Dante stood still, grounded in perfect balance, as he assessed the new challenger stepping into the arena.
She was taller than the last opponent—by a few inches at most—and her frame carried the taut definition of a seasoned combatant. Short brown hair, tied back in a practical ponytail, gave her a sharp, no-nonsense look. She wore a fitted combat suit, its surface lined with a dull metallic alloy that shifted subtly with her every movement. It reminded Dante of Venelana's ceremonial gear—though this one lacked the sheen of glamour, clearly of lower quality and built for utility over style.
Still, it was smart design. Her armor hugged tightly where it needed to—shoulders, ribs, thighs—while deliberately leaving key joints exposed for maximum mobility. The backs of her knees and elbows, even her collar, were left unarmored, emphasizing fluidity over complete protection. It was a calculated compromise. One that spoke of experience.
Another lancer. Like Khiron. But this one leaned into speed rather than fortitude.
"The Bael Clan welcomes... Helena of the North!"
The announcer's voice thundered across the arena, but Dante had long since tuned out the ceremonial fanfare. Still, the phrasing caught his ear in that moment.
"Of the North."
He raised a brow slightly. No last name. No house. Just a direction. A place.
So that's how it worked for lowborn devils—territory over lineage. It reminded him of the old-world games he used to play, where unnamed warriors rose from distant lands to earn their place. Titles came later—if they survived.
Interesting, he thought.
Helena said nothing. Her silence wasn't fear—it was discipline. She kept her stance low and mobile, resting most of her weight on her right leg while her left hovered slightly, ready to spring into motion. Her spear was held diagonally, favoring rapid movement over direct confrontation.
She's fast, Dante noted. She'll try to bait an opening.
"Match start!"
This time, Dante chose to press the advantage.
With an explosive surge of power, he blitzed forward, his body propelled like a missile. Dust erupted from beneath his boots as the coliseum floor cracked in his wake. Helena's eyes flared in alarm—but her instincts were solid. She pivoted hard to his right just in time.
Dante's sword-spear slammed into the ground where she'd been standing a heartbeat ago, sending stone and earth bursting upward in a violent plume. Without missing a beat, he used the embedded blade as a vault, flipping backward and launching himself into the air—just before the point of impact exploded in a burst of kinetic energy.
Helena turned, ready to counter—but Dante was already on her.
He lunged again, this time aiming a vicious thrust with his sword-spear. She sidestepped smoothly and parried—but Dante didn't flinch. Instead, he reached out and slapped her spear aside with his bare hand. The clang of metal-on-metal rang out across the arena.
The crowd gasped.
Helena's eyes widened. He batted it away—like it was nothing!
She clicked her tongue in frustration and pushed back.
"HA!"
She mimicked his move, vaulting forward using her own spear and launching into a high, powerful axe kick. Dante dodged, leaning back just as her foot crashed into the ground, sending up a shockwave of dust and debris in a ring around them.
She landed, partially obscured by the cloud—just long enough for Dante to act.
Sliding in low, he hooked the blunt edge of his sword-spear behind her ankle and yanked. Helena cried out in surprise as her balance disappeared and she crashed forward, face-first toward the stone.
But she was fast.
Helena rolled instinctively, barely avoiding the punishing axe kick Dante had lined up. His foot cratered the ground where her body had been a second earlier.
She spun to recover—only to see Dante's blade already surging forward, a blur of black steel and red energy.
Her reflexes kicked in. She raised her spear—
—and made a mistake.
The moment she deflected his blade, her stance opened.
Dante was airborne again.
His roundhouse kick slammed into her liver with a devastating thud, the force amplified by a swirling aura of red lightning around his leg—his secondary ability: Force Augment.
"Gah—!"
The air left Helena's lungs as her body was launched backwards like a ragdoll. The invisible blastwave behind the kick created a sonic boom, propelling her across the arena.
SLAM!
Her form collided with the outer wall, stone cracking and caving inward as she crumpled to the floor, motionless.
The arena went silent.
A heartbeat passed.
Then:
"Lancer Helena is down. Time of match: 57 seconds. Lord Dante is the victor!"
The crowd erupted once again.
But Dante didn't turn to them. He didn't raise his weapon. He didn't smile.
He simply watched Helena's unconscious form as the white healing light descended, lifting her from the ground with gentle precision. She had fought with dignity. With grace. He would not disgrace her efforts with theatrics.
His jaw tightened slightly.
Another one down.
Thankfully, Dante's second victory did not erupt in the same thunderous chaos that followed his first. The crowd clapped, cheered—even loudly—but it was a more tempered celebration. Polite applause, not raucous adoration. And that, at least, felt more honest.
Dante didn't believe his matches deserved to be taken as seriously as the audience once had. Not because he hadn't fought well, but because the victories felt predetermined—not by fate, but by the raw disparity in class and capability. His opponents fought hard, but their odds were always stacked cruelly against them.
Helena had been quick—remarkably so. Her agility was far beyond Khiron's, and her technique was sharp. But her movements overcommitted. She reached too far with every strike, left too many gaps, exposed too many joints. A blade that fast should've felt dangerous—but when her spear connected with his parry, it felt like a pebble striking iron.
That should have been her warning.
If her spear couldn't penetrate his guard, then what hope did her legs have?
He had dodged that kick not to protect himself—but to spare her from the pain of finding out.
Dante sighed, the gesture small and controlled. He offered a respectful nod toward Helena's unconscious form before turning and walking back to the center of the arena. The circle of runes lit beneath his feet as he returned to his mark.
He didn't say a word.
His mind drifted—not with distraction, but with reflection.
The mid-class devils he was being pitted against were supposedly the best the system had to offer. And yet… they weren't ready. Not for him. Both of his opponents had been lancers—by sheer coincidence or poor matchmaking, it was unclear—but that already put them at a disadvantage. The sword-spear he wielded was tailor-made for punishing lance-wielders. It outpaced them in range and shattered their rhythms when used properly. And Dante knew it properly.
He'd studied it more than anything.
He had trained relentlessly for the past week, tearing down the weapon's limitations and reshaping it into something that fit him. And so far, he hadn't even needed to lean on his powers. Just pure technique. Simple, efficient, effective.
But the silence…
It gnawed at him.
He could feel the shift in the crowd's energy. Their applause had grown more reserved, their awe dulled by the predictability of it all. They had come to see power—divine, monstrous, blazing power. Inherited power. Flash and spectacle.
And Dante had given them... restraint.
Another soft exhale.
The judges might see this as weakness. Sirzechs had warned him: today's devils valued inherited might more than earned mastery.
That idea had enraged Dante.
He'd made sure Sirzechs knew that.
Helena's body vanished in the signature shimmer of healing light, carried away to the medical wing. The shimmering dome above the arena pulsed briefly—but did not yet open.
Dante didn't move.
Word was the final opponent was stronger than the previous two combined.
Good, he thought. He needed something more. Not to prove himself. Not to win.
But to justify what he was about to do.
He had shown them discipline.
Now, he would show them Fulgur.
And with it, he would strike with all the fury his name had earned.
He just hoped his next opponent could survive it.