Le Fay Pendragon's idea of a perfect day involved three things: magic, heroes, and just enough chaos to make a good story.
So Ren planned her date accordingly.
...
They started in the human world.
London's sky was a dull, familiar gray, the kind that made the whole city look like it was living under an old wool blanket. But the streets hummed with life—cars inching along in thick traffic, buses sighing at every stop, tourists clustered around red phone boxes, street performers coaxing coins out of pockets with bright music and practiced smiles.
And then, just a little to the left of reality, there were the other streets.
Lanes that normal eyes slid past. Corners that bent at angles that didn't quite make sense. Doorways that were just slightly too narrow, too tall, too… aware. A gargoyle blinked lazily as they walked by, wings stretching in the stone reflection of a window. An alleyway's shadow was just a bit too deep, runes flickering faintly under posters for bands that didn't quite exist.
Le Fay clung to his arm the moment they stepped out of his portal.
Her small hand wrapped around his sleeve like she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go. Her eyes—one blue, one dark—went wide, catching every light, every motion.
"Waaah… it's really London," she breathed, voice caught between awe and a kind of shy pride. "Even though I live near here, I hardly ever get to just… walk."
"Then we're walking." Ren's tone was relaxed, easy, as if he were stating something as simple as the weather. "No teleport circles, no emergency calls. If something comes up, your team can handle it."
She laughed a little, nervous and soft.
"It feels… wrong to leave everything to them…"
"They'll survive," he said. "And if they don't, we'll fix it tomorrow."
She choked on a laugh at the casual arrogance in his voice.
"They're strong, Le Fay. You don't have to hold the entire world's schedule on your shoulders. Besides…" He glanced down at her, mouth curving. "What kind of man would I be if I didn't dedicate whole days to my girls?"
Her gaze snapped up to his face.
She stared for a moment, lips parting, expression flickering from surprise to something warmer.
"…You're really serious about that," she said quietly. "About… everything. Even though you're… you."
"I'm serious about a lot of things." His smile gentled. "Right now, I'm serious about making sure you have fun."
Her cheeks flushed pink.
"T-that's… a high-pressure statement…" she mumbled, looking away, curls bouncing as she ducked her head.
He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and let her pull him along.
...
They wandered.
Through the mundane streets first, where double-decker buses rumbled by and the smell of coffee and exhaust mixed into something uniquely city-like. Le Fay slipped into the role of tour guide without realizing it, pointing toward buildings and monuments with a bright, eager energy.
"That one—ah, that's where some of the magicians from the Association like to hide meetings," she said, in a quick, conspiratorial whisper, nodding at an entirely normal-looking office tower. "The wards are layered over the fire alarms."
Ren raised a brow. "That sounds like the worst possible idea."
"It's efficient," she protested. "If something explodes, people just assume it's a kitchen accident."
He snorted. "Remind me never to let you near my kitchen."
Her lips twitched into a guilty little smile.
From there, the path bent out of ordinary sight.
Down a narrow alley between brick walls that had stood for centuries, the air shifted. Mundane noise dulled, replaced by a faint hum of magic. A chalk circle half-hidden behind a dumpster glowed when Le Fay passed, recognizing her signature and letting them through.
The street beyond curved in ways it shouldn't.
Shops leaned at angles that obeyed someone else's geometry. Pub signs flickered between languages—English, runes, something other. A dragon-shaped statue on a rooftop sighed smoke and shifted its weight when it thought no one was watching.
Le Fay's aura fluttered around her like pages in a spellbook caught in a breeze.
Myriad Origin loops pulsed quietly along her meridians, the first Soul Palace Ren had helped her build humming like a neatly organized library. She'd taken to his system like she was born for it. The structure inside her was clean, efficient, bright.
This, he knew, was about something else.
"Ah—Ren-sama, look!" she squeaked suddenly, tugging on his sleeve with both hands.
He let himself be pulled without resistance.
They stopped in front of a small shop wedged between a wand-maker's and a place that smelled like every tea leaf in the world at once.
A crooked sign hung above the door in sparkly, overdramatic font:
PENDRAGON RELICS (TOTALLY NOT CURSED)
Le Fay froze.
"...Someone from the Association probably opened this just to tease our family," she muttered, face rapidly turning the color of a ripe apple. "It's so… embarrassing…"
Ren studied the sign for a long, thoughtful beat.
"'Totally Not Cursed,' huh," he said. "If I wasn't already with you, I probably would've gone inside just for that tagline."
"Please don't…" She buried her face in her hands, shoulders curling forward.
He laughed and reached up, hand settling lightly on her head.
Her curls bounced under his palm, soft and springy. She made a small, involuntary noise—half flustered, half content—that made his smile deepen.
"You're cute when you're flustered," he said.
"Ren-sama!" she protested, peeking at him through her fingers. "T-there you go again… saying embarrassing things in public…"
"No one here knows us," he pointed out easily. "To them, we're just a guy and his very pretty girlfriend."
Her brain stalled.
"G-G… girlfriend…" she echoed faintly, like someone had just cast a status ailment on her vocabulary.
He watched her, amused, but his gaze was gentle.
"Too soon?" he asked, tone light, no pressure in it, but his eyes steady on hers.
Le Fay opened and closed her mouth a couple of times.
"I… I…" She swallowed, looking like she might actually pass out if he pushed her even a little.
Then, in a small, earnest voice, she said, "I don't… hate it. Being called that."
"Good." His answer came without even a heartbeat of hesitation. "I was planning to call you that more."
Her heart did a full somersault.
To recover, she did the most Le Fay thing possible—she escaped into tea.
...
The shop she chose was small and cozy, tucked away from the main magical thoroughfare. The bell over the door chimed softly when they entered. The air inside smelled like baked sugar and black tea and warmth.
The place was crowded with mismatched chairs and small, round tables. Old spellbooks and normal novels shared shelf space on the walls. A tiny fairy light buzzed above the counter, casting lazy glows over the pastries in the glass case.
Ren let Le Fay drag him to a corner table by the window.
He ordered whatever she recommended, trusting her with the kind of blind faith he'd never given a god. The result was a small mountain of pastries, scones, and cakes that would've scared a normal human's stomach.
Ren, of course, didn't have that limitation.
Le Fay watched him tackle the spread with wide eyes, then hid her smile behind her cup.
Conversation came easily.
They talked magic theory first.
She animatedly described a new spell matrix she'd been testing, half fairy-magic and half Norse, that had "only blown up a little". Her hands talked with her, tracing circles in the air as she explained. Ren listened, adding the occasional dry comment.
"You're not worried about me?" she asked at one point, stirring her tea in slow circles. "Even though I play with dangerous magic. Even though my family name causes trouble."
"Why would I be worried?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Because…" Her fingers tightened around the cup. "People hear 'Pendragon' and think of old legends. Of expectations. The Association, Vali Team… everyone just assumes I'll shoulder things because of my name. Because of my magic." She laughed, a little bitterly. "And I like forbidden spells. That never helps my reputation."
Ren tilted his head.
"You're Le Fay," he said. "You'd apologize to the spell before sealing it."
She stared at him.
"That… makes me sound weak," she protested weakly.
"No," he said. His gaze sharpened slightly, all laziness falling away for a moment. "It makes you kind. Kindness with real power is rare. I like it."
Her eyes shimmered.
"…You keep doing that," she mumbled.
"Doing what?"
"Making my heart flutter," she said, glaring weakly at her cup as if the tea were at fault. "It's unfair. I'm supposed to be the composed magician, you know? Vali Team's cool-headed spellcaster. And then you show up and my brain turns into… into…"
"Into what?" he asked, lips quirking.
"Into squealing fangirl jelly," she blurted.
Then, realizing exactly what she'd just said, she slapped both hands over her face.
"Aaaa…"
Ren laughed, warm and low, the sound vibrating through the small table between them.
"You know," he said, leaning back slightly, "I don't have a theme song yet. Maybe I should ask Serafall to fix that."
Le Fay's imagination betrayed her instantly.
A sparkling magical-girl intro. Serafall posing with a mic. Cheerful lyrics about "Cultivator Hero Ren-chan!" echoing across dimensions.
She almost slid under the table.
"Please don't," she whispered, horrified.
"No promises," he said cheerfully.
She laughed despite herself, shoulders relaxing.
Outside, the sky thickened from gray to darker shades. Streetlights flicked on one by one, small halos forming in the growing dusk.
Ren glanced toward the window, then back at her.
"Ready for the next part?" he asked.
Le Fay tilted her head. "Next… part?"
"Mm." He stood, picking up his coat. "You said you liked heroes and magic and just enough chaos to make a good story, right?"
Her heart did that fluttering thing again.
"Yes," she admitted quietly.
"Then," Ren said, offering her his hand, "let's walk somewhere stories don't usually reach."
...
The transition was so smooth it took her a few steps to notice.
One moment, they were leaving the tea shop, the bell chiming behind them as they stepped out onto a regular London street.
The next, Ren's next step carried them… sideways.
The asphalt underfoot turned to light.
A narrow bridge unfurled ahead of them, made of luminous, translucent panels, each one inscribed with fine, shifting runes. It arched over the city, as insubstantial-looking as a mirage, yet solid under their feet.
Le Fay gasped, clutching his arm tighter.
"W-we're… flying," she whispered.
Beneath them, London spread out like a diagram.
Streets turned into glowing veins of light. The Thames flowed through it all like a dark ribbon, reflecting neon and starlight. Tulip-shaped splashes of magic marked certain points—wards, hidden markets, nodes that only magicians would feel.
Above them, the clouds glowed faintly with reflected city light. Between those familiar clouds, a different layer shimmered—a veil of runes only Ren and his cultivation understood, the signature of his Heaven bending down into this borrowed pocket.
"My Dao works fine for dates too," he said casually.
Le Fay forced herself to look down again.
The world looked… organized.
Her first Soul Palace mirrored this view now: a circular world with runic constellations overhead and spell diagrams laid out as streets. Her Anima sat in the center of that inner space, small but bright, wrapped around her love for magic, her family, her friends… and, increasingly, for the man standing beside her on this impossible bridge.
"It's like… a dream," she whispered. "Walking in the sky…"
He watched her quietly.
The wind up here was gentle, tuned by his Heaven to a soft, constant caress. Her cloak fluttered behind her, the tails of it rippling like a banner. Her hair caught the light, a golden halo against the deep blue.
"Le Fay," he said softly. "Can I tell you something?"
She turned to him, cloak tails lifting with the motion.
"Y-yes?" she said, voice barely louder than the wind.
"Today isn't training," he said. "It's a date. I wanted that to be clear."
She swallowed.
"I… thought so," she admitted, cheeks coloring. "But… hearing you say it makes my heart… do strange things."
"What kind of strange?" he asked, tone amused but gentle.
"Like my Soul Palace is filled with fireworks," she blurted, hands waving helplessly. "Everything is bright and loud and I don't know where to look, and my Anima is just screaming 'kyaaa' in the middle—"
He laughed, delighted.
"That's a good strange," he said. "I like that image."
He stepped closer.
The bridge was wide enough that she didn't have to move. But when her back brushed against the invisible rail of his Heaven's formation, she froze.
She wasn't trapped. She knew, with the quiet certainty his cultivation always gave, that she could step backward into the safety of his Heaven at any time and be caught.
But the little shock of contact still made her go still.
Ren lifted a hand.
His fingers brushed a stray curl away from her cheek, calloused fingertips surprisingly gentle on her skin.
"Le Fay," he said. "I'm not subtle about these things. I like you."
Her breath caught.
"As a woman," he continued, calm as if stating the time of day. "As a magician who'll chase forbidden spells and then apologize to them. As the girl who stares at me like I'm a walking rare spellbook and still worries if I'm eating enough."
"I-I do not—" she started, then gave up halfway, shoulders slumping slightly. "…Okay, maybe a little…"
He smiled.
"I'm not asking you to answer anything big right now," he said. "You can take your time. But I wanted you to know that when I hold your hand, when I tease you, when I call you my girlfriend… I mean it."
Her eyes shone.
"…You really…" She drew in a breath, chest rising against her cloak. "You really want me. Even with all my… fluster, and my weird magic experiments, and my fangirling."
"Especially with those," he said, without missing a beat. "They're you. And I want all of you."
Her heart wobbled—then landed.
"I… want you too," she whispered. "Ren. Not just as… the amazing cultivator friend. Not just as a teacher. As… as a man."
The way she said it, soft but steady, made the air between them tighten.
He chuckled, voice low.
"Good."
He leaned in slowly, giving her time to stop him.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked.
He didn't need the words. He could feel her answer in the way her aura wrapped around his Dao, in the way Myriad Origin's loops sped up in her chest, in the way her Soul Palace had already tilted toward him.
But he asked anyway.
Le Fay's fingers fisted in the front of his coat, pulling him closer.
"Yes," she said, voice trembling but firm. "Please."
Their first kiss was light.
For her, it was like every book she'd ever read about romance suddenly decided to play at once in her head.
She was stiff at first, eyes squeezed shut so tight she saw colored sparks. Every muscle screamed, this is really happening, too many sensations hitting her all at once—the warmth of his hand at her back, the subtle spice of his scent, the faint hum of Heaven right under her feet.
He met her gently, not pushing, just being there—solid, warm, steady. His hand settled at the small of her back, supporting her instead of trapping her.
Then something inside her Anima… clicked.
The part of her that hoarded magic books and stayed up too late practicing spells leaned forward. The girl who admired heroes and wanted to be part of their stories tilted her head, pressed into the kiss with sudden shy eagerness that surprised both of them.
Ren's arm tightened around her, answering that small, courageous push with a deeper warmth.
Magic jittered around them.
Spell patterns misfired in Le Fay's excitement, glyphs flickering faintly in the air like confused fireflies. Tiny sparks of light popped around their feet, an accidental, chaotic firework show.
Ren's Heaven absorbed the excess without complaint.
When they finally parted, Le Fay was breathless, cheeks a deep, radiant red. Her hat, at some point, had gone crooked.
"…That was…" She pressed both hands to her face, voice muffled. "…amazing…"
"Good," he murmured. "I'd hate to disappoint."
She peeked at him between her fingers, eyes still dazed.
"Ren," she said, voice small, "if I… said I wanted to stay by your side… not just as a student, but as… as your Le Fay… would that be… too greedy?"
He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently under her eye.
"Le Fay," he said. "You're already mine. Officially. If you'll have me."
Her eyes filled with tears she hadn't planned on shedding.
"I'll have you," she whispered. "Gladly."
He kissed her again, softer this time.
It felt less like a beginning and more like sealing a promise the two of them had been quietly writing for weeks.
...
Her lips were still warm on his when he walked her back along the Heaven-path he'd opened.
The bridge folded under their feet, narrowing, condensing, then dissolving into mist behind them as they went. London, the magical streets, the hidden lanes—all of it sank back into its own layer of reality.
They stepped out onto the engawa of the manor as if they'd just come in from the garden.
She clung to his arm the whole way, cloak swishing around her legs, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling with a soft, almost unreal brightness. Every few steps she'd glance up at him like she needed to make sure he was really there.
Every time he caught her looking, she jerked her gaze away, ears turning red.
On the engawa, she hesitated.
The nighttime air was cool, carrying faint hints of incense from the shrine and the distant murmur of voices from inside—Rias and Sona arguing quietly over something, Asia humming as she checked on someone.
"Ren," Le Fay said, fingers tightening in the fabric of his sleeve.
"Mm?"
She licked her lips once, gathering courage.
"I… I know you're busy," she said. "And you have so many people depending on you. But… if you ever have a day like this again…" Her voice softened, eyes dropping to the wooden floor between them. "Call me."
He smiled, slow and certain.
"I will," he said. "Count on it. And if you ever want something…" He tipped her chin up with a finger, making her meet his eyes. "Just call. Anytime."
She let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. Some tight knot in her shoulders finally unwound.
"Then…" She rose up on her toes in one quick motion.
Her lips brushed his cheek—a quick, clumsy kiss, still shy, but bolder than the first snowflake-soft touch in the sky. She pulled back instantly, face flaming.
"Good night," she squeaked.
"Good night, Le Fay."
He watched her slip inside, cloak fluttering around her ankles. Magic hummed faintly in her wake, brighter and more steady than before, as if her Soul Palace itself had straightened its spine.
When he finally turned away, his Heaven purred quietly above the manor.
Even for him, days like this were good cultivation.
...
Rossweisse found him in the study.
Which was unfair, really, because she'd come here to hide.
The manor's "study" had started life as a simple room with a desk and a couple of bookshelves. Under the combined influence of Rias, Sona, Seekvaira, and Rossweisse, it had turned into something between a war room and an accountant's nest.
Today, the nest was firmly claimed.
Neat stacks of paper occupied most of the large table in the center. Three floating screens hovered above it, each showing different ledgers, magical diagrams, or security reports. Colored tags stuck out from folders like little flags.
Rossweisse sat at the center of it all.
Her white blouse sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, leaving pale, slender forearms uncovered. A pen spun unconsciously between her fingers, sometimes drifting upward as runes glimmered above it and she used magic to annotate something mid-thought.
Ren leaned in the doorway for a minute just to watch.
Her aura was taut—like a bowstring drawn almost to the breaking point. Not from battle, but from sheer, grinding focus. Numbers, regulations from three factions, shrine upkeep budgets, patrol schedules, emergency reserves… all of it was flowing through her mind and out onto paper with methodical precision.
He almost felt bad about interrupting.
Almost.
"You're going to burn a hole in the table if you glare any harder," he drawled.
She jumped.
The spinning pen shot straight up. It would've embedded itself in the ceiling if Ren hadn't casually raised two fingers. The pen hit an invisible barrier, bounced, then dropped neatly into his waiting hand.
Rossweisse stared.
"R-Ren," she sputtered, cheeks coloring. "How long have you been there?"
He checked an invisible watch.
"Long enough to see you wrestle an army of fiscal demons," he said mildly. "I'm impressed. They're nastier than most of the ones I deal with."
Her mouth twitched despite herself.
"…You're making fun of me," she muttered, looking away, grabbing another sheet a little too sharply.
"Not at all." He stepped fully into the room. "You're terrifying, actually. I was thinking of surrendering my wallet before you audit it into ashes."
"You don't even use a wallet," she shot back, almost on reflex.
"True," he conceded. "Still scary, though."
He circled the table, papers rustling as he moved. She reluctantly scooted a stack of expenses to the side to make room when he slid into the chair beside her.
"It's late," he said, voice softening. "Everyone else is either asleep, pretending to be asleep, or hiding snacks somewhere. Why are you still here?"
She stiffened.
"I'm not— I like this kind of work," she said quickly. "Someone has to track the expenses for the new training facilities. And the shrine fortifications. And your habit of conjuring tea pavilions for dates without warning the maintenance team."
"That last one's on me," he admitted. "I'll bribe the maintenance guys later."
"You can't just—"
"Bribe my own people with better benefits?" he asked, eyes amused. "Watch me."
She stared at him, then let out a tiny, unwilling huff that might have been a laugh.
"…It's not just the work," she said eventually, shoulders slumping a fraction. "It's expectations."
"Expectations," he echoed.
"Odin-sama entrusted me to Rias," she continued, looking down at her hands. "Rias entrusted me with helping manage Kuoh's defenses and finances. The Shinto and Heaven factions are watching how we handle all these changes. I'm a Valkyrie. I'm supposed to be competent. Reliable. Not some… useless woman who only knows how to swing a spear and complain about not having a boyfriend."
The last part slipped out sharper than she intended.
Ren watched her.
Her jaw was tight. There were faint shadows under her eyes, the kind that came from too many late nights in a row. The pen in her fingers had started to tremble.
"Rossweisse," he said quietly. "Look at me."
Reluctantly, she did.
Her pale blue eyes met his. For all her irritation and composure, there was tiredness there. And beneath that, a familiar, gnawing doubt.
"You," he said, "are one of the most competent people in this house. In any pantheon I've visited."
Her cheeks colored, eyes darting away again, but he didn't let her escape with that.
"You handle triple-layered budgets for factions that still think 'loan' is a dirty word. You keep track of which god owes us which favor. You build barrier frameworks that make dragons squint. And you still drag yourself into sparring sessions when you could've hidden behind a desk and no one would've blamed you."
"That's just my job," she muttered. "It's what I'm supposed to do."
"Plenty of people are supposed to," he said. "Very few actually can. Or do."
She bit her lip, fingers tightening around the pen.
"And as for the 'useless woman' thing," he added, tone flattening just enough to be dangerous, "whoever made you think that can come say it to my face next time."
"That would be… Odin-sama," she said dryly.
"Then I'll start with him," Ren replied without missing a beat. "Old man likes to talk, but he's not the one doing the work down here."
Despite herself, she snorted, shoulders loosening a fraction.
The room's tight tension eased.
Ren reached up, catching one of the floating displays, and gently flicking it aside. It shrank to an icon and drifted to the corner of the ceiling.
"That's enough work for tonight," he said.
"You don't decide that," she protested, on reflex more than conviction.
"You're in my house," he pointed out mildly. "Buried in my paperwork. Worrying about my girls' safety. I think I get at least one vote."
She opened her mouth, then closed it again, the argument dying before it could form.
"…I still have a projected balance to reconcile," she tried weakly.
"And if you do it when your eyes can't even focus," he said, "you'll just double your work tomorrow fixing mistakes. Let me be selfish for once. I want the Rossweisse who can enjoy things, not the one trying to carry three pantheons on her back alone."
She blinked.
"…Enjoy things?" she repeated, like he'd said something in a language she hadn't studied.
"Yeah." He smiled. "You remember what that's like, right?"
A flush climbed her neck.
"I do," she said, a little sharply. "I'm not some… work machine."
"Good," he said. "Then indulge me."
He stood and held out a hand.
"Come on. Five-minute break."
Her eyes dropped to his hand, then rose back to his face, suspicion and curiosity warring in her expression.
"Where?" she asked.
He grinned.
"You'll see."
...
The rooftop had changed.
Rossweisse stepped through the door and stopped.
The manor's roof tiles still lay beneath her feet… for about three paces. After that, the familiar edge of the roof simply refused to exist. In its place stretched a smooth strip of black road, looping lazily into the star-filled darkness like a piece of night had been rolled out and painted with white lines.
Floating orbs of light hung above the track, illuminating it in gentle, warm tones. Beyond the safety barriers, there was nothing—no ground, no city. Just a controlled, starry void that hummed faintly with Ren's Dao.
At the start line waited a car.
Not a magic carriage. Not a summoning construct. A car. Sleek lines, glossy body, the kind of carefully tuned machine human engineers liked to brag about. Except for the faint glow in its headlights and the subtle sigils etched along its rims, it could've rolled straight off a high-end showroom floor.
Rossweisse stared.
"…Is that…?" Her mind supplied the obvious answer and still refused to believe it. "A car?"
"Yup." Ren shoved his hands into his pockets, sounding far too pleased with himself. "Custom build. I borrowed some ideas from human engineering, added a few safety layers, and wired it into my Heaven so it doesn't fall apart when someone sneezes too hard near it."
She slowly turned toward him, torn between awe and a deep, wary suspicion.
"Why," she said carefully, "did you conjure a car on your roof?"
He shrugged.
"Because a certain Valkyrie once sketched out her 'perfect date'," he said. "Something about a driving trip, a nice view, and someone who didn't treat her like a glorified babysitter."
Her face went scarlet.
"H-how do you—?!"
"Asia," he said simply. "She felt bad you never got that dream. Mentioned something about your license and a man who should appreciate it."
Rossweisse covered her face with both hands.
"I told her that in confidence," she groaned.
"Don't worry," he said. "I paid for the intel. Pancakes, extra syrup. Completely fair trade."
"That makes it worse," she muttered behind her fingers.
He laughed.
"Come on," he said, gentler now. "I made the track myself. No traffic. No drunk gods. No distractions. Just you, the road, and the guy in the passenger seat who's going to sit there and admire how cool you look."
Her hands slowly slid down.
"…You're serious," she said.
"Very."
For a moment, he saw it—unhidden in her eyes. The yearning.
Driving was such a simple, mortal thing. No divine contracts, no world-ending stakes. Just a person, a road, and freedom. Somewhere along the way, that simple wish had been buried under jobs and missions and teasing jokes about her love life.
"Five minutes," he repeated. "Then we can come back, and you can beat the budget into submission again. I'll even help."
She hesitated one more heartbeat.
Then her spine straightened.
"Fine," she said, with a valiant attempt at her usual sternness. "But I'm driving."
"I'd be offended if you didn't," he said.
...
The car's interior smelled faintly of leather and something warm, like sunlight on stone.
Runes glowed softly along the dashboard, good-naturedly syncing to her aura as she slid into the driver's seat. The steering wheel fit her hands like it had been designed for her grip.
Ren buckled his seatbelt without comment, leaning back with casual ease, one arm resting on the door.
Rossweisse took a slow, steadying breath.
"This is ridiculous," she muttered. "I drive hover chariots. I fly with runes. I pilot magic jets."
"You've also memorized three traffic law codes from three different countries," he said. "Might as well use that for something fun."
Her lips twitched.
The dashboard came to life with a gentle hum.
The engine's low purr vibrated through the seat, through the pedals, up into her legs. It wasn't the roar of a dragon or the crackle of a spell. It was… patient. Ready.
She smiled despite herself.
"…Oh," she whispered. "That's… nice."
"Right?" Ren said. "I tuned it to your magic. The more focused you are, the smoother it rides."
Her eyes widened.
"You… built this for me?" she asked quietly.
"Who else?" he said easily. "Tiamat would turn into a dragon halfway through and use it as a skateboard."
She snorted, then laughed—a real laugh this time, bright and clean, shaking off some of the fatigue clinging to her shoulders.
"Okay," she said, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. "Here we go."
The car rolled forward.
The track welcomed them, Dao formations beneath the surface adjusting gently to her control. Wind—carefully controlled by Ren's Heaven—met them as they picked up speed, lifting her hair from her shoulders, cool and fresh.
First, a gentle curve.
She shifted her weight, steering into it. The car responded like a well-trained horse, strong but obedient, gliding through the bend.
A straightaway opened ahead.
She pressed the accelerator.
The engine's purr deepened to a throaty hum. The scenery—stars, floating lights, the faint outline of the manor roof—slid by in smooth motion. The track curved in the distance like a trail written across the sky.
Rossweisse's focus sharpened.
All the clutter in her head—budget numbers, patrol rotations, Odin's teasing, whispers about boyfriends—faded into the background. It was just her, the car, and the road.
Left turn. She took it cleanly, eyes tracking ahead, adjusting angles almost instinctively. Right bend. She feathered the brakes, feeling the weight shift, then accelerated out of it, a smile slowly tugging at her lips.
She stole a glance at the passenger seat.
Ren was watching her, not the road.
His expression was relaxed, eyes half-lidded, but the pride in them was obvious.
"What?" she asked, trying to sound annoyed and failing.
"Nothing," he said. "You look happy."
She looked away quickly, back to the track.
"I'm just… concentrating," she said.
"Mm. Your 'concentrating' smile is cute," he commented.
The wheel wobbled.
"S-stop saying weird things while I'm driving," she protested, ears burning. "What if I crash?"
"You won't," he said, completely unbothered. "But even if you did, my Dao would catch us. I'm not letting anything happen to you over a joyride."
There was no bravado in his voice—just a simple, absolute statement of fact.
Something in her chest loosened.
They drove.
One lap became two, then three.
With each one, her movements grew smoother. The track was long enough to let her open up on the straight sections, tight enough to demand respect on the curves. The stars around them seemed to turn slower, as if the whole world had settled into their rhythm.
Rossweisse's tension melted away, replaced by exhilaration.
She laughed suddenly, the sound echoing off the Dao-touched air.
"I forgot it could feel like this," she said quietly. "Just… doing something because I wanted to."
Ren smiled.
"Good," he said.
When they finally eased back to the starting line, the car coming smoothly to a stop, she sat for a moment with her hands still on the wheel, breathing a little faster than normal.
"That was…" She exhaled, then let out a small laugh. "…amazing."
"See?" he said. "I told you five minutes would be worth it."
She turned the engine off.
Silence settled around them—not heavy, not awkward. Just a quiet that let her hear her own heartbeat.
Rossweisse stared at the dashboard, then at her own hands.
"…Thank you," she said. "For this. It's… stupid, but—"
"It's not stupid," he cut in gently. "Your dreams aren't stupid. Not the big ones, not the small ones. If it matters to you, it matters."
Her breath caught.
She turned toward him.
He was closer than she'd thought—features softened by the dim light from the floating orbs, the sharpness of his eyes tempered by that same calm, unshakable warmth he'd carried since the moment he walked into their world.
"You always…" She searched for words. "You always make it sound so easy. Like I'm allowed to want things."
"You are," he said simply. "You're not just a shield or an accountant. You're a woman. You're you. That's worth spoiling."
Her heart stuttered.
Spoiling.
The word hit deeper than any compliment.
She'd been mocked for not having a boyfriend. Teased for spending her money on sales instead of dates. Used as a barrier between Odin and whatever mischief he wanted to get into. A reliable tool. A joke.
He looked at her like she was neither.
"…Ren," she said, voice low. "Why are you… so kind to me?"
He tilted his head.
"Because I like you," he answered.
No hesitation. No drumroll. Just truth.
"As a woman," he added, in case she tried to dodge the meaning. "As someone smart and stubborn enough to argue with gods. As someone who works herself into the ground because she cares. And as someone who looks way too good behind a steering wheel."
Her cheeks burned.
"You… you can't just say things like that," she murmured. "You know that, right?"
"Why not?" he asked easily. "You think it's not true?"
She couldn't answer.
Doubt rose up in her like it always did—old voices telling her she was just convenient, just a Valkyrie left behind, just a bundle of responsibilities in cute packaging.
But those voices had been quieter lately.
He'd been loud.
"Ren," she said again, softer. "If you… if you say you like me… does that mean…?"
"That you're my woman?" he finished for her, not looking away. "If you want that. I'm not going to push you. But I'm not going to pretend I don't want it either."
The car suddenly felt very small.
Her mind scrambled.
The harem. The gods. The politics. The way her name would be written next to others'. The fear of being just another line in someone else's story.
His earlier words settled, heavy and warm.
You. Not just a shield. Not just a role.
He must have seen the war on her face, because his voice dropped, steady and gentle.
"Rossweisse," he said. "You don't have to decide everything right now. You don't have to match anyone's pace but your own. All I'm asking is… when you reach for something you want… don't apologize for it."
Something snapped.
Not in a breaking way.
In a releasing way.
She leaned across the console before she could talk herself out of it, hands fisting in the front of his shirt, eyes squeezed shut.
"Then… don't move," she muttered, heart pounding.
He didn't.
She kissed him.
It was clumsy.
A little too forceful. Her nose bumped his. She misjudged the angle, almost dragging his collar sideways.
He made a low sound anyway, one hand rising to cradle the back of her head, guiding gently without taking control. He let her set the pressure, the pace, the length.
For someone who'd been teased her whole life about not getting dates, her inexperience carried a kind of raw honesty.
When she finally pulled back, breathing hard, realization crashed in.
Her eyes flew open.
"Ah—!" She jerked away so fast she nearly hit the window. "I—I didn't— That wasn't—!"
"Good technique," he said calmly, though there was a new, darker heat in his eyes. "A little aggressive. I like it."
"D-don't tease me," she stammered, face buried in her hands again. Her ears felt hot enough to melt ice. "I was just— It was sudden and—"
"I'm serious," he said softly. "I liked it."
Silence settled again, this time charged.
"…So," she managed, voice muffled, "does that… make me…?"
"It makes you Rossweisse," he said. "A woman who kissed me in a car on a track in my Heaven. We can decide what else you want that to mean together."
Her hands slipped down slowly.
She met his gaze; her cheeks were still red, but her eyes were steadier now.
"…I'll… think about it," she said honestly.
"Take your time," he replied. "The track's not going anywhere. Neither am I."
She swallowed, then nodded.
"Then," she whispered, "until I decide… let me… do this again."
She leaned in, slower this time.
Their second kiss was brief and soft, more controlled, more her—shy, deliberate, and a little trembling.
When she sat back, she was still shaking, but a small, disbelieving smile tugged at her lips.
He looked at her like she'd just handed him a victory.
"Deal," he said.
...
Amaterasu's light felt different at dusk.
Ren had noticed that the first time he met her—how the sun's authority in Takamagahara wasn't just harsh noon radiance, but also the soft, lingering warmth of late afternoon. The world between blazing day and restful night.
It suited her.
Today, that light washed over a garden that didn't exist on any mortal map.
They walked side by side along a stone path suspended high above Japan. Below, the islands spread out like a painting: coastlines inked in dark, rivers glinting faintly, city grids beginning to wake as electric veins of light. Above, the sky blazed in bands of gold and rose, clouds brushed with fire, the last blaze of day smoothing into evening.
Here, in this pocket she'd carved between realms, the air was gentle. Not the crushing divinity of her throne in the Sun Palace. Not the solemn hush of a shrine full of incense and whispered prayers. Just… sky and wind and the distant flicker of city lights coming to life.
A faint scent of sun-warmed pine drifted on the breeze, mixed with the salt of the sea far below. Behind them, the torii gate they'd stepped through stood alone, marking the boundary between Takamagahara's strict order and this small, stolen piece of quiet.
Amaterasu walked a half-step ahead, hands folded in her sleeves.
Her hair—raven-black, glossy—lifted on the breeze. Her robes today were less formal than when she'd received foreign delegations: still layered white and gold, but looser, almost like a summer kimono worn off-duty. The sunfire that usually burned behind her eyes had softened into something warmer, more human.
Her presence was still the sun.
Just… the sun when it was deciding whether to rise again.
"Your world is noisy," she said after a while, gaze drifting over the cities below.
"Loud," Ren agreed. "Messy. Stubborn." His mouth curled. "But lively."
"Hm."
She paused at a bend in the path, looking down.
Cars flowed like streams of light along highways. Neon signs flickered on, hesitant at first, then bold. Screens glowed in high-rise windows. Somewhere, a human laughed too loudly on a street corner; somewhere else, someone cried alone in a cramped apartment. A thousand trivial dramas, invisible from the lofty meeting halls of Takamagahara, laid out like a living tapestry.
"When I was young," she said quietly, "my worshipers would lift their faces to the dawn and pray simply for another day without disaster. For the sun to rise as it had the day before."
She smiled faintly, the expression small but real.
"Now they pray for job promotions and concert tickets," she said. "They curse traffic jams more than storms."
Ren huffed a soft laugh.
"You sound amused," he said.
"I am," she admitted. "They have the luxury to be foolish. That is… a form of peace."
He watched her profile.
Even here, away from her court and the endless scrolls of petitions, the weight of the sun sat on her shoulders. Not as a crush, but as an ever-present mantle. Light that never entirely dimmed. A crown that could never really be set down.
"You let yourself rest at all?" he asked.
She glanced at him, brows tilting the barest fraction.
"Rest?" she repeated.
"Yeah," he said. "You know, that thing where you stop holding up the sky for five minutes and just… exist."
Her lips quirked, not quite a smile.
"If I stop, the sun does not suddenly fall," she said. "I am not literally pushing the star, despite what some old myths imply."
"Metaphors matter," he said. "They live in people's heads. And in yours."
She went quiet.
The breeze shifted, carrying up a snippet of music from somewhere in Tokyo. A late broadcast jingle, distorted by distance, but still bright.
He stepped a little closer—not crowding, just closing the distance enough that the warmth around her brushed his aura. To most beings, that warmth would have been an awe-inspiring pressure, a subtle reminder that this was the goddess whose name had been carved into countless shrines.
To him, it was simply her.
"You carry a lot," he said. "Pantheon, worshipers, rival factions, your own people's expectations. You're allowed to set it down sometimes. The world won't end if you take a breath."
Her lips finally curved.
"Easy for you to say," she murmured. "You rearranged my cosmic neighborhood in a matter of months and then went on dates."
He chuckled, low in his chest.
"Did both at the same time, actually," he said. "Very efficient."
That drew an actual laugh from her—soft, surprised, as if the sound had escaped before she could stop it.
"You are insufferably confident," she said.
"Accurate," he agreed, eyes glinting. "But I'm also right. The sun goddess can go on a walk without writing a report about it. Shocking, I know."
She gave him a sidelong look.
"I invited you here to discuss the future of our cooperation," she said. "Not to be lectured about self-care."
"You invited me to discuss cooperation," he corrected gently. "I came to talk to you. Both can happen."
Her gaze lingered on him, weighing, measuring.
Up close, Amaterasu didn't feel like a distant myth. She felt like a woman who had lived a very long time with very little room to be anything but perfect.
"Do you treat all goddesses like this?" she asked. "As if they are simply… women first?"
"When they let me," he said. "When they want me to."
"And you think I want that?" she asked, arching a brow.
He took his time answering.
The path curved ahead, leading toward a small terrace jutting out over nothing. The stone there glowed faintly with stored sunlight, warmed through by her presence. Overhead, the colors of the sky deepened, gold sliding into amber, then into the first hints of indigo.
"I think," he said slowly, "that the woman who built a secret garden of dusk between worlds might appreciate someone who sees more than her title."
Silence again.
The sort that wasn't empty, but full of things neither of them had said yet.
They reached the terrace.
A low bench sat at its edge, carved from pale stone that held the heat of her light. The view from here was stunning: Japan spread out below like a cluster of lanterns, the sea a dark, breathing expanse beyond, the stars just beginning to pierce the sky above.
Amaterasu sank onto the bench with the grace of someone born to thrones, then—after a heartbeat—shifted, loosening her posture in a way she probably never allowed herself in a council chamber. One leg tucked slightly under the other; her sleeves slid back just enough to show a slender line of wrist.
Ren sat beside her, not respectful-distance far, not indecently close. Just… within reach.
For a while, they simply watched the sunset.
Light pooled along the horizon. The edge of the sun slipped lower, bleeding gold into the clouds. The city lights below brightened in answer, tiny, stubborn stars reflected on earth.
"You know," he said eventually, "when we first met, you were very… proper."
"Proper," she echoed, amused.
"Mm." He tilted his head, studying her face in the changing light. "The Sun. The Ruler. The one who has to balance everyone else's nonsense. It suits you. But I've seen flashes of another side."
"Oh?" she asked, eyes narrowing in faint challenge. "Have you now?"
"The part that stays up too late watching dramas while pretending it's intelligence-gathering," he said. "The part that bickers with Susanoo like any exasperated sister. The part that smiled when I stole you out of a meeting for tea and didn't put the mask back on for a full hour."
Her ears colored, just a little.
"You have been talking to my attendants," she said.
"They didn't say anything," he replied. "Your Dao told me."
He nodded toward the sky.
"Sunlight doesn't only blaze," he said. "It warms kitchens, naps, lazy afternoons. You carry both, whether you admit it or not."
She exhaled, the breath halfway between a sigh and a laugh.
"You talk like a poet sometimes," she said.
"I can't help it." His smile turned a touch self-mocking. "Too much Dao comprehension. It leaks."
Her lips twitched.
"In the beginning, I found you… alarming," she admitted.
He glanced sideways. "Just in the beginning?"
She ignored that.
"You tore through barriers that had stood for centuries," she went on. "You dismissed status with a wave of your hand. You made gods hesitate."
"That's my job," he said lightly. "Break what needs breaking."
"Mmn." Her gaze softened, remembering. "But you also did things no one else bothered to. You visited little shrines at the edge of our territory, reinforcing their wards without announcement. You listened when minor kami complained about being ignored. You asked my priestess if she was eating enough."
"She wasn't," he said. "I fixed that."
"You assigned her to a cooking rotation with your… maid squad," Amaterasu said dryly. "She came back talking about demonic pancakes and fox stew."
"Delicious pancakes," he corrected. "The stew was Yasaka."
Her expression almost cracked into a laugh.
"Foxes are too meddlesome to be eaten," she said at last, lips twitching.
"Yasaka would agree," he answered.
They fell quiet again.
This time, the silence had a different weight.
"You noticed all that," he said softly.
"Of course I did," she replied. "This is my sky. I feel every ripple within it. And lately, many of those ripples lead back to you."
She turned her head, meeting his eyes directly now.
"It unsettled me," she said. "At first. You were an unknown factor with power that did not fit our understanding. You silenced Trihexa's presence without turning this world to ash. You carved a Heaven above the world that even my sight could not fully penetrate."
She looked away, down at the world again.
"And you did not… demand my submission for it," she added, voice lower. "Many men—in myth and in modern times—would have."
He snorted softly.
"Why would I want the sun to bow to me?" he said. "You're more interesting standing beside me."
Her hand, resting lightly on her lap, tightened inside her sleeve.
"…You say dangerous things," she murmured.
"That's because you're thinking about them," he countered gently. "If they didn't matter, you'd tease me back and move on."
She fell silent.
The sunset bled into twilight. The first stars pricked through the deepening blue. Below, Tokyo's glow thickened, drowning out some smaller constellations, but never fully hiding the sky.
Ren let the quiet stretch, patient.
High above, unseen to mortal eyes, his Heaven hummed.
Twelve Fate Palaces fused into a single vast vault hung just out of phase with this pocket realm, its presence like a second, invisible sky layered over Takamagahara. He let a thin strand of that structure brush against Amaterasu's domain—not intruding, not conquering. Just… touching. An offered hand, palm up.
Amaterasu felt it.
The essence and formations that underpinned Takamagahara shivered as that foreign Heaven glided past, so effortlessly it might have been a drifting cloud. Her own authority tensed on instinct, sunfire brightening behind her eyes.
This thing above them was not born from Shinto. It was not the Biblical Heaven either, nor the Dimensional Gap, nor any territory she could name. It was a stranger standing very close to her doorstep.
Her first reaction, centuries-deep, was simple: test it.
She slid her hand free from her sleeve, letting her fingers curl once in her lap.
A thin thread of solar authority fell from her like a shaft of sharpened daylight.
It wasn't an attack. Not truly. But it was far from gentle.
Sunfire rushed outward, laws of light and cycle and rebirth braided into it—the same authority that called dawn and dismissed night, that burned away shadows from shrines and fields alike. For a heartbeat, the garden brightened as if noon had returned, shadows snapping into razor sharpness.
The stone underfoot groaned faintly. The air heated, wind flattening as if in reverence.
Ren did not flinch.
His aura didn't surge in answer. He didn't unleash a counter-flare or drown her light in his own.
He simply lifted his hand.
The gesture was lazy at first glance. Fingers half-curled, palm open to the sky.
The Dao inside him moved.
Weight gathered around his body—not crude gravity, but the quiet, terrifying density of an Ancient Saint's foundation and a Hell Suppressing Immortal Physique that could crush galaxies if fully unleashed. The world around him seemed to exhale as his presence grew heavier, deeper, without growing louder.
Amaterasu's sun-thread hit that invisible boundary.
It didn't shatter.
It didn't pierce through, either.
It slowed. Stretched. The edges of its authority unraveled, not broken but carefully unknotted. Her burning law of dawn-and-day found itself reflected in something older and stranger: a Dao that knew weight, stagnation, eternity—and yet bent, without breaking, to let her power pass without harming either of them.
The garden trembled once and then steadied.
The heat bled away into the formation lines Ren had woven underfoot, recycled, turned harmless. A few leaves drifted down from unseen branches, curling slowly in the gentler air.
Amaterasu stared at him, eyes wide not with outrage, but with startled understanding.
"You…" she began.
Ren lowered his hand.
"You wanted to see if my Heaven was going to try to sit on yours," he said. "Fair question."
Her cheeks colored faintly.
"Most beings do not speak so lightly while holding back something that could crush my palace," she said.
He shrugged, a small roll of shoulders.
"If I wanted to crush anything," he said calmly, "I'd do it directly. You'd know. I'm not interested in that."
His gaze slid briefly upward, toward where his Heaven hung in the unseen layers over them.
"I came here to build," he added. "Not to knock your sky down and stick mine in the gap."
The corner of her mouth twitched.
"You say that as if building is not its own kind of conquest," she said.
"Depends who you're building with," he replied. "And what you're building for."
She held his gaze.
Slowly, deliberately, she slid her hand fully out of her sleeve.
Her fingers grazed the stone between them, bare skin against warm rock. The contact was small, easily ignored if either of them chose to pretend it meant nothing.
She didn't.
Her hand turned, palm up.
An answer.
Ren's smile barely moved his lips, but it shone in his eyes.
He set his hand over hers, fingers warm against her skin, his grip firm but gentle. The contact came with no surge of power, no attempt to bind. Just solid, human warmth wrapped around divine light.
Amaterasu's breath hitched.
"…You take liberties," she said, but there was no heat in it.
"You offered," he reminded her quietly.
She turned her hand, letting their fingers lace together properly.
"I did," she conceded.
Her hand was warm, but not burning. The heat was deeper than flesh—Divinity, authority, light. His Dao wrapped around it without flinching, absorbing and reflecting, the way his Twelve Heavens did with every energy that entered them.
"You're strong," she said quietly. "Stronger than almost anyone I have met. But your hand is… gentle."
"I don't need to crush what I like," he said. "I hold it."
He lifted their joined hands, bringing hers closer to his face, his thumb brushing along the inside of her wrist.
"May I?" he asked.
A sun goddess did not blush.
But the faint color dusting her cheekbones said otherwise.
"Yes," she said, the word soft but steady.
He turned her hand and pressed his lips to the back of it.
The gesture was old-fashioned, almost courtly, the kind of thing that would have suited some ancient emperor at a New Year's audience. But the way he did it—eyes never leaving hers, mouth lingering just a heartbeat longer than politeness required—made it something else entirely.
Her heart skipped.
For a woman who had watched empires rise and fall, who had listened to a thousand generations whisper her name at dawn, the sensation was strangely new.
"Ren," she said.
"Mm?"
"If I allow this," she said, squeezing his hand, "you realize it complicates everything."
"Everything's already complicated," he said. "I just want to make sure you're happy in the middle of it."
Her lips curved.
"You speak as if my happiness is something you can… arrange," she said.
"I can influence it," he said. "I know how to charm a sun."
Her laugh came out low, warm.
"Arrogant man," she said.
"Guilty," he replied, unrepentant.
She shifted closer, robes whispering against stone.
The small gap between them shrank until their shoulders almost touched. Her light settled around him like a cloak; his Dao responded, a quiet resonance humming along their joined hands. The space felt strangely… private, even with the world spread out beneath them, even with Takamagahara's wards and watchers somewhere beyond the boundary of this garden.
"Ren," she said again.
He turned his head.
Her eyes were different now—not just bright, but focused, the way the sun intensifies before it breaks the horizon.
"Would you," she asked softly, "kiss me?"
He could have taken it; her hand in his, her aura opening, her question itself an invitation.
He still asked.
"Are you sure?" he murmured. "You wear a lot of crowns. I don't want you to feel pushed."
Her fingers tightened, nails biting lightly into his skin. The faint sting was nothing compared to the emotion in her gaze.
"I have given blessings for centuries," she said. "I have been prayed to, feared, adored. This is not a blessing. It is a choice. Mine."
He smiled, slow and genuine.
"Then yeah," he said, voice low. "I'd like that."
He leaned in.
The first contact was light, a brush of lips at the corner of her mouth, testing. Her breath caught, eyes fluttering shut. He adjusted, angling properly, giving her all the room in the world to retreat.
She didn't.
Amaterasu met him halfway.
Her free hand slid up, resting flat on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his Fate Palaces through bone and muscle. His hand found the small of her back, fingers splaying over silk and warmth, steadying rather than claiming.
The kiss deepened slowly.
No rush. No frantic, youthful urgency. Just the steady building of heat, like dawn turning into day.
She tasted faintly of sunshine and some delicate tea he didn't recognize. Her aura flared; his Dao answered, folding around them for an instant, not to trap, but to shelter—closing out the distant awareness of minor spirits, shading the garden from Takamagahara's curious senses without challenging her authority.
For that moment, the sun goddess had a space that was only hers.
When they finally parted, her eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide, cheeks warmed by more than her own light.
"…I see why they write poetry about this," she murmured.
"Good?" he asked, thumb brushing absently along the line of her wrist, still not letting go.
"Better than most offerings I receive," she said, lips curving. "And none of those have your smile."
"Careful," he warned lightly. "Say things like that and I'll get ideas."
"Perhaps I want you to," she said.
The air warmed a fraction, responding to her mood.
"You're very dangerous when you're relaxed," he observed.
"You prefer me tense?" she asked.
"No," he said. "I prefer you like this."
She leaned into his side, resting her head briefly against his shoulder. From this angle, the world below them blurred into a sea of lights; the sky above sharpened, stars slowly thickening as the last line of sun dipped below the horizon.
"The feeling is mutual," she said.
They stayed like that for a while.