The verbal scolding Dante received from Sirzechs and Venelana would haunt him for years.
It wasn't the kind of lecture one could just shrug off. No, this was the sort of soul-rattling tirade that left his ears ringing and his pride in pieces. The arc energy he had accidentally unleashed into the skies during his fateful bonding with Infernum Fulgur had torn through the atmosphere like a demonic thunderstorm. Dozens of champion-level devils and demons had been caught in its radius—obliterated before they could even realize what hit them. Even Lucifer himself had opted to watch from afar, choosing caution over interference. That fact alone was enough to make Dante's blood run cold.
But after the storm of words, something changed. In the strangest and most baffling Gremory fashion, both Sirzechs and Venelana performed their trademark personality shift.
The next moment, Sirzechs was chuckling, eyes twinkling with that maddening calm, and Venelana had him smothered in a bosom hug that could suffocate a mountain lion. She practically buried his head in her chest without a shred of shame, even in front of her amused husband. To say Dante was stunned would be an understatement.
Apparently, he was now the first devil in recorded history to wield one of the Infernum Armis—the hellforged weapons of primordial chaos.
The idea was still settling in, and the constant hum of power from the weapon on his back wasn't making it any easier. Infernum Fulgur wasn't silent. It resonated—sometimes faintly, sometimes thunderously—as if aware of its new master and proud of it. Every whisper from its blade reminded Dante of both his colossal blunder and his impossible triumph.
Once he'd managed to pick his eardrums off the metaphorical floor and slow the blood rushing to his cheeks, Dante had begun to learn more about what he had inherited.
There were four known Infernum Armis scattered across the underworld—hellborn weapons of elemental ruin crafted by ancient demons for purposes lost to time....
The Infernum Fulgur of Lightning, The Infernum Ignis of Fire, The Infernum Aqua of Water, and the Infernum Ventus of Wind.
Each weapon embodied an elemental force in its rawest, most violent form, capable of leveling cities and ending wars. That kind of power… Dante wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse. Part of him swore he could feel Thanos smiling somewhere across the void. It was just that kind of scenario.
From that day forward, his training intensified.
With Infernum Fulgur at his side, Dante was entrusted with a second elemental conduit and given extended time in solitude to master his telekinetic gifts. Sirzechs spared no effort in sharpening him, testing him in harsh sparring sessions meant to push both body and spirit to their limits. When not fighting, Dante found himself seated beside Venelana or Zeoticus, soaking in more lessons on devil culture. Fortunately, these sessions were tamer than their past attempts to instill etiquette into him.
War doctrine. Political maneuvering. Symbolism in noble colors.
All of it.
Now, Dante stood at the front entrance of the Gremory estate, posture composed and shoulders squared as the Praetorians approached.
Beside him stood Sirzechs, calm and commanding. To their right, Venelana and Zeoticus flanked them in full combat gear—armored, imposing, regal.
From the line of elite knights, one figure broke forward with purposeful steps. The Praetorian leader stopped before them and removed his helmet. Beneath it was a face carved from war itself—scarred cheeks, chiseled jaw, and lips marked by faint cuts that never quite healed. His hair was buzzed short, revealing every inch of his hardened features. Deep black eyes locked onto Dante like a targeting system.
The man held his helmet under his left arm and gave a deep, formal bow to Sirzechs, right fist over his heart.
"It is good to see you well, General," he said, his voice a low rumble steeped in grit and duty.
Sirzechs offered a warm smile. "Be at ease, Praetor Saladin. We are not on the battlefield."
Saladin's only response was a subtle shift in posture. "Of course, my lord."
His gaze fell on Dante next.
There was weight in those eyes. Judgment. Calculation.
"Praetor Saladin, this is my younger brother," Sirzechs said casually, as if introducing a guest at a tea party rather than a man who had just summoned a weapon of mass destruction.
Dante bowed with noble form, polished and precise. "Dante Vale Gremory. An honor to meet you, Praetor Saladin."
For the first time, the warrior's composure wavered.
"My lord… is this true?" Saladin asked, a flicker of disbelief coloring his tone—not in accusation, but in genuine shock.
Sirzechs nodded. "Unfortunately, my younger brother was sent off to a low-class family for… personal reasons. He was adopted by the House of Vale in his youth. They were a kind and noble family. Raised him well. It's tragic they were taken by the Old Satans some years ago."
He said it with a smile—a mask, smooth and composed.
But Dante didn't miss the lie. Not even for a second.
The truth was too dangerous. Too complicated. And while the story was convenient for the court and their allies, it dug knives into Dante's soul.
Because his birth parents weren't victims of the Old Satans.
They were human.
And they were gone.
His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. The mention of their fate—false though it was—still stirred something raw within him.
He remained silent.
Saladin's eyes swung back to Dante, softening with a hint of pity.
It was the sort of look veterans gave battlefield orphans—an unspoken apology for a life conscripted by tragedy. Dante burned it away with a glare sharp enough to shave steel. The pity vanished, replaced by steady respect.
" A strong brother you have, my lord," Saladin rumbled, turning to Sirzechs. "To survive the Old Satans as long as he did is a feat worthy of any champion."
Sirzechs inclined his head, acknowledging both compliment and understatement. "He is. Tell me, Praetor—are you aware of our destination?"
Saladin blinked. Reports had said front lines, urgent summons, General Sitri, General Glasya‑Labolas. "My orders placed us on the warfront," he answered, confusion edging his gravel‑heavy voice.
Sirzechs's mouth curved, that foxlike smile Dante had learned to fear. "Change of plans. We're bound for the Second Division's recruitment gauntlet." His hand settled on Dante's shoulder, warm and impossibly heavy. "I have a new candidate."
Realization lit Saladin's scarred features. "You mean…?"
"Yes. At his request, no less."
A ripple moved through the line of black‑armored Praetorians. The secret heir—raised among low‑borns—volunteering for the meat‑grinder of the front? And doing it by the book? Respect sparked where suspicion once hovered.
Saladin faced Dante directly. "Is this true, young lord? You wish to fight?"
Dante's answer was stone and embers. "They tried many things, Praetor. The only success they achieved was forging themselves a powerful enemy."
Laughter rumbled out of the veteran like distant thunder. "Ha! A fine answer and a sharper conviction." His plated hand clamped Dante's shoulder, shaking him with boisterous fondness. "Keep that fire, lad, and I may end up saluting you."
"Wanna bet?" Dante shot back, deadpan.
Saladin roared louder, while Sirzechs hid a grin behind a gloved fist. Venelana and Zeoticus exchanged identical proud smiles.
Pleasantries concluded, Saladin straightened. "Best we depart. The sooner the young lord clears his gauntlet, the sooner he stands beside us in the field."
"Lead on, Praetor," Sirzechs said.
At the command, Praetorians flowed back into their monstrous carriages. Saladin took the center coach with Sirzechs and Dante—a spartan interior, all ironwood benches and weapon racks, no velvet in sight.
Before the convoy lurched forward, Dante paused to thank Venelana and Zeoticus. They scolded him gently, reminding him it was not hospitality but family that had mended and armed him. "Finish the war," Venelana whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple, "and come home."
The words lodged in his chest like a hot coal. He swallowed the sting, trading it for the electric flutter that always preceded competition—the butterflies of impending trial.
As wheels ground over gravel and the estate disappeared behind iron‑clad doors, Saladin and Sirzechs spoke in low tones of supply lines and casualty reports, strategies Dante would soon be expected to know. He sat in silence, eyes closed, feeling the living pulse of Infernum Fulgur against his spine.
The gauntlet awaited him, and with it, the first true measure of the enemy he had vowed to become.