"Don't fall asleep on me, Fulgur. There's more prey looming..."
Dante's voice was cool, casual—laced with a wild edge that curled his lips into a hungry grin. He'd waited a long time to say this, the words tasting like lightning on his tongue.
"Why don't we welcome them, yeah?"
Nailed it.
Out of the corner of his eye, Dante caught sight of the massive holographic displayer overhead—the sort typically reserved for sports matches and grand magical tournaments. Now, its entire focus was locked on him, his every move projected in razor-sharp detail for the stunned audience and, undoubtedly, across the wider Underworld.
A moment later, the screen zoomed in on the crimson blade gripped in his hands. The crowd collectively held their breath. The infamous Infernum Fulgur pulsed once, sending a fresh wave of crackling energy across its surface. Dante looked down at it, instinctively twirling the blade with one hand before assuming a two-handed stance at his side. The displayer now showed his face—stoic, focused, utterly unafraid.
Without further delay, Arc energy coiled violently around his form, spiraling like a living storm before his entire body blinked from sight.
In the next instant, he reappeared—this time at a separate entrance of the arena, mid-swing.
The second black-armored knight didn't even see the blade coming. Dante slashed low across the devil's hamstrings, instantly severing them and lifting the Inquisitor into the air. Before gravity could claim him, Dante blurred forward again—reversing direction, blade arcing upward in a clean, brutal stroke that severed the devil's head mid-fall. Crimson lightning outlined his form as if trying to keep up with the pace of his movement.
The body hit the ground with a wet, metallic thud. But Dante was already gone.
He struck again at the next entrance.
This time, the Inquisitor barely had a moment to react before Infernum Fulgur buried itself into his throat. The force of the strike was so swift, so surgical, that the armored figure stumbled backward in choking disbelief. Blood streamed from his helm's openings like dark wine, and his gauntlets raised shakily as if begging or cursing—Dante couldn't tell.
He tilted his head at the pitiful gesture, a flicker of mockery in his eyes, then wrenched the blade free with a violent twist. In one fluid motion, he reversed his grip and spun cleanly, executing a second decapitation.
Three down. No wasted movement. No wasted mercy.
Above, the crowd had finally sprung into motion. Not chaos, not screaming—no stampede. To Dante's quiet astonishment, the exodus was calm, methodical. His gaze swept across the orderly lines, the unpanicked departure.
That's when he saw why.
Praetor Saladin was at the head of the control effort, flanked by other Praetorians in their signature green and black. He was barking orders and keeping formation, funneling the public out with calculated precision. It was military efficiency—crisp, clean, composed.
Then, farther in the stands, Dante spotted two unmistakable figures.
Serafall Leviathan and Sirzechs Lucifer were being ushered out by a detachment of blue-accented Praetorians. Leading them was a woman—a tall, imposing figure with a wild blue fur plume atop her helm, reminiscent of ancient Spartan regalia. She bowed low to the generals before expertly directing their retreat.
Dante exhaled, relief tempering the storm still coiling in his chest. The sight of their protection made one thing clear: this attack wasn't aimed at him. Not yet, at least.
It had the mark of the Old Satan Faction.
That made sense. Serafall and Sirzechs were likely the intended targets—far more important symbols of the current regime. If the terrorists had struck prematurely, it might have been due to panic, or the fear of losing their opportunity.
As for Dante himself?
They probably assumed he was dead. After all, no one outside the highest circles knew of his return—not even his enemies. His awakening, his release of Infernum Fulgur—those events had been buried under magical suppression seals constructed by Sirzechs, reinforced by his own parents. No information should have leaked.
Unless...
Unless someone had learned of the Infernum Armis release. Someone with just enough reach to get a bead on his signature, his style. It wasn't impossible.
But it would've required someone both reckless and desperate.
He glanced briefly toward the crater in the center of the arena, where Brinyalf's charred remains lay still. The explosion had been contained entirely within the indestructible defensive dome—a feat many would have considered impossible. It suggested two things: either the bomber had underestimated the dome's power, or they had never intended to succeed in the first place.
The body was seared to bone, internal organs likely vaporized by the heat—yet it remained strangely intact, almost preserved.
There were layers to this. Layers Dante didn't have time to unravel.
But if the VIPs were still being targeted, fallback ambushes would already be in motion. Which meant he had a choice to make.
He narrowed his eyes, fingers tightening around the hilt of his still-glowing blade.
They might not have expected him to survive.
But he was here now.
And they'd made a fatal mistake.
"Tsk," he muttered, turning sharply toward the exit routes.
"Amateurs."
Among the arena floor was one other victim which caused his mood to mildly drop when he remembered who or what it was...
His sword-spear... his precious sword-spear was melted down into an unrecognizable blob of superheated metal. Though it was a simple training weapon, Dante had grown fond of its design and use. He sighed deeply; guess he could always get Sirzechs to get him a custom one – which was recommended by him vehemently. Though the blade was favored by Dante he did however have a few nitpicks with the thing, some of which were its material make up which was simple black iron – devils 'super' iron compared to earth's – and was argued as 'cheap and standard'.
He'd asked about dragonite metal but was told that such a thing was impossible, not only was access to dragonite limited but almost exceptionally rare at the same time as the few forgeries that did have dragonite were completely sold out. Supply and demand was at an all time low and high – in that order – if he wanted to get dragonite then he'd need to find a dragon – not really hard – ask nicely for some and then spend twenty plus decades melting it down to a forgeable level and then mold it into a predetermined design... And that's ignoring the obvious 'NO!" that most if not all dragons would give upon the first step
So case in point; it was literally impossible for Dante to get his hands on the devils version of Adamantium. Shame... He really wanted some
Dante shook his head at the playful thoughts, his mind easing back into his reserved state; he'd been feeling a build up of energy coming from the left side of the stadium. It felt odd when he sensed demonic energy rather than emotions and gazes, it felt almost like a ripple in calm waters but this one felt like a massive wave then a–
BOOOOOM!
Dante slightly tumbled back against the marbled wall. A large explosion nearly engulfed the entire left wing of the stadium, near the concession area if Dante was right. Fortunately the explosion was mild and small – seemly contained by wind of all things and the majority of it was far away from the civilians being evacuated. Clicking his tongue at his lack of movement Dante turned and darted off into the direction of the explosion.
He could get some answers there...