3rd Person POV
Arto sat at the back of Class 2-B in Kuoh Academy, the morning sun slanting through the windows in lazy golden bars. The teacher's voice droned on about classical literature—something about The Tale of Genji and courtly love—but his mind was a thousand kilometers away.
His right hand rested lightly on the desk, thumb brushing the obsidian earpiece inside his ear. To anyone watching, he looked like any other senior—tall, quiet, handsome in that effortless way that still made half the class steal glances—but beneath the surface, mana flowed in precise, invisible threads.
He closed his eyes for half a second. The earpiece warmed against his skin. A soft blue screen no larger than a phone unfolded in his vision—privately in his mind. Albedo's face appeared almost instantly, golden eyes bright, background showing one of the Gremory estate's sunlit sitting rooms. "Good morning, husband," she said, voice low and warm, lips curving into that familiar teasing smile. "Or should I say good afternoon? You're in class again."
Arto's mouth twitched as his mind starts speaking. "Barely. Sensei's been talking about courtly romance for twenty minutes. I'm multitasking." Albedo laughed—soft, delighted. "How scandalous. Should I be jealous of Lady Murasaki?"
"Never," he replied, deadpan. "She's dead. You're very much alive." Her smile widened. "Flatterer. Now—progress report, as requested." She leaned closer to her own pendant—screen shifting slightly as she moved. "Venelana Gremory is… formidable. She's already had me memorize the lineage charts of thirty-seven noble houses, their current alliances, their weaknesses, and—most importantly—their favorite tea blends. I now know that Lord Bael prefers oolong with a single slice of moonlit persimmon, and Lady Phenex cannot resist rosehip with honey. Useful blackmail material, apparently."
Arto snorted quietly—masking it as a cough when the student in front of him glanced back. "Sena Sitri has me studying clan ledgers," Albedo continued. "Cash flow models, leyline resource allocation, profit projections for magic-tech exports. She wants me to be able to read a balance sheet faster than most accountants can finish their morning coffee. I'm… enjoying it. Terrifyingly so."
She paused—expression softening. "And Grayfia… etiquette lessons are brutal. Posture drills. Speech cadence. How to smile without showing teeth when you want to stab someone. How to compliment a rival's daughter while implying her family's entire lineage is inferior. I thought I was good at court games. She's rewriting my entire playbook."
Arto's gaze softened. "You're doing well?"
"Better than well," Albedo said. "I'm learning how to be Baroness Atreides. Not just in name—in truth. I want to be useful to you. To protect what we're building." Arto's thumb brushed the pendant—almost unconsciously. "You already are."
She blew him a kiss—small, playful, but her eyes were serious. "Tonight—after you return from school—we begin systematic magic, yes? You, me, Grayfia. In the study?" Arto nodded. "Every night until you're ready. Spellcrafting Formulas first—start reading if you have time today. The glyphs will feel strange at first. But once you sync with them… you'll understand why I trust no one else with the knowledge."
Albedo's smile turned fierce. "I'll devour it." A soft chime sounded in Arto's ear—class was ending. "Time's up," he murmured. "I'll see you tonight." Albedo leaned closer to her pendant—voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear. "Come home quickly, husband. Your Baroness misses you."
She blew him another kiss—slow, deliberate—then the connection winked out. Arto exhaled—long, steady—then slipped the pendant back under his collar. The bell rang. Students began packing up around him.
The bell rang, sharp and final, cutting through the teacher's last sentence about courtly poetry. Students began packing up—chairs scraping, bags zipping, low chatter rising like steam—but Rias stayed seated, phone already in hand, eyes glued to the screen.
Arto, in the seat beside her, was mid-sip from his water bottle when she turned toward him and silently held the phone out.
He glanced at the email header visible on the lock screen:
Magic Journal – Editorial Office
Subject: Reviewer Comments & Revision Request – Manuscript ID: MAG-1423-RG
Author: Rias Gremory
Title: The Butterfly Effect in Spellcraft: Methodical Output Modulation through Micro-Adjustments to Foundational Sigils
Arto's eyes flicked down to the preview snippet:
Dear Ms. Gremory,
Your submission has passed initial editorial screening and has been sent to peer review.
Due to the unusually young age of the corresponding author (and the absence of prior publications), your manuscript was prioritized for expedited review by the Council of Senior Editors.
Attached are the consolidated comments from three anonymous reviewers (all Fellows of the Institute). You are requested to submit a point-by-point response and revised manuscript within 30 days (by September 11, 2005).
We look forward to your revisions.— Editor-in-Chief, Prof. Archimedes
Arto inhaled water. He coughed—violently—nearly spraying half the bottle across his desk. Rias calmly patted his back while he wheezed, face red. "You—cough—you got reviewed in one month?" he managed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And prioritized? By the Council?"
Rias nodded once—expression calm, but her fingers were white-knuckled around the phone. "They fast-tracked it," she said quietly. "Because I'm seventeen. No prior papers. No co-authors. No institutional affiliation beyond 'Independent Researcher (Gremory Clan)'. They basically said 'this either genius or fraud—let's find out quickly'."
Arto stared at the screen again, then at her. "Three reviewers. All Fellows." He exhaled hard. "That's… the magical equivalent of getting your undergrad thesis torn apart by three Nobel laureates at once." Rias gave a tiny, tight smile. "Pretty much."
She scrolled down far enough for him to see the first few lines of Reviewer #1's comments:
Reviewer #1 (Fellow, Institute of Magic, Chair of Sigil Theory): The core premise—that micro-variations in foundational sigils can produce predictable macro-scale output modulation—is both elegant and dangerously ambitious. The author's proposed systematic adjustment matrix is novel… however, the mathematical formalism appears incomplete in Section 3.2. The reviewer requests:
Full derivation of the second-order perturbation terms.Empirical validation data (or simulation parameters if empirical data is unavailable due to proprietary constraints).Clarification of boundary conditions under high-mana-density environments. Minor concern: the butterfly metaphor, while evocative, risks trivializing chaos-theoretic implications. Suggest rephrasing.
Arto read silently for another ten seconds, then looked up at Rias. "…They're treating you like a peer. Not a student. Not a kid. A peer." Rias's smile wobbled—just for a second—before she locked it back in place. "They're also tearing me apart," she said. "But… yeah. They're taking me seriously."
Akeno leaned over from the behind them, chin resting on Rias's shoulder as she read the screen. "Ooh, Reviewer #2 called your perturbation model 'audaciously parsimonious but empirically under-supported.' That's academic for 'I hate that you're right but I don't believe you yet.'"
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto clocking in for his work day after school]
Arto leaned back in his chair at the far end of Class 2-B, arms folded, gaze drifting lazily across the blackboard where the teacher was still dissecting some Heian-era poem about cherry blossoms and fleeting love. The rest of the class scribbled notes or stared at phones under desks. He did neither.
He already knew this material—had known it before the class even started, thanks to Robin's quiet evening lectures months ago. Literature was easy; it followed patterns like everything else. What he didn't know, and what actually held his attention, was history. Not the sanitized textbook version, but the messy, bloody, contradictory real thing. Devils rewriting their own chronicles, youkai oral traditions that changed with every teller, angel archives sealed behind seven layers of holy sigils. Kuoh's history class was the only place he could sit still and absorb it without someone trying to kill him or bill him for mana consumption.
And Robin was teaching it today. Her voice—calm, measured, occasionally laced with dry humor when she pointed out contradictions in the official record—made the hour feel almost meditative. Every time she turned to the board to sketch a timeline or correct a student's misinterpretation, Arto let himself relax a fraction. It was the closest thing he had to downtime.
When the bell rang at 4:00 PM sharp, he was already moving—bag slung over one shoulder, slipping out before most of the class had even stood up. Rias and Akeno caught up with him in the hallway, each claiming an arm like always. "Straight to the clubhouse?" Rias asked, already knowing the answer.
Arto nodded once. "Simulation layer needs attention. Time-dilation implementation won't finish itself." Akeno's wings rustled in amusement. "Always working, beloved. One day we'll kidnap you for a full twenty-four hours of nothing." "Try it," he said dryly. "Robin will find me in under ten minutes."
They laughed—soft, fond—and peeled off toward the old school building while Arto continued down the path to the ORC clubhouse. The building looked the same as always from the outside: old, slightly weathered, deliberately unremarkable. Inside, however…
He descended the hidden stairwell behind the storage closet—past the first sub-level (interface layer, where Gremory and Sitri researchers still worked in overlapping shifts), past the second (energy reactor core humming behind triple-redundant containment), and into the third: the operational layer of the Simulation Room.
Sector 0's access door recognized his mana signature and parted silently. Before stepping inside, though, he made his usual circuit. Sector 41 first—the Atreides training wing.
The door slid open to reveal a cavernous workshop lit by soft blue-white mana-lamps. Rows of workbenches. Forges humming at precise temperatures. Young men and women—none older than twenty-three—bent over half-assembled mana-stabilizer cores, runic etching tools, calibration arrays. Senior technicians—Arto's own hand-picked veterans from the Gremory and Sitri maintenance centers—moved between stations, offering quiet corrections or nods of approval.
The moment he stepped through the door, every head turned. Tools were set down. Backs straightened. Bows—uniform, respectful—rippled across the room. "Lord Arto," the lead technician, a tall woman named Elara, said as she approached. "Training is progressing ahead of schedule. Cohort 3 has achieved 92% proficiency on core lattice weaving. Cohort 4 is two days behind but closing the gap after yesterday's remedial session."
Arto nodded—eyes sweeping the room, taking in posture, tool placement, mana flow signatures. "Any recurring failures?"
"Only in high-stress calibration," Elara answered immediately. "Three trainees still drop stability when simulating leyline surges above Class IV. We're adding targeted drills tomorrow."
"Good. Keep pushing them, but not past breaking. We need craftsmen, not burnouts." Elara bowed again. "As you command." Arto moved on—Sector 17 (mana-conduit prototyping), Sector 29 (enchantment stability testing), Sector 8 (rapid-prototype forge). Quick stops. Quick questions. Quiet approvals or corrections. The same pattern he'd followed every day since the facility came online.
Finally—Sector 0. The hidden door at the end of the main corridor recognized him again and parted.
The operational layer stretched before him—dimmer than the upper levels, lit only by the soft blue glow of status runes along the walls and the massive cylindrical core at the center: the Simulation Room's heart. Concentric rings of control panels, mana conduits snaking like arteries, diagnostic screens displaying real-time leyline harmonics.
Empty. Deliberately so. Arto preferred working here alone. Fewer variables. Fewer chances for secrets to slip. He walked to the central console—ran one scarred hand along the smooth obsidian surface—and began.
Materials from Gremory and Sitri waited in neatly labeled crates along the wall: stabilized void crystals, temporal resonance filaments, phase-locked mana capacitors, runic dampeners. Everything he'd requested, delivered without question.
He opened the first crate—lifted a fist-sized void crystal—and set to work. The time-dilation function had to be woven into the existing architecture without destabilizing the upper layers' ongoing research. No interruptions. No detectable spikes. No leaks.
He worked methodically—hands steady, mind razor-focused—threading new temporal pathways through the core's existing leyline grid. Every adjustment was calculated three times before implementation. Every rune etched by hand rather than machine—personal mana signature baked into the structure so only he could safely deactivate or modify it later.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto getting called for dinner by Rias when he is working]
The clock on the Simulation Room console blinked 19:00 exactly. A soft chime followed—polite but insistent. Workday over. Arto exhaled through his nose, set the last temporal filament into its anchor point with a careful twist of mana, then stepped back. The progress display glowed steady:
Time-Dilation Integration: 55% completeEstimated completion: End of week (assuming 6–8 hr nightly sessions)
He wiped sweat and mana residue from his face with a clean towel, logged the session's notes in encrypted shorthand (coordinates adjusted, phase variance 0.003% below threshold, next step: recursive feedback damping), saved the state, and powered down the auxiliary arrays. The core would idle safely overnight. One last glance at the humming cylinder—his secret heart of the entire facility—then he turned and headed up.
The ascent through Sector 0 felt shorter every day. Hidden lift, biometric scan, false wall sliding aside. He emerged in the ORC clubhouse basement, sealed the access point behind him, and teleported straight home. The familiar foyer greeted him—warm cedar, soft recessed lighting, the faint scent of dinner already drifting from deeper inside. Grayfia's work, no doubt.
He kicked off his shoes, hung his coat, and walked toward the dining room. The long table was set for everyone—simple elegance, Grayfia's signature. Steaming bowls, platters of grilled fish, miso soup, fresh greens, rice, and a side tray of her frostberry tarts that Koneko would fight wars over.
The family was already there. Rias and Akeno sat shoulder-to-shoulder, heads bent together, whispering and giggling about something on Rias's phone—probably another round of rebuttal reviewer memes or wedding dress Pinterest boards (they'd started "joking" about it more seriously lately).
Koneko was curled in Nami's lap at the far end—usual spot—letting the navigator feed her bites of sashimi while pretending to be annoyed. Nami was cooing dramatically; Koneko's tail flicked in resigned contentment.
Kiba and Robin sat opposite, heads close over a glowing holo-blueprint projected between their plates. Prosthetic arm schematics—neural feedback pathways highlighted in gold. Kiba's voice was low, focused; Robin's extra hands sketched annotations mid-air while she nodded.
Albedo rose the moment Arto crossed the threshold. She crossed the room in three graceful strides—white yukata traded for a simple black silk dress that still managed to look regal—and wrapped her arms around his neck without hesitation. Her lips found his in a kiss that was soft at first, then deeper, hungrier, full of the day's accumulated longing.
"Welcome home, my husband," she murmured against his mouth. Arto kissed her back—arms sliding around her waist—then rested his forehead against hers for a brief second.
"Missed you," he said quietly. She smiled—small, luminous—and stepped aside so he could take his seat at the head of the table. Grayfia had already placed his plate: grilled mackerel, steamed vegetables, rice, miso, and a small stack of documents beside it. A tablet waited on top—screen dark but ready.
Arto sat. Everyone glanced his way—smiles, nods, quiet welcomes—but no one interrupted. They knew the routine by now. He tapped the tablet awake.
Gremory secret defense grid status report (Sector 7 relay offline, probable leyline interference, repair ETA 36 hours). Atreides atelier infrastructure rollout (three new sites in western territories, foundation work 80% complete, awaiting final warding). R&D simulation queue (time-dilation layer stress test results attached—variance within 0.001%). Albedo's progress log from today's sessions (Venelana: noble lineage memorization 92% mastery; Sena: basic profit forecasting complete; Grayfia: advanced etiquette drill 7/10 passed).
He scrolled—eating one-handed, fork moving mechanically while his eyes tracked numbers and timelines. Albedo settled beside him—close enough that their thighs touched under the table. She rested her chin on her hand and watched him work with quiet fondness. Grayfia moved silently around the table—refilling tea, clearing empty plates—then took her own seat across from him.
Rias broke the comfortable quiet first. "Rebuttal session is still on for next month," she said, voice light but carrying the undercurrent of stress. "Fourteen reviewers. Fourteen. I'm going to need every dilation hour you can give me, love." Arto nodded without looking up. "Two weeks until full implementation. After that—you get priority queue. Nightly sessions if you want them."
Rias exhaled—relieved. "Thank you." Akeno leaned across the table toward Albedo. "How was your first full day of baroness bootcamp?" Albedo's smile turned wry. "Venelana is… thorough. I now know the favorite flower, birthstone, and preferred pillow firmness of every major house head born after 1400. Sena made me calculate profit margins for a hypothetical mana-crystal cartel in real time. Grayfia taught me seventeen different ways to politely imply someone's lineage is inferior while complimenting their tea set."
Grayfia sipped her tea—perfectly composed. "You passed twelve of them." Albedo laughed softly. "High praise." Nami—feeding Koneko another piece of sashimi—grinned. "You're gonna be terrifying in a boardroom. I can't wait."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto taking a shower with Albedo stalking behind him]
After dinner wrapped up, the dining room slowly emptied in its usual rhythm. Rias and Akeno claimed dish-washing duty tonight—Rias rolling up her sleeves with exaggerated reluctance while Akeno teased her mercilessly about "princess hands getting pruney." Their laughter echoed down the hall as they disappeared toward the kitchen, already bickering over who got to dry.
Arto excused himself quietly.
He headed upstairs first—straight to the master bathroom. Hot water, steam, the simple ritual of washing away the day's sweat and mana residue. He stood under the showerhead longer than usual tonight, letting the heat loosen the tension between his shoulder blades. No rush. Lessons didn't start until he walked through the study door.
When he finally emerged—hair damp, wearing a simple black long-sleeve shirt and loose training pants—he felt centered again.
The door was already ajar. Inside, the room was warm—fireplace crackling low, mana-lamps set to soft amber, the long table cleared except for three copies of Spellcrafting Formulas. Grayfia sat at one end—posture perfect even in a simple evening dress, silver hair loose over her shoulders, book open before her, one gloved finger tracing a particularly dense glyph sequence. Albedo occupied the chair opposite—white silk robe tied loosely, raven hair spilling across her back, her copy already marked with small golden sticky notes in neat rows.
Both women looked up the moment he entered. Grayfia closed her book with a soft snap—standing smoothly. "Master." Albedo rose more slowly—graceful, deliberate—golden eyes bright with anticipation. "Husband."
Arto inclined his head to both—small, acknowledging—then took his usual seat at the head of the table. He opened his own copy—already annotated in his private cipher—and glanced between them. "Progress?"
Grayfia answered first—voice calm, clinical. "Chapters 1 through 4 complete. Glyph derivation logic is… elegant. Brutal in its simplicity. I've already begun mentally re-deriving several of the foundational sequences from first principles. Battle application feels intuitive—especially for rapid mid-cast adjustment under pressure."
Albedo nodded—smile small but proud. "I'm on Chapter 3. Slower than Grayfia, but catching up. The recursive stabilization loops are fascinating. I keep seeing combat uses—especially for layered barriers or counter-spells that adapt on the fly."
Arto nodded once—pleased. "At this pace—my nightly sessions plus your self-study—you'll both finish the book in roughly two weeks. Full mastery will take longer—probably four to six weeks of consistent practical drills. Grayfia will likely reach combat fluency first. Real war experience gives her an edge in instinctive application."
He looked at Albedo—direct, honest. "You're not behind. Your raw power is monstrous—birthright of a virgin succubus. Physical strength, magical reserves, regeneration rate—all of it is top-tier. What you need is control under pressure. Precision when exhausted. That comes with time and repetition."
Albedo's smile turned faintly predatory. "Then drill me. Hard. I want to be worthy of standing beside you—not just in name." Arto met her gaze—unflinching. "You already are. But we'll make sure the rest of the world knows it too."
He leaned back—fingers drumming once on the table. "Training schedule starts this weekend. Saturday evenings—Sector 1: Adaptive Training Ground. Simulation Room, full immersion. Grayfia, you'll get maintenance sessions to stay razor-sharp. Albedo, you'll get the full gauntlet—progressive difficulty, live-fire scenarios, exhaustion drills. No holding back."
He glanced between them. "Once a week. Saturday night. Sunday is full rest—no exceptions. You'll need it." Grayfia inclined her head. "Understood." Albedo's eyes gleamed. "I look forward to it… husband." Arto allowed himself the smallest upward curve of his lips. "Then let's begin tonight's lesson." He opened his copy to the marked page—Chapter 5
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto brushing his teeth]
The clock on the study mantel struck 11:00 with a soft chime. Arto closed Spellcrafting Formulas with a quiet snap, the glyphs on the open page fading as the book recognized the end of the session. He stood—back straight despite the faint ache from hours of precise mana-weaving—and looked at the two women seated across from him.
Grayfia and Albedo rose in near-perfect unison, both books already closed and set aside with care. "You both did exceptionally well tonight," Arto said, voice low and sincere. "Grayfia—your combat derivations are already battle-ready. Albedo—your intuition for layered feedback loops is sharper than most practitioners twice your age in the craft. Keep this pace and you'll both be fluent in two weeks. Mastery will follow."
Grayfia inclined her head—small, formal, but her silver eyes held quiet warmth. "Thank you, Master." Albedo simply smiled—soft, proud, golden gaze lingering on him longer than necessary.
Arto raised one finger—casual flick—and the study responded. Scorched practice circles on the floor smoothed out. Shattered test crystals reformed and vanished into storage runes. Scattered notes realigned themselves into neat stacks. Mana residue dissipated like morning mist. In seconds the room looked untouched—polished wood gleaming, bookshelves orderly, fireplace crackling low and steady.
Grayfia stepped forward first. "I will retire for the night, Master. Good rest." She bowed once—deep, graceful—then glided toward the door. A soft click, and she was gone. Albedo remained.
She crossed the short distance between them without hurry—white silk robe whispering against the floor—until she stood close enough that Arto could smell the faint jasmine-and-amber scent that always clung to her after evening lessons.
She rose on her toes—hands sliding up to cradle his scarred face—and kissed him. Tender. Loving. Unhurried. Not hungry like earlier in the foyer. This was slower—deeper in a different way—like she was drinking him in through her lips, her palms, the gentle press of her body against his. When she finally drew back, her forehead rested against his, eyes half-lidded and glowing softly. "I missed you all day," she whispered. "Even with lessons… it wasn't enough."
Arto's arms came around her waist—scarred hands settling at the small of her back. "You're getting more affectionate every night," he murmured—half observation, half question. "The hugs. The kisses. They're… constant." Albedo's smile turned almost shy—rare for her. "They're meals, husband."
She leaned back just enough to meet his eyes fully. "Virgin succubi like me… we don't live on food the way others do. Normal meals sustain the body, but they don't nourish the core. Love does. Real, chosen, returned love. Hugs. Kisses. Touches. Words. Every moment you look at me like I'm irreplaceable… every time you hold me like you're afraid I'll vanish… that's sustenance. That's what keeps me alive."
Her fingers traced the line of his jaw—gentle over old scars only she and the family had seen. "The most efficient meal…" she continued, voice dropping to a husky whisper, "…is sex. Full surrender. Complete union. It's a feast. A banquet. For a succubus in love, it's the closest thing to divine energy we can taste on this plane."
She pressed closer—body flush against his—voice barely audible. "But we're not there yet. And I don't want to be. Not as Baroness Atreides. Not as part of the mask." Her eyes searched his—golden and fierce. "I want the man who freed me to be the one who takes my virginity. Arto Abyssgard. Not Arasto. Arasto bought me. Arto saved me. Arto saw me. Arto let me go so I could choose to come back."
She lifted her left hand—the ruby ring catching firelight. "When we finally share that… when you claim me completely… it won't be politics. It won't be duty. It will be love. Real. Chosen. And when it happens… my power will surge. Amplify. Grow in direct proportion to how deeply I love you. That's the nature of a virgin succubus bound to her true mate."
Arto stared at her—breath caught somewhere between ribs and throat. Albedo smiled—soft now, almost vulnerable. "So until our wedding night—our real one, as Arto and Albedo, not titles and masks—I'll feed on these moments. These kisses. These quiet nights where you look at me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters."
Albedo's hand slipped into his—fingers lacing naturally, her thumb tracing small circles over one of his older scars. "Husband," she said softly, voice pitched for him alone, "there's one more thing I need to ask. About the potion." Arto's stride didn't falter, but she felt the minute tightening of his fingers around hers.
"The love potion," she continued, eyes fixed forward. "The one the Auction House forced down your throat the moment the hammer fell. The one that should have bound me to you—mind, heart, soul—forever. No matter what you did. No matter how cruel, how degrading, how vile. I've seen sisters take that potion and still gaze at their owners with adoration while they were beaten, violated, discarded like trash. They couldn't stop loving. Couldn't hate. Couldn't even feel pain the way they should. It's the cruelest chain ever forged against my kind, and I hate it to my core."
She stopped walking—tugging him gently to a halt in the middle of the corridor. "You never used it. You never even looked at it again after that night. But… you kept it. Why? And what have you been doing with it?" Arto met her gaze—blue flames steady, unguarded. "We've been studying it," he said quietly. "Robin and I. For weeks."
He resumed walking—slower now—so she stayed at his side. "That potion shouldn't work on a virgin succubus. Your species has near-perfect immunity to direct mind manipulation—charm, compulsion, love spells, even high-tier geas. The resistance is biological, magical, spiritual. Layered. But that brew bypassed every defense like they weren't there. Robin tore it apart molecule by molecule. I ran parallel analysis on the mana signature. We found the trigger."
He glanced at her—checking. "A special herbal blend. Seventeen distinct strains—most of them rare even in the Underworld. Combined in exact ratios, distilled under a triple eclipse cycle, infused with a catalyst we still haven't fully identified. It's not a mind-control potion. It's… more like a key. It fits something already inside virgin succubi. Something dormant. Something that wants to lock onto a mate and never let go."
Albedo's grip on his hand tightened—almost painfully. "So it's not a curse from outside," she whispered. "It's… part of us?" Arto shook his head once. "We don't know yet. It could be genetic. Evolutionary. A safeguard from ancient times when succubi needed absolute loyalty to survive. Or it could be a curse—laid so long ago that your kind forgot it wasn't always there. Robin's running ancestral mana traces now. I'm cross-referencing with every sealed archive I can access through Gremory and Sitri channels. We're close. Closer than anyone's ever gotten."
They reached the bedroom door. Arto paused—hand on the handle. "But the potion itself isn't the goal," he continued. "It's the trait. The eternal lock. The inability to choose again. To walk away. To hate when hate is justified. That's what we're trying to fix." Albedo stared at him—golden eyes wide, shimmering. "You're trying to… free my sisters? All of them?"
Arto nodded once. "If we can isolate the mechanism—whether it's hormonal, magical, spiritual—we can build a counter-agent. Something voluntary. Something that lets a virgin succubus keep the capacity to love deeply… but also the freedom to stop. To choose again. To say 'no more.' No one should be trapped forever because of biology or an ancient curse."
Arto pushed the bedroom door open wider, the warm lamplight from inside spilling into the hallway like liquid gold. Albedo stepped in beside him, her hand still loosely linked with his.
The scene that greeted them was… quintessentially them.
Rias lay sprawled on her stomach across the center of the massive bed—completely naked, skin glowing softly under the bedside lamps. Her laptop balanced on the sheets in front of her face, screen light reflecting off her furrowed brow as she scrolled through what had to be the latest batch of reviewer comments. One hand scratched absently at her scalp while the other hovered over the trackpad, muttering half-sentences under her breath. "'Insufficient justification for the 0.02% threshold variance'—seriously? Did they even read the appendix—"
Akeno lounged against the headboard—also stark naked—legs crossed at the ankles, phone in one hand, the other idly twirling a lock of her long dark hair. She was texting someone (probably Sona, judging by the speed of her thumbs), lips curved in that perpetual teasing half-smile. When she noticed Arto and Albedo in the doorway, she looked up and blew him an exaggerated kiss, winking.
Nami sat cross-legged near the foot of the bed—tablet propped on a pillow, face lit by spreadsheets and charts. She was midway through her nightly skincare routine: sheet mask already applied, jade roller in one hand, the other swiping through financial reports with increasing irritation. Every few seconds she shot glares toward Rias and Akeno.
"You two are animals," she grumbled without looking up. "Sleeping naked with the boss every night like it's normal. I'm trying to read quarterly projections here and all I see is skin. Skin everywhere. Have some decency."
Robin sat furthest from the chaos—perched on the upholstered chair near the window, legs tucked beneath her, reading an open file with intense concentration. One manifested extra arm held a delicate teacup to her lips while another turned pages. She looked up last—expression softening the moment she saw Arto and Albedo. "Welcome back," she said quietly, closing the file. "Productive lesson?"
Arto nodded once—already moving toward the bed. Rias finally looked up from her laptop—face serious, brow still creased with reviewer-induced frustration. "Arto. Albedo. Come here. I need help. These people are trying to kill me with footnotes." Akeno patted the empty space beside her—eyes sparkling. "There's room for two more~"
Nami waved her jade roller like a tiny sword. "Boss, do something about their naked sleeping habit. Please. I'm begging." Robin rose smoothly from her chair—extra arms retracting as she crossed to Arto. She handed him the file she'd been reading without preamble. "The potion investigation," she said simply. "Preliminary findings."
Arto accepted the file—thumb brushing the cover—then looked at Albedo.
PROJECT: ETERNAL BIND– Potion Origin Analysis (Preliminary)Classification: Restricted – Eyes Only
The first section was a timeline. Earliest confirmed prototype: ~1587 CE. Creator: Professor Kunal Naberius, devil biologist of high standing. Affiliation at time: Old Satan Faction loyalist. Contribution credited: Major advancements in inter-species reproductive compatibility, mana-imprint mechanics, and emotional binding theory. Post-Devil Civil War status: Defected to New Satan Faction mid-war. Scrutiny cleared. Lived under house observation until death. Cause of death: Assassination by SS-rank Stray Devil Kuroka Toujou (date redacted, file sealed by Gremory intelligence).
Arto's eyes narrowed. Rias—still naked, laptop forgotten—sat up sharply at the name. "Kunal Naberius?" she echoed, voice low. "That's… Koneko's old master." The room went still. Akeno's teasing smile vanished. Nami's jade roller paused mid-stroke. Robin's expression didn't change, but her extra arms folded behind her back—protective. Albedo's golden gaze sharpened—predatory curiosity. Grayfia—already standing—moved silently to the door and locked it with a soft click.
Nami recovered first. She grabbed two of Arto's oversized black T-shirts from the nearby chair and tossed them at Rias and Akeno. "Put these on," she said flatly. "I can't do serious when you're both naked. It's weird." Rias caught hers mid-air—pulled it over her head without argument. Akeno followed—slow, graceful—then settled back against the headboard, legs crossed. "Now talk," Nami said, pointing at Rias. "What do you know?"
Rias exhaled—long, slow. "I've asked Koneko about him a few times. Not often—only when she seemed… open. She never said much. Said he treated her fairly. Fed her properly. Didn't hurt her. Didn't praise her either. Just… clinical. Like she was a valuable experiment he didn't want damaged."
She paused—fingers twisting the hem of Arto's shirt. "But there was one detail that always stuck with me. Whenever she mentioned him taking Kuroka somewhere for a 'mission,' her face changed. Not angry. Not scared. Just… empty. Like she was remembering something she didn't want to feel. I asked once—gently—what kind of missions. She shut down. Completely. Said she didn't remember. Changed the subject to food."
Rias looked up—eyes meeting Albedo's. "I tried digging. Quietly. Gremory intelligence archives. Old Satan records. Nothing. Either the missions never existed on paper… or someone scrubbed them so thoroughly even Lucifer's people couldn't find traces."
Rias closed her eyes for a moment, fingers tightening on the hem of Arto's borrowed T-shirt as the memory rose unbidden—sharp, vivid, three years old but still bleeding. "That night," she said quietly, "when we found Koneko… it's the one thing I can't reconcile."
Everyone in the room went still. Even Nami set her jade roller down without a sound. Akeno shifted closer to Rias—hand finding hers under the covers—silent support. Rias continued—voice low, steady, but carrying the weight of something she'd carried alone for too long. "A squad from the Gremory Stray Hunting Agency picked up the mana signature of a violent death—Kunal Naberius's. High-priority target: former Old Satan loyalist, high-ranking biologist, suspected of unsanctioned experiments on multiple species. We were sent to secure the site, collect evidence, eliminate or capture the perpetrator, and search for survivors."
She swallowed. "Akeno and I were attached to the squad. We arrived maybe twenty minutes after the kill. The lab was… destroyed. Not just burned—shredded. Claw marks on stone. Blood everywhere. And in the middle of it… Koneko."
Her voice cracked—just once—then steadied. "She was slumped against a tree outside the perimeter fence. Bloodied. Barely conscious. Bruised. One arm broken. But alive. Opposite her… Kuroka. Standing there. Snarling. Eyes wild. Saying things like 'I'll take your power so no one can ever hurt you again.' Like she was about to… consume her. For strength. To protect her."
Akeno picked up the thread—voice quieter than usual, almost gentle. "We didn't hesitate. Rias and I moved in—Power of Destruction flaring, lightning already crackling. But Kuroka… she didn't fight. Not really. She dodged. Slipped through gaps. Evaded every strike like she was dancing. Never countered. Never tried to kill us. Just… ran."
Rias's fingers tightened on Akeno's. "I stayed with Koneko—tried to stabilize her. Akeno called the squad to report Kuroka's heading. And then… Kuroka stopped. Just for a second. Looked back. Not at us. Not at the hunters closing in. At Koneko."
She met Arto's eyes—searching. "There was a tear. One single tear running down her cheek. Not rage. Not madness. Grief. Guilt. Something so human it didn't match anything we'd been told." Akeno's voice was barely above a whisper. "They called it Senjutsu-induced madness later. Said she'd overtrained, lost control, turned on her master and tried to eat her sister for power. That was the official story. Clean. Closed. Case over."
Rias shook her head—slow. "But that tear… that moment… it doesn't add up. If she was truly mad—if she wanted Koneko's power—why run without fighting? Why look back at all? Why cry?" Nami leaned forward—tablet forgotten. "So you think… Naberius did something to Kuroka? Something that made her snap?"
Rias's voice dropped even lower, almost as if speaking too loudly might summon the memory itself back into the room. "Koneko told me the rest later—much later—when she could finally say the words without shaking. She woke up outside the mansion, already bleeding, already bruised. Kuroka was standing a few meters away, covered in their master's blood, claws still out. She didn't say anything at first. Just… stared. Then she turned to leave."
Rias paused—swallowing hard. "Koneko stopped her. Grabbed her sleeve. Begged to go with her. Said she didn't care what happened, just didn't want to be left alone again." Akeno picked up the thread—voice barely above a whisper.
"That's when Kuroka snapped. Not in madness. Not in hunger. She turned, grabbed Koneko by the front of her dress, and beat her. Not to kill. Not to consume. To hurt. Loud enough for the patrol to hear. Loud enough for the Gremory squad to arrive in time. She screamed venomous things—'You're weak,' 'You'll always be weak,' 'Stay away from me or I'll kill you next'—all while hitting her. Over and over."
Akeno's fingers tightened around Rias's hand under the covers. "But Koneko never said she felt hate in those blows. Never said she believed the words. Just… confusion. Like Kuroka was trying to drive her away on purpose. Like she was protecting her by making her hate her."
Nami leaned forward—tablet long forgotten on the mattress. "So she killed Naberius… but couldn't bring herself to kill Koneko. Couldn't even abandon her without making sure she'd be found. So she staged the whole 'madwoman trying to eat her sister' scene. Made sure the Gremory hunters saw it. Made sure Koneko would be taken somewhere safe. And then ran. Carried the blame. Let the world think she was a monster."
Robin's voice was calm, clinical—but her extra arms had stilled completely. "But the reason behind what she did, the reason why she killed Naberius is still obscure. The case was closed with a cause that stated that Kuroka was madded by over training Senjutsu, with this little data, this reason might just be a pretension to end the case quickly"
She turned her gaze to Arto—calm but expectant. "You're a master in Senjutsu, Arto. Your opinion?" Arto leaned back against the headboard, scarred hands resting loosely on his thighs. For a moment he stared into the dying fire, gathering his thoughts.
"Right," he said finally. "As far as I know—and I've trained long enough to speak with confidence—over-training doesn't produce 'madness' in the way the report claims. The most common outcome is devolution: the practitioner begins to take on the traits of the beast they're channeling. For a nekoshou like Kuroka, that would mean regressing toward a normal cat—losing higher reasoning, becoming more instinct-driven, more wild. Not… calculating. Not theatrical. Not staging a scene loud enough to draw hunters while leaving her sister alive and intact."
He looked up—meeting Robin's eyes, then Rias's, then Akeno's. "She didn't act like someone who'd lost her mind. She acted like someone who'd made a decision. A terrible one. Kill the monster who hurt them both… protect the little sister who couldn't protect herself… and make damn sure the world never looked deeper. The 'madness' label is either lazy police work… or deliberate misdirection."
Nami exhaled sharply through her nose. "So either the investigator was incompetent… or someone wanted the case buried fast." Arto nodded once—slow, certain. "Exactly." He reached for his phone on the bedside table—thumb already moving across the screen. The message composed itself in seconds:
To: Director Iroh, Gremory Stray Hunting AgencySubject: Reopening – Naberius Case (Kuroka Toujou)
Director,
Requesting you to personally review the original investigation file on Kunal Naberius's death (3 years ago, executed by SS-rank Stray Kuroka Toujou). Focus on the lead investigator's identity, conduct, and any post-case behavior.
The official cause (Senjutsu-induced madness) does not align with known Senjutsu degradation patterns. Either the officer was grossly negligent… or they had motive to close the case prematurely and prevent deeper inquiry.
Treat this as high-priority / need-to-know. If the investigator shows signs of external influence, coercion, or unexplained wealth—flag immediately.
I'll brief Lord Sirzechs directly once we have more.
—Arto Abyssgard
He hit send. The message vanished into encrypted channels. Silence returned—thicker now. Rias spoke first—voice quiet but resolute. "If someone covered for Naberius… if they knew what he was doing…" Akeno finished—soft, lethal. "Then they're complicit. And they're still out there."
Arto's quiet agreement settled over the room like a blanket—firm, final, but gentle enough to ease the tension without dismissing it. "Indeed," he said, voice low and steady. "But this is work for next week. We'll need time for the legal channels to move first. Iroh will dig quietly. If there's anything left to uncover—paper trails, witnesses, sealed records—we let him find it before we start breaking doors. Until then… we maintain our schedule."
He glanced around the circle—meeting each pair of eyes in turn. "I finish the time-dilation implementation this week. No distractions. After that—if the trail's still hot—we dig deeper. Together. No one moves alone. No one carries this alone."
A collective breath released. Rias nodded once—sharp, resolute. Akeno's smile returned—small, dangerous, reassuring. Nami gave a tired thumbs-up. Robin closed her notebook with a soft snap. Grayfia inclined her head—silent acknowledgment. Albedo squeezed Arto's hand once—silent promise. "Now," Arto continued, already shifting toward the center of the bed, "everyone sleep. It's late. We all have plans when we wake up."
With that—he launched himself backward onto the mattress like a man finally surrendering to gravity. He landed squarely in Akeno's waiting arms. Face-first. Straight into her bare chest. Akeno let out a delighted giggle—high and musical—as her hands immediately cradled the back of his head, pressing him deeper into soft warmth.
"Ara~" she purred, fingers threading gently through his hair. "I didn't remember spraying sleeping perfume on my breasts tonight. Well~ If you like them this much, I'll let you sleep right here. Good night, my love~"
She pressed a lingering kiss to the crown of his head—then leaned back against the pillows, pulling Arto with her so his body draped half across hers, face still nestled comfortably against her. Rias snorted—half amused, half exasperated—and crawled over to claim his other side, tucking herself against his back like a second blanket. "You're hopeless," she muttered fondly against his shoulder blade.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto swimming on a wolf swimmer]
The pool at the mansion's private garden had become Arto's unofficial sanctuary that week.
Crystal-clear water, heated to perfect body temperature, sunlight filtering through the retractable glass roof in lazy golden shafts, and—most importantly—absolute silence on the topic of work. He had declared it a sacred zone: no reports, no portals, no urgent messages, no "quick questions about the time-dilation array." Violators would be met with the full wrath of a man who had spent seven straight days grinding through defense grid oversight, nightly Spellcrafting lessons, temporal engineering, potion reverse-engineering, and the emotional landmine of Koneko's past.
He floated now in the center of the pool on an oversized inflatable lounger shaped like a black swan (Nami's idea of a joke), arms spread, eyes closed, face turned toward the sun like a lizard finally allowed to bask. A half-melted strawberry popsicle dripped forgotten onto his chest. For the first time in what felt like forever, his mind was blissfully, deliberately empty.
Until it wasn't. Soft footsteps approached the pool edge. Rias's voice—bright, innocent, deadly—came first. "Beloved~ Look what I found on your desk." Arto didn't open his eyes. "No." A tablet was gently placed on his stomach—screen already lit to the latest batch of Gremory defense grid status reports. "Sector 7 relay is back online," Rias read aloud, cheerfully. "Only 0.003% variance after recalibration. Congratulations, Chief Engineer."
Arto's eye cracked open—just one. "Rias." She smiled down at him—angelic, merciless. "You said if anyone mentioned work you'd throw a tantrum. I'm waiting." He sat up slowly—lounger wobbling—then flopped dramatically backward again, arms flailing, face scrunched in the most exaggerated pout the girls had ever seen on a 3,000-year-old living weapon. "Noooooooooo," he whined—actual, honest-to-god whine. "Vacation! No work! Bad wife! Evil wife!"
Rias burst out laughing—clutching her stomach. Akeno appeared next—carrying his laptop like it was a sacred relic. "Ara~ I found this interesting email from Director Iroh. Something about re-opening the Naberius case file? Shall I read it aloud?" Arto rolled off the lounger into the water with a theatrical splash—only his head remained above the surface, hair plastered to his forehead, glaring up at her like a drowned cat. "Betrayal," he intoned. "My own wife. Reading work email. During relaxation time. I'm divorcing you."
Akeno giggled—kneeling at the edge and dangling the laptop just out of splash range. "But darling~ It says 'urgent.'" Splash number two—bigger this time. Water arced toward her; she dodged with elegant wing-assisted grace. Nami arrived last—carrying a silver tray that should have held fresh fruit skewers and iced tea.
Instead it held: A neatly printed stack of Atreides atelier construction progress reports, A pen, A sticky note that read: "Sign here, boss. The western sites need final approval~" She crouched at the pool edge—tray balanced on her knees—smiling sweetly. "Hey, beloved. Just a tiny signature. Won't take a second."
Arto's head broke the surface again—hair dripping into his eyes, expression pure wounded betrayal. "Nami. My CFO. My money witch. My traitor." He pointed one dripping finger at her. "You were supposed to be on my side." Nami tilted her head—innocent. "I am on your side. The side that gets paid. These papers are literally money. Sign them and I'll give you the real tray. The one with pineapple."
Arto stared at her—long, dramatic, wounded. Then—slowly, like a man marching to his execution—he hauled himself halfway out of the pool, dripping everywhere, and reached for the pen. "Evil. All of you. Pure evil." He scrawled his signature on the top sheet—then three more for good measure—before flopping backward into the water again with an enormous splash that soaked Nami's yukata hem.
"There. Now leave me to die in peace." Rias—still laughing—leaned over the edge and poked his floating cheek. "You're adorable when you throw tantrums." Akeno blew him another kiss. "The cutest warlord in the Underworld~" Nami finally swapped the report tray for the real one—pineapple skewers, chilled lychee, iced tea—and set it on the pool ledge within arm's reach.
"Happy now, baby?" Arto—still floating facedown like a dramatic starfish—lifted one arm in a weak thumbs-up. "Best wives ever," he mumbled into the water. "Still evil." Robin—watching the entire scene from a shaded lounger—closed her book with a soft chuckle. "Scientifically speaking," she said, "the tantrum-to-endearment conversion rate is remarkably high."
Grayfia—sitting primly on the edge in a simple black swimsuit—allowed herself the tiniest upward curve of her lips. "Adorable," she agreed softly. Albedo—perched on the opposite ledge in white—dangled her legs in the water and smiled down at her sulking husband. "Shall I kiss it better, my love?"
Arto lifted his head just enough to glare at her—hair plastered across his forehead, water dripping from his nose. "You started this." She laughed—bright, delighted—and slid into the pool, swimming over to wrap her arms around his neck from behind. "I did," she agreed. "And I'll finish it."
She kissed his cheek—soft, lingering—then his temple, then the corner of his mouth.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Arto in his wolf form being petted by Robin]
By mid-afternoon the mansion had settled into one of those rare, golden pockets of quiet.
Arto—currently in full wolf form for reasons no one had quite pinned down (he'd muttered something about "needing to stretch the other spine" before collapsing in a dramatic heap)—lay sprawled across the longest sofa in the living room. His massive gray body took up nearly the entire length, thick winter coat fluffed out like a living blanket, head resting heavily in Albedo's lap. Every few minutes his tail gave a slow, contented thump against the cushions.
The rest of the family had gravitated to the same space—half out of habit, half because the interrogation broadcast was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes.
Rias sat cross-legged on the floor with her back against the sofa, one hand buried wrist-deep in Arto's ruff, scratching absently while she re-read reviewer comments on her tablet for the hundredth time. Akeno perched on the armrest beside Albedo, fingers idly tracing patterns through the wolf's ear fur. Nami occupied the opposite end of the sofa—legs tucked under her, one hand stroking along Arto's flank while the other held her phone, refreshing stock tickers. Robin sat in the nearby armchair—book open on her lap but unread—her gaze flicking between the sleeping wolf and Koneko.
Koneko had claimed the exact center of the sofa.
She knelt between Arto's sprawled forelegs, both small hands sunk deep into the dense gray fur of his neck and shoulders. She wasn't speaking. Hadn't spoken for almost ten minutes. Just… petting. Slow, rhythmic strokes that seemed to ground her more than comfort the wolf. Her expression was distant—brows faintly pinched, golden eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the fireplace.
Robin noticed first. She closed her book without sound, leaned forward slightly, and spoke just loud enough for Koneko to hear without startling the others. "Arto confirmed it last week," she said gently. "Over-training in Senjutsu does not cause the kind of 'madness' described in Kuroka's case file. The worst realistic outcome is devolution—complete loss of higher reasoning, full regression into the base animal form of the style being trained. For a nekoshou that would mean becoming an ordinary cat: no speech, no complex thought, pure instinct. Not scheming. Not staging elaborate scenes. Not crying while running away."
Koneko's hands stilled—just for a heartbeat—then resumed their slow strokes. Robin continued—voice soft, patient. "So the official explanation is either gross incompetence… or intentional misdirection. Someone wanted the case closed quickly. Either they didn't care enough to look deeper… or they were paid not to."
Koneko's ears—human ones—flattened slightly. She turned her head—eyes meeting Robin's. "Is that true?" she asked—voice small, almost childlike. "About Senjutsu?" Robin nodded once—certain, unhesitating. "Arto is the most experienced Senjutsu practitioner any of us know. If he says it's impossible… it's impossible."
Koneko looked down at the sleeping wolf again—fingers tightening in the thick ruff. "Then… can I ask him? Right now?" Robin's smile was gentle. "If you wake him, yes." Koneko stared at Arto's peaceful face another long moment. Then—without any further warning—she made a small fist…and punched him square in the ribs.
Not hard enough to injure. Hard enough to wake. Arto yelped—an actual, startled yelp—body jerking upright so fast the sofa groaned. He landed on all four paws, fur bristling, dark-blue eyes wide and offended as he stared down at the tiny fist that had just assaulted him.
A low, rumbling growl started in his throat—more confused than angry—before he registered who'd thrown the punch. "Koneko…?" he rumbled, voice still half-wolf. "Why punch instead of pat?" Koneko didn't answer with words.
She lunged. Arms wrapped around his thick neck in a suffocating hug—face buried against the fur of his throat. A soft, hiccupping sound escaped her—half sob, half relief—as her own nekoshou features slowly emerged: soft white cat ears unfurling from her hair, one tail curling tightly around his forelegs, small fangs peeking past her lips as she pressed herself closer.
The entire room went still. Nami's phone clattered to the floor. "Oh my gods," she breathed—voice cracking with glee. "Cat mode. Actual cat mode. Koneko-chan has ears and tails and she's—!" Rias moved like lightning—hand clamping over Nami's mouth before she could launch into full squee mode. "Shh," Rias hissed—though her own eyes were suspiciously shiny. "Let her have this."
Akeno pressed both hands to her cheeks—trying (and failing) to contain her own delighted squeak. Grayfia's gloved fingers rose to cover her mouth—silver eyes wide with rare, unguarded softness. Albedo simply smiled—quiet, tender—watching the little scene with the expression of someone witnessing something sacred.
Koneko didn't notice any of them. She just clung—face buried, tails wrapped, ears flat against her skull as she breathed in the familiar scent of wolf and Arto and home. Arto—still half in wolf form—lowered his head slowly until his muzzle rested gently against her back. One massive paw came up—careful, careful—and settled over her smaller frame like a living blanket.
"I'm here," he rumbled—voice softer than anyone had ever heard it in this shape. "Whatever you need to ask… I'm listening." Koneko's grip tightened. But she didn't speak.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Koneko hugging wolf Arto]
The living room dimmed as Robin tapped a few keys on her tablet. A large holo-screen flickered to life above the coffee table—crisp, secure feed routed through Gremory encryption. No one spoke. The only sounds were the soft rustle of blankets, Millicas's quiet breathing (he'd fallen asleep again against Arto's wolf flank), and the faint crackle of the fireplace.
Arto—still in wolf form—groaned low in his throat, ears flicking back in clear annoyance. "Off day," he rumbled, voice gravelly and lupine. "Supposed to be off." Rias reached over and gently scratched behind one ear. "Just watch, love. Then we'll let you nap again."
He huffed—dramatic, put-upon—but settled his massive head back onto Albedo's lap, letting her fingers resume their slow combing through his thick ruff. The footage began. Plain interrogation room. Gray walls. Single metal table. Zeoticus Gremory sat on one side—posture relaxed but eyes cold as winter steel. Across from him: the former lead investigator, a middle-aged devil named Lieutenant Varen Halst. Sweat already beaded on the man's brow despite the room's chill.
Zeoticus didn't waste time. "Three years ago. Kunal Naberius. Assassinated by SS-rank Stray Kuroka Toujou. Case closed in under seventy-two hours. Senjutsu-induced madness. No deeper investigation. No follow-up on Naberius's research. No audit of his lab. Explain."
Varen shifted in his seat—hands clasped tight on the table. "I… received an offer," he said, voice cracking on the first word. "After the initial sweep of the mansion. Nothing. The place was too clean. Too empty. For a man of Naberius's standing—biology pioneer, Old Satan collaborator turned defector—the lab should've been packed. Notes. Samples. Prototypes. Instead… bare shelves. Dust. Like someone cleared it before we arrived."
He swallowed. "We suspected a hidden chamber. Started mapping leyline distortions, thermal scans, echo-location spells. That's when the messages began. Anonymous. Proxy channels—untraceable even by Gremory cryptographers. Money. Large sums. First payment after the first day. More after we pushed harder. And… threats. Subtle at first. 'Think of your family.' Then less subtle. One of my juniors vanished. No body. No trace. Another was found in an alley—throat slit, clean professional work. Third received a box with his daughter's favorite doll… and a lock of her hair."
Varen's hands trembled. "I stopped. Told the team to write the report. Madness. Stray execution. Closed. Safest choice for everyone still breathing." Zeoticus leaned forward—voice like ice over stone. "Who sent the money?"
"I don't know. Proxy layers—three at least. Bounced through neutral houses, offshore mana-vaults, even a few human crypto ledgers. By the time we tried tracing… gone. Wiped. Whoever it was had resources. Deep ones."
Zeoticus's eyes narrowed. "You closed a case involving a high-profile biologist who may have been experimenting on multiple species—succubi included—because you were scared?" Varen met his gaze—defiant now, or desperate. "I was terrified. My wife. My kids. We're not high-bloods. No protection details. No ancient wards. Just… normal devils trying to live. When the third body dropped, I understood: digging deeper meant dying. So I chose living. I chose wrong. I know that. But I chose my family."
Silence on the feed. Zeoticus leaned back—expression unreadable. "You'll be placed under protective custody. Full debrief. Names, dates, account trails—everything you remember. If you hold back… I'll know." Varen nodded—shoulders sagging. "I'll tell you everything I have." The broadcast ended with a soft click—Robin closing the feed without fanfare.
Silence blanketed the living room. No one moved. All eyes turned to Koneko. She sat frozen in the exact center of the sofa—small frame rigid, hands still buried wrist-deep in Arto's thick gray wolf fur. Her golden eyes were wide, unblinking, staring at the now-dark holo-screen as though it might flicker back to life and explain everything again.
Three years of certainty—of fear—of carefully constructed walls—had just been hit with a sledgehammer. She had believed it. Believed the official story because it was easier than the alternative. Believed her sister had gone mad—over-trained, lost herself to Senjutsu, turned feral. Believed the venomous words Kuroka spat that night were true. Believed the blows that bruised her ribs and split her lip were driven by hunger for power.
It had been the only way to keep breathing. And now…Now the wall crumbled. No dramatic crash. No scream. Just… quiet, catastrophic collapse. Her lower lip trembled once—twice. Then tears spilled—silent at first, then faster, tracking down pale cheeks in shining lines. She didn't sob. Not yet.
She just… stared. Lost. A little sister again—eleven years old in her heart, confused, small, not understanding why the big sister who used to braid her hair and sing her to sleep had hurt her so badly… and why she still loved her anyway.
Arto—still wolf—felt the shift in her hands first. The way her fingers suddenly clenched in his fur like she needed something solid to hold onto. He moved before anyone else could. Slowly—carefully—he turned his massive head and nudged his snout against her cheek—warm, gentle, wiping away the first tear track with soft fur.
Koneko's breath hitched. Then—suddenly—she broke. Arms flew around his thick neck in a desperate hug. She buried her face against the ruff at his throat—small body shaking as the first real sob tore free. Hot tears soaked into his fur in seconds. Her nekoshou ears flattened tight to her skull, twin tails curling around his foreleg like vines seeking anchor.
"S-sister…" she whispered—voice muffled, cracking. "Kuroka-nee…" Each word came out on a shaky breath—raw, aching, the plea of a child who had spent three years convincing herself she shouldn't want her sister anymore… and failing. Arto didn't speak. He simply curled one massive foreleg around her smaller frame—protective, steady—and let her cry.
The rest of the family moved without words. Rias slid off the sofa—kneeling in front of them both—arms wrapping around Koneko from the front so she was sandwiched gently between Rias and Arto's wolf chest. Akeno knelt beside Rias—wings folding forward to create a soft purple cocoon around the three of them.
Nami reached over—hand resting on Koneko's back—silent tears tracking down her own cheeks. Robin closed her notebook—extra arms retracting—then simply placed one gentle hand on Koneko's head. Grayfia—ever composed—knelt last, gloved fingers brushing tears from Koneko's cheek with infinite care.
Koneko cried until her voice gave out—reduced to soft, hiccupping sniffles against Arto's fur. When the tears finally slowed—when her breathing evened into exhausted hitches—she lifted her head just enough to look at Arto's dark-blue wolf eyes.
Koneko's small arms tightened around Arto's thick wolf neck—far tighter than her size should have allowed. The squeeze wasn't playful. It was desperate. Air wheezed out of Arto's lungs in a startled huff; his massive body jerked once, paws scrabbling uselessly against the sofa cushions.
The family froze. Even Nami's teasing grin vanished. Koneko lifted her tear-streaked face just enough to meet the wolf's dark-blue eyes. Her voice—when it came—was flat, monotone, almost eerily calm… but the nekoshou ears pinned flat to her skull and the way her twin tails lashed behind her told a different story.
"Arto-senpai," she said—quiet, deliberate, "go find justice for Kuroka-nee. Now."
Arto tried to speak—couldn't. Tried to wiggle free—couldn't. He had spent six months personally training her in the Abyssgard regimen: gravity spells stacked on top of gravity spells, endurance runs under tenfold weight, Senjutsu breathing drills until her lungs burned, strength conditioning that turned her already monstrous Rook physique into something genuinely terrifying. And now—ironically—he was reaping the full harvest of his own success.
The little cat-girl currently had him in a chokehold even a high-class devil would struggle to break. His hind legs kicked once—weakly—then stilled. A low, strangled whine escaped his throat. Koneko did not relent. "Please," she whispered—voice cracking on the single word. "Now." Arto's ears flattened in surrender.
He managed one hoarse, rasping bark that everyone understood perfectly. Fine. Right now.
Only then did Koneko's arms loosen. She didn't release him completely—just eased the stranglehold into a gentler, trembling hug. Her face buried itself back into his ruff; fresh tears soaked the gray fur. But this time the embrace was soft—grateful—almost reverent. "Thank you… Arto-senpai…"
She sniffed once—twice—then lifted her head again. Her nekoshou features were fully manifest now: black cat ears trembling, twin tails coiled tightly around one of his forelegs like anchor ropes. "And… when we find her…" Her voice dropped to the smallest whisper. "…please teach me Senjutsu. Properly. Like you taught everyone else."
Arto—still catching his breath—nudged his snout gently against her cheek in silent agreement. The room exhaled collectively. Nami was the first to break. She launched herself forward—arms wrapping around both Koneko and the wolf in a frantic, protective hug. "My baby cat is going into danger!" she wailed—half genuine panic, half dramatic flair. "And I can't even cuddle her properly right now because she's got actual ears and tails and she's busy being brave and I—!"
Rias gently pried Nami off before she could suffocate either of them. "Let her breathe, Nami." But Nami's eyes were suspiciously shiny. "She's so cute… and so scary… and she's growing up…" Akeno giggled—soft, watery—while wiping her own eyes. "Our little Rook is all grown up and making demands. I'm proud and terrified."
[Arto's mansion - Outside]
Arto stepped out of the mansion's front gate with Koneko at his side—both dressed in plain, practical clothes suited for discreet movement. The late-afternoon sun slanted low across the suburban street, casting long shadows from the manicured hedges and wrought-iron fences. They had barely taken ten steps when Koneko froze.
Arto followed her gaze. A small black cat sat on the low brick wall that bordered the property—thin to the point of skeletal, ribs visible under patchy fur, one tail hanging limp. No extra tails. No golden eyes. No aura of Senjutsu or youkai power. Just a stray—hungry, wary, watching them with dull green eyes that hadn't given up yet.
Koneko's ears (still faintly visible in her partial nekoshou state) twitched forward. Arto knelt slowly—bringing himself down to the cat's level without sudden movements. He opened his palm. Void mana flickered briefly at his fingertips; a strip of homemade meat jerky materialized—dark, spiced, the kind he'd carried in his past life for survival rations. Now it was just his favorite guilty-pleasure snack.
The scent hit the air—rich, smoky, salty. The cat's ears flicked. Its nose twitched. It didn't bolt. Arto held perfectly still—jerky extended on his open hand. The cat crept forward—one cautious paw after another—eyes never leaving the food. When it was close enough, it stretched its neck, sniffed once, twice… then snatched the strip in a quick, desperate bite. It backed up half a step—chewing fast, never taking its eyes off him.
Arto didn't move. After the first piece disappeared, the cat hesitated—then lowered its head slightly, ears flattening in wary submission. Arto reached out—slow, palm up—and let his fingers brush the top of its head. The cat leaned in—just a fraction—letting him scratch behind one ragged ear. Koneko watched—silent, eyes soft.
Arto offered a second piece—larger this time. The cat ate more slowly now—less frantic—letting him keep petting while it chewed. When the jerky was gone, Koneko stepped forward. "Senpai… can I…?" Arto nodded. Koneko knelt—gentle, careful—and scooped the cat into her arms. It didn't fight. Just tucked its head under her chin and started purring—weak at first, then stronger.
Arto stood—dusting off his knees. "Let's get her inside. Nami's going to lose her mind." They walked back through the gate—Koneko cradling the cat like it was made of glass. The living room was quiet except for the soft tap-tap of Nami's stylus on her tablet as she scrolled through another financial dashboard. She looked up when they entered—then froze.
Her eyes went from Arto → Koneko → the tiny black cat in Koneko's arms. The tablet hit the sofa cushion. "Oh my gods."
Nami was across the room in two strides—hands already outstretched. "Give. Give give give." Koneko carefully transferred the cat. Nami cradled it against her chest—chin resting on its head—already cooing in full cat-mother mode. "Hey baby… hey pretty girl… you're so thin… when did you last eat properly? Don't worry—Aunty Nami's got you now. We're gonna get you fat and spoiled and loved, okay? Yes we are~"
The cat—exhausted, trusting, overwhelmed—simply melted against her, purring louder than before. Arto folded his arms—watching the scene with quiet amusement. "We found her outside the gate. Malnourished. One tail. No youkai signature. Just… a stray." Nami looked up—eyes shining. "She's ours now."
Koneko nodded once—small, certain. "While we're gone… take care of her." Nami hugged the cat tighter—chin resting on its head. "I will. I promise. Same way I take care of my favorite shorty." She shot Koneko a watery grin. "Extra cuddles. Extra snacks. Extra love." Koneko's ears twitched—faint blush on her cheeks—but she didn't protest.
Arto placed a hand on Nami's shoulder—gentle squeeze. "We'll be back before dawn if we can."