Kuoh's commercial district was busy, but the side street Ren picked felt like it belonged to another world.
It was quieter there. Old-fashioned shopfronts with wooden signs, a row of vending machines humming softly, the sweet smell of sugar and baked bread spilling from a small Western-style bakery that Asia loved.
"Ren-san!"
Asia's voice rang out before he even saw her.
She waved both hands over her head, nearly tripping over her own feet in her hurry. Her light steps pattered on the pavement, blonde hair fluttering behind her.
Koneko followed a few steps back, hands tucked into her hoodie pockets, expression flat but eyes tracking Asia's every wobble with the alertness of a guard cat.
Ren opened his arms.
"Morning, sweethearts."
Asia ran straight into his chest, hugging him with all the innocent enthusiasm in the world. "Good morning! Um, th-thank you for inviting me out again…"
He slid one hand to the back of her head, fingers weaving gently through soft blonde hair.
"I told you, Asia," he said, voice warm and easy. "Spending time with you is one of my favorite things."
She made a tiny, happy sound and nuzzled against him, as if trying to soak up every drop of that warmth.
Koneko stopped right in front of him, looking up with her usual deadpan stare.
"Me too," she said.
Ren smiled, that calm, lazy smile that never seemed to leave his face.
"Of course you too."
He scooped her up without warning, settling her against his side like she weighed nothing. Her legs left the ground with a little jerk; she let out a soft "Nya—" before clamping her mouth shut, cheeks puffing.
"Unfair," she muttered. "You smelled like Rias yesterday. And Akeno. Too much other-girl smell."
Ren chuckled, not even pretending to be innocent.
Koneko looked away, but Ren's spiritual perception—honed by the Myriad Origin Scripture—caught the twitch of the invisible ears atop her head.
"Just… claiming what's mine," she grumbled, burying her face slightly in his shoulder. "I'm your Rook. I need to make sure you don't get stolen."
"You could just say you missed me, you know." His voice dropped an octave, gentle and teasing, lacking any malice.
Ren only smiled and shifted his hold so Asia could walk tight against his other side, practically glued to his arm as they headed for the bakery.
...
The bakery smelled like sugar, butter, and nostalgia.
Warm light spilled over polished wooden tables. A soft jazz track played in the background, just loud enough to fill the space, not enough to drown voices. The staff already recognized them; a waitress bowed with a bright smile as they came in.
"Welcome back."
Ren ordered without even glancing at the menu.
"Parfait with the fruit mix and extra whipped cream," he said. "And the taiyaki, fresh batch. One milk tea, one black coffee, and orange juice."
Asia blinked up at him. "You remembered…"
"Of course I remembered." He gave her a small, amused look. "You looked like you were going to cry when they were out of parfait last time."
Her cheeks turned pink. "Th-that was… only a little…"
Koneko eyed him, unimpressed. "What about me?"
"Fresh taiyaki," he said. "Hot enough to burn the roof of your mouth if you're careless. You always eat the tail first."
She froze. "…You were watching?"
"I always watch," he replied calmly. "Bad habit from another life."
Asia tilted her head. "Another life?"
He just smiled and didn't explain, following the waitress to a corner table with a good view of the street.
When the desserts arrived, Asia's eyes shone. The parfait was a ridiculous tower—layers of cut fruit, custard, ice cream, whipped cream, and soft sponge cake. She clasped her hands together, practically vibrating.
"It's beautiful…"
"Eat it before it melts," Ren said, amused.
Across from her, Koneko stared at her plate: taiyaki arranged neatly with a small scoop of vanilla ice cream. Her face stayed stoic, but Ren could practically feel the invisible tail swaying.
He picked up his chopsticks, snapped them apart, and held one golden-brown fish up.
"Koneko," he said. "Say 'ah'."
Her lips flattened. "…This is stupid."
He didn't move the food closer. Just watched her, elbow resting casually on the table, expression patient.
Asia covered her mouth to hide a smile.
Seconds ticked by. Koneko's gaze flicked from the taiyaki to his face, then away again. The tips of her ears—hidden for most people, obvious to Ren—warmed.
Finally, she leaned forward, took a small bite, and chewed.
Her eyes widened a fraction at the taste, the crisp shell giving way to steaming sweet filling.
"Good?" he asked.
"…Acceptable," she replied, looking away.
"Mm. I'll tell the chef he achieved 'Acceptable'," Ren said mildly. "It sounds like a high ranking."
Asia giggled again, spoon clinking against the parfait glass as she took her first bite. "It's so good…"
They ate slowly. Asia tried to imitate Ren's pace and failed, ending up with whipped cream on her nose. He leaned over, wiped it off with his thumb, and flicked it lightly onto her lips.
"There," he said. "Recycling."
She blushed all the way to her ears.
"Th-that's embarrassing…"
"Cute is allowed to be embarrassing," he said. "It's part of the package."
Koneko pretended to focus entirely on her taiyaki but kept glancing at them from the corner of her eye, cheeks faintly pink.
...
The afternoon stretched out soft and bright.
They tried a crane game at a small arcade. Ren stood back with his hands in his pockets while Asia cheered and Koneko stared flatly at the machine.
"Ren," Koneko said. "These are scams."
"Of course they're scams."
"Then why are you spending money?"
Ren tilted his head, eyes half-lidded.
"Because my Rook wants that cat plush," he said. "Scam or not, that part's real."
Koneko puffed out her cheeks. "I did not say I wanted it."
"You stared at it for ten seconds and your aura softened," he replied. "That's louder than words."
He moved closer, steering the claw with small, precise movements. The first attempt missed. The second caught the plush by one ear, only for it to slip and fall.
Asia winced. "Ah… so close…"
"Mm. Third time's the charm," Ren murmured.
On the third try, he let his gaze relax, feeling the machine's weak pressure, the tiny delay between button press and movement. He adjusted half a beat earlier than a normal player would. The claw dropped, grabbed the plush cleanly, and dragged it into the chute.
"–!"
Asia clapped. Koneko's eyes widened just a little before she schooled her face back to neutral.
Ren bent, picked up the cat plush, and pressed it into Koneko's arms.
"Delivery for the local guardian spirit," he said.
She stared down at it. "…I'm not a guardian spirit."
"Could've fooled me," Ren said. "You keep trying to guard everything."
Her fingers tightened on the plush.
"…Thank you," she muttered. "…I will protect it."
"Of course you will."
They wandered to a small park afterwards. Children ran around, their laughter mixing with the rustle of leaves. Asia leaned on the railing overlooking a sandbox, watching them with a soft, distant smile.
"They look so happy…" she murmured.
"You like kids?" Ren asked.
"Yes," she said immediately, then hesitated. "I… I always wanted to help people. That's why I became a Sister. But then…"
Her fingers curled on the railing, memories flickering in her eyes: excommunication, betrayal, the harsh words of those who should have protected her.
Ren stepped close, his presence steady behind her.
"You're still helping people," he said quietly. "You just changed uniforms. That's all."
She swallowed. "Ren-san…"
"And you don't have to do it alone anymore," he added. "You've got a King who dotes on you, a Rook who glowers at anyone suspicious, a dragon-obsessed idiot in training… and me."
Her shoulders relaxed, a small tremor leaving her body.
"…That's true," she said. "It feels… warm."
Koneko watched them from a nearby bench, hugging the cat plush. Her gaze was calm, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.
...
Later, after the sun dipped and the streetlights came on one by one, the ORC clubroom was quiet.
Rias and Akeno had already left. Koneko had claimed her usual sofa, curled up with her new plush, eyes half-closed. The ticking of the clock filled the spaces between breaths.
Asia stood in front of Ren, fingers curling in the hem of her skirt.
"Um… Ren," she murmured, eyes flickering up to his before darting away. "C-could… could you… kiss me again?"
He stepped closer until her breath hitched, and lifted a hand to her cheek. There was still a faint smudge of flour near her temple from baking with Rias earlier; he brushed it away with his thumb.
"Of course," he said softly. "Only if you want it."
"I… I do."
He lowered his head slowly, giving her time to flinch or retreat. She didn't. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling, lips parted just slightly.
The kiss he gave her was almost painfully gentle.
Asia trembled at first, every muscle tense, as if some buried script from the Church would leap up and condemn her. But Ren's presence was steady, his arm around her back warm, his bloodline's ancient power smoothing over those tangled fears.
He didn't devour. He didn't push.
He just held her, lips moving against hers in an unhurried rhythm that said, I'm here. You're allowed to want this.
Her hands lifted hesitantly, then rested against his chest. Somewhere in that simple warmth, the echo of harsh labels—impure, sinful, cursed—cracked and fell away.
When they finally parted, Asia's face was red to the tips of her ears, chest rising and falling quickly. But her smile… her smile could have outshone any angel's halo.
"T-thank you," she whispered. "I… I feel…"
"Like the world's a little less cruel?" he suggested.
She nodded rapidly.
On the sofa, Koneko cracked one eye open.
"Hmph," she muttered. "Asia got bolder."
Ren laughed quietly.
"That's cultivation," he said, lips quirking. "Her Dao Heart is blooming."
Asia ducked her head with a bright, flustered grin.
....
Between soft dates and rewrites of sacred fears, Ren's contact talismans never stayed quiet for long.
They floated around him like lazy fireflies whenever he was at his manor—thin slips of refined material, etched in Dao script only he fully understood and overlaid with local magic circles. Each one was attuned to a different faction, its glow and aura flavor making the caller obvious at a glance.
When one flared with a particularly aggressive shade of pink, leaving glitter trails in the air, he didn't even need to check.
He sighed fondly and picked it up, letting the talisman hover in front of him.
"Yo, Sera."
"Hiii, Ren-chan!"
Serafall Leviathan's voice burst through like a magical girl opening theme. The projection bloomed from the talisman—there she was, Maou of the Underworld, in full magical girl costume. Twintails bounced, wand twirled, her pose sparkled. Behind her, an enormous stack of paperwork loomed like a small mountain.
"Did you miss me? You missed me, right? You totally missed me~"
Ren leaned back in his chair, propping his cheek on his hand, smile relaxed.
"I did," he said honestly. "My daily glitter levels were getting dangerously low."
Serafall's eyes lit up. "Fufu~ As expected of my future boyfriend! You understand the importance of magical girl power☆ So, so, listen—what kind of date do you like? Amusement park? Aquarium? Magical girl stage show? I can book the whole venue! Maou perks, you know?"
"I don't need a private venue," Ren replied, amused. "I just want you off the clock for one day. No paperwork. No Council meetings. No worrying about Sona's blood pressure. Just you, being yourself."
Serafall blinked.
Then blinked again. The wand drooped slightly.
"…E-eh? Just… me?" She fidgeted, cheeks puffing. "That's… kind of unfair, Ren-chan."
"How is that unfair?"
She twirled a strand of hair around her finger, her usual loud sparkle dimming into something more uncertain.
"B-because when you say it like that," she mumbled, eyes darting aside, "it feels like a real date. Not just, you know, playing around."
Ren's smile softened.
"That's because it is," he said. "I told you already. I intend to date you, Sera. I'm not joking with you."
Her face went pink, almost perfectly matching the talisman's glow. She tried to hide behind her wand and failed.
"Y-you can't just say that so casually…" she complained, voice thinning out. "Honestly, you're really… you're really…"
"Charming?" he suggested.
"…Unfair," she finished, but the way her eyes sparkled betrayed her delight. "Fine! I'll squeeze out a day. One full day off. No Maou work. You better make it fun, okay?"
"Leave it to me," Ren said. "I'll kidnap you from the paperwork mountain and return you in one piece."
She sniffed, grinning. "Maa, I'll be waiting, then~"
They chatted a bit more—half-serious discussion of political ripples from Asgard, half ridiculous magical girl jokes—before he hung up, still smiling.
Other talismans lit less dramatically, but just as surely.
Rossweisse called sometimes under the pretense of "clarifying certain interactions between your… cultivation field and existing ward systems," but Ren heard the difference between their first meeting in Gladsheim and now.
Back then, her voice had been rigid iron—all duty, no space for herself. Now, though she still spoke quickly and stuffed her sentences with terminology, there was a subtle looseness in them, as if talking to him let her forget, for a bit, that she was "the Valkyrie with no boyfriend."
"…and if your field continues to generate that kind of ambient pressure," she said once, surrounded by stacks of reference books, "then setting up a layered Norse ward will require entirely new classifications. I might have to draft an additional treatise just to—"
"Do it," Ren cut in. "Your treatises are going to be required reading in a few years."
She sputtered. "D-don't say such impossible things. I just want to make sure no one gets hurt."
"That's exactly the kind of person who should be writing new fundamentals," he said. "You see the details no one else catches, Rossweisse. That's a gift. Stop acting like it's a crime."
There was a small, stunned silence on the other end.
"…You're too good with words," she muttered at last. "I called to talk about barriers, not to be praised…"
"Too late," Ren said. "Praise is part of the package. Free upgrade."
She short-circuited and hung up shortly after that.
Three days later, she called again. "About that circulation pattern you mentioned…"
Amaterasu's talisman always ignited with a clean, sun-bright light.
Even across distance, Ren could feel her attention like a still, burning disk in the sky—never fully descending, but impossible to ignore.
"So," he said once, leaning against his veranda pillar while summer insects hummed in the Kuoh night. "How's the sun today?"
"…Radiant, as always," came the calm reply. The goddess' voice was cool and composed, each word shaped like a perfect brushstroke. "You may rest assured the star has not fallen from the sky in the two days since we last spoke."
"Good," Ren said. "I'd be upset if my favorite goddess got fired."
There was a pause.
"…Flattery," Amaterasu said at last, a hint of wryness slipping through. "A cheap tactic."
"Who said anything about flattery?" Ren replied. "I don't waste lies on strong women. You'd notice immediately."
Silence again, but this time it felt different. Lighter, somehow.
"You are excessively confident," she murmured. "…And excessively at ease with saying such things."
"It's more fun that way," he said. "Besides, the world already has enough people scared to speak honestly around gods. I'd rather be the weird foreigner who doesn't get the memo."
He heard the ghost of a laugh on the line, carefully muffled.
"…You truly are a strange man, Ren Ming."
"I've been working hard on it," he said cheerfully.
Gabriel's calls were gentler, like warm wind through a chapel window.
She always sounded a little confused by him—by how easily his words slid into the cracks in her divine composure and made her heart trip over itself.
"Gabriel," he said once, after she'd shyly admitted she had… been thinking about his words from Asgard. "In my world, people would call you 'the light that makes people kneel without realizing it.'"
"H-haa!?" she squeaked on the other end. Wings rustled audibly. "P-please don't say such things so suddenly, Ren-san. It… it makes my heart…"
"Unstable?" he suggested. "That's fine. Heartbeats are proof you're alive. Even angels should feel them sometimes."
She went quiet for long enough that he wondered if he'd gone too far.
Then, very softly:
"…Then… I will allow it. Just a little."
Notably, Amaterasu's talisman crackled with faint static the next time he picked it up, as if some solar goddess somewhere had listened to that conversation and was privately annoyed.
Ren found that amusing.
...
And then there was Tiamat.
The Chaos Karma Dragon had become a fixture in his life without ever verbally agreeing to it. She preferred his personal apartment—his "lair"—to the grand manor. It was neutral ground.
Ren returned late one evening to find her on his couch in human form, blue hair cascading over the cushions, pretending to watch a soap opera with the volume muted.
"You're back late," she said, her nose wrinkling as she caught the scent of the Gremory household. "You reek of devils."
"Traffic," Ren lied casually, stepping over the back of the couch to look down at her. "And my girlfriends are clingy. You know how it is."
She hissed, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Do not say it so proudly, human."
"Cultivator," he corrected, leaning down until their faces were inches apart. "Move over."
She refused, crossing her arms defiantly. So, Ren simply lifted her legs and sat down, placing her feet in his lap. She glared, her aura spiking into a prickly storm-blue haze, but when his hands began idly massaging her ankle, applying just the right amount of pressure to meridian points she didn't know she had, she didn't kick him.
"You are far too familiar," she muttered, her eyes closing halfway. "Do you not fear a dragon's wrath?"
"If you really wanted to bite me," Ren said calmly, "you wouldn't wait for me to finish my hug."
"…You are insufferably sure of yourself."
"Someone has to be. You've been bored for centuries, Tiamat. Let me handle the exciting parts. You just… stay. Watch. Complain when I do something dumb. It suits you."
Her cheeks colored, golden eyes turning away to the TV screen.
"You speak as if I have already agreed to… 'stay'," she said.
"You're still on my couch," he pointed out. "Actions speak louder than tsun."
"Ts… what?"
"Nothing. Come here." He pulled her slightly closer, and though her hands flew up as if to push him away, they settled on his sleeves, fingers curling in quiet surrender.
...
It was during this period that Ren noticed the change in the school atmosphere. Outside the Student Council room, he paused, listening.
"Hyoudou-kun, please refrain from flirting during council hours," Sona Sitri's exasperated voice floated through the door.
"But Kaichou," Issei protested, his voice lacking its usual whine. "I'm just explaining circulation techniques to Momo-san. It's about mana efficiency. Right?"
Inside, Momo giggled nervously. "Y-yes. He was just… showing me how to… um… 'breathe properly,' Sona-kaichou."
"It did feel… different when I tried it," Reya added.
There was a silence, then Tsubaki spoke up. "I will admit… that his explanations were clear. And his control has improved significantly. It is… logical."
Sona sighed, the sound of a woman accepting a new reality. "Hyoudou-kun… you do realize that if you cause problems, I will normally punish you."
"Right, but you can't this time," Issei said, sounding almost professional. "Ren-sensei said if I focus on training and get stronger, girls will come naturally. He's right. Plus, he scares even Ajuka-sama. I'm backed by the best."
Ren smiled, pushing off the wall and walking away. The gears were turning.
....
Between the romance and the flirting, Ren never lost sight of the primary objective: raising monsters.
Two weeks after the Asgard incident, every member of Rias' peerage had not only passed his death-themed mental trial, but also passed the third Hell Nightmare trials of their deepest fears and condensed their Soul Palaces further.
Ren hadn't gone easy on them. In the world of cultivation, mercy during training was just murder with a delay.
...
Rias stood alone in a void that stretched beyond sight.
At her feet lay her peerage—Akeno, Koneko, Kiba, Gasper, Asia—scattered like broken dolls. Their forms flickered, dissolving into ash and light, leaving only the distant echo of their voices.
You failed.
The whisper slithered around her, familiar as her own guilt.
Without Ren, you lose. Without Ren, you're nothing. A useless King who only knows how to rely on others—
"Stop," she whispered. Her hands shook. "Stop… please…"
Images flew past her. Riser's smirk. The humiliation of that first Rating Game. The way she had felt trapped, caged by a marriage contract, by her own weakness.
You can't protect anything on your own, the darkness murmured. You cling to stronger people. Your brother. Your parents. Your peerage. Him.
A silhouette appeared in front of her—Ren's back, walking away, hands in his pockets, aura flowing elsewhere.
He doesn't need you.
Rias squeezed her eyes shut. The ache in her chest was raw, real.
"…I know I've been weak," she whispered. "I know I relied on everyone. On him."
The void pressed closer, cold and suffocating.
"Then give up," it hissed. "Bow your head. Be a pretty decoration on someone else's throne."
Her breath shook.
In that suffocating dark, she remembered his hand on her head, fingers sliding through her hair with that casual fondness he never seemed to lose. She heard his voice again: You're already worthy. You just haven't caught up to yourself yet.
Her eyes snapped open.
"…No," she said, voice hoarse but steady. "I will not be just someone he protects. I will be the King who stands beside him."
Crimson power surged from deep within her—a mix of demonic energy and something sharper now, something refined through countless circulations of the Myriad Origin Scripture. Her Soul Palace, in her inner sight, flared—an incomplete but solid world, its foundation spun from her desire, her pride, her love.
The false Ren's back blurred. The void cracked.
With that single declaration, the nightmare shattered like glass struck by a hammer. Fragments fell away, dissolving into pure light that was sucked into her Soul Palace, condensing it another ten percent in a rush.
Akeno's trial dragged her back to the storm of her past.
Rain beat down in sheets. Lightning forked across a ruined shrine, casting harsh shadows. Her father stood at the edge of the courtyard, wings spread—one angelic, one fallen. Blood stained the ground.
"You're filthy," the illusion whispered. "Impure. A child of sin."
In front of her, another silhouette formed: Ren, gaze cold, lips curling in disgust.
"So that's what you are," the fake Ren said. "Half and half. A walking stain. I only liked the mask."
Akeno hugged herself, trembling, thunder echoing her heartbeat.
"He wouldn't…" she whispered. "He wouldn't look at me like that…"
The storm laughed, dark and cruel.
You know what you are.
Her legs weakened, knees hitting the muddy ground. For a moment, the weight of that old shame pressed down hard enough to crush her.
Then she remembered his hand, warm on her cheek. The way he had called her "goddess of storms" with no mockery. The way he had looked at her wings—both pairs—with calm acceptance, not revulsion.
"…No," she said, lifting her head.
Lightning cracked overhead, white for an instant instead of purple-black.
"I am Himejima Akeno," she said, voice rising. "I am my mother's daughter. My father's daughter. I am my own woman. And I am Ren's woman."
The fake Ren's face twisted.
Liar.
Real thunder answered the accusation. Akeno stood, hair whipping around her as her Soul Palace stirred—a storm-world where the sky itself seemed woven from lightning. The demonic power, the fallen angel power, the human heart in between… all of it circulated along the loops he'd taught her.
She spread her arms.
"If I'm filthy," she said, eyes narrowing, "then I'll turn the filth into thunder and burn down anyone who judges me."
Lightning fell.
The illusion burned away in an instant, consumed by a storm that answered to her alone. In the heart of that inner world, her Soul Palace solidified—walls sharpening, currents of power running smoother, her Will silhouette standing taller.
Asia's trial was a cathedral filled with whispers.
She stood in the aisle in her old habit, hands clasped around a Bible. Shadows in the pews hissed.
Monster. Heretic. Witch.
You healed a Devil. You touched them. You enjoyed it.
Ren stood at the altar this time, back lit by stained glass. His face was shadowed, unreadable.
"…Ren-san…?" Asia whispered. "D-do you… hate me now…?"
The voices rose, a tidal wave of condemnation.
Impure. Used. Dirty girl who wanted affection so badly she threw away God—
"Stop!" Asia cried out, tears starting to fall. "Please… please stop…"
The shadows only laughed.
In that chaos, she remembered the way his hand had covered hers when she first reached out with Twilight Healing after learning his art, how he'd said, very simply: You are allowed to want to be held. That has nothing to do with sin.
Her fingers tightened on the Bible.
"…God is love," she whispered. "But if the people who say they speak for Him only have hatred…"
She looked up, green eyes shining through her tears.
"Then I believe in the God who would be happy I'm smiling. I believe in the people who stayed by my side. In Rias-buchou. In everyone. In Ren."
The condemning whispers faltered.
Her Soul Palace, in her sight, was a gently glowing sanctuary—light pooling like water, her Twilight power circulating with primordial energy. His art had given her a place inside herself that no Church could ever excommunicate her from.
The cathedral walls cracked, lines of golden radiance spreading through them. The shadows shrieked and dissolved.
When Asia opened her eyes again, she stood alone in a quiet field, the air around her soft and clean.
"…I'm not dirty," she said, pressing a hand over her heart. "I'm… me."
The inner world pulsed in agreement, her Soul Palace condensing cleanly.
Koneko's nightmare was a house on fire.
Flames licked up wooden walls. The air reeked of smoke and fear. In front of her, Kuroka's back retreated down a burning corridor, tail swaying.
"You'll lose control," a mocking voice whispered. "You'll hurt them. You're better off suppressing everything."
Her own power—nekomata nature, senjutsu, touki—boiled under her skin like a fever.
She saw herself snapping, claws out, friends' blood staining her hands. She saw their fear. Their disgust.
She stood frozen, nails biting into her palms.
"…I don't want to hurt anyone," she whispered.
Then she remembered Ren's fingers combing through her hair, the way he'd held her like she was something precious, not dangerous.
He'd looked her dead in the eye and said: Power that's locked in a cage rusts. Power that's trained and accepted becomes a sword.
Koneko took a breath.
"…I'm scared," she admitted, voice tiny. "But I don't want to run anymore."
She stepped forward into the fire.
Heat roared around her, but instead of rejecting it, she let it sweep through her body, mingling with her suppressed strength. In her inner sight, a dense, compact Soul Palace flickered: a world shaped like a small, unyielding core, gravity heavy, everything orbiting a tiny sun.
Ears and tail manifested fully in that inner space, no longer hidden or denied. Her touki surged outward, not wild this time, but wrapped around her like armor.
The fire parted.
Kuroka's retreating figure paused, flickered, then shattered like ash in wind.
"…I'll protect them," Koneko whispered. "With all of me."
Her Soul Palace steadied, its structure condensing, the Myriad Origin circulation weaving seamlessly with her senjutsu.
Kiba walked down a corridor lined with corpses.
They were small, broken bodies—children from the Holy Sword Project. Friends. Faces he had tried to forget, now laid out in silent accusation.
At the far end, a raging holy light roared, so bright it threatened to erase everything. A voice thundered: Your existence is a mistake.
He gripped an invisible sword, knuckles white.
The old him would have bowed his head to that judgment, drowning in guilt and survivor's shame. But somewhere along the way, he had picked up something else: a King who trusted him, a comrade who taught him to circulate power more efficiently, a path that wasn't defined solely by the past.
"…I'll carry you," he said to the dead, voice low. "But I won't die with you."
The holy light flared, trying to crush him.
Kiba exhaled. Sword intent burst from his Soul Palace—sharp and heavy like a blade meant to split mountains. His inner world solidified: a field of countless swords, each one a technique refined through Myriad Origin Scripture, every failure turned into fuel.
He swung.
The holy judgment shattered under that cut, breaking into shards of light that were drawn into his Soul Palace, strengthening it.
Issei's trial was simple.
Endless scenes of failing to protect the girls he cared about. Rias dying. Asia dying. Akeno, Koneko, everyone. Again and again. Enemies he couldn't reach. Attacks he wasn't fast enough to block.
He screamed. Raged. Cried until his throat was raw. The dragon voice in his soul was silent, watching.
You're weak, the nightmare whispered. All your talk of a harem, and you can't save anyone.
He fell to his knees, fists pounding against invisible ground.
"I know I'm weak!" he shouted. "I know I'm an idiot! But—"
He thought of Ren, lazy smile never wavering even in the face of gods and dragons. Of the way Ren had smacked him on the back of the head and said: If you fall, you stand back up. Then you stand up again. That's all there is.
Issei's teeth clenched.
"If I fall, I'll just get stronger!" he roared, punching the ground hard enough to make the nightmare tremble. "I'm not alone anymore! I have Buchou, my friends, the dragon, and Ren-senpai! I'm not that pathetic kid anymore!"
His Soul Palace ignited—a messy, chaotic world of recycled power, Myriad Origin Scripture turning wasted energy into strength. Circulation patterns he'd once struggled to understand now ran deep, forming a loop that refused to break.
The nightmare couldn't withstand that stubbornness. It crackled, tore, and finally collapsed.
...
On the outside, each of them emerged shaken but sharper.
Their Soul Palaces—those inner worlds—were more solid now. Structures that had been blurry gained edges. Details filled in. Their thinking sharpened; noise and insecurity burned away layer by layer.
They laughed more easily. They argued more honestly.
They trained harder.
Ren watched all of it from the side, eyes half-closed, a faint, satisfied smile on his lips.
"Good," he murmured. "Now they're ready to be Senpai."
...
Two weeks after first drafting the Myriad Epoch True Self Canon, Ren decided it was time.
He called everyone to his Kuoh manor that morning.
The dining hall was warm, sunlight spilling through wide windows and catching in cups of tea. The long table was crowded—Rias with her hair down as she focused on pouring tea with practiced grace; Akeno humming under her breath as she arranged plates; Asia moving between kitchen and table with surprising efficiency; Koneko in her usual seat, already eating, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk.
Issei and Kiba heatedly debated something down the table, gesturing with chopsticks. Gasper peeked out from his box, only half-hiding now, red eyes bright.
Ren walked in with his hands in his pockets, aura relaxed, as if this were just another lazy morning and not the start of a new era.
"Morning."
Four pairs of eyes snapped to him, brightening in four different ways.
He took his time, moving around the table.
First, he leaned down behind Rias. She tilted her face up almost automatically, blue-green eyes soft. He kissed her—brief but lingering, hand resting on the back of her chair.
"Morning, princess."
She smiled, cheeks faintly pink. "Good morning."
He moved to Akeno. She closed her eyes before he even reached her, lips curving in anticipation. He kissed her a little deeper, feeling the faint crackle of lightning under her skin.
"Morning, storm goddess."
"Ufufu… good morning, Ren-sama," she purred.
Asia stood up awkwardly, hands twisting in front of her. "R-Ren…"
He cupped her cheeks gently and kissed her too—slow, reassuring, letting her lean into him. She made a tiny sound and melted, fingers gripping his sleeves.
"Morning, Asia."
"Y-yes! Good morning!"
Koneko didn't move, watching him over a mouthful of toast.
He reached down, brushed crumbs from her lips with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed her as well—short but direct.
"Morning, bigger stack."
She swallowed, eyes widening just a bit.
"Morning… idiot," she muttered, ears pink.
Issei whistled admiringly.
"Ren-sensei, your harem powers level up every day," he said.
Ren flicked a crumb at him. "Focus on your own build, disciple."
They settled as plates filled. The room buzzed with clinking utensils and small talk, the kind of comfortable noise that only forms when everyone at the table has bled together.
Ren waited until most of the food was gone before clearing his throat lightly.
"Alright," he said. "Announcements time."
Rias straightened, sensing the shift. Akeno looked up, eyes glinting. Asia and Koneko instinctively leaned closer. Issei sat up, mouth half-full, hastily swallowing.
"Today," Ren said, "I'm opening the new Art to the public."
The table went still.
"You mean… the one you've been working on?" Rias asked slowly. "The improvement over the Myriad Origin Scripture?"
"Mm." He nodded. "You guys have been running the prototype. Results are good. Time to invite the rest of the world."
Akeno's smile turned thoughtful. "Ara… you're going to let everyone taste this power? How generous."
"It'll come back to us," Ren replied. "Teaching creates karma. Karma can be recycled."
Asia fidgeted. "Um… is it safe? For everyone?"
"That's the fun part," he said, grin turning a touch sharper. "My manor isn't a charity hall. They'll have to earn their place."
Koneko's eyes narrowed slightly.
"How?" she asked.
Ren pointed his chopsticks like a commander giving orders.
"First," he said. "You lot are Senior Disciples now."
Issei blinked. "Eh?"
"Congratulations," Ren continued. "Rias, Akeno, Asia, Koneko, Issei, Kiba—you're the first class. The test subjects. You passed the mental trials. Your Soul Palaces are at sixty percent condensation and climbing. So when the newcomers act stupid…"
He made a casual flicking gesture.
"Feel free to smack them back into line."
Akeno's smile turned positively wicked.
"My, my… I can discipline disciples now?" she mused. "That sounds… fun."
Rias sighed in mock exasperation, though pride glowed in her eyes.
"As King, I suppose I should set a good example," she said. "If we're the first generation students, we can't let your reputation get dragged down by unruly juniors."
Asia pressed her hands together, troubled.
"I-I don't want to hit anyone," she said. "But… if they hurt others, then… maybe just a light tap…"
Koneko nodded. "I'll break their legs," she said calmly.
"Not that much," Ren said, amused. "Moderation, Koneko. We're training them, not harvesting."
"Mn. I'll think about it," she replied, which for her meant she'd at least try to restrain herself.
Ren drained his tea and stood, stretching lazily.
"Anyway. Finish eating. The talismans are about to start ringing."
Right on cue, several charms along the wall flared to life.
Norse runes. Heavenly light. Shinto sigils. Fallen script. Devil crests. Celtic knots. All at once, in different colors, different textures of power.
Rias stared.
"You… you invited everyone?" she asked.
"I said cultivation was open to anyone willing to walk the path," Ren replied. "Let's see who can handle the first step."
...
Ren's Kuoh manor didn't exist on any human registry.
From the outside, it resembled a traditional Japanese estate fused with something older—courtyards with stone paths, tiled roofs, sliding doors. Around it, trees whispered in a wind that didn't quite match the rest of town.
But the real difference began several dozen meters out.
Worldly energy—not just the demonic power of the Underworld or the holy light of Heaven, but thick, primordial spirit energy from Nine Worlds, modified by the Tenth and refined through his Saint Kingdom—spilled invisibly into the air.
To normal humans, the area was just… oddly quiet. They unconsciously avoided it.
To anyone with magical senses, stepping within range felt like suddenly trying to breathe underwater.
The air grew heavy. Colors sharpened, edges too crisp. Sounds seemed both closer and farther away, as if echoing across some vast inner space.
Teleportation arrays and magic circles flared to life at the outskirts, one after another.
Azazel stepped out of a Grigori portal first, coat flapping, single visible eye narrowing as it scanned everything at once. Behind him walked Penemue and a handful of carefully chosen Fallen—people he trusted not to panic.
The Governor-General clicked his tongue as he felt the pressure settle on his shoulders.
"Hoo… that's not demonic, not angelic, not divine," he muttered. "Completely foreign. Like standing inside an engine running on unknown fuel."
He sounded thrilled.
From Heaven's side, Griselda Quarta arrived in a beam of light, hands folded, expression calm but eyes sharp. Irina and Xenovia flanked her, both in their uniforms—Irina waving cheerfully at the manor, Xenovia frowning, hand already resting on Durandal's hilt.
Shinto sent shrine maidens and a few gods in human guise. Amaterasu did not come herself, but a sliver of sunlight that refused to fade lingered over one emissary's shoulder—a clear sign of attention.
From Kyoto, fox youkai arrived, robes swaying, foxfire flickering quietly in their eyes. Yasaka herself stayed behind in her city, but the way her envoys bowed toward the manor showed respect.
The Underworld sent multiple groups.
Ajuka's crest shimmered on the robes of Seekvaira Agares and a small cluster of young devils with promise. Sairaorg Bael arrived on his own, muscles tense, eyes bright with fighting spirit.
Sona came as well, glasses glinting as she adjusted them, Tsubaki at her side and several members of her peerage behind her—including a certain Hyoudou, who was trying very hard to look serious.
Rossweisse headed a squad of Valkyries, armor gleaming. She took one step onto the path and stopped, eyes widening as she felt the pressure pushing against her wards.
"This is… completely outside any Norse mana taxonomy…" she murmured, already dissecting how the foreign energy interacted with her defenses.
There were others—representatives of minor pantheons, Celtic druids carrying the smell of deep forests, a handful of independent exorcists and mercenaries who'd heard rumors of this "cultivation" and decided curiosity was worth the risk.
The path to the manor shimmered faintly.
Stones hummed with patterns only Ren truly understood—lines of Dao-script intertwined with local runes, formation plates sunk deep into the soil.
As the first group stepped forward, the air thickened.
The pressure increased tenfold.
"Guh—!"
A low-level Fallen collapsed almost immediately, forced to his knees. His wings spasmed, feathers falling as his power channels screamed under the stress.
"What is this…?" Xenovia gritted her teeth, muscles straining as if she were trying to swing a sword the size of a house.
Azazel's gaze sharpened.
"…He's using the ambient energy as a filter," he muttered. "Anyone who can't adapt even a little can't walk to the front door. Hah. That's just like you, kid."
He took a slow breath and deliberately relaxed his shoulders, loosening his usual control. Instead of pushing the foreign energy away, he let it seep into his circuits, running alongside his own power.
It was uncomfortable—like letting icy water mix into hot blood—but when he stopped fighting, the burden eased.
"…So that's how it is," he said, a grin creeping over his mouth. "He really is serious about this."
Griselda closed her eyes briefly, lips moving in a silent prayer—not asking for rescue, but for composure. She let the energy flow alongside her holy power rather than clashing with it. The strange force slid through her, testing the strength of her faith, the steadiness of her mind.
Irina shivered but imitated her.
Xenovia grimaced, trying to brute-force through at first. Holy power clashed with the foreign pressure, creating painful turbulence in her circuits. It felt like trying to sprint with a boulder tied to her back.
"Xenovia," Griselda said quietly. "Do not fight it head-on. Accept, then move."
"Tch… understood," Xenovia muttered, adjusting her stance.
Sona frowned as the weight settled around her.
"This… is dense," she said. "Everyone, circulate your power slowly. Do not reject it. Let it blend, little by little."
Her peerage obeyed, faces tightening with concentration.
Sairaorg planted his foot on the path and grinned, sweat already starting at his temples.
"So this is the field you built, Ren Ming…" he murmured. "Good. I'll crush through it."
He did not change his nature. He met the pressure with raw physical force, muscles screaming, demonic power roaring to match. His veins stood out along his neck, but he took another step. And another.
Rossweisse, behind, watched a magic circle she'd conjured crack under the ambient strain and adjusted her approach at once, dismantling the shield and instead setting up small anchors in her body, letting the energy flow around and through her like water.
Those who adapted—who learned to let the world's weight sink into their bones instead of trying to throw it off—made progress, step by slow step.
Those who insisted on brute shields fared poorly. Their shoulders hunched, breath ragged. Some turned pale; a few felt their channels twist dangerously and were forced to retreat, clutching at their ribs before something ruptured.
Ren watched from the manor gate, seated on the steps with Rias and the others behind him like a small court.
Asia winced as she saw a young exorcist vomit from strain, his comrades dragging him back.
"This is cruel…" she said softly.
"It's fair," Ren replied, eyes half-lidded. "The path of cultivation starts with accepting the world's weight. If they can't even do that, this method will kill them later."
Rias watched the struggling crowd, then glanced at him.
"You're not mocking them," she realized. "You're giving them a warning at the entrance."
"Exactly."
Koneko squinted down the path, watching Sairaorg push forward, face pale but jaw clenched.
"Some of them are surprisingly stubborn," she commented.
Ren's smile grew faintly amused.
"That guy is interesting," he said. "Don't worry about him. He'll naturally get very far."
One by one, those who refused to bend broke and stepped back. Those who learned when to yield and when to stand moved forward until, eventually, a much smaller group reached the manor's main gate.
...
The gate itself was simple wood bound with iron.
Beyond it, darkness pooled like ink—a too-deep shadow that didn't match the daylight in the courtyard beyond.
Ren stood as the first wave arrived—Azazel, Rossweisse, Sona's group, Griselda's trio, Sairaorg, Seekvaira, a few others from various factions. Sweat beaded on some brows. Even Azazel's casual slouch didn't quite hide the fact that he'd worked for this.
"Welcome," Ren said mildly. "First stage cleared."
Sona exhaled, adjusting her glasses.
"Just walking here felt like climbing a mountain," she admitted. "What exactly is this energy?"
"Different world, different heaven and earth," Ren replied. "You'll learn more inside. For now…"
He gestured at the dark threshold.
"Second stage: Nightmare."
Irina gulped. "N-nightmare…?"
"I've built a mental trial into the gate," Ren said calmly. "When you step through, you face your own bad dream—regrets, fears, weak points. No one can help you. Not your gods, not your Kings, not your friends. If you break, you get spat back out. If you endure, you enter. Simple."
Griselda's expression tightened.
"That seems… harsh," she said.
Ren's gaze softened just a little.
"It's honest," he said. "Power without a stable heart just makes bigger tragedies. I don't want disciples who can't face themselves. That's how you get fallen heroes and unstable monsters."
He stepped aside.
"Up to you."
Azazel clicked his tongue.
"Well, can't turn back after coming this far," he said. "I'll go first. If I end up screaming on the floor, try not to laugh too much, okay?"
He walked through the gate.
From the outside, he vanished.
...
Inside his own mind, Azazel stood in a field of corpses.
Broken Sacred Gears littered the ground like dissected animals. Children lay among them—faces he recognized from projects that had gone wrong, from experiments he'd sanctioned because he wanted to understand God's system.
The sky was a dirty grey, the horizon swallowed by smoke.
"You wanted to see the secrets," a voice whispered. "You called them 'research.' They died because it was interesting."
Memories crashed over him. Curiosity. Regret. The thrill of discovery. The weight of consequence he'd never be able to erase.
In front of him, he saw his current "kids"—Vali, Tobio, the others—laid out dead, casualties in a future war sparked by his games.
"Look," the nightmare snarled. "Look at all the damage you've done, old crow. You're not a teacher. You're a disaster."
Azazel stared for a long moment, then laughed—low and bitter.
"…Yeah," he said. "I know."
The whisper faltered.
"I know I screwed up," he continued. "I've made a lot of mistakes. More than these brats will ever know. But I already decided I'd carry that weight."
He looked up at the ruined sky, eyes sharp.
"I don't need your help reminding me."
He walked forward.
Each step crunched through corpses that dissolved into light. The shattered Gears flickered out. The smoke thinned.
In the center of his chest, something steadied—a decision he'd made over and over without putting it into words: to take responsibility, to teach properly this time, to stand between kids and the worst parts of the world instead of throwing them into it for data.
The nightmare couldn't hold against that resolve. It shattered.
From the outside, only a few seconds had passed.
Azazel emerged on the far side of the gate, exhaling like he'd just stubbed his toe, not walked through a field of ghosts.
"Hah." He scratched his head. "That was unpleasant. But interesting. I give it… seven out of ten for psychological sadism."
Rossweisse swallowed.
"I… I will go next," she said, straightening her back.
She stepped through.
...
Rossweisse found herself standing in an empty office.
Stacks of paperwork hemmed her in on all sides. She sat at a desk piled with forms—requests, reports, new ward designs. There were no windows, no doors.
A calendar on the wall flipped through years in a blur.
She worked. And worked. And worked.
No one knocked. No one visited.
She grew older. Her hands shook from exhaustion. Her body ached. The chair felt like a prison.
On the desk, a small photo frame sat face-down. When she picked it up and turned it over, it was blank—no picture, just an empty rectangle of white.
"You missed your chance," a voice whispered. "Always working. Always postponing your own life. In the end, you retired alone and forgotten, with nothing but unpaid overtime and regrets."
Tears pricked her eyes.
"…I just… wanted to do a good job," she whispered. "I wanted to protect people. To be useful."
"And in exchange, you gave up everything else," the voice said coldly. "You never had a boyfriend. You never had a family. You died at your desk."
The calendar pages spun faster.
Rossweisse's fingers dug into the photo frame.
Then, through the suffocating emptiness, she remembered standing in Asgard's hall, hot embarrassment flooding her when the others teased her about not having a boyfriend—and Ren's voice cutting calmly through the noise: You're valuable as you are. Anyone who can't see that isn't worth your time.
He had said it like a simple fact, not flattery.
Her jaw tightened.
"…I am not worthless," she said, voice shaking but rising. "My work matters. But that doesn't mean that's all I am."
She set the empty frame down and stood.
The walls pressed in. Papers fluttered, trying to bury her.
"I'm going to write my treatises," she said, pushing forward. "I'm going to teach. I'm going to drink with friends and get scolded for being a lightweight. And—"
Her cheeks flushed, but she didn't look away.
"If I find someone who sees me as a woman," she said, "I'll… reach out. I won't sit in an empty office waiting for life to come to me."
The door that hadn't been there a moment ago appeared in front of her.
The office dissolved into motes of light, drawn into her Soul Palace. In her inner sight, that world restructured: wards forming elegant lattices instead of clutter; magic circles orbiting a steady center.
She stepped through the door.
From the outside, Rossweisse emerged with slightly unsteady legs and eyes that were somehow lighter.
"…That was… unkind," she muttered. "But educational."
Ren smiled faintly. "That's how the good lessons are."
...
Sona stepped through the gate without comment.
Her nightmare was a chessboard.
An impossible chessboard that stretched into infinity, dotted with pieces representing students, peers, family, her dear little sister, the entire Underworld.
No matter how she moved, the opposing side always had more pieces. More resources. More power. Some were labeled with old names—Old Satan Faction, various extremists, threats she'd studied as potential future risks.
"You are always calculating," the voice whispered. "Always ten steps ahead. And yet, no matter how you plan, someone bigger can flip the board."
Pieces began to fall. One after another, the tiles marked with the faces she cared about shattered and fell into the void.
"You are weak," the voice pressed. "A mid-class devil whose power is far below the top. Without your brain, you are nothing. And even that isn't enough when dragons and monsters walk the world."
She watched the board crumble, heart clenching.
Her hand hovered over a single piece—the King representing herself. She felt the temptation to just knock it over, give up the game.
Then she remembered standing in Kuoh, watching Ren casually rewrite the rules in front of gods and Maou.
He didn't ignore politics. He simply refused to be shackled by them.
Sona inhaled slowly.
"…The problem is not that the board can be flipped," she said. "It's that I limited myself to this board."
She swept her hand across the surface.
Chess pieces scattered.
"The world is larger than one game," she said. "If the old strategies are not enough, then I will learn new ones. His cultivation system… his presence… they are variables I could not have accounted for. So I will account for them now."
Her Soul Palace, in her inner eye, gained new depth—chess lines interwoven with cultivation circulations, demonic power blending with a thin thread of primordial energy. The Myriad Origin loop hummed, refining every scrap of wasted strength.
The nightmare's board cracked, then exploded outward into a starfield of possible paths.
Sona stepped forward, shoulders looser, glasses slightly askew.
"…Troublesome man," she murmured, but there was a small, acknowledging smile on her lips.
She came out the other side, met Ren's gaze, and gave him a short nod.
He returned it with an easy smile.
...
Griselda, Irina, Xenovia, Seekvaira, Sairaorg, various gods and exorcists—all passed through in turn.
Some failed.
A young Celtic druid stumbled back out almost immediately, face wet with tears, body shaking. A Greek demigod screamed at phantoms only he could see before collapsing, clutching his head. They were gently guided away by their companions.
Ren didn't mock them.
He simply spoke calmly.
"Come back when you're ready," he said. "The door doesn't close."
Those who succeeded emerged with subtle changes—eyes clearer, posture straighter, their auras smoother or sharper depending on their nature.
By the time the sun crawled toward the west, only a fraction of the initial crowd stood in the manor's inner courtyard.
Heaven's representatives. Shinto's emissaries. Kyoto's foxes. Selected devils and Fallen. A handful of stubborn independents.
All of them had climbed through the weight of a foreign heaven and earth and walked their own nightmares.