In just two nights, Dante had reduced nineteen curse dens to ashes.
Nineteen respectable façades to the public eye, nineteen seemingly harmless shops with polished counters and spotless windows that, behind heavy curtains, sold chains and misfortune.
And in none of the registers consumed by the flames was there a single trace of the client he desperately sought : the one who had curse his mother.
The papers called them tragic accidents: short circuits, gas leaks, household fires. But in the streets, tongues loosened.
Nineteen fires in forty-eight hours, all targeting businesses? It reeked of a vendetta.
That night, rain fell hard. Heavy drops hammered the cobblestones, turned the alleys into muddy rivers, and glued clothes to the skin.
For some, it was a blessing. Rain washed the rooftops, scrubbed the stench from the air, and lulled insomniacs to sleep.
For those without a roof, it was just another burden. Dante was one of them.
Since his "fires," he knew he was being hunted. He didn't dare go home, afraid that his only family would be dragged into it.
He staggered with exhaustion, but his legs refused to give in. The cold gnawed at his bones, but rage kept them burning.
Under a flickering lamppost, he pulled a crumpled slip from his pocket.
Water had already streaked the ink, but the name was still clear, etched into his memory :
"Chrysalide."
He looked up. In front of him, a discreet, old-fashioned shopfront.
A window cluttered with knick-knacks, cracked clocks, dusty figurines.
Everything about it breathed banal commerce, innocence polished by time.
By day, a respectable antiques dealer. By night, a lair.
They sold curses there, and slaves torn from their freedom.
They sold wild beasts, corrupted into weapons of war.
In this world, slavery was legal.
Mutants weren't considered people, only livestock. Animals, mere tools.
But Soo Jin — the soul inside Dante's body— had never accepted that.
In the old world, he had fought against those chains.
He had shouted, pleaded, bled to abolish that vile trade. And he had lost.
Here, only resignation and the law of the strong remained.
The paper trembled between his cold, filthy fingers.
He drew a long breath. Then, without a word, he folded the slip in his wet hand and let it fall into a puddle.
The ink dissolved instantly, swallowed by a drain.
Dante lifted his head toward Chrysalide's façade, his hard eyes catching the neon light.
— "The last den…"
He pushed the door.
The hinges screamed into the deserted night.
A smell of dust, wax, and damp wood hit his nose.
Inside, shelves sagged under strange objects : amulettes, ritual masks, cloudy vials, shards of rusted weapons… all torn from some bygone past.
But those trinkets weren't what he had come for.
His eyes went straight to the man seated behind a heavy counter, lit by an oil lamp.
A man in his fifties, gray hair slicked back, reading a worn-out newspaper.
Without looking up, the man said in a weary voice:
— "We're closed. Come back tomorrow."
Dante wasted no time.
— "I'm here for your night services."
Silence thickened. The man's hands froze on the page.
Slowly, he lifted his head. Cold eyes swept Dante from head to toe, lingering on the soaked coat, the youthful face. His lips curled in a thin smile.
— "Young man… we don't provide that kind of night service." he said, stressing the word, clinging to the guise of a respectable merchant.
But Dante frowned. Beneath his feet, he could feel the black energy pulsing from the cellar.
He had sensed it in the other dens. He knew what it meant.
He held the man's gaze and murmured evenly :
— "Don't play with me. I felt the corrupt energy downstairs. I know what you're hiding."
The man raised a brow, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.
This boy wasn't just a curious brat : he had talent — and dangerous resolve.
But a potential client, even unexpected, was still a client.
He set his paper aside, folded his hands on the counter, and said:
— "Very well. If you want to walk in our circles, you'll need official ID. No papers, no transaction."
Dante froze a moment, caught off guard. None of the other dens had demanded that. His brow arched.
— "Why?" he asked flatly.
— "Because," the man answered firmly, "we don't deal with strangers."
Dante stepped closer, laid a roll of bills—taken from his previous "visits"—on the counter.
— "And if, instead of papers, I showed you… goodwill?"
His tone softened, almost charming. His hard gaze shifted into something gentler.
The man stayed silent, weighing him. Then, finally, he gave a small, satisfied smirk and swept the money under his paper.
— "Perhaps you've got more guts than I thought. Follow me."
He grabbed the oil lamp, came around the counter, and opened a door hidden in shadow.
Behind it, a spiral staircase plunged into the bowels of the shop.
Below, a revolting sight spread out. Dozens of cages, stacked into iron walls.
To the left, mutants who still clung to scraps of consciousness. Their eyes were broken, hollow — but Dante still read mute suffering in them.
To the right, feral mutants, twisted by corruption.
They shrieked, clawed the bars, bit at their leather muzzles. Chains rattled frantically.
Armed men stood around them—not shop clerks, but mercenaries.
Their clothes were filthy, but their weapons gleamed.
Some carried revolvers, others sabers or short blades. They eyed Dante with hard suspicion.
The old man raised the lamp, his voice turning theatrical.
— "Here is our stock. Everything you could dream of: obedient half-humans, trained mutants, beasts of war. Every specimen has a story.
Take this one — caught in Port of Awa. Three men died for him, but look at that muscle. A killing machine."
He spoke with pride, with hunger, like a collector flaunting trophies.
Dante saw no "merchandise." Only pleading eyes, trembling bodies, lives torn from freedom. Most of them young.
He clenched his fists inside his pockets.
Another carrion trade. Another one to burn.
But his voice came out calm, almost indifferent:
— "All this is impressive… but I didn't come for a slave. I want a curse. Do you deal in those?"
The man rubbed his hands eagerly, delighted at the word.
— "Ah! Now that's interesting… Yes, of course we do. But that requires discussion in my office. Come."
He led Dante through the cages to another, heavier iron door.
Inside, shelves sagged under jars of abominations : twisted insects, amphibians, animal fragments steeped in dark liquid.
Eyes floated in the glass, following Dante's every move.
Further in, cages held mutated reptiles.
A black snake, arm-long, coiled tight against its glass as Dante passed.
— "Charming, isn't it?" said the man with a forced smile, settling behind a desk littered with ink-stained papers.
He gestured to a chair across.
— "Sit down, young client."
Dante crossed his arms, remained standing.
— "I'd rather admire your… collection."
The man shrugged as if indifferent, though his gaze tracked every twitch.
— "Very well. Then let's talk business. Who's the target?"
A faint smile curved Dante's lips.
— "Annabelle Edwin."
The man stiffened, his smile flickering.
— "Interesting. But… I'm afraid I must disappoint you. That woman was cursed recently. By a rather… demanding client."
Dante picked up a jar from a shelf, held it to eye level.
Inside, a monstrous insect—half cockroach, half scorpion—thrashed its legs against the glass.
— "And this client," Dante murmured, "what's his name?"
The man narrowed his eyes.
— "That's… confidential. We protect our buyers' discretion."
But suspicion crept into his mind. Recently all his competitors had been eliminated, what if he was next ?
His hand slid toward a desk drawer, fingertips brushing the grip of a revolver.
— "Don't." Dante's voice snapped, icy. Without even turning his head, he had sensed it — as if he had eyes in the back of his skull.
The man shuddered.
— "How…?"
Before he could shoot, Dante hurled the jar. Glass shattered across the man's forehead.
— "You should have thought about what you think before." He said as if reading minds.
The insect spilled out, skittering with a hiss, claws scratching wood. Blood streamed down the man's temple.
Dante advanced, calm.
— "Don't play tamer, old man. These creatures… they don't obey you."
The man, dazed but defiant, sneered through the pain.
— "Fool… They belong to me."
— "I feel their emotions," Dante cut in. "They're in pain. They scream to be free."
He toppled more jars. Creatures spilled onto the floor, writhing.
— "Stop!" the man roared.
He fired. The gunshot thundered in the tight room. But the bullet, instead of piercing Dante's skull, warped and dropped, bent by an unseen force.
Dante smirked coldly.
— "Pathetic. You think your toys can touch me? At the stage of Harmonization, weapons like yours are worthless."
The man paled.
— "Harmonization…? What are you talking about—"[1]
Panicked, he fired again and again. Bullets ricocheted, shattering jars, snapping cages open.
Creatures burst free, shrieking, filling the air. Blood welled in his eyes, his hand shook.
The beasts lunged at him. A serpent coiled his throat, insects burrowed under his skin, mutant rodents bit deep.
— "Help me…"
His screams split the room. Dante stood unmoving, coldly watching.
— "Fine, fine… Help me and I'll tell you the client's name—"
— "You're in no position to bargain. Say it now."
— "All right… His name is—"
---
On the other side of the door, mercenaries flinched at the gunfire and shattering glass.
— "What the hell's going on?" one muttered, gripping his sword tighter.
— "We'd better check." another said grimly.
They edged closer, whispering.
— "I don't like this…"
— "Shut up and open it."
The door creaked. The sight froze them : their employer, standing, body convulsing, eyes bloodshot. Creatures crawled over him, tearing flesh.
— "Boss?! Boss, are you—?!"
He didn't answer. With an animal snarl, he leapt, clawing, biting, teeth bloodstained.
— "Shit!" a merc yelled, firing wildly.
— "Shoot! Shoot him!"
---
Meanwhile, Dante slipped out through another door, the old man's revolver in hand.
He aimed several shots at the cage locks, metal snapped. Savage mutants surged free.
Mercenaries screamed in horror.
— "They're free! Run!"
— "No, stay together—"
Too late. The beasts fell on them, clawing, ripping. Their pleas grew frantic.
— "Help us! HELP!"
They reached out to Dante.
He looked back with contempt, then shut the door, locking them inside with their executioners.
The screams lasted minutes — gunshots, metal clashing, then groans… and silence.
---
When Dante reopened the door, cages were torn apart, bodies dismembered.
Only one mercenary still breathed, sprawled in blood, chest flayed open.
Dante clapped slowly, his steps echoeing.
— "Bravo. You'll have the honor of dying by my hand."
The survivor's eyes rolled back. His voice rasped :
— "Demon… Who are you to judge us? You're worse than us…"
Dante pressed the barrel to his forehead.
— "Nothing personal."
He fired. Blood splattered his cold face.
Then he turned to the cages of slaves.
The survivors huddled in the back, trembling.
When he raised the revolver, some shut their eyes, certain he would execute them. But instead, he fired at the locks.
— "Out."
Chains clattered, doors swung open. They staggered out, stunned.
A half-shifted lycan dared to ask :
— "What can we… do to thank you?"
Dante holstered the gun and replied flatly:
— "Nothing. Get out, and forget this place ever existed."
Silence hung heavy. No cheers, no relief —only fear — their liberator terrified them more than their jailers.
They fled without looking back.
Dante stood alone, staring at the empty cages and those still locked — mutants too dangerous to release.
— "They were human once… But I'm still too weak to save them."
— "Well... I think it's time to erase my tracks."
[1] Most folk people are not familiar with these terms.