3rd Person POV
Arto pushed open the clubhouse door just as the last light of day bled out of the sky. The familiar scent of wood polish, old books, and simmering herbs greeted him first—then the sight of Rias and Akeno in the entryway.
Akeno moved before he could even close the door behind him.
She threw herself forward like a storm breaking, arms wrapping around his neck, legs hooking around his waist in one fluid motion. The impact barely shifted him—he caught her easily, one hand under her thighs, the other steadying her back. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and inhaled deeply, like she was trying to memorize the scent of him after twenty-four hours apart.
"Darling," she breathed against his skin, voice muffled and thick with relief, "you were gone forever."
Arto let out a low huff—half amusement, half exhaustion—and tightened his hold on her, letting her cling as long as she needed. Her hair smelled of wind, faint ozone from stray-hunting, and the jasmine shampoo she always stole from his shelf.
"I was gone one day," he murmured, lips brushing her temple. "You survived."
"Barely," she whined, nuzzling closer. "Rias was no fun without you to tease. She just brooded and stared at the door like a lost puppy."
From the living room doorway, Rias watched them—arms crossed loosely, expression soft but guarded. She hadn't moved to greet him yet. Her crimson hair was loose, catching the lamplight, but her usual easy smile was absent. Instead there was something quieter in her eyes—warier, almost braced.
Arto met her gaze over Akeno's shoulder. Akeno—still latched to him like a particularly affectionate koala—finally noticed the shift in atmosphere. She pulled back just enough to look between them, violet eyes flicking from Arto's calm face to Rias's careful one. "…Oh," she said softly, realization dawning. "You two need to talk."
Arto nodded once. Akeno unwrapped herself reluctantly, sliding down until her feet touched the floor. She pressed a quick kiss to his jaw, then to Rias's cheek as she passed. "I'll be in the kitchen," she murmured. "Stew's almost done. Yell if you need a referee."
She disappeared around the corner, leaving only the soft clink of dishes and the faint sound of humming. Silence settled between Arto and Rias. He stepped forward—slow, deliberate—until he was close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her.
Rias didn't retreat. But she didn't reach for him either. Arto lifted one hand, brushing a strand of crimson hair behind her ear—gentle, careful, like she might shatter if he moved too fast. "I talked to the Spy," he said quietly. "She told me everything. The Phenex contract. The siege. The blood-price. The clock running out."
Rias's breath caught—just a tiny hitch. She looked down, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. "I was going to—"
Arto pressed a finger to her lips—soft, silencing, but not unkind. "It doesn't matter when you were going to tell me," he murmured. "As long as I'm here, I'll know eventually when the time comes. But what matters now is this: have you gotten any measures to get out of this situation? Or are you waiting helplessly for Riser to come and take you away… living on borrowed time?"
The words were quiet, but they cut deeper than any shout could have. Rias's shoulders tensed. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. For a moment she looked like she might pull away—might retreat behind the walls she'd spent years building to protect herself from exactly this conversation.
Then she exhaled—slow, shaky—and met his gaze. "No," she admitted, voice small but steady. "I've been looking for a way out. For years. Every loophole. Every clause. Every precedent. But the contract is ironclad. Phenex holds all the leverage. They didn't just write it to bind me—they wrote it to bind us. If I refuse, they can legally demand compensation that would cripple Gremory. Land. Vassals. Mana reserves. Everything we've rebuilt since the war."
She swallowed hard. "I thought… if I got stronger. If the peerage got stronger. If we rebuilt our reputation, our power… maybe we could renegotiate. Or fight. Or find a way to make them back down. But the clock keeps ticking. And every year it gets closer."
Arto's hand slid from her lips to cup her cheek—thumb brushing the faint wetness there. "And you didn't tell me," he said softly. "Because you were afraid I'd feel used. Or trapped. Or that I'd leave."
Rias's eyes shimmered. "I was afraid you'd stay because you felt obligated," she whispered. "I didn't want you to be another sacrifice for Gremory. I wanted you to choose me because you wanted to. Not because you had to save me."
Arto's other hand came up—both now cradling her face, holding her like she was something infinitely precious. "I do choose you," he said, voice low and fierce. "Every day. Every night. Every time I step into that Arena and fight my own ghosts so you can sleep peacefully. I choose you because you're Rias. Because you saw me when no one else did. Because you gave me a home when I had none. Because you fight beside me like you were born for it."
He leaned closer—until their foreheads touched, until she could feel his breath against her lips. "I'm not leaving. I'm not a sacrifice. I'm your partner. And if Phenex thinks they can take you… they'll have to go through me first."
Arto's smile was small, sharp, and utterly certain.
"I won't fight them directly," he said quietly, the words carrying the calm weight of someone who had already mapped out every possible path through the coming storm. "But I will give you directions and instructions. I'm not just here as your mentor. I'm your strategist—a strategist with over a thousand years of experience running a legion and playing political games. I've seen this situation more than you think. It's just the first time it's happened to someone I care deeply about."
He lifted his other hand to cradle the side of her face, thumb brushing away the last trace of tears.
"I've watched houses fall because they waited for the enemy to strike first. I've watched them survive because someone saw the noose tightening and started cutting threads before it became rope. Phenex thinks they hold the contract. They think time is their weapon. They're wrong."
His dark blue eyes held hers—steady, unblinking, burning with a quiet, ancient certainty. "Contracts are paper. Paper burns. Oaths are words. Words can be twisted. Blood-prices are traditions. Traditions can be broken when the balance of power shifts. And power… power is what we're building right now. Not just for Gremory. For you. For the peerage. For every soul Phenex thinks they can claim because of ink signed centuries ago."
Rias's hands tightened on his shirt—fingers curling into the fabric like she was anchoring herself to him. "You really believe we can break it?" she asked, voice small but fierce. "Without war? Without losing everything?"
Arto leaned in until their foreheads touched again—breath mingling, warmth shared. "I believe we can make Phenex choose to break it," he said "But I must first know the situation, the contract, the clauses, and the Phenex, I am quite oblivious about that, so you must tell me"
Rias exhaled slowly, the sound shaky but steadying as she pulled back just enough to meet Arto's eyes again. Her fingers remained tangled in his shirt—anchoring, grounding—like letting go would mean losing the fragile hope he'd just handed her.
She nodded once—small, decisive.
"Okay," she whispered. "No more hiding. No more 'it's handled.' You deserve to know everything."
She guided him toward the bed, sitting on the edge and tugging him down beside her. Their knees touched; she didn't let go of his hand.
"The contract…" she began, voice low, as though the walls themselves might be listening, "was signed at the very end of the siege. Gremory was broken. Phenex had superior numbers, superior regeneration, superior fire. They'd already taken three vassal houses. Sirzechs couldn't intervene directly—he'd already ascended to Maou Lucifer by then, and the moment he stepped in as a Gremory, it would've escalated into full-scale civil war between the Pillars. So he mediated. He forced both sides to the table."
Rias's free hand traced invisible patterns on the bedsheet—old habit when she was nervous.
"The terms were simple on the surface:
Rias marries Riser Phenex within ten years of her coming of age. In exchange, Phenex withdraws all claims on Gremory territory, returns seized assets, and pays reparations disguised as 'dowry support.' If Rias refuses or fails to uphold the marriage… Phenex gains legal right to demand compensation equivalent to the value of the original siege losses—land, vassals, mana reserves, even peerage members if they choose. The contract is sealed with blood-oaths from both clan heads. Breaking it triggers automatic penalties enforced by the Underworld's ancient arbitration runes. No court. No appeal. Just… consequences."
She swallowed. Arto's hand tightened around hers—silent encouragement. "I see, this is easy to break, but we need to start as soon as possible, we will force them to tear this deal apart themselves, but a simple fact, devils value..."
"...strength above all." Rias finished the sentence in a quiet, fierce whisper, eyes locked on his. Arto's smile was small—sharp, approving, almost proud. "Smart girl."
He continued, voice low and deliberate, each word placed like a piece on a board only he could fully see. "If you're strong enough, you take dominance in the relationship with your 'husband.' The contract defaults to Phenex authority over marital property because it assumes Gremory will be the weaker party. That's the loophole—an ambiguous clause. We don't need to tear the whole thing apart. We only need to add one sentence. One small, ironclad amendment that Phenex cannot refuse without losing face in front of the entire Underworld."
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a near-whisper, as though the walls might carry the words to unfriendly ears. "'Only the stronger one deserves to take the reign.'" Rias's eyes widened slightly—then narrowed in understanding. "A battle for authority," she breathed.
Arto nodded once, the motion slow and certain, like a general finalizing a battle plan that had been brewing in his mind for centuries. "A single sentence—accepted by every devil alive, because it's the oldest law they respect: strength decides. They can't refuse without admitting weakness. If they accept… you fight Riser. Win, and the marriage contract dissolves under the amended terms. Gremory keeps everything. Phenex loses the claim, and you—as the victor—can strike a unilateral divorce under the second reason: 'I deserve a man stronger than this loser.' Another public humiliation right in their face."
Rias's breath came out in a soft, almost disbelieving laugh—half relief, half exhilarated disbelief. Her fingers tightened on his shirt again, but this time it wasn't from fear; it was from the sudden, electric rush of possibility. "You're turning their pride into a weapon against them," she whispered, eyes shining. "They'll have to accept… or look like cowards in front of every Pillar House, every vassal family, every noble who still remembers the siege. Phenex lives on reputation. Their regeneration is their pride. If they back down from a challenge they wrote into the contract themselves…"
"They lose face," Arto finished for her. "And losing face in the Underworld is worse than losing land. Pride is currency. Strip it away publicly, and the contract becomes poison. They'll void it themselves just to stop the bleeding."He leaned in closer—until their noses brushed, until she could feel every word against her lips."But we don't just rely on their pride. We make sure you win."
Rias searched his face—looking for any crack of doubt, any hint of bluff."You really think I can beat Riser?" she asked, voice small but fierce. "He's a Phenex. He regenerates. He burns. He's been trained for this his whole life."
Arto's hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck—fingers threading into her hair, holding her steady so she couldn't look away from the certainty in his eyes. "Oh, Rias," he said, voice low and warm, carrying that quiet, unshakable confidence she'd come to rely on more than any spell. "I will train you until you can. Until beating Riser feels as easy as eating breakfast."
He leaned in closer, forehead brushing hers again, letting her feel every word. "With the Simulation Room, you and your peerage can run any scenario you want. Every move Riser has ever made. Every flame pattern. Every regeneration sequence. Every smug taunt. We'll simulate it over and over—different angles, different conditions, different mistakes you might make—until you've seen them all and countered them all. Until your body moves before your mind even finishes the thought."
He tapped the side of his own temple with two fingers, a small, wry smile tugging at his lips. "I mean… it's not the first time you've fought generative monsters, right?" The implication hung between them like smoke: the Dark Arena. That endless, shifting nightmare inside his own head—where enemies spawned from his memories, adapted faster than any living opponent could, grew stronger with every failure, and never once held back. She had walked into that hell with him night after night. She had bled there. She had learned there.
And she had never once asked him to stop. Rias's breath hitched—not from doubt this time, but from the sudden rush of memory and realization. "You're saying…" she whispered, eyes widening as the full shape of his plan crystallized, "…the Dark Arena was never just training for you. It was training for us too. A preview. A prototype."
Arto's smile grew—just a fraction, sharp and proud. "Exactly. The Simulation Room will be the finished version—cleaner, safer, scalable to the whole peerage. But the Arena? The Arena is already perfect at one thing: generating enemies that feel real, that adapt like living opponents, that punish every mistake. Riser regenerates? We'll simulate Phenex regeneration until you can cut through it in your sleep. He burns? We'll run firestorm after firestorm until the heat feels like nothing more than a warm breeze. He's been trained his whole life? We'll give you a lifetime of fights in weeks."
He tightened his hold on her waist—pulling her flush against him.
"You're not going into that duel blind. You're going in having already won it a thousand times in every way that matters. And when you step onto that arena floor in front of the entire Underworld… Riser won't be facing the Rias he thinks he knows. He'll be facing the Rias who has already broken him in every simulation we could dream up."
Rias's eyes shimmered—bright, fierce, alive with something that looked dangerously close to joy. "Then...do we need to increase the training regimen? Or..." she asks, but Arto shakes his head "There is no need for now, keep the training regimen as it is now because it's quite heavy already, especially for you and Akeno, that's not mentioning your studying with Spellcrafting Formulas. I haven't gotten the full view of of the power of Riser or any Phenex. I will have those intel gathered later, but be assured, you're training under Abyssgard soldier regimen, soldiers fitting for special forces and secret services, and let me tell you, slaying and protecing nobel devils was our...job back in the day."
Rias blinked—once, twice—her fierce expression cracking into something softer, more bewildered. "Huh?" Arto's lips curved—just the barest hint of a smile, the kind that only appeared when he was sharing something from the deep, dusty vaults of his past.
He leaned back against the headboard, pulling her with him so she ended up half-draped across his chest again, her ear pressed over his steady heartbeat. "Back in the day in my old world," he repeated quietly, fingers resuming their slow path up and down her spine, "my legion wasn't just soldiers. We were the blade and the shield of the political war in Hell. Abyssgard soldiers outdid all other kinds of special forces due to our strength, endurance, speed, coordination, and strategy. Most nobles had one or a few Abyssgards as their protectors. The price was steep based on the experience of the soldiers—we gained a lot from that, putting us at the position of one of the richest foundations in Hell."
Rias lifted her head just enough to look at him properly, chin resting on his sternum, eyes wide with a mix of fascination and dawning realization. "So… you weren't just a legion," she murmured. "You were the private guard of the most powerful people in your world. The ones who could afford the best."
Arto gave a small nod, his hand sliding up to thread through her hair again—gentle, almost absentminded. "Exactly. We weren't public military. We were shadow assets. When a noble wanted something done quietly—protection, assassination, espionage, extraction—they paid for Abyssgard. The more battles we survived, the more scars we carried, the higher our price. A single veteran could command more than an entire conventional company. And we delivered. Always."
His gaze drifted toward the ceiling for a moment, as though seeing old battlefields in the plaster. "That's why the training I'm putting you through feels so brutal. It's not modern gym discipline. It's the regimen we used to forge operatives who had to keep breathing when everyone else was already dead. No safety nets. No second chances. Just results."
Rias's fingers traced slow circles over his heart—feeling the steady, ancient rhythm beneath.
"And the nobles… they trusted you with their lives?"
Arto's voice came quiet, almost distant, as though the memory itself carried its own weight.
"No," he said. "They wanted to bleed us dry. To turn the blades of the Legion against each other."
He shifted slightly beneath her, one arm still curled around her waist while the other hand came up to cover hers—pressing her palm more firmly against his chest, as if anchoring the words to the place they still hurt.
"When I took command, the legion was at its best shape. Powerful. Resourceful. But devil-kind wasn't that lucky. They were in ruins after a long war with the gods of my old home. Both sides were exhausted—too broken to strike the killing blow, too stubborn to surrender. A stalemate of corpses and ash."
His thumb brushed over her knuckles—slow, absent, the way one might soothe an old scar.
"In that desperate moment… I made a move. I seeped my own soldiers into the lines of nobles. Guarding their recovery. Protecting their estates. Hunting their assassins. Gathering resources for the inevitable war against the Abyss. Their revival was remarkable. Cities rebuilt. Armies reformed. Trade routes reopened. They rose from ruin faster than anyone thought possible."
Rias lifted her head just enough to watch his face—eyes distant, staring at something centuries away. "But when they were stable again… hunger for power and dominion arose. And from that point, Abyssgard became the blades they pointed at each other. Both to kill us—and to eliminate their own rivals. Two birds with one stone."
His voice dropped lower, quieter still. "We were never trusted. We were used. The nobles who once begged for our protection now paid us to murder their cousins, their siblings, their former allies. The higher our price rose, the more they resented us. The more they feared us. The more they wanted us gone… but they couldn't afford to let us go. We were too useful. Too dangerous. Too necessary."
Arto exhaled—slow, controlled—his gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the bedroom walls, into memories that still carried the scent of blood and smoke. "But that's when a tradition was made," he said quietly, "a way to redirect resources back to its origin."
He rose from the bed in one smooth motion, pulling Rias up with him. Her hand stayed in his as he guided her to the open space near the foot of the bed—enough room for them to stand facing each other, about three paces apart. "Let me walk you through a traditional duel ritual between Abyssgard warriors."
Rias stood opposite him, barefoot on the cool wooden floor, nightgown swaying slightly. She watched him with rapt attention—eyes wide, curious, a little breathless from the shift in mood.
Arto lifted his right hand—not fully extended, but held forward with calm authority. His middle and ring fingers stretched straight and rigid, while the thumb, index, and pinky folded neatly against his palm. "This," he said, voice low and measured, "is the mark of the challenger."
The gesture was simple, almost elegant, yet it carried an unmistakable weight—like a drawn blade held at rest. "When two Abyssgard soldiers—or more, sometimes three or four groups—met on the battlefield, they each sent a representative forward to set the rules for the battle. No one spoke until both sides showed the mark. It meant: I am here to fight. I am willing to die. I am willing to kill. But I will do it with honor, not ambush."
He held the position steady, letting Rias see every detail—the straightness of the fingers, the relaxed tension in his wrist, the way the gesture felt both open and unyielding. "Now you," he said softly. "Show me." Rias hesitated only a second—then mirrored him. Her right hand rose, middle and ring fingers extended straight, the others folded. She held it forward, palm facing him, matching his height exactly.
Arto's eyes softened at the sight—something warm and proud flickering in them. "Perfect," he murmured. He lowered his hand slowly, the gesture dissolving as though the air itself released its tension. "The moment both representatives showed the mark, the duel was locked," he continued. "No retreat. No negotiation. No mercy. Normally, they would fight immediately—with every tool they had, every trick, every ounce of strength—because that's how things normally went. Fight to the death."
He paused, letting the weight of the word settle. "But the dead never truly died." Arto lifted his right hand again. This time he kept the middle and ring fingers extended straight, but slowly, deliberately, he pointed them downward—toward the floor, toward the earth, toward something buried and waiting. "When the fight was over," he said quietly, "the survivors would use this hand sign to set the dead on fire. A ritual pyre. A mark of finality. The flames would rise—bright, hot, consuming—until nothing remained but ash and memory."
His voice dropped lower, almost reverent. "But deep beneath that flame… the 'dead' were brought back." Rias's breath caught. She stared at his hand—the two fingers still pointing downward like a silent command to the earth itself. "They weren't burned to nothing," Arto continued. "The fire was cover. A distraction. A lie told to the watchers, to the nobles, to the enemy. Beneath the pyre, hidden tunnels, concealed wards, and our own healers waited. The bodies were pulled under. Stabilized. Healed. Given new faces, new names, new scars to match the story we wanted told."
He turned his hand over slowly—palm up now, fingers relaxing. "They rejoined the fray—stronger, wiser, more expensive. Each 'death' raised their price. Each resurrection added to the legend. The nobles paid more because they thought they were hiring ghosts. The enemies feared more because they thought we were unkillable. And we… we survived. Again. And again. Until the nobles finally realized the blades they'd paid for had never truly belonged to them."
Rias swallowed, eyes wide. "You faked your own deaths… over and over… to keep control of your own fate."
Arto nodded once—small, solemn. "It wasn't noble. It wasn't heroic. It was survival. We turned their greed against them. Every time they tried to bleed us dry, we bled them instead—by making ourselves indispensable, by making our 'deaths' too costly to repeat, by making sure the only way to truly end us… was to stop hiring us altogether. It's also away for us soldiers to be hone our power against each other to get stronger to prepare for the war"
He lowered his hand completely. "That's why I'm teaching you this now," he said softly. "Not just the mark. Not just the duel. The thinking behind it. When the world tries to own you, when they write your name on paper and call it destiny… you find the loophole. You turn their weapon into yours. You let them think they've won—right up until the moment they realize they've been paying for their own defeat."
Rias stared at him—breath shallow, eyes shimmering with something between awe and fierce determination. "I see," she whispered, voice thick with emotion she rarely let show so openly. "Thank you… for telling me this. I feel… much better now."
Arto's smile softened—small, warm, the kind reserved only for her in these quiet moments between battles and secrets. "That's my princess," he murmured, brushing his thumb gently across her cheekbone one last time. "Now, let us have dinner, my dear. I'm starving. We can't keep Akeno waiting forever, right? I can smell the food already."
Rias let out a soft, watery laugh—the sound breaking the last of the tension between them like dawn cracking through clouds. She nodded, blinking quickly to clear the lingering moisture in her eyes, then squeezed his hand. "You're right," she said, voice steadier now. "She'll eat everything if we don't hurry."
Arto chuckled—low, fond—and tugged her gently toward the door. "Come on then."
Arto and Rias stepped into the kitchen doorway together, the warm light spilling across the table where the stew still bubbled gently on the stove. Akeno stood frozen mid-motion, spatula in hand, violet eyes wide with confusion and the faintest edge of wariness. She had clearly been ready to serve dinner, but now her attention—and the faint crackle of lightning dancing at her fingertips—were fixed on the woman seated casually at the far end of the table.
Nico Robin.
No mask this time. No obsidian veil. Her face was fully revealed—strikingly beautiful in a quiet, understated way: high cheekbones, dark eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, long black hair falling straight as ink over one shoulder. She wore a simple dark coat over civilian clothes, no flourish, no threat display. Just a woman who could have passed for any well-dressed traveler… except for the calm, knowing smile that curved her lips when she turned to look at Arto. "Robin," Arto said first—voice low, even, betraying nothing. "What are you doing here?"
Robin's gaze flicked briefly to Rias—assessing, polite—then returned to him. She inclined her head in a small, almost courtly gesture. "I thought it best we finish our conversation in person," she said smoothly, voice still carrying that same sweet, measured cadence. "Akita was… too exposed. Too many variables. Here, at least, I know you won't be interrupted."
Akeno's grip tightened on the spatula—enough that the wood creaked faintly. Lightning danced brighter along her knuckles. "You just walked into our home?" she asked, tone deceptively light but carrying the unmistakable promise of thunder.
Robin's gloved hands remained raised—palms open, fingers splayed in clear surrender—while her dark eyes flicked calmly from Akeno's crackling spatula to Arto's steady expression.
"I must correct you, dear," she said, voice smooth and unruffled, almost conversational. "I teleported in here using an eye I placed in this clubhouse. It's one of my two personal perks. But I am unarmed. You don't need to worry."
She lowered her hands slowly, deliberately, resting them palms-down on the table as though proving her point.
"Besides," she continued, smile curving just a fraction wider, "Arto here promised my protection. So where else should I be, aside from the safest house under the protection of Sitri and Gremory?"
Akeno's lightning didn't fade. If anything, the faint purple arcs along her knuckles brightened, dancing like live wires. The spatula in her grip looked one squeeze away from splintering.
"You placed an eye in our home?" she asked, tone still light—dangerously light—but the air around her smelled faintly of ozone now. "Without asking?"
Robin inclined her head—small, acknowledging. "A precaution. Nothing more. It's been dormant since our agreement in Akita. I only activated it to arrive unseen and speak privately. No recordings. No surveillance. I disabled it the moment I materialized here."
She glanced at Arto—eyes sharp but not challenging. "You can verify that yourself, if you wish. The node is in the upper left corner of the living-room ceiling beam, disguised as a knot in the wood. I can show you how to purge it permanently, if that would ease tensions."
Arto hadn't moved since stepping into the kitchen. His expression remained calm—almost bored—but the silver-blue shimmer at the edges of his irises had sharpened, like moonlight on a blade.
He exhaled once—slow, measured—then turned to Akeno. "She's telling the truth," he said quietly. "The trace is inactive. No active eyes or ears. She came alone."
Akeno's lightning dimmed—slightly—but she didn't lower the spatula. "Still," she said, "walking into someone's kitchen uninvited is rude. Even for a spy."
Robin's smile turned almost apologetic—though the amusement never quite left her eyes. "It's the job of a spy to keep it quiet and clean, mind you, Akeno. But that's besides the point. I'm here to stay and all my luggages have been moved to the empty room of this clubhouse. I hope you don't mind. And before I go change, let me introduce myself to you two ladies. My name is Nico Robin, aka the Spy, the best intel broker that your man just allied with."
The kitchen fell into a stunned silence so thick it felt like the stew itself paused bubbling. Akeno's spatula finally lowered—slowly, like she was processing whether to use it as a weapon or just stare. The last flickers of lightning fizzled out completely, leaving only the faint scent of ozone behind.
Rias blinked once—twice—then slowly released Arto's hand and stepped forward, posture shifting from protective to regal in the span of a heartbeat. Her nightgown still clung softly to her frame, but the way she carried herself now screamed heiress more than lover. "You… moved in?" Rias repeated, voice dangerously calm. "Into our clubhouse. Without asking. Without warning. Without even a suitcase visible at the front door."
Robin inclined her head—small, polite, utterly unrepentant. "I'm efficient," she said simply. "And I dislike loose ends. The moment the alliance was sealed in Akita, I arranged transport. Discreetly. The room at the end of the upstairs hall was empty. I took the liberty of claiming it. Your wards are impressive, by the way—very thorough. It took me almost twenty minutes to slip past them without tripping anything permanent."
Akeno's eye twitched. "Twenty minutes," she echoed, tone flat. "You're lucky it wasn't thirty. I would've fried you on principle." Robin's smile didn't waver. "I'm aware. That's why I waited until you were both upstairs… preoccupied."
Rias's cheeks flushed—just a fraction—but her eyes stayed hard. "You're bold," she said. "I'll give you that."
"I have to be," Robin replied, voice softening slightly. "I'm not here to invade. I'm here because Arto offered me permanence. A place where I don't have to run forever. Where my Organization—my children—don't have to live looking over their shoulders. I intend to earn that place."
She glanced at Arto—eyes sharp but not challenging. "I won't spy on you. Not inside these walls. The eye I used to enter has already been purged—permanently. You can scan for it yourself. I'll show you the node if you want. But if this alliance is real… then this is my home now too. And I protect what's mine."
Akeno looked at Arto—eyebrow raised, waiting. Rias turned to him as well—arms crossed, expression a mix of exasperation, curiosity, and reluctant acceptance.
Arto exhaled—slow, tired, but not unhappy. "She's part of the deal," he said simply. "She gets protection. We get her eyes and ears. Permanently. No half-measures. If she betrays us… I end her. She knows that." He looked at Robin. "And if we betray her… she speaks. We know that."
Robin inclined her head—small, acknowledging. "Mutual destruction," she said softly. "Or mutual survival. Your choice." Rias studied her for a long moment—then sighed. "Fine," she said. "You can stay. But there are rules. One: no eyes, no ears, no nodes inside these walls without explicit permission from all three of us. Two: you contribute. You don't just observe. You help. Training, intel, strategy—whatever we need. Three: you eat with us. You live with us. You're not a guest. You're… part of this. Until you prove otherwise."
Robin's smile returned—small, genuine. "Acceptable." Akeno finally set the spatula down—though she kept one hand near it, just in case. "I'm watching you," she said sweetly. "And if you hurt him—or Rias—I won't need lightning. I'll just make sure you regret it very, very slowly." Robin laughed—soft, delighted. "Noted."
She stood—pushing the chair back with perfect grace. "I'll change and join you for dinner," she said. "If that's alright." Rias nodded—once, curt but accepting. "It's alright." Robin inclined her head again—respectful—then walked past them toward the stairs. Her footsteps were almost silent, coat whispering against the floorboards.
Akeno turned to Arto—arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her bangs. "You really just… invited the world's most dangerous spy to live with us?"
Arto rubbed the back of his neck—tired, but not regretful. "I invited the world's best intel network to stand with us," he corrected, voice low and matter-of-fact. "I just didn't expect her to come live with us. Now, do we have enough food for four, or will I have to go and buy some more ingredients?"
Akeno stepped over to the stove, lifted the lid of the pot, and peered inside with the practiced eye of someone who had learned to cook for a house full of bottomless appetites. Steam curled upward, carrying the rich scent of herbs, tender beef, and slow-simmered vegetables.
"I think we have enough," she said after a moment, giving the stew a quick stir. "I've already delivered portions to Kiba and Koneko. They won't be eating with us tonight. One is still training under that gravity spell of yours—he's probably cursing your name while doing one-finger push-ups in the backyard. The other hasn't left his apartment in hours. It looks like an alchemical lab in there now—vials, runes, glowing liquids. I think he's trying to reverse-engineer your coffee or something equally mad."
Arto let out a quiet huff—almost a laugh. "Sounds about right."
Rias slid into the chair beside him, reaching for the bread basket and tearing off a piece. "So… her true name is Nico Robin, right?"
Arto turned to her, spoon halfway to his mouth. "I think so. Why?" "Because if her surname is truly Nico," Rias said, popping the bread into her mouth and chewing slowly, deliberately, letting the mystery swirl around the room like steam from the stew, "we didn't just receive an intel broker."
Akeno paused mid-stir, the spatula hovering above the pot. She set it down with a soft clink and slid into the seat across from them, elbows on the table, chin resting on laced fingers. Her violet eyes gleamed with sudden, sharp curiosity. "You got me curious," she said, voice lilting. "What else is it with that woman?"
Rias swallowed the bread, took a sip of water, then leaned forward—voice dropping to the confidential tone she usually reserved for council meetings. "Nico isn't just an ordinary surname," she began. "It belongs to a clan of renown doctors and surgeons—arguably the most feared and revered medical lineage in the supernatural underworld. They are known for their signature magic: spawning body parts. Not illusions. Not prosthetics. Literal, functioning flesh, bone, nerve, and blood—perfectly matched to the recipient. No rejection. No scars. No recovery time beyond the initial shock."
Akeno's eyebrows rose slowly. Arto set his spoon down entirely.
Rias continued, eyes never leaving Arto's face. "Their silent but irreplaceable contributions were seen in wars—especially the World Wars. They served under the Soviet Union, though never officially acknowledged. They were at almost every major battlefield. Stalingrad was the highlight of the Nico clan. Some secret documents—ones Father keeps under triple wards—claim that part of the reason the Red Army could hold that city until winter was because of them. Soldiers who should have died from amputations, organ failure, or blood loss were back on the line within hours—new arms, new legs, new eyes grafted on like they'd never been lost. The Nazis' inhuman experiments on humans… desperate attempts to replicate, or at least match, what the Nico doctors could do naturally."
She paused, letting that sink in. "They are the foundation of the modern magical medical field. So many breakthroughs—especially in regenerative treatment, transplant rejection prevention, even limb and organ regrowth—carry their mark, even if the world never says the name aloud. If this Spy is truly a Nico… we're not just getting an intel network. We might be getting a living medical library. A walking, talking archive of healing that could change everything—battlefield casualties, training injuries, even long-term mana damage. She could keep our peerage fighting longer, recovering faster, pushing harder than any devil alive. But...."
"But what?" Arto asked, voice low, already sensing the shadow behind her words.
Rias set the bread down slowly. "She seems to be the last one of that lineage." The kitchen went quiet—only the soft bubble of the stew and the distant tick of the wall clock. "By the time of the collapse of the Soviet Union," Rias continued, "the Nico clan disappeared with it. Without a trace. Without a sound. No records, no sightings, no survivors reported. They were ghosts even before they vanished. When I first heard about what the Spy could do—spawning eyes and ears anywhere, perfectly concealed—I had my doubts. But seeing her now… those features, that calm certainty, the way she moves like she's already seen every outcome… I think I can be certain. This woman is legitimately a Nico clanswoman. Maybe the last one."
She looked at Arto directly—eyes steady, voice dropping to match his. "So yes. Aside from you… we now have another one-of-a-kind to protect. Because just like you, once they know what she can do, they will stop at nothing to have her."
Akeno let out a long, low whistle—half admiration, half unease—and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "A living medical archive who can regrow limbs on the battlefield… and she's decided to move into our spare bedroom." She gave a short, incredulous laugh. "We really are collecting strays with world-altering powers, aren't we?"
Arto didn't laugh. He set his spoon down—carefully, deliberately—and leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. "How certain are you?" he asked Rias. "About her being the last?"
"Eighty percent," Rias answered without hesitation. "The physical markers match old clan portraits—high cheekbones, the particular way the eyes catch light, even the way she holds herself like she's used to operating rooms more than battlefields. The Soviet records Father has access to end abruptly in late 1989. One week the Nico field surgeons are saving thousands in Kabul and Grozny… the next, nothing. No bodies. No defectors. No sightings. It's like they collectively decided to stop existing."
Robin's voice rang from the staircase—clear, calm, carrying that same sweet undertone that somehow made every word feel both intimate and distant. "Make that one hundred, Rias." All three heads turned.
She descended the last few steps in more comfortable clothes: loose black trousers, a soft charcoal sweater that hung off one shoulder, hair tied back in a simple low ponytail. No coat. No mask. No trace of the battlefield-ready spy who had appeared in the archive room hours earlier. Just a woman—strikingly beautiful in an understated way, moving with the quiet grace of someone who had long ago learned how to be invisible even when standing in plain sight.
She pulled out the empty chair at the table and sat—posture relaxed, hands resting lightly on the edge, as though she had always belonged there. "It's rare to see someone who knows so much about our history," she said, meeting Rias's gaze directly. "I thought we were forgotten."
A beat of silence. Then Robin's lips curved—small, almost wistful. "But yes. I am a Nico clanswoman. And yes… I am the last of the line." Akeno's fingers flexed once around her spoon—instinctive, protective—but she didn't speak.
Rias set her bread down slowly, eyes never leaving Robin's face. "How?" she asked—voice quiet, but carrying the weight of genuine curiosity rather than accusation. "The records say the clan vanished. No survivors. No trace. What happened in 1989?"
Robin exhaled—soft, almost tired—and reached for the water glass in front of her, turning it slowly between her fingers. "It's something I don't want to discuss at the moment, just know that I am the last of my line, the last Nico to walk this world, it's a brutal event, you kids are too young to hear that. Just know that fact, and value me, because I am that important"
Arto nods "I see, then we won't press further than that, but I am still curious about your medical prowess, you never mentioned it"
Robin sighed again—soft, almost resigned—and set the water glass down untouched. Her dark eyes flicked between the three of them, lingering a moment longer on Arto before settling on the table.
"I didn't mention it," she said, "because I never thought it was necessary in our negotiation. You were buying silence and intel, not healing. But now that you know… yes. I can do pretty much everything my forefathers could. Maybe even more."
She lifted her right hand—palm up, fingers relaxed—and without any visible effort or incantation, a perfect replica of her own left forearm materialized above her skin. It hovered there for a second—flesh, bone, vein, nail—identical in every detail, down to the faint scar on the inner wrist that Arto had noticed earlier in Akita. Then it simply… dissolved. Faded into motes of soft gray light that drifted upward and vanished.
Akeno's breath caught audibly. Rias leaned forward despite herself—eyes wide, analytical. Arto remained still, but his gaze sharpened—clinical, assessing. "Spawning body parts is the baseline Nico gift," Robin continued, voice calm, almost clinical. "But I was born with two new mutations. Two perks, as you might call them. They're why I excelled at this intel brokering field"
She extended her index finger—casual, almost bored—and a single eye appeared at the tip. Not grotesque. Perfect. Iris dark blue, pupil contracting as it focused first on Arto, then Rias, then Akeno. It blinked once—slow, deliberate—then vanished.
"First mutation: I can sense and channel mana through the parts I spawned. Normally, a Nico clansman can't see or hear through the eyes and ears they spawn, but I can, and that's they starting point of my intel network. I can spawn an eye as far as I can sense, and use that eye to spawn another one, then another one,....until I have a network of eyes and ears without moving a muscle"
Robin flexed her fingers once more—casual, almost absentminded—and the air around her shimmered like heat over summer pavement. In the space of a single blink she was gone from the kitchen chair. A heartbeat later she reappeared in the living room doorway—leaning casually against the frame, arms crossed, the same faint smile playing on her lips.
"I can teleport to any spawned part of mine," she said, voice carrying easily across the open space between kitchen and living room. "Meaning I am basically everywhere at once. That's my second mutation."
The kitchen went dead silent. Akeno's lightning had long since faded, but now her fingers twitched again—as if debating whether to summon it back. Rias's hand stilled on Arto's arm, her eyes flicking from Robin's new position to the empty chair she'd just vacated.
Arto didn't flinch. He simply set his spoon down—slow, deliberate—and leaned back in his chair, arms crossing loosely over his chest. "Convenient," he said, tone dry but not hostile. "And terrifyingly efficient."
Robin pushed off the doorframe and walked back toward them—slow, unhurried, coat whispering against the floorboards. She stopped just outside the kitchen proper, respecting the invisible boundary of their space.
"Both mutations were… unexpected gifts from my bloodline," she continued. "The first let me build the network. The second let me use it without ever leaving cover. I can spawn a sensory node in Tokyo, then step through it to Kyoto, then to London, then back here—all in under a second if I chain them fast enough. No wards can fully block me unless they're specifically tuned to my mana signature… and even then, I usually find a crack."
She glanced at Akeno—acknowledging the earlier threat with a small, almost apologetic tilt of her head. "That's why I could slip past your defenses earlier. Not because they were weak. Because I'm very good at finding the gaps." Akeno's eyes narrowed, but the lightning didn't return. Instead she leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on laced fingers. "So you're not just a spy," she said slowly. "You're a one-woman rapid-deployment force. Intel gathering, infiltration, extraction, exfiltration—all without ever being in the room… until you decide to be."
Robin's smile widened—just a fraction. "Precisely." Rias exhaled—slow, controlled—and leaned back in her chair, arms crossing. "That explains a lot," she said. "How you knew exactly when to appear in Akita. How you knew to come here tonight. How you've stayed ahead of everyone who's ever tried to hunt you."
Robin inclined her head—small, acknowledging. "I've had to stay ahead. Being the last Nico means being the last target. Every faction with a dying noble, every warlord with a crippled army, every researcher who wants to crack regenerative magic—they all want me. Alive, preferably. Dead if necessary. The mutations make me valuable… and make me hunted."
Rias tilted her head slightly, brow furrowing in quiet fascination rather than fear. "But it also means you have to process a lot of intel… like at the same time? How can you manage that?"
Robin's smile returned—small, almost self-deprecating, the first crack in her usual composed mask.
"You're quite observant," she said, voice softening with something that might have been genuine respect. "I'll give you that. Yes, that's right. My network is like a sea of intel, with words and sounds and images flowing back and forth from every corner of the world simultaneously. Thousands—sometimes tens of thousands—of individual feeds at once when things are busy. At first it was… overwhelming. Headaches that felt like someone driving nails into my skull. Moments where I would drown in the noise, lose track of my own thoughts, wake up on the floor with blood from my nose and ears because my brain couldn't sort signal from static fast enough."
She paused, fingers absently tracing the rim of her water glass.
"I trained for years to manage it. Meditation techniques stolen from Tibetan monks, breathing patterns from old Soviet special forces manuals, self-hypnosis scripts I pieced together from declassified MKUltra documents. I built mental partitions—walls in my mind. One room for live combat zones, one for diplomatic chatter, one for black-market deals, one for ambient noise I can mostly ignore until a keyword spikes it. I learned to prioritize. To filter. To let the unimportant wash over me like background static while the critical pieces rise like buoys."
Robin's gaze drifted toward the ceiling for a moment—as though she could still see the invisible threads of her network stretching out into the night.
"The headaches never fully went away," she admitted quietly. "They just became… familiar. Like an old friend who visits too often. But I can handle it now. I can sit in a room like this one and still know what's being whispered in a back alley in Moscow, what's being negotiated in a boardroom in Tokyo, what's being screamed on a battlefield in some forgotten corner of the world. All at once. Without losing myself."
Akeno leaned forward slightly, chin resting on her laced fingers. "That sounds… exhausting," she said softly. "Even for someone like you." Robin's smile turned wry. "It is. But exhaustion is better than blindness. And blindness is death when you live the way I do."
She looked at Arto—eyes steady, no challenge, just quiet honesty."That's why your offer matters to me more than you might realize. A place where I don't have to keep every sense extended twenty-four hours a day just to stay alive. Where I can… turn down the volume. Where I can exist without being the sum total of everything everyone else is hiding. Actually, I can turn off 40% of my network now that I am here with you"
She pushed her chair back slowly and stood—movements fluid, unhurried, but missing the subtle alertness that had been present since she arrived. "Well… do the washing for me, okay?" she added, a small, almost shy smile touching her lips. "I'm heading to bed. And don't wake me up."
She didn't wait for an answer. She simply turned and walked toward the stairs—hair swaying gently, coat left draped over the chair like she had already decided the clubhouse was home enough to leave things behind. The soft creak of the steps faded upward. Then silence.
[TImeskip: Broguht to you by chibi Robin sleeping with the blanket over her head]
By noon the next day, the clubhouse had settled into a rare, lazy quiet. Sunlight poured through the kitchen windows in warm golden bars, catching motes of dust and the faint steam rising from the oven. Arto stood at the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, turning thick cuts of marinated beef on a hot cast-iron skillet. The meat sizzled softly—fat rendering, herbs and garlic blooming in the air—while a pot of rice steamed on the back burner and a tray of roasted vegetables waited in the oven. Simple. Hearty. Enough for five.
Footsteps—slow, soft, almost hesitant—came down the stairs.
Robin appeared in the doorway. She looked… different. Hair slightly mussed, still in the loose charcoal sweater and trousers from last night, one sleeve slipped off her shoulder. In her arms she clutched a pillow—plain white, slightly flattened—like she had carried it down from her room without thinking. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, cheeks faintly flushed from sleep, but the usual sharp alertness was gone. In its place was something softer, almost unguarded. Satisfied.
She padded barefoot across the kitchen tiles and came to stand beside Arto at the stove. Their shoulders brushed—barely, but enough. Robin leaned in slowly, closing her eyes as she inhaled deeply over the skillet. The fragrance of seared meat, rosemary, cracked black pepper, and just a hint of soy filled her lungs. She stayed there—nose inches from the sizzling beef—breathing it in like it was something rare and precious.
After a long moment she opened her eyes again. "…I haven't slept like that in a long while," she murmured, voice low and still rough from sleep. "Thirteen… fourteen hours? I lost count. No dreams. No alerts. Just… quiet." Arto didn't look away from the pan—flipping a piece of meat with practiced ease—but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "Good," he said simply. "You needed it."
Robin straightened a little—still close enough that their arms touched—and finally let the pillow drop onto the nearest chair. She rubbed one eye with the heel of her hand. "It smells so good, you're a fast learner, you know, I still remember you were a clumsy cook just a week ago"
Arto froze mid-flip, spatula hovering above the steak. "What the…?" He turned to her slowly, eyes narrowing with a mix of exasperation and reluctant amusement. "Seriously, when did you start spying on me, Robin?"
The Spy giggled—soft, delighted, almost girlish. "I started when Lady Sona called me for some surveillance," she said without a trace of shame. "That's when Rias first told Sona about you, and the heiress of Sitri got curious. So I gave her my eyes. In that process, I found out about the Stabilizer and Systematic Magic—only briefly, though. Your instinct worked well; you blocked me fast. But I also know you're pretending to be a student at Kuoh Academy under the name Aruto Abyga. A perfect student—from academic prowess to sportsmanship to personality. And you're quite bad at history despite your grades being perfect… all thanks to one certain red-haired princess who loves you too much to not help you in tests."
Arto found himself frozen in place—spatula still raised, steak sizzling forgotten beneath it. Robin turned to him fully now—shoulder still brushing his, close enough that he could smell the faint jasmine she must have borrowed from Akeno's shelf. "It's quite convenient to have such a helpful girl sitting next to you…" she teased, voice lilting. Then her tone softened, almost gentle. "Hey, you're burning the steak. Get yourself together."
She reached over—her hand covering his on the spatula handle—and helped him flip the meat with a smooth, practiced motion. The steak landed perfectly, juices hissing against the iron. "That part was outside commission," she admitted quietly. "It was… personal. Since I found you and what you made interesting, I wanted to know more. And now here I am."
She released his hand but didn't step away. "Now," she continued, smile turning playful again, "let's get back to how Rias helped you get perfect scores in history." Arto stared at her for a long second—then let out a low, resigned huff that was almost a laugh. "You're impossible," he muttered, though there was no real heat in it.
Robin's smile widened—innocent, mischievous, utterly unrepentant. "I know." She leaned one hip against the counter beside him—close enough that their arms still touched—and watched him work the skillet like she had every right to be there. Which, apparently, she did now. Arto shook his head—half-exasperated, half-amused—and slid the finished steaks onto a resting plate. "Here is your lunch Robin, it comes with something special"
He guided her to the dining table with a gentle hand on her back—more suggestion than force—and set the plate in front of her. Beside it, he placed a thick, leather-bound book.
Spellcrafting Formulas.
A copy authorized for her—silver-blue runes on the cover pulsing once in recognition as her fingers brushed it. Robin froze mid-step. Arto sat across from her, resting his elbows on the table. "I hope this could satisfy your curiosity, Robin," he said quietly. "You can study individually… or attend my class where I teach Rias and the others. Your choice."
She stared at the book for a long second—like someone who had spent years chasing rumors and suddenly found the source sitting in front of her. Then she opened it. The scrambling symbols she had glimpsed before—dancing, twisting, refusing to be read—now lay flat and clear on the page. Legible. Inviting. Chapter 1: Intention stared back at her in crisp, elegant script.
Robin's breath caught—just once, soft and almost inaudible. "Now I can read it…" She turned the page...Then the next...Then the next. Her lunch sat forgotten—steak cooling, knife and fork untouched—as she leaned forward, eyes scanning line after line with the same hungry focus she had once used to devour global secrets.
Arto watched her for a moment—then rubbed his face with one hand, a long-suffering sigh escaping him. He had seen this exact scene too many times.
Rias, late-night candle burning low, nose buried in formulas until dawn.
Akeno, violet eyes bright, muttering corrections to herself while ignoring the plate he'd set beside her.
Kiba, meticulously annotating margins until his hand cramped.
And now Robin. "Lady Spy," he said, voice dry but fond. He reached across the table and tapped her shoulder—gentle, insistent. "You have a lunch to eat." Robin blinked—slow, like someone waking from a trance.
She looked up at him—then down at the untouched steak—then back at the open book. Her expression flickered through several emotions in rapid succession: surprise, guilt, hunger, reluctance, and finally… a small, sheepish smile. "I… may have gotten distracted," she admitted. Arto snorted—quiet, genuine. "Understatement of the century."
He pushed the plate closer to her. "Eat first. The book isn't going anywhere. Neither am I." Robin hesitated—fingers still resting on the page—then reluctantly closed the book (though not before slipping a bookmark between the pages of Chapter 1). She picked up her fork. Took a bite of steak. Closed her eyes again—this time in simple, uncomplicated pleasure. "…You really are good at this now," she murmured around the mouthful.
Arto leaned back in his chair—arms crossed, watching her eat with quiet satisfaction. "Fast learner," he said, echoing her earlier words with a faint smirk. Robin laughed—soft, real—and took another bite. The kitchen filled with the small, ordinary sounds of someone finally allowing herself to enjoy a meal without one eye on the door, one ear on the world.
A little later, the front door opened with a familiar creak, followed by the soft thump of training shoes being kicked off and the rustle of towels being draped over shoulders. Rias and Akeno stepped into the kitchen—both flushed and sweaty from their morning sessions, hair slightly damp, workout clothes clinging to skin.
Rias looked exhilarated, cheeks pink, ponytail loose and messy from the hand-to-hand drills Arto had assigned her. Akeno, still holding her naginata case in one hand, had the satisfied glow of someone who had just spent an hour flowing through kata with Tsubaki—sweat gleaming on her collarbones, a few strands of black hair plastered to her neck.
Arto turned from the stove, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and gave them a small, knowing smile. "You're back," he said, voice warm. "How was the training?"
Rias let out a long, satisfied exhale as she dropped into the nearest chair, stretching her arms overhead with a groan. "Brutal," she admitted, but her eyes were bright. "Your regimen is no joke. I think I finally got the timing right on that elbow-to-throat pivot you drilled into me last week. Hit the dummy so hard it almost came off the chain."
Akeno set the naginata case against the wall and slid into the seat beside Rias, reaching immediately for a glass of water. "Tsubaki says my footwork is finally starting to look like art instead of stomping," she said with a grin, though her tone carried the quiet pride of someone who had pushed through exhaustion. "I managed the full sequence without dropping the blade once. Even added a little lightning flourish at the end—nearly singed her ponytail."
She laughed softly, then noticed Robin. The dark-haired woman had quietly returned to the open copy of Spellcrafting Formulas while Arto was distracted with the stove. She sat cross-legged on one of the kitchen chairs she had dragged closer to the window for light, completely absorbed—fingers tracing lines of text, eyes flicking rapidly across pages, utterly lost in Chapter 1: Intention.
Akeno's grin turned mischievous. "Well, well," she drawled, leaning back in her seat. "Our new roommate already found the good stuff." Robin didn't look up immediately—too engrossed—but after a few seconds she blinked, surfaced from the book like someone waking from a trance, and finally registered the two sweaty arrivals.
She closed the book gently (though her fingers lingered on the cover for a moment longer than necessary) and offered a small, polite smile. "Training?" she asked, voice calm but genuinely curious. "How did it go?" Rias wiped her forehead with the back of her wrist and gave a tired grin. "Painfully productive," she said. "Arto's drills don't let you slack. But I feel… sharper. Like my body finally understands what my mind's been trying to tell it."
Akeno propped her chin on her hand, studying Robin with open interest. "And you? Sleeping Beauty finally awake? Thirteen, fourteen hours—impressive even for someone who's been running on fumes for decades." Robin's smile turned faintly sheepish. "I may have overcompensated," she admitted. "The moment I let the network drop to forty percent… I didn't wake up until the smell of meat pulled me downstairs."
She glanced at the sizzling skillet, then at Arto. "You're spoiling me already." Arto huffed a quiet laugh and wipes his hand "You 2 go take shower, lunch is ready, don't make it too long okay?" He then glances at Robin "Robin, the food..."
She blinked, fork halfway to her mouth, then looked down at the untouched plate like it had just materialized. "Oh." A small, almost embarrassed laugh escaped her. "Right. Eating. I… got distracted again."