The very air seemed to shudder as Dante began his conjuring anew. Flames erupted from the void, alive and hungry, spiraling like beasts in despair. A suffocating heat fell upon them, and the earth itself trembled underfoot. Spiritual energy condensed into a palpable shroud, carrying the bitter scent of ashes and imminent ruin.
And Stella… smiled.
She stood her ground, unmoving, her golden gaze cutting through everything—the smoke, the fear, the very inferno raging before her. It was as if her eyes pierced straight through to Dante's soul. And he trembled. Not from weakness, but because some deep, primal part of him knew.
Knew what was about to unfold.
A memory seared his mind—Hazau's voice, fragmented and hoarse, echoing from the depths of his being.
—Take care with Tekio…
The warning felt distant, almost irrelevant. Dante ignored it. Tekio lay before him, broken and still. Dan could barely draw breath. And Stella was merely an insolent child defying the fire. There was nothing to fear.
Hazau screamed within him—but Dante was too blind to hear, blinded by the arrogance of one who had always believed himself invincible.
The encircling flames roared. And within their roar, something in the air shifted.
Golden particles began to fall, slow and almost invisible. The sun pierced the dense smoke once more, and in the brief clarity that fell upon the battlefield, Dante saw. But he did not comprehend.
Time itself seemed to slow. His ancestral instinct—the very thing that had guided him for ages—tried to warn him, too late. Hazau within him knew what was coming, and the entity's terror made the very fire tremble and hesitate.
And then, reality shattered.
Behind Dante, space distorted. A breath of light tore through the air, sparkling with gold. Amara emerged from the brilliance, her eyes wide with pure conviction, tears and rage mingling on her skin. Her body thrummed with power. A stake of spiritual light formed in her hand—alive, pulsating, forged from pain and faith. Guided by Stella.
Hazau screamed inside Dante—Now!—But Dante did not move. Their connection was too frayed for true communion, yet he felt the wrongness in the air. It was too late.
In a single, final motion, swift and brutal, Amara drove the stake through Dante's skull. The sound was dry, unforgiving. The fire froze mid-air. Dante's body convulsed, his blood evaporating before it could even touch the ground. The golden light pierced the darkness like the dawn of a new era.
Dante's gaze was a maelstrom of despair and blood.
A silence held for one terrible second—and then hell exploded.
Dan and Tekio rose like lightning. Their energy cracked the ground, their eyes blazing with the same golden intensity that now spread across the field. Stella's illusions dissipated, revealing the truth.
The wounds were false. The desperation, a perfect performance. They had deceived Dante from the very beginning.
Stella had orchestrated the entire theatre: fallen bodies, false blood, bones twisted in artifice, fear meticulously calculated. Dante had fallen into her game like a blind king before a chessboard that was no longer his. While he spoke, while he mocked, Amara had moved unseen, cloaked in the golden distortion Stella wove—a luminous shadow moving through the fire. She had been there at the start, but the moment Stella began her speech, Amara had slipped away, a clone taking her place. The blind Dante had not perceived it, not until the stake shattered his skull.
And when the moment came…
She had not hesitated.
The strike had felled the tyrant. The sound of the dying fire echoed like a suffocated roar.
They had all known. Dante was hunting them, and sooner or later, he would find them. There was nowhere left to flee. They could not repeat the tragedy of a month past. There were no more adults to stand on the front lines, no snipers to provide cover, no seasoned Emperors to bear the brunt. For the new Emperors were now they themselves.
They had to be. They had to fight, for themselves and for all who were lost. For the blood, the pain, the loss, and for a victory that would only come if they dared everything.
The plan had been simple—and mortal. It would work, or they would all die. And now, there, amidst the scent of blood evaporating in the heat and iron in the air, the result was clear.
The illusion had fallen.
And the true inferno began.
Dante's body trembled violently, each breath a monumental effort. Black and crimson blood gushed from deep wounds, steaming in the air like sulphurous smoke. The two warring essences within him, still unaligned, made his soul pulse with agony and fury as his flesh struggled to reconstruct itself. But there was no time. No quarter would be given.
Amara, silent as a ghost, melted back into the shadows, ready to reappear at the perfect moment.
Dan and Tekio advanced in perfect synchrony. The crimson energy emanating from Tekio rippled through the air, weighing down every step, every movement, a palpable pressure that made the earth tremble. Dan shone with intense white flames, a beacon of pure destruction. Together, they charged toward Dante, an unstoppable force poised to crash down upon him.
Before Dante's consciousness could fully reassemble, the coordinated assault began. Brutal, precise blows shattered ribs, clavicles, arms, and legs, each impact reverberating through his deformed frame. Bones ground together, flesh was pulverized, and the pain seemed only to fuel a more profound hatred, not defense.
Dan vanished from sight and reappeared behind Dante, moving with supernatural speed. Tekio stood before him, channeling all his energy into a single, devastating punch—the slingshot method—that exploded against Dante's already fractured skull with force enough to distort his face further.
The impact launched Dante like a projectile toward Dan, who, in seamless harmony, met the flying body with a devastating blow of his own. Dante was hurled through the air, his clothes aflame, revealing a body torn and bloody, with twisted bones and ragged flesh hanging loose. Each movement was a grotesque dance of regeneration and ruin.
High above, Stella raised chains of light, snaring Dante in the air. Her new technique concentrated immense beams of luminous energy, golden sparks fusing into a single, descending ray. The light fell upon Dante, searing his flesh, shattering bone, and tearing yet more pieces from his mangled form. His already broken arm was severed, carbonized by the intensity.
She then swung him violently into the remnants of blackened stone walls, triturating his body with the combined force of light and destruction. The final impact against the cracked earth was grotesque, sending a shockwave of energy rippling through the area.
Tekio and Dan advanced again, without hesitation. Every strike held a clear intent: to erase Dante from existence, until nothing capable of regeneration remained. The very smoke seemed to tremble, the instinctual pressure of combat pulsing in their bodies, fueling their reflexes.
Then, an invisible blade cut through the air, tearing space apart and dissipating the smoke. Tekio and Dan dodged by instinct, momentarily recoiling. From the rubble came a grotesque sound: flesh shifting, bones realigning. Dante was rising, but no longer human. His body contorted into arachnid forms, tentacles of black flesh supporting his shattered torso. The consciousness that remained was molding itself a shield of meat—grotesque, unnatural, the abyss's last resort.
He rose, a presence transcending humanity, fueled by the essence of Hazau and the power of the abyss itself, ready to answer the fury of Tekio, Dan, Stella, and Amara.
The battle was far from over.
Dante's body slowly ascended from the rubble, grotesque and pulsating. Every muscle, every nerve seemed to reconstitute itself in an unnatural parody of life, while dark blood poured from his open skull, evaporating into crimson smoke. It was the pulse of the abyss made manifest, forging a body that transcended human flesh—grotesque, lethal, perfect for survival until his consciousness could consolidate. Tentacles sprouted from his base, thick and powerful at the core, fine and sharp at the tips, each one ready to cut, tear, and kill. Dante was no longer merely alive. He was the new regent of the abyss, protected by a force that transcended even his own essence.
Tekio advanced instinctively, but a black blade shot from the side, slicing the air with a mortal crack aimed at his neck. He dodged by a hair's breadth, feeling the visceral weight of the danger. Dante's body was now a murder machine, guided by the instinctual consciousness of the abyss itself. Each tentacle had a lethal reach. Any reckless approach meant instant death.
Stella and Dan exchanged a silent glance. They knew what was required. An area of intense light bloomed again, creating a field of illusion and distraction. Multiple clones of Dan shimmered into being, wreathed in white flames, while clones of Stella brandished swords of light, moving in perfect cadence to attract the monster's lethal attacks and sever his limbs. Explosions of light and fire filled the field, a chaotic ballet of destruction and strategy.
Dante reacted, each tentacle moving with lethal precision, cutting through and impaling clones, spreading imaginary blood and gore. But the fury of the youths and their carefully laid tactics began to take their toll. Tekio watched, understanding on an instinctual level: the path Dan and Stella were clearing was for him. They were purging the battlefield, opening a route. He trusted them. Trusted blindly, guided by instinct and pure determination.
Dan and Stella knew; they had witnessed it. Tekio possessed the gift of fighting the abyss, and in that hour, they would carve a path for him to advance.
Through the smoke, explosions, and dancing light, Tekio ran. His fists were charged with pulsating, living crimson energy, and the air vibrated with every step. He charged straight for the heart of the threat. He navigated the chaos, dodging and weaving until he finally reached the King. Tekio emerged from the smoke, his fist drawn back for a killing blow. But Dante, adapting with terrifying speed, raised a stake of his own living flesh and fired it with brutal precision. The stake pierced Tekio through the kidney. He spat blood, the raw pain a stark warning: the abyss offers no forgiveness.
Dan and Stella heard the wet impact, followed by Tekio's groan of agony.
The smoke dissipated, revealing the grotesque scene: the disfigured Dante, a monstrous fusion of alien and infernal horror, impaling their friend.
The look that passed between Dan and Stella was one of pure tension, of disbelief at the horrifying sight.
Dante, with the dregs of his regenerating consciousness, smiled.
Tekio looked into his cursed eyes and saw another stake forming from Dante's skull, aimed directly at his own head.
A single blow for a single death.
But the smoke shifted, revealing Amara materializing behind Dante. In one fluid motion, she raised her leg and drove her heel into the grotesquely regenerated head of her enemy. A spray of blood misted the air; the stake shattered and Dante's brain was laid bare once more, pulsing violently as it tried to recompose itself. Tekio, even impaled, did not hesitate. He roared in pain and fury, broke the stake transfixing him in two, and drove the fragment that had fallen from Dante's head deep into the tyrant's already shattered skull, widening the grievous wound.
The battlefield descended into absolute chaos: golden light, white flames, black blood, flesh regenerating and being destroyed in the same moment. Every attack carried intent, precision, and pure hatred. It was not only Dante who fought with fury; all of them were pushed to their limits, confronting pain, exhaustion, and injury, driving themselves beyond any human frontier. Every blow, every impact, every explosion reverberated through the air, creating a visceral choreography of war and survival.
Dante's roar echoed among the ruins, a grotesque sound mingling with the wet crackle of reconfiguring flesh and the answering roars of Tekio, Dan, Stella, and Amara. All fought with what little they had left—every movement a mortal dance between life and death. And in that moment, it became clear: there was no turning back. Each of them had become an unstoppable force.
Dante's roar exploded across the battlefield, a sound that made the ground quake and reverberated through the ruins, instantly dissipating the smoke from the explosions. The wind carried the stench of burnt flesh and blood, and Tekio felt each vibration rattle his bones.
His body gave way. Tekio fell to his knees, the pierced kidney throbbing with lancinating pain. Every breath tore a suppressed scream from his throat, blood spattering the cracked and blackened earth. His body still pulsed with crimson energy, but his flesh, his bones, his organs—all had reached their limit. There was no Yara to heal him, no one to sew back what was broken. Stella was trying to focus on Dante, and Tekio was alone in his own abyss of agony.
With the smoke cleared, all could see the grotesque vision before them. Dante stood over Tekio, his body shattered, his skull broken, pierced, and fractured, yet still possessed of a determination that rivaled any of the youths'. Each tentacle of black flesh writhed in instinctual, lethal motions, testing the reach and speed of anyone who dared approach.
Tekio tried to move, but his body did not respond. Incapable. Paralyzed by exhaustion, by pain, by his own limit.
Dan and Stella surged forward, but the distance was a cruel chasm. A sharpened tentacle shot out, aimed at Tekio's heart. And it was Amara who appeared, a silent shadow, intercepting the blow. The impact reverberated through the air, the tentacle shattering under the force of her punch. She positioned herself before Tekio, a bulwark between him and Dante.
The responsibility fell upon Amara now. There were no extraordinary powers as before, no devouring of energy or total mastery of combat. But there was memory. Technique. Instinct. The one who had once fought Tekio hand-to-hand would now lead the offense. She remembered every movement, every strike, every failure and success.
Even weakened, she remained a lethal weapon at close quarters.
Tekio was incapacitated. Amara would now be the one to dismantle Dante with precision.
She advanced. Every blow was calculated, distorting and breaking Dante's flesh and tentacles. Unlike Tekio, who crushed with raw, crimson brute force, Amara concentrated each punch, each impact, each movement, extracting the maximum damage possible. Her energy seemed to double the force of her strikes at the last instant, making every contact lethal, precise, and brutal.
This method inflicted damage upon Dante as if Amara's very energy was anathema to his being.
Dante recoiled, but his instinctual body was still perilous. Tentacles fired, aiming for Amara, but the clones of Dan and Stella cut them down, deflected them, carving out just enough space for her to continue her assault. The chaos was absolute: explosions of light, blood and flesh, golden sparks dancing among the rubble, and Amara at the center, unwavering, advancing without hesitation.
The objective was clear: to prevent Dante from reaching the peak of his regeneration, to limit his recovery, to destroy every inch of defense the abyss's instinct still protected. To go beyond limits that seemed human, beyond fatigue, beyond pain, beyond exhaustion.
Tekio gasped, spitting blood, the pain from his pierced kidney radiating through his entire body. Stella took a position beside him, maintaining her clones in the rearguard to protect Amara. Dan advanced in support, his own blows and flames clearing a path, coordinated as if each movement were an extension of Amara's attack.
Tekio, even with his spirit burning, was out of the fight. Finished. The weight of the battle fell upon his companions, upon Amara's determination, upon the coordinated strength of Stella and Dan. And still, Dante's roar continued, echoing across the field, the promise of an abyss that had not yet been defeated.
And Stella did not know what to do, her friend seemed… completely out of the fight.
To be continued…