Duraand.
A city that stank of filth and misery. Rain-slick cobblestones never dried right, steeped in piss and spilled beer.
The street he walked was poorly lit. Burnt-out lamps gave way to occasional halos of yellow, leaving stretches of shadow perfect for shady deals and paid embraces.
Half-dead neon signs flickered, as if even the electricity refused to work in this dump.
Farther down, a prostitute was screaming at a client who refused to pay. The air reeked of crack smoke and cheap powder.
Dante pulled his coat tighter around himself. The cold bit at his cheeks, but his mind was elsewhere.
He didn't have much time to uncover the source of this curse.
— "If someone went through the trouble of cursing her once, nothing will stop them from doing it again the moment they see her regain strength." He thought, worried.
The problem ? Duraand was crawling with frauds, dealers, and self-proclaimed awakened.
It was like searching for a needle in a landfill. And worse — a needle doesn't actively try to stay hidden.
— "If I get my hands on this den, I'll make sure nothing's left of it." He shook his hand in anger.
Then, out of nowhere, a man lurched forward. Filthy, wide-eyed, his face hollowed by addiction.
He collapsed at Dante's feet, on his knees, hands clasped like in prayer.
— "Please… please, boss… spare some change, just a few Sol…"
Dante stared in silence, impassive. Just another poor bastard lost in the abyss of drugs. Normally, he would have walked past. But then a thought crossed his mind.
— "Maybe rats like this know things. They hear, they see, they survive by selling scraps of information. And I don't have the time of playing detective for long."
He pretended to fumble in his coat for coins. His fingers brushed against something hard— a pill.
He blinked.
— "Wait… what the hell is that doing here?"
He remembered Jophiel, clinging to him. Her hands had searched his pockets without him noticing. She must have slipped it in—precaution, no doubt.
A sly grin twisted his lips.
He pulled the pill out, letting it glint before the crackhead's eyes.
— "Is this what you want?"
The man started shaking, nodding frantically, hands reaching out, desperate.
— "Y-yes! Yes, boss! Give it to me, please, I need it!"
Dante laughed inwardly.
— "This idiot doesn't even know what it is. These meds aren't drugs. They're bitter and nasty, with side effects for anyone who isn't corrupted. But if it gets me information…"
He leaned in slightly, his eyes locking with the crackhead.
— "I have a condition. I'm looking for someone. An informant—the kind who knows everything about the dirty business in this city."
The crackhead bobbed his head so fast it was a wonder it didn't snap off.
— "Y-yes! Yes, yes! Belloq! Belloq, that's who you want! He knows everything, everything! Always hangs out at his bar, — The Last Drop, — in the old quarter! He's got a black eye—ask for Belloq and you'll find him!"
Dante smiled, satisfied. He tossed the pill casually into the man's filthy hands.
— "Here's your reward."
The addict snatched it up, trembling, and swallowed it almost instantly. Seconds later, his face twisted in shock at the bitter taste.
His eyes widened.
— "Hey… wait! What the fuck is this?! That's not dope, you bastard!"
He glared up in rage — but Dante was already gone.
The crackhead howled in frustration, pounding the ground with bony fists.
— "Son of a bitch! I'm never taking drugs as payment again! Never!"
...
Dante shoved open the heavy wooden door, and a wave of muggy heat, stale beer, and sweat smacked him in the face.
Inside, the roar of voices, clinking glasses, and booming laughter blended into a constant racket.
Heads turned immediately toward him — a kid who clearly didn't belong. Murmurs snaked between the tables.
— "Hey, check this out… a brat." an old drunk snickered.
— "Did he get lost or something?" another jeered, slamming his glass down.
Dante clenched his fists but kept his head high. His firm voice cut through the noise :
— "I'm looking for Belloq."
For a moment, silence fell heavy—then a raspy laugh broke out from the back.
A man with swollen, bruised eyes, as if he'd spent the night brawling, raised his glass.
— "Over here, kid."
Dante locked eyes with him : this had to be Belloq, the informant the crackhead mentioned.
The man studied him, amused, before slamming his glass down hard on the table.
— "So, you're the one begging for information? Hope you've got 10.000 Sol on you."
Dante's heart skipped a beat. 10.000 Sol ? He didn't even have a quarter of that, not even if he emptied his savings.
His face betrayed a flicker of shock, which earned a roaring laugh from Belloq.
— "Hahaha! Look at that face! What'd you think, kid? That we live on air and good intentions? But… I can cut you a deal."
He leaned forward, yellow teeth flashing under the dim light.
— "Show me what you've got."
— "What do you mean?" Dante asked, wary.
— "I'm in a good mood, so I'll give you a chance. A drinking contest. But—you're buying the round."
The tavern erupted in excitement. Patrons stood, pounding tables, demanding a show.
— "Come on, the kid against Belloq!"
— "He's gonna drown in his mug!"
Dante hesitated. His fists trembled under the table, torn between fear and fury.
But backing down meant losing his only chance. He drew a deep breath, locked eyes with Belloq, and nodded.
— "Challenge accepted."
The mugs were lined up. The whole bar held its breath.
With each gulp, Dante felt the bitterness scorch his throat and his stomach twist, but he refused to give in.
Belloq roared with laughter, spilling foam across the table, certain of victory.
But against all odds, it was Dante — panting but upright — who drained his final mug to the cheers of the crowd.
— "Incredible! The kid won!"
The tavern erupted in shouts and raucous laughter.
Belloq, stunned, burst into a guttural laugh and smacked Dante on the back hard enough to nearly topple him.
— "Well done, kid. I'll admit, you've got more guts than half the drunks in here. What do you want?"
— "The list of curse den."
— "Oh? Lucky you. Not long ago, a guy paid me triple for that info, so I made a copy. Figured someone else with money might come asking…"
Dante raised an eyebrow in astonishment.
— "Can I have his name?"
— "Don't you think you're taking advantage of someone who has no money?"
Dante's silence answered his rhetorical question.
He pulled a crumpled sheet from his jacket and slapped it down.
— "There's your reward. The list of curse den in this city. If you get yourself in trouble, don't you dare rat me out."