The church rooftop smelled faintly of old stone, polish, and incense that had sunk so deep into the walls it would probably outlast the building itself.
Griselda sat on a simple folding chair someone had hauled up here years ago, back as straight as the cross above the nave. White habit immaculate, veil catching the evening breeze, she cradled a mug of tea between her hands. Below, Kuoh's noise thinned into a soft wash—cars, distant laughter, the faint ring of a bicycle bell.
Her expression, as always, was calm.
Her heartbeat… not quite.
Space behind her folded like a page turning.
Ren stepped out of the void without ceremony and wrapped his arms around her shoulders in one smooth, practiced motion, chin settling on the crown of her head as if it belonged there.
Her entire body went still.
"Back," he murmured, voice low and lazy against her ear. "You already started without me, huh?"
Griselda exhaled, the breath slipping out of her like a prayer she hadn't meant to voice.
"You were late," she said, tone perfectly polite.
Her fingers, though, tightened around his forearm instead of trying to pry him off.
"Mm. I was listening to a dragon complain about fan clubs," Ren said. "She wanted to know if she should burn them or tax them. I voted for taxation."
"That is… very responsible of you," Griselda replied.
He felt the tiny tremor at the corner of her mouth when she said it. For someone everyone described as terrifyingly strict, she smiled much more easily these days. The chill around her hadn't vanished, but it no longer cut.
Her Soul Palace had shifted too.
He could feel it even now, the way Myriad Origin Scripture wound through her inner world, quiet and relentless. What had once been a cold, austere cathedral of light was still disciplined, still precise, but the edges had softened. Rows of pews no longer stood empty; the light that poured in through those imaginary stained-glass windows no longer shone only outward.
The loops of Myriad Origin caught every stray thread of holy power and life force, folding it gently back into her—refining, recycling, repairing the meridians overworked by years of missions and worry.
Her essence flowed cleaner now, less like a river forced between stone walls and more like a wide, quiet current.
Ren loosened his embrace just enough to let her move. Griselda took the invitation, turning her head to look up at him.
Blue eyes, serious even in the gathering dusk. Lashes darker in the slanting light. A woman the world saw as Heaven's blade, looking at him like he was… not safety, exactly. But rest.
"You didn't knock," she said.
"Thought about it," Ren answered. "Then I imagined your face if I wasted a perfectly good entrance and decided against it."
Griselda sighed, soft as the bells below.
"You are impossible," she said.
He smiled, the expression creasing the corners of his eyes.
"Everyone keeps saying that," he replied. "And yet you all keep letting me hold you like this."
Color crept slowly up her throat and into her cheeks. Griselda Quarta, polite and composed and terrifying enough that Xenovia still flinched when she raised her voice, tried and failed to maintain a proper church-lady expression.
"That is…" she began, then faltered.
Ren didn't rush her.
He just waited, arms a steady circle around her, his presence like a warm weight pressed against her back.
"…That is because you do not let go even when we push you away," she finished quietly.
His fingers flexed at her ribs, a little pressure of reassurance.
"Not planning to start now," he said.
He dipped his head and stole a kiss before she could marshal a proper response—soft, unhurried, tasting faintly of tea and discipline and all the prayers she'd never said aloud.
Griselda's hand lifted automatically, half-intent on pushing him away.
It ended up curling into his shirt instead.
Her heart kicked against his senses like a bell struck too hard. Holy light stirred instinctively under her skin, but instead of rising as a shield, it folded inwards, guided by Myriad Origin's loops—sanctity not turned outward as armor, but accepted as part of herself.
When he finally let her breathe, she exhaled on a tiny laugh that startled even her.
"You're cruel," she murmured. "Doing that without warning."
"Mm. Next time I'll send a written notice to Heaven first," he said. "Give Gabriel time to schedule it."
"Please do not," Griselda said immediately, horrified. "She would… she would take it seriously."
Ren chuckled and rested his chin on her shoulder.
He held her a little tighter and listened to the way her breath slowly evened out beneath his.
The rooftop door creaked.
"Griselda, I brought the—"
Rossweisse stepped out into the open air with a grocery bag hooked over one forearm and a folder of neatly clipped documents in the other. Wind caught her silver hair, tugging strands loose; fieldlight glinted off her glasses.
She froze.
Her gaze swept the scene in one smooth, soldier-trained motion: Ren behind Griselda, arms wrapped around her; Griselda's too-red cheeks; Ren's lazy, unmistakably satisfied smile.
For a heartbeat, the former Valkyrie looked like someone had hit her with a low-level paralysis spell.
Then her eye twitched.
"…I apologize," Rossweisse said stiffly. "I seem to have walked into a… private moment."
Her Norwegian accent thickened just enough to betray how flustered she was. Her aura—which usually held itself in a very tidy, professional sphere—spiked in uneven little bursts, like ice shards melting and refreezing midair.
Ren didn't let Griselda go.
"Relax," he said. "Come here. There's enough room for you too."
He reached out with one hand, hooked two fingers in the strap of Rossweisse's bag, and tugged her closer before she could retreat.
"Careful," she protested, clutching the documents to her chest. "Those are curriculum proposals, they—hey."
He set the grocery bag down beside the chair, then smoothly took the folder from her hands. Without even looking, he passed it over Griselda's head; she accepted it on reflex.
"We'll read them later," Ren said. "Right now, I'm borrowing both of you."
"Ren," Griselda said mildly, though she didn't hand the folder back.
Rossweisse stared at him like he'd just suggested redecorating Asgard in pink.
"Both—what—this is highly irregular," she spluttered. "We're on duty. I'm on duty. I was reviewing lesson plans and—"
"And you bought snacks on sale," Ren said, tilting his head toward the bag. "You don't walk that fast when you're only thinking about work."
Her face went crimson.
"T-that's just responsible budgeting," she muttered. "There was a discount on coffee. And half-price taiyaki. I… thought they might like it."
"They will," he said.
His free arm slid around her waist with gentle but inexorable pressure. In the next breath, she found herself half-sitting on the arm of Griselda's chair, squeezed between exorcist and cultivator, the evening wind weaving holy light, Norse magic, and Dao into something strangely harmonious.
Rossweisse went rigid.
"Ren," she hissed under her breath, eyes flicking toward the door as if Odin might materialize just to laugh at her. "This is—"
"Comfortable," he supplied.
She was warm. A little tense, a little prickly, but underneath the layers of professionalism and self-consciousness, she radiated the same quiet hunger he'd seen in so many martial geniuses—the desperate desire not to be left behind, not in strength, not in affection.
He could feel Myriad Origin winding through her too now, catching the leaking strands of Norse magic that wanted to blow out sideways and re-threading them into cleaner loops. Her Soul Palace, once a snowbound fortress of duty and study, had windows open these days. Bookcases and wards were still lined up with military precision—but there were chairs now, and a kettle on the table, and space for someone else to sit.
Ren spoke suddenly, tone casual.
"You know what I like most about you, Rossweisse?"
She blinked, caught mid-panic.
"I—what? That I can ward an entire campus alone? Or that I can construct a composite barrier in under three minutes? Or that I'm 'efficient' with coupons, as you like to tease?"
He looked straight at her.
"I like that you still get flustered over the idea of being someone's first choice," he said softly. "Even after everything you've done."
Her throat worked.
"That's… a strange thing to like," she muttered.
"It's very you," he replied.
Before she could argue, he leaned in and kissed her.
Rossweisse made a small, entirely undignified noise. Her hands came up, fingers curling against his shoulders as if unsure whether to push him away or drag him closer.
She tasted faintly of cheap coffee and residual ozone from magic circles—half teacher, half battlefield veteran, all woman who'd convinced herself, somewhere along the way, that she was always going to be the one guarding someone else's back instead of being held.
Her heart hammered so loudly he barely needed supernatural senses to hear it.
When he drew back, she stared at him, eyes wide, lips parted.
"…You can't just do that," she whispered.
"Seems like I can," he said. "Unless you want me to stop?"
Her gaze flicked involuntarily to his mouth.
Silence stretched between them, thin and fragile.
"…Don't make me answer that," she muttered at last, looking away.
He grinned.
Griselda watched them both, exasperation and warmth braided together in her eyes.
"You are going to give Xenovia a heart attack if she hears about this," she said.
"I'll heal her," Ren said. "Perks of being good at my job."
"You don't have a job," Rossweisse said automatically.
"Exactly."
They stayed like that for a while—one exorcist queen, one Valkyrie-turned-teacher, and one man whose Dao Heart liked nothing better than feeling the rhythm of the women he cared for slowly sync with his. The sky darkened, city lights rising one by one until Kuoh glittered below them like scattered spirit stones.
Ren just kept finding excuses to steal another kiss, each time delighting quietly in the way their hearts tripped over themselves every single time.
...
The Grigori training hall smelled like sweat, old concrete, and something fried from the cafeteria downstairs that had no business smelling as good as it did.
Wind howled along the far wall—not natural wind, but blades of it, slicing over conjured targets and leaving neat gouges in reinforced stone. Magic-resistant padding hung in shredded strips; some targets had been reduced to powder.
Above the gusts, a hawk cried.
"Griffon, down!" Natsume called.
The hawk—a sleek, sharp-eyed bird that was more than it appeared—folded its wings, pulling tight into a spiral. It bled off speed in a graceful arc, trailing pale green lines of condensed wind as it came to perch on her outstretched arm.
Her ponytail whipped around her face. She grinned, cheeks flushed, light gun holstered at her hip. Qiongqi's Sacred Gear form settled its feathers, demonic wind still coiling faintly around its talons.
On the other side of the hall, a small horned beast wearing a mask sat on the ground, chewing happily on what used to be a magic-resistant restraint shackle.
"Poh, stop that," Shigune pleaded, tugging gently at the chain. "We're not supposed to eat equipment…"
The little creature ignored her.
It swallowed noisily, then burped a faint, rainbow shimmer of devoured energy that made the nearest light flicker. Taotie's hunger rattled the air for an instant before Myriad Origin's unseen circuits caught it and smoothed the ripples.
Ren leaned against the wall with his arms folded, content to watch.
From the outside, he looked like he was just hanging out—one foot propped against the wall, shirt sleeves rolled to the forearms, expression easy.
"Break," he called instead.
His voice cut cleanly through wind and chewing noises alike.
Both girls twitched like someone had disrupted a spell.
Griffon hopped from Natsume's arm to the floor, folding its wings; Shigune scooped Poh up into her arms, where it immediately tried to eat her sleeve instead.
They trotted over, sweat-darkened training clothes clinging to their backs.
Natsume flopped down cross-legged at his feet with a graceless thump, Griffon settling just behind her like a feathered guardian. Shigune sat more carefully, legs tucked under her in a tidy seiza that didn't quite fit the way she kept peeking at Poh to make sure it wasn't eating the floor.
Her stomach growled loudly.
Ren pulled a paper bag out of nowhere and dropped it between them.
"Lunch," he said. "Don't worry, I ordered extra for the bottomless pit."
Shigune's eyes lit up like someone had turned on a light inside her.
"Thank you!" she said, bowing reflexively before snatching up one of the skewers. "It smells so good…"
Poh sniffed once, then opened its mouth far too wide for its size and swallowed nearly an entire skewer in a single gulp.
"Hey!" Natsume protested. "Leave some for Shigune!"
"It's okay," Shigune said quickly, nibbling at the remaining piece that had somehow escaped Taotie's maw. "Poh eats a lot, so… so I'm used to it."
Ren smiled.
"Of course you are," he said. "You're always the one worrying about everyone else, even your own disaster beast."
Shigune's cheeks went pink.
"I… I just don't want anyone to get hurt," she murmured. "If Poh's hungry, it might… lose control. So I feed it a lot."
Taotie, strongest of the Four Fiends, could devour anything—from living beings to magic, to the flames of Incinerate Anthem itself. In less careful hands, it was a nightmare that turned battlefields into hell.
Shigune cradled it like a stray dog.
Ren reached over and gently tugged a sauce-stained strand of hair away from her cheek.
"That's what I like about you," he said. "You look at something everyone calls a monster and decide to love it enough that it behaves. That's not easy."
Her eyes widened.
"Nn… I… Ren," she stammered, looking down. "Th-that's… embarrassing."
Natsume snorted, mouth full of meat.
"Shigune's easy to embarrass," she said. "She acts like she doesn't notice anything, but if you say one nice thing she turns into a steamed dumpling."
Shigune puffed out her cheeks.
"Natsume," she protested weakly.
"What?" Natsume grinned. "It's cute."
Ren chuckled.
He turned his gaze to the other girl.
"And you," he said. "What I like most about you is that you never pretend you're not scared."
Natsume blinked, taken off guard.
"I—I'm not scared," she said automatically.
"You are," he said mildly. "You just keep walking anyway. That's different from pretending you're fearless."
Her fingers tightened around the skewer.
"…If I stop," she muttered, "someone else has to do it. And I don't want that."
Qiongqi tilted its hawk head, pressing its beak lightly against her shoulder as if agreeing. Wind stirred around them, no longer sharp, just cool, like a hand laid on a fevered brow.
Ren leaned down, resting his forearms on his knees so they were all on the same level.
"I like that about you," he said. "You don't wait for someone to give you permission to be greedy. You decide what you want to protect and go."
Natsume looked away sharply, ears reddening.
"You say stuff like that so easily," she complained. "It's cheating."
"Seems fair to me," he said.
He waited until they'd eaten enough that Shigune's stomach stopped protesting and Natsume's shoulders loosened.
Griffon had curled up, eyes half-lidded, pretending to nap while keeping one eye on everything. Poh snored softly in Shigune's lap, mask tilted askew, the edges of its presence gnawing on the hall's ambient energy like a child chewing on a blanket.
Ren reached out, ruffled Natsume's hair once—earning a squawk—and then turned his hand, gently tilting Shigune's chin up.
"W-what are you—" she began.
He kissed her.
It was a simple kiss, more warmth than technique, but Shigune stiffened as if lightning had struck her. Her hands, still sticky with sauce, hovered awkwardly in the air like she was afraid of dirtying him.
By the time he drew back, her face was the color of a ripe tomato.
"R-R-Ren," she squeaked. "Y-you can't just…"
"Pretty sure I can," he said, amused. "You can hit me if you hate it."
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then shook her head in tiny, frantic movements.
"I don't hate it," she whispered.
Natsume watched, eyes narrowed.
"Is that allowed?" she demanded. "Just… kissing people out of nowhere?"
He looked at her, one brow lifting.
"Want to file a complaint?" he asked.
She huffed, then leaned in before he could move and bumped her mouth against his in something halfway between a challenge and a kiss.
It was clumsy. Honest. Her heart hammered against his chest, beating just a fraction too fast.
She pulled back, flustered.
"Th-there," she said. "Equal treatment."
He laughed softly.
"Sure," he said. "Equal."
They talked about stupid things after that—cafeteria snacks, Tenraku's latest flirting disaster, Azazel's new "brilliant" idea for training exercises that absolutely sounded like an insurance nightmare. The hall, which had previously echoed with roaring wind and hungry devouring, now held the softer sounds of girls laughing, of Poh snuffling, of Griffon rustling its feathers.
Ren let their breathing settle.
He could feel it—in their Soul Palaces, in the way Myriad Origin's loops smoothed out. Fear and loneliness and guilt didn't vanish. They never did. But they had somewhere to go now that wasn't just a bottomless pit inside their chests.
He branded those little shifts into his own Dao Heart.
...
Kuoh Academy's student council room always looked the same after hours—too neat, too quiet, stacks of documents lined up with almost military precision.
The clock on the wall ticked over another minute.
Tsubaki sat alone at the main desk, pen moving steadily over a set of forms. Her long dark hair was tied back, glasses perched low on her nose. The faint furrow between her brows was the only sign that she was, in fact, human and not some paperwork machine Sona had summoned.
Outside, the hallway lights had already dimmed. Night wind brushed against the windows, carrying the muted sounds of a town that had no idea how many gods and demons used its train station.
Ren leaned in the doorway, watching her for a moment.
"You know," he said at last, "if you keep doing everyone else's paperwork, they're going to forget how."
Tsubaki didn't startle.
Of course she didn't.
She finished the sentence she was writing, set the pen down with measured care, and only then looked up.
"Someone has to ensure things are done correctly," she said. "Vice-presidents who neglect their duties are useless."
"Good thing you're not neglecting anything," he said. "You're just trying to cram two lifetimes of duty into one college career."
Her lips twitched. Almost a smile.
"That is dramatic," she said. "Even for you."
He pushed the door closed behind him with a soft click and walked in like he owned the place.
"You're dramatic," he said. "You just hide it behind glasses."
She pushed them up with one finger, expression flat.
"Is there a reason you're here?" she asked. "Or did you simply come to critique my work ethic?"
"Both," he said breezily.
He dropped a convenience-store bag on her desk.
Steam rose from the top.
"I come bearing tribute," he added. "Midnight yakisoba. And those melon breads you pretended not to like last time."
She eyed the bag warily.
"You bribed Sona like this as well," she said.
"Bribed is such a harsh word," he said. "I call it 'nutritional intervention.' You devils and your all-nighters aren't exactly healthy."
Despite herself, Tsubaki's fingers drifted toward the bag.
She stopped them halfway.
"…I still have forms to finish," she said.
"You'll do them better after you eat," Ren replied. "Come on."
He didn't ask again.
He just moved around the desk, tugged her chair back a little, and hooked an arm lightly around her shoulders, encouraging her to stand.
She resisted for exactly two seconds.
Then she let out a tiny sigh that probably only he heard and rose, every movement still precise.
"You are very persistent," she said.
"That's what you like about me," he said.
"I am not certain 'like' is the correct word," she replied.
He smiled.
They ended up on the small sofa near the window, city lights spilling through the glass and scattering across the polished floor. Tsubaki sat with her back straight out of sheer habit; Ren sprawled beside her like someone who had never respected a chair in his life.
He pressed a pair of chopsticks into her hand.
For a few minutes, they ate in silence.
The yakisoba disappeared at an alarming rate for someone who claimed to have "no time" to be hungry. One of the melon breads vanished as if it had never existed.
"…You always do this," Tsubaki said suddenly.
"Bring food?" Ren asked.
"Show up when I am busiest," she corrected. "When I have decided to ignore everything else."
He tilted his head, studying her profile in the reflected neon.
"Does it work?" he asked.
She hesitated.
"Yes," she said softly.
He set his chopsticks down and leaned back.
"You look at everyone like a ledger," he said. "Debits, credits. Who owes what. Who deserves what. Who gets forgiven."
Tsubaki's shoulders stiffened.
"That is… unfair," she said.
"Not in a bad way," he added. "You keep people honest. You're the one who makes sure nobody cheats. I like that."
Her eyes widened a fraction behind the lenses.
"…You 'like' that I am strict?" she asked.
"I like that your first instinct is to keep things fair," he said. "Even when it would be easier to look away."
He didn't say out loud that her Soul Palace had once been all straight lines and rigid frameworks—a world of rules with no room for error, not even her own. He didn't describe the way Myriad Origin had threaded through that structure, softening the corners that would have cut her from the inside out, teaching her inner world that sometimes mercy, too, could be part of the balance sheet.
Instead, he reached up and, very gently, took her glasses off.
"Ren," she protested.
"Checking something," he said.
He held them up for a second, looked through them like he was inspecting a weapon, then set them on the low table.
"There," he said. "Now I can see you properly."
Her eyes were darker without the faint reflective barrier. Tired, yes. Sharp. Honest. A woman still holding herself far too tightly because if she relaxed, she wasn't sure what would break first: the system, or herself.
He cupped her cheek with one hand.
"You're allowed to want things just because you want them," he said quietly. "Not because they're efficient. Or necessary. Or fair."
Her breath caught.
"That is dangerous thinking," she murmured.
He smiled, small and crooked.
"Good," he said.
He kissed her.
Tsubaki's back went ramrod straight for a heartbeat. Her hand clenched in the fabric of the sofa, knuckles white.
Then, slowly, she melted—just a little—into the contact. Lips parting, the careful walls of discipline and duty letting him in for the length of one stolen moment, the ledger in her mind temporarily closing its pages.
When he pulled back, she was breathing a bit faster, cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with paperwork.
"…You are trouble," she said.
"Absolutely," he agreed.
He picked his chopsticks back up as if nothing had happened and launched into an entirely unnecessary story about Kiba's last training mishap and a sword that had almost cut through one of Ren's formations because somebody had gotten too creative.
Tsubaki listened, at first because she felt she ought to, then because the mental picture of Ferocious Knight Yuuto Kiba flailing with paperwork stuck to his shoes was, objectively, a little funny.
At some point, she realized she'd shifted a few inches closer to him on the sofa.
At some point after that, she realized the tightness between her brows had eased.
He kept her company until the lights outside turned dimmer and the stack of paperwork on her desk felt a little less heavy, a little less like a burden she had to carry alone.