The man in the black hood gave a silent nod after receiving confirmation from Heinrich. His gaze shifted to Dante, deeming him the greatest threat in the room. A faint crimson glow pierced the shadows of his hood, revealing eyes like burning coals, locked onto the infamous hunter.
"So we finally meet… Dante, the bloodhound of the Apex Institute," the hooded man said, his voice low and ominous. "If you're here, that means someone's being hunted. The Papillon twins, perhaps?"
Dante casually wiped blood from his blade, unbothered by the question.
"I don't share details about my prey with my prey. That would be a waste of breath. And time. Considering you won't be breathing in a few minutes."
The hooded man unsheathed a red checkered blade that hummed with barely contained power. Dante tensed slightly, eyeing the weapon. He could feel the man's killing intent radiating from its edge like venom.
They locked eyes. Neither moved.
Though their bodies were still, their minds were anything but. A mental battle erupted—a clash of willpower, intuition, and cold calculation. They tried to predict the other's abilities, movements, weaknesses. Seconds dragged into eternity.
Then—Dante blinked.
In an instant, he reappeared at the man's right, his katana arcing toward the man's neck with ruthless precision. But the red blade intercepted the strike a hair's breadth before it could land. The hooded man parried smoothly, retaliating with a wide slash aimed at Dante's chest.
Dante countered, deflecting the blow—only to feel the enemy's blade elongate mid-swing, curving downward like a whip.
Dante blinked again, narrowly escaping. He reappeared a few feet away, a thin line of blood trailing down his cheek.
"Shit," he muttered, wiping the blood and scowling at the red smear on his shirt. "This is a new shirt."
In the moment it took him to inspect the stain, the man vanished into the crowd of the bustling marketplace.
"You're not what I expected," the man's voice echoed from somewhere near a vendor's apple cart. "Who knew the Apex Institute's infamous bloodhound could be distracted by a little blood?"
Without hesitation, Dante slashed the apple cart in two. Apples exploded across the cobbled street.
"Oof. That temper of yours really isn't exaggerated," the voice chuckled—this time from behind.
Dante whirled around, slicing through empty air. Only the distant sound of Theo and Tyler shouting reminded him how far he had strayed from his team.
"I'm not saying you're weak," the voice continued. "I just didn't want the others to see what I'm about to do."
The hooded figure emerged from the shadows.
He removed his cloak and let it fall away. A sleek black gas mask covered the lower half of his face. His eyes glowed with a fierce electric blue—sharper than lightning. Jet-black hair slicked back, a partial armored chest plate covering his vital organs, showcased a muscular frame carved for war.
Dante's eyes narrowed. "Well, I'll be damned. Malachi Caldwell. The Chameleon himself. What's the most notorious enforcer from the Red Light District doing in Hell's Mouth?"
Malachi smirked behind his mask. "How'd you figure out who I was so fast? I haven't heard that name in years."
"The moment our blades met, I felt it. Your weapon… the buoyancy. It deflected my strike like it had a mind of its own. I knew then I was dealing with someone exceptional."
Malachi laughed. "You figured out my identity from one clash?"
"I make it my business to know the MW Hundred," Dante said with a confident grin.
"The Most Wanted list, huh? I've been lying low so long I forgot I was even on it. Where do I rank these days?"
Dante scratched his head. "Number 72… No, wait. I killed him last summer. Could be 86? No, I took his head a few months back."
"Ridiculous. I used to be in the lower 30s," Malachi grunted.
"Yeah? If you were, I'd have ordered my team to retreat the second you showed up. But your aura told me all I needed. Upper 70s, maybe 80s. Still, you might be worth more than the Papillon twins. But you're not my target today. So, I'm feeling generous. Walk away. Don't interfere, and I'll let you live."
Dante sheathed his katana.
Malachi's eyes gleamed. "Tempting. But I've got a new employer. One condition of my residence here? Eliminate all intruders. You should know—I never leave a job unfinished."
Dante exhaled slowly, his eyes closing in solemn acceptance.
"And you should know… the bloodhound never lets his prey escape."
The temperature seemed to drop. A wave of killing intent burst from Dante, forming the outline of a massive spectral skull above his head. Malachi flinched, instinctively stepping back.
Then, in a blur, he struck—his blade stretching into a whip that slashed across Dante's chest, tearing through his shirt.
Dante didn't move.
He opened his eyes, and a serene calm washed over him.
"Yes," he whispered. "This is it."
His body trembled—not from pain, but from the rush. The anticipation. The thrill of combat.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.
Malachi took another step back.
Something had changed. This wasn't the same man he fought moments ago. This Dante was colder. Focused. Possessed.
Malachi vanished again.
But Dante was done playing games.
He tapped the button on his silver wristband.
"Code name?"
"Bloodhound."
"Accepted. What would you like to see?"
"Case file: Chameleon of the Red Light District."
A holographic screen flickered to life.
Confidential Document: Most Wanted Contractor #61
Name: Malachi Caldwell
Alias: Chameleon
Bloodline Trait: Melanophore – Can manipulate pigment granules in his skin, allowing him to blend seamlessly with any surface he touches. Effectively renders him invisible to the naked eye.
Relic: Sword of Charlemagne – Extends, retracts, and bends at will, behaving like a blade or a whip.
Fighting Style: Unknown
Background: Former assassin and enforcer for the Doll House syndicate. Listed as a high-priority threat in 2048. Wanted dead or alive. Relic must be recovered at all costs.
Threat Level: SS
Dante's pulse quickened. He chuckled darkly.
"Something funny?" Malachi's voice called out, echoing unnaturally. "I've got a 99% success rate. Only missed once. Don't bet on being the one percent."
Dante caught a flicker of movement to his left—but it was a feint. A sharp crack rang out as a whip struck his back from the opposite direction. He winced, blinking away atop a flower vendor's canopy.
He reached behind him—no blood. His Cloak of Midnight had held up, but the sting of the blow was real.
"This," he said, tucking his long dreads back into his cloak, "is going to be more interesting than I first thought."