The silence that hung over the Hall of Gladsheim was not the silence of peace; it was the heavy, suffocating silence of a world view shattering.
The Einherjar, souls forged in the fires of a thousand battles, stared blankly at the center of the arena. Their champions—legends who had supped on dragon blood and wrestled giants—lay broken, unconscious, or mentally reset.
Ren Ming broke the silence. He didn't shout. He didn't posture. He simply turned to the All-Father, his hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his modern trousers, his posture slouched with the casual indifference of a man waiting for a bus rather than addressing a Chief God.
"Well, Gramps?" Ren Ming's voice cut through the stagnant air, crisp and utterly unimpressed. "That's 6-0. I believe that means we win. flawless victory. And I believe you owe me a favor."
Odin Borson sat upon Hlidskjalf, his single eye widening as he processed the scene. He looked at the bruised bodies of his elite. Then he looked at the group of "children"—devils who stood not with malice, but with a serene, terrifying enlightenment. Finally, his gaze landed on Ren Ming, the anomaly. The chaos factor Azazel had warned him about. The man who looked at gods and saw only peers.
A rumble started in Odin's chest. It grew, echoing like thunder in a canyon, until the God of Wisdom threw his head back and roared with laughter.
"BWA-HA-HA-HA!"
The sound shook the dust from the ancient rafters. "You win! By the blackened roots of Yggdrasil, you actually win!"
Odin slapped his knee with enough force to crack a mountain. "Azazel was right! You are a singularity, Ren Ming! A complete glitch in the system!"
Odin stood up, his massive frame radiating a divine aura that usually compelled mortals to kneel. Ren didn't even blink.
"The Iron Forest is yours to train in!" Odin bellowed, his voice carrying the weight of a decree. "Hunt the beasts! Sharpen your fangs! Do as you please! But tonight—tonight we feast! You have earned the right to drink from my table, not as guests, but as conquerors!"
"Now you're speaking my language," Ren Ming grinned, a sharp, feral expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But keep the weird menu items to a minimum, alright? I draw the line at fermented shark. That stuff smells like a dumpster fire in July. Nasty."
"Ha! You have no taste for culture!" Odin laughed, waving a hand. "We shall see if your liver is as strong as your mouth!"
Ren Ming turned back to his squad. They stood amidst the wreckage of the arena, adrenaline still humming in their veins. They looked different now. The hesitation was gone, burned away by the fires of combat and the Myriad Origin Scripture.
"Alright, squad," Ren Ming said, checking an imaginary watch on his wrist. "Field trip part one is over. Go shower, get changed. Scrub the giant guts off. Tonight we party with the Gods. And tomorrow... we hunt wryverns."
Issei pumped his fist, his eyes burning with a new, intense light. "Hell yeah!"
Akeno licked her lips, a spark of golden lightning dancing across her tongue. "Wryverns... I wonder how they scream?"
Ren Ming chuckled, shaking his head. He wrapped one arm around Rias and the other around Akeno, pulling them close. He ignored the shocked gasps of the Norse nobility at his casual handling of the Gremory Heiress. "Yeah, yeah, settle down, Sparky. And just don't get too drunk. I don't want to explain to Sirzechs why Issei is tattooed with bonding runes and legally married to a dwarf in the morning."
...
The Great Hall of Gladsheim was a sensory assault. It was a cathedral of hedonism, lit by floating braziers of eternal fire. The air was thick with the scent of roasted boar, the copper tang of spilled mead, and the musk of unwashed revelry.
Ren Ming sat at the head table, lounging with the relaxed sprawl of a man at a backyard barbecue rather than a formal divine banquet. He picked up a leg of lamb, glistening with divine fat.
As he took a bite, the Ancient Ming Bloodline surged. It didn't digest the food; it devoured it. The passive ability of his physique acted like a black hole, stripping the divine nutrients and mana from the meat instantly. Energy rushed through his meridians, refined by the Myriad Origin Scripture, and settled into his Dantian with a satisfied hum. To Ren, this wasn't just dinner; it was cultivation resources.
Down in the general seating area, Issei Hyoudou was experiencing a paradigm shift.
Usually, Issei was the background character, the pervert who was laughed at. But Valhalla respected only one thing: violence. And Issei had just punched a legend through a wall.
"That punch," a blonde Valkyrie said, leaning over the table. Her armor was loose, revealing pale, scarred skin, and she poured ale into Issei's horn-cup with a heavy hand. "You absorbed Gondul's impact? The kinetic vectoring... how did your bones not powderize?"
Issei looked at her. In the past, he would have stammered, his eyes darting to her chest. Now, he met her gaze. He felt grounded.
"It's all about the flow," Issei said, his voice dropping an octave. He sat with his chest puffed out, not in arrogance, but in confidence. "Ren-sensei taught me that force is just energy looking for a home. I didn't fight the wave; I became the shore. I just gave the energy new directions."
The Valkyries laughed, a musical, dangerous sound. Issei took a swig of the ale, realizing something profound. Strength creates gravity. He didn't need to chase women or beg for attention. He just had to be the strongest thing in the room, the sun in the solar system, and they would naturally come to orbit.
From the high table, Ren Ming watched Issei with a faint smirk, swirling the crimson wine in his goblet.
"Kid's finally learning," Ren muttered to himself. "Confidence is the best cologne. Beats that Axe body spray crap any day of the week."
Ren shifted his attention to the two women sitting stiffly near the end of the high table. Tiamat, the Karma Chaos Dragon King, and Grayfia Lucifuge, the Strongest Queen.
They looked miserable. In a hall of boisterous laughter and flying food, they sat with backs as straight as rulers. They barely touched their food, their eyes darting around the room, scanning for assassination attempts, political traps, or hidden spells. They looked like they were attending a funeral for the world.
Ren Ming stood up, grabbing his wine bottle. He slid his chair over to them. The sound of wood scraping against stone was deliberately loud, cutting through their tension.
"You two look like you're waiting for the arrival of an Immortal Emperor." Ren drawled, leaning his chin on his palm and staring at them.
Grayfia blinked, her silver hair shimmering in the firelight. She adjusted her maid outfit, though it was already perfect. "I beg your pardon? I do not know what an Immortal Emperor is, but we are simply maintaining vigilance. We are in foreign territory, Ren-sama. The Norse are unpredictable."
"And I am a Dragon King," Tiamat huffed, crossing her arms under her substantial chest, pushing her assets up. Her slit pupils narrowed. "I don't 'party' with Norse brutes. Their mead is swill and their manners are nonexistent."
"Relax," Ren Ming said. He reached over and poured wine into Grayfia's empty goblet, ignoring the way her hand twitched toward a defensive spell. "The old man Odin is drunk off his ass. The guards are unconscious or nursing broken ribs. If anyone attacks, I'll handle it. You guys are off the clock."
"A maid is never off the clock," Grayfia stated, though she didn't stop him from pouring.
"That's a toxic work culture right there," Ren shook his head, looking genuinely disappointed. "Look, Tiamat, Grayfia. You guys are powerful. Top of the food chain. But you're wound tighter than a snare drum. You need to loosen up. Stress creates cortisol, cortisol ruins your complexion and blocks your meridians. It's science. Basically."
Tiamat glared at him. "Are you lecturing a Dragon King, who has lived for millennia, on biology?"
"I'm lecturing you on vibes," Ren corrected seamlessly. He clinked his cup against Tiamat's, forcing her to acknowledge the toast. "You're stiff. It messes with your energy flow. Drink the wine. Eat the boar. Laugh at the naked guy dancing on the table over there. If you can't enjoy the peace, what exactly are you fighting for? Retirement?"
Grayfia looked at the wine, then at the naked Einherjar currently wrestling a bear, and finally at Ren's dark, amused eyes. There was no deception in him. No Devil politics. Just a brash, unfiltered honesty that felt like a splash of cold water.
"Vibes..." Grayfia tested the word on her tongue. It felt ridiculous. It felt... liberating. She took a sip.
"There you go," Ren Ming grinned, flashing perfect white teeth. "Baby steps. We'll work on getting you to dance on a table later."
Leaving the two powerhouses to process his casual disrespect of their social standing, Ren Ming slipped away. The feast had mutated. It was no longer a celebration; it was a riot.
Einherjar were stacking tables to create makeshift wrestling rings. A dwarf was arm-wrestling a dragonkin on top of a keg, veins bulging, while onlookers placed bets in gold and gemstones. Odin was in his element, one arm around a busty Valkyrie, the other clutching a barrel of mead, laughing so loudly the sound waves were practically visible.
Ren Ming moved through the chaos like a ghost. He held a fresh horn of mead, his eyes scanning the room. He wasn't looking for threats—his Immortal Soul Bone would alert him to danger instantly.
He was looking for patterns. He was reading the room's source code.
He saw the flow of mana currents, the social dynamics, the hidden tensions. And then, his gaze snagged on a splash of white armor standing near the base of Odin's throne, isolated from the madness.
Rossweisse.
She stood straight as a spear, her silver hair tied back in a severe, practical style. Her aqua eyes flicked between Odin and the room with the hyper-vigilance of a Secret Service agent who hadn't slept in a week.
Her shield leaned against the wall within arm's reach, but her real weapon was active. A complex, three-dimensional Norse magic circle faintly glowed and rotated above her open palm. It was a masterpiece of multitasking—regulating the warding, stabilizing the structural integrity of the hall against the impacts of the brawls, and filtering out accidental magical discharges.
Ren Ming noticed her cup was still mostly full.
'Lightweight, huh,' he thought, a faint smile touching his lips. He recalled how easily she had flushed earlier when an Einherjar tried to push a drink on her.
She looked tired. Not the fatigue of the body, but the exhaustion of the soul. It was the look of someone who had spent decades being the responsible adult in a room full of toddlers who happened to be gods.
Odin threw his head back, laughing at a raunchy joke about a frost giant and a goat. Then, he twisted in his seat, his single eye locking onto Rossweisse with a sly, drunken grin.
"Relax, girl!" Odin barked, his voice booming. "We are celebrating! Stop scowling at the runes and find yourself a man for once! A Valkyrie with no boyfriend is a sad thing indeed!"
The hall erupted in laughter. Several warriors snickered. Someone actually booed on her behalf—good-naturedly, they thought, but it was salt in the wound.
Rossweisse's jaw tensed. A flush of humiliation shot up her neck, turning her ears pink. The magic circle above her hand flickered, destabilizing for a microsecond before she clamped down on it.
"I-I am Odin-sama's bodyguard," she said stiffly, her voice tight. "It would be improper for me to abandon my post for something as frivolous as—"
"Frivolous?" Odin cackled, wiping mead from his beard. "You're nearly two decades behind schedule! At this rate, your first kiss will be at your retirement party! We'll have to bury you with your cats!"
The laughter doubled. It was a wave of sound that crashed against her.
Rossweisse's eyes shone with unshed tears for a split second—too quick for the drunkards to see. She bowed her head, letting her long bangs hide her expression, accepting the role of the punchline.
Ren Ming, who had been watching the vectors in the room, saw it perfectly. The micro-expression of pain. The trembling of her fingers.
He sighed, tipping back a mouthful of mead. The flavor was rich, honeyed, and strong.
"Time to intervene," he muttered.
Ren Ming walked over, casually inserting himself into the space between the throne and the bodyguard. He leaned against a pillar, invading Odin's personal space with the confidence of a man who owned the building.
"Hey, Gramps," Ren said, his voice cutting through the noise. "You planning to keep insulting your own defense budget all night? Or are you gonna pass the meat?"
Odin blinked, the laughter dying in his throat. "My... what?"
Ren Ming jerked his thumb at Rossweisse.
"You know. The high-spec, A-rank Norse mage who's holding your entire hall together with one hand while you try to drown your liver with the other."
A silence rippled outward from the throne. A couple of the closer Einherjar, sobered by Ren's tone, glanced at the magic circle above Rossweisse's palm. Then, they looked harder. They saw the chest-high stack of other circles nested invisibly around the hall—reinforcement arrays, temperature regulation scripts, spill-cleaning runes, anti-poison filters, kinetic dampeners.
It was a logistical marvel. And most of them hadn't even noticed it existed.
Ren Ming smiled lazily, but his eyes were sharp as flint.
"From a resource perspective," he continued, swirling his cup, "mocking your primary asset for not having a boyfriend is... questionable leadership. If she quits, who cleans up the vomit? Thor? I doubt it."
The room went quieter than it should have. The air grew heavy.
Rossweisse's head snapped up, her eyes wide with shock. No one spoke to the All-Father like that.
Odin stared at Ren in disbelief. The God's eye narrowed, assessing the insolence. Then, unexpectedly, he barked out a laugh so loud it made the lanterns tremble.
"Hah! Asset, he says!" Odin slapped his knee again. "Boy, you have a mouth on you! You speak treason, but you speak it with style! Fine, fine. I will leave my poor, boyfriend-less Valkyrie alone for the next five minutes." He winked at Rossweisse. "See? I can be merciful."
She sputtered, clutching her staff. "O-Odin-sama, that is not—"
Ren Ming stepped between them, effectively shielding her from the God's gaze. He turned so he and Rossweisse were side-by-side, creating a private bubble in the public chaos.
"Mind if I borrow her, Chief?" Ren Ming asked, not really asking. "Professional interest. I've never seen Norse wards woven that tightly around a social event. It's sexy."
Pffft.
Several Valkyries choked on their drinks. Issei, watching from afar, gave a silent thumbs up.
Rossweisse made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a cough. Her face turned the color of a tomato.
Odin raised a bushy eyebrow, amused. "Sexy, he says. Kid, if you get her to stop crying about not having a boyfriend every time someone mentions the word 'romance,' I'll grant you another forest."
"Tempting," Ren Ming said. "We'll start with a conversation and see where it goes."
He didn't wait for permission. He just guided Rossweisse a few steps away with an easy, nonthreatening presence, like he was escorting a colleague to look over a schematic rather than picking up a woman.
Once they were out of the direct spotlight, Ren leaned against a stone pillar and tilted his head toward her hand.
"Your control's impressive," he said, his tone shifting from mocking to genuine technical appreciation. "You're running how many layers at once? The refresh rate on that barrier is insane."
Rossweisse blinked, still processing the fact that someone had just deflected Odin's teasing instead of joining in. Her brain rebooted, latching onto the one thing she understood: Magic theory.
"...Sixteen," she answered automatically, professionalism kicking in. "Twenty-two, if you count the passive filters. The Einherjar are... enthusiastic. If I relax the spill runes, half the hall will be a slipping hazard in ten minutes, and the structural integrity of the floor would be compromised by the stomping."
Ren Ming let out a low whistle. "Damn. That is some serious multitasking. My apologies," he said solemnly, "for underestimating the scope of your suffering."
Her lips twitched. The faintest hint of amusement warred with her habitual irritation.
"I wouldn't call it... suffering," she said, adjusting her glasses. "This is my job."
"Right," Ren Ming said dryly. "Your job is to hold back a tidal wave of drunk demigods and horny gods with a floating homework assignment and then get roasted for being single. Totally reasonable workplace conditions."
Her cheeks colored again, but this time the magic circle above her palm steadied. She looked at him, really looked at him.
"...You shouldn't speak so lightly to Odin-sama," she murmured, though her voice lacked real heat. "He is the Chief God of the Norse pantheon."
Ren Ming shrugged, taking a sip of mead. "And you're the one preventing his throne room from turning into a crater every time someone arm-wrestles on a keg. I respect both roles. But I respect the person keeping the roof up a little more."
He watched her shoulders relax a fraction. The tension that had been holding her upright like a puppet string loosened.
Ren gestured with his chin at her glowing formation. "You know," he said, dropping the voice to a conspiratorial level, "you'd get along really well with my system. You've got the mind for it."
Rossweisse blinked. "Your... system?"
"My cultivation method," Ren clarified. "I call it the Myriad Origin Scripture. It's what I used to tweak Rias' peerage, and what's letting them casually tank your elites while still looking good under bad lighting."
Her eyes sharpened at once. The academic within her woke up.
"Oh. The... loop-based circulation technique?" she asked, stepping closer. "I felt something unusual in their mana channels during the earlier matches. It was... unnaturally stable. Almost no leakage, and the backlash resistance was geometrically higher than standard Devil physiology allows."
She caught herself rambling and snapped her mouth shut, flushing. "S-sorry. That was unprofessional of me. I shouldn't pry into proprietary techniques without permission. It is rude to ask a magician for their secrets."
Ren Ming's smile widened.
'Academia nerd. Got it. Hook, line, and sinker.'
"You can pry," he said, his voice smooth. "I like people who actually notice details. Most of the room just saw 'devils strong, punch hard.' You felt the flow. You saw the math behind the miracle."
He tilted the horn in her direction.
"Quick version: Myriad Origin Scripture takes all the energy people usually waste—overcasting, emotional bleed, Aura flexing for no reason—and cycles it back into the core. It turns the body into a closed-loop reactor. Zero waste. Maximum efficiency."
Rossweisse's pupils dilated just a bit. For someone who had spent her life perfecting runes to protect idiots bigger than her, the idea of absolute efficiency was better than romance. It was catnip.
"That's... incredibly efficient," she said slowly, her mind racing with calculations. "The average Norse mage loses almost thirty percent of their output to excess spin and thermal bleed during battle conditions. You're saying you can recapture that?"
"More, once they build the right internal structures," Ren Ming said confidently. "Rias is already down to single-digit loss when she gets serious. Asia can run a battlefield-wide suppression field without fainting now. Koneko turned a half-giant's femur into powder and didn't even blow out her joints because she recycled the kinetic recoil."
Rossweisse's gaze flicked toward the Gremory peerage, who were currently arguing with a group of warriors over whether Issei's punch counted as "cheating" or "genius."
"...I did notice their reserves seemed abnormal for their apparent age," she admitted. "I assumed it was Devil biology, or Azazel's tinkering."
Ren Ming snorted. "Azazel? Please. His tinkering is outdated. Brilliant guy, sure, but if he were a programmer, he'd be the kind who keeps adding features to spaghetti code instead of refactoring the kernel. He patches holes; I rebuild the engine."
Rossweisse actually laughed at that—a small, startled sound, quickly stifled behind her hand.
"I... may have written a few essays on system inefficiencies in Norse defensive protocols," she said, unable to quite keep the pride out of her voice. "They were... not well received. My superiors prefer tradition over optimization."
"Of course they do," Ren Ming said, rolling his eyes. "Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people. It's 'we've always done it wrong, so let's keep doing it wrong.'"
She bit her lip, torn between agreement and loyalty. "...Some traditions exist for a reason," she murmured. "But... yes. There are flaws. I tried to address them."
"And they ignored you," Ren Ming guessed.
She didn't answer. She didn't need to. The slump of her shoulders said it all.
Ren took another drink, then glanced sideways at her. He decided to drop the bomb.
"Well," he said lightly, "for what it's worth, I'd hire the hell out of you."
Her head snapped around. "E-Eh?!"
"I mean, think about it," Ren Ming went on, as if he hadn't just dropped a conversational nuke. "You're a high-rank Valkyrie, top-tier Norse mage, already running a full-suite ward package on the fly while dodging emotional abuse. Give you Myriad Origin's closed-loop, and you could probably maintain city-scale defenses on a coffee break."
He met her eyes, his usual lazy grey gaze sharpened with genuine respect.
"A system like mine needs people who understand load balancing, failure points, redundancies. Most so-called geniuses just want to throw bigger fireballs. You? You actually think about how the machine works. That's rare. That's valuable."
Rossweisse's brain short-circuited. Value? Rare?
"I—I... that's... I mean..." Her words tangled. "I am Odin-sama's bodyguard," she managed eventually, falling back on her script. "And my current salary package is... acceptable. The benefits are—"
Odin, who had clearly been eavesdropping despite his earlier promise, shouted across the hall.
"Benefits, she says! Hah! Girl, you practically pay me for the honor of babysitting! The prestige is your payment!"
A wave of laughter rolled through the room again.
Rossweisse flinched, shoulders hunching.
Ren Ming didn't look away from her. He stepped closer, blocking the sound of the laughter with his presence.
"See?" he said quietly. "That's what I mean by questionable leadership."
He shifted his weight, making the offer sound almost casual, yet deadly serious.
"If you ever get tired of being underpaid, overworked, and mocked instead of appreciated," he said, "come find me. I can't promise cushy work—my life is chaos—but I can promise two things."
She swallowed hard. "...What things?"
"One," Ren said, holding up a finger. "I pay people what they're worth. In training, in resources, in trust. And money. Lots of money. I know the 100-Yen shop sales are enticing, but imagine buying full price."
Her eyes widened at the mention of sales.
"Two," Ren continued, his voice dropping to a low growl that vibrated with the intent of an Ancient Saint. "Anyone who insults my people gets their teeth kicked in. Verbally or literally, depending on the day. I don't tolerate disrespect toward my own."
It was half joke, half vow. The kind of thing anyone else might say to flirt, but with Ren, there was a solid, terrifying aura under it. He meant it.
Rossweisse looked at him as if seeing him properly for the first time—not just as an anomalous powerhouse, but as someone offering her something she'd never really had.
Respect.
"...That is... a very unorthodox recruitment pitch," she said at last, her voice faintly dry to hide her trembling.
"You should see the PowerPoint," Ren grinned, the tension breaking. "I even have slides about the best Spirit essence for alchemy. I heard you like discounts? I have connections."
"Spirit... what?"
"I'll explain later. Might blow your mind."
She coughed, the corners of her mouth twitching again. A genuine smile threatened to break through.
"I appreciate the sentiment," she said, regaining a bit of her professional composure. "But... I have duties. And I am not... I mean, I'm not thinking about things like... boyfriends, or..."
Her voice cracked slightly on the last word. The wound was still fresh.
Ren's answer was gentler this time. He leaned in slightly, invading her personal space just enough to be intimate without being threatening.
"That's fine," he said. "For the record, though? Any man who looks at you and only sees 'the Valkyrie without a boyfriend' instead of 'the genius mage keeping an entire pantheon alive despite budget cuts' is an idiot. A complete moron."
Rossweisse stared at him.
Heat rushed to her face all at once, hotter than fire magic. She dropped her gaze, suddenly very interested in her boots.
"You... you shouldn't say things like that so easily," she muttered. "People might... misunderstand."
"Good," Ren said.
She blinked, looking up. "...Good?"
"Yeah." He grinned, a boyish, charming expression. "Misunderstand that you're valuable. Misunderstand that you deserve better. Misunderstand that maybe, just maybe, you're allowed to want more than a stack of unpaid overtime."
He shrugged, turning slightly away to give her space to breathe, his gaze drifting back over the hall.
"Anyway," he added, his tone lighter again. "If you're ever curious about Myriad Origin on a more technical level, you know where to find me. I have an open schedule."
Rossweisse's fingers flexed, the magic circle above her hand shifting almost unconsciously to compensate for a massive spike in her heart rate.
"...I... may have some questions," she admitted, very quietly. "Purely... academic ones. About the... loops."
"Those are my favorite kind," Ren said. "Academic questions with very practical applications."
Suddenly, a massive crash echoed from the wrestling area.
Ren looked over. Issei had just suplexed an Ogre. The Ogre, a creature weighing easily four hundred pounds, had been folded in half like a cheap lawn chair.
"Holy shit," Issei yelled, holding his hands up. "I didn't mean to bend him that way!"
Ren Ming sighed, rubbing his temples.
"And that," he said, "is my cue to go prevent my student from dying of stupidity or getting sued for chiropractic malpractice."
He gave Rossweisse a small, respectful nod.
"Thanks for keeping the roof over our heads, Rossweisse," he said, using her name deliberately. "For what it's worth? You're doing a damn good job."
Then he sauntered off toward the chaos, mead in hand, already yelling something about "proper grappling fundamentals" and "don't break the toys, Issei."
Rossweisse watched him go, her cheeks still warm, her heart beating just a bit too fast against her ribs.
"...Unbelievable," she muttered to herself.
But the magic circle above her palm hummed steadier than it had all night. And for the first time in a long time, when Odin's laughter boomed across the hall, the words "no boyfriend" didn't feel quite as heavy on her shoulders.