Upon contact, the weapon discharged a burst of Arc energy that hurled the devil clean off his feet, past Dante, and through a string of support pillars—twice as many as he'd crashed through earlier. Stone cracked, dust exploded. Dante smirked faintly, raising his blade into a high guard. The flat of the weapon kissed the crook of his elbow as he leveled it toward the smoke-choked wreckage where the devil had landed.
He waited, silent, listening. The soft clinks of dislodged marble hitting the floor gave away the devil's position. A heartbeat later, a boulder screamed through the haze, aimed directly at his head. His breath hitched. Adrenaline surged. Time stretched. His mind lit up—this was a distraction.
Dante reacted instantly.
He flung his hand forward, releasing a crackling wave of blue kinetic force that shattered the boulder mid-air. The stone fragments scattered, revealing the devil behind it—eyes wild with rage, axe raised high, lunging at Dante's exposed left side.
With a grunt, Dante stepped in, slamming his shoulder into the devil's chest. The blow landed hard. Air burst from the devil's lungs. He staggered, legs barely holding. Without missing a beat, Dante jabbed the pommel of his sword into the devil's temple. Bone crunched. The devil reeled, dazed. Dante hopped—short, precise—and drove a Spartan kick into the devil's already hemorrhaging chest.
The devil flew back, blood erupting from his mouth. The impact had broken ribs—at least one had punctured something vital. Internal bleeding. His body began to betray him.
No mercy.
Dante advanced, twirling his sword. Arc energy built around the blade with a sharp static whine. He brought it down in a fierce arc toward the devil's skull. The devil managed to raise his axe just in time to block, but the moment steel met steel, the weapon discharged a violent jolt of electric force that locked the devil's muscles and launched him backward with a painful screech of energy.
There was no room to breathe. No time to recover.
Dante closed the gap like a storm. Every step forced the devil toward another pillar. He never let the enemy find open ground. His strikes were relentless: a brutal mix of slashes, downward chops, low swipes, and savage horizontal arcs. After each combo, Dante threw in crushing knees, bone-snapping kicks, shoulder checks, even taunting bops to the devil's skull—each one calculated to unnerve and disorient.
And it worked.
The devil's face betrayed him—shock, fear, disbelief. He hadn't expected this level of resistance, let alone domination. To Dante, it was clear now: this devil had been little more than control, probably backup for a bigger threat. His previous victims? Defenseless staff. Maids. Butlers. A few unfortunate town guards. This wasn't a warrior—it was a butcher, and he'd walked into a slaughterhouse.
Credit where it's due—he'd survived this long.
That fact alone irritated Dante.
This was a terrorist strike on Bael clan soil. And here he was—locked in a drawn-out fight with a grunt who should've been dust five minutes ago.
Time to end it.
Without warning, Infernum Fulgur began to hum. A thin coat of blue energy rippled across its surface before vanishing, leaving the blade unnaturally sharp—almost surgically so. The fight lulled briefly. The devil, heaving for air, stumbled back a few steps. Dante wrinkled his nose at the smug grin growing across the bastard's face.
"What the hell? They never told me I'd run into a Noble," spat the devil, breathless but defiant.
Dante blinked. "Please—by all means—shout more about your superiors. Makes my job easier."
He meant it. He was genuinely baffled the devil still thought this was a game. Still talking like Dante wasn't right in front of him, ready to end him.
The devil's grin soured. He realized his slip, but pride—and bloodlust—had already rotted his common sense. Dante could see it. The intoxication of violence. The arrogance of unchecked power. It wasn't rare. He'd seen it before—in warriors, in nobles, in monsters who thought the world owed them something because they'd never been stopped.
This one was no different.
Dante exhaled, slow and deliberate. His eyes flicked up to the devil, glowing now with arcs of red.
"If you run—you die.
If you fight—you die.
I'm giving you a choice.
Die on your knees... or die swinging."
Infernum Fulgur pulsed in his hands. Hungry. Alive.
"You have three seconds."
The devil hesitated. Dante saw it—plain as day. His body screamed to run, the way any devil's would when death called. But rage drowned instinct. He squared up, twin-bladed axe raised to eye level, eyes burning with stupid defiance.
"You filthy Anti-Satan vermi—"
SCHLING.
The devil's words never finished. Steel flashed. Blood sprayed.
Dante didn't look back.
In a flash of crimson light, the axe in the devil's hand was sliced cleanly in haft horizontally, causing the finely crafted weapon to clatter to the floor loudly which was followed by the two arms and torso of the devil that wielded it... the blade of Dante Vale Gremory having passed without resistance through the devils armor like butter
Dante's eyes were cold and narrowed, the faint wisps of Arc energy danced around his form that now stood directly behind the dead devil, the thick blood that coated Infernum Fulgur slid off the blade easily, like it was oil.
Three seconds, he said... talking was unwise
"NO!" came a loud cry from a pillar behind him. Dante's cold eyes turned slowly to see a woman and a small collection of Inquisitors standing not too far from him, Dante's eyes locked onto the woman. She had long black hair that fell loosely past her shoulders and a pair of yellow eyes. She was wearing feminine armor similar to the devil dead at his feet, while he already knew of the inquisitors she however stood out among them as she didn't have a helmet and because of that her eyes that which were filled with shock and despair were clearly visible to him. It also became perfectly clear to him that the devil he'd killed was obviously the woman's lover
Dante's eyes however remained uncaring, even angry at the look of sadness on the woman's face. His anger grew further as the woman regarded him with a look that screamed 'monster'... 'Murderer', his brow creased and his face contorted into a snarl – inadvertently causing his appearance to grow even more imposing – before he fully turned to regard the woman and her escort. His stance dropped slightly, knees bent and his sword brought closely to his right side – held upright – his gaze turning into a look akin to tranquil fury... a deep frown, eyes that spoke of the clearest intent shown for all of them to see
This woman was associated with a killer apart of the Old-Satan faction, a faction responsible for countless atrocities fit for only demons to conduct and she had the gull to regard him as if he was worse? They, the ones who murder hundreds for a foolish goal, they, who sought their own destruction
If they wished for destruction then he'd obliged them himself
His mind cleared of all hesitation
His thoughts aligned with only one directive
Only one goal
They are rage...
Brutal...
Without mercy...
But you... you will be worse...
RIP and TEAR, until it is done!