Rhonda, the savage queen of the bloody clearing, stared at Dante. The terror that had briefly gripped her forces was fading, replaced by the hard glare of a survivor sizing up an unexpected threat. She was a predator, and she recognized another.
"Dante," she said, her voice a low, rumbling growl. "So you finally showed up. I've been hearing whispers about you. The quiet boy who took ten. The strategist who vanished. I wanted to meet you."
Her eyes flickered to the bodies of her fallen pack members, then back to him, a cold, judging light in them. "I was planning to kill your team, break you, and then recruit you. A mind like yours is wasted on weaklings."
She took a step forward, unafraid of the five spectral horrors that flanked him. Her confidence was absolute. "You're my type, Dante," she continued, a predatory grin spreading across her face. "You have ambition. That's the only thing that matters in this world. So I'm giving you an offer: join me, be my strategist, and you live. Stand against me, and you die here, with the rest of this trash."
Dante let the silence hang for a moment. Then, he laughed—a cold, sharp, dismissive sound that cut through the tension like a razor. He stopped abruptly, his smile vanishing.
"You think you decide when I live or die?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet. "You are a fool, Rhonda. Not even the Goddess who brought us here has that right." He smiled again, a cruel, final thing. "And as for your offer… I can't accept. Because I have already decided. You and what's left of your pathetic pack will all die here tonight."
Before she could even roar in defiance, he gave the command.
"Eradicate them."
The battle exploded. It was not a chaotic brawl; it was a symphony of coordinated death. The clearing became a perfectly engineered slaughterhouse. The Anchor's power slammed down, turning the savages' charge into a slow-motion crawl. The Corruptor's toxic mist enveloped them, turning their roars into wet, hacking coughs. The Deceiver filled their vision with a storm of ghostly Juggernauts, shattering their formation and their minds.
While the chaos raged, Dante walked toward the lone survivor of the other team. Kael, the Mimic, was still on the ground, staring in wide-eyed shock. The Guardian moved with Dante, its shimmering Phantom Ward deflecting a stray club that bounced off the dark energy shield with a dull thud.
Dante crouched in front of Kael. "You saw a lot of skills today," he stated. "Leo's Warpstep. Rhonda's Berserker Rage. The lightning mage's spell. You can use them, can't you?"
Kael could only nod, his throat too dry to speak.
"Good," Dante said. "Then you are useful. Your leader is dead. Your team is gone. From this moment on, you belong to me. You will be my weapon. Do you understand?"
It was not a question. It was a declaration of ownership.
Kael looked from Dante's cold eyes to the unfolding slaughter. He saw the Juggernaut finally enter the fray, its greatsword of shadow cleaving a poisoned, struggling savage in two with a single, brutal Spectral Strike. Kael nodded again, a flicker of terror in his eyes. He was trading one master for another, far more dangerous one.
Six of Rhonda's nine remaining savages fell without landing a single significant blow. But Rhonda was not a simple brute. Watching her pack being slaughtered, her rage coalesced into a sharp, tactical focus.
"Forget the small ones!" she roared, pointing at the puppets. "They're just magic! Break them! All of you, on me!"
The two remaining savages rallied to her, their fear burned away by a final, desperate fury. They ignored the illusions, charged through the poison miasma, and focused all their attention on a single target: The Anchor. Rhonda activated her Berserker skill, and with a burst of pure, rage-fueled strength, she fought through the gravity field. They fell upon the Anchor like wolves, and the shadow was ripped apart.
"Next!" Rhonda screamed, pointing at the Deceiver. It too was torn to shreds in seconds.
Two puppets down. The strain on Dante's mana intensified.
"Guardian! Juggernaut! Intercept!" he commanded.
His two most powerful puppets moved to engage. The Guardian formed its Phantom Ward, blocking Rhonda's charge. The Juggernaut swung its shadow greatsword, aiming to decapitate her. But Rhonda was cunning. She ducked under the swing, and her two brutes slammed into the Guardian's shield. The third blow, combined with a furious kick from Rhonda, shattered it completely. The Guardian was torn apart.
Three down. A sharp pain lanced through Dante's head. The Corruptor tried to retreat, but one of the brutes hurled his club, and the shadow wavered, then dissolved.
Four down.
Now, only one remained. The Juggernaut, the spectral king, stood alone against the Savage Queen and her two remaining champions. What followed was a battle of titans. The Juggernaut fought with a cold, relentless fury, but it was three against one. It managed to land a devastating strike, smashing one of the brutes to the ground, but the victory was costly. While it was focused on that kill, Rhonda saw her opening. With a final, triumphant roar, she swung her axe at its head.
The Juggernaut's head was severed from its shoulders. The mighty shadow collapsed into a cloud of dispersing darkness.
Five down.
The psychic backlash was immense. The sudden severing of the connection to all five of his powerful puppets felt like five chains snapping in his soul. A wave of nausea washed over him. He stumbled back, a trickle of blood dripping from his nose. His mana reserves were critically low.
Across the clearing, Rhonda stood panting, leaning on her axe. One of her brutes was dead, the other heavily wounded. But they were alive. They had won.
She looked up, her eyes locking onto him. The predatory grin returned, wider and more terrifying than before. She had seen his stumble. She had seen the blood. She knew he was vulnerable.
"No more puppets," she rasped, her voice filled with savage glee. "No more tricks."
She and her last remaining warrior began to walk toward him and the petrified Mimic, their heavy footsteps the slow, deliberate drumbeat of his own impending execution.