Chapter: "Where the twilight serves wine"
Made By: Eternal_Jokr
A/N:This fanfic is free for criticisms and opinions, say what you think in the comments section and leave your support.
Thank you
-----
The morning sun filtered through the wooden cracks of the basement, drawing strips of dusty light onto the stone floor.
Dante awakened slowly, his consciousness emerging from the deep darkness of sleep like a diver returning to the surface. There were no jolts or confusion; he was awake and alert in a matter of milliseconds.
He sat up in bed, the mattress creaking low under his weight. The silence in the basement was absolute, tinged only by the distant sound of Orario's urban movement outside.
The absence of the characteristic jingling of Hestia's bells, a sound that, without him realizing it, had become his daily point of reference, reminded him immediately that she was away.
Dante brought his hands to his face, rubbing his cosmic purple eyes that still carried the weight of rest.
The mystical tattoos on his neck and arms seemed to pulse softly under the dim light of dawn. He remained motionless for a moment, observing the space.
The place seemed empty, almost strange without the cunningly affectionate bustle of the goddess.
He got up and walked to the small coffee table, where the golden invitation to Ganesha's party still rested, a physical reminder that Hestia would be away for a few days.
Dante picked up the card, his bandaged fingers brushing the embossed emblem. He did not feel loneliness; isolation had been his companion for too long, but he did feel her absence, a gap that the silence of the basement could not fill.
'Three days' he thought, the voice in his mind as raspy as the one he used to speak.
Dante walked to the corner of the room where he kept his equipment. Without the need to rush for Dungeon missions or answer the goddess's requests, he began his morning routine with surgical precision. He began to inspect every strip of leather, every patch of his protection, and the edges of his blades.
Each movement was calculated, economical. While cleaning one of his daggers, his purple eyes fixed on nothing, lost in reflections on the conversation they had the night before.
Hestia seemed genuinely worried about the origin of his strength, about what he brought with him from that "darkness" that he mentioned so much. He knew that what he carried within himself was a burden that not everyone could see, and perhaps, it was better that way.
He finished organizing his things and went to the small improvised kitchen. He prepared a simple coffee, the strong smell invading the environment. He sat on the bench, looking at the entrance door. The basement was organized, quiet, and safe.
Dante took a sip of the coffee, feeling the heat travel through his body. He had three days of truce. Three days to keep his promises: to rest, to take care of his equipment, and, above all, to ensure that when Hestia returned, the home she had created for him was exactly as she left it.
He let out an almost imperceptible sigh, a sound of someone who, for the first time in a long time, did not need to fight to survive, but rather to deserve the refuge he found.
"Three days" he repeated and for the first time in years, Dante allowed himself a different thought: "I will be ready for when she returns"
The basement of the Hestia Familia, usually a cozy space, turned into a training ground of brutal intensity during the day. Dante did not waste time with distractions. For him, rest did not mean inertia, but rather the opportunity to improve the machine that was his own body.
The workout began right after sunrise. Dante pushed aside the few pieces of furniture to open up space in the center of the hall. Shirtless, the mystical tattoos on his torso and arms gained a subtle glow under the light entering through the half-open door.
He started with a test of absolute resistance. Dante positioned himself against the rustic stone wall, propelling his body upward until he was in a perfect handstand. There, he began the series of handstand push-ups.
Each descent was controlled, each ascent was explosive. Sweat began to sprout on his skin, falling in drops that marked the dirt floor. He didn't just count hundreds; he sought the limit of his muscle fibers, repeating the movement until his blood pulsed hard in his temples and his shoulders burned as if they were on fire.
After the push-ups, he moved on to squats. He did not use external weights; the weight was his own body, which he kept under constant tension.
Thousands of repetitions. His thigh muscles worked with the precision of hydraulic pistons, descending to the limit and rising with impeccable control. Dante moved at a rhythm that did not waver, his breathing being the only audible sound besides the rhythmic beat of his feet against the floor.
Near noon, he shifted his focus. The air in the basement was thick, charged with physical exertion.
Dante drew his heavy sword. The metal, forged to be much denser and heavier than a common blade, felt like an extension of his own arm. Sword training was different from the brutality of the beginning of the day; now, it was about technique, fluidity, and leverage.
He began to execute vertical and diagonal cuts, slicing through the air with surprising speed for the weight of the weapon. His technique was focused on minimizing the waste of energy.
He did not use only the raw strength of his shoulders; he utilized the rotation of his hips and the weight distribution of his legs, already exhausted from the thousands of squats, to guide the blade.
Dante studied the fundamentals of combat with large weapons. He practiced "flow," letting the sword's own gravity help him initiate the next movement, avoiding stopping the momentum.
He swung the weapon in short arcs, stopping the blade centimeters before hitting the basement support pillars, testing his precision control under maximum fatigue.
The afternoon advanced and the light outside began to acquire an orange tone, indicating that the end of the day was approaching. Dante was covered in sweat, his body exuding intense heat.
The heavy sword, which to any other adventurer would be an impractical load, for him began to feel lighter, faster, as if he were finally synchronizing his muscles with the balance of the blade.
He stopped only when his arms trembled slightly with exhaustion. He sheathed the sword with a metallic click and leaned against one of the pillars, breathing deeply.
The basement was silent again, but the atmosphere felt different, charged with the energy of someone who had just gone through a rite of purification through pain and effort.
The heat emanating from his body after the training was intense, almost as if the effort itself had forged an invisible armor over his skin.
Dante dragged himself to the small improvised bathing area in the back of the basement. He filled the wooden tub with fresh water, and upon submerging, a deep sigh escaped his lips, the steam beginning to rise and mix with the humid air of the place.
He let himself sink to his shoulders, the contrast of the cold water with the temperature of his exhausted muscles providing an almost painful relief.
The silence of the basement, now filled only by the sound of water dripping from his hair over the edge of the bathtub, brought an unusual clarity to his mind.
Dante closed his eyes, but he did not see darkness. He saw the battlefield.
The contrast between the life he led now with Hestia and the decades of conflict that shaped his existence was a constant abyss.
In his mind, he saw the gray plains of past eras, where "peace" was just the short interval of time between one carnage and another.
There, war was the natural state of things; survival was a currency exchanged for blood. He remembered the weight of the sword not as a tool of technique, but as the only barrier between the end of existence and the next dawn.
'Peace' he thought, the word sounding almost foreign in his mental vocabulary.
He observed his own hands, still slightly trembling from the exhausting training. Now, he was training to be stronger, yes, but not to conquer kingdoms or decimate armies.
He was forging his body to protect a damp basement, a small smile, a jingling of bells that meant he was no longer alone.
War, he realized as the warm water began to heat his body, had never left his interior. He carried it in his scars and in the way his instincts reacted to any shadow. But, for the first time, he was learning to use it as a shield, not as an attack sword.
Peace, for Dante, was not the absence of combat. He was a warrior, and peace was not something he knew by decree or treaty.
For him, peace was the act of lowering the blade, even if only for a few days, because Hestia believed he was safe. Peace was knowing that, if war knocked on his door, he would be ready to turn it into ashes before it could touch a single strand of her silver hair.
He submerged his head in the water, feeling the silence be absolute for a few seconds, before emerging again. The steam from the bath enveloped the environment.
"I do not seek for wars" he concluded to himself, staring at the rustic stone walls of the basement. "But if it is the price for this silence to continue, then I will bring it inside these walls and I will defeat it again."
Dante got out of the bathtub, his body feeling light and renewed. He dried himself calmly, moving with the same economy of energy he had applied in the sword training.
The basement was quiet, and as he put on clean clothes, he felt that that simple, humble, and small environment was, by far, the most important territory he had ever defended in his entire life.
He was at peace. But, as every veteran of a thousand battles knows, the best way to keep the peace is to be always, silently, ready for chaos.
------------xXx------------
The sun, already painting the sky in a deep orange streaked with purple, announced that the twilight was just moments away from swallowing the daylight.
Dante finished putting on his hardened leather tunic, adjusting the straps with methodical movements. His hands, still calloused and weathered by the thousands of squats and the pulling strength of the training, moved with silent precision.
He stopped before a small chipped mirror that hung on one of the columns of the abandoned church. His cosmic purple eyes, deep as the abyss he described having crossed, stared at his own reflection.
He did not seek vanity, but readiness. The mystical tattoos on his neck seemed to absorb the last light of the evening, pulsing faintly like an ember that refuses to go out.
With a fluid movement, Dante strapped his heavy sword to his back. The weight of the weapon was a familiar comfort, the gravity of the steel distributing itself perfectly over his reinforced shoulders.
He walked to the entrance of the ruined structure. The church, which served as an improvised and solitary refuge, exuded the smell of ancient stone and dust.
He touched the stone wall for a brief second before crossing the threshold, an almost unconscious gesture of one who recognizes the terrain that welcomed him.
Upon exiting, the cold afternoon wind hit his face, moving the strands of his silver hair. The city of Orario, down below, began to light its magical lamps, like terrestrial constellations that challenged the approaching darkness.
Dante did not have a precise destination; he just felt the need to walk, to keep his muscles in motion and his senses sharp as the day died.
He took the first step outside the limits of the church, his reinforced-sole boots silencing themselves on the stone ground. The silhouette of Dante, imposing and solitary under the burning sky, stood out against the decadent architecture of the ruins.
As he walked toward the shadows that grew in the alleys, he looked like a piece of metal forged to endure the weight of the world, moving with the naturalness of a predator who knows that, no matter what the twilight brought, he was ready to face it.
He disappeared into the dimness of the streets, the silent hero of a Familia that did not even yet understand the extent of the power it guarded.
-----
Dante walked through the streets of Orario as the twilight turned into a starry night. The movement of adventurers increased as shops closed their doors and taverns began to emerge with life.
His feet guided him, almost by instinct, to the busiest neighborhood in the city. Standing before the familiar facade of the Hostess of Fertility, he watched the wooden sign sway slightly in the wind.
The tavern had not yet opened its doors to the public, but the light that escaped through the cracks suggested that the team was already in the final preparations.
Dante, driven by a physical need to keep his body moving and perhaps by a subtle curiosity about the environment where Hestia spoke and not forgetting about the grey-haired young woman from the day before, pushed the door carefully.
The jingling of the bell above the door announced his entry. The air inside the establishment smelled of herbs, roast meat, and waxed wood.
In the center of the hall, two figures worked with brooms in hand.
One of them was a woman with short, straight brown hair, who maintained an expression of almost severe concentration as she swept the corners under the tables.
Her eyes, of a deep brown shade, shone with a mixture of curiosity and caution as soon as they detected the tall and imposing silhouette of Dante.
She stopped sweeping, resting the broom against her thigh and evaluating the silver-haired man with a professional gaze.
Next to her, a young cat-person with short brown hair and ears that betrayed her feline origin was almost hopping while she swept. She stopped abruptly, giving a little jump of surprise that almost made her drop the dustpan.
"Nyaa! Customer out of hours!" The young woman exclaimed, with her characteristic accent and her big eyes blinking rapidly. "We haven't opened yet, Sir. The stock isn't ready yet and Mama Mia is going to throw a tantrum if someone comes in here and messes up the cleaning!"
Dante stood still, maintaining his stoic posture, the heavy sword on his back creating a silhouette that filled a good part of the entrance. "I don't seek food" his voice sounded low and calm, cutting through the noise of the brooms "I was just walking. If I am in the way, I can withdraw."
The young woman with short brown hair and a serene look, however, did not take her eyes off him. She observed his posture, the discreet scars under his clothes and especially, the undeniable discipline in the way he carried himself. She felt something strange, an aura of weight and experience that she rarely saw in adventurers of that age.
"Don't be rude, Anya" she said, her voice firm but balanced. She took a step forward, crossing her arms. "Unless you are looking for trouble, we have no reason to kick out someone who knows how to behave. The restaurant opens in less than an hour."
"He's tall, isn't he, Lunoire?" Anya commented, tilting her head to the side and approaching without fear, her curious eyes analyzing Dante. "And he has a strange smell... it's not a common Dungeon smell. It's the smell of someone who trained all day! You trained until you were tired, didn't you? You can see it in your arms, Nyaa!"
Lunoire gave a gentle nudge to Anya so she would give him space. "You're new around here, aren't you? I don't remember seeing an adventurer with this equipment passing through here. Are you from a small Familia?"
Dante sustained their gaze, realizing that their curiosity was not hostile, just the typical vigilance of those who work in a place that attracts the underworld of Orario.
"I am Dante Ashborn of the Hestia Familia." Dante answered briefly.
Dante remained standing, the imposing silhouette filling the entrance while the orange light of the dusk died outside. The internal environment of the Hostess of Fertility began to come to life with the preparations.
Lunoire, with her medium-length brown hair swaying slightly as she returned to organize some chairs, stopped and analyzed him with her attentive brown eyes. She had a balanced, direct presence, like someone who doesn't tolerate nonsense, but with a sparkle in her eyes that revealed a caring nature.
"Hestia Familia, huh? Little Goddess Hestia's Familia finally found someone" Lunoire commented, approaching with a practical and straightforward posture.
She didn't seem intimidated by Dante's physical stature, nor by the monumental weapon on his back. "Goddess Hestia seems to have a peculiar taste for choosing her dependents; she never stopped talking about how she needed someone who could bring a little order to that basement. Apparently, you take that task quite seriously."
Anya let out a little giggle, her eyes shining. "Oh! So you are the 'hero' that Goddess Hestia is always talking about? Nyaa! It's a pleasure, big guy! I'm Anya, and this one here is Lunoire. If you are going to stay until we open, don't you dare dirty the floor I just swept, or Mia will throw you out the window!"
Before Dante could respond, Anya, the cat-person with brown fur and hair, appeared from behind. Her tail swayed from side to side in a frantic and disorderly way, revealing her restless energy.
She tripped over her own foot while trying to go around a table, letting out a small "Nyaa!" of surprise before balancing herself in a clumsy way.
"Sorry, sorry! The floor was chasing me" Anya exclaimed, with her amber eyes wide and bright, totally oblivious to the elegance with which Dante moved. She jumped close to him, almost invading his personal space, examining the training marks on his clothes with naive and impulsive curiosity.
"Wow, you are very big! Hestia said you were amazing, but was she exaggerating or was she being modest? Nyaa, I think you are even taller than most adventurers who come here to order drinks at night."
Lunoire rolled her eyes with a half-smile, clearly accustomed to her colleague's foolish and thoughtless nature. "Anya, please, let the guy breathe. He just arrived and you're already starting with your unfiltered questions."
"But I just want to know if he's hungry! It looks like he needs to eat a whole ox after a trip to the Dungeon" Anya insisted, already grabbing a dishcloth and starting to clean him frantically, even though he was already clean. "Do you want some water? Or maybe the rest of yesterday's stew? Mia will kill me if she knows I gave away food for free, but she isn't looking now, nya."
Dante observed the scene, a stark contrast between the serene objectivity of Lunoire and the vibrant chaos of Anya.
He noticed how Lunoire, despite her apparent seriousness, looked at Anya with a hint of protective affection, like an older sister tolerating the madness of a younger one.
"I don't need food" Dante replied calmly, his deep voice resonating in the empty hall. He looked at Lunoire, noticing the sense that she emanated. "I only thank you for the hospitality. Orario has a... different rhythm than what I am used to."
Lunoire tilted her head, maintaining her direct posture. "Orario swallows those who don't have focus, and spits out those who don't have a heart. If you are with Goddess Hestia, I imagine she must have seen the heart. But here at the Hostess, focus is what keeps the door open."
"Nya! How deep, Lunoire" Anya exclaimed, clapping her hands clumsily. Then, she turned to Dante with a sudden expression of someone who had a brilliant and dangerous idea. "Hey, big guy! Since you are Hestia's 'hero', how about helping us carry the beer barrels from the back before we open? It's heavy, nyaa! Nobody wants to help poor little Anya."
Lunoire slapped her forehead lightly. "Anya, he isn't an employee of the restaurant. Don't listen to her, Dante."
Dante, to the surprise of both, just let out a short sigh and agreed with a nod, walking calmly toward the back. "It is not a problem. I have time before I return."
Anya let out a squeal of victory, hopping behind him, while Lunoire stayed behind, observing him with narrowed brown eyes, beginning to understand why the Goddess seemed so protected and radiant lately.
Dante walked to the storage room in the back, followed by the clatter of Anya's clumsy footsteps. She pointed to a pile of sturdy oak barrels, used to store the beer produced by the dwarves of Orario.
"It's all of this here; Mia said that they need to be on the main counter before the movement starts. I tried to push one before and almost caught my tail, so... you know, it needs someone strong, Nyaa." Anya said, striking an exaggerated pose and trying to look imposing, which only made her seem even funnier.
Dante did not respond with words. He simply positioned himself next to the first barrel, which weighed enough to require effort from a mid-level adventurer.
He flexed his legs and, with a single and fluid movement, lifted the heavy barrel as if it were a bale of straw. He adjusted it over his broad shoulder with an ease that made Anya's amber eyes almost pop out of their sockets.
"Wow! You are like a super-human, right?! That was amazing, Nyaa!" Anya tried to imitate the movement, but only managed to hug the barrel and drag it two centimeters, losing her balance and almost falling face-first on the floor.
Dante let out a nasal sigh, approached, and with a free arm, took the second barrel, balancing it over the other shoulder without apparent effort.
He began to walk toward the main hall, his steps firm and silent, while Anya followed him, hopping excitedly and trying to "help" by pushing the air behind him.
Upon entering the hall, the environment was already changing. The lamps were beginning to be lit, bathing the place in a warm and golden light.
"Anya, have you finished... oh."
A soft and melodious voice, charged with a calm that seemed to dominate the environment, cut through the conversation.
Coming out of the kitchen with an impeccably clean apron appeared Syr Flova. Her eyes, always hiding an enigmatic depth, landed on the figure of Dante.
She stopped in the middle of the way, observing the silver-haired man who carried two barrels as if they were feathers.
The sparkle in Syr's eyes changed. She did not recognize him immediately, as he had not been there the night before, but her intuition, the same one that seemed to read the destiny of others like an open book, perceived something in Dante's aura and posture that made her freeze for a second.
"My" Syr murmured, a gentle, yet mysterious smile appearing on her lips. She walked toward them, the skirt of her uniform swaying slightly. "Anya, I see that you found a very... capable assistant today."
"Syr. He is Dante. He helps Hestia, can you believe it? He is super strong, Nyaa!" Anya exclaimed, stopping her hopping and giving a clumsy salute.
Dante deposited the barrels in the indicated place behind the counter, the impact of the metal against the wood being muffled by his precision. He turned, coming face to face with the Hostess attendant. His cosmic purple eyes met Syr's calm gaze.
Syr tilted her head slightly, her smile becoming deeper, almost complicit. "Dante... It's a name that matches someone who carries so much weight on their shoulders, isn't it?"
There was something in her look that seemed to have seen through the layers of physical effort and discipline that Dante had built.
"Thanks for helping Anya" Syr said, extending her hand gracefully for a handshake. Her touch was cold and firm, transmitting a security he did not expect to find in that noisy place. "We are grateful. And, as you weren't here yesterday, consider yourself a special guest of the house today. If you need something to replenish your energy after the work, the kitchen is at your disposal."
Dante accepted the handshake. "Just returning the kindness," he answered with his usual sobriety.
Syr remained where she was while he walked away to get the remaining barrels, her gaze following his every movement with insatiable curiosity. She knew that, in Orario, certain presences did not go unnoticed, and Hestia's "hero" had just become the central point of her silent interest.
Dante returned from the storage with the last two barrels, his movements still precise and calculated as if he needed no effort.
When he deposited the load behind the counter, he realized that Syr was still watching him, that subtle smile playing on her lips, as if she were putting together a puzzle that only she saw.
Anya was already far away, entertained with Lunoire in some noisy discussion about the evening's menu. Syr took a step forward, approaching Dante until the distance between them was that of a private conversation.
"You have a very rigid sense of duty, Dante" Syr began, her voice soft, but with an authority that seemed to emanate from somewhere beyond the waitress apron. "You helped Anya without complaining and without asking for anything in return. That is rare in Orario."
Dante crossed his arms, his stature making Syr seem almost fragile, although she did not show any sign of intimidation. "It wasn't a big effort."
"Maybe not for you" she retorted, tilting her head to the side while her eyes analyzed the man in front of her. "But yesterday, in the middle of all the excitement of Ganesha's party, we had a particularly difficult night. We were short-handed and the movement was chaotic. Many adventurers felt neglected due to the lack of quick service."
Dante remained silent, just observing the attendant.
"Since you weren't here to see what a chaos it was" Syr continued, the tone of her voice gaining a hint of playfulness "And since you now have demonstrated to have arms strong enough to carry our barrels, I thought it would be a poetic way to balance things. How about you make up for our shortage by serving as a waiter tonight?"
Syr smiled, and it was a smile that did not accept "no" as an answer, something that seemed to have a gravitational influence.
"Don't worry, the uniform is simple. And I guarantee that the payment for the help will be much more satisfying than just verbal gratitude"
Anya, who had heard the suggestion, stopped what she was doing and ran toward them, with her cat ears standing up.
"Nyaa! That! You would be a great waiter, Dante! You are tall, intimidating, and besides that, you are ultra super mega hyper handsome! Mia will be so impressed that she might even give you a discount on drinks!"
Dante looked at the hall, which was beginning to receive the first thirsty adventurers of the night.
The idea of serving tables seemed like a complete absurdity compared to the training and battles he had faced, but there was something in Syr's look, a determination almost premonitory, that made him hesitate.
He was not a waiter. He was a warrior. But, for some reason, that girl's calmness and Anya's naivety made the request almost... impossible to refuse.
"Serving tables..." Dante repeated, his voice sounding deep and a little confused.
"Just for tonight" Syr promised, already extending a clean apron with the Hostess of Fertility emblem toward him. "Learn to move between the tables as if you were on a battlefield, but with plates in your hands instead of a sword. I think you might be surprised by how difficult, and revealing, it can be."
Dante took the apron. The fabric was heavy and resistant. He looked at Syr, who waited patiently, and then at the door, through which more hungry adventurers were entering.
"Very well" he yielded, the sobriety on his face contrasting with the absurdity of the situation. "I will serve."
Anya gave a jump of joy and Lunoire let out a contained laugh.
Dante looked at his own reflection in the small mirror behind the counter, finding the sight strange.
The Hostess of Fertility apron, with the house emblem embroidered on the chest, adjusted surprisingly well to his broad shoulders and the rigid posture of someone who had never lowered their guard.
The transformation was curious. The sobriety of the uniform highlighted, instead of hiding, the imposing nature of his figure.
His silver hair, which fell in rebellious and shiny strands, seemed to catch every beam of light from the lamps in the hall, giving him an almost ethereal air, a cold and wild beauty that did not belong to the common environment of a restaurant.
When he left, his appearance stunned the girls who were waiting.
The scene in the main hall seemed to freeze for a split second when Dante emerged. He did not look like a waiter, but rather a warrior prince in disguise, whose sharp features and aura of contained danger attracted the eye like a magnet.
Anya was the first to react. She was trying to organize a tray of dishes, but upon seeing Dante pass, her jaw literally dropped. She let out a loud whine, a mix of surprise and admiration.
Her cat ears stood up and began to rotate frantically, trying to process what her eyes were seeing.
"Nya... Nyaa... Nyaaaah!" she stuttered, her face tinting a reddish shade under the light. She tripped again, but this time it was not out of clumsiness, it was out of pure distraction.
"Lunoire. Look at him! He doesn't look like that 'big guy' who carried barrels anymore... he looks like a prince coming from a legend. If he serves the tables like this, the house will get full just to see the waiter, not the food, Nyaa!"
Lunoire let out a sigh, trying to maintain her professional posture, but it was impossible to ignore the shock.
Her brown eyes traced Dante's figure from top to bottom, lingering on the details, on the mystical tattoos that contrasted with the simplicity of the uniform, on the way the fabric tensed against his broad shoulders.
She crossed her arms tightly, feeling a prick of discomfort that was far from professional. "He is... a disaster for the work flow," she muttered, although her eyes could not turn away from him"
"Anyone who looks at him will forget even their own name. He has a carriage that doesn't match this apron; it's ridiculous." Even with the harsh words, the slight sparkle of approval in her gaze betrayed her true opinion. She was impressed by the brutal elegance he displayed.
Syr, on the other hand, was standing leaning against the counter, observing everything with a slow and fascinated smile.
She did not seem to have been surprised by his beauty, but rather confirmed a suspicion. Her eyes, which seemed to see beyond the veil of reality, shone with silent delight.
For Syr, seeing Dante in that uniform was not just seeing a handsome waiter; it was like seeing a legendary weapon being placed on a common pedestal. She observed him walking with a predatory grace that he didn't even know he possessed.
"He is magnetic" Syr whispered to herself, in a tone that neither Anya nor Lunoire could hear.
She adjusted a strand of her own hair, a dangerous and radiant sparkle in her look. "More than that... he is an enigma that Orario still doesn't know how to solve."
Syr approached, observing him with eyes shining with indescribable satisfaction. "It suits you, Dante. In a way that no one here expected."
Under the collar of the shirt, the beginning of the tattoos rose up his neck, snaking across his skin in patterns that seemed to pulse with a light of their own, as if his own power was contained there, just waiting for a command.
But it was the look that disarmed anyone who crossed his path. His eyes, of a cosmic purple, deep as the vacuum between the stars, seemed to carry an ancient wisdom that contrasted violently with his youthfulness.
Appearance of an elite warrior, elegance of a mysterious stranger.
"Attention" Lunoire commented, crossing her arms and admitting to herself with a nod. "If you serve the tables with this same discipline, the adventurers will forget to order drinks because they will be so distracted staring at you."
Dante did not respond; he just adjusted the apron with a dry and professional movement. He looked like a marble statue sculpted for combat, now dressed for service.
He walked toward the entrance of the hall, which was already beginning to roar with the noise of hungry customers and loud adventurers, with a natural elegance and a carriage that attracted instant looks.
Syr opened the main door, letting the cool air of the Orario night enter and collide with the heat of the restaurant.
"Go" she murmured, as if she were sending a pawn to the center of the board. "The first order is waiting. Don't keep them waiting, Dante."
Dante crossed the threshold, entering the hall. The reaction was almost immediate.
The conversation at some nearby tables quieted down as he passed, the unusual glow of his eyes and the contrast of his silver hair against the dark uniform creating a visual impact that forced people to look twice. He did not look like a waiter; he looked like an event.
Dante walked to a table, his steps silent and precise, ignoring the whispers of "who is that?" and the curious looks of the female adventurers who were dining there.
He stopped before some customers, his hand resting on the notepad, maintaining the posture of someone who is ready for a battle.
While Dante remained stoic in front of the customers, the atmosphere at the Hostess of Fertility had changed.
The restaurant, accustomed to the noise, was a little quieter than normal in that area. The eyes of dozens of adventurers, men and women, were fixed on the new waiter, whose silver hair shone under the light of the lamps like the moon reflected in cold steel.
Dante, without realizing it, had just become the main attraction of the night.
"What would you like?" his deep voice cut through the noise of the hall, and the table, composed of a group of veteran adventurers, seemed suddenly very aware that that was not a common server.
Dante allowed himself a tiny and almost imperceptible curving of his lips. The energy of that place, although chaotic, was much more alive than the silence of the church. For the first time in the day, he felt part of a world that, even being a stranger, began to seem less cold.
---END---
To be continued....
A/N: Sorry for the delay everyone, I've been compulsively playing Ghost of Tsushima during my time off from work, and that time is even showing in my writing with Dante's moments of reflection, to the point where I adapted a scene from the Hot Springs.
They killed Taka boy and my In'ei, now I just want blood, war, and revenge against the Mongols 👺