The moment Akira stepped into the Occult Research Club Room that afternoon, he immediately sensed something was off.

The atmosphere was heavy—oppressively so. It felt like the air itself had thickened, as if a silent pressure was weighing down the room.

Rias. Akeno. Koneko. Asia.

They were all there, seated in their usual places, but unease flickered across their faces. Tension hung in the air like an unspoken curse.

Then his eyes landed on one person—Kiba Yuuto.

The cheerful smile and gentlemanly warmth Kiba usually carried were gone. What remained was a stormy silence, coiled and ready to explode at the slightest touch.

"Akira, you're here," Rias greeted with a faint nod.

But her voice sounded tired. Not physically—but emotionally. Drained. Worn.

It wasn't hard to figure out why.

Akira narrowed his eyes. "What's going on? Why does it feel like a storm's about to break?"

Rias sighed quietly and answered, her tone calm but firm. "Last night, during a mission, Yuuto encountered an Excommunicated Priest. The person he was contracted to protect was killed. They fought… and Yuuto lost."

"…An Excommunicated Priest?" Akira echoed.

"Yes."

He frowned. "Don't tell me… it wasn't Freed, was it?"

"No. According to Yuuto, the man introduced himself as Anderson."

Akira fell silent, then let out a slow breath.

Of course. Without Freed Sellzen, someone else would take his place. Freed wasn't the only exorcist capable of wielding a Holy Sword. Just one of the rare few compatible with that kind of divine weapon. But rare didn't mean unique.

"I'll destroy… every last one of those damned holy swords…"

Kiba's low voice rumbled from the corner of the room.

His aura darkened. A storm of hatred radiated from his body, chilling the room like a winter wind. It wasn't killing intent—it was something deeper, heavier. The kind of malice born from pain too long buried.

Even Asia flinched.

Kiba stood, his face shadowed, and made his way to the door with sharp, purposeful steps.

"Yuuto, wait—where are you going?" Rias called out.

"…To do what I should've done a long time ago. I finally remember why I'm still alive."

"Calm down—"

"Don't stop me, Buchou," Kiba cut her off sharply.

That silenced her.

The look in his eyes—filled with fire and cold determination—left no room for argument. She could only watch helplessly as he stepped out of the room, the heavy door shutting behind him with a dull click.

Silence followed. Tense and suffocating.

Akira crossed his arms and let out a tired sigh.

"…Why does every member of your peerage act like they're carrying the weight of the world?"

Rias blinked.

"Akeno and Koneko just barely got past their issues," Akira continued, casually throwing a glance their way. "Now the last guy decides to go full brooding avenger mode."

Akeno and Koneko both gave him sharp looks. Clearly, they didn't appreciate the sarcasm.

Rias massaged her temples. "Akira, I hate to ask, but… can we count on your help again?"

"No."

Rias blinked again.

"He's not a busty onee-san or a cute loli. Not my type," Akira added with a flat tone.

"…Haaaah."

All Rias could do was sigh. As blunt as Akira was, he wasn't wrong. Her peerage was made up of emotionally scarred misfits.

And that didn't even include her other Bishop—the one still sealed away.

A certain extremely dangerous trap with extreme social anxiety. Even Rias didn't know how to deal with that one yet.

Suddenly, Koneko tugged gently at Akira's sleeve.

"…What is it, Koneko-chan?"

"…Kiba-senpai is a good person," she said softly. "He always helps me. He's kind."

"So you want me to talk to him?"

Koneko gave a small nod.

To her, Akira wasn't just a comrade. He was more like a life mentor—a max-level cheat character who had helped her accept her true nature as a nekomata and master her Youki.

Not just Koneko. Akeno, too, turned her gaze toward Akira with quiet hope.

She, too, had been saved by him—helped to accept the Fallen Angel blood that ran in her veins.

If it had only been Koneko asking, Akira might've refused.

But with Akeno joining in, he couldn't turn them down.

After all, Akeno was special.

His first. His love. The person who held an irreplaceable place in his heart.

"…Fine. I'll try," he said, exhaling. "But don't expect miracles. I'm not making any promises."

"We'll leave it to you," Rias replied, a faint smile on her lips.

They all conveniently ignored the second half of his sentence.

Akira turned and left the room, the door shutting quietly behind him.

He closed his eyes for a moment, then released a small pulse of aura—Aura Detection.

Just as he thought, Kiba had already passed the main building and was nearing the academy gates.

Fast and determined. He wasn't wandering aimlessly—he was heading straight for trouble.

Last night, Azazel had also arrived in Kuoh.

And now an excommunicated priest wielding a holy sword just happened to appear in town?

No such thing as coincidence.

Akira began piecing together the threads.

Azazel hadn't come just for Akeno.

He'd come because someone dangerous was moving behind the scenes.

Kokabiel.

One of the Four Great Seraphs of the Fallen Angels.

A lunatic obsessed with restarting the Great War.

After the original Heaven fell and both God and the Four Maou perished, the war technically ended—but Kokabiel never accepted that outcome.

He believed the Fallen Angels could've won outright if they had kept pushing. That retreating was cowardice.

Azazel—once an Archangel, now leader of the Grigori—chose peace.

He prevented the Grigori from waging another war. Focused on recovery. Diplomacy.

But Kokabiel? He wanted fire. Blood. Destruction.

And now… it looked like he was finally making his move.

Akira arrived at the front gate of Kuoh Academy just as Kiba was about to leave.

"Where are you going?"

Kiba turned at the familiar voice.

"…Akira?"

The two of them stood face to face in the fading afternoon light.

Kiba already knew why he was here.

Akira had helped Koneko confront her past. Had helped Akeno embrace her identity.

Now it was Kiba's turn.

He looked at the other boy. There was respect in his eyes—even admiration.

Akira helped people not for fame, not for power—but because he chose to.

"…Let's talk, Kiba Yuuto."

"I don't have time—"

"I wasn't asking."

Akira's words cut like a blade.

It wasn't a suggestion.

It was an order.

A presence so overwhelming that even Kiba—despite his current rage—froze in place.

He could feel it.

He couldn't win.

He couldn't even argue.

"…Fine," Kiba muttered, finally stepping back.

No excuses. No resistance.

He followed.

Because deep down, he knew—

—he needed help.

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