Sirzechs exhaled deeply as he sank into the throne reserved for the General of the Red Legion. It was ornate—far too lavish for his taste—but the role demanded symbols of stature, and the gilded, crimson-lined seat was one of many. He cast his gaze over the grand observation deck, letting his thoughts drift in the silence broken only by distant echoes of battle. Below, the Coliseum thundered with cheers as a mid-class devil basked in a hard-earned victory, the firelight from purple torches dancing across the polished white marble and crystalline purple metal that dominated the architecture.
Another sigh. A third, even deeper than the last. It had become a reflex, a pressure valve for the anxiety he refused to wear on his face. Not for himself, but for Dante.
The entire ride to the Coliseum, Dante had been uncharacteristically silent. His eyes—usually sharp with thought or laced with sarcasm—had been frozen to the floor, expression carved from marble. Sirzechs knew the boy was nervous. Terrified, even. And who could blame him?
He hadn't told Dante he had to win. No, he'd never voiced it. But the unspoken pressure loomed all the same. Fame, reputation, bloodline. As Sirzechs watched from his elevated seat, he couldn't shake the guilt. Dante shouldn't have to carry this weight. He should be a nobody—free, unburdened, alive. But fate had other plans.
Dante had been born with fire. And if left alone, that fire could've consumed him or everyone around him. That sword of his—Infernum Fulgur—was proof enough.
But the worst part? The boy was good at hiding his rage. Too good.
Sirzechs had thought, at first, that Dante had escaped his past unscathed. The easy smiles, the witty remarks, the careless charm—it was all a front. He wore them like armor, emotional sleight of hand. When no one was watching, the smiles vanished. When he trained alone, he showed no emotion—only sharp, calculated focus. Sirzechs had seen it. The boy was ice wrapped in flame.
Ajuka had confirmed what he feared. Not just a scan—he'd installed a full mental monitor, keeping tabs on Dante's stability. Everything seemed fine on paper, but the more Sirzechs watched, the more he realized: Dante Vale Gremory was a storm in waiting.
He sighed again.
"You're sighing an awful lot, Sirzechs." came a voice like a blade dipped in sugar.
"HA!"
He flinched so violently that his armored boots scraped across the marble. He turned, and paled.
"Serafall?! What are you—how long have you—?!"
The woman before him was diminutive only in height. With her black pigtails bouncing, her stormy blue eyes drilled into him, the weight of her fury thinly veiled beneath a half-lidded stare. She wore a deep green military coat similar to Dante's, lined with black detailing that flared down past her calves. Her knee-high boots clicked rhythmically against the floor, matching the impatient tapping of her foot.
"You have a lot of explaining to do," she growled, the faintest glint of fangs peeking through her clenched teeth.
Sirzechs resisted the urge to sigh again. Satan help him, not now. Not her.
"Well... you'll need to stay and see. I can't really explain it," he said, his usual diplomatic charm falling flat.
Serafall didn't look impressed. "We are currently facing another incursion from the Eastern perimeter. And you are here... enjoying a tournament?"
Her tone twisted from fury to something that could only be described as seething disbelief.
"The devil we found in Halphes territory," he began cautiously, "he's here. In the gauntlet."
"And?"
"I know it sounds minor, but he's shown power that even Ajuka can't identify. He survived in the clutches of the old-Satans for months—untouched. Trained relentlessly. Demonstrated precision. Control."
Serafall arched a brow, unconvinced.
"And?"
Sirzechs met her gaze. "He released Infernum Fulgur."
The silence was immediate.
Serafall froze, her eyes wide, her expression blanking as her brain processed the magnitude of what he'd said. For the first time since she appeared, the confident fire in her eyes faltered.
"You—what?"
"He unsheathed it. Controlled it. The sword accepted him."
"You kept this from me?" Her voice trembled, not with rage now—but awe.
"I needed time to be sure," Sirzechs said, softly. "But Dante... he's more than we thought. And if he survives this gauntlet—"
"He'll be a living legend," Serafall finished for him.
Sirzechs nodded, eyes drifting once more to the arena below.
"And the world will never be the same."
Sirzechs exhaled slowly as he sank deeper into the throne—lavish and overly regal for his taste, but a necessary symbol of authority as General of the Red Legion. The seat overlooked the wide coliseum below, its marble-and-crystal interior lit with the violet glow of enchanted torches. The crowds were already in a frenzy, their cheers echoing through the arena like waves crashing against a stone cliff. From his vantage, he watched a mid-class devil bask in the cheers of his first victory.
He sighed again. Not for the tournament, nor for the politics of it—but for Dante.
The boy had been nearly silent the entire ride to the Crucible. His eyes had never left the floor, his mind locked tight behind the marble-set gaze of a warrior awaiting judgment. Sirzechs had seen that look before—not in soldiers, but in survivors. In those who'd endured too much, too young.
Dante was under unimaginable pressure. The expectations stacked on his shoulders weren't just familial, they were mythic. Not only was he the newly-revealed heir of House Gremory, but he was also the first devil in recorded history to wield Infernum Fulgur, the hell-arm of lightning.
And no one knew what that meant yet—not truly. Not the other nobles. Not even Sirzechs himself.
He let out a third sigh, caught between pride and dread.
"You seem unusually tense, Sirzechs. Nervous, even. Now that's not like you."
The teasing whisper nearly made him leap from his throne.
"HAH—Serafall!?" he turned, flustered. "What are you doing here?"
Standing behind him was Serafall Leviathan, clad in a military-tailored green coat that hung just above her black, knee-high boots. Her signature twin pigtails framed her deceptively youthful face, but the steely edge in her eyes betrayed the hardened warrior within.
Her foot tapped against the marble with the rhythm of restrained fury.
"You have a lot of explaining to do," she snapped, fangs slightly bared. "We're on the brink of another eastern invasion, and you're hiding away at a recruitment gauntlet?"
Sirzechs fought the urge to sigh again. "You'll want to stay. It's not something I can just... explain."
Serafall narrowed her eyes.
"The devil from Halphes Territory. The one you just mentioned. This is about him, isn't it?"
"Yes," Sirzechs nodded quickly, seizing the opening. "And he's not just 'a devil.' He survived months in the old-Satan faction's hands. No torture, no corruption. And his power—Serafall, he awakened Infernum Fulgur."
That stopped her cold. Her mouth hung open a moment, then snapped shut as her gaze sharpened.
"You... you withheld this from me? Why?" Her voice was low now, quiet with restrained disbelief.
"Because long-distance communication leaves behind traces—demonic frequencies," Sirzechs explained. "Too risky. You know what the old-Satan loyalists are like when a prophetic anomaly surfaces. I couldn't let them catch wind of Dante."
Serafall frowned, but she couldn't refute the logic. Their enemies had become frighteningly adept at intercepting transmissions. The Council had resorted to courier demons and surgical sigil-bonded messages just to stay ahead. The risk of exposure had become intolerably high.
Before she could respond, a dry chuckle echoed from the chamber's entrance.
Two men entered.
Praxis Bael, armored like a Roman centurion with a commanding build and a permanent scowl, walked beside Zekram Bael, the current patriarch of House Bael and Chairman of the 72 Pillars Council. Zekram wore refined noble garb, his black hair slicked back with age-born confidence, violet eyes as piercing as ever.
Sirzechs resisted the sigh clawing at his throat.
"Uncle," he greeted with a forced smile. "Always a pleasure."
Praxis grunted. "Must you address me so casually, General?"
"I find it helps keep things from getting too stiff," Sirzechs replied lightly.
Zekram chuckled and slapped Praxis on the back, forcing the younger Bael to grunt under the weight. "Let the boy breathe. Too much formality makes cowards of kings."
"Fine," Praxis relented, then shifted his gaze. "But you're not off the hook, Nephew. Where the hell have you been? The Red Legion's been scrambling in your absence. We had to hold command together with duct tape and curses."
Sirzechs leaned back in his throne. "My leave was necessary. The Legion was in capable hands."
Serafall didn't miss a beat. "Recruitment runs don't take a week. What were you really doing, Sirzechs?"
She turned to the Baels. "He's been here because of a devil he found. A devil who survived the old-Satan faction—and one who's just released an Infernum Armis."
Both Baels froze.
Zekram raised a brow. "Is that so?"
Praxis's arms folded, interest finally overtaking his irritation.
Sirzechs nodded solemnly. "Guilty as charged. And his name... is Dante."
The room fell quiet, tension thick as the cheers outside echoed like distant thunder.
The game had changed—and every one of them knew it.