Disclaimer: I do not own That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime, High School DxD, or any other referenced properties. All characters depicted are consenting adults aged 18 or older.
Chapter 8
Samael POV
The door admitted us with a warm click and a breath of lamplight.
We were fresh from the forest—mud on our boots, pine on our cloaks, a satchel of vials that smelled faintly of ironweed and rain. Sirius tossed the bag onto the sideboard and rolled his shoulder like it had personally betrayed him. The Dimension greeted us with its usual hush: lamp glow, polished floors, the quiet pulse of Sage keeping the world exactly where we left it.
Then the floor trembled.
A deep boom rippled through the hall. Dust sifted from a ceiling beam.
Sirius and I shared the expression of men who had long ago stopped being surprised.
"What did he do now?" he asked.
"Depends on which 'he' you mean," I said, already moving.
We crossed to the inner terrace. The air had that bright, charged energy of a playful storm—warm, not dangerous. The training grounds stretched below, half-scorched, half-trampled, all suffering.
Two figures clashed at the center: one a swirl of celestial dragon-blue, the other a streak of cotton-candy pink. Every collision was a starburst.
Sirius let out a low whistle. "These aren't goblins training."
"No," I said. "That's a problem."
Rimuru stood at the railing—hands on hips, smiling the smile of someone insisting the burning house is fine.
I stopped beside her. "Report."
She turned bright enough to pretend nothing was on fire. "Welcome back."
"Good to be—"
"Kiss?" she asked, hopeful.
"After intel."
She clicked her tongue but couldn't hide her grin. "Fine. That's Veldora and Milim sparring. No structural damage we can't reverse, no casualties, and the house isn't exploding. So really, we're ahead today."
Sirius leaned forward. "Veldora I know. Milim is… the pink supernova?"
"Correct. Milim Nava," Rimuru said. "Demon Lord. Dropped in."
"Dropped," I repeated.
"From the sky," she confirmed. "At terminal enthusiasm."
On the field, Milim—small, radiant, delighted—slipped under Veldora's guard and tapped his forehead like ringing a bell. He slid back across the dirt, laughing like a mountain discovering comedy.
Another crack split the ground. The barrier hummed and absorbed it like it was bored.
Sirius steadied a lantern. "Why here?"
"Because she breaks things when she's happy," Rimuru said. "Better the arena than the market district. I redirected them."
"Reasonable," I said. "Containment?"
She gestured to the obsidian pillars. "Sage has the field sealed in a pocket layer. We can watch. They cannot touch my furniture."
"Protective overlay active," Sage murmured through my mind—serene, crystalline. "Observation permitted. Collateral: denied."
"Thank you," I told her. She appreciates courtesy.
We stood quietly. Veldora laughed. Milim laughed harder. The ground did not laugh.
Sirius squinted. "She's fast."
Rimuru's smile turned fond and resigned. "She's Milim."
"Milim… what," I asked.
"Milim Nava," she repeated. "Daughter of Veldanava."
Sirius paused mid-exhale. "As in—the Creator?"
"As in," Rimuru confirmed. "Please don't faint. It encourages Veldora."
I reassessed the battlefield. Joy with teeth. A storm that liked you.
"Walk me through first contact," I said.
Rimuru sighed. "I sensed her coming—bright, loud, impossible to ignore. I intercepted. She yelled 'bestie,' tackled me into a hug strong enough to register on seismographs, and declared eternal friendship. Goblins panicked. Lizardmen pretended it was normal. Some overprotective idiots tried to 'save' me using very ordinary spears."
"And no one died," Sirius asked.
"No deaths," Rimuru said. "She apologized while throwing them, which I think counts for something. I bribed her with honey. She agreed to behave. We came here."
I pressed two fingers to my brow. "Rimuru."
"What."
"You cannot lure Demon Lords with honey."
"I am not baiting a child, Samael."
"You literally said 'honey.'"
"She's thousands of years old," she hissed. "Thousands."
"So, you didn't catch a child with candy."
She stared at me. Realized she had lost. Then tried to change the subject with the finesse of a stage magician.
"Kiss now, no more questions."
"That's not how debriefs work," I said—and kissed her anyway.
Her laugh warmed my throat and collarbone. "See? Everything is fine."
The arena detonated again. The barrier purred like a satisfied cat.
Sirius tapped the railing. "If they try something truly catastrophic?"
"The seal chokes it," Rimuru said. "If they try something mildly catastrophic, we get landscaping."
Sirius saluted the nearest patch of grass. "I'll repair you later."
Rimuru nudged him, then turned to me. "And you two?"
"Routine trip," I said. "Caravan escort. Highway toll misunderstanding. Two new dimensional anchors. Sage disapproves of my math."
"Correct," Sage stated, emotionless and somehow smug.
Rimuru leaned on my shoulder, the weight warm and familiar. "Good."
"So, Chancellor," Sirius said lightly, like he wasn't dropping a pebble in a still pond, "how fare your ministries?"
Rimuru groaned. "Traitors."
"You accepted the title," I reminded.
"I accepted responsibility," she corrected. "The Dryad blessed the forest and nominated me. The Lizardmen acted like I handed them food. The Orcs cried. Rigurd knelt once and everyone joined. By the time I said, 'let's talk' I had already accepted."
"So, you said yes," I said.
She shrugged. "Wouldn't you?"
"Of course," I said. "And I would complain later to someone who wouldn't think less of me."
She smiled, small and soft. "Exactly."
We watched the spar a little longer. The violence softened into something like siblings relearning each other.
"Last concern," I said. "Any chance she gets bored and turns the village into blocks?"
"She promised twice," Rimuru said.
"Twice is binding in some cultures," Sirius murmured to the grass.
I scanned the distant ridge. A mountain was clearly missing.
"I'm fairly certain there used to be terrain over there."
"Oh," Rimuru said casually. "We were redesigning that region anyway. New lake, new slope lines. This just… sped up the demolition phase."
"Milim did your landscaping."
"In a way."
I let silence hold a laugh in my chest.
"Add 'rebuild mountain' to the list," I said. "If everything looks new, I'll get lost in my own home."
"Noted," she said. "Also: soup?"
"I can be bribed."
Sirius sighed. "Observe this man's moral compass."
"It points toward dinner," I said. "Reliably."
Rimuru's grin meant I had not won anything. "Come on. Before Veldora decides the dining table is a sparring dummy."
We turned away as another shockwave blossomed behind us. The arena sang. The Dimension exhaled.
Everything, for once, was exactly as it should be.
The night here doesn't darken so much as soften.
Lamps hovered in the corners, casting warm amber light across the long table. Steam curled from Shuna's tureens. Kaijin's latest kettles hummed like content crickets.
We sat where we fit.
Veldora sprawled like a retired hurricane reclaiming land.
Ifrit sat beside him like a bonfire trained to behave.
Sirius angled himself across from Shizu, who pretended to read a book but hadn't turned a page in ten minutes.
Milim claimed a central cushion, chin propped in her palms, eyes bright and impossible to ignore.
Sage sat with the poise of a star put in human shape — unhurried, exact.
Rimuru was next to me. Or on me. At this point the distinction was philosophy.
I, strategically positioned between Rimuru and Sage, adopted the posture of a man who has accepted his fate.
"Okay," Milim announced, raising her spoon like she was about to crown a king. "What is this place? It smells like home and not-home and cake."
"The Dimension," Rimuru said, serving stew with the air of a benevolent ruler. "It's our hub. Safe, flexible, private."
"Private like secrets?" Milim asked, eyes gleaming.
"Private like safe," Sage corrected, gently warm. She poured wine into small crystal cups. Tonight, she wore a simple black dress that somehow made understatement look regal.
"You may call me Sage."
Milim leaned in, stage conspiratorial.
"So, are you two—" linking arms between Rimuru and me, then including Sage with a dramatic third tap "—a team? Or… a team?"
Rimuru smiled a smile that had intent.
"Closer than just friends," she said, voice velvet. "Somewhere between heartbeat and horizon."
I choked into my cup. Sirius looked like he had been waiting his whole life for this.
Milim's eyes went starry. "So, is that best-friend-close, betrothed-close, or bridesmaid-close? Labels are snacky."
Rimuru laced her fingers behind her head, victorious. "Negotiable."
"Not during dinner," I said.
Sage sipped her wine. "Statistically, their behavioral patterns align with seventy-four percent of bonded couples."
"Sage," I said flatly, "you are not helping."
"I am providing data."
Milim seized the next shiny idea. "So… do you control the world?"
"I regulate," Sage corrected. "Samael and Rimuru make decisions. I execute them."
Milim gasped. "So, the three of you rule the world."
Rimuru beamed. "Yes. And Veldora contributes chaos. It keeps the reconstruction team humble."
"Ho!" Veldora declared, chest swelling. "I am a patron of the arts!"
"If the art is property damage," Ifrit murmured.
Rimuru leaned into my side, head resting on my arm like this was all perfectly normal.
"Rimuru," I said. "Dinner."
"I am eating," she said, without moving. "You."
Milim's spoon froze mid-air. "You can eat people romantically?!"
"Metaphorically," I said through my teeth.
"Accuracy undecided," Sage observed.
Rimuru pointed at her. "Traitor."
"Observation only," Sage replied — and proceeded to feed me another bite, proving her point.
Milim clapped. "That looks FUN. Can I—?"
"Only couples," Rimuru said.
Milim froze. "You said you're a couple!"
"We are," Rimuru said brightly. "Technically, he has two girlfriends: me and Sage."
I placed my face in my hand. "Please stop talking."
Sage added helpfully, "We share priorities and schedules."
"Worse," I mumbled.
The kitchen doors slid open. Construct attendants drifted out with trays of bread, stew, roasted vegetables, and the kind of tea that made your soul sit up straighter. The table came alive with the hush that always follows first taste.
Milim took a bite — and lit up like the sun.
"This is AMAZING! Sage, did you make all this?!"
"Yes."
"Can I have ALL of it?!"
"No."
A second bowl appeared anyway. "Moderation recommended."
Veldora watched her eat with the fondness of a parent watching their kid discover sugar.
Ifrit exhaled a long-suffering sigh that meant I would allow this.
Rimuru rested her chin on my shoulder. "She's adorable when she's not threatening the stability of the world."
"Adorable," I agreed. "Also capable of turning continents into soup."
"Remind you of anyone?" she asked sweetly.
"Two people," I said.
"Seventy-four percent," Sage murmured.
Sirius cleared his throat like a priest blessing the table. "Transit math. Anchors?"
"We set two," I said. "Third one by the ridge lake finishes the loop."
"Then that's tomorrow," Sirius nodded.
Shizu finally put her book down. She didn't speak — she didn't need to. The quiet around her softened.
Then, suddenly:
"If this is home," Milim said, bright and earnest, "can I be family? Officially?"
Sirius, sensing weakness (mine), leaned back on his elbows and started to pour oil on the coals. "Still," he mused, "if I were a heartless—"
"Speaking of hearts," I cut in smoothly, turning to him with the kind smile that means incoming artillery, "have you asked Shizu to dinner yet?"
The deck in his hands hiccuped. Cards flashed, then stilled. His mouth opened, closed, opened again—like a door trying different keys.
Shizu's head snapped toward him, surprise feathering into something warmer; then she looked down, then back up, as if verifying she had, in fact, become the subject.
I kept the pressure gentle and inexorable. "Because it would be a shame if a clearly competent gentleman with decent tea habits and survivable jokes failed to invite a very patient woman who has tolerated his stargazing for weeks."
Sirius squinted at me with fraternal murder. "You are a terrible person," he said, very evenly.
"Correct," I said. "Well?"
His gaze slid to Shizu. Humor peeled back and left something honest. "Would you," he asked—just a fraction too formal, because that's how he steadies—"like to go to dinner? Tomorrow. Somewhere quiet. With actual cups."
Shizu's smile broke slowly and true. "Yes," she said. "I would."
Veldora exploded into applause. "Romance!"
"Ifrit," deadpan, barely glanced up. "Finally."
Sage produced two tiny porcelain saucers from nowhere and set them side by side with a verdict of approved.
Rimuru clutched my sleeve, half scolding, half delighted. "You're an absolute menace. You turned my ambush into a proposal."
"Efficiency," I said.
Rimuru tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Still, it would help diplomatically…"
"It would destroy my sanity," I said. "We are not drafting a roster."
"Boo," Rimuru said.
"Boundaries," I corrected.
Milim pouted. "But couples share everything!"
"I said nothing," I said.
"He said nothing," Rimuru echoed, traitor cheerful. "But he's rigidly principled. It's annoying until it's the only reason the house doesn't fall."
Milim studied me like I was a puzzle with a prize inside.
"Then I'll visit. A lot. And help. And bring honey."
"Family is fine," I said. "Honey optional."
"Required," Rimuru whispered. "For morale."
Sage set down her cup. "Visiting schedule can be arranged. Dessert quotas enforced."
"Treason!" Milim cried, delighted.
We ate.
We argued about stew viscosity like it mattered.
The room settled into something warm and human and ours.
After the second pot was conquered and the last crumbs vanished into Veldora's gravitational pull, we drifted to the living room.
The lamps dimmed to twilight.
Living Room
The night folded itself around us—soft, safe, ridiculous.
Exactly right.
We let the quiet sit like a warm blanket.
Rimuru tilted her head, eyes bright with crime. "Samael," she said in the tone that means mischief, "how do you feel about expanding the roster?"
I did not look at her. I addressed the ceiling. "We are not drafting for a team."
"But she's cute," Rimuru protested, chin tipping toward Milim.
"She's also impulsive, volatile, and currently fascinated by syrup," I said. "Which is charming. And not my type."
Her mouth went innocent. "Then what is your type?"
I let my gaze drift to her—slowly. "You," I said, unhurried. Then to Sage. "And her."
Rimuru tried not to smile and failed. Sage's mouth didn't smile, but her eyes did.
"That doesn't answer what," Rimuru pressed.
"It answers perfectly," I said. "I prefer women who are grounded. Who know where their feet are. Who choose their power and wear it like it was always theirs." I let the silence hold that. Then, because Rimuru likes precision, added, "Also: adults. Full stop."
Rimuru's grin tilted wicked. "So you've noticed we're perfect."
"I'm afflicted by it daily."
Sage sipped, serene. "Noted."
"Cards," Sirius announced.
"Cards!" Veldora echoed, as though the word itself were divine revelation.
Ifrit's mouth tugged at the corner. "Friendly stakes."
"Winner decides breakfast," Sirius declared.
"Boar," Veldora said instantly.
"Tea," Shizu said from the arm of the couch without looking up.
"Compromise," Sage murmured — and three menus arranged themselves in the air like constellations answering her call.
I settled opposite Sirius on the rug. He dealt with the flourish of a man who knew he was going to cheat. Veldora attempted a bluff so grand it developed weather patterns. Ifrit's tells were microscopic, his victories, inevitable. I won two hands only because Sirius allowed the narrative to breathe.
We played until the house felt warm again.
Rimuru tipped her head, listening to a conversation only she could hear. "Back soon," she said, far too cheerful.
"Where—" I began.
"Girl business," she chirped, already on her feet.
Milim popped up like fireworks. "Girl business!"
Shizu slid her bookmark in with surgical precision and stood. Sage rose last, closing a page with the softest click a book has ever made.
Sirius looked between them and the door. "Should I be afraid?"
"Yes," I said.
"No," Rimuru said at the same time, which did not help.
Sage added, "Estimated risk: moderate. Expected benefit: high."
"That's worse," I muttered.
They filed out—Rimuru leading with a general's stride, Shizu with quiet purpose, Milim bouncing on the tips of her toes, Sage a calm moon in their orbit. The door shut politely behind them.
Silence took a seat.
Sirius tossed a card onto the rug. "So, on a scale from one to 'we wake up with a second moon,' where are we?"
Ifrit arched an eyebrow. "Two and a half."
Veldora cracked one eye. "Four if cake is involved."
"Cake is always involved," I said.
An hour—precise and sharp to the minute—later, the door opened.
They returned in the order they had left, but not quite as they had been.
Rimuru had acquired a new sash, midnight blue with a thread of starlight woven through it; it made her look like a decision formalized. She held a slim list that she tried, and failed, to hide behind her back.
Shizu carried a small lacquer tray and a teapot shaped like a quiet promise. Steam curled from the spout: jasmine and something bright, like a citrus word you only learned today.
Milim had a new braid and a jacket three sizes too big for her joy. She was also dusted with sugar. I decided not to ask.
Sage had changed nothing visible—except for a ribbon marking a different place in her book, and the faintest ink-smudge on her thumb.
Sirius spoke first. "Dare I ask?"
"No," Rimuru said, beaming. "Observational period only."
Milim nodded vigorously. "Classified fun!"
Shizu set the tray on the low table and poured with ceremony that made the room listen. "Try this," she said. "Prototype blend."
I took a cup. "What's in it?"
"Comfort," Rimuru said.
"Caution," Sage said.
"Sugar," Milim said.
"All three are accurate," Shizu allowed, amused.
Sage glanced at me. "Preliminary report: wardrobe enchantments calibrated. Visiting schedules drafted. Dessert quotas… debated."
"Vetoed," I tried.
"Debated," Rimuru repeated, weaponizing her smile.
Milim leaned over the table. "Also, we made a pact! No breaking the house unless we can put it back together better."
"A reasonable clause," Ifrit said.
"Binding," Veldora declared, for once approving paperwork.
Rimuru slid the not-quite-hidden list a fraction further behind her. I caught a glimpse—columns, dates, and three perilous headings: Noise (Rimuru), Quiet (Sage), Sugar (Milim).
I raised an eyebrow.
She raised one back. "No questions. Yet."
The Dimension's lights adjusted, gentle as a cat resettling on a lap. Whatever they'd conspired, it had edges smoothed by care.
"Very well," I said. "Observation it is."
The room quieted the way a fire quiets — still glowing, still talking softly to itself. The scent of stew and baked bread lingered, stitched together with laughter that was still echoing from the dining hall.
Veldora, at some point, had collapsed onto a sofa, boots abandoned in two separate time zones, humming a tune that might have once made angels flee. Ifrit lounged nearby — flame contained, gaze resting lightly on everyone without needing to own the space. Sirius sat cross-legged on the rug, sleeves rolled, shuffling cards with the lazy precision of a practiced menace.
Rimuru had settled into her usual position: tucked against my side like gravity had personally chosen her spot. Sage sat in the armchair just beside us, a glass of wine balanced perfectly in her fingers, expression serene — but with that quiet amusement that only shows in the eyes.
Milim sat cross-legged at the low table, chin propped on her hands, attention flicking from face to face like she was trying to memorize a constellation in motion. Her energy didn't fill the room so much as spark through it — bright, restless, alive.
"Okay," she said at last, "what do we do now? We ate, we talked, and no one exploded. That can't be the end of the night."
Sirius didn't look up from shuffling. "We could teach you poker."
Milim tilted her head. "Is that a kind of battle?"
"Of a sort," I said. "Less bruising. More probability."
She lit up. "Then yes!"
Rimuru snorted into her tea. "Maybe start her on go-fish first. I like the furniture."
Sage nodded, composed. "Assessment: structural integrity would not survive sustained enthusiasm."
Milim attempted a pout. It lasted approximately one second.
"Fine. I'll just watch. For now."
The peace returned — soft, warm, lived-in. Cards whispered. Veldora hummed a softer melody. The fire shifted in its hearth like it was pleased to be included.
Milim broke the quiet again. "So… you two live here?"
Her voice carried curiosity, not demand.
"Yes," I said. "Here, and elsewhere. This Dimension is… a bridge. A resting place between everything else."
Rimuru added, voice light, "It's home base for anyone who doesn't fit in the usual definition of 'home.'"
Milim looked around with wonder that was loud as a shout and gentle as breath.
"It's amazing. Like it listens to you."
"It does," Sage answered. "The space responds to the emotional state of its anchors. Samael and Rimuru provide stability. I provide regulation."
Milim blinked wide. "So, if they argue—"
"The weather changes," Rimuru said brightly. "Last time, it rained indoors."
Milim burst into delighted laughter. "That's AWESOME."
"It was paperwork," I muttered.
Sirius dealt a card and said, "You've reached the relationship milestone of influencing meteorology. Congratulations."
Rimuru nudged me with her shoulder. "See? He understands."
I allowed the smile. "Apparently."
The peace returned — soft, pulsing steadily.
The air shimmered.
Milim's aura pulsed — pink-gold threads, gentle at first. Like the room was being carefully rewritten.
"Hey, Rimuru," Milim said, voice bright, "can I try that form change now?"
Conversation stopped mid-syllable. Even the fire held its breath.
"Here?" Rimuru asked.
Milim nodded.
Light wrapped her — warm, bright, eager — like a story being written in real time. The Dimension adjusted without complaint, like it had braced for this exact level of chaos.
When it faded — the childlike frame was gone.
In her place stood someone older. Taller. Wiser in posture if not expression. Radiance shaped rather than overflowing.
We exhaled as one.
Rimuru clapped, delighted. "Look at you! It worked!"
Milim spun once, laughing. "I KNOW! And I didn't even break anything!"
Sirius murmured, "Yet."
Rimuru smacked him without looking. "You look amazing. How do you feel?"
Milim pressed a hand to her chest. "Steadier."
Then, softer — eyes flicking to me —
"Do you think Samael will like it?"
The room targeted me.
Rimuru's smile sharpened into something that could cut stone.
"Yes, Samael. Do you?"
I measured my words with the caution of a man handling explosives.
"It's well done," I said. "Your energy is stable. The Dimension isn't straining. You achieved control."
Rimuru sighed. "Compliment dodged."
Milim puffed her cheeks. "That wasn't what I asked."
Rimuru leaned in, whispering much too loudly, "He means yes."
"Rimuru."
"Yes, dear?"
"You're translating my affection again."
"Correctly."
Milim laughed — bright and ringing as bells. "It's fine. I understood."
Sage added, "Interpretation accuracy: eighty-seven percent."
Rimuru shot her a glare. "You're supposed to support me."
"I support facts."
"Traitor."
Laughter softened the moment's edges.
Milim sat again, new height folding comfortably. "I like it here," she said, voice smaller. "It feels… safe."
Rimuru's voice gentled. "Good. That's the point."
The fire crackled. The room breathed.
Then Milim looked at me with all the courage in the world.
"Samael… would you ever consider going on a date with me?"
Silence dropped like snowfall.
Rimuru's smile became something elegant and predatory.
Sirius froze mid-card.
Veldora cracked one eye open purely for drama.
Ifrit didn't look up — but he heard.
I exhaled slowly.
"Milim, you're wonderful. But—"
"Let her speak," Rimuru cut in, delighted.
"Rimuru."
"She's being brave. Let bravery finish."
Milim nodded fast. "I just think it would be fun. Not serious. Just… exploring."
"Exploring," I said, "is how continents sink."
Rimuru gasped. "That's not romantic!"
"No," I agreed.
She crossed her arms. "Then call it diplomacy."
"Diplomacy?"
"Emotional diplomacy," she clarified, eyes sparkling with crime.
Sirius muffled a laugh.
Ifrit murmured, "We are inventing new sciences now."
Milim clasped her hands. "See? Even he approves!"
"I am certain he does not," I said.
Rimuru smiled at me like a cat that had discovered where I sleep.
"It's not like I'd get jealous. It's educational."
"For who?"
"Everyone."
I stared at her. "This is how wars start."
"Only the fun ones."
Milim's hope wavered. "So… is that a yes?"
"No," I said gently. "But it isn't a 'never.' Just… not now. Not like that."
Her disappointment flickered — then steadied into something real.
"That… makes sense," she said quietly. "Thank you for saying it clearly."
Rimuru groaned. "You and your logic."
"Someone has to balance you."
Sage lifted her wine. "Observation: equilibrium maintained."
Rimuru threw a pillow at her. Sage dodged without moving.
Milim brightened again. "Okay. But I am visiting. A LOT."
"Good," I said — because I meant it.
Rimuru leaned into me. "You're too nice sometimes."
"Part of the charm."
"Debatable."
The night settled again — slow, warm, familial.
Cards resumed.
Stories returned.
The hearth glowed.
Rimuru caught my gaze — small smile, full meaning:
Thank you for keeping this together.
I nodded.
Anything more would have broken the moment.
Milim's energy finally began to taper. You could see it—her posture softened, her voice dipped from fireworks to candlelight. She was halfway through explaining three different training plans when a yawn ambushed her mid-sentence.
Rimuru pounced immediately.
"Aha! Proof of mortality. Bedtime."
Milim tried to glare, but another yawn cracked it in half.
"I'm not— hhaah — tired."
Rimuru pointed toward the corridor like a commander directing a siege.
"Second door on the left. Sheets fluffed themselves an hour ago."
"I just got older!" Milim protested. "What if I wake up and it's gone?"
Sage spoke before Rimuru could.
"Your new form will stabilize during rest. Remaining awake will cause partial reversion."
Milim blinked. Considered.
"So, if I sleep, I keep it?"
"High probability," Sage confirmed.
Milim's face lit brighter than the fireplace.
"Goodnight!"
She vanished down the hall at a speed that made the air clap behind her.
Veldora chuckled without opening his eyes.
"Youth. Glorious, explosive youth."
Ifrit exhaled—something between amusement and relief.
"And finally, silence."
The room breathed with them — slow and warm. The hearth reached its glow into every corner. The Dimension sighed like a creature settling in the lap of someone it trusted.
Rimuru turned to me, eyes glittering with leftover mischief.
"See? All sorted. She's happy, the house is stable, no one's dead. That's a win."
"You bribed her with self-identity reinforcement," I said. "That's… manipulation."
"Motivational strategy," she corrected. "Diplomacy through bedtime."
Sirius snorted softly. "A dangerous art. I should take notes."
Rimuru flourished a smug little shrug. "You'll need an apprentice license."
Sage closed her book, precise as always.
"Tonight's outcome: controlled chaos. Successful."
Rimuru leaned into me with victorious gravity.
"See? Even Sage agrees."
"She always agrees when you win," I murmured.
"She's objective!"
"She's polite."
Rimuru poked my ribs. "Stop ruining my moment."
I caught her hand—soft, steady—and kissed her knuckles.
"Fine. Congratulations, General Chaos."
Her expression blossomed, warm and sharp.
"Oh, I am keeping that title."
A ripple of laughter moved through the room—quiet, real, something that roots itself in walls and stays there.
Silence settled — not empty, but full.
Veldora began to snore in a rhythm suspiciously close to chanting. Ifrit didn't sleep but pretended to. Sage adjusted the lights; they dimmed into a soft starfield overhead.
Rimuru's voice came small and real.
"Hey, Samael?"
"Mmm?"
"You ever think about how weird this is? A dragon, a flame spirit, a demon lord, a construct… and you. In a house we built. Eating stew."
"All the time."
"Does it ever… freak you out?"
"Sometimes. But mostly it feels earned."
She exhaled—something unguarded.
"Good answer."
Her head rested against my shoulder, her hair brushing my jaw.
"You did really well tonight."
"So did you."
"Yeah." Her voice softened. "We didn't blow anything up. That's progress."
"Minimal explosions," I agreed.
The fire dimmed to embers.
Sage rose first. "Goodnight."
She left like a whisper closing a door.
Ifrit followed, muttering something about preventing "synchronized dragon thunder snoring."
Sirius gathered the cards, stood, and paused at the doorway.
"You know," he said, quieter than usual, "whatever else this is… it works."
"It does," I answered.
He nodded once and was gone.
Rimuru and I were the last awake.
The house exhaled.
The world narrowed to warmth and quiet.
She shifted and looked up at me.
"So? Going to admit I was right about Milim?"
"You were right about her potential," I said carefully.
"And?"
"And catastrophically wrong about your matchmaking."
She gasped. "How dare you! I was charming."
"You were terrifying."
"Those are compatible traits!"
"Not peacefully."
She grinned, satisfied.
"You'll thank me later. 'Emotional diplomacy' will change the world."
"I'll notify the academic boards."
Rimuru laughed—soft, shaking, tucked against me.
"You're impossible," she whispered.
"Occupational hazard."
A quiet moment passed.
Then she poked my side again.
"Admit it. You liked the chaos. A little."
I met her eyes — hearthlight reflected in blue like galaxies deciding to be gentle.
"Maybe. But only because you were in it."
She brightened — triumphant.
"Knew it."
I sighed, resigned and content.
"You're never going to stop teasing me."
"Never. Where's the fun in that?"
The lights dimmed one last time.
The house settled into its heartbeat — steady, absurd, perfect.
Down the hall, Milim laughed in her sleep — bright and unstoppable.
Rimuru tugged my sleeve.
"Come on, hero. Bed, before morning happens to us."
I stood.
"Lead the way, General Chaos."
She hummed something off-key and smug all the way to the door.
Just before it closed, Sirius' voice floated faintly through the wall:
"VELDORA, IF YOUR SNORES START A DRUM SOLO AGAIN, I SWEAR—"
Rimuru laughed.
And the house, ridiculous and wonderful, felt whole.
Everything, for now, is fine.
Sirius POV
Everyone assumes the house goes quiet after stew.
Everyone is wrong.
Veldora, Ifrit, and I retreated to the back room with a bottle, a deck of cards, and the kind of shared grin that means we have no intention of behaving. The table warmed under our arms. The cards warmed under my hands.
"You know," I said, fanning a clean arc across the tabletop, "Samael has a talent for sabotaging my plans by doing them better than I do. I had exactly three carefully timed scenarios to ask Shizu to tea. He invented a fourth: public ambush."
Ifrit's core glowed like someone had just stoked him. "Efficient ambush," he agreed.
Veldora dealt with a flourish that would have impressed an entire stage troupe. "Youth! Initiative! Romance! In my house!"
"Not your—" I began, then sighed. "Yes. Romance. In your house."
We played a hand. I won it, which was only natural. Veldora leaned back, looking self-satisfied without cause, which was also natural.
"You know," he said, tone suspiciously casual, "there's an ancient prophecy about this sort of thing. If certain hearts don't align correctly, the world destabilizes. Rimuru with Shizu, balance restored, et cetera. If not… tricky."
I stared. "I beg your pardon?"
He folded his hands like a kindly old sage who definitely was not one. "Thus, with you and Shizu interfering in the tapestry of fate, we must remain vigilant for… anomalies."
Ifrit's mouth trembled. A spark of laughter flickered like a candle deciding whether to ignite the curtains.
"Hold on," I said slowly. "Are you telling me I derailed a prophecy? And if Rimuru finds out, I become an educational example?"
Veldora tried not to smile. It failed spectacularly.
He burst into laughter so enormous the lamps dimmed out of respect.
Ifrit followed—quiet, sharp, the sort of laugh that suggests someone just burned down a temple but tastefully.
I folded my arms and waited.
Veldora wiped a tear from his eye. "There is no prophecy," he wheezed. "I was bored."
I set my cards down and looked upward for patience, gods, or an exit. None answered.
"You two," I said, "are impossible."
"Practice," Ifrit said.
"Also, sport," Veldora added proudly.
We played another hand.
The tension ran off the room like steam.
"Still," I said, reclaiming dignity as best a man surrounded by dragons can, "if the world wobbles, I will personally adjust the hinges."
"Good lad," Veldora said — and attempted a bluff so transparent a wooden chair would have called him on it.
Shizu POV
The library in the Dimension glows differently at night. Lamps soften to thoughtful amber; the shelves hum with that polite awareness they get when Sage is listening. I tucked into the window nook with a slim book on door anchors and tea cultivation—Sirius's influence, clearly—and let the hush settle around my shoulders.
Pages turned somewhere to my left with measured grace.
Sage sat at an end table, posture flawless, a ribbon marking two places in two different books. She didn't skim so much as interleave, eyes moving like precise gears. If she was a storm, she was the kind that watered gardens and never broke a pane.
A cupboard slid open and then banged shut. Milim popped up between stacks like an exclamation point—hair catching lamplight, arms full of mismatched spines.
"Do you have manga?" she whispered at full volume. "And also, cake? Cake-manga? Manga about cake?"
"Top shelf, third row," Sage said without looking up. "And no food in the library." A beat. "There are napkins under the plant stand if you disobey."
Milim gasped. "You understand me." She scurried off, then scurried back, hands hovering over Sage's book like she was warming them at a hearth. "Also, why do you read books? You are books. Right? You're… Rimuru's and Samael's skill—but also not… and also, yes? This is the first time I've seen someone like you."
Sage closed one volume, marking her place with a precise finger. "Observation: you ask six questions where one would suffice."
Milim beamed. "Efficient."
Sage's mouth remained neutral; her eyes nearly smiled. "Answer: embodiment allows for experience beyond retrieval. I have access to the information in this library, and far more besides. But raw data is not the same as meaning. Reading is a way to—" she searched, then selected, "—take in information at the speed of understanding."
Milim tipped her head. "Because there's too much at once?"
"Yes," Sage said simply. "Every hour, the holdings expand. Every text written… every text being written… the inputs approach infinity. I can index them, but I cannot value them without context." She tapped the cover. "Books are pre-sorted by the shape of a mind."
I closed my own book over a finger. "You choose to read in the shape someone else chose to write."
Sage inclined her head. "Correct."
Milim hugged her stack and bounced once. "My eyes can see through everything. I can understand everything," she announced proudly, then paused. "…Most of the time."
"Your eyes can pierce," Sage agreed. "But piercing a thing and holding it are different tasks."
Milim squinted at the shelves. "So reading helps you… hold?"
"It helps me listen," Sage said. "And prioritize. Without that, the Dimension would be a flood instead of a river."
Milim set the manga down, suddenly thoughtful. "Is that why prophecies get weird? Because rivers move?"
The question landed with the tiny weight of a pebble starting an avalanche.
Sage folded her hands. "Clarify."
Milim looked at me, then back. "Rimuru said a priest in Dwargon waved a shiny orb and said future-things. But then Samael arrived and the orb cracked or the words broke or something. So… why? If you can know everything, why couldn't the priest know that?"
Heat touched my cheeks—not embarrassment, but the memory of a thin thread of fate tugging, then snapping the moment a certain man stepped into our orbit. I met Sage's gaze. "I'm curious too."
Sage set her book aside; the lamps leaned closer like pupils dilating. "Prognostication is not a map. It is a weather report given by a mountain about an ocean it has never entered."
Milim folded herself cross-legged on the rug at once, rapt. "Story voice!"
Sage continued, even. "A seer samples possibilities and reports the most probable trajectory at that moment. But probability is built from decisions—millions of them—stacked like reeds in a raft. When a being with sufficient agency steps onto that raft, the weight distribution changes. The raft becomes a ship. The currents behave differently."
"So, the priest wasn't wrong," I said, "just… outvoted by reality."
"Precisely," Sage said. "Destiny is not written; it is accumulated. Each choice edits the text. The more power you possess, the more of the pen you hold."
Milim tapped her lip. "And some people are… pens made of lightning."
"Storms," Sage agreed. "Attempting to describe Veldora's path with a village barometer is futile. His attribute is turbulence. Storms are not predicted; they are survived and named afterward."
Milim's grin turned wicked. "I'm telling him you said that."
"You may," Sage said, untroubled. "He will be pleased."
I let the humor pass before touching the softer thread. "Sage… was there really a strand where I ended up with Samael?"
Milim's head snapped toward me, delighted. "Wait, what?"
"It was mentioned," I admitted, heart steady but not simple. "Dwargon. A list of maybes. Me among them."
Sage didn't pretend to soften; she simply was soft—precision gentle. "At that time, a cluster of high-probability outcomes included you and Samael orbiting closely. Another cluster paired Rimuru and Shizu as unit leaders first, then anchors." She tilted her head. "Samael's arrival increased variance beyond the orb's design range. Its resolution shattered—literally."
Milim's eyes went sparkly-sincere. "He's a ship." She turned to me. "You're a lighthouse."
I laughed, surprised. "I feel more like the coastline. Useful and inconvenient."
"Both can be true," Sage said.
Milim sprawled on her back, staring up at the polite stars Sage kept on the ceiling. "So, destiny is… a choose-your-own-adventure where the book keeps rewriting itself while you read?"
"Acceptable metaphor," Sage allowed. "With the caveat that very powerful readers sometimes write in the margins—and the text obeys."
"And if you try to read someone like Veldora with a normal skill—" I began.
"You get poetry instead of math," Sage finished. "Beautiful, inaccurate poetry."
Milim's laughter rang brightly. "I like poetry." She rolled to sit. "So, if a prophecy said, 'Rimuru and Shizu, balanced forever,' and then Sirius asked Shizu to tea—"
"—the raft learned a new weight," Sage said. "Balance did not break; it redistributed. Sirius is a hinge. You," she nodded to me, "are ballast. Rimuru is sail and keel both. And Milim is—"
"Sparkles," Milim said, solemn.
"Wind she can choose to be," Sage corrected. "Which is rarer."
Milim glowed at that, then eyed the books again. "And that's why you read. Because the river keeps changing and you want to be the listening kind of smart, not the knowing kind."
Sage actually smiled—small, exact, real. "Yes."
We let a minute pass, pages, breath, the little sounds a house makes when it remembers it is loved.
Milim broke it, softer. "Sage? Am I allowed to… want big? I asked Samael something big tonight. He said no, but nice. I don't want to break the raft."
"You are allowed to want," Sage said. "The raft floats because many hands learn when to paddle and when to rest. Your 'no' tonight was a 'not yet.' Want to be well? Practice waiting. Both are skills."
Milim puffed her cheeks, then deflated into a grin. "Fine. I will practice. And also cheat with honey!"
"Dessert quotas remain enforced," Sage said, deadpan.
Milim pointed at me. "Shizu! Tea tomorrow? We can read manga and drink not-honey."
Warmth caught behind my ribs. "Tea," I agreed. "And you can tell me which parts of your manga are secretly training manuals."
Milim gasped. "You see me."
Sage slid her ribbon into one of the books and stood. "Quiet hours begin in six minutes. Return the volumes to the silver cart. And Milim—"
"Mm?"
"The napkins."
Milim produced two, triumphant. "Already stole them."
"Borrowed," Sage corrected. "Return what you borrow. Keep what you learn."
Milim saluted, all earnest mischief. "Aye-aye."
Sage's gaze passed over us, warm as lamplight. "Goodnight, Shizu. Goodnight, Milim."
"Goodnight," I said.
"Night!" Milim chirped, already stacking manga on the cart into a teetering, somehow stable tower.
When Sage dissolved into the hall's soft dark, the library felt bigger, but not emptier.
Milim sidled close, voice conspiratorially small. "Do you think destiny gets bored if we behave?"
"Constantly," I said.
She grinned, feral and sweet. "Good. Then we'll keep it entertained the right way."
"Tea first," I said, laughing.
"Tea first," she agreed, and skipped toward the door—leaving the air vibrating with a promise only she could make: tomorrow would be brighter, not louder.
I slid my book back onto its shelf and rested my fingers on the spine for a steady beat. A river, not a road. A raft, not a throne. A house that listens.
When I turned down the corridor, the lamps dimmed just enough to feel like approval.
Samael POV
The house settled by degrees: pots cooling in the kitchen, the fire murmuring to itself, cards whispering in the back room. I wandered to the terrace with Rimuru — because quiet always comes looking for us after chaos.
The pocket-grounds below had changed. Not subtly.
Crater chains mapped new topographies. A tree lay politely on its side, roots still breathing. The horizon now featured a suspicious absence where a mountainside used to exist.
"Well," I said, "I'm reasonably sure there was a mountain there."
Rimuru leaned on the railing like the scene belonged to her — which, unfortunately, it did. "Convenient," she said. "We wanted a lake anyway. These depressions will help. Sage can move the ridges the way Kaijin moves kettles."
"Ah," I said. "Milim, landscape architect."
"In a way," Rimuru said, smiling like someone who has accepted her fate and decided to enjoy it.
We stood. The Dimension's stars flickered overhead — placed intentionally, like Sage had drawn them by hand.
"Rimuru," I said.
"Mmm?"
"Are you trying to make my life interesting on purpose? One moment you're helping Milim learn to regulate form, the next you're testing how many fiancées I can acquire by accident."
Her expression went innocent. Her eyes did not. "I am helping Milim feel comfortable. And I am verifying your alertness. If you stop paying attention, I could have you engaged to five people by spring."
I slid an arm around her shoulders. "So, the lesson is: pay attention."
"Exactly." She leaned into me, smug and warm. "Besides, Milim is adorable. We can keep her, right?"
"As family, yes." I paused. "As anything else, no."
She hummed. "Boring."
"Accurate," I corrected.
She laughed into my coat. "I'll allow it. But you can't expect me to stop teasing you. I'd get bored."
"I will endure," I said. "Just… file written notice before matchmaking."
"No promises," she replied — and I believed her emphatically.
We let the quiet swell between us. The Dimension breathed like a creature content to continue existing.
"Everything is fine," she said at last — lightly, like a challenge.
"For now," I agreed.
"For now," she echoed — and silence closed around us like a shared blanket.
Interlude
Samael POV
I stood on a ridge, high enough to look down at the battlefield and wonder if this counted as oversight or entertainment.
Below me, Sirius was locked in mortal combat with a beast so fierce, so fearsome, that I could barely take my eyes off it.
A chicken.
A very large, very angry chicken.
To be fair, it was a giant chicken — taller than a house, with feathers like polished bronze and the kind of legs you only see on siege engines. Its eyes glowed with the profound hatred of a creature that understood its culinary destiny.
Sirius, sword drawn, was doing his best to survive what could only be described as an aggressive lunch.
"Finish faster!" I called down. "I'm waiting to roast that giant bird! Maybe Great Sage can make soup out of the rest!"
"Fuck you and fuck your soup!" Sirius shouted, rolling out of the way as the chicken slammed its beak into the ground. "I'm fighting for my life here and you're thinking of lunch!"
The chicken screeched, the kind of sound that could curdle milk and summon distant cousins. Feathers exploded into the air like a fireworks show designed by poultry.
Sage's voice drifted across my mind — calm, clinical, unimpressed.
[Observation: the subject is classed as Avian Aberration, Grade B. Weak to seasoning.]
"Did you just say seasoning?" I asked.
[Correction: searing. Autocorrect error.]
"Tragic," I murmured.
Down below, Sirius dodged another peck that could have ended several bloodlines. His sword clanged against a leg that may have been forged from divine spite.
"This thing's armored!" he yelled.
"It's a chicken, Sirius!" I said. "Aim for the soft bits! Preferably the breast!"
"Why don't you come down here and show me?!"
"Because I'm supervising!"
The chicken shrieked again, wings flapping hard enough to make the ground jealous of gravity. Dust and feathers rained upward — yes, upward — and the beast launched itself briefly into the air, defying reason and several natural laws.
Sirius ran. The chicken followed, surprisingly aerodynamic for a creature that looked like a barn with legs.
I leaned on a tree, perfectly safe, and considered my options. Intervention? Boring. Commentary? Always.
Sirius skidded across the mud, barely dodging a beak the size of a wagon. His coat caught a stray feather that immediately burst into flames. He yanked it off and screamed, "It's explosive?!"
> [Confirmation: volatile plumage. Combustion risk: 82%.]
"Sounds efficient," I said. "Imagine the barbecue."
"Imagine shutting up!" Sirius snapped, parrying a talon that left a crater where he'd been.
The chicken puffed up its chest and let out a war cry that sounded suspiciously like "CLUUUUCK!" followed by a shockwave of feathers. Entire trees leaned away in fear.
Sirius went tumbling across the dirt, stopped himself with a hand, and glared back at me. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Immensely," I said.
He spat mud. "Sadist."
"Realist," I corrected. "You should be grateful I'm testing your endurance."
"This isn't training, it's a menu!"
> [Clarification: the creature's nutritional value is substantial. Sampling recommended.]
"See? Even Sage agrees," I said.
"Shut up, both of you!"
The chicken lunged again, feathers whirling like knives. Sirius met it head-on this time, ducking under a wing and slashing upward. Sparks flew. The bird screamed and stomped hard enough to make the earth reconsider its job.
Sirius flew backward — quite literally — hit a tree, and landed in a bush that had strong opinions about personal space.
"Are you alive?" I asked.
"Unfortunately!" he yelled back.
The chicken turned toward me next. Our eyes met. I felt something ancient — not power, but purpose. A single shared understanding between predator and future meal.
"Don't," I warned it. "I'm the narrator."
It charged anyway.
"Fine," I sighed. "Sage, record this as self-defense."
> [Recording.]
The chicken reached me, opened its beak wide enough to rent property in, and stopped abruptly when a streak of light — Sirius's sword — planted itself through its crest.
The bird froze, blinked twice, and fell with the majestic dignity of a felled cathedral.
Sirius stumbled into view, panting, face smeared with mud, one sleeve on fire. "Told you I'd handle it."
"I never doubted you," I said.
"You were laughing!"
"Laughing with pride," I lied.
The chicken let out a final, heroic cluck, then exhaled smoke and went still.
Sirius leaned on his sword and muttered, "If this thing gets up again, I'm defecting."
I inspected the fallen giant — still steaming, mildly charred. "No need. It's done. Also… dinner."
He blinked. "Dinner?"
I pointed. "That's at least three meals, maybe four if we ration the thighs."
He just stared. "You are a monster."
"Efficient," I corrected again.
He groaned, dragged himself over, and flopped down beside the carcass. "If you tell Rimuru about this, I'll deny everything."
"Oh, she'll find out," I said. "She always does."
"Great." He wiped blood and yolk off his sleeve. "Help me drag it?"
I smiled, letting the silence answer.
Sirius sighed. "You're not going to help, are you?"
"I'm managing morale," I said. "From here."
He threw a feather at me. It caught fire midair and nearly hit my boot.
"Careful," I said. "That's combustible poultry."
"Careful," he said. "I'm homicidal."
> [Threat probability: ninety-four percent.]
"Noted," I told Sage.
By the time Sirius finally wrestled the creature into submission and harvested a few less-flammable trophies, dusk had settled. We walked back toward the Dimension in that familiar silence that means if either of us speaks, we'll start laughing again.
After a while, he said, "Next time, you fight the monster."
"I did," I said. "With words."
He gave me a long, murderous look.
We crested the ridge. The house lights winked below like polite stars. Another boom echoed from the training grounds.
Sirius squinted. "That's not goblin drill."
"No," I said. "That's an afternoon ruined."
And that's where we left the chicken — still smoldering, slightly blessed, and probably delicious.
The door admitted us with a warm click and a breath of lamplight.