For a solid stretch of seconds, Khiron fought with everything he had. Every ounce of strength, every desperate trick, every unconventional move he could conjure on the spot—just to keep himself alive against the towering presence of the high-ranking devil before him. Dante was relentless. His sword-spear danced like a predator in motion, defying gravity with the kind of acrobatics that should've been impossible for someone wielding such a massive weapon.
Khiron had no choice but to retreat, diving into rolls and evasive maneuvers, narrowly dodging blade arcs that carved the air with sonic booms.
Then came the throw.
Dante launched the sword-spear with a casual fluidity, and it spun like a whirlwind of death—razor-sharp and roaring through the air. Khiron ducked low with barely a hair's width to spare. He rose quickly, ready to take advantage of the moment Dante was disarmed—
Only to see the blade snap back through the air like a summoned beast, reattaching itself to Dante's hand with a satisfying clang.
"Wha—"
The follow-up slash came in with punishing momentum.
Khiron ducked again, this time more out of sheer survival than strategy. The blade passed inches above his head and slammed into the ground, leaving a crater in its wake. Khiron stumbled, now visibly winded, and tried to regroup.
But Dante was on him.
In one seamless motion, the high-ranking devil closed the distance and brought his massive weapon down against Khiron's smaller blade. The steel shrieked and cracked under the force. Khiron gritted his teeth and looked up—
—and met Dante's eyes.
They were like frozen oceans: unreadable, unwavering, inhumanly focused.
"Thirty seconds," Dante said flatly.
Khiron's eyes widened in disbelief. Only thirty seconds!? The way his lungs burned, the rapid pounding of his heart—it felt like he'd been locked in mortal combat for several minutes. The sheer intensity of Dante's offense was like weathering a storm made of blades.
"Time's up," Dante muttered.
And then the blade began to glow.
Red lightning crackled down the length of the sword-spear. In the blink of an eye, it discharged with a concussive BOOM, the explosion of force so immense that Khiron was blasted across the arena like a broken doll.
SLAM!
His limp body crashed into the far wall of the coliseum. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Silence.
The crowd held its breath, the air heavy with the shock of what they had just witnessed.
Then, the announcement came.
"Lancer Khiron is out. Time of match: thirty-seven seconds. Lord Dante is the victor."
The cheers returned in full force. A roar of approval. Adoration. Pride.
But Dante stood still, unbothered, unmoved.
He should've felt satisfaction. The crowd adored him. He had earned their awe. But instead, what he felt was... hollow.
Khiron never stood a chance. Despite his tenacity, his technique, and his years of experience, he had been outmatched from the beginning. Dante had trained under Sirzechs Gremory—his brother—who once took him on for a full week without holding back. Dante had only managed to land one truly damaging hit in all that time.
A hit that would've killed anyone else.
Sirzechs had laughed during that battle. Not out of arrogance—but from the sheer joy of facing a worthy opponent. He was a passionate swordsman to his core. And while Dante lacked his brother's flair, he shared that hunger—to test his limits. But he hadn't been tested today.
He remembered how that hit had broken through Sirzechs' demonic defenses—barriers of raw energy so dense they made most attacks useless. Dante had cut through them, barely, and the result was a strike that left Sirzechs needing a Phoenix Tear to recover. It had been a Pyrrhic victory, if it could even be called that. A single point scored against a god.
What he'd done to Khiron? That wasn't a victory. That was an inevitability.
And what gnawed at him now was the crowd.
Their cheers felt... misdirected. Hollow. A celebration of status, not substance.
Latent power. Plot armor. Destiny.
Call it what you want. Dante had it, and men like Khiron didn't.
And that made him sick.
This wasn't a game. This wasn't a playground for cheers and flair. This was a recruitment tournament for war. Every lowborn recruit who walked through these gates was hoping to prove their worth—to find a place in the order that would protect the underworld.
Crushing them didn't make you stronger. It made them weaker.
So Dante didn't bask in the applause. He didn't flex. He didn't smirk.
He nodded once—solemnly—toward Khiron's unconscious form as the white healing light descended over the fallen devil, lifting him gently into the air and carrying him toward the medical ward.
The crowd watched. Their cheers faded.
Some of them, maybe for the first time, saw the respect in Dante's silence.
He turned and walked back to the center of the arena, standing alone within the ring of runes that had marked the start of battle.
He raised his voice—not loud, not boastful—just clear.
"Next," he said calmly, his voice echoing through the still air.
The first round of Dante's qualifying match was more than enough to ease Sirzechs' nerves—and, more importantly, to silence the two high-ranking devils flanking him in the private royal booth.
Serafall Leviathan leaned forward, her normally whimsical demeanor replaced by the piercing gaze of a seasoned tactician. Her blue eyes moved like twin scalpel blades across Dante's form, dissecting every movement, every angle, every breath.
Praxis, ever the skeptic, had initially looked on with his usual air of disdain. But now... he sat straighter. A thoughtful crease formed between his brows.
"The boy's competent enough," Praxis admitted with a reluctant shrug. "He read that mid-tier lancer like a tome. Calculated and clean. As expected."
Serafall's voice, in contrast, was low and brimming with curiosity. "His speed is... unnatural. Fast enough to outpace most devils I've seen—and he's doing it without flight. No wings. No boost. Just pure momentum."
She narrowed her eyes.
"And that technique... A flying blade that returns on command? That's not standard Gremory training. That's closer to something Ajuka might develop. A weapon bonded to its wielder, tuned to his demonic frequency..."
Her words trailed off into mutters, as if she were already cataloging formulas and magical frameworks in her head.
Sirzechs, meanwhile, offered no commentary.
He hummed softly, arms crossed as his crimson gaze remained fixed on Dante's figure below. His silence wasn't disinterest—it was pride, measured and tightly reined. Dante had impressed Praxis enough to elicit praise, and that alone spoke volumes. As for Serafall's barrage of questions, she would be theorizing for days.
But it wasn't just Dante's technique that had drawn Sirzechs' approval. It was the restraint. The respect.
In a world where high-ranking devils often viewed the lower houses with indifference—or worse, disdain—Dante's solemn nod to Khiron after their battle had been a rare show of grace. Most devils in his position would've bathed in applause. But Dante had offered reverence to his fallen opponent, and that meant more to Sirzechs than any flashy finish.
Another issue to chew on later, Sirzechs mused with a faint smile.
Tactically, Dante's handling of the lancer had been textbook. He had stayed within the mid-tier devil's guard, denying the reach advantage of a spear. He had kept the pressure tight, relentless, probing for openings until the inevitable mistake surfaced.
That mistake—a wild, panic-born thrust from Khiron—had been precisely what Dante had waited for. And he had punished it with brutal efficiency.
The final move had drawn gasps, even from the most seasoned of warriors.
Serafall was still murmuring. "That technique… He called it something, didn't he? Static Burst? Or—Prana Burst?"
Sirzechs nodded slightly, arms still folded. "He calls it Infernum Fulgur. The technique involves compressing his demonic energy—lightning-element in his case—into the blade and triggering an explosive discharge on impact. A controlled detonation, guided through the weapon."
Serafall blinked. "But the output... it was minimal until contact. So he's not wasting energy, only releasing the charge into a conductive medium... the spear."
Sirzechs gave her a sideways glance. "Exactly."
That violent reaction had been no accident. Khiron's spear—crafted from a metal alloy designed to amplify demonic resonance—had conducted the surge of lightning perfectly. The resulting explosion was not just physical. It was spiritual, demonic, and utterly devastating.
"It would seem your younger brother holds many mysteries, General Gremory," came a dry voice from behind.
Zekram Bael.
The ancient devil leaned back in his seat, eyes locked not on Dante, but on the sheathed blade strapped to his back.
Sirzechs inclined his head. "I've learned the hard way that Dante is not one to remain content with what he has."
Zekram tilted his head slightly. "Oh? And what, pray tell, would that be?"
There was a glimmer of challenge in his tone—like a scholar testing a younger peer. Zekram already knew the answer, of course. He may have been ancient, but he had studied the legends. He had not lived during the era of the Infernum Armis, but he knew of their sealing. He knew what that blade meant.
The release of Infernum Fulgur had not gone unnoticed.
Sirzechs responded with a slow, respectful bow of the head. "I'm sure you already know, ancestor."
Zekram chuckled, a deep sound like stone grinding on stone, and returned to silence.
A chime sounded in the arena...
The second opponent had entered the field.