Dante opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. The weight of his body pressed into the hard dirt beneath him, every nerve screaming as though it had been set on fire. Lowering his head, he forced himself to examine the ruin the creature had left him in. His arm dead and twisted, two white shards of bone straining to pierce the skin. When he lifted his torn shirt, he saw his chest half-collapsed, ribs bent inward like a broken cage.
Each breath was a labor, wheezing, wet, and shallow. The sound disgusted him more than the pain — it was the sound of weakness, of death closing in.
Behind him, the monster's body still trickling, its thick blood soaking the dirt, blackening it like ink spilled across parchment. His sword was still lodged in it. For a second, Dante thought of pulling it free — of feeling the weapon in his hands once more. But he knew. If he needed to use it his body would betray him. He'd crumple, weapon or not.
So he pushed forward, step by step, toward the man waiting by the massive door.
The figure didn't move, but when Dante finally reached him, he saw the man's expression. A shadow of surprise crossed his face. In a voice that was barely audible he spoke.
"Five hundred years… five hundred years…"
Dante rasped through clenched teeth, "So… did I pass the challenge?"
The man's eyes widened, almost in disbelief. "Yes. Of course. He will see you now."
He turned to the door, hands trembling as he pushed it open. The iron hinges groaned, the sound stretching into the chamber like the chorus of wailing souls. Dante flinched. The sound carried him back to the endless corridor - their screams chipping at his mind.
Heat struck him as the door parted. The air shimmering either from the searing temperature or from his failing body. A narrow path stretched out, followed either side by molten rivers of lava. If he faltered here, if his legs gave way, he'd vanish beneath that bubbling fire forever.
He turned to the hooded man. "Help me," he whispered, extending a trembling hand.
The man moved suddenly, faster than before. "Most definitely, warrior." His voice was sharper now, less frail. He slipped under Dante's arm, and for the first time Dante realized how strange this companion was. The man felt taller, stronger — his body no longer the fragile thing it had appeared moments earlier. It was as if the hood was hiding not just a face, but the entire truth.
Together, they began down the path. Every step echoed against the chamber walls, thirty paces toward the throne.
And then Dante looked up.
Lucifer sat waiting. His throne was wrought from obsidian and spears, jagged edges stabbing upward like the bones of the earth itself. He was impossibly tall, his frame lean but coiled with a predatory strength. Black wings, vast and tattered, arched behind him, smoldering at the tips as through dipped in ash and fire. his skin was pale, stretched taut as marble, yet faint cracks glowed faintly red beneath it, like veins filled with molten rock. His eyes were the worst of all — Pits of endless black, with faint embers burning at the center, pulling Dante's gaze into them like a void. His presence was suffocating — a weight pressing harder into Dante's chest than his broken ribs ever could. Fear surged through him, but with it came a jot of adrenaline, Hot and sharp. His spin straightened against his will, as though his body itself bowed to power, recognizing it instinctively.
Lucifer's voice rolled across the chamber, resonant and inescapable. "It appears you are more than worthy to stand before me. For this I shall grant you a deal. Tell me, mortal — what is it you desire?"
Dante did not hesitate. "I need the strength to protect the princess."
Lucifer leaned forward, amusement flickering in his coal-dark eyes. "Ahh. A noble request. And rare, in this place. Very well. Since no soul has passed my guardian in five centuries, I shall grant it. In exchange…" His lips curled into a smile sharp as blades. "…you will allow me to walk once more among men."
The chamber fell silent. Even the lava seemed to hush. Dante met the devil's gaze, his voice steady despite the clashing waves of pain and fear. "Yes. Very well."
Lucifer rose from his throne. His immense wings unfurled slightly behind him. "Then we have a deal."
He lifted his hands. Red mist bled from his body, a foul fog that smelled of iron and ash. It surged forward, funneling into Dante's open mouth.
Dante gagged, clawing at his throat as the burning fog poured inside him, searing its way into his lungs, his blood, his very bones. He wanted to scream, but no sound came. Then, suddenly, it stopped.
A voice bloomed inside his skull. Ahhh… such a frail vessel.
Dante staggered, then straightened. His guide was gone. He stood alone, yet he no longer needed support. His ribs began snapping into place with a sickening crack, bones realigning beneath his skin. His arm, once broken, re-knit itself with slow inevitability.
Before him, the chamber shifted. The throne, the lava, the heat — all faded into the shimmer of an oval mirror forming in the air. Its surface rippled like water, then solidified, showing the faint outline of another place.
Go on, the voice whispered. Walk through.
And so Dante stepped forward.
When he emerged, he staggered into his chamber. For a moment, he thought it had been a dream — but his torn, bloodstained clothes told otherwise. His ribs still ached. His arm still throbbed.
He collapsed onto his bed, the mattress groaning beneath him.
"Rest," Lucifer commanded inside his mind.
Dante's thoughts fought back. No. Not yet. There's something I must do first.
"I said… rest. NOW."
Darkness slammed into him, and Dante fell into a deep sleep.