"What Blasphemy is this? Resistance is futile" Spoke the inquisitor as he pushed his blade forward
Yet the only thing the sword did was vibrate dangerously, as if it refused to obey the command of its wielder. Before the Inquisitor could continue his attempt at killing a child a sudden build up of power unlike anything the low-class have felt so far built up within the large dome of magic, all turned to see a bright crimson light directly within the large plume of smoke
BVVVVVVVVV...
The sound of a deep groan of 'something' emanated from within the dome, the large red 'eye' within the cloud was directed towards the tragedy – red Arc bolts clipped around the red light that swelled with bright power – a warning, deep with intent. The entire crowd had no idea what was happening but seemed to back away farther from the scene out of instinct; both Serafall and Sirzechs seemed to relax visibly – being the only two to fully know who it was. The inquisitor however simply ignored the mysterious noise and pulled his blade back and held it above his head for a decisive downward strike
But it never came...
BRRRRRRRRVVVVVVVVVVVVTTTTTTTTTSHHHHHH!
Before the inquisitor could drop his blade the sound of a loud thunder clap roared out within the large dome before the sound of shattering glass could be heard, many devils stood in shock when a large red – glass-like – long sword pierced the large dome of impenetrable magic and flew through the air so fast that it was like a red streak of Gleeful light that carried Arc bolts along its edge
The target?
SHLICK! CRACK!
"GAHHHH!"
The very inquisitor that killed a young child's father right before his eyes
The Knight in question was impaled on the marble wall directly behind him; the large red crystal glass blade of Infernum Fulgur sheathed 3 inches deep in the man's chest cavity, collapsing the lungs. Red angry Arc's of red Demonic lightning fused out into the nearest target which was the very being it was sheathed in
"GAAAA!" the violent roar of pain from the inquisitor was the sure sign of the weapons choice of torture, by command of its very master
Scorch the insides! Rend the INSECT! BRING. PAIN!
The storm of Arc‑lightning erupted without mercy.
A dozen jagged spears of incandescent crimson carved across the empty marble seats, gouging molten ravines and showering sparks through the coliseum. Yet—miraculously—their murderous dance curved around every innocent spectator, as though an unseen hand guided the bolts past wide‑eyed children and trembling elders. Only one target had been marked for wrath.
That target—a towering devil in onyx plate—howled as each strike flayed armor and soul alike. With every fresh scream the living blade surged, delighted, amplifying the agony until the air itself seemed to quake beneath the shrieks. Seats splintered, dust billowed, and somewhere a spectator sobbed into folded hands. Still the sword sang on.
At last the crescendo broke like a wave against granite. The lightning faded, its echo rolling away into stunned silence. The devil knight remained upright only because the crimson blade that impaled him pinned his body to a fractured pillar. His obsidian cuirass had leeched to a ghost‑grey husk, as though the very notion of life had been scorched away. One final spark kissed the fiend's brow—almost tender—before the armor collapsed into drifting ash, leaving the sword alone and gleaming.
Infernum Fulgur.
The name escaped an elderly noble in a quavering whisper, and the words rippled through the hushed tiers. Ancient, infamous, legendary—every devil born to courtly tutors knew the sword that drank lightning and laughed at pain. They also knew the tales of its wielder.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed from the arena floor.
Dante Vale Gremory stood at the foot of the marble gradins, wine‑red coat flickering with residual static, not a scratch marring his pale knuckles. He folded his arms, eyes half‑lidded, voice languid—almost bored. "That's its name," he drawled. "Try not to wear it out."
No riot of cheers answered him. Instead, a brittle sob cut the silence.
A young boy knelt beside a prone figure—his father—whose chest rose in ragged, failing breaths. The child shook the limp shoulders, small voice cracking: "Dad? Dad?" Behind him the mother crawled over broken tiles, gathered her son and husband into shivering arms, and wept into the boy's hair.
Dante's heart seized.
Memory flashed: another arena, another lifetime—a boy no older than this one cradling the severed head of his mother while executioners in polished steel looked on. The taste of copper, the roar of a crowd hungry for spectacle—
No.
He would not watch that scene play again.
Purpose replaced paralysis. Dante raised a gloved hand and tore reality open with a whisper of displaced air. From the shimmering rent he withdrew a delicate glass vial banded in gold, the liquid within clear as mountain ice, corked with blood‑red crystal.
Few outside the highest courts had ever seen a Phenex Tear, let alone held three. Fewer still would squander one on a lowborn mason—yet Dante knelt without hesitation. "Easy, friend," he murmured, uncorking the vial and tilting it to the wounded devil's lips. The liquid slid down the broken throat like moonlight.
Instantly the color flooded back into the man's cheeks. Crushed ribs knitted with audible clicks; grey flesh blushed warm scarlet. He spasmed, coughed once—twice—and drew a full breath, eyes brimming with bewildered relief.
The stands erupted—not in applause, but in gasps. Murmured disbelief spilled from gilded balconies where nobles conferred behind scented kerchiefs. Saving commoners was admirable in poems; in life it was ruinously expensive.
The mason's son flung his arms around his father, tears of joy washing streaks through the soot on his face. Their cries—raw, grateful, heartbreakingly sincere—filled the arena with a sound more powerful than any thunderbolt.
Dante's expression softened. He rose—but a tug halted him. The boy's small hand clutched the hem of his coat, eyes luminous. "T‑thank you, m'lord. Thank you." The words trembled with wonder, as if he addressed a figure from bedtime legends.
A lump formed in Dante's throat. He crouched, pressing the drained vial into the child's palm. "Keep it," he said quietly. "Proof that compassion still has a place in this world."
The mother covered her mouth, tears spilling anew. Around them silence deepened—not the hush of fear, but the reverent quiet that precedes a revelation.
Dante straightened and turned to the crimson sword still humming with afterglow. He grasped the hilt; Infernum Fulgur pulsed like a delighted heartbeat. "Had your fun?" he asked under his breath.
A ripple of red light flickered along the fuller—agreement, mischief, impatience. Dante snorted. "You're insufferable." With a sharp tug he freed the blade, marble shrieking in protest.
From the shadowed archways that ringed the stands, armored forms lurked—Inquisitors, cloaked in sanctimony, now frozen by the sight of their comrade's ashes. Dante's gaze swept the arches until it locked on one helm that flinched under his scrutiny.