"...Arto," he said. "Arto Abyssgard." Rias tilts her head, excitement and curiosity can be seen in her eyes, "Abyssgard, that's quite a unique name, guarding against the Abyss, is that what you do?"
"Sort of," he answers though his voice was filled with something like a hesitation to something couldn't be put into words when it comes to his own name "but we're more like...mercenaries when not fighting the Abyss"
Rias paused, her fork halfway to her mouth, her eyes narrowing slightly. Not with suspicion, but with the keen instinct of a strategist. "Mercenaries?" He nods "Yeah, fighting Abyss is not free and we need resources to do that, and so we lended our blades to whoever pays the most."
Rias leaned back in her chair, her curiosity piqued. "And where exactly is this 'Abyss' located? I'm familiar with most of the dimensional gaps and the underworld territories, but I've never heard of a mercenary guild specializing in 'Abyssgard' tactics."
Arto looked down at his plate, the steam from the pancakes curling around his scarred jaw. He hesitated, his voice dropping an octave. "It is...in the lowest ring of Hell, there is a pit at its center, below it is the Abyss, or where the Abyssal army came from. It is not a place for a tourist, nor is it a place you would find on any map."
Rias exchanged a quick, confused glance with Akeno. As high-ranking devils, they knew the geography of the Underworld and the various layers of the Netherworld quite well. While there were unstable regions and chaotic voids, a centralized "Abyss" with a standing army of monsters and a dedicated mercenary guild was not common knowledge.
"The lowest ring? A pit at the center" Rias repeated, her voice tinged with a mix of skepticism and fascination. "I don't know what pit you're talking about but there is definitely no such thing in the Underworld. We've mapped almost every square inch of the territory, and down there is just a freezing lake of Cocytus and some very grumpy ancient devils."
Arto paused, a piece of pancake halfway to his mouth. He looked at Rias, then at Akeno, his deep blue eyes blinking slowly. The silence stretched, becoming heavy.
He looked at the surroundings—the cozy, sun-drenched kitchen of the ORC, the smell of coffee and fresh fruit, the genuine warmth radiating from the two women.
"No....pit? No...Abyss?" He asks with shaky voice, astonishment wasn't enough to describe his reaction as he simply couldn't believe in their words "Are...are you certain?"
Rias frowned, her expression softening into concern. She reached out, though she didn't touch him, keeping her hands visible on the table to show she wasn't threatening him. "Absolutely certain, Arto. I've traveled to the deepest reaches of the Underworld with my brother and father. There is no such place as the Abyssal Pit. Not in any record, any map, or any legend we've ever encountered."
Arto didn't respond immediately. He slowly lowered the fork, the clink of silver against porcelain sounding like a thunderclap in the sudden silence.
He forces a smile on his scarred lips, or something similar to one as he looks at the 2 before him, still trying to believe what they said. From his sunken eyes, tears start flowing out against the man's will "That's....good to hear"
Rias froze, her heart sinking as the weight of his reaction hit her. The sheer relief in his voice was devastating; it wasn't the relief of someone who had found a safe harbor, but the relief of a soldier who had just discovered the war he'd fought for an eternity is now not his burden to carry anymore.
"Arto?" she asked softly, her voice laced with an instinctive need to comfort.
He didn't answer immediately, his shoulders trembling under the thin fabric of the gray hoodie. The tears didn't sob or wail; they simply carved wet paths through the scar tissue on his cheeks, dripping onto the pristine white tablecloth.
He looked at the pancakes—the syrup, the butter, the simple luxury of a meal made by someone who liked him—and then looked back at the two women. The facade of the stoic knight didn't crack; it dissolved entirely.
"Don't worry, I'm fine....fine, it's just....knowing the Abyss is not threatening this world, it means....our legions, our walls, our endless struggle....is not needed, meaning I can have a normal life." Arto's voice was a fragile thing, cracking like dry parchment.
He didn't look at them, instead focusing on a single strawberry on his plate, his breathing coming in ragged, shallow hitches. "...where the is no war...."
The silence that followed was heavy, filled only by the distant chirp of a morning bird and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
Rias felt a lump form in her throat. As a high-class devil, she was used to the politics of power, the strategic maneuvers of the Underworld, and the occasional clash of blades. But this was different.
This was the raw, unfiltered exhaustion of a man who had been fighting a war she didn't know about for a lifetime, only to discover that the battlefield he had bled upon didn't even exist in their reality.
But beneath the exhaustion, is a rare tint of joy they could spot from the crying soldier, his scarred lips are forcing a smile that he could no longer do properly while his hands curl into fists, trying to suppress the emotions of a soldier relieved from duty "Thank you...Rias, Akeno...thank you...for letting me know...."
Akeno didn't wait for him to finish. In one fluid motion, she slid from her chair and wrapped her arms around his broad, shaking shoulders.
She didn't care about the awkwardness of the height difference or the jagged edges of his scars; she simply held him, her warmth seeping through the fabric of the borrowed hoodie.
Arto stiffened for a heartbeat—the instinct of a man who expected an attack—before he collapsed into the embrace, his forehead resting against her shoulder.
He didn't sob loudly; he simply let the tension of a thousand years bleed out of him in a series of shuddering breaths.
Rias watched them, her heart aching with a mixture of pity and profound respect. "So, Arto, now that you're off duty from whatever war you were in, what will you do now in this new...life?" She asked, and while she expects him to take a few moments to answer...
"I'll start by establishing some relationships with the locals of this world to learn about how it's functioning and some general knowledge, then I'll search for some investments to start researching magic and science, that will be my main focus from now on" Arto replied, his voice still thick but regaining its steadiness.
And this answer gets Rias thinking, she is witnessing a man who claimed to be a soldier from another world, who has been through a long and devastating war that definitely left him some PTSD, who broke into tears just a few moments ago when they mentioned the threat is no more.
But the next moment he made a clear and strategic answer about his coming goals, 'It doesn't add up' Rias thinks to herself while looking at the man who is now wiping his eyes with the sleeves of the tracksuit.
"Investments and research," Rias repeated, her voice carrying a hint of amusement. "You've barely had a bite of your breakfast, and you're already planning a corporate takeover and a scientific revolution? You really are a dedicated soldier, aren't you?"
Arto looked up, the remnants of the tears still glistening in the corners of his sunken eyes, but the focus had returned. "I've got....lots of time to think about what to do when wandering inside the Void," he admitted, his voice regaining that gravelly, disciplined edge. This answer gets both Rias and Akeno curious "The Void? You've been wandering through the Void? For how long?" Akeno asked.
"Yes, I've been falling through the Void, the space of nothingness between worlds, or could be viewed as reality bubbles like yours and my home one. About the time, I stopped counting after 1000 years," Arto answered simply, as if he were describing a long commute rather than a cosmic exile.
"After that, I don't know, I shifted my focus on thinking to myself, using my own head as a lab to research with all the knowledge I could remember so that I could have something to do to keep myself from dying in the mind or going insane and maybe....something that has value to the world that I might end up in if I was lucky, so that I can have a new life, or....preparation if Abyss is the threat again"
Rias stared at him, the fork in her hand frozen. The sheer scale of the statement was dizzying. Most beings in her world viewed a century as a significant epoch, yet here was a man who had treated a millennium of sensory deprivation as a study hall.
The discipline required to not only survive the Void but to actively curate one's own mind into a living library was staggering. It explained the efficiency of his combat—the way he fought wasn't just training; it was the result of a thousand years of mental simulations.
Akeno let out a soft, thoughtful hum, her eyes scanning Arto with a newfound intensity. "A thousand years of solitary research in a place of nothingness... and you still managed to keep your heart soft enough to cry over a plate of pancakes." She smiled, a genuine, tender expression. "You're a very strange man, Arto Abyssgard."
Arto looked down at the food, the steam finally beginning to fade. He picked up the fork and took a cautious bite of the eggs. The flavor exploded—creamy, salty, and rich. He closed his eyes, a small, genuine shiver running through his frame. "I've been called by many names, strange is indeed one of them, but I don't mind,
"You're thinking about it, aren't you, Rias?" He asked a question out of the blue, shooting it right at the red-haired girl sitting opposite to him. Rias blinked, caught off guard. She hadn't even realized she was analyzing him.
Her strategist's mind had been whirling since the moment he mentioned his 'investments,' trying to reconcile the broken soldier with the calculating intellectual. "Thinking about what, exactly?"
"About making me your weapon, making me a part of your group, I know those eyes too well, especially from last night, after witnessing what I can do, you're wondering if I can be recruited, tamed or maybe....acquired. That's why you didn't kill me, but took me here and healed me up, you're hoping for a loyal asset made via gratitude, or an offer that would keep me here, serving you under your cause" He speaks plainly, nothing of a worn soldier was there anymore, but a perceptive diplomat and politician.
Rias paused, her fork halfway to her mouth. She felt a strange mixture of being exposed and being impressed. Most of the people she dealt with—even other high-class devils—tended to hide their ambitions behind layers of etiquette.
Arto, however, cut through the social noise like the very blade he had used to cleave through those mimics. He didn't wait for her to answer, instead taking a sip of the black coffee, the bitter liquid seeming to awaken something deeper in his gaze.
"You're not wrong, Arto," Rias admitted, a small, genuine smile playing on her lips. "I would be lying if I said your combat prowess didn't interest me, and I indeed do have a position within my group, or peerage to offer to you as my Knight, and loyalty via gratitude has always been a good way to secure long-lasting service, don't you agree with me, Arto?"
"Yes, I am aware and I fully understand your view and method, it's also my way of recruiting people for my legion" Rias' eyes widen a little, 'So that's the answer, I wasn't talking to a mere soldier, I was talking to a legion commander' she thinks to herself.
Arto set the coffee mug down with a soft, precise clink. The atmosphere in the room shifted; the vulnerability of the previous moments hadn't disappeared, but it had settled into the background, replaced by a professional clarity. "Then we are speaking the same language. However, I am no longer a commander, and I have no desire to be a pawn in a game where I am merely a piece on a board. If I am to join you, it will not be as a servant, but as a partner in a mutual exchange."
Rias leaned forward, her curiosity now fully ignited. "A mutual exchange? You're in a position where you have nothing but the clothes on your back and a ruined set of armor. What could you possibly offer that would warrant a partnership rather than a contract?"
Arto didn't flinch. "You're right, I might not have anything now, but what I am going to give you is an investment that takes out almost nothing but the result can be staggeringly profitable as long as you have enough resources to back me, but before all that....allow me to advertise myself" He stood up slowly, the movement devoid of the previous hesitation.
Turning to Akeno, he gently said his request "You might want to return to you seat, my lady, a spectacle will come shortly and you and your leader will soon know taking me in was the best decision you've ever made"
Akeno blinked, a playful, curious smile dancing on her lips as she obeyed, sliding back into her chair with a graceful movement. Rias remained still, her eyes locked on Arto, the soldier the previous moment, a perceptive diplomat next and now a marketer? 'What am I dealing with?' Rias rubbed her temple, her fascination outweighing any sense of caution.
Arto stepped a few meters back to give the 2 potential investors some view of his full self before betting into the matter "Well, since I haven't gotten myself anytime to write my own resume, let me just introduce it right awa...." 2 more footsteps sound enter the kitchen, a handsome boy with blonde hair and a petite girl with white carrying a bag of something that is exuding steam.
"Kiba, Koneko, good morning" Akeno starts greeting them before gesturing to Arto who is in the middle of introducing himself "This is Arto Abyssgard, the knight we found last night."
Kiba stopped mid-stride, his eyes sweeping over the man. He noted the posture—the way Arto stood wasn't just the stance of a soldier, but the center of gravity of a master. Beside him, Koneko didn't even look up from the bag of steaming buns she held, though her nose twitched. "Still smells like old blood," she muttered, though there was a flicker of curiosity in her golden eyes.
Arto turns to the two new arrivals, giving them the full view of his face, which makes Kiba and Koneko startle a little, they were expecting something bad under that dark hood last night.
He doesn't wait for them to get comfortable, he approaches them quickly, boths of his hands are out, offering handshakes "Good day to you, Kiba, Koneko, I am Arto Abyssgard, you blocked my attack last night," he turns to Kiba first "I am impressed with your speed, young man" his sunken orbs gaze at Kiba's green eyes.
Kiba, ever the gentleman, is stunned for a second but he manages to smile, shaking Arto's hand "The pleasure is mine, although I would prefer to meet you under circumstances that didn't involve chasing you through the city"
Arto lets out a small huff, a ghostly shadow of a laugh, and then shifts his attention to Koneko, who is still chewing on a bun. "And you tried to strike me, little girl, such strength packed inside such small frame, I was almost surprised"
Koneko didn't shake his hand. She simply looked up at him, her cheeks still bulging with the last bite of her steamed bun.
She stared at the ruined landscape of his face—the jagged scars and the hollowed eyes—and then looked down at his calloused palm. After a long pause, she reached out and gave his hand a single, firm pat, as if checking to see if he was actually solid.
"Ugly. But not pervert. Acceptable" Koneko opens the bag and hands him a white, fluffy bun that is exuding steam "Here" Arto tilts his head slightly, taking the piece in curiosity and confusion "Uhmmm, thank you, but, what is this?"
"A pork bun," Koneko replied simply, already turning back toward the table. "Eat. You look like you're made of sticks."
Arto stared at the small, doughy treasure in his palm. He looked at the steam curling upward and then back at the small girl. With a hesitant motion, he took a bite. His eyes widened, the pupils dilating as the savory filling hit his tongue.
For a man who had spent a millennium chewing on the conceptual remnants of his own memories in a void, the sensation of warm, seasoned meat and soft bread was an emotional assault. He didn't say anything for a full minute, simply chewing slowly, his expression one of profound, quiet revelation.
"It is... remarkable," he whispered, the bun disappearing into his mouth in three quick bites. "To think that something so small could contain such a level of contentment."
Rias watched him, her heart softening. The shift in him was dizzying. One moment he was a ruined soldier weeping over the end of a war; the next, a cold strategist calculating his worth; and now, a man genuinely moved by a cheap convenience-store snack. He was a kaleidoscope of trauma and discipline, and Rias found herself more determined than ever to bring him into her fold.
Arto stepped back, the momentary softness vanishing as he remembered his 'advertisement.' "Okay, uhm, thank you for your warm welcome, Kina, Koneko, please, take a seat, let me just introduce myself to you all" He settles down the bao on a plate on the table before setting up seats for both Kiba and Koneko to seat next to Rias and Akeno.
"As I was saying," Arto continued, his voice shifting into a tone of professional confidence after Kiba and Koneko take their seat "I haven't gotten any time to write my resume, I'll say it right here, you can believe what I say or not, but bear with me, because once I set the price for the investment in me, whether you believe what I said or not, you will consider it."
Rias leaned back, crossing her legs, her interest piqued. "The floor is yours, Arto."
Arto stood straight, his gaze sweeping across the four of them. "First, my name is Arto Abyssgard, I am the last leader of Abyssgard Legion, an army of 10 millions elite soldiers residing int he lowest ring of Hell, carrying out a mission of protecting the world against the Abyss. And I've been leading the legion more than 1000 years within my 3000 years of life."
The silence that followed was absolute. Kiba stopped mid-sip of his water, and even Koneko paused her chewing. Rias felt a prickle of skepticism; the claim was so gargantuan it bordered on the absurd. Ten million soldiers? Three thousand years? In the Underworld, longevity was common for high-class devils, but for a human—or whatever he was—it was unheard of.
"A bold claim," Rias said, her voice cool but curious. "But you're currently a man with no army, no kingdom, and a wardrobe consisting of one pair of trousers. How does a legendary general 'advertise' himself when his assets have been erased by a void?"
Arto's eyes glinted. "Assets are not always tangible, Lady Gremory. My assets are not in gold or land, but in knowledge, experience and of course, advancement in both magic and technology. I've led a legion for more than 1000 years, keeping them all alive under extreme conditions of endless winter while preparing for the eventual war against the Abyss. I know logistics, military training, politics and strategy like the back of my hand."
He paused, his voice dropping an octave, becoming that of a man who had commanded the fate of millions. "That's the value I can offer to you, Rias as a leader, I can train you and your group, making you stronger both in mind and body using my own experience in training my soldiers to fight the Abyssal army, I can help you improve your leadership, I can even help you recruit more competent people to benefit you"
Rias felt the air in the room thicken. It wasn't magic, but a sheer weight of presence—the *aura* of a commander. For a fleeting second, she didn't see a scarred man in a baggy tracksuit; she saw a monolithic figure standing atop a mountain of corpses, directing a tide of steel. The way he spoke wasn't an appeal for help; it was a pitch. He was selling his own existence as a tool for her advancement.
"And the advancement?" Rias repeated, her voice barely a whisper. She was leaning in now, the strategic hunger in her eyes mirroring the intensity in his. Arto nods "That's where the investment is, that's where I need your help, devil princess, an investment of reasonable price that could elevate you and your clan's position wherever it is now...."
The reference to Rias as 'devil princess' surprised Rias, she didn't reveal it as far as she remembers, and she is hiding her devillish aura, how could he still know? Arto noticed the flicker of confusion in her eyes and tilted his head, a small, knowing glint appearing in his sunken orbs.
"You hide your aura well, President Gremory—most would only sense a vague pressure—but that doesn't mean your hid it perfectly, I could still sense your mana with higher affinity to dark magic, along with your aristocratic etiquette you performed from time to time without noticing, I can say you're a devil noble from the high class"
Rias felt a chill of admiration. He wasn't just a warrior; he was a sensor. He had read her, her status, and her nature, all while recovering from injuries that would have put a lesser man in a coma for weeks. She leaned her chin on her palm, her gaze sharpening. "You've certainly proven your observational skills, Arto. Now, let's get to the 'reasonable price.' What exactly does a legendary general need to elevate a High-Class Devil's clan?"
Arto stepped closer to the table, his voice dropping into a confidential, measured tone. "The price is simple, my investor, it's books, one is basic magic that they use to teach toddlers, two is books of this world's general knowledge, mathematic, chemistry, physics,...that's all I need to bring upon the advancement I promised, no prying into your clan's secrets, or demanding powers, all I need is books. But that's for the advancement, I still need to sustain my own life around here so I regretfully have to charge you for my tutelage and strategic consulting."
Rias let out a soft, melodic laugh, leaning back in her chair. "Books? You're offering to revolutionize my combat capabilities and strategic standing, and your primary request is a library card? Arto, you are truly a strange man."
"Knowledge is the only currency that does not depreciate when the world ends," Arto answered, his expression returning to that of the stoic soldier. "And as for the 'maintenance,' a roof over my head, food that doesn't taste of sulfur, and a small allowance for basic necessities would suffice, an offical status as the ally of your Gremory clan with all the insurances, and lastly, a commitment to protecting my identity because I can assure you, once the advancement is out, the author would be heavily seeked after and I don't want to be at the forefront of predatory gazes."
Rias felt a thrill of excitement. This wasn't just a recruitment; it was a gamble on a variable she couldn't quantify. He wasn't asking for a throne or a hoard of gold; he was asking for the tools to rebuild his mind. The sheer humility of the request, paired with the terrifying scale of the promised result, made the deal almost too good to be true.
And that's the problem, it's too good to be true, Rias' mind is warning her to take deep caution on the man who could shift his roles by the moment, from the soldier to the diplomat and then to the scholar. He is talking with this certainty that makes him almost arrogant in his proclaimed knowledge and innovation, yet the price is too low 'What's more to this?' Rias thinks to herself, she knows that a man like this would not simply give a deal like this to anyone, especially to a 'devil princess' he just met.
Arto notices the shift in her expression, he knows she is trying to find the catch. He lets out a soft, raspy exhale, his eyes drifting to the half-eaten pork bun on the plate. "The catch, Lady Gremory, is your faith in me, and my faith in you. I have nothing. I am a ghost in a world that does not know the name of my gods or the taste of my home. I cannot extort a woman who has already shown me mercy, nor can I coerce a clan that possesses the only resources I currently lack."
He looks back at her, the intensity of his gaze softening into something more human. "The 'low price' is not a trick; it is a necessity. I cannot build a skyscraper without first understanding the soil of the land. I need your books to translate my knowledge into your language, to see if the laws of physics in this reality mirror the ones I spent a millennium calculating in the dark. If I ask for too much now, I risk appearing as a predator. If I ask for too little, I appear as a beggar. I believe this is a fair exchange of trust."
Rias finds herself staring at him, her skepticism slowly dissolving into a profound sense of intrigue. She has dealt with the pride of the House of Gremory and the arrogance of the nobility for her entire life, but Arto's confidence was different. It wasn't the loud, brash confidence of someone who thought they were the best; it was the quiet, immovable certainty of a man who had already seen the end of the world and survived it.
"You're a very skilled negotiator," Rias says, her voice regaining its playful edge as she finally leans forward and extends her hand across the table. "And as a strategist, I know when a variable is too valuable to let slip away to a competitor. Deal. You will have your roof, your food, and as many books as the clan can provide, but under one condition"
Rias places a crimson Knight piece on the table before her and Arto "I need your insurance and commitment to this cooperation, I need your physical power and battling prowess as the mortgage. You will be my Knight, and in exchange, the Gremory name becomes your shield. You will have the protection and the social standing of one of the most powerful families in the Underworld, ensuring that no 'predatory gaze' dares to touch you without my permission."
Arto looked at the piece, then at Rias. He comes closer to the table where the Knight piece is standing between them and asks a question, his gaze turns serious and full of caution like he has spotted something fishy about the piece "Before I answer, can you tell me the mechanic of this peerage recruitment via.....whatever this thing is?"
Rias blinked, surprised that he hadn't simply accepted the prestige of the offer. She picked up the crimson piece, the gem catching the morning light. "It is an Evil Piece," she explained, her voice softening into a pedagogical tone. "A system created by the Underworld's founders to reincarnate souls or bind powerful beings to a leader. By accepting the piece, you are formally bound to my peerage. It grants you a connection to my power and, in return, grants me a certain level of authority over your actions in the field. It is a contract of loyalty, soul-deep and binding."
Arto's eyes narrowed. The word 'reincarnate' echoed in his mind like a warning bell....no, a limit that can't be crossed "My lady, that condition, I must decline"
"Decline?" Rias repeated, her voice tilting upward. "Arto, the piece doesn't just grant you status; it will extend your life and put you under direct protection of Gremory clan as my peerage's member, you'll get everything you need provided by the clan along with an ageless lifetime...."
"Which would require me to sacrifice this life of mine," His hand placed over his chest like a shield for his beating heart "that's a limit that I cannot cross, my lady." Not waiting for her to respond "I was raised to be a living weapon, that only purpose that was put on me was to kill for other's ambitions. My life was never my own until the day I died in the last war against the Abyss and wandered through the Void for thousands of years. Only now that I have a chance to live a life in a world where all my burdens are lifted, getting rid of the gift that took me millenials to get is....atrocious and unbearable"
Rias stared at him, the red piece still gripped in her hand. The silence in the kitchen grew heavy, but not with tension; it was a silence of understanding. She looked at the man—no, the warrior—whose eyes were no longer those of a diplomat, but of a man who had finally found a sliver of autonomy and was terrified of losing it. He wasn't being stubborn; he was guarding the only thing he actually owned: his chance to live.
"Then how are we sure you won't betray us?" Rias asked coldly, trying to suppress the empathy for the man before her. "You've just asked me to trust you with my clan's growth, yet you refuse the one mechanism that guarantees your loyalty. In my world, a contract without a bond is merely a suggestion."
Arto didn't flinch. He looked at the crimson piece on the table, then back at Rias, his voice devoid of the diplomatic polish. "What you can trust in me is....my own ignorance of this world, from the moment I appeared in this reality I've never had any chance to know what's like out there and you're the only people I know to the barest extend. That makes me almost a toddler in your eyes, doesn't it? The most logical thing for a man in my position is to stay close to those who provide food and shelter. Loyalty born from necessity is often more reliable than loyalty born from a magical contract, for necessity is a hunger that never truly goes away."
He paused, his gaze drifting to Kiba and Koneko, who were watching the exchange with varying degrees of curiosity. "And if the price of almost nothing for innovations and advancement, along with the dependence of a person who knows nothing are not enough for you, I will leave, and I know for certain none of you could stop me, even as a group."
He points his finger at Rias "And once I know what's out there, once I learn, I will know my own values and position in this world and how what I know could benefit myself. By then, bringing me back under another deal will me much, much more expensive, because believe me, I'll be just as greedy as you are now."
Rias stared at him, the crimson piece still held tight in her hand. A few seconds stretched, the only sound the distant hum of the refrigerator and the soft breathing of her peerage. Then, the silence was broken by a sharp, sudden burst of laughter.
Akeno leaned back, her eyes shimmering with amusement. "Oh, Rias, he really is quite something, isn't he? Such a magnificent level of arrogance, yet he delivers it with such a polite face."
Rias didn't laugh, but the tension in her shoulders vanished. She looked at the Knight piece, then slowly set it back on the table, sliding it away as if the contract were merely a suggestion. She didn't feel insulted; she felt an electric surge of respect. In a world of devils and deities, where everyone played a role dictated by bloodline or contract, Arto was a wild variable. He was refusing the safety of a gilded cage in favor of the uncertainty of the open road, provided she provided the map.
"You've called my bluff, Arto," Rias said, her voice warm and genuine. "Most people would be too terrified of the unknown to turn down the security of the Gremory name. But you... you aren't looking for security. You're looking for agency."
She stood up, extending her hand—not as a master offering a leash, but as an equal proposing a pact. "We will forgo the Evil Piece. You will not be my Knight in name or soul, but you will be the Gremory clan's ally Your loyalty will be based on our mutual benefit, and your 'mortgage' will be the results you deliver. If you fail to provide the advancements you promised, or if you betray my trust, I will personally ensure that the 'predatory gazes' you fear become the least of your worries."
Arto nods and comes over to the table, pushing the crimson Knight piece back to Rias before offering his hand "Then, do we have a deal?"
Rias grasped his hand, her grip firm and decisive. As their palms met, she felt a faint, rhythmic pulse—not of magic, but of a heart that had beaten through a thousand years of war. The handshake was a seal, a bridge built between a princess of the Underworld and a ghost of a forgotten realm.
"We have a deal, Arto Abyssgard," Rias declared, her eyes gleaming. "Welcome to the Gremory household. That's the briefing of the deal between us, more details will be discussed in the contract, but you can reassure that I have known your conditions and will work based on that to make sure our cooperation goes smoothly."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias and chibi Arto talking over a piece of paper]
Arto and Rias are about to go out on a shopping trip to get Arto some new clothes because he is certainly not wearing these spare clothes forever. "Are you sure you're going to go out in....you know..." Rias hesitates a little when looking at Arto's figure "I mean, I don't have any problem...not anymore, but other people might....."
His right hand rose, palm open. A faint glow kindled there—soft silver at first, threaded with runes Rias had never seen before: angular, archaic, carrying the weight of a magic system of another reality. "Oh, right," he murmured, almost to himself. A quiet sigh escaped him, as though he'd just remembered an old habit.
From an inner pocket of the borrowed shorts he produced a small, flat crystal lens—no larger than a coin, etched with microscopic sigils. He placed it gently on the glowing magic circle hovering above his palm. "Okay… a little tweak here…and here...."
His scarred fingers began to move—gliding, twisting, tracing invisible lines in the air with the precision of a master conductor. The runes in the circle responded instantly, shifting, rearranging, folding into new patterns at his command. It wasn't brute force; it was artistry. Every motion was economical, deliberate, born of centuries of practice.
Rias watched, breathless. This man before her is not just casting spells, he is rewriting magic symbols for them to be of use, a work that require utmost precision and an enormous amount of knowledge regarding the core base of magic, yet this man is doing it like it's another simple puzzle, this further solidified her decision to place a faith in him because if this works, he can't be bluffing about his knowledge.
After perhaps a minute, Arto gave a small nod of satisfaction. "Done." He released the spell.A ripple of cool light washed over him from head to toe. When it faded, every scar had vanished—skin smooth and unmarred, as though the millennia of torment had never etched their story into his flesh. And with all the destruction removed the man before her is 'So handsome' that Rias felt a sudden, unexpected heat rise to her cheeks.
He was no longer a ruined soldier; he was a man with sharp, noble features, deep-set eyes that held the wisdom of an old soul, and a jawline that could have been carved from marble. The sunken, hollow look was gone, replaced by a quiet, commanding presence that felt natural and effortless.
"What's the matter, Rias? You're face is getting red, is it too cold out here?" He asked, getting closer to her with a look of genuine concern, his voice now lacking that raspy, haunted quality.
Rias blinked, instinctively taking a half-step back as the heat in her cheeks intensified. She had spent her life surrounded by the most beautiful beings in the Underworld—devils were known for their aesthetic perfection—but Arto's beauty was different. It wasn't the curated, ethereal grace of a high-class demon; it was a rugged, masculine magnetism, the kind of handsomeness that felt earned through survival. The way his eyes now sparkled with a clear, piercing intelligence made her feel as though she were being read like one of the books he so desperately craved.
"It's... it's not cold, Arto," Rias stammered, quickly regaining her composure and coughing into her hand to hide her fluster. "I was just surprised. That spell... the precision required to alter your physical appearance so seamlessly without using a transformation circle is staggering. To maintain the structural integrity of your face while removing the scar tissue... you really are a master of the arcane."
Arto tilted his head, his lips, once ragged, now displays a smile, bright and genuine "That's the innovation I promised you about, princess, let us talk while we walk" He takes her hand and pulls her with him as they walk down the street of the place that Arto hasn't known the name of yet, so Rias is leading the way, and it seems like she knows this place too well she can walk backward and still being able to know where she is going.
"Now, tell me about what you just did" Rias asked, her voice regaining its steadiness though she didn't pull her hand away from his. She walked backward with a practiced ease, her eyes scanning his transformed face as if trying to find the seam where the illusion met the skin.
Arto chuckled, a sound that was now rich and resonant. "It's called magic adaptation—or magic translation, depending on who you ask." He shows her the small lens he just used to modify the spell
"This lens is something I forged long ago," he explained, tilting it so the sunlight caught its etched surface. "It lets me see the flow of mana—the way energy moves through a spell, through a body, through the world itself. Like tracing rivers on a map."
Rias leaned closer, fascinated. "A mana-flow diagnostic tool? We have similar artifacts, but nothing this compact… or this precise."
Arto nodded. "It showed me why the illusion failed the first time. The sigils I used were from my old world." He summoned the original circle again—a hovering ring of sharp, angular runes that felt alien and harsh compared to the smooth, flowing demonic circles Rias knew. "Here, the underlying laws of magic are different. The way mana naturally flows from a caster's body, the way it interacts with the environment—it's all subtly shifted."
He gestured, and the circle began to transform in real time. Runes softened, curved, realigned themselves into patterns that felt instinctively familiar to Rias—elegant, efficient, harmonious with the demonic energy she wielded every day.
"When I change them like this," Arto continued, "the spell adapts to the natural flow of mana in this world. Like the old saying—'When in Sangria, do as the Sangrians do.' The magic stops fighting the environment and starts working with it."
Rias tilts her head to aside when that weird name came up "You mean 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do'? What is even Sangria?" Arto tilts his head as well "Rome? What is that?" Rias realizes, she is trying to use an idioms of this world's history to talk to a man from another world with another history, and she lets out a small laugh. "Never mind, just a figure of speech. But Arto, if you can 'translate' your magic to fit our world, does that mean you can teach us how to optimize our own spells? To make them more efficient?"
Arto's eyes glinted with a sudden, professional intensity. "That's way beneath me, princess, optimizing what's already there is just a small field within what we call Systematic Magic where it isn't treated as a miracle or an innate gift. It's an equation. A science. We developed a detailed system of formulated spellcrafting—precise, repeatable. It lets you create or adjust spells on the fly, from the smallest sigil to an entire layered incantation."
Rias felt a surge of genuine excitement. In the Underworld, magic was often tied to lineage, blood-traits, or grueling years of rote memorization and spiritual attunement. The idea that magic could be treated as a *science*—a set of equations that could be solved and rewritten—was revolutionary. If Arto could apply that logic to her Power of Destruction, the potential for growth wasn't just linear; it was exponential.
"You're talking about treating magic like mathematics," Rias mused, her pace slowing as they entered a bustling shopping district filled with high-end boutiques and shimmering glass storefronts. "Most mages would call that heresy. They believe the 'feeling' of the magic is what matters, not the calculation."
Arto let out a soft, knowing huff. "Feelings are for poets, Rias. And that's why it takes so long to create a spell in conventional way, they can't get their imagination to be clear and measureable, making their effort to recreate their vision a gruesome circle of trials and error, not to mention each mage works as an individual, they have their own phylosophies, own logics, own understandings in how to use mana, making their 'magic languages' seperated all the while some sigils they are using work in similar, almost identical ways."
Rias stopped walking, looking at him with wide eyes. "You're suggesting there's a universal grammar to magic? A way to standardize it? And how could you know about this world's mages? I mean you're just here yesterday?" Arto shrugs "I am referencing to the mages of my old world, and it seems mages never changes no matter where you go, solitary figures living in their own worlds"
"But about the standardization, there is, and that's exactly what I was trying to do when asking you for the basic magic book they use to teach toddlers. Fun quiz: What do you think I want to find in that book?" He asked, pointing a finger upward as they paused near the grand mall.
Rias tilted her head, her mind racing through the possibilities. "The basics? The fundamental circles? The way you channel mana from the core?"
"Almost," Arto replied, his gaze shifting to the window display of the boutique. "I was searching for the fundamental of how mana works in this world, it's might be similar to my world, but some constants have been changed. But more importantly, I want to see the 'common language', the 'aphabet' of this world's magic, once I know them, I can translate my entire Systematic Magic into something that I can use in this world and, more importantly, something you can understand."
Rias felt a shiver of anticipation. She had spent her life refining the raw, destructive power of her lineage, treating it as a force of nature to be channeled. The idea that her power was actually a complex equation waiting to be solved was intoxicating. She looked at the man beside her—his new face was a mask of calm, but his eyes were dancing with the intellectual hunger of a scholar.
"You're not just a general," she whispered, a small smile playing on her lips. "You're a polymath." Arto chuckles "When you live for 3000 years, you are many things, my lady, but that's for another time," He points at the neon lights of the mall "I think we're here"
[Mall - Boutique Shop]
The boutique's warm lighting and soft instrumental music enveloped them as they stepped inside. Racks of impeccably tailored suits, casual wear, and seasonal pieces lined the walls, the faint scent of new fabric and cedar hangers in the air.
A sharply dressed female employee—mid-twenties, professional smile—approached immediately. "Welcome to our store! How can I help you, young couple?"
Rias's face ignited in an instant, crimson spreading from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. She waved both hands frantically in denial. "N-no, no! We're not anything yet!" The words tumbled out faster than she intended. She gestured quickly toward Arto. "I just need to find some new clothes for my friend here."
Arto, unfazed, gave the employee a polite wave and a small, awkward smile.
The employee's eyes flicked between them—taking in Rias's flustered state, Arto's striking features, and the way they had walked in arm-in-arm—and her professional smile turned knowingly amused. "You two should be," she said with a playful wink. "Now, please follow me. We just received new batches that would fit your man perfectly."
Rias's blush deepened, but she didn't correct the "your man" part this time. The employee led them deeper into the store, past displays of cashmere sweaters, crisp shirts, and tailored coats. Rias's eyes lit up like a child in a candy shop. Within minutes, she was in full command—pulling items off racks with decisive speed and piling them into Arto's arms.
Casual jeans and hoodies for daily wear. Light linen shirts and shorts for summer. Thick wool coats and scarves for. Semi-formal button-downs and slacks. Even a full black tuxedo "just in case."
Arto accepted the growing mountain without complaint, disappearing into the spacious fitting room with mild bewilderment. After a few moments, he steps out of the changing room and the air in the boutique seems to shift. He has opted for the semi-formal button-down in a deep charcoal grey, paired with tailored black slacks. The fit is impeccable, accentuating the broad set of his shoulders and the lean, disciplined lines of his frame.
Rias froze, her hand still holding a silk tie she had intended to suggest. For the first time in her life, the heiress of the House of Gremory found herself speechless. The transformation was complete; he no longer looked like a refugee or a soldier, but a man of effortless sophistication. He looked like he belonged in a high-society gala or a strategic war room, commanding attention without saying a single word.
That body of his, scarred or not, it's too perfect for a model, a perfect calisthenic athlete body, a 1.9 meters frame, eyes of a impeccable scholar and a face of a sculpted god. Rias felt her heart skip a beat.
She had seen plenty of handsome men in her life—nobles of the Underworld who spent hours on their grooming and wore the finest silks—but they were like polished gemstones: beautiful, yet static. Arto was different. He possessed a raw, dormant power that the charcoal fabric couldn't hide, a simmering intensity that made the air around him feel heavy, yet inviting.
Arto looked down at himself, adjusting the collar of the shirt with a slight frown. "It feels... restrictive," he murmured, his voice now a smooth baritone that resonated in Rias's chest. "The fabric is too soft. I feel as though I am wearing a cloud. Is this truly how people dress when they are not preparing for a siege?"
Rias finally found her voice, though it came out slightly higher than usual. "Yes, Arto. This is what 'casual elegance' looks like. And please, stop thinking about sieges for at least one afternoon." She stepped forward, her fingers trembling slightly as she reached out to straighten the collar he had just adjusted. "You look... incredible. Truly."
Arto looked down at her, his expression softening. The piercing intensity of the general was gone, replaced by a flicker of something shy, almost tentative. He looks down at her, then at the gazes surrounding them, women are looking at him with blatant admiration and the male patrons were casting glances of envy.
"How ironic," Arto said in quiet whisper that only Rias could hear "If it's not for the scars, I would be a more likeable man, don't you think?" He jokes, but Rias knows that beneath those prestine handsomeness is a man torn apart by war and scars, that handsome face was destroyed by marks of battles and conflicts, and that question was nothing more than a bitter sarcasm for those who don't know him, only admire what's on the surface, what would they think of him if he appeared without the magical concealment?
Rias didn't answer immediately. Instead, she reached out, her fingers grazing the smooth, illusory skin of his cheek. She didn't feel the magic—she wasn't scanning for the spell—she simply felt the warmth of the man. She looked deep into his eyes, seeing the weary commander who had survived a millennium of solitude, and felt a surge of protective tenderness that surprised her.
"You are more than the marks on your skin, Arto," she replied, her voice low and steady. "And for the record, the man who walked into this store with scars and a haunted look was just as likeable. This," she gestured to his flawless visage, "is just a costume. But the man wearing it? He's the one I'm interested in."
Arto blinked, the cynicism in his gaze wavering. He wasn't used to being seen—not the version of himself that the world demanded, and certainly not the broken version he had hidden. The sincerity in Rias's voice acted like a balm, quieter than any healing potion, yet reaching a part of him that the magic hadn't touched. He let out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound vibrating in the small space between them.
"You have a silver tongue, Princess," he murmured, finally stepping back to give her some space, though the intensity of the moment lingered. "but let me ask you something, what really make you interested in the soldier behind the mask?
Rias paused, her hand lingering in the air where his cheek had been. She looked around the boutique—at the superficial luxury, the mirrored walls, and the curated perfection of the mannequins. Then she looked back at Arto. The magic had smoothed his skin, but it hadn't erased the gravity in his eyes. Those eyes didn't belong to a model; they belonged to someone who had seen the end of the world and decided to keep walking.
"Because the mask is the easy part," Rias answered, her voice regaining its characteristic confidence. "Anyone can put on a suit or cast a spell to look the part of a nobleman. But the strength it takes to survive a millennium of solitude, to maintain your dignity when everything has been stripped away, and to still be humble enough to ask for a basic textbook... that is a rarity, Arto. Most people in my world are defined by their bloodline or their power. You are defined by your will. That is far more attractive than a flawless complexion."
Arto stared at her for a long moment, the silence between them no longer heavy, but expectant. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I see, princess, I didn't sense any lie in your words. It seems your perception is as sharp as your curiosity."
He stepped back toward the fitting room to change out of the semi-formal attire and into something more practical for the walk back, but he paused, glancing at the mirror. "Though, I suspect this 'attractiveness' you speak of will make my desire for anonymity quite difficult to maintain."
Rias let out a light, melodic giggle, the tension of the last few hours finally dissolving into genuine warmth. "That's the burden of being a masterpiece, Arto. You just have to learn to ignore the staring."
She stepped closer, her eyes dancing with a hint of mischief. "Besides, if you're worried about the attention, you can always let me lead. I'm quite used to being the center of attention; I can provide a very effective distraction."
As Arto emerged in a simple black polo and dark jeans—a look that was understated yet still highlighted his imposing physique—he noticed the way Rias was looking at him. It wasn't just the admiration of a noblewoman looking at a prized asset, nor was it the pity she had felt when she first found him injured. It was something more complex, a mixture of intellectual fascination and a budding, quiet affection.
He felt a strange sensation in his chest, a warmth that had nothing to do with the climate of the town or the fabric of his new clothes. "Shall we?" he asked, extending his arm. This time, it wasn't a formal gesture of a commander, but an invitation.
Rias slid her arm through his, leaning in slightly. "We shall. But first," she whispered, leaning toward his ear, "about that 'Systematic Magic.' Once we get back to the clubroom, I want a full demonstration. Not just a translation of a simple spell, but a glimpse into how you view the architecture of power."
Issei's POV
"Dude, Issei—look over there!" Matsuda's voice cut through the post-arcade haze like a knife. I followed his pointing finger, already grumbling about how he was probably just spotting another cosplayer or something.
Then I saw her. Crimson hair catching the mall lights like fire. That perfect hourglass figure in the Kuoh Academy uniform skirt and coat combo. And those breasts—God, those heavenly, gravity-defying breasts that haunted half the guys' dreams at school.
Rias Gremory. The Rias Gremory. My heart did that stupid flip it always does when I see her. She's perfect—elegant, smart, untouchable. The ultimate woman I want in my future harem. One day, I swear, I'll be the guy walking next to her, getting to enjoy that view up close.
But… wait...She wasn't alone. Some tall, dark-haired serious jackass who looks like a yakuza boss was walking right beside her, loaded down with like a dozen shopping bags. And Rias—my Rias—was smiling up at him, talking animatedly, her arm looped through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And her chest—those glorious oppai—were pressed right up against his arm. My brain short-circuited. "Wha— Who the hell is that guy?!" I hissed, gripping my soda cup so hard the lid popped off.
Motohama adjusted his glasses, squinting. "Never seen him before. Transfer student? He's carrying all her bags like some kinda boyfriend." "Boyfriend?!" Matsuda and I yelled at the same time.
People turned to stare. I didn't care. Rias laughed at something the guy said—and leaned in closer. The dude looked down at her with this soft, almost shy smile, like he didn't even realize he was living every guy's fantasy right now.
And in an unexpected turn of event, when we were following their walk, the guy's eyes found us....somehow and his gaze was like a spear piercing through our souls. We suddenly find ourselves looking for another way to avoid that piercing gaze because it does feel like being pointed at with a gun.
But before we notice, they have disappeared into the crowd, leaving us standing there like three idiots who had just been checked by a professional.
"Did you see that?" Matsuda whispered, still staring at the spot where they had vanished. "That look... it was like he knew we were stalking them before we even knew we were stalking them."
"Who cares about the look!" I groaned, throwing my empty soda cup into a nearby trash can with more force than necessary. "Did you see how she was looking at him? Rias doesn't just 'arm-link' with random guys. She's a goddess! Who is that guy to just... exist in her personal space?"
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias choosing clothes for chibi Arto]
The sun was high enough to warm the sidewalks as Rias and Arto made their way back from the mall, arms swinging in easy rhythm. Arto carried every single shopping bag—dozens of them dangling from his forearms and looped over his shoulders—without the slightest sign of strain. Rias walked beside him, occasionally glancing up with a mix of exasperation and lingering embarrassment.
"You really shouldn't have done that, Arto," she said, voice half-scolding, half-amused. "Stepping out of the changing booth in just boxers? Do you have any idea how many women nearly fainted? You're lucky we went in the morning when it was quiet. If we'd gone in the evening rush, the store would've descended into chaos."
Arto tilted his head, genuinely puzzled. There wasn't a trace of guilt or smugness on his face—just honest confusion. "Is that a bad thing, Rias?" He stopped walking for a moment and, without any self-consciousness, lifted the hem of his new fitted T-shirt.
Well-toned abs came into view—defined but not overbuilt, skin carrying a faint, natural tan from who-knows-what forgotten sun in his ancient past. A few faint (real, non-illusion) training scars traced across the muscle, only adding to the effect.
He looked down at his own torso like he was examining a mildly interesting object. "I don't see anything wrong with it," he said earnestly. "It's just… a healthy body, isn't it? Why did they have to look so… awed?"
Rias stared. For a full three seconds, her brain refused to supply words. Her face went from light pink to full crimson in record time. Then she slapped both hands over her eyes with a groan. "Arto! Put your shirt down! We're on a public street!"
He obeyed immediately, dropping the hem back into place, still looking bewildered. "Did I do something wrong again?" Rias peeked through her fingers, saw that the shirt was safely down, and lowered her hands—though the blush remained.
"You didn't do anything wrong exactly," she muttered, resuming their walk a little faster than before. "It's just… most men don't casually flash perfect abs in the middle of a busy mall. Or on the sidewalk. Women aren't used to it. Especially not when the abs in question belong to someone who looks like…" She gestured vaguely at all of him. "…you."
Arto hummed, a sound of mild contemplation. "Me? Come one, Rias, tell me what I have that other males don't have, I'm sure everyone could have bodies similar to mine if they are healthy, well-fed and do basic trainings."
Rias stopped dead in her tracks, turning to look at him with an expression that was equal parts adoration and sheer disbelief. "Basic trainings? Arto, you're talking about the kind of physique that takes years of professional athletic discipline and genetics that only exist in textbooks. You don't just 'wake up' looking like a sculpted statue. And what is even your standards of basic training?"
Arto paused, blinking as he actually considered the question. "Well, you'll know when it's your peerage's turn to do it, speaking of training....Kiba wanted to spar with me after I come back..."
[ORC Clubhouse - Backyard]
The backyard behind the Occult Research Club had been cleared into an impromptu training ground—grass worn flat from countless spars, a few old wooden posts marking boundaries. Sunlight slanted through bare tree branches, casting long shadows across the makeshift arena.
Arto stood relaxed in the center, borrowed sword resting lightly against his shoulder. Across from him, Kiba rolled his wrists, the holy-demonic blade Sword Birth gleaming in his grip.
"You're saying you want to fight me, right?" Arto asked, tone neutral but curious. "Yes," Kiba replied with an easy smile. "Just a friendly spar. Best way I know to get to know someone." Arto nodded. "Sure. What are we using?"
"Swords." With a flicker of demonic power, Kiba summoned a second blade—perfectly balanced, identical to his own—and tossed it underhand. Arto caught it by the hilt, examined the edge with genuine interest, and gave an approving nod. "Good quality. And you summon them from thin air. Impressive." He glanced up. "That's how you blocked me so quickly last night."
Kiba laughed lightly. "It was close. You're the fastest human I've ever seen. I'm hoping to learn something from this, Sensei." Arto's brows rose slightly at the title, but he inclined his head politely. "Well-mannered. I hope to learn from you as well. I'll try not to disappoint your expectations of a 'seasoned warrior.'"
A pause. "Rules? Time limit? Disarm? Last man standing or… deathmatch?" Kiba's smile faltered. "I hope you're joking about the last one. Last man standing is fine." "Very well." Arto turned to the sidelines where Koneko stood, chocolate bar half-eaten. "Koneko, will you referee?"
She shrugged. "Whatever." Koneko stepped between them, glanced at both fighters as they settled into stances—Kiba low and fluid, Arto relaxed and upright—then raised one small hand. "AND… BEGIN!"
Kiba exploded forward in a blur of gold and steel. A flurry of slashes—high, low, diagonal, thrust—came in rapid succession, each strike precise and lightning-fast.
Any normal opponent would have been shredded. Arto didn't move his feet once. He simply shifted—minimal, economical motions of torso, shoulders, and wrists—letting every blade pass within inches of his body. Not a single cut touched him, his sword is still resting idly on his hand as he dodges everything like a flow of liquid.
Kiba's smile didn't fade, but his eyes sharpened. He was a formidable swordsman, used to opponents who tried to block or counter. Arto wasn't doing either; he was simply *not there* when the blade arrived. It was a level of spatial awareness that bordered on precognition. Kiba pivoted, his movement a golden arc that culminated in a lightning-fast thrust aimed directly at Arto's collarbone.
Arto didn't dodge this time. In a blur of motion so precise it looked like a glitch in reality, he stepped inside Kiba's guard. He didn't swing the sword; he used the pommel of the hilt to tap Kiba lightly on the wrist, knocking the blade off course, and then pivoted his hip to gently nudge Kiba's center of gravity.
Kiba stumbled, his foot catching on a tuft of uneven grass. Before he could recover, the blunt side of Arto's blade was resting against the side of his neck, the tip pointing toward the horizon.
"You're leaning too heavily on your speed, Yuuto," Arto said, his voice calm and instructional. "You assume that if you are the fastest thing in the room, you have already won. But speed is just a tool. If your opponent knows your movements, no matter how fast you are, it's useless, because they are always one step ahead, that's the sole problem with speed, it has pros and cons."
He takes his sword back and plants it to the ground, resting his hands on the hilt "When you're faster, it shouldn't be just the movements, it's in the way you think as well, moving fast without the brain power to process it is no short from moving blindly towards a destination you don't know. Do you know a bug called tiger beetles?"
Kiba blinked, his breath coming in short, controlled bursts as he stepped back. "A beetle? No, I don't think so."
"They are among the fastest insects in the world," Arto explained, his eyes tracking a stray leaf drifting through the air with predatory precision. "But they move so fast that their eyes cannot process the image of the world around them. They effectively go blind for fractions of a second during their sprint. They survive not because they can see where they are going, but because they trust the momentum of their instinct. You are fighting like a tiger beetle, Yuuto. You trust your velocity to carry you through the fight, but you aren't actually seeing the opening."
After that, he turns his gaze to Rias who is watching intensely from the sideline "Did I....say it right? You guys have a thing called tiger beetle in this world, right?"
After that, he turns his gaze to Rias who is watching intensely from the sideline "Did I....say it right? You guys have a thing called tiger beetle in this world, right?" He scratches his head, looking like a child asking questions again right after a moment of being a matured, seasoned swordmaster teaching his student.
Rias blinked, the whiplash from "terrifyingly efficient warrior" to "confused tourist" leaving her momentarily stunned. She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she stepped toward the center of the yard. "Yes, Arto, we have tiger beetles. And your analogy was actually quite brilliant, even if the delivery was... oddly specific."
Kiba, meanwhile, was staring at Arto with a look of genuine reverence. He didn't look frustrated or defeated; instead, he looked like a man who had just discovered a new continent. He slowly sheathed his blade, his eyes shining. "He's right. I felt it. I was moving at my limit, but the moment I committed to that thrust, it felt as if I were running into a wall that wasn't there. I wasn't seeing the fight; I was just trusting the rhythm of my own speed." He turned to Arto, bowing slightly. "Thank you, Sensei. I had no idea my style had such a blind spot."
Arto waved a hand dismissively, the intensity of the duel completely evaporated. "You learned your lesson, that's good, now, stop flashing around me, let us spar the normal way, the way that you can actually know what I am doing and answer accordingly."
He stepped back, his posture relaxing into that strange, neutral stillness once more. Kiba stands up, picking up his sword and getting into his stance, taking a deep breathe, looking at his opponent with clarity and focus, not allowing himself to miss a single movement of the one wanted to learn from.
This time, the gold blur was gone. Kiba moved with a deliberate, measured pace, his blade tracing small, hypnotic circles in the air. He wasn't trying to overwhelm Arto with velocity; he was probing, testing the perimeter of the man's reach, searching for the rhythmic "tick" of a tell. Arto mirrored him, his feet sliding across the grass with a soft, rhythmic shush, his blade held in a low, relaxed guard. For several minutes, the only sound in the backyard was the distant chirp of birds and the rhythmic clink of steel occasionally meeting steel as they traded short, probing strikes.
Then, Kiba shifted. It wasn't a sudden burst, but a subtle change in weight—a feint to the left that transitioned into a sweeping low cut. It was a classic trap. Arto's eyes narrowed, his body reacting instinctively. He pivoted, his blade whistling through the air to parry the strike, but as he did, Kiba twisted his wrist, using the momentum of the clash to slide his blade upward, aiming to disarm.
The clash of steel echoed sharply through the yard. Arto didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped *into* the strike, letting the flat of his blade catch K.iba's hilt and redirecting the force with a slight, circular rotation of his wrist. With a fluid motion, he stepped past Kiba, the back of his hand glancing off the knight's shoulder just enough to throw him off balance. In one seamless motion, the blunt edge of Arto's sword tapped Kiba squarely in the center of his chest—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to send him reeling backward.
"Better," Arto remarked, his voice warm. "You stopped relying on the wind and started reading the current. Your eyes stayed open, Yuuto." He flicks the sword towards Kiba once more "Stand up, knight, you're not done, we both know it"
[Timeskip]
Akeno steps out of the clubhouse in her apron to see what she has been hearing the entire hour, and when she comes to the backyard, she sees Rias and Koneko are standing idly, looking at the clash between Arto and Kiba. The "spar" had devolved from a technical lesson into something resembling a rhythmic dance of steel. Kiba was breathing heavily, sweat soaking through his shirt, while Arto looked as though he had just taken a light stroll through a garden.
"My, my," Akeno purred, leaning against the doorframe with a playful smile. "I could hear the steel clashing from the kitchen. It sounded like a war zone, but the energy coming from out here is... strangely disciplined."
Kiba was sent back again after another exchange with Arto, his feet are still within the ring they setup for the spar, some shallow cuts are visible across his body, the marks of the 'lessons' Arto taught him, he knows each one could have been a limp severence, or even a death blow, he breathes heavily, his chest heaving as he looks at the man who seems to have a bottomless pool of stamina.
Rias' face is displaying clear worry for her Knight as she tries to step into the ring towards Kiba "Kiba, that's enoug...." the Knight raises a hand against his King, a silent command: stay back. He isn't exhausted in the way a defeated man is; he is exhausted in the way a student is when he has finally seen the peak of the mountain and realized how far he has to climb.
"Just a little more," Kiba gasped, his voice raspy but determined. He shifted his grip on the sword, his eyes narrowing. Arto puts on a smirk as he gets into his stance again, knowing something explosive is coming 'Kiba is running low on energy, he is going all out....' Arto thinks as he looks at Kiba directly in the eyes, expecting a strike.
Kiba narrows his eyes, taking a good look at his opponent's stance, his mind is already running on analysis. 'Huh....a weak spot...' he notices a chip deeper than anywhere else on Arto's blade, a blade he made with Sword Birth, he knows it too well 'For a perfect defense...breaking the shield would be the only option....and it requires explosive power and....speed'
In an instant, Kiba plants his feet firmly against the ground, lowering his body while raising his sword. And in a fraction of a second, he ignites. A burst of golden light erupts around his legs, the sheer pressure of his demonic power carving two deep trenches into the grass. He launches himself forward like a railgun, a golden streak that vanishes from the sight of everyone except the most seasoned eyes.
Arto's pupils dilate. He recognizes the pattern—it was the "Tiger Beetle", 'Heh, this is your trump card? Let's see....', and like all the prior attempts, the golden flash washes through the Abyssgard, didn't leave a mark as his parry was perfect, until he realized...Kiba wasn't aiming at him, he was aiming at the sword.
But it was too late when the second burst came right after the first one, Kiba twists his direction 180 degrees, withstanding all the effects of inertia on him to make another strike before Arto, the slower one, could turn back.
The golden blade didn't aim for the flesh; it slammed directly into the chipped notch of Arto's sword with the force of a falling meteor. There was a sharp, metallic *ping*—a sound like a tuning fork hitting a crystal glass—and the borrowed blade shuddered violently in Arto's grip. The impact sent a shockwave through the grass, rippling outward in a perfect circle.
And when the unstoppable force meets an immovable object, the thing in the middle, the sword, would get destroyed, and in this case, it's Arto's sword because Kiba has made a precise strike on the weak point of the blade.
The borrowed sword shattered into a dozen shimmering fragments that rained down on the grass like dying stars. For a heartbeat, time seemed to suspend itself. Kiba's blade didn't stop; the momentum of his same-frame pivot carried the edge of his sword upward, leaving a small cut on Arto's cheek before the Knight of Gremory peerage completely collapsed in exhaustion, unconcious.
Rias was the first to steps into the ring towards Kiba, her expression shifting from worry to shock as she looked at the shattered remnants of the blade. She reached Kiba just as he slumped forward, his chest heaving in a final, ragged exhale before his eyes drifted shut.
"Kiba!" she exclaimed, though there was a flicker of pride in her voice. She knelt beside him, checking his pulse and breathing, which were stable despite the sheer exhaustion.
Arto remained standing, motionless. He didn't move to catch the falling knight, nor did he react with anger. He simply stood there, the tip of Kiba's blade having grazed his cheek—the only mark left of the encounter. He reached up with a slow, methodical motion and touched the thin line of blood on his skin, staring at the red smudge on his fingertip.
"Precision," Arto whispered, his voice carrying a hint of genuine admiration. "He didn't just use speed; he used the flaw in the equipment against me. He analyzed the structural failure of the steel and had a perfect plan to exploit that weakness, that's a better Kiba than the one who stepped into the Ring."
Rias looked up at Arto, her eyes wide. She had seen the strike, and she had seen the blade shatter, but the look on Arto's face wasn't one of defeat. It was a look of profound pride of a teacher who has successfully taught his student something meaningful.
"You're bleeding," she said softly, stepping closer. The adrenaline of the fight had faded, leaving a heavy, peaceful silence in the backyard, broken only by Kiba's rhythmic, deep snoring as he succumbed to the exhaustion of his victory.
Arto barely glanced at the small cut on his cheek. He was staring at the shards of the broken sword, his mind already calculating the physics of the impact. "No matter, not the first wound for me, but it was a huge leap for the fainted Knight of yours," he said, his voice returning to that low, steady hum.
He looked down at the unconscious Kiba with a soft, knowing expression. "He knew what he was doing, he had a plan and executed daringly. In a real war, that's the difference between a corpse and a survivor." Arto sighed, the tension finally leaving his shoulders as he stepped out of the makeshift ring, leaving the broken shards of the summoned sword to fade back into magical essence.
Rias stood up, helping Koneko carry the sleeping Knight back toward the clubhouse. As they walked, she glanced sideways at Arto. The small cut on his cheek was already beginning to close, the abnormal regenerative speed of his body working silently.
"You let him do it," she accused gently, though there was a smile playing on her lips. "You saw the trajectory, didn't you? You could have shifted an inch and he would have missed the notch entirely."
Arto stopped and looked at the sky, the orange hues of the approaching sunset painting the horizon. "A soldier who is always told he is wrong will never learn how to be right, Rias. If I had dodged, he would have spent the next month wondering why his 'perfect' strike failed. By letting him succeed, I've given him something more valuable than a victory—I've given him proof that his intellect can overcome a superior physical force."
Akeno joined them, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she looked at the blood on Arto's face. "My, such a selfless teacher. I didn't realize you had such a soft heart hidden under all that muscle and scarring." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. "Does this mean you're officially part of the family now? Or are you still playing the role of the mysterious outsider?"
Arto blinked, momentarily caught off guard by her proximity. He wasn't used to this kind of warmth—the kind that didn't come with a price tag or a mission objective. "If you welcome me, I would be glad to be a part of the family," he answered simply, his voice devoid of irony. Akeno takes that chance to hug his firm arm "You're always welcomed, darling," she hummed, her tone a melodic blend of genuine affection and her usual teasing nature.
[Timeskip]
The clubhouse living room was quiet in the late morning. Kiba lay on the couch, blankets tucked around him, minor bruises already fading under Akeno's earlier healing. Kiba wakes up slowly, rubbing his eyes as the smell of the stew in the kitchen hits him first before the sight of Arto sitting on the couch opposite to him.
The Abyssgard was reading a magazine with bugged look as he turns the book one way, then another, the image of the seasoned warrior has disappeared once more, leaving only an oblivious man in a world he has not yet understood.
"You're awake," Arto noted without looking up. "You woke up at the right time for lunch. Akeno is making a very potent stew, I got a sneak bite from her and it was....phernomenal" Arto awkwardly did the chef-kiss gesture with his fingers, though he looked slightly confused as to why the magazine he was reading was upside down.
Kiba sat up, a slow smile spreading across his face as the memories of the prior spar flooded back into his mind "Did I....do well?" he asked, grabbing the cup of water someone placed on the table for him.
Arto finally lowered the magazine, glancing at Kiba with a look of profound seriousness that lasted about two seconds before he let out a small, huffing laugh. "You did well, I'll give you that, that bit about the weak point on my sword was spot on, you actually used your speed advantage properly, that's what I am most proud of."
Kiba beamed, the kind of genuine, youthful pride that rarely touched the stoic Knight's expression. He felt a strange sense of kinship with Arto; they were both specialists in their own right, yet Arto operated on a plane of existence that made Kiba's mastery of a thousand blades feel like a child's drawing.
"I felt something change in the last few seconds," Kiba admitted, leaning forward. "The world didn't blur. For the first time, I could actually see the distance between us closing, and I knew exactly where the blade was."
"That is the difference between speed and velocity," Arto explained, finally flipping the magazine the right way up. "Velocity is just a number. Speed is a feeling. But precision is a choice. You chose to stop being a projectile and started being a swordsman."
Kiba absorbed it quietly, nodding. A faint, determined smile touched his lips. "I'll keep that in mind. You're a great teacher, Arto." Arto rubbed the back of his neck, a touch sheepish. "Am I? Well… thank you. If you're calling me that, I suppose I should finish the lesson properly."
He paused, studying Kiba thoughtfully. "Try looking into alchemy. You have talent for it." Kiba blinked, surprised. "Alchemy?"
Arto nodded. "Your sword generating power—lets you create blades with specific properties. That's not far from alchemical transmutation: imbuing materials with intent, altering their nature. Your precision, your feel for metal and balance… it would translate well. You could forge swords that aren't just sharp, but carry elemental affinities, curses, blessings—whatever the fight needs."
He gestured lightly, as if sketching runes in the air. "Start small. Study basic elemental theory, how mana binds to matter. Combine it with your birth ability, and you won't just summon swords—you'll craft masterpieces mid-battle."
Kiba's eyes lit up with genuine interest—the same spark he got whenever a new path of swordsmanship opened before him. "I… never thought of it that way. I'll look into it. Thank you, Sensei."
Kiba extended his fist, a tired but satisfied grin on his face. Arto met it with a solid bump—two knights, one ancient and one reborn, sharing a quiet moment of mutual respect.
From inside the kitchen, Rias's voice rang out, warm and carrying the faint clatter of dishes. "It's time for lunch, you two!"
Arto glanced over his shoulder, already rising. "Coming! Need any help?" Kiba pushed himself up from the couch, waving him off with a small laugh. "Nah, I can walk on my own."