The days after Valerie's rescue were chaotic.
For everyone else.
For Ren, they were busy, sure. But never in a way that touched the quiet, steady calm at the center of his chest.
...
Underworld news traveled fast.
Vampire kings erased in broad daylight. A dhampir princess dragged off an altar alive. A centuries-worth of royal sins broadcast across the sky like a condemnation written in light. Carmilla's faction moving like a blade finally given permission to cut. Tepes loyalists splitting into camps—those protesting that they had "only followed orders", and those suddenly discovering that maybe using children as batteries had, in fact, been a bad idea.
Several days later, the manor's study looked like a war room someone had accidentally filled with cute stationery.
Sona sat at the main table, four tablets and three stacks of printed reports spread in a neat fan around her. Her glasses caught the light each time she flicked between Underworld channels, cool purple gaze tracking shifting power charts and emergency sessions of stuffy old devils.
Beside her, Ravel had built a small mountain out of vampire sigil-stamped envelopes. They were already sorted into precise piles marked—"Important," "Annoying," and "Ren can ignore this forever."
Rias lounged on the couch with practiced elegance, one ankle resting over her knee, a cup of tea balanced in her hand. A floating crimson screen hovered in front of her, displaying Carmilla's latest message in tightly composed script. Akeno perched on the armrest beside her, chin on her fist, reading over Rias' shoulder, violet eyes half-lidded but sharp.
"…They're moving fast," Rias murmured. "Carmilla's already stripped half the remaining Tepes nobles of their titles. Elmenhilde's been appointed to some kind of… transitional council?" She glanced toward Ravel.
Ravel nodded primly. "Acting liaison between Carmilla and the younger Tepes generation," she said. "It's a sensible choice. She's ambitious, but not cruel."
Sona pinched the bridge of her nose. "We'll have to adjust our own treaties," she said. "If the power balance among the vampires shifts too quickly, some of the older devils will panic and do something stupid."
"Mm." Rias sipped her tea. "Let's try to head that off before it reaches 'stupid'."
Papers ruffled as invisible magic circles updated figures in real time.
Azazel had cheerfully labeled the unfolding mess "a historic restructuring of vampiric power blocs." Sirzechs had used the word "delicate" three times in one call.
Ren suspected "headache" was the more accurate term for everyone else.
He, meanwhile, sat on the engawa just outside the open sliding doors, back against a wooden pillar, a mug of steaming tea cupped in his hand as he watched the training field.
He'd already read all the reports.
Not with his eyes.
The Immortal Soul Bone thrummed quietly along his spine, invisible patterns of Dao unfolding and folding again in the lightless bone. Complexity turned into simplicity; tangled data and political analysis resolved into moving diagrams in his mind.
Ren exhaled once and let his senses stretch.
Not just his hearing. Not devil senses. His Dao.
The Underworld bloomed behind his eyes.
Vampire territories that had been jagged with tension a few days ago now simmered in different colors. The Tepes capital, once a rigid, brittle web of control, looked like a hive that had lost its queen—power skittering along old corridors, searching for a throne no one sat on anymore. Nodes of anger. Pockets of fear. A surprising amount of quiet relief.
Carmilla's domain glowed like banked embers—hot, controlled, coiled. Old families shifted cautiously around a center that no longer tolerated the old excesses. Elmenhilde's presence burned through it like a tightly coiled spark; each time she met a Tepes envoy, Ren could feel the clash of old pride and new shame ripple through the lines.
He watched it all the way a god might watch the weather.
Interesting. Worth a bit of care, because Carmilla and Elmenhilde had earned that much from him.
But none of it pressed on him.
He'd already cut out the worst rot. The rest was clean-up. Growth. Their job.
His job, as far as he was concerned, sat right there on the grass.
Valerie, Ingvild, Gasper, and Asia were engaged in what could very generously be called a game.
There was a ball.
There was a stack of cultivation manuals serving as a "goal."
And there was Koneko's tail, which had been designated a "no-go zone hazard."
It was not going well.
"Ah—sorry, Koneko-san!" Irina yelped from the side as the ball bounced dangerously close to the white-haired girl's tail.
Koneko snatched the ball out of the air one-handed without even looking, her golden eyes narrowing faintly. "…Foul," she said.
Gasper flailed, little hands windmilling. "W-we haven't even agreed on the rules yet!"
"That," Koneko replied, deadpan, "is what makes it a foul."
Asia covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. Ingvild hid a smile behind her hand, violet eyes bright as they followed the ball's uneven path. Valerie, sitting carefully on the grass with a blanket under her, laughed outright.
The sound was still soft, still a little fragile, like a bird testing wings that hadn't been used in years. But it was real. Not the half-hysterical sounds she'd made in the ritual chamber. Not the brittle politeness of a girl taught her only value was obedience and silence.
Real.
Ren let the noise settle over him like sunlight.
Yeah.
Politics could wait.
...
He found Valerie on the balcony that night.
She'd quietly claimed the small one off the second-floor corridor—the one that overlooked the herb garden Asia tended with almost religious devotion. Moonlight washed her silver hair pale as she leaned on the railing, looking up at the stars.
Her aura no longer felt like a cracked, overfull cup.
The Sephiroth Graal, that impossible Longinus woven from both the Grail of Christ and the Grail of legend, had tucked itself neatly into the first Soul Palace he'd helped her form.
Inside, that palace was a small but sturdy world, its center dominated by a young tree. Beyond its walls lay the endless cemetery that had once been her entire existence—rows and rows of gravestones beneath a white sky.
Before, she'd walked those paths alone, drowning in voices.
Now those same graves lay outside the palace walls, contained instead of smothering her. Their murmurs passed through filters and gates she controlled.
Better.
Not perfect. Threads of old damage still glowed faintly where the Graal's power had burned too deeply into her soul. Scars didn't vanish just because he understood them.
But better.
Ren stepped out onto the balcony as quietly as he ever did.
Valerie still noticed.
Her body tensed for a heartbeat—an old reflex carved in by too many years as an object, not a person. Then she exhaled and let her shoulders loosen when she sensed who it was.
"Couldn't sleep?" he asked.
She shook her head, hands curling on the railing. "I… woke up, and my mind was… loud," she said. "Not like before. Just… different."
He came to stand beside her, elbows resting on the rail.
"The Graal?" he asked.
She nodded. "It shows me less now," she murmured. "I can… tell it to be quiet. But sometimes, when the house is very still, it sends me… little things. Dreams that are not mine. Voices that only want to say they are grateful." Her lips curved, small and uncertain. "It is… strange."
Ren made a thoughtful noise. "You got promoted," he said. "From battery to gatekeeper."
Her lips twitched despite herself. "…That is a terrible metaphor."
"Accurate, though," he added mildly.
She huffed a tiny laugh. The wind lifted a strand of her hair; without thinking, Ren reached out and tucked it gently behind her ear.
Valerie froze.
Her heart rate jumped, aura stuttering for a second. The tips of her ears turned faintly pink.
Ren's fingers lingered for a heartbeat longer than necessary, brushing the curve of her cheek before he let his hand fall.
"So," he said lightly, giving her a way to move past the moment if she wanted. "On a scale from one to 'this was a mistake,' how is living with a house full of loud sillies treating you?"
She blinked up at him, caught off guard by the shift. "…Loud sillies?" she repeated.
"Affectionate term," he said. "We ran out of room on the roster before we got to 'terrifying prodigies' and 'future queens of various supernatural factions'."
That earned him a real smile, small but bright. "It is… strange," she admitted. "I keep waiting for someone to tell me I am in the way. Or that I have rested long enough and must return. But instead…"
"Instead?" he prompted gently.
"Asia brings me tea when she thinks I look tired," Valerie said slowly. "Ravel has already tried to explain Underworld tax law to me twice." Her expression twisted into something complicated and fond. "Gasper will not leave me alone for more than an hour unless someone drags him to training, and when he returns he looks… proud."
Ren's chest warmed.
"I would be too, seeing a beautiful woman like you," he said.
Valerie's cheeks colored again. "…You are teasing me," she muttered, ducking her head.
"A little," he allowed. "Consider it part of your rehabilitation program."
"I do not recall agreeing to such a program."
"You let me fix up your entire soul," he said, tone dry. "That's basically a blanket consent form."
She made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh. Or protest. Or both.
Ren's smile softened.
"Hey," he said quietly. "Valerie."
She looked up.
He met her gaze steadily. "When you're ready," he said, "I'm going to drag you out of this house and show you things that aren't graveyards and war councils. The ocean. Festivals. Shops where the most dangerous thing is how much sugar they put in the pastries." His tone turned faintly playful. "Maybe even a date."
Her breath caught. "A… date?"
"You know," he said. "Two people. One afternoon. Too much food. Mildly embarrassing amounts of staring."
Her heart fluttered against the air like a startled bird. "…With… me?"
"With you," he confirmed. "You're very dateable, you know. Cute, polite, terrifyingly powerful sacred artifact in your chest. That checks all my boxes."
She made a high, flustered noise and clapped her hands over her face.
Ren laughed softly.
"You don't have to answer now," he said. "You've had a long few years. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
She peeked at him through her fingers, eyes shining.
"…You are very unfair," she whispered—for the third or fourth time since they'd met.
He took it, as always, as a good sign.
"Get some rest, Valerie," he murmured, turning toward the door. "If you don't, Gasper's going to fall asleep on your floor trying to 'stand guard'."
Her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. "Good night… Ren."
"Good night."
He left her with moonlight, the softer hum of the Graal, and the slowly widening space where "battery" was becoming "girl who might say yes someday."
...
If Valerie's inner world had been a cemetery, Ingvild's was an ocean.
He stood with her on the human-world shore again a few days later—the same stretch of sand as before, the same salty wind whipping in off the waves. This time, she walked without trembling, toes curling into the wet sand like she needed the texture to convince herself she was really there.
They'd left the guards and the worried devils up on the promenade. Down here, it was just the two of them and the sea.
"The waves sound… different," Ingvild said suddenly.
Ren glanced at her. "Yeah?"
She nodded, eyes on the horizon. "Before, they were… just sound. White noise. Something I floated on." Her hand rose unconsciously to her heart. "Now, when I listen…"
The Song of Leviathan stirred in her blood.
It wasn't a literal song, not in his ears, but his Dao could feel it—long, low chords of power, the echo of Nereid Kyrie's melody.
Unlike before, it did not explode outward uncontrolled or call down dragons from the sky.
He'd anchored it.
Ingvild's first Soul Palace was a calm, endless sea beneath a soft violet sky. The Song of Leviathan flowed through that inner ocean now, guided into currents and tides. Under his Dao's influence, its range sat safely inside his Heaven unless she deliberately pushed it outside. The world got a gentle breeze instead of a hurricane.
Out here, the melody rippled into the surf, weaving with the natural rhythm of the waves.
"…When I listen," she repeated softly, "I hear other things. The city behind us. The birds. You."
Ren smiled. "I'm flattered you put me in the same category as the ocean," he said.
She flushed, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. "I-It's not like that."
"Mhm."
"It's… not," she insisted—not very convincingly. Her fingers fumbled with the edge of her cardigan. "It's just that when you are near, the song feels… calmer. Like it has somewhere to go that is not everywhere at once."
The Immortal Soul Bone hummed along his spine, threads of law unfolding as he checked her condition again.
The Sacred Gear's connection points, once raw and jagged, now ran cleanly through a layer of neutral chaos he'd spread like gauze between Nereid Kyrie and the world. What used to be a bug—the Longinus' "enslave dragons" function looping endlessly through a half-Leviathan girl—was now part of a circuit that fed into his Heaven instead of shredding her.
He'd found her Anima—small, stubborn, wrapped around itself like a seed under too-heavy soil—and given it room to breathe.
"Good," he said. "That's what I was aiming for."
She frowned. "Sometimes I think you talk about… souls and songs… the way people talk about cooking recipes," she said. "Just casually changing things that should be impossible."
"Cooking is very important," he said solemnly. "You can ruin a whole life with the wrong spice."
She choked on a laugh. "That is not how that saying goes."
"New version," he said. "More accurate."
Her laughter softened into a smile that made the wind feel warmer. She turned fully toward him then, violet hair catching the light.
"This world is very loud," she said. "Since I woke up. There are so many people. So many voices." Her eyes searched his. "It is… frightening. But also… exciting. And you…"
"And me?" he prompted.
"…You keep asking me what I want," she said slowly. "Not what is expected. Not what is needed. Just… what I want."
He shrugged lightly. "Radical concept," he said. "Letting girls choose their own lives."
"You say that like it is simple."
"It is," he said. "People make it complicated because they're cowards."
She studied him for a long moment, violet eyes serious in a way her quiet voice rarely was.
Then, with more courage than she gave herself credit for, she stepped closer and slipped her hand into his.
Her fingers were cool from the wind. They trembled once, then steadied when he curled his own around them.
"…Right now," she said softly, cheeks pink, "I want to walk a little longer. With you. And listen to the waves. And not think about… anything else."
Ren's smile curved slow and warm.
"Order received," he said. "Consider it fulfilled."
He didn't tease her more than that. Not today.
But the way her aura brightened, the way the Song of Leviathan hummed contentment instead of loneliness, settled another quiet certainty in his chest.
...
The biggest storm, though, was forming somewhere completely different.
Holy Swords.
Church politics.
And one swordswoman Ren had decided, quite firmly, was far too cute to be left alone.
...
He found Xenovia in the training field, because of course he did.
Durandal roared through the air in heavy, decisive arcs, the holy sword's massive blade carving trails of golden light that made the manor's training wards whisper nervously. Xenovia's blue hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, expression focused and severe as she drilled forms again and again.
Even now, with faith shaken and loyalties rerouted, she moved like an exorcist—each swing a prayer, each step a doctrine made physical. Direct. Straightforward. No wasted motion, no subtlety whatsoever.
Ren leaned against the wooden fence, arms folded, and watched.
Durandal's aura was infamous in the Church—a holy sword whose raw destructive capacity rivaled some Longinus, whose strikes could tear through "creatures of darkness" like paper. Even here, with his formations dampening its wildest edges, every arc of the blade made the air shudder.
She stepped, pivoted, cut.
Again.
Again.
Again.
With each motion, the Myriad Origin loops he'd built into her body coaxed Durandal's violent power into cleaner channels. Her Soul Palace—still young, but sturdy—had begun to grow a world shaped like a cathedral forged from steel, sunlight pouring in through windows that didn't quite belong to any religion written on paper. Each swing carved new grooves in that inner architecture.
To his Dao senses, she was a blade learning it had a hand, and a heart, attached.
When she finally noticed him, she stopped mid-swing.
"Ren," she said, voice a little rough from exertion. "Since when were you watching?"
"Long enough to appreciate the view," he said.
She blinked. "The… forms?"
"Those are nice too."
Color climbed from her neck up to her ears.
"…You say things like that too casually," she muttered, sheathing Durandal with a heavy click. "It's unfair."
"So I've been told."
She walked over, rolling her shoulders. Sweat glistened along her collarbone; she reached for the towel draped on the fence, only for Ren to pluck it up first and gently toss it over her head.
She sputtered from under the cotton.
"Hey—"
"Cool down," he said, rubbing the towel lightly over her hair before handing it back. "You'll catch a chill if you stand around like that."
She peeked out from under the towel, cheeks flushed more from attention than training now.
"…Did you need something?" she asked. "If it's another mission, I'll change and—"
"It's a mission," he said. "But not that kind."
Her eyes sharpened automatically. "A threat?"
"A date."
Her brain visibly tripped.
"A… what?"
"A date," he repeated, tone easy. "You, me, human world. Food. Maybe a movie. Definitely me telling you you're cute too many times."
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"W-why?" she demanded, blunt as ever. "No— I mean, I know why, but— I—" She sucked in a breath and reset. "What is the objective?"
He smiled. "Objective: you enjoy yourself," he said. "Secondary objective: I get to see you in clothes that aren't either armor or pajamas."
Her face went scarlet.
"I have plenty of clothes," she protested. "Asia and Rias forced me to get casual outfits. And Akeno keeps buying… strange ones."
"Yes, and I'd like to be the one making you blush today, not Akeno," he said. "So. Are you free this afternoon?"
She stared at him, towel still clutched in both hands like a shield.
"Ren," she said, tone shifting serious, the way it did when she discussed doctrine or battle plans. "You know what it means if I say yes, right?"
He tilted his head. "Enlighten me."
"You're not… just playing around?" she pressed. "Exorcists… former exorcists… we don't… we're not good at this." Her fingers tightened on the towel. "If I say yes, I'm not thinking 'maybe'. I…"
She hesitated, then met his eyes squarely. As she always did when facing down a stronger opponent.
"I like you," she said. "I've liked you since the days you first started teaching us."
The confession dropped between them like another holy sword.
Ren's smile gentled. "Mm. You were more open about your feelings than some," he said.
"I've been… watching you," she went on, words blunt but shaking slightly. "How you treat Rias and Asia and the others. How you never make fun of our faith. How you fix things instead of just destroying them." Her jaw set with that stubbornness he'd first seen pointed at devils and heretics. "I don't want something half-hearted."
"Good," he said quietly. "Because I don't do half-hearted either."
Her breath caught.
He stepped closer, closing the distance until he was well within the range Durandal usually occupied. Her aura tightened, not with fear, but with the taut, focused attention she brought into battle.
"Xenovia," he said. "I like you. Direct, stubborn, sword-obsessed you. I like the way you swing Durandal like you're arguing theology with fate. I like that when you found out God was gone, you didn't abandon what you believed was right—you just started looking for a new road."
His hand lifted, brushing a damp strand of hair off her cheek.
"I'm not playing," he finished. "If you say yes, I'm going to treat you like my girlfriend. That includes dates. Kisses. Long talks about ridiculous baby names you haven't admitted you've already thought about."
Her ears went bright red.
"I-I have not—!"
"Xenovia," he said, laughing softly. "You asked me two weeks ago how strong a child would be if it inherited my Dao and your sword talent."
"That was a purely theoretical combat question," she insisted weakly.
"Sure."
She groaned into the towel.
Silence stretched, not empty, but thick with racing hearts and the lingering hum of holy power.
Somewhere in the manor, Asia's laughter carried faintly through the open window. A wind chime tinkled.
Then Xenovia dropped the towel, eyes blazing with the same fierce resolve she took into battle.
"…Then I'll say yes," she said. "I don't know how to… be a good girlfriend. I'll probably mess up. But if you're serious, I want to try."
His smile went slow and bright.
"Good answer," he murmured.
He didn't pounce on her. He just raised his hand, cupped her cheek, and very clearly telegraphed what he was about to do before he leaned in and kissed her.
Her first breathless sound was pure surprise.
The second was… something else.
She kissed back the way she did everything—straightforward, intense, no hesitation once she'd committed. She clutched at his shirt like it was a holy relic, lips moving against his with an eagerness that made his heart thrum in satisfaction.
Durandal hummed faintly at her back, reacting to her emotions, holy power sparking along its sealed edge. The training wards around the field shivered, formation lines lighting up as they automatically suppressed the extra surge. Ren's Dao nudged the flows back into balance without breaking the kiss.
When he finally pulled away, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers.
"Objective update," he said, voice a little rougher than before. "Today's mission: make Xenovia smile so hard Griselda worries you hit your head."
She laughed, breathless and bright.
"…You're on," she murmured.
...
They made it into the human world that afternoon.
Ren dressed down—simple shirt, jacket, jeans. Xenovia emerged from the manor in clothes that were technically casual but clung to her like they'd been chosen by a committee consisting of Asia and a very smug Akeno.
Her hand drifted to the sword case strapped across her back.
"If we're going into town, I should still carry Durandal," she said, eyes scanning the street. "There could be Stray Devils, or—"
"Relax, Xenovia." Ren's voice was warm. "This is a date, not a patrol. If something ugly shows up, we'll handle it. Until then…"
He reached over and twined his fingers with hers.
Her shoulders, which had been subtly tight since they left the manor, loosened by half.
They ate street food first—takoyaki too hot for human tongues, grilled skewers dripping with sauce. Xenovia tried everything put in front of her with the serious expression of a woman evaluating weapons.
"This one is good," she said around a bite of karaage, eyes lighting up. "The spice is strong, but not overwhelming. It reminds me of training rations on long missions, except enjoyable."
"High praise," Ren said dryly. "We'll have to send the chef a medal."
They wandered through a shopping district next. She stopped in front of a display of practice swords, gaze switching between the cheap replicas and the real weapons behind glass. For a moment, her expression turned distant—an exorcist trainee staring at holy blades, a girl raised on doctrine and purpose instead of choice.
Ren bumped her shoulder lightly with his.
"Hey," he said. "You're allowed to want stupid things like matching mugs now, you know."
Her cheeks colored. "…I don't want matching mugs."
"Sure you don't."
They did not end up with matching mugs.
They did end up with a keychain shaped like a tiny cartoon Durandal that she glared at for five minutes and then attached to her bag.
The movie, later, was a flashy action flick with terrible sword technique.
Halfway through, Xenovia leaned over and whispered, appalled, "That form would get him killed in the first exchange."
Ren snorted. "You're supposed to turn your brain off and enjoy the explosions."
"The explosions are also unrealistic."
"Good news," he murmured. "We make our own real ones."
By the time the credits rolled, her running commentary had turned into quiet laughter. She was still holding his hand.
They walked along the river as the sky darkened, city lights reflecting on the water.
For once, there were no ambushes. No fallen angels in the sky. No Stray Devils clawing out of alleys. Just the murmur of human voices, the smell of grilled food, the distant bark of a dog.
"Feels weird, doesn't it?" Ren asked.
"What does?"
"Peace," he said simply.
She fell silent for a moment.
"…A little," she admitted. "I keep thinking of… missions. Reports. Griselda's lectures."
"Do you miss it?" he asked. "You're around here more than the Church now."
She stopped walking.
The river flowed on, indifferent.
"…No," she said at last. "If I had stayed, I would've kept swinging my sword for ideals I never understood. Now…"
She looked at him, blue eyes steady.
"Now I know why I swing it," she said. "I know who I want to protect."
Ren's chest tightened, just a little.
He leaned down and kissed her again, slower this time. She rose on her toes to meet him, fingers curling in his jacket, the city's noise fading under the rush of her heartbeat in her ears.
When they came home hours later, Xenovia's face was bright enough that even devils noticed.
Rias took one look at her and shook her head in fond exasperation.
"You finally confessed, huh," she said.
Xenovia's hand tightened around Ren's.
"…Something like that," she replied.