One by one, the battles ended.
The last echoes of impact still rolled through the fractured air.
Vali's Balance Breaker armor flickered once, white wings of light folding back into his body as he exhaled, a thin line of blood at the corner of his mouth. The afterimage of his last clash with Issei still hung in the atmosphere as burned ozone.
Ren Ming took all of it in at a glance.
If this had been a true life-and-death battle, he thought, it would've been a lot more brutal.
Trump cards. Juggernaut Drive. Ophis' blessing. Sacred Gear releases. Each of them had cards they hadn't drawn. There had been no need to push that far tonight.
Ren clapped his hands once.
Sound rolled out like a small thunderclap—not loud, but definite. The four rings shuddered, their boundaries dissolving as the floating stones eased back into gentler orbits. Saint Kingdom's heavy aura softened; the roaring currents of power settled into a deep, steady hum under everyone's feet.
He faced Vali's team.
"So," he said casually, as if they'd just finished a pickup game instead of a clash that made high-class devils sweat, "you lost."
Bikou groaned, throwing an arm over his face. "Man, rub it in, why don't you…"
Vali rolled his shoulder, testing the joint with the clinical calm of someone used to cataloging pain. His lips curled, not in frustration, but in something like satisfaction.
"A loss is a loss," he said. "And a good one."
Arthur gave a small nod, light brown hair slightly mussed but eyes sharp and clear. "I am satisfied," he agreed. "For today."
Le Fay hugged her grimoire to her chest, blue eyes bright. The words slipped out under her breath, barely more than a whisper.
"Amazing… I want to learn this…"
Ren's smile edged closer to sharp.
"Then it's simple," he said. "Since you lost, you're enrolled. Any objections?"
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the slow crackle of dissipating energy.
Then Bikou snorted, pushing himself up on his staff. "Could be worse," he said, grinning. "At least you're a fun teacher. Beats some dusty old sage stuck on a mountain."
Le Fay shook her head so fast her hat nearly flew off. "N-no objections!" she yelped. "If I can learn that strange magic—no, this 'cultivation'—I'll do anything!"
Arthur chuckled softly. "I don't mind being your student in name," he said. "If that is the price of access to this… framework of yours. I'd be a fool to refuse after seeing it once."
Vali's grin grew, eyes glinting with the promise of future fights.
"Becoming your student," he said, "doesn't mean I'll stop aiming to surpass you."
Ren let out a low laugh, relaxed and unbothered.
"You'd be boring if you did."
He turned his head toward the tree.
"And you?" he called. "Cat in the shadows. Still thinking about running?"
Kuroka's gaze flickered to Koneko for a moment—just a moment—before returning to him. Her voice was lazy, but underneath it was coiled tension.
"…If I become your student," she said slowly, "what happens to my criminal status? Nya."
"Ah."
Ren's smile cooled.
It didn't vanish. It just shifted—same curve, different weight. The air itself seemed to draw in a breath.
"If any devil wants to complain," he said, tone dropping into something almost bored, "they can come to me."
Space tightened.
"Any Pillar clan that thinks they can control my disciples gets slapped back to the Underworld," he continued. "Even if some of the Pillars or three of the Maous come themselves, I'll still slap them back."
He said it like he was commenting on the weather.
The devils present—Rias, Sona, Sairaorg, Seekvaira, emissaries from other houses—felt their hearts stutter.
He wasn't boasting.
He wasn't yelling.
He was stating a simple fact as he saw it, with the kind of disdain that treated "status" and "bloodline" like cheap decorations. His calm spread outward like oil on water, suffocating any thought of "but he can't" before it formed.
Kuroka stared at him.
"…You're scary," she said quietly. "Nya. But also… unfairly charming."
Koneko's shoulders slumped, ears flattening half a notch.
"…You're going to fall for him too, aren't you," she muttered.
"Shirone!?" Kuroka squeaked.
Ren only chuckled.
His words about "three Maous," though, did not slide past everyone.
Sona adjusted her glasses, violet eyes narrowed.
"Three of the Maous?" she repeated. "Why specifically three?"
Sairaorg, arms crossed, frowned. "Yeah. We have Sirzechs, Serafall, Ajuka, and Falbium," he said. "Which one are you excluding from this 'slap' list of yours?"
Ren didn't even pause.
"If Serafall comes," he said, "it'll be much better. We can sit down, calmly talk."
His smile turned absolutely shameless.
"Maybe plan a date while we're at it."
The entire clearing froze.
Then—
"E-EEEEHHH!?" erupted from multiple throats at once.
"Ren!" Rias yelped, cheeks puffing up, crimson hair flaring as if reacting to her mood.
"Ara ara…" Akeno covered her mouth with her fingers, eyes gleaming like polished obsidian. "Going after a Maou too… ufufu…"
Sona's eye twitched behind her glasses. "…That shameless man," she muttered. "Of course he'd say that."
Vali looked faintly horrified.
Le Fay clutched her grimoire, eyes sparkling hard enough to rival magic circles. "Romantic development with a Maou…?" she whispered to herself, already spinning stories in her head.
Ren rode out the chaos with the same easy smile.
"All right," he said at last, clapping his hands again. "We're done here. Save the gossip for later."
He pressed his heel very lightly into the air.
Space folded.
The ruined battlefield, the floating stones, the crackling air—all of it folded inward like paper, collapsing without a trace. In the blink of an eye, everyone stood back in the manor courtyard, lanterns swaying gently from the eaves.
Those who had stayed behind—meditating, resting, or simply watching the sky—jerked awake as everyone returned in a rush of displaced air.
Voices spilled out immediately.
"What happened?"
"How strong was Vali's Balance Breaker?"
"I felt a shockwave from here—who set off that last blast?"
Ren let his gaze sweep over the courtyard.
The atmosphere had changed.
Before, people looked at him the way humans looked at a natural disaster—distant, overwhelming, untouchable. Now, as their eyes slid from the faint scorch marks on everyone's clothing to the relaxed, tired smiles on their faces, something different rose.
Respect.
Not fear. Not the awe reserved for a god far above.
It was the grounded respect warriors gave each other after they'd watched one another bleed.
Rias and her peerage stood a little straighter, meeting the Vali Team's gazes without flinching. Vali himself scanned Rias, Issei, Akeno, Kiba, the others, then let his eyes drift to Ren before resting on the hall behind him—where the heart of this strange "sect" beat.
"…I see," Vali murmured. "You really are going to change the world with this."
Ren shrugged lightly.
"I'm just opening the door," he said. "You're the ones walking through."
Then he raised his voice.
"Anyone who wants to go home can go home," he called. "Anyone who wants to stay, the energy here is better. Meditate. Sleep. Argue. Just don't break my furniture."
A wave of laughter rippled through the crowd, easing tension.
"Tomorrow," Ren continued, "we start condensing your Soul Palaces properly. Today was just a taste."
Griselda stepped forward quietly from among the exorcists, habit slightly singed at the edges from earlier training.
"If we stay," she asked, folding her hands, "may we set up small prayer circles? It helps some of ours focus."
"Do what you like," Ren said easily. "As long as you don't try to overwrite my formations."
He lifted a hand.
Lines of Dao-script flared around his fingers, invisible to most, blindingly obvious to those who were starting to sense the structure of his Saint Kingdom. One by one, thin talismans folded out of the air—each no bigger than a finger, etched with patterns that felt both alien and oddly familiar.
He flicked them away with pinpoint precision.
One landed in Griselda's hand.
Another in Xenovia's.
Another in Irina's fumbling grip.
Then Seekvaira's. Kuroka's. Le Fay's. Sona's. Penemue's. And the last in the hands of the solemn Shinto priestess carrying Amaterasu's attention.
They all caught them, reactions as different as their lives.
"These are…?" Seekvaira asked, eyes already tracking the patterns.
"Direct lines to me," Ren said. "You have a problem, you want to ask about cultivation, or you just feel like talking—use that. They're keyed to your aura."
Irina almost dropped hers. "M-me too?!" she squeaked.
Griselda bowed her head, expression composed but eyes thoughtful. Sona raised her talisman to the light, glasses hiding the brief, satisfied spark in her gaze. Penemue smirked knowingly. Seekvaira looked like someone had handed her the keys to a new research lab.
Kuroka rolled hers between her fingers, purring low in her throat. Le Fay hugged hers to her chest like a rare limited-edition spellbook.
Rossweisse, standing not far away, frowned faintly.
"…Why only them?" she asked, brow creasing. "What about the others? Sairaorg, Azazel, Vali—"
Sairaorg himself looked faintly offended. Issei, Kiba, even Vali tilted their heads in curiosity.
Ren smiled, unfairly serene.
"I already said it once," he replied. "Beautiful, powerful women are always welcome to my personal guidance."
The courtyard exploded.
"Ren!" Rias yelped again, face flushed all the way to the tips of her ears.
"Ufufufu… how bold," Akeno murmured, voice dripping with amusement.
Asia looked lost between embarrassment and relief, fingers twisting in her skirt—she already had more access to him than most and knew it. Sona's hand tightened around her talisman.
"…Incorrigible," she muttered. She did not throw it away.
Kuroka's tail swayed lazily as she leaned into Koneko. "Nya… look at that, Shirone. I'm already in the inner circle~. Jealous?"
Koneko stared straight at Ren, face blank.
"…Perv," she deadpanned.
Le Fay pressed the talisman to her heart, eyes sparkling like a girl who'd just gotten a signed poster from her favorite hero.
"Personal guidance from a legendary cultivator…" she whispered. "This is like… a once-in-a-lifetime special event…"
Ren let the uproar wash over him like warm water.
"Hey," he said, hands spread, voice light. "I've got to prioritize the truly important matters in life."
That only made it worse.
He laughed, unrepentant.
...
The night deepened.
One by one, groups left the manor—some through devil circles, some through Grigori gates, some on foot, preferring to feel the changed air with every step.
Others stayed.
They settled into guest rooms, corridors, spare spaces converted to meditation halls. Some knelt in quiet prayer circles, fingers laced, holy light braided carefully so it wouldn't clash with the faint chaos currents in the air. Others simply sat, eyes closed, feeling out the new weight in their chests where nascent Soul Palaces pulsed.
Ren stood near the manor gate, fingers loosely linked with Rias' for a moment.
"Time to go home," he said.
She squeezed his hand back, red hair stirring in the night breeze. "Yeah."
He snapped his fingers.
Light swirled—devil magic circles in deep crimson, interwoven with thin lines of Dao-script that devils still couldn't read but instinctively respected. In the blink of an eye, he, Rias, Akeno, Asia, and Koneko stood in the familiar foyer of the Gremory residence in the Underworld.
The mansion was quiet, the bustle of servants reduced to a few distant footsteps. Warm light spilled from crystal chandeliers, reflecting off polished floors and old portraits.
They slipped off their shoes out of habit—human culture sticking even in a devil mansion—and traded them for house slippers. The girls moved with the bone-deep tiredness of people who had pushed their limits all day and were only now allowing themselves to feel it.
Ren waited until they were all sunk into the living room sofas, soft cushions and warm lamplight wrapping around them like a blanket.
Then he dropped his little bomb.
"By the way," he said, tone perfectly casual, "I'm setting a small… incentive."
Four sets of eyes locked onto him instantly.
"Whoever condenses their second Soul Palace first," Ren said, "can ask me for anything."
Silence fell like a stone.
Asia's hands stilled on the edge of her skirt. "…A-anything…?" she whispered.
"Anything I can reasonably give," Ren amended. "I won't resurrect an ancient civilization for you, and I'm not rewriting Heaven's system in one night. But if it's within my reach…"
He opened his hands.
"You can have it."
Rias' eyes sharpened at once. "Second Soul Palace…" she murmured, brain already clicking through the requirements—first Soul Palace fully condensed, Myriad Epoch loop stabilized, Chaos refinement, the Anima spark between.
Akeno's smile turned slow and dangerous. "Ara… then I'll have to work very hard, Ren," she said softly. "There are a few things I want to ask for."
Her gaze flicked over his face, her meaning not entirely combat-related.
Asia fidgeted, fingers twisting tighter. "I… I don't know what I would ask for," she admitted. "But… I'll try my best. I really don't want to be left behind."
Koneko's ears flicked.
"…If I win," she said calmly, "you keep Nee-san safe. And… cookies."
Ren's laugh was soft. "Done," he said immediately. "Those two are well within my range."
Four gazes burned in four different ways—ambition scarlet as Rias' hair, mischief as sharp as Akeno's smile, quiet resolve like Asia's prayer, stubborn protectiveness anchored in Koneko's growing frame.
Ren leaned back, pleased.
"That's what I want to see," he said. "Tomorrow, we start nudging you toward that second palace. Chaos is less forgiving than worldly energy. Don't slack."
He stretched lazily, then glanced at Rias and Akeno.
It was their turn tonight to sleep in his arms.
"Come on," he said, voice softening. "You two are already fighting yawns."
He didn't need sleep. Not with his body. But the warmth of soft breathing against his chest, of fingers curled into his shirt, of crimson and black hair spread across his pillow—that was comfort no cultivation could replace.
He let the quiet of the Gremory mansion swallow them.
Elsewhere, snakes stirred.
...
Elsewhere – Snakes in the Dark
Far from Kuoh and the peaceful glow of the Gremory estate, in a chamber choked with cursed smoke and etched with ancient sigils, a different sort of gathering was held.
Illusions hung in the air.
Scenes from the Iron Forest battle. Loki's erasure. Ophis drifting in Ren's Saint Kingdom like a piece of the void wearing human shape. The clash of Heavenly Dragons. The manor's strange sealed world. Devils and exorcists and yokai all sitting together, cultivating an utterly alien system.
In the flickering light, Katerea Leviathan's lips curled.
"That man," she hissed. "He tears holes in the sky, speaks to the Ouroboros Dragon like a neighbor, and teaches this… cultivation to anyone who asks."
Her nails dug into the armrest of her chair, black blood oozing where she pressed too hard.
On either side of her, Shalba Beelzebub and Creuserey Asmodeus scowled up at the phantom images of Rias Gremory and her peerage, power spiraling around them in ways that had nothing to do with devil crests or Evil Pieces.
"The Gremory girl was already troublesome," Shalba snarled. "Her undead bound to the Baptistina Belt, her growth rate, her dragon host…" His lips twisted. "With this system, she becomes a cancer."
Creuserey's voice was tight. "And the Heavenly Dragons," he added. "If both hosts break the limits of this world's power…"
A shadowy figure stepped forward from the darkest corner of the room.
Black wings unfurled, darker than most Fallen Angels'—as if they drank in rather than reflected light. His eyes gleamed with barely restrained mania.
"Kokabiel," Katerea said, lips twisting. "You wanted war in this fragile peace. Now you have a path."
Kokabiel stared at the projection of Ren in the manor courtyard, laughing as he threatened to "slap" Maous aside if they interfered with his disciples.
Slowly, a grin stretched across the Fallen's face, all teeth and no warmth.
"A man like that," he said, amusement dripping, "will drag this world into chaos faster than I ever planned."
He held out his hand.
Something slid across the floor toward him—coiled shadows, black, faintly shimmering with a presence that was not entirely in this room. The air turned heavy, as if infinity itself had brushed against it.
Ophis' snakes.
"Take them," Katerea said. "Fragments of the Infinite Dragon God's power. The Ouroboros Dragon has… other interests at the moment. But her remnants remain potent."
Kokabiel's fingers closed around the writhing mass.
The snakes didn't hiss. They vanished, slipping under his skin, winding through his veins like ink poured into water.
For a heartbeat, the chamber shook.
Power flared—a wild, hungry surge that made the sigils on the walls flare crimson, then black. The illusions wavered, Ren's laughing face distorting under the pressure before stabilizing again.
"…Magnificent," Kokabiel breathed, flexing his fingers. "With these… and the old Satan Faction at my back…"
He tilted his head, watching the illusion of Ren reaching out to pat Issei's head, the casual warmth at odds with the reality-shaking power he carried.
"…we'll see how far your 'cultivation' can protect your little pets when the sky falls."
Behind him, Shalba and Creuserey smiled cruelly. The Old Satan Faction had already allied with Khaos Brigade once. Their hatred for the current Maous and their obsession with the original Satan bloodlines made them natural anchors for Ophis' snakes and their borrowed might.
Above all of them, Ophis' presence crisscrossed the world in thin, half-formed threads.
In the Dimensional Gap, far beyond their schemes, Ophis floated in endless nothing, nibbling on a piece of candy Ren had handed her like it was the most important thing in existence.
She watched the faint thread that connected her snakes to Kokabiel.
She watched the brighter, louder thread that led to a certain cultivator, golden and calm, cutting through the world like a new axis.
"…I will see," she murmured. "Which noise is stronger."
The Gap remained silent.
The world continued to turn.
And in Kuoh, Ren Ming poured tea, calm smile never leaving his face, as his paths and his enemies both sharpened.
...
The days that followed didn't calm down.
They bloomed.
Kuoh changed.
Not all at once. First in the air, then in the bones.
Within hours of Rias' team fighting on equal terms with the Lucifer heir team, messages began to move.
Heaven's Seraphs talked quietly over crystal screens.
The Four Maous listened to reports with deepening interest.
Grigori's agents whispered at Azazel's back, their usual flippant tone marked with real tension.
Kyoto's youkai watched the currents of power swirling around that little town and narrowed their eyes.
Soul Palace cultivation. A new term. A new system. An invitation.
Word spread that Ren Ming would teach anyone willing to work.
Not just nobles.
Not just "important" bloodlines.
Anyone.
The first to arrive as an organized group were Azazel's "problem children."
...
They stepped through a Grigori gate on the outskirts of Kuoh.
Tobio Ikuse, hoodie and casual clothes doing nothing to hide the weight in his gaze; Lavinia Reni, humming as her scarf trailed behind her like a ghost; Natsume Minagawa, fox-sharp and wary; Kouki, rough around the edges with a fighter's stance; Shigune, half-hiding behind Tobio, arms locked protectively around Poh.
Ren watched them from the manor's front steps, hands in his pockets, Saint Kingdom curled in tight around the property—a world folded small, like a beast resting.
Azazel walked at their head, grinning as usual, one hand shoved into his coat pocket.
"Kids," he said, gesturing lazily at Ren, "say hello to the guy who made the Four Great Seraphs admit they don't know everything anymore."
Lavinia tilted her head, blue eyes shining. "Heey, he feels weird," she said cheerfully. "Not holy, not demonic, not anything… like a storybook that forgot which world it belongs to."
"Cultivator," Ren corrected mildly. "But you're not wrong."
Tobio bowed slightly, polite, guarded. "We heard about the Soul Palaces," he said. "Azazel told us… you teach anyone willing to work hard?"
"As long as you don't whine when it hurts," Ren replied. "And as long as you understand something simple."
He let his Saint Kingdom breathe.
The air thickened. The sky bent down. Rules shifted—not violently, but unmistakably. Every Sacred Gear, every demonic core, every fragment of holy light felt a tug, like the world's gravity had changed direction.
"You're stepping onto my turf," he said. "Politics, factions, backstories—that's all noise. In here, you're just cultivators. You grow, or you get left behind. You make trouble, you deal with the fallout. I'm not babysitting your consciences."
Kouki scratched his cheek, half impressed, half uneasy. "…So you're not going to tell us not to punch bad guys in the face?" he asked.
"If you misjudge who the 'bad guy' really is," Ren said, "you'll bleed for it. That's how you learn. I'm not your morality police."
Azazel snorted, clearly amused. "Told you," he said over his shoulder. "He's not Heaven, not Grigori, not Maou. He's just Ren."
Lavinia's tone shifted, posture straightening almost imperceptibly.
"Then please take care of us, Ren," she said, voice turning formal despite her quirky air.
Ren's smile gentled.
"If you're going to trust me with your future," he said, "I'll do it properly."
Behind him, Rias' peerage watched the newcomers, whispering amongst themselves. More students. More rivals. More comrades. The sect grew.
...
After Slash Dog came Sairaorg.
The teleportation circle that opened in the courtyard was rich, clean Underworld light. Sairaorg Bael stepped out first, aura like a clenched fist wrapped in velvet. He dressed simply, but there was nothing simple about the power coiled in his muscles or the direct, honest light in his eyes.
His peerage followed—a wall of disciplined strength.
"Sairaorg…" Rias murmured, watching her cousin stride forward with quiet excitement.
Then, days later, another magic circle—orange flames, swaying like a miniature sun.
Ravel Phenex emerged with carefully arranged hair, a neat dress, and enough luggage to make the servants blink. Her chin lifted with practiced pride, but there was steel underneath.
"Brother insisted I come observe," she said primly. "If this 'cultivation method' truly allowed Rias's peerage to defeat Vali Lucifer's team, it would be foolish not to… investigate."
Her wings fluttered once as she glanced up at Ren.
"And it is only proper," she added, voice tightening for a heartbeat, "to thank the person who made my brother stop acting like the world revolves around him."
Ren's lips curved. "You're welcome," he said. "Make yourself at home."
He meant it.
Not as a platitude.
Literally.
He didn't build a remote mountain cave or a secret base. He turned Kuoh itself into a half-modern, half-ancient sect-city.
Devils in uniforms walked beside shrine maidens.
Yokai in kimono passed exorcists in casual clothes, swords slung over their backs.
Fallen angels sat on park benches, drinking coffee and arguing about the most efficient meditation patterns.
Everywhere, in apartments and alleyways and in the shadow of ordinary houses, Soul Palaces stirred awake.
...
Progress came fast.
Not evenly.
But fast.
Among his first students, the changes were dramatic.
Rias, Akeno, Issei, Kiba, Asia, Koneko—not only had they fought Vali's team head-on and walked away standing, but the pressure of that clash had hammered their inner worlds like steel on an anvil.
Their first Soul Palaces had already crossed seventy percent condensation by the Asgard trip. After fighting Vali's team and feeling their own limitations, something in them snapped into place. The Myriad Epoch loops coiling through their meridians ran hotter, more efficient, recycling every wasted breath of power.
Within days:
Rias' Soul Palace condensed visibly in her inner perception—a throne of ruin carved from red-black stone, stabilized in a sky filled with falling stars. Each day of cultivation, each risk she took in leadership, added a new orbit, a new layer of gravity around that throne.
Akeno's palace swelled with layered circuits of thunder and demonic grace. Lightning ran like living veins through a structure that resembled a giant, inverted shrine, every pillar a conduit. Her Heavenbreaker Circuit lines traced through that whole world, matching her flesh, each node a memory of sparks dancing across her skin.
Issei's Soul Palace—once a chaotic furnace—tightened into a closed engine. The Cycle of Waste that Ren had branded into him turned leaks into fuel, every over-boosted blast feeding back in. Dragon roars echoed across a crimson sky, not wild, but disciplined.
In raw numbers, Rias, Akeno, and Issei were at the front of the pack, their first Palaces racing toward that crucial hundred percent. They weren't there yet, but the path was clear. Each morning, their Soul Palaces felt heavier, more real.
Asia and Koneko followed at a different pace.
Asia's inner world was no battlefield. Her Soul Palace manifested as a vast twilight cathedral, bathed in amber light. Stained glass windows didn't show saints, but moments—her first healing, Ren's hand resting on her head. Each prayer she whispered, each life she saved, condensed that structure further. Twilight Saturation deepened, and with it came the quiet ability to turn "damage" into "potential."
Koneko's Soul Palace was small. Dense. An immutable stone at the center of a storm.
The Myriad Epoch had resonated perfectly with her touki and senjutsu. The more she accepted her own feelings—anger, fear, gratitude—the heavier that Core became. Her growth spurt in the physical world mirrored something deeper: her willingness to step forward instead of always hiding behind others. Her palace condensed around that singular point—I will not move.
Gasper changed too.
Slowly.
The boy who once hid inside a cardboard box now climbed to the manor roof and sat with his knees pulled up, talking in halting sentences. The wild temporal leaks from his Sacred Gear no longer froze random moments; the Myriad Epoch loops wrapped around it, turning involuntary time-stops into a gentle, controlled pulse.
By the end of the first week after the Vali clash, Gasper could talk to Rias or Akeno for ten minutes straight without freezing time once.
That alone nearly made Rias cry.
By that same time, Ren's first disciples—Rias, Akeno, Asia, Koneko, Issei, Kiba—each hovered around roughly eighty percent condensation of their first Soul Palace, the structure firm enough that the distant outline of a second world was beginning to flicker beyond it.
The "next wave" caught up fast.
Sona and her peerage approached cultivation like an academic war campaign. Timetables. Rotations. Detailed notes. Peer-reviewed sparring sessions. They built their Soul Palaces as if they were constructing a city's water system—no leaks allowed.
The older fighters—Sairaorg, Tiamat, Griselda, Azazel, Seekvaira's researchers, Kyoto's emissaries—brought decades of battle experience. Their minds didn't fight the system; they molded it around existing instincts.
Within a short span:
Veterans like Sairaorg, Griselda, Azazel, Tiamat, and Seekvaira's core squad had their first Soul Palaces at roughly fifty percent, foundations heavy and solid.
Prodigies like Vali, Sairaorg himself, who refused to lag behind, and Sona followed closely at forty to forty-seven percent, their inner worlds compact, efficient, and frighteningly clean.
Vali treated cultivation as another battlefield.
He appeared in the courtyard at strange hours, white aura muted, eyes closed. Divine Dividing's rhythm synced with Myriad Epoch, every "halving" of an opponent's power mirrored by a corresponding "condensation" of his own.
"I've walked a lot of paths," he admitted once as Ren walked by. "Draconic, demonic, Divine Dividing itself. But this…"
He opened his eyes.
"…this feels like learning how to breathe in a world that never had air."
"Good," Ren said. "Means you won't get lazy."
Vali snorted. "As if I could, with that idiot dragon-bearer always glaring at my back."
Ren chuckled. "You like it."
"…Maybe," Vali muttered.
...
The manor became chaos.
Beautiful, productive chaos.
Ren watched from doorways and rooftops, arms folded, hair ruffled by the mixed winds of holy light and demonic power.
He saw devils argue with fallen angels about optimal training schedules.
He saw yokai and exorcists debate ethics over tea and snacks, sacred texts and folklore spread between them.
He saw Sairaorg and Tomoe Meguri nearly level a courtyard with a high-speed spar—Bael fists versus Sitri swordsmanship—before Rossweisse fixed her glasses, muttered something furiously under her breath, and reconstructed the wards with gritted teeth.
Some students gravitated toward each other.
Sairaorg and Vali sparred regularly, bare fists and dragon wings clashing under Ren's suppression domains, the impacts ringing out like war drums.
Tobio and Kiba shared quiet conversations about guilt and responsibility between training sessions, sitting on the steps with swords resting across their knees.
Lavinia, Asia, and Le Fay formed an oddly harmonious trio—three pure-hearted girls with terrifying potential, helping each other align meditation patterns and comparing notes on Ren's softer smiles.
Others clashed.
Old Kokabiel sympathizers still hiding in Grigori flared and then wilted under Griselda's calm, unforgiving gaze.
Some of Sairaorg's rougher pawns got into shouting matches with Kyoto youths over who insulted who first. Koneko walked between them, grabbed both by the ears, and dragged them apart without a word.
Ren did not interfere unless someone was about to die.
He made his position clear one afternoon, standing in the courtyard while everyone gathered, sweat still steaming from their bodies.
"You want a righteous sect master who tells you what's good and what's evil?" he asked. "Wrong place."
Eyes watched him—curious, wary.
"You want a demonic cult master who orders you to burn villages for fun?" Ren continued. "Wrong place again."
He shrugged.
"You're going to meet people crueler than you, kinder than you, smarter, dumber, all of it. Some of you will do ugly things. Some of you will do admirable things." His eyes swept them. "Do what you want. Just don't cry to me when the fallout hits."
He smiled, not kindly, not cruelly—just honestly.
"You throw a stone," he said, "you own the ripples."
"Ren…" Rias muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
Sona's glasses flashed, but there was a small, tight smile curving her lips.
Griselda inclined her head, as if acknowledging that in this alien framework, that was… clear.
The sect lived, argued, fought, and grew.
...
Not all changes were loud.
Kiba's were quiet.
He stood one afternoon in the manor garden, watching Xenovia and Irina practice with their holy swords. Their blades shone with cleaving light and clumsy determination, respectively.
Ren dropped down from a floating stone, landing beside Kiba without a sound.
"Still want to destroy every Excalibur you see?" Ren asked casually.
Kiba's eyes didn't leave the training pair.
"…No," he said. "Not anymore."
His gaze softened, turning inward.
"I thought my hatred was for the swords," he said slowly. "For what they were. But it was for the people who used them. The project that sacrificed my friends. The way they treated us as failures." He exhaled, long and steady. "The blades themselves are only tools."
"Good," Ren said. "Tools are neutral. People decide what they become."
Kiba's Soul Palace pulsed.
In his inner world, sword intent rooted deeper into heavy soil—Heavy Earth Severing, no longer twisted by blind rage. The foundation of his world wasn't hatred now; it was the weight of a promise.
"Besides," Ren added, mouth quirking, "if you tried to blow up every Excalibur, Griselda would get annoyed. Irina would cry. Xenovia would challenge you. Too much trouble for too little gain."
Kiba huffed a quiet laugh. "That does sound troublesome."
"You like troublesome things now," Ren pointed out. "Friends, for example."
Kiba glanced toward the others—Issei arguing with Saji about who had more 'manly motivation,' Asia trying to mediate, Koneko munching dango with a perfectly neutral face, Gasper sitting nearby and not freezing time.
"…I suppose I do," he admitted.
Ren clapped his shoulder once and moved on.
He didn't micromanage their hearts.
He gave them space to grow.
...
Of all the things Ren wondered, one was simple:
Issei and Irina.
Childhood friends reunited.
He expected something… warmer.
Instead, he mostly saw a pattern.
They passed by each other during training, nodded during meetings, fought side by side on missions. They spoke, laughed, argued.
But the clumsy childhood warmth Irina remembered didn't return immediately.
Issei was busy.
Busy getting stronger. Busy chasing his "Harem King" dream—but now with a focus that involved more than just breasts. He trained with Rias' peerage, took Ren's words seriously, learned to Boost, Recycle, and Drive his dragon power with a focus that even Ddraig admitted was "not bad, partner."
Sometimes, Irina watched him from a distance, Excalibur held loosely in her hand, and smiled a little bitterly.
"He really did change," she murmured once to Xenovia.
"Good," Xenovia replied. "If he were just a pervert idiot, he wouldn't be worth fighting beside."
"…He's still a pervert," Irina protested weakly.
Xenovia's lips twitched. "Yes. But now he's a pervert with a cultivation path."
...
Ren's own days filled to the brim.
Teaching.
Refining his Grand Dao Art.
And courting.
His stamina was practically limitless. His body didn't need sleep or food.
He slept anyway, because the women he loved liked using his chest as a pillow.
He cooked because Ravel insisted that if he was going to "steal precious jewels from noble families," he should at least know how to handle a kitchen and basic fire spells.
He took walks because Asia liked holding hands in the sunset, because Koneko liked extra taiyaki, because Rias and Akeno enjoyed dressing casually and pretending to be normal college girls for an afternoon.
Some women grew attached quickly.
Serafall cheerfully abused every "official visit" excuse to drop into Kuoh, bringing sweets, anime talk, and unrestrained energy. She always ended up at Ren's side on a couch, legs tucked under her as she chattered about magical girl show structure, then quietly stole glances at his profile whenever she thought he wasn't looking.
Kuroka drifted around the manor like smoke. Her tail somehow always ended up in Ren's lap whenever he sat down too long. She flirted shamelessly—"Nya, wouldn't it be better if you slept with a warm cat tonight~?"—but under it all, there was a wary, grateful weight in her gaze whenever she watched him train Koneko.
Le Fay treated Ren like a living miracle library. During "study sessions," she filled notebook after notebook with scribbled diagrams, her questions tumbling over each other.
"Ren, what happens if I circulate chaos energy like this?"
"Ren, can a Soul Palace have corridors?"
"Ren, is it possible to make a magic circle into a Dao Fruit?"
He corrected her gently, sitting close enough that she turned pink and sometimes forgot what she was saying.
Penemue found herself orbiting him almost before she realized it. At first, it was curiosity about how his system rewrote so many rules at once. Then it was late-night talks about Grigori politics and research budgets. Ren didn't simply flatter her looks—he praised her mind, her insight, the way she could read people. His words were smooth, but never crude. That mattered.
Ravel, despite her pride, began trailing after him more often than she admitted. She insisted it was "data collection," but the way she brightened whenever he praised her flame control, or the sharpness of her political analysis, gave her away.
Others stayed cautious, but the distance shrank.
Griselda remained composed, but her visits became regular, her questions about Soul Palace structure gradually including quieter inquiries about how to guide traumatized students through inner-world confrontations.
Sona's heart didn't sway easily, but Ren's calm smile and unforgiving logic kept chipping away, one conversation at a time.
Yasaka watched from Kyoto, fox eyes thoughtful whenever she sent envoys to Kuoh and received reports about Ren's influence.
Gabriel's letters became more frequent, their polite heavenly phrasing slowly warming.
Amaterasu's priestess returned more often than strictly necessary, always with a carefully phrased "request for observation" and a talisman tucked safely at her waist.
Ren never rushed.
He was patient, teasing, warm. He knew exactly when to lean close and murmur something that would make them smile, when to step back and let them breathe. He respected their pace.
That was the calm side of him.
The domineering, the one that didn't care about status or politics and would slap Maous aside if they touched his disciples—that stayed reserved for enemies.
Enemies who, even now, were sharpening their blades, coiling their snakes, and watching Kuoh's blooming sect-city with hungry eyes.