Akeno's POV
I gained consciousness again, expecting the suffocating darkness of the Dark Arena Rias had described—endless night, monsters, and Arto fighting alone.
Instead… snow. Everywhere.
A vast, endless snowfield stretched in all directions under a bleak, featureless gray sky. No sun. No moon. Just pale, eternal twilight and falling flakes that never seemed to pile up. The cold should have bitten through my clothes—the same casual lounge set I'd worn during movie night—but I felt nothing. No chill. No wind on my skin.
I lifted my hand....I could see through it. My fingers were translucent, ghostly, edges faintly shimmering like heat haze. I took a step forward—and left no footprint in the snow. The surface remained pristine.
I'm a ghost. I turned slowly. In front of me loomed a colossal wall—black stone veined with faint crimson light, stretching thousands of kilometers in either direction, curving gently like the rim of an impossibly vast crater. Behind me rose a castle.
The castle...Black as midnight, sharp spires piercing the gray sky. Crimson torches burned in every window and along the battlements, their light bloody and cold. Another, even larger wall encircled the castle grounds, creating concentric rings of defense.
I spread my wings—feeling them, even if they were translucent—and flew toward the castle.
The closer I got, the heavier the air became. Not cold. Not pressure. Just… wrong. Like the place itself was watching me. Judging.
Guards stood at the massive gates—tall figures in dark armor adorned with intricate silver patterns that seemed to shift when I wasn't looking directly at them. Crown-like crests rose from their helms; flowing capes stirred in a wind I couldn't feel. Each held a longsword in one hand and a short knife in the other.
They looked exactly like Abyss Watchers from those old Dark Souls games I'd seen screenshots of years ago—silent, imposing, eternal.
They didn't react to me at all. I passed right between two of them. No flinch. No glance. I was less than air to them.
Inside the castle, the halls were lit by more crimson torches. The architecture was medieval—vaulted ceilings, stone arches, tapestries—but everything carried that same wrongness. No sound echoed. No footsteps. No distant voices. Just silence so thick it pressed against my ears.
I wandered. Rooms upon rooms—most empty. Bare stone. No furniture. No life. Then I reached a grand hall...And stopped...Portraits.
Thousands—maybe millions—hung floor to ceiling, wall to wall. Every size, every style. Renaissance oils, classical realism, impressionist strokes, even some that looked like modern digital art.
All of them depicted the same kind of people: noble, proud, armored. Many held longswords identical to those of the guards outside. Some stood with massive hounds at their side—dogs that, in several portraits, had their own upright, human-like forms, standing loyal and close to their masters.
One thing stood out immediately. Many portraits had a crimson overlay—like blood painted across them in deliberate strokes. Some were fully stained.
Others only partially. As I stared at one—a tall knight with a hound at his side—the crimson began to spread. Slowly. Deliberately. Like ink soaking through paper.
I stepped back instinctively. Behind me, the great doors of the hall swung open. Guards entered—silent, mechanical—carrying new portraits.
They moved past me without a glance, hanging fresh canvases on empty hooks. Then they approached the crimson-stained ones, removed them carefully, and carried them away.
I watched them go, unease curling in my chest. I continued deeper—past more empty rooms, more crimson torches—until I found stairs leading down. The lower levels were different.
Modern...Clean white corridors...Fluorescent lights...Glass doors...Laboratories.
Scientists in white coats moved between workstations—microscopes, monitors, sealed chambers growing strange plants in extreme-condition simulators.
Some studied survival gear for arctic or volcanic environments. Others ran genetic sequences. A few worked on weapons—strange, sleek metals I'd never seen, humming with faint energy.
I passed through a door marked RESTRICTED—ghost form letting me slip inside without resistance.
The room beyond was empty except for one figure. A man in familiar silver-and-blue armor stood alone in the center, facing a single source of light—a vertical beam of pure white radiance suspended in mid-air.
My heart—whatever passed for it here—lurched. The armor. The stance. The quiet, watchful stillness.
I drifted closer to the armored man, heart pounding in a chest that felt strangely hollow in this ghostly form. The blue-white light in the center of the empty room pulsed steadily, cold and clinical, like a surgical lamp.
The man—tall, silent, his silver-blue armor identical to Arto's—stood motionless, staring into the light as though waiting for judgment.
I circled slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of his face beneath the helm.
When I finally saw…It wasn't Arto. The features were similar—sharp jaw, high cheekbones—but younger. Harder. The eyes were the same storm-gray, but they lacked the quiet warmth I'd grown to love. These eyes were empty. Cold. Machine-like.
My stomach twisted. Not him. Then who…?
I turned my attention to the source of the light. An arena. A perfect circle carved into the floor of the chamber, maybe fifty meters across, ringed by the same black stone as the rest of the castle. The light poured down from above in a single, blinding pillar—harsh, unforgiving, like an interrogation lamp.
Inside the circle…Monsters. Dozens of them—pale, bloated, red-eyed horrors identical to the ones we'd fought in the Dark Arena. Claws, axes, dripping ichor. They circled slowly, a tightening noose.
And in the very center…A boy. Black hair, small frame—eight, maybe ten years old at most. He wore tattered training clothes, too big for him, sleeves rolled up to reveal thin arms already covered in fresh bruises and old scars. In his hands he clutched a longsword—smaller than the guards' weapons, but identical in design. A child's version of a killer's blade.
He was panting—chest heaving, mouth open, barely able to draw air. His eyes were half-lidded, pupils dilated with pain and exhaustion, yet he still held the sword in a perfect guard stance. The monsters lunged. He moved.
Gods, he moved.
A clumsy dodge turned into a perfect sidestep at the last second. The sword flashed—small, desperate arcs that somehow found weak points: throat, tendon, eye. Blood sprayed. A monster fell. Another attacked from the side.
He spun, blade meeting claw in a shower of sparks. His free hand formed rapid hand signs—basic magic circles flickered into existence, spitting small bursts of force that staggered the creature just long enough for him to drive the sword through its chest.
He was good. Terrifyingly good for a child. But he was still a child. The horde pressed harder. He was cornered—back against the arena wall, sword trembling in exhausted hands. A massive monster—twice the size of the rest—charged. The boy tried to dodge. Too slow.
The creature's claw caught him across the chest, hurling him like a ragdoll into the stone wall. The impact cracked the masonry. The boy slid down, leaving a smear of blood. I covered my mouth—ghost hand passing through my lips—with a silent scream. The boy struggled to rise. Once. Twice. The sword clattered from numb fingers.
The monsters closed in. Then—suddenly—they vanished. All of them. Mid-lunge. Mid-roar. Gone. The arena lights dimmed. A pillar of white light shot down from the ceiling, enveloping the broken child. His body lifted gently, floating upward like a broken doll caught in a spotlight. The light carried him out of the arena—straight toward the room where I stood.
The armored man didn't move. Didn't speak. Just watched as the pillar deposited the boy on the floor at his feet. The child was a wreck. Bruises bloomed across every visible inch of skin—purple, black, yellow. Blood soaked his training clothes, matted his hair, pooled beneath him. Shallow breaths rattled in his chest. One arm hung at a wrong angle—broken. Ribs were almost certainly cracked.
I drifted closer, horrified. The man reached down, seized the boy by the collar of his torn shirt, and dragged him across the floor—limp, unresisting, leaving a smear of red behind. I followed—silent, helpless. They entered an elevator hidden in the wall. It descended smoothly. Another floor. Another empty room—bare stone, single metal cot, no blanket, no pillow.
The man threw the boy inside like discarded equipment. The child hit the floor with a sickening thud and didn't move. The door closed. The man walked away without a backward glance. I stayed. I floated to the boy's side and knelt—though my knees never touched the ground. I reached out, fingers passing through his cheek.
He was still breathing. Shallow. Wet. Alive. Behind his neck, half-buried in the skin like a cruel implant, was a small, shiny metal cube. It pulsed faintly with sickly green light. Surgical scars ringed it—old and new. The pain of having that thing forced into him was written in the tension of his small body even in unconsciousness.
I stared at the cube. At the boy. At the empty room with no warmth, no comfort, no mercy.
After what felt like an eternity of wandering the silent, crimson-lit halls, the door to the boy's room creaked open with a sound like breaking bones.
A man in a crisp black butler's uniform stepped inside—posture rigid, face pale and expressionless. Behind him loomed one of the armored guards, longsword and knife at the ready, watching like a living shadow. The butler carried a small leather first-aid kit, knuckles white around the handle.
He knelt beside the unconscious child without a word.
His hands moved with practiced efficiency—professional, detached, almost mechanical. He checked the boy's pulse, peeled back torn fabric to examine the worst of the damage: deep lacerations across the chest, a grotesquely swollen elbow, ribs that looked like they might be cracked or broken. Blood had soaked through most of the training clothes and pooled on the stone.
The butler worked quickly.
Disinfectant. Gauze. Bandages wrapped tight and precise. He stitched the deepest cuts with thread and needle—steady hands never shaking. All the while the guard stood silent sentinel in the doorway, crimson torchlight glinting off his helm.
Then the butler reached into an inner pocket and withdrew a small glass vial filled with viscous green liquid. It glowed faintly, sickly, like pond scum under moonlight.
He hesitated—just for a fraction of a second. "I'm sorry…" he whispered, so quiet I almost missed it.
The needle pierced the side of the boy's neck. The green fluid disappeared into the vein.
Almost immediately the worst of the wounds began to knit—flesh knitting, bruises fading from violent purple to dull yellow. Bones shifted beneath the skin with soft, nauseating pops as they realigned. The boy's breathing eased from wet, rattling gasps to something almost normal.
The butler gathered his supplies, stood, and left without another word.
The guard followed. The door closed. The boy was left alone—patched up, breathing, but still lying on cold stone with no blanket, no water, no comfort. I drifted closer and knelt beside him—useless, intangible. Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Then—slowly—his eyelids fluttered.
Bright blue eyes opened. Not the storm-gray I knew. These were vivid, electric, almost luminous. The shade of summer sky after a storm. He blinked once, twice, then pushed himself up on trembling arms. Every movement was agony—face twisting, teeth gritted—but he didn't cry out.
He looked down at himself—at the bandages wrapping his thin arms, his torso, his legs. Fresh blood had already begun to seep through in places.
His small hands curled into fists. Tears welled. They spilled over—silent at first, then accompanied by soft, hitching breaths. He drew his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and buried his face against his forearms.
The sobs were quiet. Controlled. The kind of crying that comes from someone who has already learned that loud weeping earns punishment. I reached for him—fingers passing through his shoulder, through his hair.
Nothing. I couldn't touch him. Couldn't comfort him. Couldn't even whisper that it would be okay. So I did the only thing I could. I sat beside him—close enough that if I'd been solid, our shoulders would have touched—and stayed. I cried too. Silent, ghostly tears that vanished before they could fall.
The boy lifted his head slowly from his arms.
Tears still streamed down his small face—silent, relentless tracks cutting through dirt and dried blood. His cheeks were flushed from crying, lips trembling, but he wasn't making a sound anymore. Just those quiet, hiccuping breaths.
Then I saw it. His eyes. Bright, electric blue—too vivid, too luminous for a child who should have been broken beyond repair. And deep inside each pupil, twin marks burned like captured stars.
Blue flames. Not reflections. Not illusions. Actual flames—small, steady, flickering with cold, contained fury. They danced behind his irises, alive, watchful, angry. My breath caught. Those weren't normal eyes.
They were… something else. Before I could process it, the boy screamed. A raw, throat-tearing sound—high and childish and utterly heartbreaking. He lunged forward, slamming his forehead toward the stone wall with desperate force. My hands flew up instinctively. "No—!"
But he stopped. Mid-motion. The blue flames in his eyes flared suddenly—blindingly bright—and his body jerked to a halt as though an invisible hand had caught him by the collar. He hovered there, trembling, tears falling faster, chest heaving. He screamed again—louder, more frantic—and tried once more.
Again, the flames surged...Again, he stopped...A third time...The fourth... Each attempt more violent, more desperate. Each time, the flames burned brighter, forcing him to freeze. Then— The small metal cube at the base of his neck flared sickly green.
Electricity arced across his skin—thin, crackling bolts that danced over bruises and cuts like living veins. The boy's entire body convulsed, spine arching in agony, small hands clawing at nothing. A strangled, choked sound escaped his throat—not quite a scream anymore, more like a gasp torn from somewhere deep.
The shock lasted only seconds. But it was enough. His eyes rolled back. The blue flames dimmed to faint embers. And he collapsed—limp, boneless—curling instinctively into the smallest ball possible on the cold stone floor.
Silence.
Just the soft drip of blood from an unbandaged cut. I stared...Couldn't look away...Couldn't breathe. What… what had they done to him?
He was a child. Eight? Nine? Ten at most. What could a little boy possibly have done to deserve this? Implanted with some cruel device that shocked him for trying to end his own pain. Trained to fight monsters in endless arenas.
Beaten, broken, stitched up, then thrown into an empty room like trash. No food. No blanket. No comfort. Just a cube in his neck and blue flames in his eyes that wouldn't even let him die. Tears slid down my own cheeks—ghost tears that vanished before they could fall.
I drifted closer—close enough that if I'd been solid, I could have touched his hair. "I'm sorry," I whispered, even though he couldn't hear. "I'm so sorry, little one…"
I wanted to hold him. To wrap him in my arms and tell him it was okay. That he was safe. That no one would hurt him anymore. But my hands passed through him—through his trembling shoulders, through the blood-matted black hair. I could only sit beside him. Watch over him. Cry with him.
Because right now, in this terrible room, in this terrible hell…I was all he had.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Akeno patting the boy while he eats a loaf of bread]
Time passed in that terrible room—six, maybe eight hours. The boy slept fitfully, small body curled tight against the cold stone, breaths shallow and uneven. I never moved from his side. I couldn't. Even if I was only a ghost, even if he couldn't feel me, I refused to leave him alone.
Then the door swung open. No warning. No sound of footsteps approaching. Four of the armored guards marched in—silent, mechanical, crimson torchlight glinting off their dark helms. They surrounded the sleeping child in seconds, forming a perfect square around him like a cage of steel.
One knelt. A black blindfold was produced from a pouch at his belt—thick cloth, no eye slits. He tied it over the boy's eyes with practiced efficiency, tight enough to stay but not cut off circulation.
The boy stirred—barely. A soft whimper escaped him as consciousness flickered, but the blindfold kept him disoriented. Another guard lifted him under the arms like he weighed nothing. A third draped a heavy wool coat over his shoulders—too big, sleeves dangling past his hands. The same longsword from the arena—small, child-sized—was buckled to his belt.
They carried him out. I followed—silent, unseen, heart pounding in a chest that shouldn't have one. The corridor blurred past. Down stairs. Through halls. Until they reached a chamber I hadn't seen before: circular, high-ceilinged, dominated by a vertical ring of rippling blue-white light suspended in mid-air.
A portal. The man from the observation room stood beside it—same armor, same emotionless posture. He gave a single nod. The guards didn't hesitate. They threw the boy through. He vanished into the light. I dove after him without a second thought. The transition was instantaneous—cold slammed into me like a physical force, even though I couldn't truly feel it. Snow.
Endless snow. A flat, blinding white expanse under the same bleak gray sky. Wind howled—sharp, vicious, carrying razor-like edges that sliced across the landscape. I watched flakes whirl past me, untouched by my ghostly form.
The boy landed hard a few meters away—face-first into a drift. The impact jarred him awake. He gasped, coughed, pushed himself up on shaking arms. He looked around—blindfold still on, head turning blindly. Then he reached up. Small fingers found the knot. Untied it. Bright blue eyes blinked against the sudden light—pupils contracting painfully. He looked down at himself: the oversized coat, the sword at his hip.
Then at the jacket. Embroidered across the chest in stark white thread:
Survive 7...Seven days...Seven days in this frozen hell. He stared at the words for a long moment. Then—without a sound—he stood. His legs shook. The wounds from last night were still raw beneath the bandages; fresh blood had begun to seep through. But he straightened anyway. Took one step. Then another.
Toward the forest in the distance—dark pines rising like silent sentinels against the white. The wind hit him full-force as he left the shelter of the portal's immediate area. I watched in horror as the gale tore at him. Each gust was a blade—sharp, cutting. The coat shredded in long strips; thin red lines appeared on his exposed skin almost immediately. He hunched forward, one arm raised to shield his face, but kept walking.
Step by painful step. He reached the tree line. The wind lessened slightly beneath the canopy. He exhaled—a small, frosted cloud—and immediately jumped.
Small hands caught a low branch. He swung himself up with surprising strength for such a battered body. Another branch. Higher. Until he perched on a sturdy limb, safe from the worst of the ground-level razors.
He snapped off dry twigs with quick, practiced movements. Dropped to the snow below. Began digging. I watched, stunned, as he carved out a snow cave—efficient, precise. Walls packed tight, entrance angled to block wind, small ventilation hole at the top. He crawled inside, dragged the branches after him.
A flick of his fingers—tiny magic circles flared. Sparks. Flame. The fire caught. Small. Controlled. Warm enough to keep him from freezing, not hot enough to melt the shelter. He went out once more—scooped snow into a metal cup I hadn't noticed before (hidden in the coat pocket, perhaps). Brought it back. Held it over the flames until the snow melted into water.
He drank slowly. Carefully. Every drop precious. Then he sat—small back against the snow wall, knees drawn to chest, sword laid across his lap. He stared into the fire.
Silent...Shivering...Alone. After a while—maybe an hour, maybe two—he stirred. The fire had burned down to glowing embers. He reached out, fingers forming a quick, practiced hand sign. The embers flared once—bright blue—then died completely. No smoke. No trace. He'd learned to leave no sign.
He crawled out into the open air. The wind hit him immediately—razor-sharp, howling through the trees like a living thing. It tore at the oversized coat, ripping fresh holes along the sleeves and hem. Thin red lines appeared on any skin left exposed. He didn't flinch. Just raised one small hand, whispered a word I couldn't hear, and pressed his palm to the outside of the cave entrance.
A faint silver-blue sigil bloomed across the snow—simple, elegant, pulsing once before sinking into the ice. A marker. A beacon. He'd find his way back. Then he turned toward the forest. Sword in hand, blindfold long discarded, he walked.
The wind cut deeper the farther he went from the shelter of the portal site. Each gust sliced across his coat, across his skin. Fresh blood welled from old wounds. He hunched forward, one arm raised to shield his face, but never stopped.
Step by painful step. I followed—silent, helpless—watching the small figure fight the elements as fiercely as he'd fought the monsters.
Hours passed.
The trees grew thicker, darker. The wind lost some of its edge beneath the canopy, though the cold still seeped through every tear in his clothing. He stopped. Ahead—massive, white-furred, scarred and towering—stood a giant bear. Red eyes. Claws like curved daggers. Thick hide that looked like it could shrug off artillery.
The boy stared up at it. No fear. Just quiet, focused preparation. He adjusted his grip on the sword. Magic flickered along the blade—soft blue light tracing the edge, sharpening it to something beyond steel. The bear noticed him. It charged.
Despite its size, it moved with terrifying speed—snow exploding beneath each paw. The boy didn't run. He waited. At the last second he sidestepped—clean, precise. The bear's claw tore through the air where he'd stood, snapping a full-grown pine like a matchstick. Wood splintered. Snow billowed. Before the beast could recover, the boy struck.
He launched himself upward—small body twisting mid-air—and brought the enchanted sword down in a perfect arc. The blade bit deep into the bear's shoulder. Blood sprayed—dark against white fur.
The creature roared, rearing back. The boy landed lightly, already moving again. The fight became a dance of survival. The bear swung—enormous claws whistling. Trees shattered. Snow erupted in clouds.
The boy dodged—slipping between strikes with speed that shouldn't have been possible for someone so small and wounded. Every miss brought him closer, every dodge gave him an opening. He slashed. Again. Again.
Blood flowed. Wounds opened. One eye was blinded—sword tip taking it clean in a single, precise thrust. The bear staggered. Then—surprisingly—it turned. And ran.
The boy didn't hesitate.
The giant white bear turned and fled—limping, bleeding, retreating deeper into the forest—and the child followed. He couldn't afford to lose this meal. Couldn't afford to lose the fur that might—might—keep him from freezing tonight. He launched himself from branch to branch with desperate, practiced grace, small body swinging through the pines like a shadow. I followed close behind on ghostly wings, heart clenched every time the wind tried to tear him from the trees.
The forest swallowed us. The ice cave disappeared behind layers of dark trunks and falling snow. The light grew dimmer, the cold sharper, the silence heavier. Then—the bear stopped. It whirled. Two more shadows rose from the snowdrifts—identical giants, white fur matted with scars, red eyes glowing like coals. The same monstrous size. The same deadly claws.
Three. Against one bleeding, exhausted child. The boy skidded to a halt on a branch. His face went pale—blood loss, cold, shock all hitting at once. For the first time since I'd watched him fight, real fear flickered behind those burning blue eyes.
But he didn't run. He couldn't. He tightened his grip on the small longsword, took one steadying breath… and dropped to the snow. The first bear—the wounded one—charged. The boy met it. He dodged the first claw swipe, rolled beneath the second, and came up slashing—blade biting deep into the already-injured shoulder. Blood sprayed. The bear roared.
The other two closed in. Claws slammed down in a deadly rhythm. The boy danced between them—dodging, parrying, striking when he could—but he was tiring. Wounds reopened. Fresh cuts bloomed across his arms, his sides. His movements slowed. His breathing turned ragged.
I watched—helpless, horrified—as the fight dragged on. He was brilliant. Terrifyingly brilliant for a child. But he was still a child. And three fully grown monsters were too much. Then—he changed tactics.
Instead of retreating, he threw himself forward—straight into the center of the three. He grabbed the wounded bear's thick fur with both hands, using its body as a shield. The other two—blood-drunk, enraged—swung without hesitation. Their claws tore into their own wounded kin.
The beast howled once—then collapsed, dead, crushed between its packmates' fury. One down. Two to go. The boy dropped from the corpse before they could turn on him. He tried the same move again—lunging for the next bear's torso. This time they were ready.
They reared up, preparing to slam their massive bodies together and crush him between them like a vice. He barely escaped—leaping backward, rolling through snow, coming up coughing blood. He was running out of tricks. Running out of strength. Then—something clicked in his eyes. He raised one small hand. Snow swirled at his feet—rising, shaping, compressing.
A perfect clone of himself formed from packed ice and magic—identical down to the torn coat and bloodstains. The clone sprinted in the opposite direction. One bear took the bait—charging after the illusion with a roar. The boy was left with one. He didn't waste the opening. He feinted low—then leaped high, sword flashing.
The blade took the remaining eye. The bear bellowed, blinded, swinging wildly. The second bear returned—having destroyed the clone—and found only chaos. The boy used the moment. He grabbed the blinded bear's fur again—clinging to its back like a limpet. He screamed—high, piercing, deliberate. The blinded bear thrashed in pain and fury.
It swung blindly—straight into its remaining packmate. Claws met flesh. Blood sprayed. The two giants tore into each other—confusion, rage, bloodlust turning inward. When the dust settled… Only one remained—gravely wounded, swaying, barely standing. The boy dropped from the corpse.
He approached the dying bear. Raised his sword. One clean stroke. It was over. Silence returned to the forest—broken only by the boy's labored breathing and the drip of blood onto snow. He didn't celebrate. He didn't cry. He simply… worked.
With shaking hands, he skinned the three bears—efficient, practiced cuts that spoke of far too many nights like this. Thick white pelts came away in large sheets. He cleaned them roughly with snow and fire magic, drying them enough to serve as insulation.
Then he dragged one entire carcass—impossibly heavy for such a small body—back toward the direction of his cave. I followed—silent, aching. Hours later he reached the marked snow cave. He used fire and ice in tandem—melting snow for water, cooking strips of bear meat over the rekindled flames. The smell of roasting meat filled the small space—simple, primal, life-giving.
He ate slowly—careful bites, savoring every scrap like it might be his last. Then he crawled into the cave, wrapped the thickest pelt around himself like a blanket, and curled into the smallest ball possible.The way he tucked his chin to his chest, arms wrapped tight around his knees, broke something inside me.
He was still just a boy. A boy who had fought three monsters twice his size. A boy who had skinned them himself. A boy who now huddled under stolen fur in a hole he'd dug in the snow. Because no one else would give him warmth. I settled beside him—close as I could get. I couldn't touch him.
Couldn't cover him with my wings. But I stayed. Whispering things he couldn't hear. "I'm here, little one. You did so well today. You're so strong. You're going to be okay. I promise." The fire crackled. The wind howled outside. And the boy slept—curled tight, small, and impossibly brave.
He looks so cute when he sleeps like that…
Curled tight under the thick white bear pelt, knees drawn to his chest, small hands clutching the edges like they're the only thing keeping the cold from stealing him away. His black hair falls across his forehead in messy strands, still damp from melting snow. The fire—small, steady, blue-tinged from his magic—casts gentle shadows over his face, softening the bruises, hiding the cuts beneath the bandages.
This little warrior. Sometimes I just forget that you're just a boy. Ten years old at most. Maybe younger. A child who should be dreaming of toys and friends and warm beds, not surviving seven days in a frozen hell with nothing but a sword and his own stubborn will.
I reach out—slowly, carefully—even though I know my fingers will pass right through him. I pat his head anyway. The motion is empty. No warmth transferred. No hair ruffled. Just my ghostly hand moving through the space where he is, where he should be able to feel someone caring. But it makes me feel better.
Because this boy—this impossibly brave, impossibly broken boy—deserves so much more than the world has ever given him. I lower myself to the snow beside him. I don't feel the cold. I don't feel tired. But I'm not going anywhere.
I lay down—parallel to his small, curled form—and let my translucent body settle as close as possible without passing through. If I close my eyes, I can almost pretend I'm really here. That I'm shielding him from the wind. That my warmth is seeping into the pelt, into his skin, into the places that hurt the most.
I close my eyes. A little nap wouldn't hurt. When I "wake"—time is strange here, slippery—I open my eyes to the same fire, the same snow cave, the same boy. He's still asleep.
Peaceful...Truly peaceful.
No twitching. No whimpers. No sudden jolts awake from nightmares inside nightmares. His breathing is slow, even. His small face relaxed in a way I've never seen—not tense, not guarded, not braced for the next blow.
This place is cold… but gentle...No crimson torches. No armored guards. No cube in his neck shocking him for daring to feel pain. Just snow. Fire. Silence. He made this shelter himself. He killed for the fur that keeps him warm. He cooked his own food with magic he taught himself. For the first time in who-knows-how-many nights, this child has something that resembles rest.
I watch him breathe...Watch the rise and fall of the pelt over his chest...Watch the faint flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks.
And I wonder—soft, aching—
Little one… do you find peace here, I wonder?
Even if it's only for a few hours. Even if tomorrow—or the next wave—will try to take it away again.
[Timeskip: Brought to by the boy handing Akeno the bear feather thinking she was cold, and she accepted]
Every good thing ends on the seventh day.
I had begun to hope—foolishly—that the snow field might be different. That this frozen wilderness, harsh as it was, had become a strange kind of mercy. The boy had shelter. Food. Warmth he'd earned with his own hands. He slept curled in bear fur like a small animal finally allowed to rest.
Then the magic circle inside his oversized jacket began to glow. Soft at first—pale violet light seeping through the fabric—then brighter, insistent. The boy jolted awake with a gasp, small hands scrabbling at the coat as though he could smother the light.
He didn't have time. A portal tore open in the center of the cave—violent blue-white, edges crackling like torn paper. Guards poured through—four of them, dark armor gleaming, faces hidden behind crowned helms. They moved with mechanical precision, surrounding the child before he could even stand.
One knelt behind him, blindfold already in hand. Black cloth whipped over his eyes, knotted brutally tight. The boy struggled—small, frantic—sword half-drawn from its sheath. A second guard pressed something against the metal cube at the base of his neck.
Green light flared...Electricity surged. The boy's body arched—silent scream locked in his throat—then collapsed like a puppet with cut strings. They dragged him through the portal. I followed—heart hammering in a chest that shouldn't have one—passing through the rippling light without resistance.
We emerged back inside the castle. The same black stone halls. The same crimson torches. The same suffocating silence.
The man waited—same silver-blue armor, same emotionless stance. He gave a single nod. The guards carried the limp child deeper—down corridors, down stairs—until we reached a different room. Walls of black slate covered in chalk equations, spell circles, incantations—thousands of them, layer upon layer, some old and faded, others fresh and sharp. A classroom. A prison. A torture chamber disguised as education.
They dumped the boy on the floor. A bucket of ice water followed—splashed across his face. He woke with a choked gasp, coughing, blindfold still on. The guards left without a word. The boy pushed himself up—shaking, shivering—then reached up and untied the blindfold with trembling fingers. Bright blue eyes blinked against the torchlight. He looked around—at the walls covered in writing he couldn't read.
And sighed...Not in despair...In resignation...Like this was simply… routine...He began to study. No paper. No pen. No teacher. Just a child memorizing walls of magic by staring, whispering, repeating. He'd form a hand sign, cast the spell—see what it did—then whisper the shape and effect to himself until it stuck. Over and over. Hours of it.
He didn't understand the words written above the circles. He didn't need to. He learned through pain and repetition. After two hours the guards returned. Electricity flared at his neck again. He convulsed—silent—then went limp.
They carried him to the arena. When he woke, he was surrounded once more. Monsters. Hundreds. Thousands. But now he had new spells. Ice walls rose at his command—thick, reinforced, buying seconds. Crystal spikes erupted from the ground, impaling anything that charged too fast. Electric nets snapped into existence, grounding flyers mid-dive.
He fought smarter...He fought longer...But they kept coming.
Bigger monsters appeared—walking skyscrapers of flesh and chitin, hundreds of them. Behind them rolled meat tanks—hulking, armored things that spat magical artillery, shattering ice and filling ditches with sheer mass.
The boy adapted again. Clones of dirt and snow rose at his gesture—running, distracting, drawing fire while the real child struck from the shadows. Tanks focused on illusions; he destroyed them one by one. A full day—twenty-four hours—of constant battle.
The tanks fell. Only the giants remained. He used the same trick as with the bears—jumping between them, baiting them into striking each other. Fists the size of houses collided. Monsters tore into their own kind. Another twenty-four hours.
The last giant fell. The boy couldn't stand anymore. He collapsed face-first into the dirt—unconscious before he hit the ground. The man in the observation room watched the entire thing—expressionless. Then he spoke—voice cold, mechanical, devoid of anything human. "Take him out."
The guards complied without a word. They lifted the unconscious boy from the blood-soaked dirt of the arena—small body limp, head lolling, black hair matted with sweat and ichor. No gentleness. No care. Just efficient hands dragging him across stone like a sack of broken equipment.
The man waited at the edge of the arena. He approached slowly—boots echoing in the sudden silence—then bent down beside the child. One gauntleted hand reached out. Fingers—long, pale, surprisingly careful—stroked the boy's matted hair. A single word slipped from beneath the helm, low and satisfied. "Good."
The tone wasn't proud. It wasn't fatherly. It was the sound of a craftsman inspecting a tool that had survived testing. The boy was dragged away again. This time, not to the blackboard room. Not to the cold stone cell. To a different part of the castle.
The corridor changed as they went deeper—stone growing smoother, torches shifting from cold crimson to warm gold. Tapestries appeared on the walls—rich fabrics depicting knights and dragons, hunts and feasts. The air grew warmer. Fragrant. Alive with the scent of cedar, beeswax, and faint herbs.
They entered a room that felt… wrong in its kindness.
Polished wooden floors. A wide, canopied bed with thick quilts and pillows—soft enough to swallow a child whole. Golden candelabras burned with steady, honey-colored flames. A small table beside the bed held a silver tray: steaming bowl of thick stew, fresh bread, a pitcher of water, even a slice of fruit tart dusted with sugar.
One of the guards produced another vial—same sickly green liquid. The needle pierced the boy's neck again. The worst of the damage began to mend—bruises fading, cuts sealing, bones shifting beneath skin with soft, nauseating clicks. His breathing eased from wet rasps to something almost peaceful.
The guards left. The door closed. The boy woke slowly—blinking against the golden light, disoriented. He pushed himself up on trembling arms, staring at the bed, the food, the warmth. Relief flickered across his face—small, fragile, almost guilty.
But it was chased immediately by something else...Sadness...Deep, quiet, bone-deep sadness. His small shoulders slumped. He stared at the meal like it was a betrayal. I drifted closer—close enough to see the way his fingers shook as he reached for the bread.
He didn't eat right away. He just… looked. And I understood. This wasn't kindness. This was reward. Performance-based affection. Win the arena—get food. Win the arena—get warmth. Win the arena—get to pretend, just for a night, that someone cared whether you lived or died.
Lose… and you were trash. Thrown into cold stone. Left without food. Left without comfort. Left to bleed and shiver until the next test. He knew it.
Even at eight, nine, ten years old—he already knew. The food was warm. The bed was soft. The room smelled like safety. But none of it was love. It was payment. And payment can always be withheld.
He finally took a small bite of bread—slow, mechanical, like eating was just another task to survive. Tears slipped down his cheeks again—silent, unnoticed even by himself. I knelt beside him. Reached out—fingers passing through his shoulder, through his hair.
I couldn't touch him...Couldn't wipe the tears...Couldn't wrap him in my arms and tell him he deserved more than conditional scraps.
But I stayed. Whispering things he couldn't hear. "You're more than their weapon. You're more than their test subject. You're a boy. You deserve real warmth. Real food. Real love."
He ate slowly. Then crawled beneath the covers—still in torn, bloodstained clothes—curled into the smallest ball possible, and closed his eyes. The golden candles burned on.
The room stayed warm. But the sadness lingered. Because even in comfort…He knew it wasn't his. Not really...It was only borrowed...Until the next fight...Until the next test...Until he failed.
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Akeno bandaging the boy, which he accepts with a rare smile]
Seven years...Seven years in this frozen hell, in this black castle of endless cruelty...Seven years of watching the boy who will one day become my Arto be broken, rebuilt, and broken again—every single day.
They stopped sending him into the wilderness. No more "Survive 7" missions. No more stolen moments of peace in snow caves he built himself.
No more hunting for food, skinning bears with shaking hands, curling up under stolen fur like a small animal finally allowed to breathe.
They decided that was too much comfort. So they took it away. Now it's only the arena. Every day. Without fail. Without mercy.
The monsters never stop evolving.The moment he masters one set—figures out their patterns, their weaknesses, their tells—they die, and the next wave comes stronger. Faster. Smarter. More sadistic.
Claws that learn to anticipate dodges. Fangs that secrete poison tailored to his growing immunities. Giants that remember how he used their own strength against them last time.
Each session lasts at least ten days. Ten days of nonstop combat. Ten days of blood, pain, exhaustion so deep it seeps into the bones. He wins—because he has to. Because losing means no food, no water, no blanket, no healing vial. Just cold stone and darkness until the next cycle. And when he finally collapses—unconscious, bleeding, barely breathing—they drag him to the "reward" room.
Golden candles. Soft bed. Warm stew. Clean bandages. But even that is a lie. It's not kindness. It's conditioning.
Win → comfort....Lose → punishment.
He knows it. He's known it since he was eight. I see it in his eyes every time the door opens to that gilded cage: Relief—because the pain stops for a few hours.
Sadness—because he knows it's temporary. Shame—because part of him has started to crave the warmth, even when he knows it's just another chain.
No one comes for him. Not a single soul. The guards watch him like livestock. The man in silver-blue armor observes from above like a scientist studying a specimen. The scientists in the basement write notes on his pain tolerance, his adaptation rate, his breaking point.
No one speaks to him. No one comforts him. No one tells him he's doing well. No one tells him he's enough. Except me. I never left.
Seven years. I sat beside him in the arena while he bled. I whispered encouragements he couldn't hear while he memorized spell walls in the blackboard room. I curled around him like a ghost blanket when they threw him into the cold cell after a loss.
I stroked his hair—passing through, always passing through—when he cried himself to sleep in the reward room, knowing tomorrow would hurt worse.
I abandoned my search for the grown Arto. I'm sorry, my Darling. I'm so sorry. But this child—this small, black-haired boy with bright blue eyes and burning flames inside them—he needed someone. He deserved someone. And if the universe wouldn't give him that someone…Then I would.
Even if I'm only a ghost. Even if he'll never know I was here. I stayed. Through every scream. Through every collapse. T
hrough every time he dragged himself back to his feet when any sane person would have stayed down. I watched him grow. Not taller—not yet—but stronger. Harder. Colder.
The flames in his eyes burned brighter with every cycle. The boy who once cried after every beating now only stared—silent, hollow—when they shocked him for trying to end his own pain. He learned to stop trying.
He learned to endure. And every time he won—every time they dragged him to the reward room—I sat beside him while he ate slowly, mechanically, like the food was just another task.
I watched the way his small shoulders relaxed—just a fraction—when the door closed and the warmth settled in. I watched the way his eyes—those impossible blue-flame eyes—stared at the golden candles like they were something holy. And I hated this place more with every passing day.
Because they gave him comfort the way one gives a dog a treat after it performs...Because they taught him love is conditional...Because they taught him he had to earn kindness.
And no child—no matter how strong, no matter how necessary—should ever have to learn that lesson.
So I stayed. I whispered things he couldn't hear: "You're enough." "You're doing so well." "You don't have to earn this." "You deserve to be warm." "You deserve to be safe." "You deserve to be loved."
Even if the words dissolved into nothing. Even if he never felt them. I said them anyway...Because someone had to...Because I had to.
Over the time, I noticed the changes in fragments—small, cruel shifts that accumulated like scars. His hands were the first thing.
The small, trembling fingers that once struggled to hold the child-sized longsword thickened. Knuckles scarred over. Calluses formed thick and permanent across his palms. The sword no longer looked oversized; it became an extension of him.
Then his shoulders. They broadened—slowly, painfully—muscle layering over bone under constant strain. The thin frame filled out, not with softness, but with the dense, wiry strength of someone who had carried his own weight through hell since he could walk.
His face changed too. The roundness of childhood faded. Cheekbones sharpened. Jawline hardened. Scars began to accumulate—thin white lines across his brow, a jagged one along his left cheekbone, another that bisected his right eyebrow. Each one told a story of a night when he had been too slow, too tired, too human.
But the eyes…The eyes were the worst...Those bright, electric blue eyes—the ones that had once burned with defiant flame—changed most of all. Day after day, night after night, the light in them dimmed. It wasn't sudden.
It was gradual. Merciless. Every time he was shocked by the cube for trying to end his own suffering… every time he was dragged from the arena broken and bleeding… every time he woke in the cold cell with no one, nothing… the brightness bled away a little more.
The blue flames that once danced like living stars behind his pupils grew smaller. Colder. More contained. Until one night—after a particularly brutal cycle, after he'd been shocked so many times his small body had begun to convulse even before the current reached him—the flames guttered. And never quite recovered.
The color deepened. From luminous summer sky to storm-gray twilight. From defiant fire to cold, contained steel. The same shade I knew so well. The same eyes that looked at me across movie nights, across quiet dinners, across stolen moments on the couch...Arto's eyes.
I stared at the boy—now no longer a boy, but a youth on the cusp of manhood—and finally understood. It had been him all along.The small, black-haired child with the too-bright eyes and the impossible courage… the teenager who fought skyscraper giants and walking tanks with nothing but a sword and desperation… the young man whose armor was cracked and bloodied but whose will never broke…It was Arto.
Suddenly, I feel arms wrap around me from behind—strong, scarred, impossibly warm.
I freeze. The cold of the dream, the endless weight of seven years of watching that boy suffer, the hollow ache in my chest… all of it stutters. I turn. And there he is.
Arto...My Arto. Not the child. Not the broken teenager. The man I know—the one who smiles softly during movie night, who upgrades televisions with a finger snap just to make me happy, who calls me "darling" like it's the most natural word in the world.
He's standing right in front of me, silver-blue armor cracked and bloodied, dark hair falling across his forehead, gray eyes shining with tears that stream unchecked down his cheeks. He's smiling. A small, trembling, heartbreaking smile. "Thank you for freeing me, Akeno," he whispers, voice rough with centuries of unshed grief. "Thank you so much."
"Arto!?" My voice cracks—high, desperate. "ARTO!!" I throw myself into him, arms locking around his neck, squeezing so tightly I feel the metal of his armor bite into my skin. I don't care. Tears flood down my face, soaking into the cracks of his pauldron.
"Where were you all this time?" I choke out against his shoulder. "Arto, please—tell me!" He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he gently turns me, one arm still around my waist, and points toward the small, curled form on the cold stone floor.
The boy. Still sleeping, still bruised, still wrapped in that stolen bear pelt like it's the only thing keeping the world from swallowing him whole. "In there," Arto says softly. My breath stops. "Then… that kid…" He nods.
The smile never leaves his face, even as fresh tears slide down. "That's right, Akeno. That's me. My younger self. I was trapped in there—seventeen years this time. Forced to experience everything again. Until you came."
I stare at the sleeping child, then back at the man holding me. "How?" My voice breaks. "How did I find you?" Arto's hand comes up—slow, careful—and cups my cheek, thumb brushing away my tears even as his own continue to fall.
"You recognized me," he says simply. "You saw me. Not the weapon. Not the monster. Not the leader. Just… me. The boy. The teenager. The man. You stayed. You watched. You cried for me when I couldn't cry for myself."
He exhales—a shaky, trembling sound. "I'm usually trapped here for two thousand years. Every night. Every cycle. Reliving it. Reforging myself in the dark. But this time… you were here. You were here for me. I can't thank you enough." I look at the sleeping boy again—small, battered, still clinging to the fur like it's the only kindness he's ever known.
Then back at Arto—the man who carries that child inside him every single day. "This place is…" My voice cracks. "Your past? It's pure hell… how did you live through all this…"
He's still smiling. Still crying. The two expressions exist on his face at once—peaceful and shattered, grateful and broken. "…How can you still smile at all this?" I whisper.
His smile trembles, but doesn't fall. "Besides smiling…" His voice is barely above a breath. "What else can I do, Akeno? What else can I do!?"
The words hit like a blade. He laughs once—short, cracked, more sob than sound. "I've carried this for three thousand years. Every night. Every cycle. The monsters change. The pain changes. But the ending is always the same. I survive. I wake up. I pretend it didn't happen. I smile because if I don't…"
He trails off. I finish for him, voice shaking. "…you'll break." He nods—just once. "I've been broken before. Many times. Smiling… it's the only thing they couldn't take." I reach up—cup his face in both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears that won't stop.
"You don't have to smile anymore," I whisper fiercely. "Not for them. Not to survive. Not to prove anything. You can hurt. You can cry. You can scream. You can rest. Because I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere."
I hold him tighter—arms locked around his neck, face buried against the cracked plates of his armor, feeling every shudder that racks his body. His tears soak through the metal, warm against my cheek, and I don't care. I don't care about the blood, the dirt, the centuries of pain still clinging to him like smoke.
"Don't worry," I whisper into his hair, voice trembling but steady. "I'm here, Arto. I'm here, my Darling. You will never be alone again. I promise. You'll never be alone again."
He doesn't answer with words. He can't. The sobs come harder—deep, wrenching sounds that tear out of him like they've been locked behind iron for three thousand years.
His arms wrap around me in return, desperate, almost afraid I'll disappear if he lets go. Fingers dig into my back, trembling, clinging like I'm the only solid thing left in his world.
I rock him gently—slow, soothing motions, the way I wish someone had once rocked that little boy in the snow cave, in the cold cell, in every dark room where no one came. "Everything will be alright," I murmur against his temple.
"Lean on me. Cry as much as you like. I will never leave you. Like I didn't in the last seven years. You'll be safe with me, my beloved. Safe. Always."
His shoulders shake harder. The tears never stop—hot, endless, like a dam finally broken after millennia of pressure. I
feel them seep into my skin, into my heart, and I let them. I let him pour out every unshed sob, every swallowed scream, every night he woke up alone and had to pretend the next day would be different.
He deserves this...He deserves someone to hold the weight when he can't carry it anymore...He deserves to be weak, just once.
Just for tonight. I stroke his hair—fingers gentle over the matted strands—whispering nonsense comforts between kisses pressed to his temple, his cheek, the corner of his eye where salt meets skin. "I've got you. I've got you. You're safe. You're loved. You're enough."
He buries his face deeper into my shoulder, body curling around mine like he's trying to disappear inside me. The sobs slow eventually—not stopping, just softening into quiet, hiccuping breaths. His grip never loosens. Minutes pass. Maybe hours.
The blue pillar of light still burns steadily behind us, a patient sentinel. When his breathing finally evens—still ragged, still wet—he pulls back just enough to look at me.
Tears still shine on his cheeks, lashes clumped, eyes red-rimmed and raw. But the smile that trembles across his lips is the softest, most real one I've ever seen from him.
"Thank you, Akeno," he whispers, voice cracked and hoarse. "Thank you so much… for freeing me. This is the soonest I've ever been out of the nightmare.
You don't know how much it means to me." I cup his face in both hands, thumbs sweeping away the last of the tears. "Don't worry," I say, voice thick with my own emotion. "From now on, you'll never see a nightmare again. Because I'm here."
[Timeskip: Brought to you by Arto and Akeno sleeping peacefully on the couch]
When I wake up, I can still feel myself crying. The tears are real this time—not ghostly, not dream-made. They're hot and salty on my cheeks, pooling at the corners of my eyes, slipping down to wet the collar of my shirt. My throat aches like I've been screaming for years, even though I never made a sound.
I blink against the soft morning light filtering through the living room curtains. The television is still on—paused on the credits of Before Sunset, the screen frozen on Jesse and Céline's faces mid-laugh. The blanket has slipped halfway off us during the night.
My head is pillowed on Arto's chest, one of his arms wrapped loosely around my shoulders, the other resting across my waist.
I turn slowly—careful, almost afraid he'll disappear if I move too fast. He's awake. Or at least… his eyes are open. Dark blue...Stormy...Beautiful.
And wet. Tears trace silent paths down the sides of his face, gathering at his temples, soaking into the dark strands of hair that fall across his forehead. He isn't sobbing. Isn't shaking.
Just… crying. Quietly. Steadily. Like something inside him finally cracked open after three thousand years of holding it shut.
My heart seizes. I don't think. I don't speak. I just move. My arms wrap around him like he's the only solid thing left in the world—tight, desperate, clinging.
I press my face against his neck, breathing him in—warm skin, faint soap, the metallic tang of old blood and newer tears. One of my hands slides up to cradle the back of his head; the other slips beneath his shirt to rest flat against his back.
And that's when I feel it. The small, raised scar at the base of his neck—circular, slightly indented, rough around the edges like something was once embedded there and torn out.
The remnant. The place where that cursed cube lived for seventeen years in his dream… and who knows how many centuries in reality. My fingers tremble as they trace the mark—gentle, reverent, horrified.
He shudders once beneath my touch. I press my lips to the scar—soft, wordless—then bury my face deeper against his throat. "I'm here," I whisper, voice thick and cracking. "I'm here, my Darling. I'm here."
His arms tighten around me—almost painfully strong, like he's afraid I'll vanish if he lets go even a little. We stay like that—wrapped around each other on the couch where we'd watched movies the night before, where we'd laughed and cuddled and pretended the world was simple and kind.
The living room was still bathed in the soft afterglow of the paused screen—credits frozen on Before Sunset, the final scene of Jesse and Céline caught in that fragile, hopeful silence.
The blanket had slipped to the floor sometime during the night. We remained tangled on the couch, my arms wrapped around him, his face buried against my shoulder, both quietly crying in the dim light.
3rd Person POV
The front door clicked open.
Footsteps—tired, deliberate—approached. "I thought these movies are light and happy," Rias's voice cut through the quiet, warm but edged with gentle surprise. "Why are you both crying?"
They startled apart just enough to look up.
Rias stood in the doorway—uniform torn at the sleeve, dirt streaked across her cheek, a fresh bruise blooming along her jawline. Her crimson hair was tangled and dusted with ash, her gloves scuffed. She looked like she'd fought a war.
But she was smiling. That unmistakable, victorious Gremory smile—bright, tired, triumphant. She'd come back from the S-rank stray hunt in one piece. Akeno wiped her eyes quickly with the back of her hand, laughing wetly as she tried to compose herself.
"Rias! You're back—" Arto sat up straighter, hastily brushing at his own cheeks, though the redness around his eyes betrayed him. He cleared his throat, voice still thick. "You're… okay?"
Rias stepped further into the room, kicking off her boots by the door. She winced slightly as she rolled her shoulder—clearly sore—but the grin never wavered.
"More than okay. The stray was a nasty one—big, fast, lots of illusions—but I had some new tricks up my sleeve." She shot Arto a pointed, proud look. "Thanks to a certain someone's mid-battle tutoring."
Arto managed a small, sheepish smile. "I'm glad." Rias's gaze softened as she took in their disheveled state—the tear tracks, the way they were still holding each other like lifelines, the blanket half on the floor.
She crossed the room slowly and sank onto the couch beside them—close enough that her knee bumped Arto's. "So," she said, voice gentle now, "what did I miss?"
Akeno glanced at Arto, then back at Rias. She reached out, brushing a smudge of dirt from Rias's cheek with her thumb. "We watched Before Sunrise and Before Sunset," she said softly. "And… Arto had a lot of feelings about them."
Rias's eyes flicked to Arto—searching, understanding. He met her gaze steadily, though the redness lingered. "They were… good," he said quietly. "Really good."
Rias nodded slowly. She didn't push. Didn't tease. Just leaned in and rested her head lightly against his other shoulder, sandwiching him between them. "I'm glad," she murmured. "You both look like you needed it."
Akeno's hand found Arto's again, squeezing once. Rias's fingers brushed his other hand—gentle, reassuring. For a long moment, no one spoke. The television screen stayed paused on that final, hopeful frame. The three of them sat together—bruised, tired, tear-streaked, but undeniably here.
Rias broke the quiet first, voice soft. "I brought back souvenirs from the stray hunt," she said dryly. "Mostly bruises and dirt. But I also brought back proof that your new moves work, Arto. That lance-drill thing? Devastating."
Arto's lips twitched. "Good." Akeno laughed—still a little watery. "Our ancient knight is officially a genius." Rias smirked. "And apparently a crybaby too." Arto huffed—half-laugh, half-exasperated. "You two are impossible."
Rias leaned her head heavier against his shoulder. "Takes one to know one." Akeno squeezed his hand again. "We're keeping you forever, you know." Arto looked between them—two devil heiresses, both battered from their own battles tonight, both looking at him like he was something precious.
Rias reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a thick envelope, waving it like a trophy.
"My bounty for hunting that stray," she announced, voice ringing with pride. "Self-earned. No princess privileges. No family name smoothing the way."
She shook the envelope lightly—coins and bills inside clinking softly. "You two can't imagine the look on Director Iroh's face when I dragged that S-rank stray back to headquarters. He actually dropped his tea. It was so precious."
Her eyes turned dreamy for a moment, the memory clearly replaying behind them. "Because of that," she continued, snapping back to the present with renewed energy, "I'm treating everyone to a feast tonight. Especially you, Arto."
She pointed the envelope at him like a playful sword. "Consider this both a welcoming feast for the newest member of the Occult Research Club… and a proper meal to close out the old school year. Tomorrow, you start Kuoh Academy with us. No more hiding in the clubhouse. Time to see what human high school is really like."
Akeno sat up straighter on the couch, blanket slipping from her lap, her earlier teasing smile returning in full force.
"A feast? Oh, President, you spoil us~" She glanced sideways at Arto, eyes sparkling. "Especially our ancient knight who's about to experience his very first school lunch. I wonder if he'll survive the cafeteria food better than he survived movie night."
Arto blinked—still a little dazed from the emotional storm that had passed between them moments ago—then managed a small, crooked smile. "I've survived worse," he said dryly. "But… thank you, Rias."
Rias waved off the gratitude with mock arrogance, though the softness in her eyes betrayed how much his words meant.
"Don't thank me yet. You haven't tried the cafeteria mystery meat. Or the gym class dodgeball. Or the student council paperwork." She smirked. "You're in for a whole new kind of battlefield, transfer student."
Akeno laughed, looping her arm through Arto's and tugging him closer. "Don't worry, darling. We'll protect you from the horrors of high school. Especially the girls who'll inevitably fall for the mysterious, handsome transfer student with scars and a tragic backstory."
Arto's ears turned faintly pink. "I'm not sure I want protection from that." Rias snorted. "Careful what you wish for. Kuoh has a reputation."
She turned toward the hallway, already pulling out her phone. "I'll call Kiba and Koneko. Tell them to dress nice. We're going somewhere expensive. No fast food. No rations." She shot Arto a pointed look. "You deserve a real meal, Arto. One that doesn't come in a vacuum-sealed pouch."
Arto watched her go—phone already to her ear, voice carrying down the hall as she coordinated with the rest of the peerage.