The new Gremory residence wasn't quiet.
Sam realized that the first morning, sitting at a table that was suddenly full. Asia hovered at the stove, determined to cook despite looking like she might set the pan on fire. Tiche stood beside her, calm and precise, guiding with quiet corrections before anything went too far. Akeno leaned in close on Sam's left, brushing shoulders, her teasing sing-song as casual as breathing. Koneko sat silent on his other side, demolishing crackers. Kiba was already dressed for class, collected as ever, steady without demanding attention.
And Rias—Rias wasn't wearing her heiress mask here. At home, she was relaxed, her tone lighter, her smile easier. She teased Akeno back without hesitation and laughed when Asia nearly dropped a pan. Even with Sam, her glance carried warmth more than command. This was her family, and she acted like it.
Sam chewed in silence, watching the rhythm of the table, realizing this was the new normal: too many moving pieces, too many eyes. Yet no one seemed uncomfortable. If anything, the air felt strangely settled whenever he was around, the edges of tension blunted in ways he couldn't explain.
When the plates cleared, Rias rose smoothly, catching Tiche's gaze. Without explanation, the two excused themselves and left the dining room. Their steps faded up the stairs, quiet but deliberate.
Sam didn't ask. He figured if it was important, he'd find out soon enough.
---
Upstairs, the Excalibur fragment rested where Tiche had left it, hidden with assassin's precision among Sam's belongings. Nothing about the room gave it away; to the eye, it was just another piece of clutter.
Rias stood in the hall outside, a small crimson-etched charm balanced in her palm. The Gremory crest shimmered faintly across its surface.
"That will hide it from sight," she said evenly. "But the aura will bleed through unless it's sealed."
She pressed the charm against the doorframe. Crimson light spread across the wood like water soaking through, then sank inward, tracing invisible lines around the room. For a moment the air seemed to thrum, and then the shard's faint hum dulled, muffled behind a dampening field that wrapped the entire space.
Now the room itself held the secret. Both Sam and the relic would vanish beneath its cover, their holy energy no longer bleeding into the halls.
Rias lowered her hand, gaze lingering on the door for a long moment before she turned away. "Now it's safe. For as long as it needs to be."
---
When they finally left the house for class, Sam walked with the other members of the Occult Research Club, Asia hurrying to keep pace beside him. Tiche remained behind, silent as ever, to watch over the mansion. By the time they reached the gates of Kuoh Academy, the whispers had already shifted.
Cryptid. Playboy. Bad boy. The students couldn't decide what box to shove him into, so they stacked all three. Sam didn't help by keeping his head down, answering little, and helping without being asked. The less he said, the more purposeful it looked.
It was Momo who moved first, the same day he showed up to the academy with the Occult Research Club. She caught him outside the classroom, juggling an armful of documents and clearly losing the fight. Sam took half the stack before she could ask. Her shoulders eased the instant he did, a little sigh slipping out as if she hadn't realized how tense she'd been. From then on, she seemed to expect his help, and Sam didn't bother refusing.
A day later it was Yura, dragging him into hauling sparring gear across the courtyard. She grinned when he didn't even complain, her eyes catching on him more than once as if she was measuring something she hadn't decided on yet.
By the end of the week Reya and Tomoe weren't just noticing his help—they were ribbing him for it.
"You really can't say no, can you?" Tomoe teased, her grin bright as ever. "Every time someone asks, there you are."
Reya's smile was smaller, but her voice was kind. "It's dependable… though maybe a little too easy to take advantage of."
Sam smirked. "Careful. I charge overtime after the third favor. Rates go up fast."
Yura's laugh rang out from across the hall. "Oh yeah? What do you charge?"
Sam opened his mouth, caught flat-footed—because he didn't charge anything, and they all knew it.
Before he could recover, Saji shouldered past, arms loaded with twice as many files as he could reasonably carry. "Don't worry about it. I'll take it from here—Council business, not his problem."
Reya blinked, Tomoe's grin slipped, and Yura arched an eyebrow. They didn't say anything, but the difference was obvious. Sam hadn't been trying to compete. Saji, though, looked like he was drowning in the effort.
Sam adjusted his grip on the files he already had and kept walking, unbothered.
The Council girls exchanged a look—not with Saji, but with Sam—and for a reason none of them could quite name, their trust in him settled a little deeper.
---
The week rolled forward, and by the time the weekend arrived the house had settled into its strange rhythm. Asia tried cooking again, with Tiche close enough to keep disaster at bay. Akeno pressed harder, her teasing sharper, while Koneko's silence carried a different weight—closer, almost possessive. Kiba remained steady, often tidying behind them, balancing the chaos. Rias lounged with them more often than not, her composure softened into warmth as she traded jokes with Akeno or gently corrected Asia's fumbling. Around her peerage, she was less a queen and more a sister—still in charge, but comfortably so.
That evening, when the mansion finally quieted, Sam slipped into the training room. Tiche ghosted after him, posted at the door like a hinge.
"You keep ignoring the blue boxes," she said, voice low. "They stack."
Sam glanced at her. "You can tell?"
"You flinch when they ping." A beat. "Check it."
He sighed, rolled his shoulders, and pulled up the System.
[System Notice]
Main Quest Progress: Gain the Trust of the Devils of Kuoh.
Rewards available: 7.
Please roll immediately.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "Overdue."
The first ticket spun.
---
🎲 Bronze Item Ticket — Rolling…
[Costume Wardrobe]
|Common Item|
A regular-looking closet containing an infinite amount of clothes ranging from lingerie, formal wear, cosplay, etc.
• Clothes must be mundane and weigh under 5kg.
• Clothes are tailored to the desires of whoever reaches inside.
• Up to 50 outfits can be withdrawn per day.
Sam stared at the description for a long moment. "…Of course. Out of all the things it could've given me, it's a magic dress-up closet."
He rubbed his face, already dreading what Akeno might do if she ever found out. Or Koneko. Or Asia. Hell, anyone.
Still, it had uses. Uniforms, spare clothes, disguises—it wasn't just fan service, no matter how suspiciously timed it felt.
---
🎲 Bronze Skill Ticket — Rolling…
[Novice Blade Weapon Mastery]
|Common Skill|
You are reasonably talented in handling bladed weapons such as swords and knives.
• You know how to hold the weapon correctly.
• You can align the edge of your cuts.
• You're competent enough to poke the sharp end into enemies without embarrassing yourself.
Compared to the last roll, this one almost felt… normal. Practical.
He flexed his hand, imagining the weight of a sword. His grip settled easier than before, the awkwardness gone. Not mastery, not yet—but enough to handle a blade without fumbling like an amateur.
His eyes drifted up, toward the ceiling. Toward his room. Toward the reforged Excalibur blade hidden there, sealed under Rias's charm.
"…Figures," he muttered. "I'm babysitting one of the strongest swords in history, and the system hands me Swordplay for Dummies. Real helpful."
---
🎲 Bronze Skill Ticket — Rolling…
[Muay Thai]
|Uncommon Skill|
You are an apprentice of Muay Thai, the "Art of Eight Limbs."
Utilizes punches, kicks, elbows, and knees for devastating close- and mid-range combat.
Emphasizes clinch fighting, conditioning, and toughness.
With mastery, you can enhance strikes with internal energy.
His stance shifted without thought—feet adjusting, weight rolling, hands angling different. The muscle memory wasn't his, but it slotted in clean.
"…Feels right," he murmured.
---
🎲 Silver Ability Ticket — Rolling…
[Icarus' Folly]
|Rare Ability|
"And so the sun never allowed a mortal to flight again."
Evoke the wrath of the sun in a chosen area.
• Any entity above 10 meters elevation within the zone burns in holy fire.
• The higher they rise, the hotter the flames.
• Zone radius scales with energy expended.
• Those inside instinctively sense danger from flight.
Note: Powered by Mana converted into Holy Energy by the System. Can be fueled by Innate Holy Energy for greater effect.
His chest tightened as the description scrolled.
Memory dragged him back to the train yard—Dohnaseek circling above, raining spears from the sky while Sam burned Innate Holy Energy into his legs just to vault high enough to land a claw. The strain had nearly broken him.
Icarus' Folly would've pulled that bastard down, leveled the ground between them.
But… it also would've changed the fight. Dohnaseek's arrogance had been a weapon too. Treating Sam like a bug left cracks to exploit. If he'd been forced to take Sam seriously from the start, things might have gone very differently.
"…Not a win button," Sam said. "Just another blade to cut with."
---
🎲 Advantage Silver Skill Ticket — Rolling…
Two windows opened.
[Novice Charisma] |Common Skill| — A subtle aura that makes people pay attention.
[Intermediate Persuasion] |Uncommon Skill| — skill in convincing with words or actions.
Charisma was noise. Persuasion was control. He picked the second.
*Intermediate Persuasion acquired.*
---
🎲 Gold Trait Ticket — Rolling…
[Empath]
|Rare Trait|
You can perceive the emotions of those you can directly see or are consciously aware of.
Provides improved understanding of others' feelings and greater control over your own.
The rush made his chest clench. Threads of feeling brushed against him—his own emotions, steadier than he expected, and Tiche's presence beside the door, sharp and cool as cut glass.
He scanned the empty corners, relieved when nothing tugged from beyond his sight. "…Good. Not through walls."
Tiche inclined her head, as if she'd understood without needing the words.
---
🎲 Advantage Gold Ability Ticket — Rolling…
Two more results pulsed into view.
[Godspeed] |Elite Ability| — overhauls the nervous system with lightning, granting near-instant reflexes and extreme speed. Drawback: prolonged use damages the body.
[Hypnosis] |Rare Ability| — influence others with subtle or direct suggestion; strong will resists.
Power, sharp and simple—even if it burned. He selected Godspeed.
Lightning ripped through his nerves; the room slowed, sharpened, every detail stretched into clarity. Pain lanced hot down his arms, and he shut it off with a grunt.
His breath steadied. "…That'll cost me."
The System cleared. The room looked the same, but his body felt heavier, crowded with new edges. Seven more steps forward. Whether he'd wanted them or not.
Tiche's mouth ticked—almost a smile. "Finally looked."
"Yeah," he said. "Happy now?"
"Moderately."
He huffed a quiet laugh and pushed to his feet, rolling his shoulders. His body still hummed with energy he hadn't tested yet. That would have to change.
---
Later that day, the training room buzzed with low energy. Mats muffled footsteps as the ORC circled in, Rias watching from the wall. Sam stepped inside, drawing eyes. He hadn't sparred with them properly before.
Koneko was the first to move. She padded forward, fists raised, gaze steady.
Sam mirrored her, settling into his Muay Thai guard.
Koneko tilted her head slightly. "…Good stance."
Sam gave a half-shrug. "Picked up a lesson or two."
She struck first, a jab meant to test. Sam slipped it, answering with a knee that hovered just shy of her ribs.
Her mouth tugged faintly, almost a smile. "…Quick."
The next combination came sharper—hook, low kick, straight punch. Sam blocked, rolled, and their elbows cracked together.
Koneko exhaled softly, golden eyes narrowing. "…Solid."
Then a flicker, sharp and alien, sparked across his awareness a breath before she moved again. His guard twitched too early, and her strike still clipped him.
They circled. Another flicker pressed—intent without motion. His focus snagged, and in that instant her jab drove into his ribs.
Realization clicked. Not instinct. Not mine. That new sense was bleeding in—only intent, no direction—and it was throwing him off.
Koneko's eyes flicked down at the hit, then back up. Her tone was dry, but warmer than before. "…Tougher than you look."
"What, I didn't give that impression already?"
Her lips pressed in a line—but her eyes softened, just for a heartbeat.
She pressed harder. He felt a heavier swell she smothered—like a bigger wave locked down inside her. He blocked her kick, shin rattling but holding firm.
Koneko studied him for a beat, voice quieter. "…Strong. Stronger than most."
The final clash came fierce. One of Sam's counters staggered her a half-step. Not dominance—but not luck either.
He caught that smothered surge again—restraint plain as day. He lowered his guard slightly, eyes steady. "…Hey. You're holding back. Are you okay?"
Koneko froze for half a beat, gaze flicking away. "…I'm fine."
The words were clipped. Beneath them, frustration and weight knotted tight.
Sam shook his head once, quiet but firm. "No. You're not."
Her shoulders drew tight. For a moment her composure cracked—and then reset with practiced ease.
"…That's enough." Soft, not cold. She lowered her fists and stepped toward the benches.
Sam let her go, chest rising slow. He hadn't meant to push—but he couldn't ignore what he felt. The space she left behind felt heavier.
---
The hiss of steel sliding free broke the lull. Kiba stepped forward, practice sword in hand, polite, unreadable smile in place.
"My turn," he said.
Sam flexed his wrist, pale exoskeleton creeping over his forearms. "Guess I'll need these."
"Practical," Kiba said. "Wooden or not, blades still break bones."
They circled. Kiba moved first—a smooth, downward cut. Sam braced his forearm, exoskeleton catching with a sharp crack, and snapped an elbow to force Kiba off-line.
"You've studied the basics," Kiba observed.
"Barely. Just enough to know when you're about to take my head off."
The next flurry came faster, Kiba pressing with fluid cuts. Sam blocked high, low, guard rattling. A flicker of pressure hit his awareness a heartbeat before the thrust—he shifted just in time.
"…Predictive instinct?" Kiba asked.
"No. I can just read you pushing harder. Doesn't tell me the move."
Kiba's smile thinned, approving. "Makes sense why you fight above your weight class."
They met again—blade against guard, feint into thrust, hook into pivot—until Rias's voice cut through, calm but firm: "That's enough. Time to switch."
Kiba eased back immediately. Sam dropped his guard, exhaling.
---
Akeno stepped forward, smile already sharp. "Well, that was entertaining," she purred. "Now, let's have some real fun."
She lifted into the air, purple sparks dancing over her fingers. The charge hummed through the room, raising the hair on Sam's arms.
"Let's see…" Her eyes glinted. "…if you've improved since your little scuffle with that Fallen."
"Not gonna let that one go, huh?"
She laughed. "Oh no. I like seeing you squirm too much."
The first bolt cracked out. Sam dove aside. A second followed; he brought his forearm up, exoskeleton flashing, bones buzzing with sting.
He cut angles with tight footwork. That same pressure spiked a breath before the next cast—he juked left as lightning scorched the mat.
He drew in a sharp breath, sparks crackling along his throat, and spat a short burst of lightning. It snapped up—more bark than bite—enough to make her shift. A second burst kept her honest.
"…Oh?" Delighted. "So you're not just a close-range fighter. I'm impressed—you actually have options."
"Don't get used to it. Range isn't really my style."
"Mmm. You do like your lightning, though. Trying to impress me?"
"Yeah," he said, sidestepping another bolt, "because nothing says romance like spitting sparks."
Her laugh was low and electric. Another lash came down—he caught it on his guard and pushed forward through the sting.
They fell into a rhythm: her controlled bursts from above; his weaving rushes and clipped lightning breaths to break timing. The sense kept flagging her surges a heartbeat before they landed.
"Careful," she sang. "If you keep this up, I'll start taking you seriously."
"Pretty sure you already do."
Another barrage forced a roll and a sprint. He felt the spike—cut right. A bolt sizzled past. He lunged; his armored forearm took another strike as his other hand jabbed up, stopping just shy of her side before she slid away on a cushion of air.
"…My, my," Akeno smiled. "You almost touched me."
"Almost's my specialty," he said, breathing hard.
For a flicker he thought of Godspeed. He shut it down just as fast. Not here. Not now.
Rias's voice cut in, edged. "That's enough, Akeno. Don't push it."
Akeno floated down, sparks fading. "Such a shame. I was just starting to enjoy myself."
"Pretty sure that's not a compliment," Sam muttered.
Asia's hands glowed faint green at his side. "You shouldn't push yourself so much," she murmured. Light washed over bruises, soothing ache.
"Bruises are normal," he said. "Part of training."
"Even so… I don't like seeing you hurt."
"You're doing more than enough," he told her, and the quiet felt warm.
---
Dinner carried that same rhythm. Rias and Akeno volleyed jokes; Koneko stayed quiet but leaned in naturally; Kiba cleared plates; Asia smiled and slipped into place with impossible ease. Sam took it in, unused to being invited into this kind of easy, lived-in warmth—but not rejecting it either.
Later, lightning crackled faintly along his arms as he worked combinations, testing claws, breath, and footwork. Finally, he straightened. "One more thing. Godspeed."
Tiche's eyes narrowed.
"Overhauls the nerves with lightning, near-instant reflexes, extreme speed," he recited. "Extended use burns me out."
"Speed like that is a scalpel, not a hammer," Tiche said. "Bursts. Break rhythm, close gaps, finish fights. Not sprints into ash."
He nodded. "Survival tool. Not a toy."
By the time he left the mats, his body hummed with fatigue, and the thought stuck sharp in his chest: This is the new normal—bruises, work, and too many eyes.
---
Sunday arrived quietly. Asia tried cooking again; Akeno swiped tastes; Kiba cleaned; Koneko crunched crackers; Rias lingered warm in the doorway. The routines were already there, and somehow the rhythm didn't falter when Sam joined it.
Afterward, Asia insisted on clearing dishes.
"You don't have to," Sam told her. "You're not the maid."
"I want to help," she puffed.
"Then I'm helping too."
It snowballed—Kiba wiping counters, Akeno humming as she set for lunch, even Rias drifting in with a smile.
By midday, Koneko dropped a controller in his lap. "Game."
She wiped the floor with him. Asia button-mashed herself into knockouts. Akeno laughed softly every time Sam lost another round. The air stayed light.
By afternoon, he was back on the mats, sweat dripping through calisthenics, strikes, sprints. He barely noticed when the others filtered in. Koneko tilted her head, reading strength without mana. Kiba noted the clean edges of Muay Thai in a body that was otherwise green. Akeno smirked from the wall. "So that's why your body's built like that. Not all lightning and flash." Rias watched longest, gaze heavy with possibility.
Sam ignored them, grinding through one last set. Traits or no traits, the work mattered.
That night on the balcony, cool air in his lungs, he thought of them all. Koneko—holding back, turbulence written in silence. Kiba—toned down, still a climb. Akeno—storm on demand. Rias—an unknown. Tiche—too far, too sharp.
I'm not there yet, he admitted to himself. But I'm climbing.
Tiche's shadow crossed him. "Quiet isn't safety," she murmured. "Hunters move best in silence."
He nodded once, gripping the rail. Whatever came next, he'd be ready.
---
Monday morning arrived with the clatter of homeroom—sunlight on desks, chairs scraping, and the teacher's reminder about the Sports Festival snapping the room to attention.
All eyes went to Rias when the class rep came up. Someone joked about Akeno, who only laughed and said, "Rias is better suited." Rias accepted with easy grace.
Sam leaned back, muttering, "Mandatory Olympics." A few classmates chuckled. That new sense pressed in, giving him more than their laughter: excitement, nerves, harmless anticipation. After the weeks he'd had, it was almost disorienting.
At lunch, Yuma Amano appeared with a syrupy kouhai smile. "Sam-kun, you've gotten awfully popular. Doesn't it get tiring?"
On the surface, pure friendliness. Beneath it, irritation spiked, tangled with fixation. Before Sam could answer, Momo Hanakai arrived, steering Yuma away with her own smile. Yuma's mask never cracked, but the frustration lingered sharp in his chest.
Later, Karuwana teased him in class, Akeno sliding in with her own remarks. To others it was banter. To Sam, their rivalry sparked bright under the words, hidden behind the smiles.
In the first-year hall, Minami played her aloof "mascot" perfectly—until Sam passed. Her cheeks colored, words stumbled, embarrassment flashing hot with something warmer. By day's end, whispers had started.
After school, the ORC and Asia walked home. Dinner could wait—or so he thought. Koneko tugged him to the mats. Their spar mirrored Saturday's: his knees and low kicks, her compact guard. She held back again. He felt it and said nothing, remembering how shaken she'd been when he pressed before.
Dinner, then conditioning. By lights-out, he knew it wasn't coincidence. He was being folded into their rhythm.
---
Tuesday morning, class rosters were taking shape. Rias confirmed for her class. Sitri's second-years lined up in full: Momo, Reya, Yura, Tomoe, Saji. The halls buzzed with chatter about relay races and tug-of-war.
Sam spoke little, but the sense pressed anyway: laughter, nerves, excitement—light, harmless.
Yuma tried again at lunch, smile flawless. The frustration under it was sharper, her fixation winding tighter each time Momo cut her off.
Later, Karuwana and Akeno circled him. Playful words; rivalry burning beneath.
Minami's mask cracked when he crossed her path—embarrassment sharp, longing tighter. By last period, rumor had momentum.
Asia ran laps steady, refusing to falter. Surprise rippled from peers; pride glowed bright, nerves trailing behind.
After school, Kiba waited on the mats. Sam could see the rhythm—guards, angles, flow. He could anticipate, but never lead; Kiba's polish kept him reacting.
I can read you, Sam thought. But I can't outclass you. Not yet.
Dinner. Conditioning.
That night, Tiche drilled harder. "Reflex first. Feel later. If you're slow, it smothers you." He forced movement first, then let the sense catch up. By the end, sweat drenched him, but something clicked.
---
Wednesday morning, the festival buzz filled every corner. Bulletin boards posted rosters, classes ran practice drills. To most, it was excitement for Friday. To Sam, a harmless hum of anticipation.
Third-years prepped. To classmates, Rias and Sona were friendly rivals. To Sam, pride simmered; Karuwana's sly remarks and Akeno's sharper smiles fanned a quiet fire.
Second-years followed. Kiba stood out; Sitri's side looked stacked. Asia ran again, pride and nerves steady and warm. Yuma watched from the sideline, fixation spiking each time he didn't look her way.
First-years came last. Koneko's class against Minami's. "Mascot versus mascot," the students laughed. Koneko stayed stone-faced. Minami regal—until Sam's glance cracked her mask. Her face flushed, words tangled, longing sharp against embarrassment.
By the fence, three boys lingered—the Perverted Trio, infamous in rumor, eyes wandering more than focus.
Their muttering carried:
"Pretty-boy swordsman's got all the normal girls swooning."
"Yeah, but look at Barnes—the Prez, the VP, even the mascots keep circling him. What the hell."
"Figures. Acts like he doesn't care, and they chase harder. Warrior Prince, huh? Must be nice."
Sam let it roll past. Jealousy faint, tinged with curiosity. They thought he was aloof, untouchable. The truth was simpler: he was guarded. From the outside, it looked like armor.
Then a flicker. From the brown-haired one staring at Rias and Akeno like he'd never seen a woman before. His emotions were loud and shallow—lust, envy, adolescent awe. But beneath them: a faint buzz. Weak, unfocused. Static under the noise. Not Asia's warmth. Not devil pressure. Just… different. If he hadn't been paying attention, he might have missed it. He narrowed his eyes, then let it slide. Too faint to matter.
The courtyard was quiet later, practice fading into a background hum. Sam had just finished hauling supplies when she blocked his path, smile flawless.
"Sam-kun."
He gave a short nod. Irritation spiked—smoothed beneath the mask. She fell into step beside him.
"You've been busy lately. Everyone seems to lean on you."
"Something like that."
"Doesn't it get tiring? All those expectations?"
"Not really. You figure out who means it and who doesn't."
Her smile didn't move, but annoyance prickled beneath. "Maybe you'd be better off with someone who understands you. Someone who isn't just… using you."
"Funny." His voice stayed even. "Doesn't sound like you believe that. And it sure doesn't sound like you understand me either."
For a breath, the mask faltered. Frustration and doubt flashed sharp before she buried them again.
"…You really are different," she said softly. "That's why you're interesting."
"Or maybe you're just not used to someone calling you out. Being practiced isn't the same as being honest."
She studied him a beat too long. Then her tone dipped, his name pressed like a hook. "You'll see, Sam. I'm not like the others."
What he felt under the words wasn't honesty—it was obsession tightening, coil by coil.
Then she lightened again, almost casual. "We'll talk again, Sam."
She walked away as if nothing had happened. To classmates, a kouhai flirting. To him, the storm lingered, boiling under glass.
Why am I saying this much? Normally I'd shut it down. But now I don't have to guess. I can feel when someone's faking it.
After school, the walk home. On the mats, Akeno's turn: lightning precise, teasing, never pressed to kill. His reflexes kept him ahead; his lightning breath peppered back like snowballs against a thunderstorm. Disruptive, never threatening. She wasn't serious—he could feel it.
Life or death… maybe, he thought. But I don't know their ceilings.
Dinner. Conditioning.
Late that night, Tiche pressed him again, blades flashing from every angle. "Body first. Soul second." He forced reflexes to lead, let the sense sharpen the rest. He ended ragged, but the pieces were finally starting to fit.
Thursday would bring the last stretch of prep. Friday would bring the stage.