Later that night, a group of silver dragon men flew through the moonlit skies toward the last known location of Dante's presence.
Their wings shimmered under the pale glow, slicing through clouds as they descended toward the quiet forest below—where Dante was currently resting in his tent.
They moved in silence, each one cloaked and masked, their mission issued directly under Lord Cifer's secret command.
The leader raised his clawed hand, signaling the others to land. The air rippled as their massive wings folded back, and the faint thud of their boots echoed softly against the forest floor.
"This Dante guy…" one of the assassins muttered, adjusting the strap of his blade. "What did he do to make Lord Cifer want to assassinate him?"
"You don't know?" another whispered, crouching near a tree trunk. "Cifer aims to make Lady Zhurong one of his concubines."
"Tch, that guy's a complete pedophile," a third one scoffed quietly. "Between you and me, Lady Zhurong is only sixteen. Legally, by dragon law, she must reach eighteen before any claim can be made."
The others exchanged uneasy glances, their tails twitching slightly.
"Lady Zhurong let this Dante touch her horns," another assassin murmured, his voice dropping to a serious tone. "So you all know the tradition."
"Who wouldn't?" one replied, his scaled brow furrowing. "If a female maiden lets a male touch her horns, it means he's her future husband. It's sacred—old magic binds it."
"Now because of Cifer's jealousy," the leader said, unsheathing his curved blade with a soft metallic hiss, "he wants this human dead. But don't underestimate him."
The group turned their attention fully to him. The air grew heavier.
"Don't let this mere human named Dante fool you," the leader continued, his eyes narrowing beneath his silver mask. "He's rumored to be of the Alderman bloodline—the most feared house to ever live."
One of the lackeys frowned. "But… aren't they all dead?"
"Until now," the leader said grimly. "You've heard of the Academy tragedy, haven't you?"
"Yeah," another muttered, his voice low with dread. "First the Ruthwilfer invasion by the demons, then the Academy… wait, is it true that this guy took down three demon generals all by himself?"
The leader nodded slowly, his blade glinting in the moonlight. "He took down one known as the Sinner of Lust—one of the Seven Generals of the Seven Deadly Sins. Then he slew two more: the Sinner of Sloth, Taouon… and the Sinner of Pride, Domikhael."
The group fell silent. The rustle of leaves and distant hoots of night creatures filled the tense air.
"Three generals…" one whispered, his claws trembling slightly. "That's not humanly possible."
"Exactly," said the leader. "That's why Cifer ordered secrecy. If word spreads that Dante lives—and he's of Alderman blood—then not just Cifer, but the entire Silver Court will tremble."
The assassins tightened their grips on their weapons.
Shadows flickered across their faces as they stepped closer toward the dimly lit tent.
The leader's wings unfurled halfway, creating a gust that swept the leaves aside.
"Remember," he said, his voice low and cold. "We strike as one. Quick and silent. No mistakes."
They nodded. The forest fell utterly quiet—save for the whisper of steel being drawn.
And then, with one sharp motion, they vanished into the darkness, wings slicing through the night like silver ghosts.
"There it is," said one of the men, tightening his grip on his dagger as they descended quietly through the trees, their wings folding behind them to muffle the sound.
The moonlight filtered through the canopy, illuminating the small clearing where Dante's "tent" stood.
As they crept closer, one of them tilted his head, squinting. "No offense to the guy we're supposed to assassinate, but isn't this more like a hut? You call that a tent?"
"Same," another whispered. "Looks like he's living better than half of us."
The others nodded in quiet agreement as they landed, their boots pressing softly into the damp soil. They approached the wooden structure with blades drawn, their senses sharp.
Inside, the air was warm and faintly fragrant—like steam and herbs. One of them peeked toward the back.
"Man, look at that bath area," he muttered, pointing at the onsen that still steamed faintly in the night air. "If we were travelers, this could be heaven."
"Stay focused," their leader hissed.
They moved deeper, slipping into the bedroom chamber—only to find the bed empty. The sheets were untouched, but the faint heat of someone's presence lingered.
"The hell? He must've left," one whispered, scanning the corners.
"You think our intel was leaked?" another asked, tension building in his voice.
"Could be," said the leader, frowning. "Damn it, pull back. We're not sticking around."
They turned toward the exit, muttering complaints.
"Man, we came all this way for noth—"
CRASH!
The ground shook violently as something massive descended from above, obliterating the tent in a single, thunderous impact. The shockwave sent debris flying, knocking several of the dragon men off their feet.
A deafening roar followed.
"RRRAAAGGHHHH!!!"
From the cloud of dust and shattered wood, a female figure stood tall, her golden hair whipping wildly in the wind. Her aura pulsed like molten fire, making the air vibrate.
She sniffed the air, her crimson eyes narrowing.
"He left…?" she muttered, her tone trembling with rage. Then her voice rose to a thunderous scream. "HE LEFT?!!!"
The assassins staggered to their feet, stunned.
"Who the hell—?"
She turned her gaze toward them, her lips curling into a dark smirk. "Silvermane Clan… huh. Didn't think any of you were still alive."
The leader snarled, drawing his blade. "Who are you?!"
"Tch," she scoffed. "Guess history forgot to teach you about me."
The dust settled enough for her face to become clear. Her presence was overwhelming—every step she took cracked the ground beneath her.
One of the assassins gasped, his scales paling. "No… no, it can't be… Ingrid… Ingrid Von Balmung?!"
The rest turned toward him in disbelief.
"Ingrid Von Balmung?" the leader repeated, his voice dropping.
She smiled coldly, eyes gleaming like molten gold. "Good. At least one of you remembers the name."
The forest fell silent again—except for the faint creak of her boots as she stepped forward, her killing intent thick enough to choke the air.
In just a flash of movement, Ingrid vanished from sight—then reappeared in front of one of the assassins. Before he could even react, her claws tore through his chest, ripping it clean open. Blood sprayed across her dark, curvaceous body, staining her skin in crimson streaks that glistened under the moonlight.
The remaining men froze in horror as their comrade's lifeless body hit the ground with a wet thud. Ingrid's breathing deepened; her eyes half-closed as she crouched down beside the corpse. Then, to their horror, she sank her teeth into him, tearing away flesh as a guttural moan escaped her lips.
"Ahh…" she exhaled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Disgusting. Not a real man's build. I prefer mine with a bit more…" She licked her lips and smiled wickedly. "…masculine flavor."
The assassins staggered back, wings trembling. Ingrid's dragon-like claws flexed with a crackling sound, and her head twitched slightly to the side, her face twisting into a horrifying grin.
The leader turned, shouting to his men. "Re–retreat! Inform the Dragon Clan and all the Dragon Houses—Agh!"
He gasped as he looked down, realizing Ingrid's hand had pierced straight through his chest. Blood poured from his mouth as she raised her arm, lifting him effortlessly off the ground.
"Leaving so soon?" she said mockingly, then gripped his head and snapped it downward into his own mangled chest, folding him in half like paper.
"Oh gods…" one of the assassins gagged, dropping to his knees and vomiting violently.
Ingrid turned her glowing eyes toward him and smirked. "Pathetic."
She raised her arm, and fire erupted from her palm—a torrent of blazing inferno that engulfed the assassins where they stood.
"AAAHHHH!!!" they screamed, their armor melting, wings burning, flesh turning to ash. The air filled with the sickening scent of charred meat and smoke.
When the flames died, only one assassin remained—trembling, covered in soot and blood, eyes wide with terror. Ingrid stepped toward him slowly, each step deliberate, her shadow stretching long across the burning wreckage. Her golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark, illuminating her bloodstained face.
She grabbed the last assassin by his collar and lifted him effortlessly off the ground, straightening his posture as if tidying him.
"The Silvermane taught you all well," she said coldly, her tone almost mocking. She leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear. "But they didn't teach you all their tricks."
The assassin flinched as she threw him aside, her voice echoing like a command from hell itself.
"Listen to me well. Fly back to the Dragon Clan—and let every house know…"
Her eyes narrowed, her tone dropping to a deadly whisper.
"…that the Sovereign has returned."
Terrified, the last assassin nodded frantically and took flight, beating his wings with desperate speed.
Behind him, the forest blazed in ruin. The once-peaceful clearing was now a hellscape of ash and fire. The corpses of his comrades burned, their armor melted into the ground.
Ingrid stood amid the chaos, her silhouette stretching against the flames, her shadow growing larger—more monstrous—with every flicker of light.
But for Ingrid, the victory was hollow. She stood among the dead, unaware of her mistake—unaware that she had missed her true target.
For the one she sought… Dante… was still alive. And she had no idea what he even looked like, until now.
Back in the Dragon Realm, the lone surviving assassin burst through the dimensional gate, his wings trembling and breath ragged.
He had flown without rest for nearly an hour—fueled only by terror. Instead of heading toward Lord Cifer's citadel as expected, he veered straight toward the royal palace of King Giang and Queen Xilang.
The guards at the gate immediately recognized the Silvermane crest on his armor and ushered him inside. Moments later, a palace guard knocked urgently at the royal chamber doors.
"My King! My Queen! Urgent report!"
The doors swung open. Inside, King Giang—his long silver mane loose over his shoulders—sat up sharply in bed, startled and fuming.
"What is it now?!" he barked, his deep voice shaking the walls.
The assassin dropped to one knee. "Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty! It's about Lady Ingrid—Ingrid Von Balmung! She's been revived!"
The room fell silent. Queen Xilang turned sharply, her crimson eyes widening. King Giang froze for a heartbeat—then slammed his fist onto the bedpost, cracking the wood.
"OH COME ON!!!" Giang roared, standing to his full height. "First the Demon Clan, and now her?!"
"Giang!" Xilang snapped, placing a calming hand on his arm. "Easy, my stoic love. Ingrid Von Balmung is not an enemy to take lightly. Sigh…"
She lowered her head, her golden hair shimmering faintly in the moonlight. "It's going to be a rough time ahead—considering The Sovereign of the Dragons has returned."
Giang's jaw clenched. "My wife… Ingrid… Ingrid Von Balmung!"
"I know, Giang," Xilang said softly. "The only person who has ever defeated her—and killed her—was the founder of the Alderman House. And now that their bloodline is said to be extinct—"
"DANTE!" Giang interrupted suddenly, eyes wide with realization.
Xilang's expression hardened instantly. "Dante?! No. Absolutely not, Giang!"
"But—"
"NO!" Xilang's voice boomed through the chamber, echoing with royal authority. "The boy is fifteen! Hasn't he suffered enough?!"
Giang flinched, taken aback by her fury.
"He's been mocked, racially profiled, beaten, scarred—he carries wounds that won't ever heal!"
Xilang continued, her tone trembling between anger and sorrow.
"Even the girl he befriended… both she and our daughter Zhurong's friend, Lytharis, died before his eyes! And you want to throw him into this?"
Giang lowered his head, guilt filling his eyes. "I… I'm sorry. It's just that—"
"I know," Xilang said gently, her tone softening. "I know Ingrid is the greatest traitor our clan has ever produced. Even we together couldn't handle her at full strength."
She reached up, cupping his face. "But Dante's burden isn't ours to add to. He's still under examination with the Ruthwilfers. We must handle this ourselves, Giang. We can't keep depending on him."
Giang nodded slowly, the fire in his eyes dimming. "Forgive me, my wife."
Xilang smiled faintly and stroked his cheek. "Oh, my sweet, stoic, bearded bear… how could I ever stay mad at you?"
Giang's lips curved into a small smile. "You're the best, wifey."
"Hehe…" she chuckled softly, pressing her forehead to his.
The tension in the room melted as their hands intertwined. The chaos beyond the palace walls faded into silence as they embraced, finding brief solace in each other's warmth.
Outside, the moon hung high over the Dragon Realm, casting a cold light over the royal city. The winds whispered of war and old bloodlines stirring once more.
And far away, unseen by both King and Queen…, the name Ingrid Von Balmung echoed through the realms once again.
A day later Dante rode toward another kingdom, Vidalier.
Vidalier was peaceful and harmonious. The streets were a warm amaretto, packed with markets and vendors hawking fruits, fabrics, and trinkets.
Lanterns swung gently above narrow alleys. Off the main thoroughfares, bars, brothels, and restaurants hummed with life and laughter.
"Say, Dante," the goddess of war, Kilamahi, asked in his thoughts. "Why come here?"
"Taking a rest," Dante answered aloud as he guided his mount down a market lane. He paused to avoid a cart overflowing with spices.
"Heading to the Dwarfen Kingdom is no joke. It will take two days to reach there. Besides, I am running short on gold coins since Lady Diana handles my account. Also, because this is a Ruthwilfer examination, I have to earn money using my false name, 'Maladeva.'"
Kilamahi's presence nodded inside his mind, an amused ripple of approval. "Okay, you're the boss, kid. But what about the woman in the tavern a few nights back, Eva Ruthwilfer, the family librarian? Why did you not kill her on the spot?"
Dante pushed open the diner door. The bell chimed. He stepped inside and let the smell of frying bread and broth wash over him.
He took a seat at a worn wooden table by the window and ordered a lunch set from a smiling waitress. While she bustled away, Dante leaned back and sent his reply to Kilamahi telepathically.
"Three reasons," he said. He rubbed his temple and watched a couple bickering playfully at a neighboring table. "One, I cannot kill her without evidence. Two, I am under examination. If I kill her now, it would be treason under Ruthwilfer family law."
"And the third?" Kilamahi asked, curiosity sharpening like a blade.
"Third," Dante replied, watching a child chase a rolling apple outside, "I need solid evidence of her crimes—proof that she works for the Demon Clan. Something that cannot be dismissed as rumor. I need a hard, irrefutable lead."
He drew a slow breath and folded his hands on the table. The waitress returned with steaming soup. He sipped, letting the warmth steady his thoughts.
Outside, the market noises swelled: a merchant arguing over a price, the distant clip of horses, the slap of a cart wheel.
Inside, the diner's cozy clatter cocooned him for a moment, and Kilamahi's presence remained a steady, watchful hum at the back of his mind.
"Alright, Maladeva," Kilamahi murmured, amusement threaded through her tone. "Find proof, then do what you must."
Dante finished his meal with a steady, measured calm. He paid the bill with a few tarnished coins and rose, slipping back into the crowd.
Vendors parted for him like reeds in a stream as he moved through Vidalier, every step deliberate, every glance catalogued. The hunt was patient work, and he intended to see it through.
As he found a nearby tavern, Dante booked a room for three days, paid upfront, and settled in for the night.
The room was small but cozy—wooden walls, a modest bed, and the faint smell of ale lingering in the air. He lay down, letting the distant chatter from below lull him into sleep.
By morning, sunlight streamed through the window. Dante got up, stretched, brushed his teeth, and took a quick bath. He dressed neatly, tying his black hair back before strapping on his sword.
"Alright," he muttered. "Time to make a few gold coins for the journey."
Stepping outside, he wandered down the cobblestone street until he spotted a large stone building with a symbol of a sword and shield carved above the door. A crowd of warriors and mages gathered inside.
"Huh? An Adventurers' Guild?"
"Kid," Kilamahi's voice echoed telepathically in his mind, her tone playful. "I recommend that. Easy money."
"Do they even accept temporary adventurers?" he asked.
"Maybe…?" she replied teasingly.
Dante sighed but took her advice anyway. He entered through the heavy wooden doors, greeted by the scent of parchment, metal, and faint alcohol.
The lobby was busy—adventurers chatting, clinking mugs, or pinning quest posters on a large board.
Behind the counter, a cheerful young receptionist looked up and smiled brightly at him. "Welcome to the Vidalier Adventurers' Guild! How can I help you?"
"I'd like to register as a temporary adventurer," Dante said politely. "Is that possible?"
"Of course!" she said, sliding a form and quill across the counter. "We get plenty of temporary members. Vidalier is a come-and-go kingdom, after all. Just fill this out, and we'll determine your rank with this crystal."
Dante filled out the form, carefully writing his false name, Maladeva, as required by the Ruthwilfer examination rules.
When he handed it back, the receptionist pressed a glowing crystal against his palm. The stone pulsed, flashing with golden light.
Her eyes widened. "Congratulations! You're now officially registered as an C-rank adventurer!"
Dante blinked, feigning modest surprise. "C-rank, huh? That's… fast."
He decided to suppress his power a little—better to stay under the radar.
"Good call, kid," Kilamahi commented with a chuckle. "Though you won't get any B, A, nor S-rank quests, it's smart to keep a low profile."
"Yeah," Dante replied telepathically. "In my past life, I read about adventurer guilds from comics. But something is missing, something feels… off."
"What's missing?" Kilamahi asked curiously.
Before Dante could answer, the guild's front doors burst open with a thunderous BANG! A gust of air swept through the hall, rattling papers and mugs.
A group of five arrogant-looking adventurers strode in. Their leader—a blonde man clad in shiny armor—kicked the door so hard it cracked the frame. His companions swaggered behind him, pushing aside others without care.
"Move aside, peasants!" the armored man shouted proudly. "Make way for the hero destined to defeat the Demon King!"
The entire guild went quiet for a moment. Then came muffled groans and eye rolls from the regulars.
Dante and Kilamahi exchanged silent thoughts in perfect sync.
"What. The. Fuck."
Kilamahi's mental voice dripped with disbelief.
Meanwhile, Dante sighed and leaned his head on his hand, muttering under his breath. "As expected… this never gets old. Just like in all those comics and Japanese manga from my past life."
He smirked slightly, the corner of his mouth curling up.
"Ah shit, here we go again."
---
Chapter 38 — End