Issei's POV
I groaned as I adjusted the strap of my backpack, the weight of leftover picnic snacks and empty soda cans pulling at my shoulder. Summer break was officially over, and here we were—me, Matsuda, and Motohama—dragging our asses back toward the bus stop after one last half-hearted picnic in the suburbs. The sun was still brutal even though it was past noon, and my shirt was sticking to my back like I'd gone swimming in my clothes.
"Man, I'm gonna miss sleeping in," Matsuda muttered, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk. "School tomorrow. Kill me now." Motohama adjusted his glasses with that smug little smirk he always gets when he thinks he's about to say something clever. "At least we got one last taste of freedom. And one last look at bikini season." I snorted. "Yeah, because the three of us staring at girls from behind bushes is so peak freedom."
We turned the corner onto the quieter stretch of road that led to the bus stop—and froze. There it was. A mansion. Not just a big house. A mansion. Sitting on a huge plot of land right at the edge of town like it owned the whole damn suburb. High stone walls wrapped around most of it, topped with wrought-iron spikes that looked more decorative than defensive—but still screamed "stay out." Through the gaps in the gate and over the top of the wall we could see manicured gardens, a fountain that probably cost more than my family's apartment building, and the top floors of what looked like a three-story western-style manor with dark windows that reflected the sky like black mirrors.
Matsuda let out a long, low whistle. "Holy crap… who lives there?" Motohama pushed his glasses up again—habit when he was trying to look smart. "Gotta be someone loaded. Celebrity? Foreign businessman? Yakuza boss?" He paused, then added darkly, "Or… worse." I felt my stomach drop before he even said it. "Don't." But he did. "What if it's him?"
We all knew exactly who "him" was...Aruto Abyga.
The bastard who transferred into Kuoh at the start of last semester and somehow turned the whole school upside down without even trying.
Tall. Built like he lived in the gym. Face that made girls forget how to blink. Straight-A student. Captain-level in every sport he touched. Polite to guys, gentle with girls, always had that calm half-smile like he knew something the rest of us didn't.
And the girls? They wouldn't shut up about him.
"Did you see Aruto-kun in gym today?"
"He helped me carry books to class…"
"He smiled at me in the hallway, I'm gonna die…"
Even the ones who pretended not to care talked about him. And us? We never even had a real conversation with the guy. Didn't need to. Everything about him screamed unfair. He was too good at everything. Too nice. Too perfect. And worst of all—he never seemed to notice how much he was winning.
If this mansion belonged to him… Matsuda voiced what we were all thinking. "Please, God, Buddha, Amaterasu, whoever's listening—do not let that bastard live here. Let him be some normal guy with manners and a normal house. Let this place belong to a movie star or a tech billionaire or literally anyone else."
Motohama nodded solemnly. "Amen." I stared at the gate—black iron shaped like twisting vines, the kind of elegant that made you feel poor just looking at it. "If it is him…" I muttered. Matsuda finished for me. "…then we're officially cursed."
We stood there a moment longer—three idiots in sweaty summer clothes, backpacks sagging, staring at a mansion like it personally owed us money. Then the bus horn blared from the stop down the road. "Come on," I said, turning away first. "We'll miss it."
The three of us had just turned to leave—backpacks heavy, legs tired, already mentally preparing for tomorrow's hell of second-semester homeroom—when two figures appeared at opposite ends of the street.
Both walking straight toward the mansion's gate. Both… impossible. One came from the left: long gray hair flowing like liquid silver, dressed in a classic black-and-white maid outfit that hugged every dangerous curve. The skirt was modest in length but scandalously tight around hips that swayed with hypnotic precision. The bodice cinched an impossibly small waist before flaring into a chest that made gravity look like a polite suggestion.
The other approached from the right: raven-black hair cascading to mid-back, wearing a flowing white dress that looked elegant and innocent from ten meters away—until the breeze caught it and outlined every lethal proportion underneath. Same tiny waist. Same generous hips. Same chest that belonged on a marble statue, not a living person.
Matsuda froze mid-step. Motohama's glasses slid halfway down his nose. I felt my soul briefly leave my body. We dove behind the nearest hedge so fast I'm pretty sure we broke Olympic shrub-diving records. Motohama pushed his glasses back up with a trembling finger, already entering analysis mode. "Gray-hair… 97-58-91," he whispered, voice cracking like he was reading a sacred text. "Raven-hair… 94-58-88. Clothes are tailored—not skin-tight, but structured. They hug without squeezing. Every sway… every step… it's mathematically obscene."
Matsuda made a strangled noise that might have been a prayer or a dying animal. I just stared harder, cheeks burning, brain short-circuiting between "this is wrong" and "I can't look away." The women met at the gate—close enough now that we could hear them clearly. Gray-hair spoke first, tone cool and professional but edged with faint curiosity. "What are you doing at my master's house? And what exactly do you want from him?"
Raven-hair tilted her head slightly—long black hair shifting like silk. "The Spy led me here. I'm to serve as his secretary. He recruited me a few weeks ago, I couldn't be by his side because of some family matters, now I am fully ready to take on my duty so I came here, where he lives."
Gray-hair nodded once—acknowledgment, not surprise. "So we were both sent by the Spy." A brief silence. Then they exchanged names like formal introductions between old rivals who suddenly realized they were on the same side. "II am glad we can be colleagues, I'm Grayfia Lucifuge."
"And I am Albedo." They each produced a key—identical, black with a silver hawk crest—and inserted them into the twin locks on the gate. It swung open silently. For one glorious, forbidden second the door to the main house was visible behind them.
A sprawling modern-traditional hybrid rose into view—three stories of dark cedar and smoked glass, sweeping eaves that echoed ancient Japanese architecture but with clean, almost futuristic lines. Courtyards visible through glass walls. A koi pond that reflected lanterns already lit against the coming dusk. The whole place screamed money, power, and taste so refined it felt like a personal insult to anyone who still used public transportation.
Then the gate closed. Grayfia and Albedo disappeared inside. Their hips swayed—perfectly synchronized, perfectly lethal—as they walked up the path. We stayed crouched behind the hedge for a full ten seconds after the gate clicked shut. Matsuda was breathing like he'd run a marathon. Motohama's glasses were completely fogged. I was pretty sure I'd forgotten how to blink.
Finally Matsuda wheezed: "…We're cursed." Motohama nodded slowly. "That's not a house. That's a fortress of unfairness."
"Yeah," I managed. "I saw. Those 2 women were...." I can't even find words to say about their beauty. "...I know, it's hard to say" Matsuda pats my back "But can you imagine living with those 2 women everyday, I don't think I could stop my boner for any moment of day."
"Yeah, look at them" Motohama points at the door "What kind of man who don't want to have them serving in bed everynight, now I am curious about who owns that mansion." I take a deep breathe before recalling what the woman named Albedo said "She referred to the man she calls Master as 'he', so...."
I look at the door of the mansion, imagining a man who has a maid and a secretary that beautiful, could he be secretly having a harem? "I think I found my teacher, guys" That gate suddenly is bathed in a new light for me, beyond that door might be the one I could get guidance from to become Harem King.
"Dude, where are you going? And what's with about this 'teacher' nonsense?" Matsuda grabs my shoulder and pulls me back, that's when I realize I was heading towards the door of that mansion. "Where the hell else? I need to see my sensei and ask him how to have a harem"
Matsuda's hand was still clamped on my shoulder—hard enough that I could feel his palm sweating through my shirt. "Dude," he hissed, voice cracking between panic and disbelief, "you were literally about to walk up and ring the doorbell. Of the mansion. With the two goddesses. And ask the guy inside how to build a harem."
Motohama pushed his glasses up again—shaky fingers, lenses still fogged. "He's serious," he whispered, like he was diagnosing a terminal condition. "He's actually serious." I shook Matsuda's grip off and took one step forward anyway—more out of stubborn momentum than actual plan. "Look," I said, trying to sound reasonable even though my heart was jackhammering, "that woman—Albedo—she called him 'Master.' Grayfia called him 'my master' too. Both of them. Voluntarily. Happily. You saw the way they walked in—like they belonged there. Like they wanted to be there. That's not normal boss-secretary-maid behavior. That's harem behavior."
Matsuda stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Issei. Buddy. Best friend. We are high-schoolers. We have zero game, zero money, and zero social credit. You really think the guy who owns that—" he jabbed a finger toward the mansion "—is gonna open the gate and go 'Sure, kid, pull up a chair, let me give you the Harem King starter pack'?"
Motohama nodded furiously. "He's probably some forty-year-old billionaire with a private army and a panic room. Or worse—he's actually Aruto Abyga, and he'll just smile that creepy-calm smile and say 'You seem like nice boys' while his security drags us to the curb by our backpacks."
I opened my mouth to argue—Then closed it. I looked back at the gate. Dark cedar, smoked glass, hawk crest glinting under the security lights. Somewhere behind those walls were two women so beautiful my brain was still buffering. And a man who—somehow—had them both calling him Master without a hint of coercion in their voices.
I swallowed again. My throat felt like sandpaper. "I'm not saying I'm gonna knock right now," I muttered. "I'm just saying… if that's a man with a harem in there… I want to know how." Matsuda groaned and dragged both hands down his face. "You're hopeless." Motohama sighed—the long-suffering sigh of a man who has accepted his friends are idiots. "We're gonna miss the bus," he said. "Again."
I gave the mansion one last look—long, hungry, stupidly hopeful. Then turned away. "Fine. Let's go."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Albedo looking for Arto's secret stash, but found none]
The bus stop was dead quiet except for the faint buzz of cicadas and the occasional car whooshing past on the main road far behind us. Streetlamp flickered once, twice, then gave up—leaving us in that murky purple twilight where everything looks slightly unreal.
Three days of summer freedom. Three days of zero phone chargers. Three days of "just one more photo" until both our batteries flatlined. Matsuda kicked the bench leg for the tenth time. "Still nothing," he muttered. "No bus. No signal. No life."
Motohama slumped against the timetable pole, glasses reflecting the single weak light from the mansion up the hill. "We're walking home, aren't we?" I stared at the dark road stretching toward town—easily forty minutes on foot, probably an hour if we kept whining the whole way. Then my eyes drifted—almost against my will—toward the only building with lights on for half a kilometer in any direction.
That mansion. Still glowing softly behind its tall walls. Warm yellow windows like eyes that never blinked. The gate we'd hidden behind earlier now looked almost inviting in the dark. Matsuda followed my gaze. He was quiet for a second—then voiced exactly what I'd been thinking but didn't want to admit out loud. "Welp… I think we need to ask them for a call. Maybe borrow a phone to grab a taxi or something. This empty road is draining my hope for a trip home not on foot."
He paused. Then his eyes went dreamy—pupils dilating like a cartoon character who just spotted the jackpot. "...Maybe we get to meet those two hot babes again." Motohama made a strangled noise halfway between agreement and religious terror. I felt my face heat up all over again.
The memory hit like a truck: Grayfia's cool silver hair and that maid outfit hugging curves that should be illegal. Albedo's raven hair flowing like ink down her back, white dress clinging in all the right places when the breeze caught it. The way they'd walked through that gate—confident, elegant, completely aware of how lethal they were—and vanished inside like they owned the damn place.
And the guy they both called Master. I swallowed hard. "We're not going in there to perv," I said—mostly to convince myself. "We're going in there to… survive. Phone. Taxi. That's it." Matsuda nodded way too quickly. "Right. Survive. One hundred percent survival mission." Motohama adjusted his glasses again—third time in thirty seconds. "Professional. Mature. We ask politely, make the call, leave. No staring. No drooling. No accidental boners."
We all looked at each other. Then—without another word—we started walking up the gentle slope toward the gate. We reached the gate. Black iron. No crest. Not a doorbell—just a discreet intercom panel set into the stone pillar. Matsuda looked at me. I looked at Motohama. Motohama looked at the intercom like it might bite. I took a deep breath.
And pressed the call button. A soft chime echoed inside the grounds. Then silence. We waited. And waited. My palms were sweating. Then—crisp, cool, unmistakable—a woman's voice came through the speaker. "May I help you?" Grayfia. It was definitely Grayfia. Matsuda made a tiny, strangled sound. Motohama's glasses slid down his nose again. I opened my mouth and nothing came out for three full seconds.
Finally—voice cracking like I was thirteen again—I managed: "Uh… hi. We… missed our bus. Phones are dead. Can we… maybe borrow a phone? To call a taxi? Please?" Silence on the other end. Then—soft, almost amused "One moment."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Grayfia making a call]
The gate parted with a low, smooth hum—iron vines sliding apart like they were alive and just waking up. And there she was...Grayfia.
Up close she was even more unfair than from behind the hedge. The black-and-white maid uniform wasn't flashy, wasn't skimpy—it was precise. Every seam, every fold, every inch of fabric seemed engineered to frame her body without apology. The bodice hugged her waist so perfectly it looked painted on, then flared over hips that could start wars. And her chest… God. The white frill at the neckline only made the swell beneath it more devastating. We weren't even trying to stare, but our eyes betrayed us—locked on the closest thing to eye level, which happened to be the most dangerous real estate in the Underworld.
Her scent hit us next. Clean linen, faint lavender, something colder underneath—like winter air right before snow. Comforting. Intoxicating. My face felt like it was on fire; I could practically hear Matsuda's brain short-circuiting beside me. She regarded us with those ice-silver eyes—professional, detached, utterly unimpressed. Like she'd seen a thousand horny teenage boys before breakfast and none of them had been worth remembering.
"I heard you're in need of a call for a taxi home?" Her voice cut through the haze—cool, crisp, no nonsense. "I've already arranged one for the three of you. It will arrive shortly." We blinked in unison. Three brain-dead high-schoolers suddenly realizing an actual adult was speaking actual words to us. Grayfia tilted her head slightly—only the faintest hint of impatience. "Do you want to wait out here… or come in and have tea while you wait?"
Matsuda's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out. Motohama's glasses slid all the way down his nose. He didn't bother pushing them back up. I—miraculously—found my voice first. It cracked on the first syllable. "Uh… tea? I mean—yes. Tea. Please. Thank you. Ma'am." Grayfia didn't smile. She didn't frown. She simply stepped aside, gesturing toward the open gate with one gloved hand. "Then follow me."
We moved like we'd been hypnotized—three zombies in wrinkled uniforms and backpacks, trailing after the most beautiful maid in existence like ducklings after their mother. The courtyard beyond the gate was stupidly perfect. Gravel paths. Lanterns already lit against the coming night. A koi pond reflecting stars that weren't even out yet. The main house loomed ahead—dark cedar, smoked glass, modern-traditional hybrid that looked like it cost more than our entire school district.
Grayfia led us through a side path that curved around the main house—gravel crunching under our sneakers, lanterns flickering on automatically as dusk settled in. The whole time my eyes kept betraying me. Every step she took, those hips moved with this effortless, hypnotic rhythm. Not exaggerated. Not trying. Just… there. Perfectly proportioned, perfectly framed by the tight black skirt that swayed just enough to drive teenage brains into meltdown mode.
I tried to look at the scenery. The koi pond. The bonsai trees. The fancy lanterns. Failed. Eyes snapped right back. Matsuda was openly staring—mouth slightly open, breathing like he'd forgotten how lungs work. Motohama had pushed his glasses up so many times they were practically glued to his forehead, lenses fogged again.
We reached a small, open-sided gazebo tucked against the garden wall—wooden benches, low table, fairy lights already glowing softly overhead. Grayfia stopped at the entrance and turned to face us, expression still perfectly professional, like she hadn't just walked the world's most lethal catwalk. "You may sit here and wait for the taxi to arrive," she said, voice cool and even. "I'll bring your tea and snacks out shortly."
She gave a small, polite bow—nothing dramatic, just enough to make her chest shift in ways that should be illegal—then turned. And walked away. Hips swaying. Again. The three of us watched her disappear through the mansion's side door like we'd been hit with a Petrificus Totalus.
The three of us sat in stunned silence for a solid five seconds after Grayfia disappeared behind the side door—hips still burned into our retinas like afterimages from staring at the sun. Matsuda finally broke first. He collapsed backward onto the gazebo bench so hard the wood creaked, one hand clutching his chest like he'd been shot. "Dude…" he wheezed again, voice cracking on every syllable. "I can never get enough of those hips. She packs like a bakery with her while walking. I swear my soul left my body for a second there."
Motohama was nodding so fast his glasses were in actual danger of launching off his face. "I'm in physical pain. Actual physical pain. Did you see how the skirt moved? Not tight, not short—just… perfect. Every step was like… physics giving up and saying 'fine, you win.'" I swallowed again—throat still sandpaper-dry—and forced myself to speak before my brain melted completely. "Now I really want to know who owns this place."
Matsuda sat bolt upright, eyes wild with sudden revelation. "Seriously. Maid like that? Secretary like that? Guy's living a dream. Imagine those two naked in bed with you—no, just Grayfia. Serving you thoroughly like a dutiful maid with her body. She's clicking all my kinks. Those ample tits, round ass, beautiful face… where did this guy find a maid like this? Is there a secret agency? A black-market catalog? Do you just email 'send ultimate fantasy maid' and they deliver?"
Motohama adjusted his glasses (again) and leaned in like he was sharing classified intel. "Yeah, why hire such a maid when her work is only looking after the house? I bet there's more to it… like bed service. Do you remember that anime we binged last summer? The maids were always the best girls—loyal, elegant, secretly thirsty, ready to drop everything for their master. Now we saw one in reality. This mansion owner is literally living an anime. I'm jealous. I'm actually jealous."
I stared at the closed side door, mind racing through every harem protagonist trope I'd ever read or watched. "She called him 'Master,'" I muttered. "Both of them did. Like… willingly. Happily. That's not normal employer-employee shit. That's harem shit."
Matsuda groaned and flopped back again. "If Aruto Abyga lives here… I'm dropping out. I can't compete with a guy who has Grayfia Lucifuge vacuuming in that outfit every morning. I'll just become a fisherman or something. Live off the sea. No competition there." Motohama nodded solemnly. "Strategic retreat. Become hermits. Move to the mountains. It's the only way."
We sat there—three hormonal disasters in wrinkled uniforms—staring at the mansion like it personally owed us therapy. Then Matsuda sat up again, eyes gleaming with dangerous hope. "Wait. She said she'd bring tea. And snacks. That means she's coming back. We could… casually ask. Like normal people. 'Hey, Grayfia-san, quick question—who's your boss and how do I become him?'"
Motohama looked at him like he'd suggested robbing a bank. "You want to ask the goddess maid who just served us existential crisis on a silver platter… about her Master?" Matsuda shrugged. "I mean… she seems polite. Maybe she'll just answer."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Albedo setting up her room in Arto's mansion]
The gazebo lights cast a soft, golden glow over the three of us as we sat—frozen, sweating, hearts hammering like we'd just run a marathon. Matsuda was gripping the bench edge so hard his knuckles were white. Motohama had finally given up on his glasses and just held them in his lap like a security blanket. I was trying (and failing) to look anywhere except the side door Grayfia had disappeared through.
Then it opened again. She stepped out carrying a large lacquered tray—balanced perfectly on one gloved hand like it weighed nothing. Teapot, cups, small plates of delicate snacks (mochi, fruit slices, tiny sandwiches), everything arranged with surgical precision. The tray didn't wobble once as she walked toward us.
Grayfia set the tray on the low table with a soft clink, then straightened—posture flawless, expression calm and professional as ever. "Tea and light refreshments," she said. "The taxi should arrive in approximately twelve minutes." She began pouring—three perfect cups of steaming green tea, no spill, no splash. The scent hit us: clean, grassy, calming. Completely at odds with the chaos in our heads.
I cleared my throat—twice—before my voice decided to work. "Uh… thank you, Grayfia-san." She inclined her head slightly. "You're welcome." Matsuda and Motohama were useless. Just staring. Breathing. Barely. I forced myself to speak before the silence became terminal. "Um… sorry to ask, but… who owns this place? Is it… uh… does it have anything to do with a guy named Aruto Abyga?"
The question came out stumbling, half-mumbled, face burning hotter than the tea. Grayfia paused—mid-pour—then finished the last cup with the same unruffled grace. "I cannot disclose the identity of my Master to outsiders," she answered evenly. "It is stipulated in my contract as head maid of this residence." She set the teapot down. "But I can assure you with certainty: my Master has no relation whatsoever to this 'Aruto Abyga' you mentioned."
The relief hit us like a truck. Matsuda exhaled so hard it sounded like a tire deflating. Motohama slumped back against the bench—glasses finally pushed up properly. I felt ten kilos lighter. "Oh thank god," Matsuda muttered under his breath. Grayfia's silver eyes flicked over us—cool, assessing—but she didn't comment. I pressed—carefully. "Then… um… where is your Master right now? Is he here? Could we… maybe talk to him? Just for a second?"
Grayfia straightened fully—hands clasped in front of her apron. "My Master is currently on a business trip. He will not return for several days. At present, only myself and his new secretary are in residence. We were instructed to familiarize ourselves with the property and prepare for his return so we may begin our duties properly."
She paused—then added, almost gently "If you have any further questions, feel free to ask. I will answer what I am permitted to." We stared at her—three teenage disasters with zero chill. Matsuda opened his mouth—then closed it again. Motohama adjusted his glasses (again).
I managed a weak: "Thank you… for the tea. And the taxi." Grayfia gave another small, polite bow—chest shifting just enough to remind us why breathing was suddenly difficult. "You're welcome."
The gazebo felt ten degrees hotter after Grayfia left, even though the evening breeze was starting to pick up. We sat there in stunned silence for a solid minute, staring at the empty doorway like she'd left a bomb behind instead of tea and snacks.
Matsuda was the first to speak—voice hoarse, reverent, like he'd witnessed a miracle. "Thank gods that Aruto is not a part of this," he wheezed, slumping back against the bench. "Meaning he's more normal than before. If that guy lived here—with her serving him tea every morning—I would literally die right here. Spontaneous combustion. New life required. Move to the mountains. Become a hermit."
Motohama nodded so vigorously his glasses slid down again. "Statistically impossible for one high-schooler to have both Grayfia and that secretary calling him Master. Aruto's already too perfect. If he had this too? The universe would collapse from imbalance."
I exhaled hard through my nose—relief flooding me so fast my shoulders dropped. "Yeah," I muttered, finally able to breathe without my lungs catching fire. "Thank gods. He's just… rich-kid rich. Not harem-palace rich. That's… manageable." Then the thought hit me like a truck. I sat up straighter. "But if that's the case…"
Matsuda and Motohama turned to me slowly, already sensing danger. "…I might have found my sensei." Silence. Matsuda blinked. "Your… what now?"
"My sensei," I repeated, voice gaining strength. "The guy who lives here. Whoever he is—he's got Grayfia Lucifuge calling him Master. Happily. Willingly. And another goddess-tier woman as his secretary. That's not luck. That's skill. That's a masterclass in harem-building. If anyone can guide me on the path to becoming Harem King… it's him."
Motohama stared at me like I'd just confessed to being an alien. "Issei. Bro. We just survived an encounter with peak femininity and you're already planning to enroll in Harem University?" Matsuda groaned and dragged both hands down his face. "He's gone. He's actually gone. The brain rot is terminal."
I ignored them—leaning forward, eyes locked on the mansion's glowing windows. "Think about it. We ask politely. We're just three normal guys who missed the bus. We get inside. We meet the man. We observe. We learn. We take notes—mental notes, obviously. And then… we level up."
Motohama adjusted his glasses for the millionth time. "You want to spy on a guy who has two literal goddesses serving him… so you can copy his homework?" Matsuda nodded slowly—like he was finally understanding the depth of my madness. "That's actually the most perverted thing you've ever said. And that's saying something." I grinned—wild, reckless, stupidly hopeful. "Exactly. If I can learn even one percent of whatever cheat code he's using… we're set for life."
The taxi headlights appeared down the road—right on time. We stood up slowly—backpacks heavy, faces still flushed, dignity somewhere back in that hedge. Matsuda muttered as we walked toward the street: "I give us two weeks before we're sneaking back here with binoculars." Motohama sighed—long, defeated. "Less. Way less."
3rd Person POV
[Arto's mansion - Inside Main House]
Grayfia stepped through the side door into the cool, shadowed hallway of the mansion, the faint scent of cedar and polished wood greeting her like an old friend. She closed the door behind her with a soft click—locking out the night, the teenage boys, and their hormone-charged stares.
Albedo was waiting just inside the inner corridor, still damp from her shower. A thick white towel wrapped around her body like a second skin, raven hair clinging wetly to her shoulders and back. Droplets traced slow paths down her collarbone, disappearing into the generous swell of her chest. She leaned against the wall with casual grace, arms crossed beneath her breasts—lifting them slightly, as though daring the world to look away.
Grayfia met her gaze without flinching. Albedo tilted her head, lips curving into a knowing, faintly amused smile. "Grayfia," she purred, voice low and smooth like velvet dragged over steel, "how are you comfortable with those boys? They kept eyeing your breasts and hips like they were going to pin you down and fuck you right then and there."
Grayfia shook her head—gentle, almost fond—small smile touching her lips. "Yet they didn't."
She stepped closer, passing Albedo and moving toward the small service kitchenette tucked behind the hallway. She began preparing the tray she'd promised—three delicate porcelain cups, a small teapot already steaming, a plate of matcha mochi and seasonal fruit slices arranged with surgical precision.
"I drew my boundaries clear," Grayfia continued, tone calm and measured. "If any of them had tried to cross that line… they wouldn't have left this mansion's door alive."
She arranged the cups with quiet efficiency. "That's how a maid works—even with people she doesn't particularly like. Maintain dignity. Protect the Master's honor. Serve with grace. And if necessary…" Her silver eyes flicked toward Albedo, cool and certain. "…eliminate threats before they become problems."
Albedo laughed—soft, throaty, genuinely amused. "You're terrifying when you're polite, you know that?" Grayfia allowed herself the tiniest upward curve of her lips. "It's part of the job description." She lifted the finished tray—balanced as perfectly as before—and turned back toward the hallway.
Albedo pushed off the wall, towel shifting slightly as she fell into step beside her. "They're harmless," Albedo mused. "Horny, stupid, harmless teenage boys. The Master would probably find them amusing." Grayfia's smile faded just a fraction. "Amusing or not… they're outsiders. And the Master is away. Until he returns, we maintain order. No exceptions."
Albedo's golden eyes glittered with faint mischief. "Even if one of them asks for 'guidance' on how to build a harem?" Grayfia paused—mid-step "Now that you're talking about it, what is it about Master having a harem?" Albedo tilts her head "You didn't know? Master Arto has a harem."
"Huh? When?" Grayfia asks "Well, since before he bought be out of the Auction House apparently, seriously, your big sister Yelena is the head maid of Gremory Estate and she never mentioned it to you? Arto too?"
Grayfia's silver eyes narrowed—just a fraction. "Yelena and I speak often. But she is… discreet. And the Gremory household has always had its share of complicated arrangements. I assumed Rias and her peerage were simply… unusually close. Not…" She paused, searching for the precise word. "…a formal harem."
Albedo's golden gaze sparkled with genuine curiosity. "You truly didn't know?"
Grayfia exhaled through her nose—once, controlled. "I knew he was… unusually magnetic. Women gravitate toward him. Powerful women. Loyal women. I assumed it was charisma, gratitude, shared purpose. Not…" She gestured vaguely toward the concept itself. "…a structured arrangement. A harem implies intent. Hierarchy. Choice."
Albedo smiled—slow, almost indulgent. "Well now you know, our Master is loved by many hearts, and I came here to be the next one in his harem. What about you? Same reason?" Grayfia shakes her head "Well, not quite, I won't deny that I like Arto, he is nice to talk to, scars and all...." Albedo cuts her words "Scars?"
"Scars," she repeated softly, almost to herself. "Yes. He hides them. A spell—very subtle, very thorough—keeps the world from seeing what lies beneath the handsome face most people remember from the Gremory estate party. But I've seen him without it. The true Arto Abyssgard."
Albedo's golden eyes sharpened with interest. She stepped closer, towel still clinging to her damp skin, curiosity overriding any pretense of casual conversation. "Tell me."
Grayfia exhaled—slow, measured, the way she did when preparing to deliver unpleasant truths. "Pale gray skin stretched tight over sharp bones. Sunken eyes whose dark blue depths swallow light instead of reflecting it—the blue fire inside dimmed to embers, like staring into the Abyss itself. Scars everywhere—jagged lines across the cheeks, burns that ate half an eyebrow and left the lid drooping, gashes from temple to jaw that pull the corner of his mouth into a permanent half-snarl even at rest. The handsome features you saw at the party? They're a mask. A very good one. But beneath it…"
She trailed off, letting the silence speak. "…is a man who has been broken and remade so many times the pieces no longer fit neatly." Albedo's golden eyes narrowed slightly, curiosity sharpening into something deeper, more thoughtful. She adjusted the towel around her chest with a casual flick of her wrist—still dripping faintly from the shower—but the movement was absent, almost automatic. Her focus was entirely on Grayfia now. "He never told me," Albedo repeated, quieter this time. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just… processing.
Grayfia shrugged—small, elegant, the gesture carrying centuries of practiced restraint. "Maybe he didn't need to." She stepped past Albedo toward the hallway that led deeper into the mansion, motioning for the succubus to follow. Albedo fell into step beside her—bare feet silent on the polished wood.
"He chased you away," Grayfia continued, voice even. "And you left. If you hadn't… he might have used that face to scare you off himself. It's his final test. The one he always keeps in reserve when someone gets too close. Show them the monster under the mask and see if they run."
Albedo's lips curved—just a hint of a smile, wry and knowing. "And you didn't run." Grayfia's stride didn't falter. "I am a maid. Running is not in my contract." A beat of silence. Then Albedo laughed—low, warm, genuine. "You're terrifying when you're loyal, Grayfia Lucifuge."
Grayfia allowed herself the faintest upward curve of her mouth. "It's part of the job description." They walked on for a few steps—side by side, the air between them easy in a way it hadn't been when they first met at the gate. Albedo tilted her head again, studying Grayfia's profile. "So that's his true color. Scars. Shadows. A man who's been broken and remade so many times the pieces don't fit neatly anymore."
Grayfia nodded once. "Yes." Albedo's voice dropped—almost gentle. "And if he shows it to me when he returns… if he tries to use it to push me away again…" Grayfia stopped. Turned fully to face her. "Then it will be down to your view of him. No more facade. No more mask. Just Arto Abyssgard—scars, shadows, secrets, and all."
She held Albedo's gaze—silver meeting gold. "If you truly want to be with him, you will need to accept his true color. Not the handsome face he wears for the world. Not the Baron. Not the savior who disappears before anyone can thank him. The man who crawled out of rubble alone. The man who still flinches at the idea of being wanted for more than what he can do."
Albedo was quiet again—longer this time. Then she smiled—slow, soft, almost tender. "I already do." Grayfia studied her for another heartbeat "Good. As for the reason I am here, I want to learn from him, because from our talk, I still have much to learn, and he is the teacher I want to learn from. What about you, Albedo? Why are you here?"
Albedo's golden eyes softened further, the usual playful glint giving way to something deeper—something almost vulnerable. "I came back because I have already chosen him," she said quietly. "I chose him to be my eternal love."
Grayfia tilted her head slightly, listening without interruption. "From the moment he stepped in front of that auction stage and outbid Riser Phenex—paying a fortune not for possession, but for my freedom—I knew. Then he did it again. He freed me from the chains of the Auction House… and then he freed me from the chains he himself could have placed on me. He bought me, then immediately removed every binding, every seal, every obligation. He even chased me away—cruel words, cold dismissal, all of it calculated to make me leave without guilt, without debt, without ever feeling I owed him my life."
Albedo's voice grew quieter still, almost reverent. "He invented an entire fiasco. The Atreides clan . The proxy magic-tech gateway. A whole public spectacle of enmity and ambition… all to solidify the lie that he had only used me as a pawn. All so I would never feel chained to him by gratitude. So I could walk away clean. Truly free."
Grayfia's silver gaze sharpened with sudden understanding. "So that was why he committed so completely to the role of Arasto Atreides," she murmured. "Not just strategy. Not just leverage. It was all for you." Albedo nodded—slow, certain. "Yes."
She looked down at her own hands—still faintly damp from the shower—then back up at Grayfia. "I am a succubus. I read emotions the way most people read books. Every micro-expression. Every tremor in the voice. Every flicker of mana in the aura. When he chased me away—when he spoke those cold, cutting words—I saw it all. The lie was so obvious it hurt. Beneath the cruelty was warmth. Care. A heart desperately trying to protect me from ever feeling indebted to him."
Her smile returned—small, tender, a little sad. "I couldn't understand why he had to lie. Why he had to push so hard. So I lingered. I stayed close enough to listen. And I heard everything. His real reason. To keep me from obligation. To keep me from staying only because I felt I owed him. To give me true freedom—real choice—without any shadow of debt hanging over it."
Albedo's voice dropped to a near-whisper. "He was willing to become the villain in my story… just so I could walk away clean. How could I leave after that? How could I choose anyone else?" Grayfia studied her for a long heartbeat—searching, weighing, understanding. "What about now? What is your emotion to him now? Is it the gratitude bringing you back here to him now?"
Albedo's golden eyes drifted toward the darkened garden windows, where the last traces of evening light had long since faded. Her voice grew quieter, almost introspective, as though she were speaking to herself as much as to Grayfia.
"Curiosity," she admitted softly. "That's what first brought me back. A man smart enough to buy a virgin succubus out of pure kindness… yet still capable of turning that same act into cold, calculated benefit through an elaborate lie. The Atreides fiasco—humiliating Riser again, staging a public theft of magic-tech secrets, turning himself into the Underworld's newest pariah—all of it just to make me believe I was worthless to him. To make sure I walked away without a single thread of debt tying me down."
She paused, drawing a slow, deep breath that lifted her chest beneath the towel. "And safety." Grayfia's silver gaze sharpened slightly, but she remained silent—letting Albedo speak. "From the moment we met after the purchase—when he took me into that private lounge—I braced myself. I've seen it too many times. Other men would paw at my sisters in the holding pens: checking skin texture, squeezing breasts, groping asses, even shoving fingers inside to 'test quality.' Like merchandise. Like objects. I thought he would do the same. I expected it. I had already steeled myself for it."
Albedo's fingers tightened briefly on the towel's edge. "But he didn't." Her voice dropped to a near-whisper. "Not even close. When he looked at me, there was no lust in his eyes. No hunger. No ownership. Just… compassion. Empathy. He examined my skin—not to judge its softness, but to check for bruising. My hair—not to pull it, but to look for signs of malnutrition or stress. He asked about my health. My mana flow. My breathing. Like I was a person who had been hurt, not a prize he'd just won."
She met Grayfia's gaze again—open, unguarded. "At that moment I was… confused. Why would a man do that to something he'd just bought? Something he had every legal right to use however he pleased? I told myself it was an act. A performance for the nobles watching from the lounge. That once he took me home—away from witnesses—his true colors would show."
Grayfia's expression remained serene, but something in her eyes softened. "And when he took you home…?" Albedo's smile returned—small, almost disbelieving. "He took me to the Sitri estate. Lifted the slave mark the Auction House had branded on my lower back. Lifted the master's command seal he himself had just paid two hundred fifty-one million for. Then—coldly, sharply, deliberately—he told me I was useless to him. That I had served my purpose. That I should leave. Get out of his life."
Albedo's voice softened further, almost reverent now, as if recounting a memory too precious to speak of loudly.
"I've never seen a man look at a succubus—a creature whose very existence is built on allure and lust—and feel nothing. No flicker of desire. No hidden hunger. Not even when he held every advantage: the title of ownership, the potion that could force my heart to beat only for him, the privacy of that lounge where no one would have questioned a thing. He could have done anything. Everything. And he… didn't."
She drew a slow breath, golden eyes distant, as though she were seeing that moment again.
"He lifted the slave mark branded on my lower back like it was nothing more than dirt to be brushed away. He lifted the master's command seal he had just paid two hundred fifty-one million for—without hesitation, without regret. The potion they gave him to bind me forever? He never even glanced at it. Left it sitting there like an afterthought. Then—coldly, sharply, deliberately—he told me I was useless. That I had served my purpose. That I should leave. Get out of his life."
Albedo's gaze returned to Grayfia—clear, steady, unguarded. "I glided through the sky back to my sisters, and I couldn't stop thinking about him. About what he did. About what he didn't do. My sisters didn't even expect me to return—they thought I'd been claimed, bound, lost forever like so many before me. But when I told them the story… a man who bought me only to set me free, who paid a fortune only to chase me away so I wouldn't feel indebted… it sounded like a fantasy to them."
She smiled—small, wistful, tender. "Some didn't believe me. Some laughed and said I was dreaming. Others looked at me with quiet envy and told me: 'Keep him close. You might have found another safe haven. No more being captured. No more being sold. No more being a product to serve the lust and obsession of control.' And they were right."
Albedo's voice dropped to a near-whisper, but every word carried weight. "I want to be with that kind of man. The one who looks at me and sees a person first—not a succubus, not a prize, not a body to claim. The one who gives me safety I've never felt from any other. The one who gave me true freedom… even when it hurt him to do it."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto caryying Millicas on his back jumping around in big range]
The heavy iron gates of the mansion swung open with a low, smooth hum—revealing the familiar courtyard bathed in late-afternoon light. The moment the gap widened enough, Millicas—still clinging to Arto's back like a tiny backpack—let out an excited squeal. "Uncle Arto's house! It's so big! Is the festival today? Can we go now?!"
Arto adjusted his grip on the boy's legs with practiced ease, stepping through first. Rias and Akeno were already latched to either arm—Rias's fingers threaded through his left hand, Akeno's wing brushing his right shoulder in lazy possession. Nami walked a step behind, phone pressed to her ear, voice sharp and businesslike as she barked numbers and percentages into what sounded like a very heated portfolio call; her free arm kept Koneko tucked firmly against her side like a reluctant teddy bear. Kiba and Robin brought up the rear—quietly discussing prosthetic nerve regeneration and sensory feedback loops, Robin's extra hands sketching faint mana diagrams in the air between them.
But the moment the group cleared the gate, everyone froze. Two women stood waiting on the gravel path—perfectly framed by the twin lanterns that had just flickered to life. Grayfia Lucifuge—silver hair gleaming, black-and-white maid uniform impeccable—stood on the left. Albedo—raven hair cascading like liquid night, white dress flowing with elegant menace—stood on the right.
Both bowed in perfect unison. "Welcome home, Master." The courtyard went dead silent. Arto stopped so abruptly Millicas nearly slid off his back. Rias's grip tightened. Akeno's hand covers her mouth in an interested giggle. Nami's phone call cut off mid-sentence. Koneko blinked once—slowly. Robin's extra hands froze mid-sketch. Kiba's polite smile twitched.
Only Millicas remained unfazed. "Aunty Grayfia!" The boy launched himself off Arto's back like a missile—straight into Grayfia's waiting arms. Grayfia—usually the picture of unshakable composure—dropped to one knee without hesitation, catching Millicas in a gentle, practiced embrace. Her silver eyes softened instantly; the cool professionalism melted into something warm, almost maternal.
"Millicas," she murmured, stroking his hair. "You've grown again." Millicas hugged her neck fiercely. "You look just like Mommy from the front! But your eyes are red! Mommy's are blue! I can tell!" Grayfia laughed—soft, surprised, delighted—and pressed a light kiss to his forehead. "Very clever, little one. Most people can't tell us apart so quickly."
The rest of the group stared—half-collapsed from the sheer cuteness overload. Rias clutched Arto's arm tighter, whispering: "That's… unfairly adorable." Akeno's hand covers her mouth for a gentle gasp. "I'Ara ara~New face, this soon?" Nami—phone forgotten—clutched Koneko harder. "Send help. My heart can't take this."
Robin smiled—small, knowing—and stepped forward first. "Grayfia. Albedo." She inclined her head gracefully. "Welcome. I see you found the place without issue." Grayfia rose smoothly—still holding Millicas on one hip like she'd done it a thousand times. "Your directions were precise, Lady Robin. Thank you."
Albedo's golden eyes met Robin's—amused, approving. "You moved quickly." Robin's smile didn't waver. "I prefer to open paths before obstacles appear." Arto—still rooted in place—finally found his voice. "Albedo… Grayfia…" He looked between them—genuine surprise warring with quiet relief. "I didn't expect… I didn't think you'd come so soon. Or that you'd even find the address."
Albedo stepped forward first—slow, deliberate—white dress whispering against the gravel. "Robin was kind enough to provide it," Arto stared at them both—then exhaled, long and slow. "There's… a lot to discuss," he said quietly. "But first—let's get everyone inside." Millicas wriggled happily in Grayfia's arms. "Inside! Inside! Is there cake?"
Grayfia's lips curved. "There will be cake, little one." The group began moving—parents laughing, peerages murmuring, children bouncing—toward the open doors of the mansion.
[Living Room]
The mansion's grand foyer welcomed them with cool air and the faint scent of cedar and fresh linen. The group filed in—shoes off at the genkan, luggage set aside, Millicas still chattering about floats and lanterns.
Arto paused just inside, turning to Rias and Akeno with a gentle smile. "Rias, Akeno—would you mind taking Millicas on a little tour? Show him the garden, the koi pond, maybe the rooftop terrace if he's up for stairs. He's been asking about the mansion since we left the lake."
Rias lit up—already reaching for Millicas's hand. "Of course! Come on, little guy. Uncle Arto's house has the best hiding spots." Akeno winked at Arto as she took Millicas's other hand. "We'll make sure he doesn't break anything too expensive."
Millicas cheered—"Yay! Adventure time!"—and the three disappeared down the left hallway, his excited footsteps echoing. Arto turned to Nami next. "Nami, could you and Koneko take the luggage upstairs? Guest rooms on the second floor—pick whichever ones you like. Grayfia already prepared them."
Nami grinned, slinging her bag over one shoulder and looping an arm around Koneko's waist before the Rook could protest. "On it, boss. Come on, shorty—let's claim the best view." Koneko sighed—tiny, resigned—but didn't resist as Nami half-guided, half-dragged her toward the staircase. Grayfia stepped forward smoothly—voice calm and professional.
"I've prepared light snacks in the kitchen fridge—matcha mochi, fruit skewers, chilled barley tea. Please help yourselves whenever you like." Koneko's annoyed eyes brighten perked up at "mochi." Nami's eyes gleamed. "Grayfia-san, you're officially my favorite person here," Nami declared.
Grayfia inclined her head—small, polite smile. "I aim to serve." Nami and Koneko vanished upstairs. That left only four in the foyer: Arto, Robin, Albedo, Grayfia. The space suddenly felt much quieter. Arto exhaled—slow, centering—and gestured toward the sitting room just off the foyer: low table, cushions, wide windows overlooking the garden. "Please," he said softly. "Sit."
They did. Robin took the cushion to his right—calm, composed, extra hands folded neatly in her lap. Grayfia knelt gracefully to his left—posture perfect, hands resting on her thighs. Albedo settled across from him—white dress pooling around her like spilled moonlight, golden eyes steady and unafraid.
Arto sat last—straight-backed, scarred hands resting open on his knees. He looked between the three women—silver, raven, violet—and spoke quietly. "I asked you here—into this room—so we could talk. Honestly. About the one thing that still needs saying."
He met Grayfia's gaze first. "You… I expected. Eventually. At the Atreides domain, you told me what you wanted—to learn from me. I agreed to teach you. And now you're here, paying the learning fee with your service as head maid. I understand that. I accept it. Thank you."
Grayfia inclined her head—small, formal. "It is my honor, Master." Arto's eyes shifted to Albedo. "But you…" He paused—voice softening. "I truly didn't expect you to come back. Not after everything. I chased you away. I made myself the villain in your story. I spent a fortune and built a whole public lie just so you could walk away clean—no debt, no obligation, no chains. I wanted you free. Completely free. Even from me."
Albedo held his gaze—unblinking. "I know," she said simply. Arto's scarred hands tightened slightly on his knees. "So why are you here? After all of that… after I gave you every reason to leave and never look back… why come back to me?"Albedo was silent for a long moment—long enough that the faint sound of Millicas's distant laughter drifted in from somewhere upstairs.
Then she spoke—voice low, steady, certain. "Because I already chose you."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto hearing chibi Albedo explaining why she came here]
Arto sighed—long, slow, the sound of a man accepting defeat in a war he'd fought alone. "So… all my effort to push you away failed from the very beginning." He shook his head once, almost ruefully. "I should have acted more… out of character. Crueler. Colder. Something that didn't leave any cracks for you to see through. But here we are."
He looked between Grayfia and Albedo—then reached into his coat and withdrew a slim, black-bound volume. The cover was unmarked except for a single silver hawk crest pressed into the leather. He handed it to Grayfia. "This is yours."
Grayfia accepted it with both hands—reverent, careful. "Spellcrafting Formulas," Arto said quietly. "A fully authorized copy—encrypted in my home-world language. Only I can read it naturally. To anyone else—even with translation magic—it will appear as an incomprehensible script. Any attempt to write it down, record it, photograph it, or transcribe it will scramble the content into gibberish. You can read it freely. Study it freely. But no one else ever will."
Grayfia opened the cover—pages filled with dense, angular glyphs that shimmered faintly, then resolved into perfect clarity for her eyes alone. Arto continued: "If you want faster progress, study under me or Robin every night—my study or the library. I'll always be open for questions. No schedule. No obligation. Just… whenever you're ready."
Grayfia inclined her head—small, grateful. "Thank you, Master." Arto's gaze shifted to Albedo. "As for you…" Albedo straightened—golden eyes steady, expectant. "You came back sooner than I anticipated. I hadn't finished preparing what I intended for you. But since you're here… we'll adapt."
He leaned forward slightly. "You'll have to learn this—" he tapped the book in Grayfia's hands "—as well. The same encryption. The same rules. But that book won't be ready until tomorrow. For now… I want to discuss something else."
Albedo tilted her head—curious, unafraid. "What did you intend for me?" Arto exhaled—once, centering. "The lie I told to justify buying you… the Atreides clan being a dark channel for magic-tech, a proxy to bypass Gremory-Sitri monopolies… it's no longer a lie. It's real. And it's expanding. Too quickly."
He met her gaze directly. "I need a woman who isn't just my secretary. I need a face for Atreides. Someone who can stand in public beside 'Baron Arasto Atreides'—someone who can speak for the house, negotiate with nobles, attend events, carry the title without flinching. Someone who is completely loyal to me without any intention of betrayal, because one word slipping out would be the end of Atreides."
He leans closer to her, eyes facing eyes "That's your nature, right, Albedo? Fierce loyalty to the man you chose? Can I trust you with this responsiblity?"
Albedo held Arto's gaze without flinching. The golden irises that usually shimmered with mischief or playful hunger were now steady—almost luminous in their clarity. She did not blink. She did not smile. She simply let the weight of his words settle between them like a blade laid flat on silk.
Then—slowly—she leaned forward until the distance between their faces was no more than a breath. "Yes," she said, voice low and unshakable. "That is my nature." She did not rush the next words. She let them form deliberately, each one placed like a cornerstone. "When I choose a master, I do not choose lightly. When I give my loyalty, it is absolute. Unbreakable. Eternal. I do not scheme behind backs. I do not sell secrets for power or pleasure. I do not bend. I do not break. I protect what is mine with everything I am—body, mind, soul, even the last drop of my life if it comes to that."
Her hand rose—slow, deliberate—and rested lightly over his heart. "And I gave my loyalty to you, my beloved Master, until the end of time, even if everyone turns their back to you, I will never let you walk alone again, even if it's the dark you heading into."
He simply looked at her—really looked—blue flames in his eyes flickering once, twice, then burning clear and steady. Then...
Albedo's golden eyes widened fractionally as Arto reached into thin air—his hand vanishing briefly into the familiar ripple of void mana that always accompanied his personal vault. The air shimmered like heat over asphalt, then settled as he withdrew a small, lacquered box of deep midnight black. No larger than a palm, its surface was inlaid with fine silver filigree that traced the same hawk crest now etched into the Atreides seal.
He opened it slowly—almost ceremonially. Inside, nestled on black velvet, lay a ring. The band was platinum so dark it bordered on obsidian, cool and heavy-looking even at rest. At its center sat a single, flawless red ruby—cut in a perfect cabochon so the light caught inside it like trapped flame. And within the ruby itself, suspended in the stone like a secret heartbeat, glowed the Atreides hawk crest in miniature: wings spread, talons sharp, rendered in hair-fine threads of molten gold.
Arto lifted the ring between thumb and forefinger—holding it so the firelight from the nearby hearth danced through the ruby and painted tiny crimson stars across Albedo's cheek. "Then from now on," he said, voice low and rough with something very close to reverence, "Albedo… you will be my secretary, and Arasto's wife. Baroness Albedo Atreides."
The words hung between them—simple, final, and impossibly heavy. Albedo stared at the ring for one long, suspended heartbeat. Then her lashes fluttered once—twice—and the softest, most radiant smile bloomed across her face. She did not cry. She did not gasp. She simply… exhaled, as though she had been holding her breath for centuries and only now remembered she was allowed to breathe. "Yes," she whispered.
Arto took her left hand—gentle, careful, scarred fingers cradling hers like something fragile and priceless. He slid the ring onto her fourth finger. It fit perfectly. The ruby caught the light again—flaring once, bright as fresh blood—then settled into a steady, warm glow that pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat. Albedo lifted her hand—admiring the ring as though it were the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
Then she looked up at Arto—eyes shining, voice thick with emotion she no longer bothered to hide. "Thank you… my husband." The word landed like a vow. Arto's throat worked once—twice—before he managed a single, hoarse: "You're welcome… my wife." The last fragile thread of formality snapped.
Albedo launched herself at him. She pushed him back into the chair with surprising strength—hands framing his scarred face as she straddled his lap in one fluid motion. Her lips crashed against his in a kiss that was nothing like polite or tentative. It was deep. Fierce. Grateful. Hungry. Every ounce of emotion she had held back since the Auction House poured into it—relief, longing, devotion, love.
Arto froze for half a second—shocked—then his arms came around her waist, scarred hands splaying across her back, pulling her closer as though afraid she might vanish if he let go. He kissed her back with equal force—raw, desperate, like a man who had spent centuries starving and had finally been offered water.
The kiss deepened. And that was when Albedo felt it. Something peeling away from his face. Smooth skin giving way to rougher texture beneath her palms. The illusion spell—subtle, flawless, the one that had let the world see only the handsome mask—began to fray at the edges, dissolving under the raw intensity of the moment. She felt the change before she saw it: the sharp jawline softening into jagged scar tissue, the high cheekbones becoming sunken, the smooth brow turning uneven with old burns and gashes.
She pulled back—just enough to look. And there he was. The true Arto Abyssgard. Pale gray skin stretched tight over sharp bones. Sunken eyes whose dark blue depths swallowed light instead of reflecting it—the blue fire inside dimmed to embers, like staring into the Abyss itself. Scars everywhere—jagged lines across the cheeks, burns that ate half an eyebrow and left the lid drooping, gashes from temple to jaw that pulled the corner of his mouth into a permanent half-snarl even at rest. The handsome features she had glimpsed at the Gremory estate party were gone. Not hidden. Destroyed.
Arto's breath hitched—eyes widening in sudden, raw panic. He started to pull away—hands loosening, shoulders tensing as though bracing for rejection. But Albedo didn't flinch. She didn't gasp. She didn't recoil. Instead she cupped his scarred face between her palms—gentle, reverent, thumbs brushing over the deepest gash that ran from temple to jaw. "I'm not scared, my Master," she whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I am only in love."
And she kissed him again. Deeper this time. Slower. Pouring every ounce of acceptance into it—every unspoken promise. Arto froze once more—then shattered. A low, broken sound escaped his throat—half sob, half relief—and his arms tightened around her like he would never let go. He kissed her back with desperate tenderness—scarred hands sliding up her back, cradling her like she was the most precious thing in existence.
Grayfia watched—silent, silver eyes soft with quiet approval. Robin's extra hand reached out—resting lightly on both their shoulders in a silent blessing. When they finally parted—foreheads pressed together, breathing ragged—Albedo whispered against his lips "You're stuck with me forever, my Master, my love"
Rias froze at the bottom of the stairs, Millicas still perched on her back like a curious little monkey. The boy's eyes went wide the moment he saw Albedo straddling Arto in the chair—then wider still when his gaze landed on Arto's face. The spell was gone. Completely.
No handsome mask. No subtle glamour. Just… Arto. Pale gray skin stretched tight over sharp bones. Sunken eyes whose dark blue depths swallowed light instead of reflecting it. Scars—jagged, burned, deep—crisscrossing every visible inch like a map of every battle he'd ever survived.
Albedo was still pressed close—forehead to forehead, breathing ragged from the kiss—when Millicas's small voice cut through the silence. "Oh my Satan, Uncle!" He scrambled down from Rias's back so fast she barely had time to catch him. Bare feet slapped against the wood as he ran straight to Arto.
Arto noticed the change in the air—the sudden absence of the illusion—too late. Millicas reached him before anyone could move. Tiny hands rose—hesitant at first—then pressed gently against Arto's scarred cheeks. "Wha… what happened to you?" Millicas whispered, eyes huge and shimmering. "I don't remember you looking like this."
Arto exhaled—slow, steady—and gently caught the boy's wrists, keeping those small palms against his face instead of pulling away. He forced a smile—small, crooked, the half-snarl of his scars making it look almost pained. "Millicas… this is me. The true Uncle Arto. Underneath everything."
He tilted his head slightly, studying the boy's worried gaze. "Are you… afraid?" Millicas shook his head so fast his hair flopped into his eyes. "No, Uncle. No." His voice wobbled, but he didn't look away. "I'm just… worried. That you might be hurt." One small finger traced the deepest gash—the one that ran from temple to jaw—gentle as a butterfly wing. "Is this… the cost of your fighting ability?"
Arto let out a low, rough chuckle—the sound more breath than laugh. "You're smarter than most kids I know, Millicas." He nodded once. "Yes. To fight at the level I do… it cost me a lot. Not just my face. But so much more." He reached up—scarred hand covering Millicas's smaller one—and brushed a single streak of tear from the boy's cheek with his thumb. "But you're too young for that now, my boy. You deserve to live a peaceful life. In joy. In happiness. Without war. Without conflicts. Without burdening yourself with adults' matters."
Millicas sniffled once—then threw his arms around Arto's neck in a fierce, clumsy hug. "I don't care what you look like, Uncle Arto. You're still my Uncle Arto. And you're still the coolest." Arto's arms came around the child automatically—holding him close, scarred face buried against soft hair.
Rias stepped forward—eyes shining, voice thick with emotion. "See, love? You're precious to us. Scarred or not. Now… FAMILY!"
Her shout echoed through the mansion like a battle cry wrapped in love. The word rang out—bright, commanding, impossible to ignore.
Doors flew open almost instantly.
Kiba appeared first—still in his casual shirt from the lake trip, hair slightly damp from a quick rinse, eyes widening as he took in the scene: Arto's unmasked face, Albedo perched on his lap, Grayfia standing protectively nearby, Robin smiling like she'd seen this coming for weeks.
Koneko and Nami burst out of the kitchen together—Koneko's cheeks puffed with half-eaten mochi, Nami holding a half-drunk glass of iced tea and a mochi stick like a baton. Nami's eyes went straight to Arto's scars—then flicked to Albedo's ring—then back to Arto. She blinked once. Twice. Then grinned so wide it threatened to split her face.
"Boss… you've been holding out on us."
Akeno floated down the staircase last—wings half-spread, hair still tousled from whatever she'd been doing upstairs. She paused on the landing, took one look at the tableau, and her violet eyes sparkled with delighted understanding. "Oh my~" she purred, voice dripping honey. "It seems the family just grew again."
Millicas—still clinging to Grayfia's skirt—looked around at the gathering crowd with huge, sparkling eyes. "Everyone's here! Is it party time?!" Rias laughed—bright, clear, the sound cutting through the last traces of tension like sunlight through clouds. "Close enough, little one." She clapped her hands once—sharp, commanding, every inch the Gremory heiress.
"Is everyone ready for Kanto Matsuri?" A chorus of excited affirmatives—some loud (Nami, Millicas, Serafall), some quiet (Koneko, Robin), some amused (Akeno, Grayfia). Rias spun on her heel—hair flaring like crimson flame—and pointed toward the grand staircase. "We still have until the end of the afternoon to choose our own kimono. Let's go find some fitting models for all of you before we head out to Akita and end this summer vacation on a high note!"
Millicas fist-pumped. "Kimono! Lanterns! Candy! Uncle Arto, can I get a super cool one?!" Arto—still seated, Albedo comfortably settled in his lap—chuckled low and ruffled the boy's hair as he ran past. "Anything you want, kid. Go pick the flashiest one."
Rias grabbed Akeno's wrist—already pulling her toward the stairs. "Come on! Mother packed a whole selection—traditional, modern fusion, everything. We're dressing to impress." Akeno laughed—wings fluttering in delight. "Does that mean I get to pick something scandalously low-cut?" "Only if I get to match," Rias shot back with a wicked grin.
Nami was already halfway up the stairs—dragging Koneko behind her like a tiny, protesting anchor. "Shorty! You're wearing something cute and frilly! No arguments! I'm posting pics!" Koneko sighed—long-suffering—but let herself be pulled along. "…Fine. But if it has cat ears, I'm biting you."
Kiba followed at a more sedate pace—smiling softly at the chaos—while Robin trailed behind, notebook already open, sketching quick notes on festival-appropriate yukata variations. Grayfia watched them go—then turned to Arto and Albedo with perfect poise. "I shall prepare the changing rooms upstairs and lay out the selection Lady Venelana sent. Traditional obi, modern furisode, summer yukata—everything is ready."
Albedo rose gracefully from Arto's lap—ring catching the light as she offered him her hand. "Shall we, husband? I'd like to see what kind of kimono makes a scarred warlord look even more dashing." The word husband landed like a dropped pin in a silent room.
Every woman in the foyer except Koneko, Robin and Grayfia whipped their heads toward Albedo in perfect unison. "A what now?" Rias asked first, voice dangerously sweet. Akeno was already gliding forward, violet eyes narrowing as she zeroed in on the ruby ring glittering on Albedo's fourth finger. "What did you just call our beloved?"
Albedo flexed her hand once—deliberately—letting the Atreides hawk crest inside the ruby catch every available light source. Arto sighed. He gently lifted Albedo off his lap and set her on her feet beside the chair, then stood—hands raised in the universal gesture of please don't incinerate me yet. "Alright," he said, voice calm but carrying that tired edge of a man who knew he was about to explain something very complicated. "To avoid any confusion—or spontaneous arson—let me explain the ring Albedo is wearing right now before Akeno and Rias kill me."
He gestured toward the ruby. "It's exactly what it looks like. Albedo is married. But not to Arto Abyssgard." He paused—letting the sentence breathe. "She's married to Arasto Atreides. My public Underworld alias. The one that will be used when the Atreides clan officially goes live for political and business matters. And as for the woman I will marry first as Arto Abyssgard, it's obviously Rias, no argument"
Rias's eyes flicked from the ring to Arto's face—then back to the ring. "Wait. You decided that already?" Arto scratched the back of his head—awkward, almost boyish. "Well… I have to be clear about many matters to maintain transparency in the harem. It's not like I can hide anything from you all forever. So yes—if I ever get to marry my women in the human or Underworld sense—I will marry Rias first as Arto Abyssgard."
He looked straight at Rias—blue flames steady. "Any objection?" Akeno was the first to speak. She shook her head slowly—smile curving wider with every second. "No, love. It's only fair. The first believer gets the perk. If it weren't for Rias trusting you back when all your ideas sounded completely baseless… none of us would be standing here today."
Nami raised both hands like a referee calling a point. "+1 from me. Rias deserves the first ring if it ever comes to that. Her family won't let you escape in any situation anyway—so might as well take the red-haired bride, boss."
Robin spoke last—voice calm, measured, final. "No objection. Your connection with Rias is the reason we are all here today. It is only natural we honor the bond that made us a family."
Albedo blinked—genuinely surprised. She looked around the circle—Rias, Akeno, Nami, Robin, Koneko—all of them calm, accepting, even smiling. "It's… absurdly civilized for a harem situation," she said, almost laughing. "I would have thought there would be fights. Arguments. Jealousy over who gets to be first wife."
Rias shrugged—casual, confident, like she was discussing the weather instead of the structural integrity of a harem built on four wildly different women.
"Well, we're all smart people here," she said, gesturing loosely at the circle. "We accepted being in this harem and knew the full scope of what's in it for us from day one. We're in here because we love Arto—that's the starting line. But what keeps the whole thing from collapsing is the relationships between us. Akeno, Nami, Robin, and I… we love each other like sisters. Real sisters. The kind who fight over the last mochi but would burn down the world if anyone hurt one of us. That bond is what makes everything stable."
Akeno stepped forward, wings rustling softly as she draped an arm around Rias's shoulders in easy affection. "Exactly. None of us is just 'extra.' We each have a role that keeps this family breathing. Rias is the foundation—the one who provides the ground for everything else to stand on. Without her, none of us would have met, let alone stayed. Nami is the financial expert—she manages the money, the investments, the long-term wealth so future generations won't have to worry. Robin is the intel master and the leader of this harem. She hears everything, sees everything, resolves problems before they can even bloom into something that could tear us apart. And me?"
Akeno's smile turned a little wicked, a little soft. "I guard him from nightmares. Literal and figurative. When the shadows get too loud in his head… I'm there."
Grayfia listened in silence, silver eyes flicking from face to face. When Akeno finished, she nodded once—slow, thoughtful. "I see. A sky of unique stars that never try to outshine each other. Very… unique. And stable."
She paused, then asked the question that had been hovering unspoken since Albedo's arrival. "But are you all comfortable with the amount of love he gives each of you? Because no matter how strong the sisterhood is… love is not perfectly equal. He will always have preferences. Favorites. Moments when one of you occupies his heart more than the others."
Nami answered first—arms crossed, grin unapologetic. "We've considered that matter. Extensively. We know Arto loves some of us more than others. And we accept it. Because he's a living human being—he has preferences, history, chemistry. We can't argue with his own heart. That's why the bond between us is so important. If we didn't love each other, those little differences would become cracks. But because we do? We can look at the situation clearly and say: 'Okay, he loves Robin the most out of us four, and he loves me the least—and that's fine.' As long as the gap isn't cruel, as long as we all still receive support, care, time, and affection from him… we're good."
She shrugged. "Jealousy only wins if we let it. We don't." Akeno nodded—violet eyes warm. "We talk about it. Openly. No secrets. No pretending everything is perfectly even. That honesty keeps the poison out."
Rias met Grayfia's gaze directly. "And honestly? Knowing he loves Robin most doesn't diminish what he feels for me. It just means she fills a space in his heart that's hers alone. I have my own space. We all do. And those spaces don't overlap—they fit together."
Robin spoke last—voice calm, measured, carrying the quiet authority of someone who had already mapped every possible fracture line in the relationship and reinforced them years ago. "Love is not a finite resource. The more he gives to one of us, the more capacity he discovers he has for the rest. We've seen it. We've lived it. And we choose—every day—to trust that expansion instead of fearing contraction."
Grayfia listened—long and careful—then gave a single, slow nod. "I understand," she said quietly. "It is… rare. And beautiful. A harem built not on competition, but on alliance." Albedo—still holding Arto's hand—looked around the circle again, golden eyes wide with something close to awe. "I thought I would have to fight for position," she admitted. "Or at least endure resentment. But this…"
She laughed—soft, almost disbelieving. "This is a family that chose itself first… and then chose him." Rias grinned—sharp, proud. "Pretty much. So if you're joining us… welcome to the chaos. We fight with him. Not against each other."
Akeno leaned in—playful but sincere. "And we share everything. Even the nightmares." Nami sauntered up to Arto with that signature sway in her hips, orange hair catching the lantern light like it was personally offended at being ignored. She stopped right in front of him, hands on her waist, grin sharp enough to cut glass.
"Well, boss," she drawled, voice dripping honeyed mischief, "since I'm the one you love the least in your harem, we clearly need more time together to increase our bond. So it should be obvious who's walking side by side with you tonight, right~?"
Rias and Akeno froze mid-step—both of them suddenly understanding exactly what Nami had just pulled. "Wait—" Rias started, eyes narrowing. Nami was already moving. One elegant finger pressed gently but firmly over Rias's lips. "Hush, little sister," she purred, leaning in close enough that Rias could smell the faint citrus of her shampoo. "You need to learn that sometimes taking one step back lets you leap two steps ahead."
Before Rias could retaliate, Nami spun on her heel, hooked her arm through Arto's, and locked it tight against her side like she was chaining a national treasure. "Boss is mine tonight." Akeno's usual smile gets a single twitch. Rias's mouth opened—then closed—then opened again in outraged silence. Koneko, still nibbling on a leftover mochi, gave a tiny, approving nod like she respected the play.
Arto blinked once—twice—then looked down at the orange-haired navigator now welded to his left arm. "…Nami." She tilted her head up at him, grin pure sin. "Yes, beloved boss?" He sighed—the long-suffering sigh of a man who had long ago accepted that his life would never be peaceful again. "You planned this."
"Obviously." She snuggled closer, cheek resting against his shoulder. "Robin gets most of your brain time. Rias gets most of your heart time. Akeno gets most of your nightmare time." She poked his chest with her free hand. "That leaves me with scraps. So tonight I'm taking the main course. Kanto Matsuri. Lanterns. Floats. Street food. Fireworks. And you. All. To. Myself."
Rias finally found her voice. "You can't just—" Nami cut her off without looking away from Arto. "I just did." Akeno crossed her arms—trying (and failing) to hide her amusement.
"You're evil. I respect it." Robin—standing a step behind with her notebook already open—gave a small, approving hum. "Financially speaking, Nami has the strongest claim to compensatory bonding time. Statistically, she receives 23% less daily affection than the group average. Adjusting for tonight would bring her closer to equilibrium."
Rias stared at Robin in betrayal. "You're helping her?!" Robin closed her notebook with a soft snap. "I'm maintaining harmony. Jealousy is inefficient." Koneko licked mochi dust off her fingers. "Nami wins tonight. Fair trade." Rias threw her hands up. "Traitors! All of you!"
But the smile tugging at her lips gave her away. Arto looked down at Nami—still latched to his arm like she'd superglued herself there. "You're really doing this." Nami batted her lashes up at him—innocent as sin. "Unless you'd rather spend the festival explaining to Millicas why Uncle Arto is being mean to Auntie Nami~?" Millicas—already in his dragon-pattern yukata—popped up beside them.
"Auntie Nami gets Uncle Arto tonight? Yay! That means more candy for me!" Arto pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine." Nami's grin turned victorious. "Good boy." She tugged him toward the racks of kimono that Venelana had magically produced earlier. "Come on, boss. Let's find you something that makes me look even better standing next to you."