Dante found himself alone in the expansive training fields of the Gremory family's private getaway estate, fingers clamped tightly against his temples as he tried—desperately—to scrub his memory clean of the awkwardness he had just endured. Every few seconds, he'd shake his head violently, like a dog trying to rid itself of water, or let out a quiet groan of horror. At one point, his skin even visibly crawled.
He was haunted.
"What's wrong with you?" came the dry, tired voice of Sirzechs as he approached, his usual dark circles making him look as if he hadn't slept since the last age of peace.
Dante didn't bother to lift his head. He simply shook it in quiet agony. "Nothing. I just barely escaped a... deadly spar with your—our mother."
"Oh?" Sirzechs brightened, almost eagerly. "I would've loved to have seen that."
Dante immediately coughed—violently, awkwardly—into his fist, as if his body were trying to forcibly reject the mental image that had accompanied his brother's enthusiastic remark. Sirzechs' brow furrowed in concern.
"Hey! Are you okay?"
"No," Dante muttered, standing abruptly and shaking his head like he was trying to rattle the memory loose. "No, you wouldn't have wanted to see that. Trust me. It was... it was starting to smell like fish in there anyway, so I had to get out."
Sirzechs blinked, confused. He turned his gaze back toward the mansion. "Hm. I should inform the maids about this 'fishy' smell. We can't have something like that lingering indoors."
Dante's eyes widened in horror as he realized what Sirzechs was about to do.
"NO! DON'T, BROTHER!" he shouted, panic erupting in his chest as he extended his arm. With a flick of his fingers and a pulse of force, he forcefully yanked the older devil back across the field. Sirzechs glided effortlessly over the grass, his boots leaving faint scuffs as he returned to Dante's side.
He blinked, completely unfazed. "What was that for?"
Dante stood rigid, chest slightly heaving, staring down his brother like a man trying to stop a catastrophic mistake from repeating itself. "Trust me, I think Father can handle it just fine. There's no need for his sons to interfere in his... duties."
He threw in as many euphemisms as he could manage, hoping something would land.
Sirzechs remained confused, though he eventually nodded. "Alright. If you say so. Though I am still puzzled why you're so adamant about this."
Dante reached up and gently tapped his brother on the forehead. "You'll understand when you get older."
Sirzechs glared, indignant. "I am older. By hundreds of years."
Dante gave a smug smile and hummed dismissively. "Whatever you say, Squirrely Dan."
Sirzechs' left eye twitched at the nickname. "Summon your sword-spear, brat."
Dante laughed, his mood slightly lifted, and extended his hand. A soft pulse of telekinetic energy spread through the air around him as he summoned his weapon.
This was something new—something he'd only recently learned with Zeoticus. During a few private sessions, the former Lord of the Gremory household had walked him through the fundamentals of demonic energy: its properties, its versatility, and the countless applications in both daily life and combat. Basic uses included cleaning, detection, or defensive barriers. More advanced uses? Teleportation, dimensional compression, and spellwork.
Unfortunately, demonic energy didn't come naturally to Dante. He was still human, after all. For the first four days of training, his demonic reserves were nearly nonexistent. But through sheer determination, repeated effort, and probably some natural stubbornness, he'd managed to unlock and refine a usable amount of energy.
What baffled Dante wasn't the difficulty—it was the ease that followed once the barrier broke. It felt wrong, almost like cheating. One day, he couldn't even manifest a spark. The next? He accidentally opened a small rift in space.
That moment had led to a re-evaluation of everything he thought he knew about his powers.
Up to that point, Dante had always considered his abilities to be purely telekinetic—mental manipulation of force, matter, and pressure. But this recent development hinted at something more fundamental. It wasn't just about moving things with his mind. It was about wanting something—envisioning it—and then, over time, reality shifting to accommodate his will.
Adaptability. That was the core of it.
During one of his lessons, after countless failures at even the most basic demonic spell, Dante had stood in frustration, reached for his weapon—and had willed it into his hand. A soft ripple had filled the air, and suddenly, a pocket dimension had opened before him. Out of it came his sword-spear, hovering calmly in the air, untouched by the physical world.
Zeoticus had been stunned.
Not because of the pocket dimension itself—many devils could store equipment that way—but because Dante had done it without a demonic crest. No sigil. No invocation. No glyphs of ownership.
That wasn't devil magic.
That was demon magic.
Apparently, only ancient demons had been capable of such direct manipulation of space without a crest to anchor the spell. It wasn't just unheard of—it was impossible by today's standards. But Dante had done it instinctively, without a word.
Long story short: he had manipulated the natural ambient demonic energy in the environment, tore a hole through dimensional space, and created a private storage rift.
All to summon a single weapon.
Zeoticus, trying not to look alarmed, had congratulated him with an enthusiastic but clearly confused smile. Dante could still remember the words:
"Well, my boy, you've... made yourself a portable closet. Very efficient. Terrifying. But efficient."
Now, as his sword-spear materialized into his hand with a soft whum, Dante gave it a small twirl before resting it against his shoulder. The memory made him grin.
Sirzechs, meanwhile, was still glaring at him for the earlier nickname.
"Shall we spar, old man?" Dante teased.
Sirzechs smirked, eyes flashing. "Gladly. But don't cry to mother when I bruise your pride."
Dante readied his stance, smile widening.
"You'll be the one begging for cuddles when I'm done with you."
And with that, the two vanished into a blur of motion, the morning sun catching on steel and sparks as their training resumed—awkward memories forgotten, for now.
Dante was not an egotistical man, but that didn't mean he was without pride. And pride was clearly written across his face in the form of a smug grin, the kind that Venelana and Zeoticus had come to recognize easily over the past few days. It was the grin of a man who had just pulled off something impressive. Again.
A rip in space shimmered open beside him, a dark slit that crackled faintly with energy. Without so much as a gesture, the handle of his sword-spear emerged from the pocket dimension and leapt into his outstretched hand. With practiced fluidity, Dante pulled the blade free from the void and spun it once before dropping into his stance.
His left arm extended slightly in front of him, sword-spear angled downward in a close-range grip. The long haft of the weapon jutted behind his back like a poised scorpion's tail. Knees bent, body low, his eyes locked onto the figure before him.
Sirzechs Lucifer.
The Crimson Devil stood with the casual grace of a veteran, his stance unmistakably defensive. Right foot forward, left behind, his crimson sword held in a single-handed reverse grip, angled downward. His left hand remained tucked behind his back. Dante was reminded of a certain Star Wars character, a mental image he kept to himself.
It was one of the traditional devil sword styles—one that prioritized calculated defense over reckless aggression. On the surface, it seemed full of vulnerabilities, gaps in its guard that any ambitious attacker would be tempted to exploit. But Dante knew better. His own stance, too, had its openings. The difference was that his powers offered a buffer. Sirzechs, on the other hand, needed none.
Sirzechs had told him once that his power wasn't for the faint of heart. It was overwhelming, imprecise, and brutal. If Dante were to take a hit from it without preparation, it would leave a mark—or worse.
Dante made the first move.
He always had to. Sirzechs never attacked first. The elder devil was a patient opponent, willing to wait hours if need be for his adversary to commit. The purpose of their spars was for Dante to break through Sirzechs' guard, something he had yet to achieve. As long as that remained the goal, Sirzechs had no reason to initiate.
With a surge of motion, Dante lunged. The point of his blade shot toward Sirzechs' solar plexus in a quick jab. A flick of the crimson blade deflected it upward. Predictable. Dante landed and immediately backpedaled, circling the devil cautiously, then lunged again—this time with a wide, sweeping arc meant to test the timing of Sirzechs' return strike.
It worked, partially. The return strike from the elder devil was slightly weaker, giving Dante the opportunity to absorb the force and twist it into momentum. His blade carved upward in a low arc, slicing into the ground. An explosion of earth, grass, and wind burst out from beneath them.
When the dust cleared, they were locked in a parry. Dante gritted his teeth, while Sirzechs wore a faint, almost amused smile.
The style Dante was building had become more apparent with every clash. Heavy, fast, momentum-based. The long weapon and his raw strength were used not just to strike, but to crash through defense. Combined with his telekinetic powers, it allowed for feats no ordinary fighter could hope to replicate.
He used his telekinesis not just to throw objects, but to throw himself.
He could launch into and out of combat with blinding speed, the force of his own psychic propulsion adding weight to each attack. It was like being carried on a current of wind that answered only to him.
Sirzechs narrowed his eyes slightly, studying the energy now visible on Dante's blade. A faint blue outline shimmered against the metal. When Dante's weapon had cut through the ground without any resistance, it became clear that the blade was augmented. Not with runes or enchantments, but through pure, subconscious telekinetic sharpness.
It was terrifying.
Most ordinary weapons would have shattered on contact with that edge. Only magically reinforced blades or those forged from dragonite would stand a chance of withstanding a clash.
Sirzechs jumped, avoiding a low sweep aimed at his legs, then tilted to one side to redirect a downward slash. Still smiling.
Dante had come far. He could wield a weapon and move with confidence. But he still lacked combat instinct. He wasn't reading his opponent effectively. And more importantly—
He wasn't using his powers creatively.
With telekinesis, why not simply drop a boulder on him? Or pin him in place with crushing gravity? The boy was holding back, or perhaps not thinking broadly enough yet. But that was fine.
Sirzechs didn't mind dragging the spar out longer.
Deciding to shift to offense, Sirzechs lunged. A precise jab from his right hand—only for Dante to spin his weapon around his body, the long haft intercepting the strike and batting it aside.
Sirzechs hadn't expected the maneuver, and the brief opening left his back exposed.
For a split second, Dante moved in to end the spar. A gust of wind exploded outward as he surged forward, the tip of his blade arcing toward Sirzechs' spine. But the Crimson Devil rolled forward in a blur.
Just in time.
He brought his sword up, blocking a near-fatal swing.
The clang of metal on metal rang out as Dante's expression tightened in frustration. Inches away. Just inches.
"Looks like...I win."