She was fine.
Not close enough to know Dante's secret, but close enough that he didn't feel the need to be completely wary of her presence. Serafall Sitri had been testing him this entire time. Her questions, while dangerously probing, hadn't come from malice—she was just trying to get a read on who he was. And the fact that she now wanted him in her own forces, rather than Sirzechs', was proof enough: he'd passed whatever unspoken trial she'd set.
"Are you kids done sulking?" Dante asked, his tone flat but teasing.
Both devils turned on him with synchronized frowns. "We are not kids!" they snapped in unison.
Dante blinked, his expression deadpan and half-lidded. It was a look that carried the weary authority of a disappointed parent. The sheer weight of his unimpressed stare caused both Serafall and Sirzechs to recoil, a flush of embarrassment dusting their cheeks.
"Riiight..." he drawled, drawing out the word just long enough to make them feel properly chastised. "Anyways. Sirzechs, do you know when my next match is?"
Sirzechs opened his mouth to answer, but a firm knock on the door interrupted him.
"Lord Dante," came a muffled voice from the other side, polite and official. "Your next match is in a few minutes. Please proceed to the arena when you're ready."
"On my way!" Dante called back, then sighed and turned to the others with an almost amused look. "Well, that was convenient."
Sirzechs gave a small, knowing nod. Serafall, however, looked visibly disappointed. Her posture slumped, eyes flickering with unspoken regret—clearly hoping to continue their conversation.
Seeing this, Dante stepped toward her and gently rested his hand atop her head. She froze at the unexpected contact, wide eyes staring up at him.
"I'm sure we'll talk more in the future," he said softly. "Maybe even about military strategy, if you'd like."
The change in her demeanor was instant. A starlit gleam entered her eyes, and she looked up at him like he'd just promised her the moon.
"Promise?" she asked, voice dipped in a kind of innocent excitement that didn't quite match her years—or rather, exceeded them in charm.
Dante hesitated. For a devil several dozen times his age, Serafall had the ability to pull off an adorableness that straddled the line between childlike and otherworldly. It was exotic. Disarming. Dangerous.
He swore he heard the distant echo of police sirens in his head.
"Promise," he replied, sincerely.
Off to the side, Sirzechs let out a low chuckle as he made for the door.
"Well, Serafall," he said over his shoulder, grin wicked, "are you gonna kiss the boy or are you coming with me?"
Serafall went red from ear to toe. Dante wisely stepped aside as she whirled, flustered and furious, and darted after the fleeing crimson-haired devil who was already halfway down the hall, cackling.
"Best of luck out there, Dante!" Sirzechs called just before he vanished with a flash.
And just like that, Dante was alone again.
A quiet pulse of light shimmered from the blade across the room.
"No," Dante said to no one in particular, rubbing his face with one hand. "That was definitely a hallucination."
His gaze drifted to the now-empty goblet on the table beside him. He gave it a dry nod.
"The alcohol in me agrees."
Infernum Fulgur glowed again, its ethereal pulse flickering like laughter.
Dante sighed. "Great. Even my sword's laughing at me."
But he couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips as he turned toward the door, ready to face whatever madness the arena had waiting for him next.
It took Dante only a handful of minutes to assemble his gear, though it felt longer. The sword—his oldest companion—slid into its lacquered sheath with a metallic sigh, but the real battle was with the flock jacket. The custom garment hugged his torso like a second skin, yet its web of zippers, buckles, and braided leather straps fought him every inch of the way. By the time he cinched the final clasp he was breathing harder than he cared to admit, a low chain of curses still buzzing against his teeth.
Yet the moment the last buckle clicked, the familiar weight settled over his shoulders and pulled him into the present. Tonight was the match.
He stepped out of the velvet silence of his VIP lounge and into a river of motion. Devils of every House flowed through glass‑lit corridors—rich silks brushing iron armor, wings flicking plasma‑cigarette smoke into the air. Some recognized him and raised their phones, capturing hurried images through which he drifted like a ghost. Dante answered with a nod, half‑smile, and kept moving, boot‑heels ringing out a deliberate rhythm that calmed his pulse.
He was almost at the arena entrance when the ambush came.
A wall of reporters—cameras blinking like predatory eyes—surged forward, corralled by velvet ropes that might as well have been spider silk. They came too fast, tripping over one another in their eagerness, and for a heartbeat Dante feared the smaller devils would be trampled. He pivoted, guarding them with one broad shoulder, and found his own back pressed to cold stone. Flashes ignited. Microphones jutted toward him like lances.
"Lord Dante! What's the strategy for tonight? How will you answer Lord Brinyalf's taunts?"
Questions rained down, shards of sound that clattered against the calm he fought to maintain.
"My plan is simple," he said, voice even. "Win."
A ripple of disbelief swept the crowd—some interpreted it as arrogance, others as unshakable confidence. Either way, they wanted more. Flashes intensified; voices overlapped.
"What secrets will you reveal?"
"Why do you fight at all?"
Then a sudden hush, as if the corridor itself held its breath. A young she‑devil stepped forward, microphone trembling in slender hands.
"How will you respond to him slandering the devils you faced—and respected?"
Her words cut through the chaos. Behind the lenses, faces leaned in.
Dante inhaled, feeling the leather across his chest grow tighter with the motion. He spoke slowly, letting each syllable settle.
"I was raised to understand that no matter how loud a word is shouted, it can never strike harder than an action." He flexed his hand, lightning flickering under the skin like a captive storm. "The actions of the three devils I battled speak louder than Brinyalf ever could."
Silence fell thicker, the reporters transfixed not by threat but by the sincerity vibrating in his words. For a moment Dante felt their awe land on him like warm ash, and—embarrassingly—it felt good.
The young interviewer, cheeks flushed violet, tried again. "And what do you say to Lord Brinyalf's underestimation of you?"
Dante shifted, leaning forward enough that the microphones dipped with him. Arc‑lightning sparked in his eyes—just a taste, a warning.
"A wise man learns from his missteps, lets the bruises of his brothers feed his hunger. So turn around, Lord Brinyalf, before the tidal wave breaks..." He smiled, slow and lethal. "You don't want to meet the Reaper waiting on the other side."
The threat—borrowed from his favorite track—hit its mark. Reporters froze; then the corridor erupted, cheers and questions colliding until the space vibrated with devilish approval.
That was his cue.
Dante slipped sideways, leaving echoing excitement in his wake. The roar of the assembled crowd followed him deeper into the arena's throat and made him grin despite himself.
He almost missed the familiar figure leaning against a support column—blonde hair pinned in shimmering waves, crimson blouse immaculate against marble skin. Rosalina Phenex. She watched him with that disarming stillness he'd come to recognize, and only when their eyes locked did he remember to breathe.
Rosalina had been orbiting him for days now. At first he'd chalked it up to coincidence, then to professional curiosity. But the lingering glances, the subtle breach of personal space, the way her gaze dipped—not to the sword at his hip but to the lines of his body—told a different story.
Venelana had once warned him: strong devils attract others as torches lure moths, and young women often disguise instinct as happenstance. Rosalina was no exception; every graceful move of hers carried an undercurrent of wanting that vibrated on a frequency Dante could feel in his bones.
He wondered, not for the first time, what he had done to capture the Phenex heiress's attention. They had never spoken before today. Perhaps some cosmic resonance, some improbable phenomenon out of Earth mythology—love at first sight.
The thought warmed and rattled him in equal measure as he strode past her into the glow of the gate, the arena beyond roaring like a living creature hungry for myth.