Dante suddenly sneezed...loudly..
Dozens of devils in the room turned toward him, their expressions twisting with disgust at his complete lack of hygienic containment. Still, none said anything, too wrapped up in their own nerves to bother with him.
"Damn dust," Dante muttered under his breath, trying to cover his slip in that moment.
He found himself standing in a massive, dome-roofed chamber packed with devils of all stripes. Low and medium ranks filled every crevice, their anxious murmurs creating a buzz like a swarm of locusts. There wasn't a single high-ranking devil in the crowd aside from himself—and a few others tucked away in the classic "cool kids corner." One leaned against the wall with eyes closed, one foot resting lazily behind him. It was so aggressively edgy Dante had to look away, lest the cringe alone lacerate him.
He could sense it. The nervous tension.
Knees trembling. Eyes darting. Forced chuckles.
Did none of these devils know how to keep their composure?
The only other high-rank who looked remotely composed was a hulking figure nearly ten feet tall, armored from head to toe in plating that practically radiated menace. It reminded Dante of the Praetorian armor worn by Saladin, but bulkier, more ancient—and much more terrifying due to sheer scale. That devil wasn't just armored. He was fortified.
With a sigh, Dante leaned against the marble wall behind him, casually watching the magical crest floating above his left wrist. The holographic sigil pulsed softly in a cool blue. It would turn red when it was his turn in the gauntlet.
He tilted his head, feeling the satisfying crack of his neck joints, and let his eyes close.
This year's gauntlet was different.
A thousand hopefuls meant they needed a filtration system. The low-class devils had already been thrown into chaos with qualifying matches, whittling them down to only the most capable. Those who passed were sent into combat against mid-class devils, and the few who triumphed would rise to face people like him.
The high-class devils were the ceiling—the boss battles.
Dante grinned.
He was the stage master. The final wall. The insurmountable peak you had to overcome to make something of yourself in the military.
And he relished it.
The crest above his wrist dinged softly, shifting slightly as a third name was added to the list of challengers assigned to him. Around him, several low-ranked devils visibly stiffened. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Some of them suddenly realized they'd been sitting near a high-class devil this entire time.
They shuffled away with stiff, awkward motions.
Dante didn't move, didn't speak—he merely hummed softly to himself.
That calm dismissal? It only made him more terrifying.
The quiet confidence. The relaxed posture. The soft grin on his lips. All of it unsettled them more than any roar of intimidation ever could.
A familiar voice teased through the tension like silk.
"Scaring the poor low-borns, Lord Dante?"
Dante groaned internally. He knew that voice.
"Please no..." he muttered.
He glanced up with a fake, tired smile just as the speaker—Lady Rosalina—sauntered over. Her elegance made the clunky movements of everyone else in the room seem even more pitiful.
"Just enjoying the lovely atmosphere," he replied dryly, leaning further back against the marble wall.
She giggled softly and took a seat beside him.
"I doubt you'll find enjoyment in such a dull room as this," she said.
He shrugged. He didn't have a witty response for that.
After a moment of silence, Dante turned slightly toward her. "Is there something fascinating about me that's got you orbiting like a moon?"
To his surprise, Rosalina blinked and—was that a faint blush? A dusting of pink touched her cheeks, but it was gone in a blink.
"I see no reason to follow you for anything carnal, Lord Dante—as much as that may disappoint you," she said, her voice lilting with amusement. "I simply surround myself with power. And yours... yours shines like a beacon. More vivid than anyone else here."
Her gaze sharpened, studying him. "Which makes me curious... How does a man born among low-bloods climb so high?"
Dante had to admit—she was perceptive. Maybe even gifted. She could feel his energy, like a predator sniffing out strength. And the way she leaned in closer, closer than a noble devil should to someone like him?
It told him more than words ever could.
Tolerance? Interest?
Or perhaps something more carnal she refused to admit?
He smirked.
"My, aren't you the nosy one," he teased.
There it was again. That faint tinge of pink.
He tilted his head slightly, tempted to poke the bear.
"...Pervert."
He looked away, and her silence was all the confirmation he needed.
A smile formed on Dante's face.
This tournament was going to be fun.
The woman's head snapped toward him, eyes wide and cheeks fully flushed at his jab. "W-what? I-I'm not some scandalous woman! U-unlike perverts, I simply have curiosity for the few who catch my interest—not unbridled lust."
"Isn't that the definition of a pervert?" Dante added smoothly, lips tugging into a half-smirk. One more push, and his theory would be confirmed.
Her eyes widened further at the point, then she abruptly turned away, puffing her cheeks out in a little huff. Eyes narrowed. Lips pouting.
He almost laughed.
She wasn't exactly a tsundere, but she was definitely the flustered type—easily embarrassed, especially when called out. Her earlier smugness didn't quite fit her as well as she probably thought. But this pout? This pout was... honestly kind of cute.
"In any case," Dante said after a minute, watching her recover, "I'm flattered you'd come to me for comfort."
She chuckled, finally regaining her composure, and brushed his flirtation off like it was nothing more than a leaf blown onto her shoulder.
"Don't flatter yourself too much, Lord Dante. I only came to see if you've passed your qualifying matches."
The smugness had returned full force. He almost admired the speed of it.
"Have you?" he asked.
She nodded.
A soft sigh escaped her lips. "It's a shame, really... being born with power, only to be surrounded by mediocrity. Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to rise the hard way. To earn it."
Dante blinked. That... wasn't what he expected to hear from her.
He shifted slightly before responding. "I'm sure many here would kill to have what you were born with. Don't belittle your own strength. You called it a gift—and that it is. The best thing you can do with a gift is use it to go further than anyone else ever could. That's how you honor it."
She smirked down at him. How she managed to get the high ground—literally—he didn't know.
"Speaking from personal belief, Lord Dante? Or something you were raised to repeat?"
"Bit of both," he said with a shrug. "I've always believed those who have the power to act, have the responsibility to do so. Anyone who hoards power and does nothing with it? That's not strength. That's cowardice."
She seemed genuinely surprised by that, her eyes softening for a fraction of a second, though she said nothing.
Just then, Dante felt a soft vibration against his wrist. He raised his left hand and saw the magical crest flashing red.
He stared at it for a moment, then let out a small, amused hum. "Huh. Only three opponents?"
He stood, strapping his oversized sword onto his back, the custom sheath clicking into place.
"Looks like my party's starting," he said with a smirk.
He turned to go, but paused mid-step, snapped his fingers, and glanced back over his shoulder.
"Thanks for the company. For what it's worth, the silence was killing me. Needed a good icebreaker."
He flashed her a smile—a real one, not the forced kind he saved for the lower-class gawkers.
"I'll see you in the finals, Rosalina."
And with that, he turned and walked away without another glance.
The large doors ahead bore his name in glowing letters, and they swung open at his approach.
Behind him, her voice called after him, calm and clear.
"Good luck to you, Lord Dante. Don't keep me waiting."
He raised a hand in lazy acknowledgment, not bothering to look back.
The hungry gazes of lower-class devils followed his every step, thick with awe and... something far less comfortable. He kept his eyes forward. The last thing he needed was to get glomped by a fanboy or fangirl in the middle of the damn gauntlet chamber.
He had enough nightmares already, and now was the time to focus.