Time had lost all meaning.
Arto's room was lit only by the soft glow of the desk lamp and the occasional flicker of hovering test sigils. Pages of the primer lay scattered—covered in dense notes, cross-references, and newly drawn translation matrices. His handwriting, precise even in exhaustion, filled every margin. Empty tea cups—courtesy of a sleepless summoning of minor refreshment spells—stood in a neat row at the edge of the desk.
He was deep in the flow state, pen moving without pause, when a soft, sleepy voice broke the silence. "Arto… what are you doing this early in the morning?"
He blinked, pen slowing. Turning in his chair, he saw Rias in the doorway—hair tousled from sleep, wearing a loose silk nightgown that fell to mid-thigh. Her eyes were half-lidded, but concern sharpened them as she took in the scene: the littered desk, the hovering runes, and Arto himself—shirt sleeves rolled up, eyes bloodshot but bright with focus.
Arto glanced groggily toward the window. The first pale gold of dawn was creeping over the horizon. "It's morning already…" he muttered, more to himself than her.
Rias caught it instantly. She stepped fully into the room, arms crossing as her voice took on that familiar mix of worry and exasperation. "Arto. Don't tell me you stayed up all night working at your desk."
He set the pen down at last, rolling his shoulders with a wince. The motion made him aware of how stiff he was—hours hunched over paper, mana thrumming constantly through his hands. "…Maybe."
Rias sighed, walking over and placing a hand on his forehead as if checking for fever. "You didn't sleep at all, did you?"
"I meant to take a break," Arto admitted, voice rough from disuse. "But the translations were flowing well. And then the stabilization ratios needed refining. And then—"
She cut him off gently, fingers brushing damp hair from his forehead. "And then you forgot the world existed. I know the look."
Arto managed a tired half-smile. "Old habit. When inspiration strikes on the battlefield, you don't sleep until it's captured."
Rias's expression softened, but she didn't let him off the hook. "It seems that I have to put you to bed on my own."
Before he could protest, Rias stepped right up to the desk chair.
With effortless strength—devil heritage making her far more powerful than her graceful figure suggested—she slid her arms around his waist and lifted him clean off the seat.
Arto's eyes widened in pure, startled surprise.
For a split second he went rigid, arms hovering uselessly in the air, as though his brain hadn't quite processed that a woman half his size could hoist him like he weighed nothing. "Rias—?"
She didn't give him time to finish.
With a playful little toss, she deposited him onto the mattress. He landed with a soft bounce, still wide-eyed. Before he could sit up, Rias followed—climbing onto the bed and immediately wrapping herself around him.
Her arms looped across his chest, holding him firmly against her. One leg slid between his, intertwining until there was no escape. Her head settled on his shoulder, crimson hair spilling over his collarbone like warm silk. She pressed close—soft, warm, and unapologetically possessive.
"Sleep a little, Arto," she murmured against his neck. "You told me you value this human life. Dying from lack of sleep isn't noble enough for me to press that Knight piece into your chest."
Arto lay frozen for a heartbeat—every muscle tense, breath shallow. He could feel her heartbeat against his side, steady and calm. The faint scent of her shampoo mixed with the clean soap from his own shower. Her body molded against his perfectly, as though she belonged there.
Slowly—very slowly—the tension began to drain from him.
He exhaled, long and shaky. "…You're impossible," he muttered, but there was no heat in it. Only quiet surrender.
Rias smiled against his shoulder, eyes closing. "I know. Now hush. Sleep."
She tightened her hold just a fraction—enough to remind him he wasn't going anywhere.
Arto stared at the ceiling for another minute, listening to her breathing even out. The weight of her arm across his chest, the warmth of her leg tangled with his, the gentle rise and fall of her body against him—it was all so… ordinary. So human.
He hadn't been held like this in millennia.
His eyelids grew heavy. The last thing he felt before sleep claimed him was Rias's fingers tracing idle, soothing circles on his chest—right over the spot where his heart beat steady and strong.
Rias's POV
Darkness. Not the comforting kind that comes with closed eyes or a power outage—no, this was absolute, suffocating, living darkness. It pressed against my skin like cold oil, heavy enough to make every breath feel borrowed.
I woke up in it. No warning. No transition. One moment I was curled against Arto's warm chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as exhaustion finally claimed him after his all-nighter. The next… nothing.
My devil eyes adjusted instantly—crimson glow illuminating my own hands, the curve of my arms, the fall of my hair—but beyond that faint bubble of self-light, the void refused to yield. No walls. No ceiling. No floor texture beyond unnaturally smooth, featureless stone that stretched forever.
I stood slowly, wings half-unfurling on instinct. The air tasted stale, metallic, like old blood left to congeal. My heart began to hammer.
"Hello?" My voice echoed strangely—swallowed almost immediately, as if the darkness had teeth.
Nothing answered. I reached for the peerage bond—Akeno? Kiba? Koneko? Arto?—and felt only empty silence. Not even static. The connection was gone, severed clean.
Panic rose like bile in my throat. No. Stay calm. Think.
I dropped to one knee, pressing my palm flat against the ground to steady myself. Deep breath. Another. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way my mother taught me when I was small and the weight of the Gremory name first started pressing down.
Last memory: pinning Arto to the bed after he refused to sleep. Wrapping myself around him. His quiet surrender. His warmth. Then… nothing.
Questions swirled. Where am I? How did I get here? Where is Arto?
I forced myself to stand again. Panic wouldn't help. Directionless wandering wouldn't either. But standing still felt worse—like surrendering to whatever this place wanted.
I chose a direction at random and walked. One step. Two. The ground never changed. No slope, no cracks, no sound but my own heartbeat and the soft tap of my bare feet.
Minutes bled into what felt like hours. My legs trembled—not from fatigue, but from the creeping dread that I might walk off an unseen edge into oblivion. My wings twitched, wanting to fly, but the memory of endless upward nothing earlier kept them folded.
Eventually, exhaustion forced me to sit again. I hugged my knees, wings wrapping around myself like a cocoon.
Think, Rias. You're the heiress of destruction. You don't break.
I tried to recall every teleportation mishap, every dimensional trap I'd studied. Nothing matched this sensory deprivation. No ley-line interference. No sealing ward signature. Just… absence.
And Arto was missing. That hurt worse than the dark. I stood once more. Walking was better than waiting to be consumed. I opened my wings and launched upward—higher, higher—until vertigo made me stop. Still nothing. Just black in every direction.
I landed. The impact barely echoed. Then I felt it. A pressure at my back—massive, malignant, hungry. Instinct screamed. I threw myself forward.
BOOM.
The ground where I'd stood shattered. An axe larger than my entire body embedded itself in the stone, sending shockwaves up my legs. I rolled, came up in a crouch, and faced it.
The creature was nightmare-made-flesh. Pale, bloated skin stretched over a grotesque, muscular frame. Glowing red eyes set in a face that had no right to exist. One arm ended in claws; the other fused into the haft of that monstrous axe. A distended belly hung low, as though stuffed with the remains of everything it had ever killed.
It didn't roar. It just advanced—slow, inevitable. I fired Power of Destruction without thinking. Crimson orbs streaked through the dark and struck true—burning craters across its chest. It staggered, black ichor oozing from the wounds.
But it kept coming. I retreated, firing again and again. The burns deepened. Blood flowed. Its movements slowed.
I focused—joints, eyes. One orb took an eye. It howled—a sound like tearing metal. Blind, it swung wildly. I closed the distance. A massive orb of concentrated Power formed between my palms—larger than my head, swirling with annihilating force.
I hurled it. The creature's head vanished in a crimson detonation. The body toppled. Silence. Victory trembled through me—shaky, adrenaline-fueled.
Then more presences. Dozens. Hundreds. Red eyes opened in the dark, surrounding me in a tightening circle.
Axes raised. I shot skyward, wings beating furiously.
Below, the horde collided in confusion—blades and claws tearing into each other. Some fell, crushed by their own kind.
Hope flickered. Then—sound. Metal on metal. Explosive impacts. Roaring wind.
From my right. And with it… light. Dim at first—blue-white, flickering like a distant star. But growing. I banked hard, flying toward it at full speed. The closer I got, the clearer the scene became.
Not an army. One man. A lone figure in battered silver-and-blue armor, moving like a storm given form.
Magic circles flashed into existence and vanished in heartbeats—barriers, blades of light, explosive bursts. Slashes of pure force carved through waves of darkness, parting the tide like a ship through water.
Monsters—hundreds, thousands—surged against him. He held. Alone. My breath caught.
That armor. Those movements. The way he fought—not with devilish grace or angelic precision, but with raw, unrelenting experience...Arto.
I flew faster than I ever had, wings cutting through the thick, oppressive darkness. The dim blue light grew brighter with every desperate beat—Arto's light. My light now, too.
I landed hard behind him, boots skidding on the unseen ground. The clash of steel and monstrous roars was deafening up close. He was a whirlwind—armor flashing, sword singing, magic circles blooming and vanishing like deadly fireworks.
He didn't hear me land.
His blade whipped around in a vicious arc—straight toward my neck. There was no time to shout, no time to dodge. I froze, eyes wide, preparing for the end. The sword stopped. A few millimeters from my throat. So close I felt the cold kiss of steel.
Arto's eyes—dark blue even through the helmet's visor—widened in recognition. "Rias!?" His voice cracked with shock and something rawer. "Is that you? How did you get here?"
The tears I'd been fighting spilled over. "It's me, Arto," I choked out, voice trembling. "It's really me… I don't know how…"
A guttural roar cut me off. "Careful!!!"
His arm snapped around my waist like iron, yanking me hard against his chest. We spun together—he shielded me with his body as a massive claw raked the air where I'd stood. With his free hand, he thrust forward. A blazing spear of blue-white mana erupted from his palm, punching a perfect, smoking hole through an entire line of charging monsters.
His armor was soaked—blood, both black and red, streaming from countless cuts. Gashes marred the plates; one pauldron hung loose. His breathing was ragged, labored, every exhale a rasp.
Yet he didn't falter.
He released me only long enough to plant himself between me and the horde. "Cover me!" he roared. Magic circles—dozens of them—ignited around him in a corona of azure light. They flared, feeding power into his blade as he launched himself forward like a comet into the fray.
The monsters met him in a wave of claws and axes. I wiped tears away with the back of my hand, crimson aura surging. "On it." Power of Destruction bloomed in my palms—larger orbs than I'd ever formed in training, fueled by fear and fury and something fiercer.
I unleashed them into the tide at his back. Where his precise, relentless strikes carved paths, my annihilation erased entire ranks. We fought back-to-back—him the unbreakable blade, me the unstoppable force.
The darkness howled around us. The battlefield—if this endless void could be called that—was chaos incarnate. Arto fought at the center of it all, a lone blue-white star against an ocean of black. His sword carved glowing arcs through the air; magic circles flared and detonated in perfect sequence.
Monsters fell in waves, but more poured in to replace them—pale, bloated horrors with axes and claws, red eyes burning with mindless hunger.
I stayed at his back, Power of Destruction flaring from my palms in crimson orbs. One after another, I hurled them into the tide surging behind him.
At first it was almost easy. The orbs punched clean holes through ranks of monsters, vaporizing flesh and bone. Black ichor sprayed; bodies collapsed in smoking heaps.
But they kept coming...More....Always more.
The darkness birthed them faster than we could kill them. My arms began to ache from the constant casting; sweat stung my eyes. For every ten I erased, twenty took their place. A claw raked the air inches from my wing. An axe buried itself where my foot had been a heartbeat earlier.
I was being overwhelmed. A wall of monsters closed in—too many, too fast.
Then Arto was there. He appeared in a blur of steel and light, sword flashing in a wide crescent that severed limbs and heads in one stroke. His free arm hooked around my waist, yanking me behind him as a barrage of his own spells detonated—blue lances punching through the front line like artillery.
"Stay close," he growled, voice rough but steady. I pressed against his back—felt the heat of him, the tremor of exhaustion he refused to show.
The tide surged again. He glanced over his shoulder, blue eyes sharp even through the chaos. "Time for you to learn new skills, Rias."
I blinked, dodging a claw that came too close. "Mid-battle?"
He nodded once—then spun, sword cleaving through three monsters in a single motion. "Best way. Think of something more creative than simple orbs. Shape the Power of Destruction differently. Compress it. Chain it. Pierce instead of explode. I'll help you build and perfect it."
Another wave crashed toward us. I didn't have time to argue.
My mind raced with a speed I'd never felt before, sharp and cold, the way it only ever does when death is breathing down your neck. Not the calculated precision of a duel or a Rating Game. This was raw, desperate survival instinct—the kind that strips away everything unnecessary and leaves only the will to live.
Compress it. Chain it. Pierce instead of explode.
Arto's words echoed like a lifeline.
I gathered Power of Destruction between my palms—not the familiar sphere, but something new. I forced the energy narrower, tighter, spinning it like a drill until it screamed with density. A crimson lance took shape—long, thin, unstable, humming with barely contained annihilation.
Arto sensed the shift without looking. He adjusted seamlessly—sword flashing to draw the front line's attention, spells blooming to shield my flank. "Now!" he roared.
I thrust my arm forward. The lance shot out—faster than any orb I'd ever thrown, a red streak that punched clean through the first monster's chest, the second's throat, the third's skull—drilling a perfect tunnel before detonating at the far end in a controlled crimson burst.
Bodies collapsed in a straight line, smoking and severed. The effect rippled through the horde—momentary confusion, a gap in the tide. Arto's voice cut through the chaos, calm and approving even mid-battle. "Good. Tighter compression next time. Less waste on exit."
I was already forming the next one. This time I tried chaining—three smaller spears linked by threads of destruction energy, flexible like a whip. I cracked it overhead. The chain lashed out, wrapping around a cluster of monsters before the links exploded in sequence—boom, boom, boom—shredding flesh and bone in a widening circle.
Arto fought beside me now, no longer just protecting my back. We moved in sync—he the precise blade clearing paths, me the overwhelming force erasing ranks. "Angle the release—ten degrees left on the chain!" he called between strikes.
I adjusted mid-cast. The next chain whipped exactly where a fresh wave was forming, disrupting their charge before it began. "Perfect. Now pierce and hold—don't detonate immediately."
I formed another lance—this one longer, thinner. I hurled it into the thickest cluster and held the explosion, letting the spear burrow deep before releasing. The monsters hesitated—only a fraction of a second, but enough.
Arto seized it, charging forward with a roar that shook the void itself. His sword became a blur of light and steel; magic circles flared in rapid succession—barriers to block, lances to impale, bursts to scatter. I matched him step for step, new shapes flowing from my hands faster than thought.
A spiraling disc that sliced horizontally through ranks. A cluster of needle-like darts that pierced multiple targets before exploding. A pulsating wave that pushed back an entire flank, giving us breathing room.
Every correction he gave, I applied instantly...Every success fed the next attempt. The darkness still pressed in—endless, relentless, but I can keep up, with him helping me.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by chibi Rias cultivating weapons made of her own Power of Destruction]
I don't know how long we've been fighting.
Time has no meaning here. There are no sunrises, no sunsets, no moments of respite long enough to count heartbeats. Only waves of darkness crashing against us, retreating just long enough for us to catch our breath, then surging again with renewed fury.
My world has narrowed to three things:
The monsters trying to kill us...Arto's back in front of me...The Power of Destruction burning in my veins, reshaping itself with every command he gives.
I fire another compressed lance—long, spinning, piercing—straight through a line of charging horrors. It drills clean holes before detonating at the rear, scattering bodies like broken dolls.
Arto's voice cuts through the roar, calm and precise even as his sword sings through another arc of steel and light. "Tighter spin on release—reduce wobble by five percent. You'll get twenty more meters of penetration."
I adjust without thinking. The next lance flies truer, deadlier. I've never used my power like this. I thought I knew it intimately—my clan's signature, the force that erases what it touches. I've trained with it since childhood, mastered orbs, beams, barriers, explosions. I was proud of my control, my destructive elegance.
I was wrong. Dead wrong. Under Arto's guidance—shouted corrections between slashes, quick sigil adjustments drawn in mid-air with a finger while his other hand blocks a claw—I'm discovering layers I never imagined existed.
Chains that whip and explode in sequence. Discs that slice horizontally through ranks. Needles that burrow before blooming into annihilation from within. Waves that push, not just destroy—clearing space, controlling the battlefield.
Every new shape feels like unlocking a door I didn't know was there. And he does it all while fighting harder than I've ever seen anyone fight. His armor is cracked in a dozen places now. Blood—his own—streaks the silver-blue plates. His breathing is ragged, but never once does he falter. Sword in one hand, spells flaring from the other, he moves like he was born in this darkness.
I watch his back—constantly—covering angles he can't reach, erasing threats before they close. He watches mine the same way.
Between waves—those precious few seconds when the tide pulls back—I steal glances at him. Sweat plasters dark hair to his forehead. His jaw is set, eyes burning with focus. Every motion is economical, lethal, beautiful in its brutality.
And still—still—he teaches. "Try threading the chain links with a delay sigil—zero-point-five seconds between detonations. It'll stagger their collapse, give us a wider kill radius."
I do it. The next chain lashes out—links exploding in perfect staggered rhythm. The effect is devastating: a ripple of crimson blasts that tears a crescent through the horde.
I feel it then—a fierce, almost giddy rush. This is what true potential feels like. Not just raw power. Control. Creativity. Adaptation.
All because of him.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by a bonfire was lit up with blue flame]
The tide finally eased—just a fraction.
The endless waves of pale horrors thinned, their roars growing distant. Corpses littered the unseen ground around us, smoking and dissolving into black mist. My lungs burned, arms trembling from the constant casting, but the space to breathe—actual seconds without something trying to kill us—felt like a miracle.
I hovered beside Arto, wings beating slowly to keep altitude. He stood on the ground below, sword planted point-down like a cane, chest heaving. Blood streaked his armor; fresh cuts crossed older ones. His helmet was gone—lost somewhere in the chaos—revealing sweat-soaked hair and eyes that still burned with unyielding focus.
We had carved out a small circle of light in the endless dark. For now. I dropped to the ground beside him, legs shaky. "Arto…" I managed between breaths. "The waves… they're slowing."
He didn't relax. If anything, his posture stiffened. "Rias," he said, voice low and grim. "Prepare yourself. We're running out of time."
I frowned, wiping blood—mine or theirs, I couldn't tell—from my cheek. "Running out of time? We're winning. They're retreating—"
"No." He turned to me, eyes deadly serious. "This is the lull before the storm. The big one of tonight is coming." My stomach dropped. "The… big one?"
He nodded once, gripping his sword tighter. "Every night here, the darkness births something worse. A lord-class abomination. Bigger. Smarter. Stronger than the rest combined. The waves thin out to gather strength for it."
The ground shuddered harder now—deep, rhythmic impacts that vibrated through my bones. The lesser monsters had vanished entirely, retreating into the dark like scavengers fleeing a greater predator.
Arto straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders once as if loosening muscles that had fought for hours without rest. Blood—his own and the black ichor of countless slain horrors—streaked his cracked armor. His sword, nicked and battered, gleamed faintly in the dim blue light of his remaining spells.
He turned toward the approaching presence. "Well," he said, voice low and edged with grim anticipation, "it's time to give it something new to learn."
New spell circles ignited in both his palms—complex, layered matrices I didn't recognize, glowing with that same crystalline azure light. Runes crawled up the hilt of his sword, wrapping the blade in shifting patterns that hurt to look at directly.
He glanced back at me. Under the shadow of his damaged hood, where his face should have been visible, I saw only two burning blue flames—fierce, unwavering, inhuman in their intensity. His eyes… or what was left of them in this place.
The sight sent ice down my spine, but his voice was still his—steady, reassuring. "Back me up, okay?" he said. "We're almost done here. After that… I'll explain everything to you."
I swallowed the questions burning in my throat—What is this place? What's happening to you? How long have you been fighting alone?—and nodded instead.
Power of Destruction flared around my hands, brighter and more controlled than ever. "Always."
The darkness ahead split open. The Void Warden emerged. Thirty meters of nightmare given form. Mirror-black scales reflecting fractured memories—my own face twisted in fear, my brother's disappointed eyes, my mother's tears the day I lost control as a child. The reflections crawled across its surface like living things.
Its vertical crimson eye fixed on Arto instantly. The air grew heavier—gravity itself pressing down, trying to force us to our knees. Arto's movements slowed, just a fraction. The creature's adaptations already kicking in, countering everything he'd used before.
It hadn't learned me. Arto stepped forward, sword raised, blue flames in his hood burning brighter. The Warden roared—a sound that rattled my teeth and made the void itself tremble.
Arto answered with a battle cry that shook something deep inside me—raw, defiant, alive. Then he charged. I followed a heartbeat later. Crimson and azure light flared together.
He blocked the first strike—barely. Sparks flew as the tendril grazed the hilt; faint cracks spider-webbed across the metal.
The second tendril came for his armor seams. Arto twisted, taking the hit on his pauldron instead. The plate crumpled inward with a sickening crunch.
He didn't flinch. Instead… he smiled. Not the tired, warm smile I'd grown used to. This was sharp, almost feral—pain acknowledged and dismissed. "Exactly as expected," he said, voice carrying over the hum of the Warden's aura. "Perfect counter to everything I've used tonight. Clever, clever…"
He laughed once—low, rough, genuine. "Well done… me." My heart stuttered. Me?
The Warden lunged—four scythe-limbs scissoring down in a cage of death.
Arto didn't block. He dropped low, rolled forward under the strike, and came up inside its guard. New spell circles flared around him—completely different patterns. No familiar azure lances or barriers. These were jagged, violet-black, edged with silver fractals I'd never seen.
The Warden's eye flared, trying to analyze...Too late... Arto's sword ignited with a completely new aura—crackling, unstable, like bottled lightning mixed with starlight. He struck upward—not at the armored plates, but at the joints between them, where the adaptive scales hadn't yet hardened against this unknown energy.
A scale shattered. Black ichor sprayed. The Warden recoiled—actually recoiled—for the first time. Arto pressed the advantage, movements still slowed by the gravity field but now unpredictable. He wasn't fighting the way he had all night. No repeated techniques. No familiar spells.
Everything was new. Because he wasn't fighting alone anymore. He had an unknown factor.
Me. I felt it—the shift in the battle. The Warden's adaptations were tuned to him. Every counter, every nullification, every gravitational pull was built from data it had gathered on Arto's fighting style over countless nights.
It had no data on me. On Power of Destruction. I stepped forward, crimson aura blazing. "Arto—"
He glanced back—blue flames in his hood burning brighter. "Hit it with everything you've got," he said, grinning through blood and exhaustion. "Everything we practiced. Don't hold back. It can't adapt to you yet."
The Warden's eye swiveled toward me—analyzing, calculating...Too slow. I gathered the largest mass of Power of Destruction I'd ever held—compressed, chained, spiraling into a single, world-ending lance.
Arto cleared the path with a burst of his new spells—fractal barriers shattering scythe-limbs, unfamiliar blades of light carving openings.
I hurled the lance. It struck the Warden's central plate dead-center. The mirror-black scale didn't adapt. It erased.
A perfect circle of annihilation bloomed—eating through chitin, through flesh, through whatever passed for bone in this thing.
The Warden screamed—a sound that cracked the void itself, like reality tearing along invisible seams. The annihilation bloom I'd driven into its core spread wider, devouring scale and flesh in a perfect circle of nothingness. Black ichor gushed from the wound, sizzling as it hit the unseen ground.
Arto landed beside me in a controlled skid, boots grinding against the dark. His breathing was ragged, armor cracked in new places, but his stance remained unbreakable.
"Good work, Rias," he said, voice rough but warm with genuine pride. The blue flames in his hood flared brighter as he glanced at me. "But we're not done. Prepare for another blow on the core—I'll keep it from healing."
Before I could respond, he charged. Straight into the storm. The Warden's remaining scythe-limbs slashed down—four blades converging on him like a guillotine. Arto didn't dodge. He met them.
His sword flashed upward in an impossible parry—new spell circles igniting along the blade, reinforcing it with layers of shifting mana. Steel rang against chitin with a sound like thunder. Sparks erupted; one scythe cracked and shattered.
The crystalline tendrils whipped toward his weapon hand, trying to sever the bond. Arto twisted, taking the strike on his already-damaged pauldron instead. Metal crumpled, but his grip held.
He roared—raw, defiant—and drove forward, blade carving a burning line across the Warden's lower limb joints. Every strike drew its full attention, every spell forced it to adapt to him alone.
The core wound began to close—mirror-black scales knitting together, trying to seal the annihilation damage.
I felt the shift in the air—the Warden's focus narrowing entirely on Arto. Its crimson eye locked on him, gravity field intensifying, tendrils and scythes converging.
It was trying to eliminate the known threat first. Leaving its wounded core exposed...To me.
I didn't hesitate. Power of Destruction surged—larger than before, compressed into a single, spiraling lance thicker than my torso. I poured everything into it: all the new shapes he'd taught me, all the control I'd gained fighting at his side.
The lance formed—crimson core wrapped in spiraling chains of delayed annihilation, tip honed to a molecular edge.
Arto glanced back—just once—blue flames meeting my eyes. He grinned, fierce and trusting. Then he threw himself higher, drawing every remaining limb upward in a desperate barrage.
The core was wide open. I launched the lance. It struck true—dead center in the closing wound. The explosion was silent at first.
Then the void shattered. A wave of pure erasure rippled outward, devouring the Warden from the inside. Scales vaporized. Limbs disintegrated mid-swing. The massive body convulsed once—twice—then began to collapse inward, folding into the annihilation bloom like paper into fire.
Arto landed beside me again, sword planted in the ground for support, chest heaving. His armor was a ruin—plates cracked, edges blackened—but he was still standing. Still alive.
The Warden's final scream faded into nothing, a dying echo swallowed by the void. Then… the darkness receded. Not all at once. It pulled back like a tide, slow and reluctant, revealing more of the featureless ground beneath our feet. The oppressive weight on my chest lightened; the air felt thinner, cleaner.
I sensed it before I saw it—a warmth at my back. Light. Real light. A bonfire burned brightly in the distance, flames a pure, vivid blue—almost the same shade as the magic Arto wielded. At its center, a sword was planted point-down, coiled in an elegant spiral along the blade. The fire didn't consume it; it seemed to embrace it, dancing harmlessly over the metal.
Rest. Safety. A beacon. Arto let go of his own battered sword immediately. It clattered to the ground as his shoulders sagged—not in defeat, but in profound relief. "Finally," he breathed. "It's done."
He looked at me—really looked—and the exhaustion in his eyes softened into something warm, proud. "You did incredibly well, Rias."
My throat tightened. Tears—ones I hadn't let fall during the entire battle—prickled now. "So did you," I managed, voice cracking just a little.
He smiled—small, tired, but genuine—and extended his hand. "Come. Let us rest a little."
I took it without hesitation. His grip was warm, callused, steady despite everything. Together, we walked toward the bonfire. The closer we got, the more the darkness retreated—shrinking away from the blue flames as though afraid. The air grew warmer, lighter. The oppressive hum that had filled this place since I arrived faded into silence.
We reached the fire. Arto released my hand only long enough to sit—heavy, like a man finally allowing himself to feel the weight of centuries. He leaned back against nothing, but the ground seemed to cradle him anyway. I sat beside him, close enough that our shoulders touched.
The flames crackled softly, casting dancing light across his scarred face. The coiled sword at the center gleamed—beautiful, ancient, familiar in a way I couldn't place. I turned to him. "Arto… what is this place?"
He stared into the flames for a long moment, shoulders rising and falling with a slow, heavy breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet—almost resigned. "This place… is my dream."
My eyes widened. "Your… dream?" He nodded, still not looking at me. "Yep. This is my dream realm. The place I go to when I sleep."
The words hung in the air. I stared at him—at the battered armor, the blood, the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "This…" I gestured weakly at the endless dark, the bonfire, the memory of the Warden's corpse dissolving behind us. "This is what you dream of? Every night?"
He gave a small, tired shrug. "All the way from my past life until now, I thought when I was in the Void that it had let go of me, but it didn't, now it's here again with me, in this new world, new life...to haunt me when I sleep"
I shifted closer—until our shoulders touched, until I could feel the warmth of him despite the cold void around us. "You've been doing this… alone? For centuries?"
He nodded, slow and heavy. "Yes. It's a kind of… training. No." He corrected himself, voice rough. "No… it's like a murderous learning mechanic." I blinked, completely lost again. "O~kay? What do you mean by 'murderous learning mechanic'?"
Arto went very still. For a long moment he didn't answer, as if I'd asked him to open a door he'd spent lifetimes trying to keep locked. His gaze stayed on the bonfire—the same shade of blue as the flames that had burned where his eyes should be during the fight.
"I told you before," he finally said, voice low and distant. "I was trained to be a living weapon. And this place… it's a replica of what I was forced to endure every single day of my past life. A battle against an army of ever-evolving monsters, designed to break me again and again."
He swallowed. "The price for losing was steep. No food. No water. Not even a bed to sleep on."
His fingers curled slightly against the ground. "This place was born from desperation—my own subconscious trying to survive. It needed a way to help me win when I was awake, so I could earn food and water in the real arena. So it created the Dark Arena. A battleground where my mind forces me to fight… to win… to survive."
He looked at me then, eyes shadowed but painfully honest. "And just like the waking arena, if I die here… it forces me awake. No more sleep for the rest of the night."
My heart cracked. I stared at him—at the scars, the exhaustion, the quiet strength that had carried him through millennia of this—and felt tears burn behind my eyes.
This wasn't just a nightmare. This was torture. Self-inflicted, endless, necessary torture.
All so he could stay alive in a world that had treated him like less than human. "So when you said 'me' earlier…" I whispered, voice trembling. "These monsters… they came straight from you?"
"Yes." He gave a small, bitter smile. "It's a learning mechanic. This place evolves every day to break me the same way I was broken in the real arena. Today's tactics won't work tomorrow. So I have to stay sharp. Creative. Always adapting."
He looked back at the fire. "Because here, I'm fighting my own ability to learn." Silence fell—soft, heavy, heartbreaking.
I shifted even closer, until there was no space left between us. The bonfire's blue flames painted soft light across his scarred face, making the exhaustion in his eyes look almost gentle. "So," I said quietly, searching his expression, "the way you process information—the way you make tactics and spells on the fly, execute them perfectly while guiding me with my own magic…"
He nodded again, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips. "Yes. It all came from this place." He gestured vaguely at the dark horizon beyond the fire's reach. "I have to think fast and accurately to win. So I did." He paused, then added with a touch of tired humor. "Cool, right?"
Cool? I stared at him, throat tight. Cool didn't begin to cover it.
This man had turned literal torture—centuries of being broken and rebuilt in his own mind—into the sharpest weapon imaginable. Every night, his subconscious forced him to evolve or die. No wonder he could read a battlefield in seconds, adapt spells mid-cast, teach me entirely new ways to wield my power while fighting for his life.
It wasn't just skill.
It was survival forged into genius. I reached up, fingers brushing his cheek—careful, like he might vanish if I pressed too hard. "You turned hell into a classroom," I whispered. "And came out the greatest teacher I've ever had."
His smile faltered—just a little. Something vulnerable flickered behind his eyes. "Really? So how much did you learn from this place, Rias?"
The vulnerability in his eyes—the faint hope that maybe, just maybe, his endless suffering had produced something good—made my chest ache.
I didn't answer right away. Instead, I thought back to the battle: the way he'd guided me mid-fight, calm corrections between sword strokes. How he'd turned my Power of Destruction from raw force into something precise, creative, alive. Chains, lances, delayed bursts, piercing drills—shapes I'd never imagined, all born from his instructions in the heat of survival.
I met his gaze steadily. "More than I've learned in years of formal training," I said quietly. "You didn't just teach me new techniques. You taught me how to think with my power. How to adapt. How to create on the fly instead of relying on what I already knew."
I let my fingers slide down to rest over his heart—feeling the steady thump beneath scarred skin and cracked armor. "This place tried to break you every night. But you turned it into a forge. And tonight… you shared that forge with me."
His breath hitched—just slightly. "I've never pushed my Power of Destruction that far," I continued. "Never shaped it so many ways so quickly. You saw possibilities in it I didn't. And you made me see them too."
A small smile tugged at my lips, even as tears threatened again. "So yeah… I learned a lot from this place." I leaned closer, forehead resting lightly against his. "Because its greatest teacher decided to let me stand beside him."
The blue flames flared brighter for a moment—as if the dream itself approved. Arto's hand came up slowly, covering mine where it rested on his chest. "Thank you, Rias," he whispered.
The bonfire suddenly surged—blue flames roaring upward in a perfect, roaring pillar that pierced the endless dark like a beacon. The light was blinding yet gentle, warm without burning.
Arto stood slowly, joints creaking in protest after the long battle. He brushed dirt and ichor from his cracked armor and offered me his hand. "It's a signal," he said quietly. "We're waking up."
I took his hand without hesitation. His grip was firm, steady—scarred palm against mine. "Come, Rias. Let's wake up." He paused, looking down at me with a small, apologetic smile. "But I must warn you… you'll feel a little sore when you wake up."
I laughed—shaky, tired, but real. "After all that, a little soreness is nothing." He squeezed my hand once. "Hold on tight."
The pillar of blue light expanded—swallowing the darkness, the bonfire, the coiled sword, everything. The world dissolved in a rush of azure and warmth.
3rd Person POV
The room was bathed in the warm, slanted light of late afternoon bleeding into dusk. The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the walls in deep oranges and purples through the half-open curtains.
Arto stirred first.
His body felt like it had been through a war—because, in a way, it had. Every muscle ached with the pleasant soreness of deep, uninterrupted sleep. He blinked slowly, registering the unfamiliar weight across his chest.
She was curled against him, head pillowed on his shoulder, one arm draped possessively over his torso. Her crimson hair spilled across the pillow and his shirt like spilled wine. Her breathing was soft and even, face relaxed in a way he rarely saw when she was awake—no heiress mask, no calculated confidence. Just peaceful.
He didn't move. Didn't want to.
The last thing he remembered was collapsing into bed after his all-nighter, Rias's stubborn warmth pressed against him as she forced him to rest. Then… the Dark Arena. The Warden. The battle.
And her—fighting at his side, turning the tide. They had slept the entire day away. Dawn to dusk. A small, quiet smile touched his lips. Worth it.
Rias stirred then, perhaps sensing the shift in his breathing. Her eyes fluttered open—blue-green and sleepy. She blinked up at him, taking a moment to register where she was. A slow, soft smile spread across her face. "Hey," she murmured, voice husky with sleep.
"Hey," he echoed, equally quiet. Neither moved to separate. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the room.
Inside, time felt suspended—just the two of them, tangled in sheets and quiet contentment. Rias's fingers traced lazy circles on his chest. "We slept the whole day," she said, amused. "I never thought I could bring someone into Dark Arena by just sleeping with them, this is new knowledge"
He paused, then added—hesitant, almost shy— "Can we… do this more often?" Rias lifted her head slightly, looking up at him. Her expression was unreadable—eyes searching his face, lips parted just a fraction. No immediate smile, no teasing retort. Just quiet intensity.
Arto's ears turned pink almost instantly. The pink spread to his cheeks as realization caught up with his words. "I—I mean only with your consent, of course," he stammered, turning his face away to hide the flush. "I would never sneak into your bedroom just to… have a sleeping companion…"
His voice trailed off, mortified. Rias watched him for another heartbeat—then a slow, warm smile broke across her face. Soft. Fond. Maybe a little mischievous. She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow so she could look down at him properly. Her free hand reached up, gently turning his face back toward her with a finger under his chin.
"Arto," she said, voice low and steady, "you have my consent." His eyes widened. "Any night you want," she continued, thumb brushing lightly over his cheek. "Every night, if that's what it takes to keep the darkness away. I'll be there."
The blush deepened, but relief and gratitude softened his expression. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," I cut in gently, leaning closer until our foreheads touched. "I want you safe. I want you rested. And…"
She paused, letting the words settle. "…I got stronger. So much stronger last night. Not in muscle, but in mind."
His eyes searched hers, curious now. "Fighting alongside you," she said, "opened a gate I didn't even know was closed. I always thought I understood my Power of Destruction—knew its limits, its shapes. But you… you showed me there's so much more. New forms, new timing, new ways to think about it. I've never adapted that fast. Never created that much on the fly."
She pulled back just enough to hold his gaze. "You didn't just keep me alive in there, Arto. You made me better. And I want more of that. I want to keep growing—with you."
The blush on his cheeks hadn't faded, but a small, genuine smile curved his lips—soft, almost shy. "You were already incredible," he murmured. "I just… helped you see it."
She shook her head. "No. You pushed me past what I thought was possible. And if sharing your dream is the price for more nights like that—for both of us getting stronger, together—then I'll pay it gladly."
The warm, intimate quiet shattered like glass. "How romantic~ You two didn't even notice I was here."
The voice—sweet, melodic, laced with ice—sent identical chills racing down Arto and Rias's spines. They knew that tone all too well.
Akeno.
Rias's head snapped up from Arto's shoulder. Arto stiffened beneath her, eyes widening. From the shadows near the desk, Akeno rose gracefully—hair still slightly tousled from sleep, wearing a loose silk robe that clung in all the right (or wrong) places. Her violet eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of amusement, hurt, and something far more predatory.
That smile—beautiful, terrifying—was fixed firmly in place. "So what I suspected was true," she said softly, each word precise as a scalpel. "You limited my time with my Arto so you could have him all to yourself."
She began walking toward the bed, slow and deliberate, hips swaying with exaggerated grace. "And you said you'd never abuse your power as King in personal matters."
Rias scrambled upright—still half-tangled in sheets and Arto—face flaming crimson. "Akeno! It's not— We didn't— This isn't what it looks like!"
Arto sat up more slowly, hands raised in instinctive surrender, looking like a man who'd just realized he was surrounded by live explosives. Akeno stopped at the foot of the bed, tilting her head. Lightning crackled faintly around her fingertips—tiny violet sparks that danced and popped. "Isn't it?" she asked sweetly. "Because it looks like my best friend and King snuck into my darling's bed while I wasn't around, and spent the entire day wrapped around him."
Rias opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. "We fought in his dream realm together! The Dark Arena! It was— We were exhausted— I was just making sure he rested properly!"
Akeno's smile didn't waver. "Exhausted from fighting nightmares… together… in bed… all day." She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "How very noble of you, President."
Arto cleared his throat, voice careful. "Akeno, truly—nothing improper happened. Rias was… helping. With the dream. That's all."
Akeno's gaze flicked to him—softening for a heartbeat, then sharpening again as it returned to Rias. "Oh, I believe you, darling," she said. "But our dear King here has been very diligent about keeping you all to herself lately."
Rias groaned, burying her face in her hands. "I was trying to keep you from breaking down his door in the middle of the night!"
"Details," Akeno dismissed with a wave. The lightning sparks brightened. "The point is—you got a full day of cuddling my future husband, and I got none."
Arto's blush reached nuclear levels. Rias peeked through her fingers, voice small. "…Future husband?" Akeno's smile turned positively demonic. "Well, he did call me 'Darling' first."
Arto made a strangled sound. Rias dropped her hands, glaring. "That was a slip of the tongue and you know it!"
"Ladies—" Arto tried, but both turned to him with identical expressions that said not now.
The temperature in the room rose noticeably—crimson aura flickering around Rias, violet lightning dancing around Akeno.
The charged silence in the bedroom was suddenly broken by the sharp buzz of Rias's phone on the nightstand.
She reached for it quickly, glancing at the caller ID before answering. "Yes?" A pause. Her expression shifted from sleepy warmth to focused alertness. "What? An S-rank stray? I'm on it."
Arto sat up straighter, concern flickering across his face. Akeno's playful menace paused mid-step, violet eyes narrowing. "No, no need for backup," Rias continued into the phone, already swinging her legs off the bed. "Me alone is enough… Of course I can deal with it."
She hung up, stood, and stretched—rolling her shoulders once as crimson aura flickered briefly around her like a second skin. "I have to go stray hunting now," she said, turning to the two of them with a determined grin. "I need to test out the new moves I learned tonight."
Akeno's pout returned full force. "But President—" Rias cut her off with a raised hand, then glanced between her and Arto—eyes lingering on him a moment longer. "You can have him for tonight, Akeno," she said, voice light but carrying a note of fairness. "It's only right."
Akeno's pout vanished instantly, replaced by a slow, victorious smile. "Really~?" Rias rolled her eyes, but there was fondness in it. "Really. Just… don't break him. He still has prototyping to do tomorrow."
She leaned down, pressed a quick, soft kiss to Arto's forehead—ignoring his startled blink—and ruffled his hair. "Be good. I'll be back before dawn."
With a swirl of crimson light, a teleportation circle flared beneath her feet. In a flash, she was gone—off to hunt an S-rank stray with the new arsenal Arto had helped her unlock. The room fell quiet again. Akeno turned to Arto, smile widening into something dangerously sweet. "Well, darling~" she purred, climbing onto the bed with deliberate grace. "Looks like it's just you and me tonight."
Arto swallowed, backing up slightly against the headboard—though there was really nowhere to go. "Akeno… maybe we should—" She placed a finger against his lips, eyes sparkling. "Shh. President's orders. You heard her. I get you all to myself."
Akeno had leaned in, violet eyes half-lidded, lips curved in that dangerously sweet smile. The air between them crackled with anticipation; her fingers were already tracing the line of his jaw.
Then—A loud, unmistakable growl rumbled from Arto's stomach. The moment shattered. Akeno froze. Arto froze. Even the faint lightning sparks dancing around her fingertips seemed to pause in embarrassment. Arto's face flushed a deep red as he pressed a hand to his traitorously empty stomach.
Akeno blinked once… twice… then burst into delighted laughter, pulling back just enough to clutch her sides. "Oh my goodness~" she managed between giggles. "Even your stomach is honest!"
Arto cleared his throat, trying and failing to look dignified while still half-pinned beneath her. "We should… go eat something first, Akeno," he said, voice steady despite the blush. "I haven't eaten anything all day. Maybe we can cook together?"
The suggestion was so genuinely earnest—so completely Arto—that Akeno's laughter softened into a warm, affectionate smile. She sat up fully, still straddling his lap but now with far less predatory intent. "Cook together?" she repeated, eyes sparkling. "On our date night?"
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've never really cooked with someone before. It could be… nice." Akeno's expression melted—teasing giving way to something tender. "You're impossible," she murmured fondly. "How am I supposed to stay in seductress mode when you say things like that?"
She leaned down and pressed a quick, soft kiss to the tip of his nose—light, playful—before climbing off him and offering her hand. "Come on, darling. Let's feed you before you start digesting yourself."
Arto took her hand, letting her pull him up. He was still blushing, but his smile was small and genuine. As they headed for the door—her arm looped possessively through his—Akeno glanced sideways. "For the record," she added lightly, "cooking together counts as part of the date. And I'm still planning an unforgettable night."
Arto chuckled quietly. "I wouldn't expect anything less."