod. Sona—nod. Koneko—he actually cracked a tiny smile at the frowny face before nodding again.
He returned to the whiteboard, stuck Rias's messy scribble in the center with a magnet, and stepped back. "Watch closely," he said. He uncapped a fresh marker. Then—without hesitation—he began to draw.
Not slowly. Not carefully. He drew like someone who had traced these patterns in blood and mana for millennia. Sigils flowed from the tip of the marker in smooth, confident strokes. Arrows connected seemingly random lines. Nested circles appeared in perfect concentric symmetry. Subscript runes materialized exactly where they belonged. The chaotic toddler-scribble slowly transformed—first into a skeleton, then into muscle, then into living, breathing circuitry.
In under sixty seconds—going deliberately slow so they could follow—the messy tangle had become a flawless Intention-to-Mana Translation Matrix. Every index Rias had half-heartedly scribbled was now cleanly defined, connected, balanced. The entire array glowed faintly under the whiteboard's light, mana residue shimmering along the lines.
Arto capped the marker with a soft click. He turned to face them. "Is this what you visualized?" he asked Rias—voice calm, no judgment, just curiosity. Rias stared at the board—her own chaotic lines now refined into something elegant and deadly precise. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "…Yes," she breathed. "Exactly. But… better. Cleaner. I didn't even know it could look like that."
Arto nodded once. "That's the power of the Formulas. They don't just let you cast. They let you refine. Your Intention was already there—strong, clear enough to produce something usable. But it was raw. Unpolished. The Formula takes what you truly meant and gives it perfect shape. No wasted lines. No conflicting flows. No hidden weaknesses."
Arto stepped closer to the whiteboard, where Rias's messy scribble was now pinned like a chaotic masterpiece. He picked up the small simulation sheet she had cast into earlier—the one she'd drawn freehand while holding her Intention—and held it up for everyone to see. "Let's take a look at what you actually made," he said, voice calm but carrying that quiet weight they'd all come to recognize.
He placed the sheet flat on the low table in the center of their semicircle. With a subtle pulse of silver-blue mana from his fingertip, the paper shimmered. A 3D holographic projection rose from its surface—crisp, slowly rotating, large enough for all five students to see clearly without crowding.
At first glance, it looked exactly like Rias's scribble: jagged lines, uneven circles, arrows pointing in conflicting directions, sigils half-finished or overlapping. A toddler's fever dream in glowing light. Rias winced visibly. Akeno bit her lip to hide a grin. Kiba leaned forward, already analyzing. Sona adjusted her glasses. Koneko tilted her head, curious despite herself.
Arto didn't comment on the chaos. Instead, he extended one finger and let a thin thread of pure, stable mana flow into the center of the projection. "Remember what magic is," he said quietly, repeating the definition they'd drilled all week. "Stable mana flows from the caster through the magic circle, bent by the sigils, and creates the effect. That effect is Magic. And what you drew is the bent mana flows"
The mana thread touched the heart of Rias's messy Intention block. And everything changed. The jagged lines—once seeming random—suddenly snapped into alignment. Not because they were redrawn, but because the mana bent to follow them perfectly. Every crooked arrow became a precise flow channel. Every overlapping sigil resolved into layered depth. Every uneven circle revealed itself as a nested structure with perfect concentric spacing in three dimensions.
The projection shifted perspective—zooming in, rotating slowly—so they could see the mana weaving through the "scribbles" like water finding the exact path of least resistance through a jagged rock formation. What had looked like chaos from 2D was revealed as elegant, intentional architecture in 3D.
The flows gathered, converged, spiraled inward… and then—softly, silently—the spell effect bloomed. A small, perfect orb of warm crimson light rose from the center of the projection. Steady. Stable. Exactly the size and brightness Rias had intended. No flicker. No fade. No stray sparks. Just clean, controlled illumination.
Rias's mouth fell open. "That's…" she breathed, "…exactly what I saw in my head." Arto let the orb rotate for a few seconds longer, then dismissed it with a small wave. The projection faded back to the original messy scribble. "That's what magic is," he repeated gently. "Your Intention—raw, honest, unpolished—was already strong enough to guide the mana. The scribbles were the correct path… you just couldn't see it clearly in two dimensions. The Formula doesn't invent a better spell. It reveals the spell you already meant to cast. It gives your mind the structure to express what you truly wanted without distortion."
Arto looked at each of them in turn—Rias's fierce determination now softened by quiet pride, Akeno's eager curiosity glowing brighter than ever, Kiba's analytical focus sharpened to a razor's edge, Sona's composed precision carrying a new layer of personal resolve, Koneko's steady skepticism finally giving way to something like trust. "You all did the hardest part tonight," he said, voice low and warm, carrying the rare weight of genuine praise. "You held a complete Intention. Not a vague wish. Not a half-formed picture. A complete one. The rest of the book is just giving you clearer glasses."
He stepped back from the whiteboard, letting the now-refined version of Rias's original scribble remain as a silent testament. "From this point on, you can start reading the next chapters. You'll see everything much clearer at this point—because from here, you can actually learn on your own. The formulas will stop being mysteries and start being tools. You'll recognize the patterns. You'll spot the shortcuts. You'll feel where the mana wants to flow before you even draw the line."
He paused, letting the words settle like dust after a storm. "And if you have any new ideas for the formulas—modifications, optimizations, entirely new branches—make sure to let me know. We even have an entire Git system for that. Branch. Commit. Propose. Review. Merge. No more lost ideas. No more 'I thought of this last week but forgot.' Everything tracked. Everything preserved. Everything improved together."
He raised his right hand. A soft silver-blue shimmer gathered at his fingertips—familiar now, comforting in its quiet power. He snapped his fingers. The sound was small, almost anticlimactic.
But the effect was immediate. Every open copy of Spellcrafting Formulas on the table shimmered at once. The pages glowed faintly—soft, warm light running along the edges like liquid starlight—then settled. The remaining chapters, previously locked behind the Abyssgard Code's dancing, shifting glyphs, now lay plain and readable. Clear script. Precise diagrams. Flowing annotations. All unlocked.
Rias inhaled sharply—fingers brushing the newly revealed pages in awe. Akeno let out a delighted, almost giddy laugh, already flipping forward. Kiba's eyes widened behind his glasses; he leaned in like a man who'd just been handed the keys to a forbidden library. Sona simply turned to the next chapter—calm, methodical, but with the tiniest upward curve at the corner of her mouth. Koneko blinked at her book, then poked it once—as if testing whether it would bite—before slowly starting to read.
Arto watched them—arms folded, expression soft in a way he rarely allowed himself to show. "You've earned this," he said quietly. "Not because you're prodigies. Not because you're strong. Because you showed up. Every day. You read. You struggled. You asked questions. You didn't quit when it hurt your head or your pride. That's rarer than any spell in this book."
He walked to the kitchen doorway, glancing back over his shoulder. "Dinner's still warm. Eat. Rest. Dream. Read. Experiment safely in the Simulation Room if you can't sleep. But remember: the power isn't in the book. It's in the mind that intends to use it right."
He smiled—just a small, real curve of the lips. "Class dismissed."