Chapter 32
Dante found himself standing just behind the great stone archway that led into the Gladiatorial Arena—a colossal coliseum encased beneath a shimmering dome of arcane magic that sealed the battlefield off from the outside world. The barrier thrummed softly, humming with the unmistakable sound of a thousand containment spells interwoven in harmony. He took a single step forward before a hand rose beside him, palm outstretched.
The adviser devil standing at his side—a horned figure wrapped in ceremonial black-and-gold robes—gave him a sharp glance. "Wait," the gesture clearly implied. No words were exchanged. None were needed.
Then the thunderous voice of the announcer echoed throughout the arena, his tone regal and booming, designed to stir the hearts of even the coldest devils.
"From the esteemed House of Gremory..." a dramatic pause lingered. Dante's brow rose slightly. His lips tugged into a grin, not out of arrogance, but raw, unfiltered amusement in that moment.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he muttered to himself, half-laughing under his breath. The adviser flinched imperceptibly at the profanity but wisely kept his silence.
"—The Bael Clan welcomes, with great honor and anticipation... Lord Dante Vale Gremory!"
The crowd detonated into cheers. Not polite applause. Not even enthusiastic clapping. But a war-cry of admiration and primal excitement. The stands swelled with sound, the very dome vibrating from the sheer force of their roar. Thousands had risen to their feet, pumping fists, throwing banners, crying his name.
Dante's grin grew into a full-fledged, wolfish smile.
He had never in his life been publicly announced into an arena. That alone checked off a childhood dream he hadn't even realized still existed. All he needed now was some over-the-top theme music to complete the fantasy—maybe a thunderous glass-shattering sound, followed by deep, aggressive basslines and an explosion of fire. Yeah, he thought, that'd do it.
He shook his head slightly, banishing the meandering thoughts. Focus. The pre-game jitters were hitting him harder than expected. Now was not the time to indulge in nostalgia. The last thing he needed was to lose to some upstart mid-class devil looking to make a name for themselves by taking down a Gremory.
The announcer went on, embellishing Dante's mystique—his mysterious disappearance and return to the underworld, his legendary talent with the blade, and his preferred weapon: the rare and fearsome sword-spear. Then came the final detail that ignited the crowd to another fever pitch:
"—And trained by none other than his elder brother, Sirzechs Gremory!"
That name alone sent tremors through the coliseum. Sirzechs, the Crimson Satan, was a legend in his own right. To be trained by him? That was divine pedigree.
The magical dome shimmered, pulsed... and then parted with a low hiss, granting Dante easy passage.
He stepped forward, the soles of his armored boots clicking against the smooth obsidian stone as he emerged into the sunlight. The crowd welcomed him with a second tidal wave of cheers—and something else.
Petals.
Scarlet flower petals floated through the air like blood-red snowflakes, thrown in wide arcs by adoring fans. Dante blinked in surprise for only a second before he understood: a sign of honor. A tribute. The House of Gremory was known for its red-haired lineage, and this was their silent salute.
He offered no smile now—just a cool, neutral expression as he walked with steady purpose to the very center of the arena: a massive ring marked with ancient runes.
This was his stage. And as the highest-ranked devil in today's event, he was to set the tone.
He raised his hand.
The air in front of him shimmered like a heatwave before a sudden, jagged tear opened in the fabric of reality itself. A dimensional rift, pulsing with abyssal energy. From it, Dante reached in and drew forth his weapon: a monstrous sword-spear, taller than he was, obsidian and crimson with a wicked curved blade and ancient runic etchings down its shaft.
With practiced grace, he twirled the weapon once, twice—each spin a display of lethal elegance—and then, with a crack of strength, he slammed the blade down into the stone beneath him.
KRAKOOOM!
A bolt of red lightning erupted from the heavens and crashed into the spear, spiraling down its dark length before exploding into the ground. The arena floor shattered, fissures spider-webbing from the impact point, and the entire coliseum trembled.
The crowd?
They lost it.
Dante didn't move. He simply stood there, hand still resting on the hilt, as the magic crackled around him and the dust slowly settled.
He allowed himself the barest of smirks.
Yeah... this was going to be fun.
The magical gate shimmered once before splitting open with a slow, majestic hum, allowing Dante's opponent to enter the arena. The omnipresent announcer's voice boomed overhead once more, his words infused with dramatic flair and ceremonial gravitas.
He listed the challenger's lineage—humble, born of the Eastern Forests—and touched on the man's dream: to challenge the remnants of the old Satans and bring peace to a chaotic world. It was noble, idealistic. A sentiment echoed by many lowborn devils, who clung to justice like moths to flame.
It was, in its own way, touching. And admirable.
"The Bael Clan welcomes the challenger... Khiron of the Eastern Forests!"
The crowd responded with loud cheers. Not quite the deafening roar Dante had received, but loud enough to convey approval and support. Still, he could feel the momentum in the air remained squarely in his favor. That was expected. He carried the twin banners of high status and Gremory blood, and those alone were enough to draw fervent admiration from the crowd.
Dante blinked once, sizing up his first opponent.
Khiron was built solidly, especially for a mid-class devil. Thick muscles and combat discipline were evident in the way he carried himself. Heavy armor plated his shoulders, chest, limbs, and thighs—polished and battle-worn—and a long, gleaming spear was clenched tightly in his gauntleted hands.
Dante tilted his head slightly, the edge of his lip curving upward. "A lancer, I presume?"
Khiron—his name pronounced Kie-Ron as the announcer had emphasized—straightened and answered with proud conviction. "Yes! I am your opponent today."
Obviously, Dante thought, smirking inwardly.
He raised his sword-spear and settled into his chosen stance, the same battle posture he had honed through countless bouts with Sirzechs himself. The weight of the weapon was second nature to him now—an extension of his will, his presence, his wrath.
Exhaling deeply, he lowered his left hand and motioned toward Khiron.
"Then come, Lancer Khiron," he said, voice low and inviting. "Let's dance."
"Match start!" the announcer cried, and in that moment, the fire in Dante's gut—the nerves, the fluttering tension—evaporated into nothing.
Khiron wasted no time.
With a guttural roar, a pair of black wings burst from his back in a flurry of demonic power. He surged forward like a missile, the air ripping around him as he closed the distance in seconds. The speed was impressive—surgical, even—but Dante saw it all.
He simply stepped to the side, letting the rush pass him, and drove his knee sharply into Khiron's gut.
WHUMP!
The hit landed with brutal precision, stealing the wind from the lancer's lungs. Khiron stumbled and rolled forward with grace borne of instinct, not choice. He recovered and spun to launch a thrust of his spear—but Dante responded with a calm twist of his wrist, deflecting the weapon with the shaft of his sword-spear like it was a child's toy.
"Tsk…" Khiron clicked his tongue in frustration and launched himself backward, trying to reset.
Too late.
CRACK!
A blur of motion—Dante was already beside him, now at his right flank. Before Khiron could even blink, a blunt force collided with the back of his head.
!?
He reeled, eyes wide, instinctively ducking low as the massive blade of Dante's sword-spear came crashing down from above.
BOOM!
The impact hit the ground like a meteor, splitting the stone floor and sending a tremor through the arena.
Khiron spun away, barely escaping with his skin intact. His breath came fast now. The sweat on his brow was no longer from the sun.
He thrust, slashed, and leapt—again and again—but each attack was met with cold, effortless precision. Parried. Redirected. Countered.
It was like fighting a phantom who had already mapped out every move he would make.
Panic clawed at the edges of Khiron's mind. His rhythm was failing. His confidence was fraying. He was a seasoned lancer—but against Dante, he was starting to feel like a novice.
However....
That didn't mean that Khiron...was going to give up now.