The silence that followed Zack's fall was thick, heavy with the scent of dust and ochre. Dante stood with his back to his opponent, his dagger hanging at his side, blood dripping slowly from the tip of the blade into the sand. His breathing was controlled, yet his senses remained tuned to the frequency of the "Shadow"—that lethal hyper-vigilance Foxy had taught him to embrace.
Zack, on his knees and his face disfigured by the previous impact, stared at Dante's back. The calm smile that had defined him throughout the fight had been replaced by a mask of pure hatred. He could not accept the humiliation of mercy. To Zack, being spared was the ultimate and greatest of insults.
With an animalistic growl, Zack summoned his final strength. He ignored the agony in his tendons and the shattered bone of his nose. His fingers clawed through the sand until they closed around one of the discarded ceramic scalpels. In a sudden, desperate lunge, he threw himself forward, aiming for the base of Dante's skull.
"Dante, behind you!" Harry screamed from the bleachers, his voice cracking with panic.
But Dante didn't need the warning.
Before Zack could even complete the leap, Dante had already spun. It wasn't a human movement; it was a grey blur, a transition of physical states that defied inertia. His superhuman agility, now fused with the coldness he had bled from his surroundings, reacted before conscious thought could intervene.
Dante slid beneath Zack's outstretched arm and, in one fluid, upward motion, drove the dagger deep under Zack's chin, piercing the palate and reaching the brain.
Zack's body froze in mid-air for a microsecond. The scalpel fell from his nerveless hand. Dante kept the blade embedded for a moment, staring fixedly into Zack's eyes, which were now losing the fire of hatred to the vacancy of the end. With a sharp tug, Dante removed the steel and stepped back.
Zack's body collapsed onto the sand, motionless. There was no laughter, no final words. Only the dull thud of flesh hitting the earth.
Smith rose slowly, offering a solitary applause that echoed through the amphitheater like gunshots. The smile on the host's face was one of almost ecstatic satisfaction.
"Bravo! Bravissimo!" Smith shouted, descending the bleacher steps with an obscene elegance. "Now that is a grand finale! The betrayal, the instinctive reaction, the perfect execution! Dante, my dear boy, you are living proof that even the meekest of creatures can be polished into a diamond of death."
Dante didn't look at Smith. He wiped the blade on his own sleeve, his eyes fixed on Zack's corpse. The adrenaline was beginning to recede, and with it came the weight of what he had just done. However, the cold glint in his gaze did not entirely vanish; the seed planted by Foxy had taken deep root.
Smith stopped at the edge of the arena, gesturing for the four groups to approach. The losers—the remnants of Kevin's and Zack's groups—stood in silence.
"Rules are rules, and I am a man of my word," Smith announced, spreading his arms wide. "Today we had two clear victors. John's group, represented by his own brute force, and Alex's group, represented by Dante's metamorphosis. As for the other two groups... well, failure is its own reward. You receive nothing beyond the permission to keep breathing until the next game."
Smith turned to the winners. He signaled to one of his guards, who brought forward a silver tray holding two sealed envelopes and an electronic device.
"John's group, you were first," Smith said, looking at the soldier. "What do you desire? Rest in the luxury sector, or the information I promised regarding the inner workings of this 'hotel'?"
John, his arms still bandaged and his face scarred from the fight against Kevin, exchanged a quick look with his group. He didn't hesitate. "Information," John replied, his voice hoarse. "We want to know who we're dealing with and where the exit to this hellhole is."
Smith smirked, handing the device to John. "A pragmatic choice. There is data in there that might make your head explode before a bullet even touches your skull. Use it wisely—if wisdom even exists within you anymore."
Next, Smith turned to Alex, Dante, and the rest of the group. "And you? The 'awakening' group. Dante has earned you the right of choice. What do you prefer? The bitter truth or temporary comfort?"
Alex looked at Dante. The boy was pale, cold sweat pinning his hair to his forehead. Harry looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and Yuki could hardly bear to look at the blood-stained sand. They were at the limit of their sanity.
"We choose rest," Alex said, his voice firm but laden with exhaustion. "We need time to process what happened. We need a place where we don't have to sleep with one eye open for a single night."
Smith let out a short laugh. "The rest of the righteous! Or, in this case, the rest of the murderers. Very well. You will be escorted to the South Wing. Silk sheets, hot food, and absolute silence. Enjoy it, for luxury is merely the waiting room for the next inferno."
As the guards began to escort the groups away, Foxy approached Dante. The young man with the rebellious hair gave his friend's shoulder a light punch, but his smile was less sarcastic than usual. There was a new layer of respect—or perhaps fear—in the way he looked at the boy who had just killed.
"Not bad, Blondie," Foxy whispered. "But don't get used to the silk. It makes the skin too soft for the next fight."
Dante didn't answer. He simply nodded, walking toward the rest sector. He felt Smith's eyes on his back, he felt the weight of the device in John's hands, and above all, he felt the coldness of the dagger at his waist.
The night in the arena was ending, but the darkness within each of them was only beginning to take shape. The rest promised by Smith would be, for many, the most silent nightmare of all.