"You gotta be frickin' kidding me…!"
Kilamahi's voice echoed telepathically inside Dante's mind, sharp with disbelief.
"A hero destined to defeat the Demon King? Are they serious?!"
"You tell me, Kilamahi," Dante muttered with a dry chuckle as he continued filling out paperwork at the guild counter.
Just as he was about to finish, a group of flashy adventurers—the so-called Hero Group—shoved him aside.
"You're in the way, peasant," one of them sneered.
Dante didn't respond. He simply exhaled through his nose, brushing off his shoulder as if nothing had happened. When he bent down to pick up the form he had dropped, a polished boot stomped onto his hand.
"Huh? Are you new here in Vidalier?" The same hero scoffed. He was a young man with perfectly styled blond hair and an air of arrogance that reeked of privilege. "Looking shabby for a poor commoner, am I right?"
The crowd nearby burst into laughter.
Dante lifted his gaze, eyes calm yet dangerous. "Would you kindly get your foot off my hand?" he asked evenly.
"Hmmm… nah. Do me a favour and shine my shoe, lowlife." The hero tilted his head, smug grin widening as he flaunted his golden locks.
That was enough.
A faint pulse of magic rippled beneath Dante's palm, invisible to the eye. A sudden gust of pressure erupted from the ground, sending the arrogant hero tumbling backwards onto his ass.
"Oof! What the—?! How?! What happened?!"
Dante dusted off his sleeve. "Careful now," he said coolly. "You might just slip on dog shit on your way out."
Several onlookers stifled their laughter, a few failing miserably as chuckles broke out across the guild hall. For the first time, some of them looked at Dante with quiet admiration.
As he walked toward the mission board to collect his quest slip, the humiliated hero scrambled up and drew his sword, face red with fury.
"Halt! How dare you mock the Hero?!" he barked.
Dante stopped mid-step. "Hero?" he repeated, turning his head slightly, voice low and steady.
He turned fully, walking back toward the trembling man.
"Where was the hero during the Academy invasion?" Dante asked, tone sharp. "Where was the hero during the arrival of the demons?"
He kept walking, eyes narrowing. The guild fell silent.
"I find it strange," Dante continued, voice darkening, "that the Demon Clan returned after being unsealed seven years ago. And the strangest part?" He paused inches from the so-called hero's face. "The seal was broken by rumour alone."
He leaned in closer, his words now a cold whisper. "And here you stand, claiming to be some kind of hero… when the Demon Clan has been running loose for seven fucking years. And now you decide to play the part? Pathetic."
Dante turned away, hands sliding into his coat pockets as he returned to the board filled with requests.
"You… you!!!" the hero stammered.
"DON'T YOU DARE TURN YOUR BACK ON ME!!!"
The hero charged, swinging his sword down in a blind rage.
Before the blade could touch Dante, he snapped his fingers.
A crisp crack echoed through the hall as the sword froze mid-swing—its edge suspended inches from Dante's head, encased in frost and shimmering air.
"You! Release my blade!" the hero shouted, straining against it.
Dante turned his wrist slightly and snapped his fingers again. The sword shattered like glass, fragments scattering across the floor.
The hero stumbled backward, staring in horror.
"No! This blade was forged by that Dwarf blacksmith! How can it be broken?! I've been scammed—!"
"ZIP IT, BITCH!" Dante roared, cutting him off with a glare that could pierce steel.
"You said a Dwarf blacksmith forged your blade?" Dante asked, stepping closer. "Did he leave his stamp? His blood print? His signature, perhaps?"
The hero blinked, speechless—utterly lost.
Dante sighed, shaking his head.
"Exactly what I thought. Some hero you are. Can't even recognize basic forgery. When a Dwarf blesses a blade, he leaves his mark, his blood, and his name. That's what makes the weapon unbreakable. Seems to me,"
Dante said, eyes narrowing with disdain, "he didn't bless your blade for a reason."
The guild stayed silent. Only the sound of the broken sword's pieces rolling across the floor filled the air as Dante turned his back once more and walked toward the mission board—completely unfazed.
"What are you four looking at! KILL HIM!!"
The hero's shout cracked through the hall like a whip. His party surged forward at once: a hulking berserker acting as the tank, a robe-swathed mage, a prim priest clutching a holy staff, and a snarling beastman with claws bared.
They attacked as a unit. The berserker barreled in first, feet thundering across the floor, swinging an oversized axe in a wide arc meant to cleave Dante in two.
The mage traced runes in the air, letting sparks gather between his fingertips. The priest stayed just behind, murmuring prayers and lifting a palm to weave a protective ward.
The beastman hissed, leaping with animal grace to close the distance.
Alongside them, a cat-like woman slinked forward with liquid grace. Her outfit left little to the imagination, yet every movement screamed lethal intent—she moved like a predator, hips swaying as she launched herself, twin daggers flashing in a blur. The crowd recoiled, some whispering, others cheering the spectacle.
Dante watched them approach with bored patience. He stepped aside slightly, letting the berserker's axe wind through empty air.
The axe carved through the space where he had been standing a heartbeat before, sending a shudder through the floor. Dante's hand flicked, and the axe slammed into the wall, embedding itself there with a dull thud.
The mage unleashed a bolt of lightning that crackled toward Dante, but Dante tilted his head and a ripple in the air bent the bolt aside, making it arc harmlessly into the ceiling.
The priest's ward flared to life to shield the party, but Dante's glance brushed the ward and it popped like a soap bubble, leaving the priest blinking in stunned disbelief.
The beastman leapt, claws aiming for Dante's throat. Dante sidestepped with a dancer's ease, guiding the beastman's momentum so he crashed into the table behind him, scattering quest notices and sending ink pots flying.
The cat-woman sprang at Dante with a hiss, blades whispering; Dante met her with a single, lazy motion.
He caught one blade between two fingers and twisted. With a soft snap, the weapon flew free and skittered across the floor, leaving the woman off-balance and furious.
Dante's voice cut through the chaos—calm, almost bored. "Is that it? Come on, I was promised a challenge."
Around them, the guild hall erupted into gasps and murmurs. The party scrambled to regroup, wounded by their own arrogance and by Dante's unhurried precision.
Dante straightened, dusting imaginary lint from his sleeve as if he had merely interrupted his paperwork for a moment.
"NYAAA!!!"
Dante turned sharply as the cat-like woman let out a furious cry. Her aura burst forth, shimmering like violet fire.
"This is Cat-Wrath!" she roared. "Our Sha'karr species' special ability—to push past our limits, nya!"
Her pupils slit, claws extending, and the air itself seemed to ripple from her unleashed speed.
She lunged.
Her movements blurred—fast, graceful, feral. Dante's eyes widened slightly, tracking her as she darted around him in quick, unpredictable angles.
"Not bad… really not bad," Dante murmured, stepping back, deflecting blows that came like raindrops in a storm.
He wasn't just surprised—he was impressed.
"NYAAA!" she shrieked again, spinning low and striking upward with a fierce kick that Dante barely dodged.
Her follow-up punch landed square against his chest, the impact sending him sliding back across the floor until his back hit the receptionist's counter with a dull thud.
The guild fell silent for a heartbeat.
Dante exhaled slowly, brushing dust from his shoulder, a faint smirk curling his lips. "Not bad, kitty."
He reached for his robe, pulling it off and tossing it aside in a single smooth motion. Then he peeled off his black gloves, revealing scarred hands—burned, cut, and healed over many times.
"Nya…?" she paused, confusion flickering in her golden eyes. "Nya… those scars… from where, nya?"
Dante cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing like gunfire through the hall. "The Academy," he said quietly. "I'm one of the victims of that tragedy."
The air between them shifted—tense, electric.
Before she could react, Dante vanished from sight.
"Nya—?!"
She barely managed a gasp before he reappeared right in front of her, his arm already drawn back.
In a single, lightning-fast motion, Dante struck.
A one-inch punch.
A technique he had perfected from his past life, one he learned after watching an old martial arts documentary—then training until his body remembered every detail.
"Checkmate…" Dante whispered.
"T-NYA!!!"
The blow landed square at the center of her chest. A sharp burst of force erupted through her body—so precise and powerful that a hole tore open in the back of her outfit from the sheer pressure.
The Sha'karr woman's body launched backward like a cannonball, crashing through the guild's doors and straight into a row of hawker stalls outside.
Tables splintered, food scattered, and dust rose in the air as she lay there—unconscious, defeated.
Dante exhaled softly, lowering his fist. His eyes glowed faintly with restrained power.
"Cat-wrath, huh?" he muttered, turning back toward the hall. "Guess I've seen worse."
Dante walked slowly toward the hero party, the air around him heavy and silent. He leaned down, eyes sharp and voice low, barely above a whisper.
"Get out…"
That was all it took.
The so-called heroes scrambled to their feet, dragging the unconscious cat-woman with them as they bolted for the door, their pride in shambles.
The guild hall erupted.
"ALL PRAISE TO THE NEWCOMER!"
"Hear, hear!"
"Finally, someone put those idiots in their place!"
Another voice shouted from the back, "It's been seven damn years since the Demon Clan returned, and now some brat claims he's the Hero to slay the Demon King? Fat chance!"
The hall filled with laughter and chatter, a mix of relief and admiration. Dante didn't pay it much mind. He pulled his robe back on, adjusted the collar, and turned to the mission board. His gaze landed on one request in particular.
> Request: Eliminate the Goblin Horde near the southern village.
Details: Goblins have begun kidnapping human women for breeding purposes.
Reward: 200 gold coins.
Dante sighed, scratching the back of his neck. "Sheesh… goblin mating season again? And only 200 gold coins? Meh, work's work."
He tore the request slip from the board and walked out without another word.
Later that night…
The moon hung low as Dante returned from the outskirts, the faint scent of smoke and steel clinging to his coat.
"Man," he muttered aloud, brushing goblin blood from his gloves. "What's wrong with those goblins? Sex-crazed maniacs, the whole lot of them. Don't you think so, Kilamahi?"
Her voice echoed telepathically in his mind, calm and sardonic.
"Well, it is mating season for those scums. Get used to it. Consider them your personal bank deposit, adventurer."
Dante chuckled softly. "Hah. Maybe I should spoil myself a bit."
He glanced around the bustling market street—lanterns flickered, people laughed, merchants packed up their stalls. Then his eyes caught a cozy diner tucked in the corner.
"Hmm, there's a good place."
He headed inside. The warm glow of candlelight greeted him as he sat at the counter. "Light alcohol and something simple to eat," he told the waitress.
Moments later, he lifted his mug and took a gulp.
From a nearby table, an older adventurer raised a brow. "Say, kid… you're a bit young to be drinking, aren't you?"
Dante exhaled a long sigh after his sip, setting the mug down with a solid thunk. "Puahh… Goblins. Mating season."
The man's eyes widened in instant understanding. He nodded solemnly and gave Dante a hearty pat on the back. "Nuff said, lad. Goblins—damn sex-crazed scum. That light ale you're drinking?"
"Don't worry, old man," Dante said with a smirk, lifting the mug again. "I know my limits. I'm not much of a heavy drinker anyway."
The adventurer laughed. "Ha! Look at this chump, talking like he's some guy in his forties!"
Dante just smiled faintly, looking into his drink.
If only they knew.
Though he looked young, he wasn't. Not truly. In his previous life, he was Shan Abhay—a man long past his forties, now reborn in another world.
He lifted his mug in quiet reflection.
"To old lives… and new ones," he muttered before taking another sip.
"Say, kid, how old are you?" the adventurer asked, raising his mug.
"Sixteen, currently," Dante replied casually.
"Name, kid?"
"Maladeva," Dante said smoothly, using the false name he'd registered under—the standard rule for the Ruthwilfer Exam.
"Maladeva, huh? Weird name." The man chuckled, taking a gulp of ale. "Name's Ronald. I'm a blacksmith. And up there—" he pointed toward the stage—"that's my daughter, Erona. Look!"
Dante turned his head toward the stage.
There she was.
A stunning woman stood beneath the warm glow of lantern light, her black hair flowing like silk, her skin a smooth shade of light brown that shimmered with every movement. Her red eyes glimmered like polished rubies—eerily similar to Dante's own.
"Alright, gang, gear up for Lady Erona!" the announcer bellowed.
"WWOOOAAAHHH!!!"
The crowd roared as the music started.
Erona began to dance, her hips swaying to the rhythm, her body moving in fluid, hypnotic waves.
The coins on her revealing belly-dancer attire jingled with each motion. She teased the audience, moving just close enough to drive the men wild—her every turn, every flick of her wrist, carefully measured temptation.
Dante sipped his drink silently, his eyes following her form.
"You let your daughter work as a dancer here?" he asked, glancing at Ronald.
"Don't ask, kid," Ronald groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "She's got… weird taste."
Then, in a tone that was dead serious but carried unintended comedy, he added, "And I mean weird taste."
Dante chuckled faintly. "I don't really understand the kingdom of Vidalier that well anyway."
He took another sip of his mug, eyes drifting back to the stage. Erona was dancing like fire given form, a living embodiment of desire. As the crowd cheered, her gaze swept over the men—then locked onto Dante.
For a brief moment, the world around him seemed to fade. Her eyes met his.
That one look—sultry, knowing, dangerous—sent a strange tightness through his chest. He wasn't sure if it was attraction or something else.
Before he could think deeper, Kilamahi's voice rang sharply in his mind.
"Kid! That woman!"
"Huh? What about her?" Dante muttered under his breath, setting his mug down and glancing subtly at the crowd.
"I smell it… Alderman."
Dante froze. His gaze flicked back to Erona, still twirling, light catching her eyes like twin shards of blood-red crystal.
"Where?" he asked softly.
"Not the crowd, kid! Her! The damn belly dancer!"
"What?" Dante's tone dropped to a whisper. "How can you tell?"
"I've tasted Alderman blood before," Kilamahi replied telepathically, her tone deadly serious. "I'd recognize that scent anywhere."
Dante's pulse quickened. "Wait—if you can smell Alderman blood… why can't you sense mine the same way?"
"Tch, idiot," Kilamahi hissed. "You are an Alderman. From the moment I awoke from my eternal slumber inside you, I could smell it—the pure Alderman royal blood running through your veins."
Dante stiffened slightly, staring down at his scarred hands. "Wait… so my birth mother Blake, the dark mage was a royal descendant?"
"I'm afraid so," Kilamahi said, her voice softening for once. "Whether she knew it or not… your mother carried the royal bloodline. And now, that blood runs through you."
The music continued to play, the crowd's cheers echoing all around, but Dante barely heard them.
His eyes remained fixed on Erona—the woman with the same red eyes as his own—dancing under the lights like a living flame.
And for the first time that night… he felt something ancient stir deep within him.
"Say, Ronald," Dante began cautiously, setting down his mug. "Don't take this the wrong way but… how old is your daughter?"
Ronald took a casual sip of his drink and replied, "Ah, she's sixteen. Same as you."
THUD!
Dante fell right out of his chair, hitting the floor with a loud crash. He scrambled up, pointing a finger at the blacksmith in disbelief.
"You old geezer! You're letting a minor wear such revealing, sultry clothes—dancing half-naked in front of men like some kind of—like a real belly dancer! Are you insane?!"
Ronald only burst into laughter, loud and carefree. "Hahahaha! Kid, I can tell you're new in Vidalier. So let me give you a little lesson about our laws. Once a maiden turns sixteen, she's considered an adult! She can work, own property, even get married—with her parents' permission, of course! Hahahaha!"
Dante groaned and dragged a hand down his face.
Either this kingdom is insane… or their king—or the king's grand, or great-grandfather—is a straight-up pedophile.
He sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair, resigned to the madness of the world he'd been reborn into.
---
By the time the moon hung high over Vidalier, the streets had quieted. Dante was getting ready to leave when Ronald's voice called out behind him.
"Hey, Maladeva!"
Dante turned to see Ronald and Erona standing together near the diner's doorway.
"I want to invite you to breakfast tomorrow at my place," Ronald said, smiling broadly. "Consider it a warm welcome—your first day as part of Vidalier's adventuring crowd!"
Dante smiled faintly. "Sure, I won't miss it. Been wanting to try some home-cooked Vidalier meals anyway."
"Hahaha! Then it's settled!" Ronald laughed, clapping Dante on the shoulder. Then he turned to his daughter. "Erona, why don't you chat with the young lad while I pay the tab?"
"Sure, Father," Erona said politely with a small bow.
Ronald headed back inside, leaving the two of them standing outside under the warm glow of the tavern lights.
---
Dante crossed his arms, glancing at her. "So, you're a dancer… and sixteen."
"Yes," she replied simply.
"And you don't find that… shameful?"
Erona met his gaze, calm and unapologetic. "No. And let me stop you right there—I'm not interested in a relationship."
Dante raised a brow. "Excuse me?"
She sighed lightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm not my father's blood. He took my mother in when she was pregnant with me. She was injured and left to die, and he saved her. They fell in love and married. I was born in the twelfth month after that."
Her eyes softened for just a moment. "She died when I was four."
Dante's expression eased. "I'm… so sorry to hear that."
"Don't be," Erona replied quickly, with a faint smirk tugging at her lips. She crossed her arms and gave him a look halfway between pride and defiance—a classic tsundere stare. "I'm all my father has left. I'd rather stay single than be wedded off to some random man who doesn't deserve me. I dont want him to be lonely."
Dante chuckled quietly. "You sound just like your old man—stubborn and proud."
Erona tilted her head slightly, hiding the faint blush that crept onto her cheeks. "Tch… maybe I am."
For a brief second, the two stood there in silence, the night breeze carrying the faint sound of music from the diner behind them.
Then Dante smirked faintly. "Alright then. Breakfast tomorrow, yeah?"
Erona nodded, turning away with her arms crossed. "Don't be late, Maladeva."
Erona held Dante's gaze for a long moment, their crimson eyes meeting under the pale glow of the street lamps.
"You have beautiful red eyes," she said softly. "Same as mine… but yours—yours are red as blood, red as war, red as wrath, red as malice, red as… justice."
Dante's lips curled slightly. He looked into her eyes, his voice calm and steady.
"Same goes for you."
Erona tilted her head slightly, a teasing glimmer in her eyes. "Oh? Then tell me, my eyes—red as what?"
She leaned forward just a little, her tone playful yet curious.
"Red as a wound? Red as a rose? Red as hellfire? Red as molten lava? Red as a succubus? Red as… lust?"
Dante's answer came softly, almost like a whisper carried by the night breeze.
"Red as love."
Erona froze for a heartbeat, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. Her heart skipped—just once—but enough for her to notice. She stared at him, unsure whether to scoff or smile.
No man in Vidalier had ever looked at her that way. They all saw her as a dancer, a body, a fantasy to be bought and admired.
But this young man—this Dante—looked at her as if she were something more.
Not an object. Not a prize.
But a person.
And that, somehow, made her chest tighten.
---
Chapter 38 — End.