Dante had known for a while now that devil civilization mirrored humanity in strange and specific ways. But when they arrived at the location of the gauntlet, that suspicion was thoroughly confirmed—and then some.
The architecture here took after classical Roman design. Colonnades, grand arches, open plazas, all wrapped in a layout that screamed empire. It clashed heavily with what he had grown used to in the Gremory territory. There, everything felt ultramodern—sleek glass-paneled mansions with asymmetrical rooftops, multi-tier bars perched atop lounging decks, and high-tech touches that felt more 21st-century Earth than ancient Hell.
Dante had assumed, perhaps naively, that the devils had simply developed faster. That maybe they'd leapt ahead of humanity in architectural trends and fashion, and Hell had outpaced the world above in design.
He'd been wrong.
A few days prior, he'd brought the topic up to Sirzechs, wondering how the devil realm had managed to mimic modern human construction so precisely. To his surprise, the question had thrown the red-haired devil into a state of bafflement.
It turned out the Gremory estate was an anomaly.
The entire estate was a prototype build—an architectural experiment gifted to the Gremorys by the Sitri clan, one of their closest allies. Most devil territories, as Dante was now witnessing firsthand, still clung to their traditional stylings.
And as they crossed into Bael territory, the truth stood before him, undeniable.
The structures took on a distinctly Roman flavor—stone brick roads, high arches, cobblestone villas with lush gardens, and massive statues of ancestral warlords watching silently from pedestals. It was luxurious, yes, but ancient. Earth-like, but nostalgic.
Then his eyes lifted—and all thought vanished.
At the heart of the Bael territory stood the Coliseum.
Only here, it had been rebranded: The Crucible.
It towered above the landscape, dwarfing everything around it. The massive pillars flanking the entrance rose over fifty feet high—possibly more—crafted to allow even titanic beings entrance. The structure pulsed with magic. Banners whipped in the wind, nobles gathered at the gates, and crowds formed to witness what would unfold within.
The Crucible wasn't just a battleground. It was a stage. A proving ground.
And Dante was walking straight into it.
A knot twisted in his gut.
He'd hoped to arrive with some anonymity. A shadow among competitors. But that dream had died before it even formed. Word had spread—Sirzechs had made sure of it. The revelation that his secret brother would be competing in the gauntlet had exploded across the noble circles like wildfire.
In response, many high-ranking devil families had sent their own heirs and champions to compete against him. To test him. To beat him.
Dante loathed it. The culture, the craving for dominance, the obsession with recognition—it all felt hollow. He wasn't here to prove he was better. He was here to make sure he could survive. But in devil society, the two were often the same.
Thankfully, their carriage didn't pull toward the front gates, where spectators and nobles buzzed in anticipation. Instead, it turned toward the rear of the Coliseum, where another kind of crowd had formed.
"Are those... cameras?" Dante asked aloud, blinking hard.
Indeed, large shoulder-mounted devices not unlike Earth's old broadcast cameras were stationed outside the back entrance. A woman holding a microphone stood beneath a red banner, prepping lines and glancing at cue cards.
Sirzechs offered a smirk. "Seems the paparazzi have found their way in. Along with the news."
Saladin grunted beside him. "Cretins."
Dante blinked, dumbfounded. Microphones? Cameras? Broadcast crews? He'd never seen any of this in the Gremory estate. Did this mean Zeoticus and Venelana were somehow living like technological hermits while the rest of Hell spun toward modern convenience?
He didn't get much time to ponder.
Their carriage halted short of the rear gate. In front of them, other transports had begun dropping off the nobles who'd entered the gauntlet. Dante leaned forward to glimpse his competitors—too late. The last noble stepped through the gate before he could catch a face.
He felt the sting of nerves. Heavy and coiled.
He'd learned the numbers beforehand. Hundreds typically participated. Most ended up as initiates—rank-and-file soldiers within the chosen division, tasked with holding the line and following orders.
Only a few rose higher.
This time, five elite positions were available.
One Sentinel slot—essentially a captain.
Four Knight Sentinels—lieutenants.
The rest were merely initiates.
Dante wanted no part of the Sentinel role. Not yet. He lacked the experience, the battlefield instincts, the scars of command. The very idea of stepping into a leadership role without having bled for it felt wrong. Arrogant. Dangerous.
He wasn't afraid of leading. He was afraid of leading poorly.
What if chaos struck and his squad crumbled? What if his second-in-command fell? What if he was left alone, cut off, responsible for lives he wasn't ready to carry?
Those questions haunted him. Worse, when he had asked them of Sirzechs, the older devil had struggled to answer. The truth became clear—devils weren't trained to think that way. Leadership was more bloodline than merit. Trophies over tactics.
And that terrified him.
The war ahead wasn't going to care about your name. Only how long you could stand.
Lost in his thoughts, Dante barely noticed time slip by. The final carriage had emptied. Only he remained.
"Time to go, Dante," Sirzechs said, hand brushing his shoulder.
Dante didn't respond. He just nodded, jaw set.
He was nervous.
But he was ready to step into The Crucible.