As Dante tore across the long plains at a velocity he hadn't dared push before, his body moved with the precision and force of an arrow loosed from a divine bow. He'd unlocked this augmented speed a few days ago during a simple jogging session, but now it was being pushed beyond anything he'd previously imagined. Behind him, the thundering beat of Sirzechs' twelve wings closed the gap with terrifying ease. The air boomed from the force each wingbeat created, the elder devil's speed defying logic.
Dante glanced over his shoulder and saw Sirzechs gaining.
Digging deep, Dante bent low, his form leaning forward as his legs pumped harder. Muscles strained and ligaments flexed to the brink of tearing. Then, without conscious thought, something clicked. A faint blue hue shimmered around his body like a newborn flame.
He had broken his limit.
But Sirzechs was still behind him.
So he pushed again.
And again.
Each time, the aura intensified. That dim glow erupted into a roaring blue inferno, an ethereal flame of momentum and willpower. Every footstep detonated with shockwaves that cratered the earth and left trails of scorched grass in his wake. The air fractured with each movement, pulling trees from their roots and launching them aside like broken matchsticks. Winds whipped into howling currents behind him.
The endless plains became dense forest. Towering trees rose like walls meant to obstruct him, but they were nothing—mere paper to the flame as Dante sliced through them without hesitation, a streak of blue fire. And there, looming ahead like a black god's tooth piercing the skies, was the mountain.
The base greeted him with cracked earth and dead stone. Grass gave way to gravel, gravel to ash, and then to the molten sheen of sun-blackened bedrock.
Sirzechs was still gaining.
Dante's mind raced. The mountain was steep and smooth, a colossal monolith that looked more like a carved obelisk than a natural peak. He'd have to use every ounce of momentum just to scale it.
Thinking fast, Dante lunged toward the slope. One arm extended, fingers spread wide, he gripped the face of the obsidian structure. A shockwave echoed as his fingers buried into the black stone, forming a crater where his palm struck. Then, with a roar of effort and a grin splitting his face, he launched himself upward.
Sirzechs nearly overtook him—until Dante vanished from his path in a blur of manic laughter.
The devil lord tumbled midair, caught off-guard by the sudden maneuver. "Is he insane?! Oh wait... we've already confirmed that!" he yelled to no one, his wings flaring with renewed effort as he chased.
Dante's legs hit the monolith, and his body began to run up.
Every step tore chunks from the stone as he climbed with gravity-defying force. Each impact triggered another subtle explosion of speed, yet again breaking some subconscious barrier. The wind became a monster, screaming in his ears, but it couldn't match him. It clawed at him, sought to rip him off the wall—but Dante refused to falter.
Then came the clouds.
He pierced the storm layer like a bullet. Darkness swallowed him. Crimson flashes flickered around his silhouette, each pulse revealing brief glimpses of swirling chaos. The air was different up here—thicker, heavier, alive. Dante could feel it: raw power, Arc energy, writhing in agony and fury.
Then it attacked.
A bolt of blood-red lightning struck the space he had just vacated, vaporizing part of the cliff behind him.
"Whoa!" he barked, rolling mid-run and clinging to the wall with one hand while sprinting with the other. More lightning cracked through the clouds, chasing his form with violent hunger.
After a full minute of navigating through the electrified tempest, Dante spotted the summit. A final leap, a pulse of telekinetic energy through his legs, and he shot upward—catching the edge of the peak.
He landed.
The eye of the storm was silent.
Perfect silence. The clouds swirled around the peak in an impenetrable dome, yet within, all was still. The wind, the lightning, even the chaotic storm rage from earlier—it was gone.
Only Dante remained, standing atop the mountain as if at the center of a god's watchful gaze.
He exhaled slowly. The Arc energy was here, he could feel it, but it didn't behave like anything he'd felt before. Reaching out, Dante closed his eyes and let his senses expand.
Nothing.
It was everywhere, and nowhere. Wild. Untamable. Not a current to channel, but a living thing. He frowned, trying harder, reaching deeper. It was like dipping his hand into an ocean and hoping to grab a fish with closed fists.
Still, he didn't give up. His powers had always grown with exposure and effort.
But maybe... maybe not today.
He sighed, shaking his head. Ajuka would know more, but getting time with one of the three Great Devils was next to impossible. Especially with war looming.
Just as he turned to head back down, his foot struck something.
"Huh?"
Dante looked down.
There, stabbed into the obsidian stone, was a sword.
Its black and gold handle shimmered with age and power. The crimson pommel gleamed in the low light of the storm eye.
His curiosity piqued, Dante knelt beside it and traced his fingers along the hilt.
The weapon hummed. Not a sound, but a feeling—an invitation.
"Well," he muttered with a smirk, "might as well make friends."
He reached out and gripped the hilt.
The connection was instant.
Power surged. Not wild like the Arc energy, but measured, focused, ancient. It didn't feel like a devil's weapon, nor did it bear the essence of a fallen angel or angelic relic.
It felt... neutral. A relic from before distinctions were made.
A moment later, he released it.
Dante stared up at the jagged black blade before him, still pulsing faintly with a deep red hue. "So it's a barrier," he muttered, tapping his fingers against his thigh thoughtfully. "Hmmm... what's a fine-looking blade doing in a place like this?"
The question echoed into the stillness, unanswered by wind or word. The peak of the mountain was eerily quiet, wrapped in the muted thunder of distant Arc lightning and cloaked in the ghostly stillness of the eye of a storm. The small, flat plateau where the sword was embedded in the glossy obsidian stone gave little in the way of clues. A few feet away, a short decline led to a smaller landing, unremarkable save for its perch above the world.
Dante dropped into a casual seat beside the blade, his posture relaxed, but his mind was still sharp. He reached out, running his fingers along the unnaturally smooth surface of the blade. It felt like a polished slab of marble that had been honed by time itself—smooth, cold, and unnaturally perfect, almost like glass shaped by divine hands.
Noting its sheer size—a full-blown greatsword, easily taller than he was—Dante let out a low whistle. "Must've had a huge wielder, huh?" he asked the sword mockingly, half-amused at himself.
To his astonishment, the blade glowed softly in response—a pulse of deep crimson that flickered through the etched patterns like breath through lungs.
He stared at it, blinking. "No fucking way," he muttered, leaning in closer, his face inches from the mirror-like obsidian sheen. "Can... can you understand me?"
The glow intensified slightly.
Dante's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Out of all the strange things he had encountered in this godsforsaken land, a sentient sword in the literal eye of a storm hadn't made the list—yet here it was.
"Blink once if you can really understand me," he asked warily, watching closely.
The blade pulsed once.
He dragged a hand down his face, groaning. "Oh my god, I'm really doing this. I'm talking to a sword."
Then he smacked his forehead. "Get a grip, Dante. You should've expected this. You're in hell, fifteen hundred years from your time, and this is the thing that shakes you? A sentient sword? Really?"
After a long breath, he flopped back onto the obsidian stone, hands folded beneath his head as he circled around the blade like it was just another teammate he had to get used to.
"So..." he eventually said, staring up at the angry crimson dome of swirling storm clouds, "...want out?"
The moment the question left his lips, the reaction was immediate and violent. The black blade pulsed with crimson energy, Arc lightning dancing along its obsidian edge. The swirling power within began to boil outward from the core, wrapping the weapon in both violent red energy and black swirling magic. The ground around the sword cracked, glowing orange with molten light beneath the fractures. It felt like the sword was waking up.
Dante remained seated, only glancing down when a deep red magic crest formed under him—a glyph he didn't recognize. It hovered, flickered, and then vanished, leaving behind a dull thrum deep within his gut.
He tapped his stomach. "Huh... wonder if this thing just tried to possess me," he said aloud, but noted no change in sensation. He didn't feel overwhelmed, dizzy, or violated—just... connected.
The sword shifted.
Right before his eyes, the massive greatsword began to shrink, reshaping itself into a more practical size. The hilt adjusted to his grip; the length settled into something closer to a slightly oversized longsword. It still lacked a traditional crossguard, replaced by a set of golden rings that adorned the space between blade and hilt.
The sword had remade itself for him.
It hadn't been forced out of the stone. It still sat embedded in the mountain, as if this place were its resting place—no, its prison. Or perhaps... its sheath.
Dante rose to his feet, studying the now-familiar size of the weapon. He tilted his head slightly.
"I'll take that as a yes?"
The blade glowed once.
He narrowed his eyes. "You're not gonna try to possess me, are you? Just a heads-up, last guy who tried ended up with his head all over the walls."
Two flashes. No.
"Good." He exhaled.
The storm above them churned. The protective dome of calmness began to shrink, Arc lightning crashing more frequently beyond the thinning veil. Time was running short.
Dante looked to the sword one last time. "You know what? Screw it. 'Who dares wins,' right?"
And with that, he reached out and gripped the hilt.
The moment his fingers closed around the black and gold grip, the world reacted violently.
The mountaintop exploded in light.
A shockwave blasted outward, cracking the obsidian stone and sending pillars of lightning into the skies above. The dome shattered like glass, the tranquil eye of the storm now consumed by chaos. The sword surged with energy, bonding to Dante in an eruption of heat and sound.
Crimson lightning wrapped around his body, sinking into his skin. The glyph returned, larger and brighter, forming a circle of pure Arc energy around his feet.
Dante grit his teeth, weathering the storm as the weapon pulsed violently in his grip. His vision flared with blinding red, the air thick with electric fire. Pain lanced through his nerves, but it wasn't invasive. It was transformative.
He could feel the sword linking to his energy, his will, his soul. Whatever this blade had been before, it was now something new—something born from the crucible of demonic lightning and human resilience.
And then it stopped.
The air fell silent again. The crimson glow faded to a low thrum.
Dante opened his eyes.
The sword was quiet now. The storm still raged above, but it seemed to recognize him. Accept him.
He smirked, rolling his shoulders.
"Well then... looks like we're partners now."