Sirzechs hummed again, low and contemplative, as Dante concluded his second match. He nearly allowed a smirk of pride to slip past his otherwise calm expression—nearly. The performance was impressive, yes, but the quality of Dante's opponents left much to be desired.
The Crimson Satan would be the first to admit: Dante's skill was exceptional. His mastery of the sword-spear bordered on prodigious, especially considering he'd picked up the weapon scarcely a week prior. His intuitive aptitude, the ability to understand and replicate combat styles and techniques in mere moments, was nothing short of unnatural.
And it was that gift—coupled with his arsenal of abilities—that tipped every match firmly in Dante's favor.
The devils Dante faced weren't weak. Quite the opposite. They had bested dozens of challengers prior to entering the Crucible. They were promising candidates for service within Sirzechs' own forces. But none of them stood a chance.
Not against a devil who could:
Learn any weapon as if he'd trained with it for years,
Or you know, Wield a demonic element capable of manipulating force itself,
And, perhaps most concerning of all, suffer almost no damage in return.
His defense was impervious—at least, by current understanding. Nothing short of an Infernum Armis could hope to pierce it. And unfortunately—or fortunately—Dante had the only known released Armis currently in existence. Even Sirzechs' own prized Bael blade had proven worthless against him in their last spar.
Sirzechs sighed inwardly. The evaluators were likely losing their minds trying to match Dante against anyone who could truly test him. So far, Dante hadn't even needed to rely on his demonic energy—his physical skill alone was more than enough.
"His technique is precise. Well-received by the crowd and the judges," Serafall commented, eyes narrowed in analytical focus. "But his element hasn't shown anything of note. Is he holding back?"
Then, suddenly, her eyes widened.
"Wait—never mind. Don't answer that."
Sirzechs gave her a sideways glance, an amused flicker in his gaze.
"And risk killing someone? Dante wouldn't unleash his Infernum Armis on mid-class devils. Especially not in a trial."
Praxis Bael, who had been silent up to this point, suddenly choked.
"Infernum Armis?! He released an ancient weapon?! How?"
Sirzechs turned to him, lips curling in a smug little smirk.
"It asked him to."
Praxis sputtered uselessly.
Serafall tilted her head, confused. "Wait... it spoke to him? The weapon? I thought those things weren't sentient."
Sirzechs shivered slightly. "It... kind of is. Dante described it as a chorus of voices—telepathic, dissonant, layered on top of one another. Hard to explain, but unmistakably alive. And worse... it insisted on being called 'Mommy.'"
Serafall blinked. "...What."
"Yeah." Sirzechs rubbed the back of his neck. "I knew the old ones were eccentric, but that's just—"
"Is he possessed?" Serafall asked, concern now visible in her eyes as she glanced down toward Dante, who stood calmly in the arena's center. His next opponent was fashionably late—just like him.
Sirzechs shook his head firmly. "No. I asked him directly what the weapon wanted. It didn't seek control. Just... freedom. And maybe..." he raised his fingers and held them a fraction apart, "a little bit of violence."
Serafall didn't look reassured. "I still think he's possessed. No one's crazy enough to unleash an Infernum Armis without full safeguards."
"I asked him if the weapon tried to take control," Sirzechs replied with a casual shrug. "He said the last entity that tried to possess him had its head explode. He told that to the blade. Apparently, it promised it wouldn't."
Serafall recoiled slightly. "That's... deeply unsettling."
A dry chuckle rose from the back of the booth.
Zekram Bael.
The oldest devil present leaned forward with a look of vague amusement.
"You speak as if you know what it wants, girl," he said, eyeing Serafall with the weight of centuries behind his words.
She frowned, but didn't retort.
"I wasn't alive when the Infernum Armis were sealed," Zekram continued, "but I studied their history. And I can tell you this: the weapons never wanted to be bound. Their rage has been boiling for ages. The storms, the volcanoes, the unnatural disasters across the underworld... those aren't accidents. They're the voices of the sealed ones."
Serafall nodded slowly, her eyes beginning to glow with recognition. "The high winds of the East. The volcano in Ashfeld. The boiling ocean in the South..."
"And the endless storm in the West," Sirzechs added. "Formerly endless."
The four eternal calamities.
Natural disasters that raged across the underworld with no apparent origin—until now.
Sirzechs had long thought the Infernum Armis were myths. He'd seen glyphs, heard stories. But never had he imagined that one would be released in his lifetime—let alone by his own younger brother.
Now it all made sense. The energy signatures, the sealed zones, the destructive anomalies.
And if the word got out that these ancient weapons were real, and locatable?
The old Satan factions would stop at nothing to claim them. To rally around them. To say:
"See? Even the gods of destruction stand with us."
They were that zealous.
"Aye," Zekram said, voice heavy with grim wisdom. "They desire freedom, these weapons. And they don't care who sets them loose—only that someone can."
His words hung over the booth like a cloud of ancient dread.
Sirzechs glanced toward Serafall, the urgency written plainly across both their faces.
"We cannot allow them to fall into the hands of the Old Satan Faction," Sirzechs muttered, his tone clipped with resolve. "The destruction a single Armis could unleash would be enough to wipe out the underworld's entire population."
"And it would derail everything we've fought for," Serafall added, her voice low but charged. "Our efforts for peace, for stability—they'd be reduced to ash."
Praxis finally broke his silence, arms crossed, brows furrowed in skeptical concern. "And yet you leave that weapon in the hands of your brother? What if he loses it in his first deployment? What if it's taken from him?"
Sirzechs turned to him with calm certainty, already prepared for this exact challenge.
"I doubt a weapon like that—one that chooses its wielder, speaks to him—would allow itself to be taken. Or let Dante fall so easily."
His hand briefly brushed the faint scar beneath his armor, a reminder of what Dante and Infernum Fulgur were capable of.
"Safe to say," he continued, "the blade is far safer in Dante's hands than anywhere else."
Praxis grunted but didn't argue further. The truth was becoming harder to ignore.
Serafall exhaled deeply, a flicker of frustration breaking through her composed veneer. "I haven't even met the boy yet, and he's already giving us more problems than benefits."
"Come now, General Sitri," Zekram said, his smile dry and knowing. "The boy hasn't even tasted real combat. No blood spilled. No fire returned. We still don't know what he's truly capable of."
Serafall frowned, leaning forward in her seat to point toward the arena. "This doesn't count to you?"
Zekram laughed, the sound grating and dismissive. "Hardly."
He turned his ancient eyes back down to Dante, who stood alone in the arena's heart, quiet and composed, waiting.
"My era was a symphony of war. Blood, fire, and chaos shaped us. These matches? This is a dull playpen."
He gestured broadly to the Crucible's gleaming coliseum.
"The boy has bested two promising devils in under a minute each—without even trying to kill them. That speaks volumes. But it raises a question, doesn't it?"
His voice lowered. A darker note entered his tone.
"How much blood will he spill when he's unleashed?"
Sirzechs stiffened slightly.
He'd seen it—that moment during Dante's match with Khiron. That brief flicker of something cold and honed behind his brother's eyes. There was no rage. No thrill.
Just precision. Focus. A stillness that chilled the soul.
Tranquil fury.
Sirzechs had seen it once before. In a mirror. A long time ago.
Zekram smiled faintly, his age showing through the heavy folds of his face. But behind it, there was something else—something sharper.
"The boy has promise," he said, quietly reverent.
"He's climbed steep walls to stand where he is now. Now let's see... if he can bear us some fruit."