The magic train left Kuou Town and slipped into the dimensional tunnel.
A few minutes later, beyond the windows, violet skies stretched over plains that seemed to have no end.
Cliffs, forests, and distant cities covered the landscape.
It felt less like another country and more like an entirely different world.
There were no oceans in sight, only endless stone and air heavy with demonic power.
The train rolled into a platform cut into the main island.
The doors slid open with a quiet hiss.
Rafsan stepped out with a black duffel; the servants bowed together, and he gave them a small nod.
“Welcome home, Young Master.” “Good to be back,” he said.
Portraits of past Barbatos patriarchs lined the hall, but Rafsan ignored them.
His eyes were already on the workshop below.
A steel door hid behind a bookshelf.
Rafsan pressed his palm to a black crystal.
Identity confirmed.
The shelf slid aside, and an elevator descended.
The stone walls disappeared, replaced by steel and glass.
Beyond the elevator lay his lab: holographic displays, robotic arms, huge printers, destroyed armor with tools and spare parts.
The room smelled of cold metal and burnt circuits.
Consoles lit up across the room as the generators started.
“Welcome back, Sir,” Zayan said.
Rafsan exhaled.
“Been a while, Zayan.” “Fifteen days, sixteen hours, twelve minutes, and eight seconds since the last visit,” the AI recited.
Holograms displayed designs, combat logs, and diagnostics.
One suit model turned slowly, red markers showing where the armor had failed.
“It performed better than expected,” Zayan reported.
Rafsan studied the model and remembered the hits.
The suit had adapted during the simulation.
It still wasn’t enough.
“What held it back?” he asked.
“The energy source.” Every redesign solved one problem and created two more.
Larger batteries made the frame heavier.
Denser cores overheated within minutes.
Months of tinkering hadn’t fixed the core issue.
“No,” he said.
“I’ve been solving the wrong problem.
We’re refining storage.
I want a generator that makes its own power.” Zayan ran simulation after simulation.
None looked promising.
Rafsan wasn’t surprised.
He would have to solve the rest himself.
He turned toward the chamber of crystals: mana gems, infernal stones, gravity nodes.
Natural crystals shattered under stress.
He needed an artificial generator.
“Build one,” he ordered.
Zayan warned that the task required starting from scratch and mixing dangerous disciplines.
Initial chance of complete failure: thirty-seven percent.
“Now forty-two,” the AI added.
Someone had to be the first.
One machine came online, then another.
Soon the lab was filled with the sound of machinery.
Once he started working, he lost track of time.
Testing became his entire routine.
Every failed prototype narrowed the possibilities.
He caught himself thinking about Rias while checking lattice patterns, and again while adjusting the runic spacing.
He kept his face on the data and his hands on the work.
“Focus,” he muttered.
“Your heart rate just increased, sir,” Zayan observed.
“I didn’t say it out loud.” “You were thinking it.” “That’s worse.” He turned back to the data.
When he finally looked up, several hours had passed.
More than once, he reached for coffee only to find the cup cold.
Broken prototypes piled across the shelves.
Prototype Ten broke apart.
Fourteen held for two-tenths of a second.
Twenty-nine detonated.
Thirty-three melted into useless metal.
“Three hundred and twelve completed,” Zayan reported.
“And?” “Three hundred and twelve failures.” He studied the broken cores: cracked lattices, melted veins, imploded shells.
Somewhere along the way, he noticed the cracks always began at the center.
They’d been forcing energy inward.
The design needed flow outward.
He rebuilt the core around that principle, and the prototypes held a little longer.
Around Prototype Seventy, his concentration slipped.
He rubbed his eyes and almost heard Rias sigh before telling him to get out of the lab and eat something.
The corner of his mouth lifted before he buried himself in the next design.
He made a regulator: a black-alloy ring etched with tiny runes.
It didn’t generate power.
It controlled how much energy the crystal could absorb.
At night, Angela appeared with a tray.
“Master, you should eat,” she said.
“Later,” he replied, eyes fixed on a flickering hologram.
“You’ve been saying that for hours.” “I’ll eat when this stabilizes.” “If it doesn’t?” “Then I’ll skip a meal.” She pushed the cup toward him.
He drank.
“Later,” he said, softer.
Even then, he could picture Rias leaning over his shoulder, telling him he’d been in the lab too long.
That thought distracted him more than the reactor ever did.
“If she walked in now, she’d drag me out of the lab without a second thought,” he muttered.
“Statistically, she would be correct,” Zayan answered without missing a beat.
“You’re both annoying.” Dozens more failed before one finally held together.
Prototype One Thirty charged cleanly.
The crystal glowed steadily in cyan, with no hairline cracks in sight.
He increased the output; the lab shook and held.
“Reactor stable.
Thermal output within acceptable limits.
Output exceeds the previous model by four hundred and twelve percent,” Zayan said.
Prototype One Thirty worked.
The rest belonged in the scrap pile.
He carried the cyan crystal to the fabrication bay.
The new armor was slim, built around the generator: reinforced composite, demonic circuits, magnetic stabilizers, artificial muscle fibers.
He locked the crystal into the chest housing.
Systems powered up.
Motors engaged; life support checked green.
Over two days, the plating sealed in matte black lined with faint crimson patterns.
Every weapon fit neatly into its frame.
He stepped onto the test platform.
Displays floated up: power level, temperature, radar, magic scan.
“All systems operational,” Zayan reported.
He took a step.
The armor moved as if it were part of him.
As the drones opened fire, the suit reacted before he finished the motion.
One dropped, then another, then the rest.
A few seconds later, the chamber went quiet.
He removed the helmet.
“Damage?” “Zero.” “Power consumption?” “Ninety-eight percent reserves after seventy-three minutes.” He smiled.
“We may have overdone it.” He studied the finished armor under crimson light.
Several unfinished projects sat behind sealed doors.
Before now, none of them had been possible.
He ran a thumb across the regulator’s engraving, then locked the lab behind him.
The mansion was as quiet as ever as he walked the long halls.
Angela met him at the stair landing, standing as straight as always, emerald eyes measuring him with the same calm precision.
“You’re going back,” she said.
“Tell me—anything I should note?” Rafsan shrugged the duffel off his shoulder.
“Supply run out, order more materials from Asgard, a couple of meetings that require your intervention.” “And Mistress Rias?” she asked in her usual calm voice.
He answered without dressing it up.
“I finished something in the lab.
She’ll complain about the mess.” A tiny shift at the corner of Angela’s mouth almost became a smile.
“She will insist you eat.
Make time for that before you go to her.
You look tired.” “I’ll manage,” he said.
“You rarely do things by halves.” Genuine concern crossed her face for a moment.
“Do not let this become another prolonged absence.” Angela inclined her head once.
“Good.
Be quick about it.
The house is quieter when you and Mistress Rias are not here.” He reached the west wing before he realized how far he’d walked.
For once, he wasn’t thinking about work.
Rias was waiting.
No one had called him back.
He just wanted to see her.
The reactor worked.
The armor was complete.
For the first time in day’s , there was nothing left to do except go home.
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