The days that followed the Dimensional Gap felt, to Ren, like someone had quietly turned the Nine Heavens sideways and laid them down on his couch.
Not the calm before a storm.
The calm after.
The kind of quiet that came when the screaming stopped but the echoes hadn't faded yet. Gods retreated to their realms to argue about him. Factions sent reports and counter-reports. Devils adjusted their long-term plans like accountants learning the world's currency had changed overnight.
Kuoh just… kept being Kuoh.
School bells rang. Trains came and went. Humans went to work without realizing how close their little blue planet had come to being eaten inside out.
Inside the manor, it was a different kind of strange.
It was soft.
Heavy.
Warm.
The kind of heavy he preferred.
The first morning set the tone.
Ren surfaced from sleep slowly, the way you did when your body told you there was no battlefield, no collapsing tunnel, no killing intent aimed at your back. Just warmth and weight.
And hair.
A lot of hair.
His first attempt to move told him all he needed to know.
His chest didn't rise so much as shove.
Asia lay sprawled across him, small body curled along his sternum, cheek pressed against his heart like she was matching her breathing to it. Silky blonde hair had escaped whatever neat style she'd gone to bed with and now tickled his chin and jaw in soft waves.
His right arm was dead.
Koneko had claimed it at some point in the night, both arms wrapped around it in a silent, unyielding hug. Her white ears twitched when he tried to flex his fingers, tail coiled possessively around his forearm, Touki faintly buzzing against his skin like a sleeping engine.
His left side was warm in a different way.
Rias lay half atop him, head tucked against his shoulder, crimson hair fanned across his arm like a royal mantle. One of her hands had made its way under his shirt to rest over his ribs, fingers splayed like she needed the reassurance of skin and heartbeat, not cloth and theory.
Down by his legs, something tugged his ankle.
Akeno.
At some point she'd turned sideways across the foot of the bed, one leg draped over his calves, one hand resting lightly around his ankle as if making sure he didn't float away. Her long dark hair spilled over the blanket, a few strands clinging to his skin with the faint static of residual lightning.
His left hip had weight too—less heavy, more "I've decided this is mine now."
Probably Serafall, if he had to guess. The Leviathan had a bad habit of "accidentally" falling asleep wherever she happened to flop down. He didn't have the angle to check without risking someone rolling off the bed, but the faint scent of candy and expensive perfume was a giveaway.
He tried to shift.
Five grips tightened at once.
Ren huffed a quiet laugh.
"So," he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep, "how long do you girls need?"
Rias' lashes fluttered. Her fingers curled a little tighter in his shirt at the sound of his voice.
"…Five more minutes," she mumbled, eyes still closed.
"Five," Koneko echoed, muffled against his bicep. "You owe us at least that much."
Asia made a small, content noise and burrowed even closer, like a kitten trying to merge with his chest. Akeno cracked one eye open, sleepy smile curving her lips as she watched him from the bottom of the bed.
"Ara," she said softly. "Ren is trapped. How unfortunate."
"Terrible, isn't it," he agreed, utterly unbothered. "Being used as a body pillow by my beautiful girlfriends. Truly a hardship."
Rias' fingers twitched against his ribs at the word "girlfriends." Her breathing hitched, just once. She didn't argue.
Koneko made a tiny disapproving sound that might have been jealousy or might have been satisfaction. Asia's grip tightened.
Ren let his head fall back against the pillow, the ambient hum of his Dao wrapped tight and unobtrusive.
He'd had entire worlds kneel under the weight of his Fate Palaces.
Right now, five girls were pinning him more effectively than most armies.
"This," he thought, listening to their breathing, feeling the way their bodies unconsciously leaned closer whenever he shifted, "is the good kind of heavy."
He didn't move.
Not for five minutes.
Not for ten.
Eventually, the day did drag them out of bed—shower schedules, breakfast, Sona's lecture about "time management" when she came to drag Rias to school. But the tone had been set.
The calm after the storm.
And in that calm, everyone got clingier.
Sometimes it was obvious. Sometimes it was hidden behind excuses.
Xenovia chose the "excuse" route.
She started showing up at the manor earlier and earlier "for training." Officially, it was to work on her Myriad Origin circulation before her work. Unofficially… she never quite left before breakfast anymore.
One afternoon, Ren stood on the rear veranda, leaning against a wooden pillar, watching her carve the air apart.
Durandal roared with each swing, holy aura snarling as it met the circuits of Myriad Origin Script etched into Xenovia's body over the last three weeks. Her movements had always been powerful. Now they were sharper—less brute force, more focused intent.
Chaos energy threaded under her demonic power like a coiled storm. It was still new to her—wild in places—but it obeyed better than it had at the start. The second Soul Palace she'd begun forming shimmered faintly behind her in his sight, a half-finished world taking shape.
She cut through the last set of dummies with a single sweeping arc, the holy sword's edge leaving melted scars in the reinforced training constructs before they collapsed into glowing fragments.
Xenovia exhaled hard, chest heaving, blue hair damp with sweat, bangs stuck to her forehead. She rolled her shoulders, not yet noticing him.
"How is it?" she demanded when she finally turned and saw him.
No "sensei." No honorifics. Just that blunt, direct tone she'd always had. It had softened around the edges, but the core was the same.
Ren tilted his head, taking his time.
"You're already right at the peak of Ultimate-class threshold," he said.
Her eyes flew wide. "Seriously?"
"Mm." He pushed off the pillar and walked closer, gaze sweeping down her stance, the way her feet dug into the ground, the steadier light in her eyes. "When we first started, you swung Durandal like you were punishing yourself. Now you're swinging it like you're protecting something precious."
He met her gaze. "That's a different kind of power."
Color climbed up her neck, flushing the tips of her ears.
"You say embarrassing things so easily…" she muttered, looking away.
He smiled, easy and warm.
"You like it."
Xenovia opened her mouth to deny it on instinct.
Stopped.
Closed it again.
"…Maybe," she admitted in a tiny grumble, gripping Durandal's hilt a little tighter. "A little."
He laughed, not mocking—just pleased.
"That's fine," he said. "You're allowed to like good things."
He turned as if to leave.
Her hand shot out, fingers catching his sleeve with surprising care for someone who could cleave a dragon in half.
"Then… stay and watch," she said, voice just a little too fast. "If you look away, I'll be mad."
Ren glanced back at her hand on his sleeve, then up at her face.
Her eyes were serious.
Soft, but serious.
"Understood," he said.
He stayed.
She swung harder.
The next set of strikes came faster, more precise. Durandal howled joyfully, its holy light no longer at odds with chaos energy, but braided with it. Each impact rattled the air, shockwaves beating against the barriers Ren had quietly thickened around the field.
Inside Xenovia's Soul Palace, loops of Myriad Origin spun faster, catching and recycling the waste shock, feeding it back into her core. The storm under her skin grew cleaner.
She didn't know all the theory yet.
She just knew that when he watched, she wanted to be better.
That was enough.
...
Ravel, on the other hand, acted like nothing had changed.
Which would've been more convincing if she didn't keep gravitating toward whatever couch he chose—and if she didn't pretend to be shocked, shocked every time he pulled her closer.
That evening, they ended up on the manor's balcony, the sky painted orange and pink as the sun slid behind Kuoh's skyline. Human city lights began flickering on one by one, a soft constellation of mortal life.
Below the balcony, the faint hum of formations thrummed alongside the familiar presence of his Saint Kingdom tucked under the property like a sleeping dragon. Above, a thin layer of chaos lines only he could see slid along the edge of the world.
Ravel sat beside him in a perfectly proper posture: back straight, legs crossed at the ankle, hands folded in her lap, every inch the noble Phenex princess.
Ren leaned back against the railing, shoulders relaxed.
He let the silence breathe for a moment.
Then he glanced at her lap.
"You know," he said casually, "my neck's a little sore."
Ravel stiffened, golden eyes darting to his face. "A-and what does that have to do with me?"
"Your lap has proven to be an excellent pillow," he said, completely matter-of-fact. "As your teacher—and your future husband—I feel obligated to maintain proper usage."
Her ears went scarlet. There was no visible change, but he could feel the temperature spike.
"You… you can't just say things like that!" she stammered, feathers of her small wings ruffling in agitation.
"Sure I can," he replied. "Unless you're planning to revoke my privileges?"
Her mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Ravel Phenex, who could dismantle a devil's argument in committee, had been ambushed by one lazy sentence.
After a long, tortured pause, she exhaled sharply, scooted exactly three centimeters closer, and muttered, "I… did not say that."
His smile went slow and warm.
"Good," he said.
He slid down in his chair, then let his head ease into her lap. The motion was unhurried, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wanted.
She didn't.
Her thighs tensed under his cheek, but they didn't move.
For one second, two, three, her hands hovered uncertainly over his hair. Etiquette warred with embarrassment, devil pride with the intensely human desire to touch something soft and warm that belonged only to her right now.
Then her fingers descended.
She smoothed his hair with practiced motions—the grace of a high-class devil schooled in proper lap-pillow technique—but there was a tiny tremor in the way her nails traced his scalp.
"You're getting comfortable with this," he observed, eyes half-lidded, watching the colors of the sunset through her hair.
"Shut up," she whispered.
Her hand didn't stop.
Ren closed his eyes fully, letting the last light of the day brush his face, Ravel's heartbeat loud in his ear where it pressed against her stomach.
He could feel the faint crackle of Phenex flame in her aura, caged and refined. Myriad Origin's loops had already begun to learn how to digest phoenix fire; one day, she'd be terrifying.
For now, she was a flustered girl giving him a lap pillow on a quiet balcony, pretending she'd been forced into it.
He liked this stage too.
...
Sona tried to be the exception.
Of course she did.
In public, she remained Sitri's heir to the last detail: glasses, perfectly pressed uniform, clipboard in hand, her voice crisp and calm as she navigated school schedules and devil politics.
In private, the cracks showed.
Ren found her one evening already occupying the manor's study, surrounded by floating magic screens loaded with Underworld law revisions, school infrastructure plans, and several documents from Sairaorg and Seekvaira labeled "Joint Training Initiative."
Her jacket was off. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow. Her tie was loosened just enough to tell him she'd been at it for a while.
He ignored the paperwork.
"Neck," he said casually as he walked behind her chair.
She startled, shoulders jerking. "Neck?"
"Neck," he repeated, like it was the most normal request in the world.
Sona opened her mouth to protest—something about boundaries, probably—but his hands were already on her shoulders.
He didn't grope. He didn't lean in too close.
He just pressed.
His thumbs found the knots at the base of her neck with unnerving precision, digging into tight muscles and slowly rolling them loose. The warmth of his palms seeped through her shirt, spreading down her back.
At first, she tried to keep talking.
"The Sitri clan's current proposal," she began, voice a little too high, "is to restructure the Rating Game qualification brackets to account for non-traditional power systems and—ah…"
Her words stuttered as he worked through a particularly stubborn knot.
"Breathe," he murmured near her ear. "You can't make plans if your shoulders are tied in knots."
"You're the one who tied half those knots," she muttered, but the bite in her tone was weak.
"Guilty." His breath brushed the edge of her ear, warm and steady. "I'll untie them too."
Her glasses slid half a centimeter down her nose.
"You keep saying impossible things like that," she said quietly. "It's not good for my heart."
He smiled, though she couldn't see it.
"I think your heart's doing fine," he said. "You wouldn't be pushing this hard if it wasn't strong."
There was a brief, fragile pause.
Then, very softly, she replied, "Thank you."
Her back eased under his hands. She didn't melt, exactly—Sona Sitri didn't melt—but she allowed herself to lean back into his touch just enough that he felt the difference.
Ren didn't comment.
He just kept working the tension out of her neck and shoulders, Myriad Origin quietly sampling the traces of stress and demonic power in her aura, learning the patterns it would one day help her burn away on her own.
For now, his thumbs were enough.
...
Yasaka was less subtle.
She showed up at Kuoh in person, tails swishing, with Kunou in tow and a formal request.
Ren stepped onto the front walk as the Kyoto faction's small escort appeared through the barrier, sunlight catching on golden fur and traditional patterns.
Yasaka bowed just enough to satisfy tradition, her long blond hair spilling forward. Behind her, Kunou bounced on her heels, ears flicking with excitement.
"Ren," Yasaka said, eyes warm but serious. "We would like to… enroll in your cultivation program."
Kunou pumped both fists. "I want to get strong enough to help too! And Mama said your training is super amazing!"
Ren glanced between the fox queen and her daughter, then smiled.
"All right," he said. "But I should warn you—I'm a strict teacher."
Kunou puffed up proudly. "I can take it!"
Yasaka's tails curled unconsciously, wrapping a little around her waist like a self-hug. Her gaze didn't waver.
"If it is for Kunou's sake," she said, "and for our future, I will endure."
He stepped closer, the air between them thickening with the quiet clash of their auras.
"Endure?" he echoed, tone amused. "Yasaka, I prefer training that makes people feel more alive, not less."
Her golden eyes searched his face, weighing him.
"And… as a woman?" she asked softly. "Can I endure that too?"
Ren reached out, gently catching one of her tails near the tip.
The fur twitched under his fingers, soft, warm, suffused with divine flame. She shivered, just once.
"As a woman," he said, voice dropping into a more intimate register, "you're doing more than enduring, Yasaka. You're walking forward. I like that about you."
Color rose in her cheeks, faint but undeniable.
Her tail curled more securely around his hand instead of pulling away.
Kunou, oblivious, cheered. "Yay! That means I get to train too!"
Ren released Yasaka's tail, letting the fur slide through his fingers.
"Yeah," he said, smiling down at the little fox princess. "You both do."
He'd carve a spot for them in his system—a place where kitsune fire and chaos energy could coexist without tearing the user apart. Where a girl who loved her mother and her city wouldn't have to choose between them.
That could wait until tomorrow.
Right now, it was enough that they'd come to him.
...
Even the ones he'd expected to take longer started to shift.
Irina still called him "sensei" in that bright, earnest voice, wings flapping whenever she got too excited. But when he praised her for pushing through a difficult circulation pattern, her pure white wings fluttered so hard they stirred the papers on the table.
"Good work," he told her one afternoon, ruffling her hair after she managed to balance holy light and chaos without frying herself. "You didn't run from the pain. You guided it. That's harder."
"I-is that really that amazing?" she blurted, eyes wide.
"It is when most people flinch," he said.
She turned so red it nearly matched Rias' hair.
Penemue, who had first greeted him with dry sarcasm and arms perpetually crossed, began forgetting to keep that shield up around him.
One evening in the war room, after they'd spent an hour dismantling a particularly nasty Heaven seal and rebuilding it into something that wouldn't implode if you looked at it wrong, Ren leaned back and let out a low whistle.
"You know," he said, "watching you untangle that mess was almost as good as seeing a Fate Palace open."
Penemue blinked, then snorted.
"Stop looking at me like that," she muttered, cheeks pink, realizing he'd been watching her more than the seal. "Like I'm doing something attractive by being responsible. I already work too much. I don't need you making it addictive."
He chuckled. "Can't help it. Competence is attractive."
She looked away sharply, lips pressing together to hide the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Gabriel started lingering after system meetings in Heaven's half-rebuilt core. Whenever Ren suggested a break for tea, her wings fluffed just a little, the pure white feathers catching the warm light of the new framework he'd helped design.
"Your prayers resonate differently now," he told her once, genuinely. "They don't just reach up. They spread. Heaven's listening better because you are."
Her cheeks went pink, hands tightening around her teacup.
"T-thank you," she said. "Ren-san… you always say such… kind things."
Michael watched from the doorway, expression complex—a mix of concern, older brother protectiveness, and something like resigned acceptance. Ren met his eyes across Gabriel's shoulder and gave a small, calm nod.
Griselda tried the hardest to stay "the adult in the room."
She failed too.
"You're using flattery again," she said one evening, when he thanked her—quite sincerely—for smoothing over a knot of bureaucracy between Heaven and the Norse.
"I'm telling the truth," he corrected her. "People who can walk both duty and kindness without burning out are rare. I like rare things."
Her lips thinned.
"There you go again," she sighed.
"Is it working?" he asked, not pushing, just curious.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat.
"…Yes," she admitted, voice quiet but honest.
"Then I'll keep doing it," he said.
She covered her face briefly with one hand.
"You're dangerous," she murmured through her fingers.
"Only to people who get my attention," he replied. "And only in certain ways."
Her heart gave a traitorous little jump.
She pretended the warmth in her chest was irritation.
He didn't call her on it.
...
And then there was Tiamat.
Ren made a point of visiting her alone.
No Kuoh noise. No pantheon politics. No watching eyes.
Just him and the most antisocial dragon in existence.
She'd chosen a retreat that fit a legendary Dragon King trying to "blend into the modern world": a high-rise apartment on the edge of the city, one wall all glass overlooking a river of human headlights and a distant slice of the sea.
When he stepped inside, the air felt different.
Thicker.
Older.
Dragon aura curled in the corners of the room like smoke from a fire that had never gone out, soaking into the walls, the couch, the floor. The TV murmured quietly in the corner, some human drama playing itself out with volume just low enough to be ignored.
Tiamat was on the couch, of course.
Blue hair spilled over the cushions like liquid sapphire, one leg draped over the armrest, the other bent at the knee. Her tail flicked lazily in the air, scaled and deadly even in repose. She wore casual human clothes—a loose tank top, shorts—but on her they looked like a war dragon playing at being a college student.
Her eyes slid toward him as the door clicked shut.
"You're loud," she said. "Even when you're being quiet."
Ren closed the door with a soft click and leaned his shoulder against it for a second, letting his own aura settle in the space.
"I'd rather be loud and proud than small and timid," he said, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.
"Hmph." She rolled a shoulder. "I tolerated Great Red's nonsense. I suppose I can tolerate yours."
"That's the highest praise I'll get from a Dragon King, huh."
"For now."
He crossed the room without ceremony and sat down on the couch beside her.
No dramatic entrance. No magic circle. Just the soft thump of human furniture under his weight.
He exhaled slowly, leaning back, letting the city lights reflect on the glass and her aura wash over him like the memory of a storm.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Ren lifted his arm, opening a space at his side.
"Come here," he said quietly.
Tiamat narrowed her eyes, tail flicking.
"You're awfully sure of yourself," she drawled.
Ren chuckled.
"If you can tell me a single time you've actually rejected my touch," he said, "you can throw me out right now."
Her eyes narrowed further.
"Don't push it," she warned.
He waited.
A long minute passed.
The TV drama's canned laughter filled the silence, tinny and distant.
Then, with a low, irritated huff that fooled exactly no one, Tiamat slid sideways.
She tucked herself against his chest, head fitting under his chin, horns just barely missing his jaw. Her tail curled around his waist like a band of living steel, possessive and heavy. Scales hummed against his shirt, warm and humming with power.
She curled into him like someone who hadn't let herself need another person in a very long time.
Ren wrapped his arms around her without comment.
No wandering hands. No crude jokes. Just a steady, grounding hug, one hand resting between her shoulder blades, the other on the curve of her hip.
Her presence pressed along his ribs—ancient, wild, deadly. The kind of aura that made gods think twice before raising their hands.
His heart didn't speed up.
It didn't flinch.
It just kept beating at its calm, stubborn pace.
"You're awkward," she muttered into his shirt after a while.
"Most people say I'm too smooth," he replied lightly.
"They're idiots," she said. "You're smooth with your mouth. Your heart is… annoying."
"Annoying, huh."
"It doesn't pull back when I bare my fangs." Her fingers curled in his shirt, nails pricking his skin. "It just… stays there. Calm. Like some emperor who knows the sky won't fall on him."
He smiled against her hair.
"Maybe I just like your fangs," he said. "And your hoard. And your tail."
He brushed his hand along that tail where it looped over his hip. The scales twitched, warmth flaring under his palm.
"I enjoy cuddling you, Tiamat."
Her cheeks heated, hidden safely against his chest. He felt the flush more than saw it.
"You're using that human word like it's not ridiculous for someone like me," she grumbled.
"It's a good word," he said. "Cuddle. Simple. Honest. Like 'punch' or 'kiss.' No fancy titles. Just what it is."
She made a noise that might have been a growl or a choked laugh.
"You are dangerously close to getting burned."
"But you won't," he said, utterly relaxed. "Because you're enjoying this too."
Silence settled again.
Outside, a siren wailed faintly and passed. The city's heartbeat went on.
Inside, a Dragon King rested in the arms of a human who wasn't, strictly speaking, just a human anymore.