It was like a military escort.
The day the gauntlet arrived marked a drastic shift in atmosphere—one of discipline, power, and martial honor. Dante had seen his share of royal processions and ceremonial parades, but nothing compared to the arrival of the Praetorians—Sirzechs' elite military guard. They did not simply come; they descended.
A low, resonant rumble announced their presence before their carriages even came into view. These were not ornate, gilded vessels used to carry pampered nobles. No, these carriages were longer—at least twenty feet end-to-end—and stripped of all pomp. They exuded a rugged elegance, forged with the ironclad purpose of war. Their design was unmistakably utilitarian, dressed in tones of blackened steel and crimson sigils—echoing the brutal aesthetics of the Red Legion. If anything, they resembled ground-based dropships more than carriages, their hulking frames and reinforced plating giving them a near-mechanized appearance.
When they finally rolled to a halt at the edge of the estate, the rear drop doors unlatched with a hiss of pressurized locks. Out filed black-clad knights with machine-like precision, their movements in perfect synchrony. It reminded Dante eerily of a wingless Pelican from the old Halo stories—grim and thunderous. They poured out of the carriages in disciplined waves, forming formation lines along the estate's front pathway as though they'd rehearsed this a thousand times.
There was no wasted motion. No disorder. Just efficiency refined to a razor's edge.
It was the same path the butlers and maids had stood on, lined up in their own display of coordinated grace a week earlier. But this was different—sterner. More final.
Then came the head Praetorian.
He emerged last, and everything about him radiated authority that felt almost gravitational. Unlike his comrades, whose armor was uniform and grim, his was marked by ornate customization. His pauldrons and chestplate gleamed with golden inlays that traced jagged patterns across the steel, and a cloak of white fur fanned out beneath his shoulders—draped like a mantle of conquest. Blood-red cloths hung from his waist and rear like a half-skirt, falling past his knees and catching the breeze like banners on a war-torn battlefield.
Ribbons and battle honors clung to his torso in layered streaks—each color a testament to victories, losses, and unspeakable survival. His helm was off, revealing a face carved by both time and resolve. There were no soft features here. Only the hardened stare of someone who had stared down death—and walked away victorious.
Dante felt the shift in energy immediately. This was no mere soldier, no officer passing through on orders. This was the apex of Sirzechs' martial power—the one the Devil King trusted above all. This was the man Sirzechs had once spoken of in brief, almost reverent tones: a warrior who had seen the worst hells of the underworld and returned not just alive, but forged anew. A man who bore not only armor, but the burden of a thousand victories.
And that red Gremory sigil, emblazoned upon his cloak in deep thread, gleamed under the estate's sun like a brand of absolute authority.
Sirzechs had once said it: "My praetorians have walked through more than war. They've walked through betrayal, sacrifice, and loss—yet never wavered. Their loyalty is the rarest steel. Hell would sooner freeze before one of them turned against me."
And as Dante stood there, witnessing the martial ballet of the Praetorians' arrival, he believed it. He believed it with every inch of his soul.
Before the arrival of the Praetorians, Dante underwent a transformation—a deliberate shedding of his worn-out past and a reluctant step into something far more dignified. It wasn't just an aesthetic change; it was a statement.
The first thing to go was his hair.
Once long and unkempt, it had grown to the point where it weighed heavily on his neck—both literally and metaphorically. Dante had always carried his thick, wild mane like a badge of rebellion, but now, seated in a plush chair before a skilled stylist, he watched as nearly ten pounds of hair hit the floor. The stylist had chuckled softly, claiming his hair was too stubborn to tame, too defiant to truly sculpt. So she thinned it out and combed it over to his right, leaving a clean, choppy mess that barely brushed the base of his neck.
"Genetics," Dante had joked, "Inherited it from my grandmother."
She smiled at that—softly, fondly. It was the kind of smile that acknowledged not just his words, but the spirit behind them.
Then came the beard.
His 'Viking beard,' as he so lovingly called it, was trimmed with clinical precision. Dante initially feared they'd shave it clean, turning him into some baby-faced boy stripped of his hard-earned grit. But thankfully, no. It was merely refined, groomed into something sharp yet still rugged. Apparently, a clean-shaven face in this household signified being single. Dante didn't complain. As long as he kept his damn beard, the world could think whatever it wanted.
His clothes, however, were not spared.
The black outfit he'd looted from one of the fallen knights—torn, burned, and blood-stained from his reckless mountain adventure—was incinerated without a second thought. Venelana herself had seen to that. The moment he stepped back onto the estate grounds, she practically tore the rags from his body. At first, Dante thought she was about to kill him—or worse. But then came a glowing black-and-red orb in her palm. The Power of Destruction.
That explained everything.
What replaced the old was nothing short of extraordinary.
Crafted over several days in secrecy, the Gremory-tailored uniform was presented to him like sacred armor. The coat was a heavily modified flock-style jacket, buttoned over the right side of his chest with a regal design that somehow didn't sacrifice function for form. Deep red fabric dominated its structure, accented by sharp black lining and a high collar that curled around his neck with aristocratic flair. Along the hem and sleeves, black downward-facing sword sigils subtly marked his military standing.
His boots were chromed from thigh to toe, sleek with red etchings that swirled like demonic script. The long coat tails cascaded to his ankles, the outer edges trimmed in black and gold. On his left side, one tail hung loose and slightly detached, bearing the Gremory emblem: a single crimson rose encased in concentric rings. It glowed faintly—enchanted with latent magic sewn directly into the fabric.
At first, Dante wasn't sure what to make of it. The outfit felt too elaborate, too ceremonial for someone who prided himself on practical combat attire. But Venelana was insistent. This wasn't just formalwear. It was battle-ready, forged with both presentation and function in mind. The moment he put it on, his doubts melted away.
The coat fit like a second skin—tight in the right places, loose where it needed to be. It moved with him, not against him. And the fabric… the fabric was unreal. Soft yet impenetrable, light yet durable.
Apparently, it came from Morning Star Fabrix, a premium outfitter known for replicating Lucifer's divine robes. The materials were infused with self-repairing enchantments and magically reactive fibers that hardened upon impact. Nano-tech, essentially—but powered by demonic craft. Dante now understood why Sirzechs' elite wore such attire. It wasn't vanity. It was superiority.
And cost. Oh, it cost a fortune.
Yet even with his new look, something else had anchored his transformation.
Strapped to his back was the source of an awe no one could quite conceal: Infernum Fulgur.
A sword of legend. Forged by primordial demons before history was written. Each was entombed in obsidian to keep its power sealed, its wrath dormant. And Dante—without ceremony, without flair—had unsheathed it.
Casually.
The estate hadn't forgotten that moment.
It lingered in the walls, in the whispering halls, in the nervous glances of those who saw. Because when Dante drew Infernum Fulgur, the obsidian sheath cracked like thunder—and the blade beneath pulsed with ancient hunger.
It didn't just mark him.
It defined him.