[???]
The two stood in absolute silence, unmoving, as the annihilated landscape stretched endlessly around them, ash choked the air, the planet groaned, seismic convulsions rippling through the earth like. And yet, neither Dante nor Aurélie paid it any mind.
A beacon of light exploded in the distant horizon, an infernal light that should have commanded the attention of any sane being. Yet the two remained still. Focused. The world may crumble, but their conflict was beyond mere destruction.
Aurélie twirled her enormous scythe, the abyssal black blade carving through the air. The weapon's edge gleamed, as, she rested it against her shoulder, its weight not even registering.
Her cold, intense eyes bore into the emotionless alloy of Dante's helmet, the gleaming steel revealing nothing of the man behind it. No emotion. No hesitation. Only resolve.
"You know..." Aurélie's voice cut through the thick atmosphere, dull and emotionless, carrying across the ruined area. "Of all the beings in this realm, I thought you would understand my goals the most." Her tone did not waver, did not implore—it merely stated, as if the thought of Dante opposing her was an incomprehensible contradiction.
There was no response. Beatrice and Aithne were nowhere in sight, likely watching and waiting, for the precise moment to strike. If such a moment would even exist.
Dante remained statuesque, the white of his cape billowing in the acrid wind. His gauntleted hands remained folded across his armored chest.
A low grunt escaped from within his helmet. "Defying The Keepers of Order, hm."
The Keepers of Order. Those who enforced their will upon the realm without question. Those who dictated fate, who orchestrated existence, who ensured that all things followed the Divine Principles they themselves had carved into the fabric of reality. They were the ones who demanded absolute obedience.
("I want the people of this realm to carve their own path. A future unshackled from the chains of fickle destiny, free from set fate, free from the invisible hands that seek to control all.")
Dante shook his head, the fur lining his helmet ruffling ever so slightly.
"Your methods risk the lives of the many."
Aurélie merely blinked, her red eyes dull yet piercing. "And? What of it?" There was neither arrogance nor hesitation in her response—only a cold certainty. Her grip on the scythe tightened as she spoke. "Malice. Wisdom. Might. Knowledge. Chaos. Pestilence. Do you know why the remaining Ancestors were branded with these concepts?"
Dante did not answer. He did not need to.
Aurélie scoffed, the sound hollow, almost bored. "Given to us by The Keepers of Order, of course. A means to gauge the 'specific threat' we pose to their fabricated rules. We are not beings. We are stains—blemishes they cannot easily erase."
Her voice darkened, lowering to something almost venomous. "And I refuse—utterly refuse—to be leashed to their Divine Principles for my entire existence. No matter the cost, this will be for the greater good. A world unbound. A realm freed from their cold, mechanical control."
Dante's fingers tensed ever so slightly.
"You Ancestors are not the only ones oppressed by the Divine Principles," he said at last. "You sweeten your words, cloak them in righteous purpose, but at their core, your goals serve only yourself. You seek to shatter the chains that bind you—but at what cost? The people of this realm deserve the freedom to choose their own fate. But only those who truly seek it. Many are content. Many do not curse their preordained path. Yet you would burn it all simply because you despise your own existence. And in doing so, you doom those who never asked for your war."
Dante scoffed, his voice dipping into something almost disbelieving.
"You would incite the wrath of the Keepers. You would awaken that which resides within the moon—something far worse than any calamity."
Aurélie's expression remained unreadable. Then, slowly, her lips curled into a sneer, her mismatched hair billowing in the wind.
"Then you expect me to kneel? To bow like some obedient dog before those fools?" Her voice carried resentment, an entire existence of fury compacted into a single question. "I will be free of their grasp. And in doing so, I will free this realm. No—all realms. The consequences be damned. Many will die." She exhaled, as if the thought meant nothing. "I shall shoulder that burden."
Dante's arms slowly unfolded from across his chest, the faintest creak of his armor audible.
"That is not your decision to make, Ancestor." His voice had shifted now—colder. "To enforce your will upon those oblivious to your battle—to decide their fate without their consent—tarnishes whatever righteous cause you believe yourself to uphold. You have no right to choose who lives and who dies. You have no right to shatter their world for your own selfish whims."
Dante shook his head.
"I do not pass judgment out of arrogance," Dante said. "But you, Aurélie... you cannot be allowed to live."
His voice was edged with something lethal.
"Rhiannon. Aelfric. They are dangerous. But you? You are far worse."
Aurélie's lips curved into something almost mocking, yet utterly devoid of mirth.
"Then come," she murmured, twirling her scythe in a arc, the blade howling as it split the air, sending a reverberation through the shattered ground.
She pointed the deadly edge directly at him, her red eyes burning.
"Come, oh knight so stained in blood."
Her voice was like ice and fire.
"Come and put a stop to me."
Then the world screamed suddenly.
A presence descended from above—it came like a meteor, a shadow streaked through the sky at impossible speed, a blur of salmon-pink and black, accompanied by a maniacal, breathless giggle that grew louder with every passing millisecond.
Gisèle.
Impact.
A thunderous shockwave exploded outward as she crashed down from the heavens, her bare foot colliding with Dante's raised, armored forearm. The force behind the kick warped the air, sending ripples of concentrated pressure in every direction. The ground beneath them didn't simply crack—it was obliterated. A crater spanning several kilometers tore through the battlefield, the surrounding terrain rupturing like fragile glass. A pillar of force shot into the sky, parting the already ruined dust clouds.
Dante did not budge.
His form remained rooted, his forearm absorbing the impact with a ease, the titanic devastation meant nothing to him.
Gisèle landed before him, her eyes wild with delight, her breath ragged with excitement. A twisted, giddy smile stretched across her face, revealing sharp, pristine teeth. Her salmon-pink hair hung wildly, framing the barely restrained madness in her gaze. She was much stronger than before, the deep gashes decorating her body no doubt fueled her Ultra Vires.
"Ahnnn~" She let out a shuddering breath, her lips parting as she felt the reverberation of her own attack. Her fingers twitched, flexing open and closed as if savoring the sensation. "You're even studier than before!" She giggled, her voice laced with something both unhinged and disturbingly thrilled.
Before she could speak again, Dante moved.
It was instant.
His gauntleted hand speared forward, piercing through her chest, flesh and bone yielded effortlessly before the force, white alloy sinking into the space just below her collarbone, impaling her like a spear through soft fabric. A sickening squelch resounded through the air, followed by the faint tremor of her body.
Gisèle moaned?
Not in agony, not in pain, but in an almost exaggerated pleasure, a sound that sent an eerie shiver through the already tense area. Her pale hands clasped around his wrist, holding it in place, her fingers tightening around his gauntlet as if to savor the sensation.
"H-hehe—" she half-laughed, half-whimpered, her voice breathless. "My how intimate—" she gasped, shuddering.
Dante did not react.
With a single pulse of his strength, he ripped his hand free.
A horrifying, visceral shockwave burst outward as Gisèle was flung back. Her body twisted through the air, spinning like a discarded doll before she slammed into the fractured earth, skidding across the shattered area in a trail of blood and ruined fabric. The impact sent towering plumes of dust and rock into the air.
"Ohhh~"
Gisèle's breathy laugh cut through the dust cloud as she slowly, leisurely, pushed herself to her feet. The wound in her chest was already closing, tendrils of red mana knitting her flesh back together as she let out a humming sigh. She ran a hand down her own stomach, smearing the remnants of her own blood across her pale skin before giving Dante a smirk.
"Oh…" She tilted her head, her wild hair spilling over her shoulder. "You really know how to make a girl feel alive~"
Dante said nothing. Though he noted she opted to close the wound rather than further fuel her Ultra Vires.
But before the dust could even settle, a new presence emerged. From atop a distant, broken cliffside, a figure stood.
Ezerald was back as well.
The black-haired Fate Walker gazed down, despite her composed stance, her body was tense, her fingers twitching at her sides. Her presence was one of fear—or rather, the steeled control of fear.
Without a word, Ezerald raised a single hand.
The air shifted.
A dozen floating staves materialized around her, each unique in design—some decorated with golden filigree, others crackling with volatile mana, their forms twisting as if barely contained within this reality.
Detonation followed, twelve converging blasts of mana tore through the air.
The concentration of mana was indescribable—each staff unleashed a different element, a different force. Searing light, roaring flame, churning void, crystalline frost, and thunderous lightning.
They collided where Dante stood.
The impact was apocalyptic—an eruption that engulfed the battlefield, consuming everything. The earth was peeled away, entire sections of the area disintegrating beneath the overwhelming force.
A plume of absolute dust rose into the sky, blotting out all light.
And yet as the smoke began to clear, Dante emerged, unscathed.
Ezerald's fingers tightened.
Then a slow approaching of footsteps, it rang out once—then again.
Aithne had arrived.
A soft exhale.
"Ah… so Beatrice walked away."
Aurélie did not react immediately.
She merely stood, her red eyes barely flickered toward him.
Aithne tilted his head, his tone one of mild amusement. "Not surprising. She has her priorities, and this… well, this was never one of them."
Then, his gaze shifted, falling upon Ezerald—the only Fate Walker who had chosen to remain.
For a moment, he studied her, his red eyes narrowing just slightly, as if in scrutiny. Then, he spoke again.
"But you stayed."
Ezerald stiffened, her auburn eyes flashing with something unreadable. A tremor ran through her body. Though outwardly composed, an overwhelming sensation festered beneath her steeled demeanor. It was not fear of battle—she had seen war, bloodshed, calamities. It was something deeper, something that coiled around her spine like a vice.
For the first time, her fingers curled into fists.
Her lips parted—her voice came tight and restrained.
"…I had to."
Aithne arched a brow. "Had to?"
She turned to Dante and she spoke.
"He will be the bane of my kind." Ezerald's voice did not waver. "The Fate Walkers. This era must end for things to go back to the way they once were. I want Aethel and the entire realm to be as it once was. His existence goes against that which my kind seek."
For a moment, nothing moved.
"I grow tired of your idiocy." Dante murmured, they were under the impression that victory was possible. "I shall shatter your illusions."
He moved, Dante's gauntleted fist plowed into the earth.
—And the world shattered.
A corona of destruction erupted from the point of impact. A collection of power erupted outward from the epicenter, shattering the area as if it had been smitten. The shockwave expanded, ripping fissures across the entire world. What remained of the landmass was peeled apart, sent rocketing into the air.
The shockwave that followed was not a mere tremor—it was a cataclysm. The foundations of the world split apart, seismic ruptures spiraling outward. Cracks surged across the entire landmass, each fissure a yawning surge of liquid fire, swallowing entire regions. Trenches crumbled into the void. Mountains in the distance were peeled apart like fragile paper, their peaks flung into the stratosphere before disintegrating into vaporized debris.
The planet groaned in agony as titanic fissures lanced through its crust, exposing the veins of lava beneath. Volcanoes were wrenched open, vomiting columns of fire into the sky, their structures buckling beneath the magnitude of the quake.
But the devastation did not stop at the planet.
The tremor extended outward. Beyond the atmosphere. Beyond the firmament. The force of the impact rippled outward, tearing through space.The shockwave screamed past the area, tearing across the skies.
Beyond the dying atmosphere, beyond the dying world, the devastation spread further.
The stars shuddered. They trembled in their orbits. Space groaned beneath the force of the quake. Distant planets trembled as the ripples of destruction carried across the cosmic sea.
The galaxy itself felt the blow.
And amidst this carnage, those closest to him—Aurélie, Aithne, Ezerald, and Gisèle—were thrown into disarray.
Ezerald's footing slipped, shock broke through her expression.
Aurélie's eyes narrowed slightly—perhaps the only sign of her acknowledging the sheer scale of what had just transpired as she attempted to steady herself.
Aithne let out a sharp exhale, his garments fluttering violently as he instinctively reinforced his footing. "Well… that is scary."
And then—Gisèle.
She laughed. Her body was hurled back by the shockwave, twisting wildly through the air—but she laughed.
"Ohhh~ You're really making my heart race, my knight~!"
But she barely had time to revel in it because he was already upon her.
Dante's form vanished.
One moment—he stood upon annihilation, the next—his hand was around her throat.
A shuddering gasp left Gisèle's lips, her body freezing, a rare expression of pure shock flickering through her otherwise manic gaze.
Then—he threw her, into space.
The force of his throw obliterated the ground beneath him. The velocity of her departure sent a second planet-wide shockwave, the momentum of her launch peeling apart the surface of the world.
Gisèle's body became a streak of light, a comet hurled into the atmosphere, she did not stop, she passed the atmosphere she passed the moons and she entered the abyss of space.
Until—
She was gone.
"The contestant is unable to fight. Therefore, she is eliminated."
The world continued groaning in agony as the dull voice rang out.
Deep fissures continued to expand, the land still settling from the astronomic destruction that had reshaped it beyond recognition. Entire mountain ranges had been shattered, their remnants barely standing, crumbling further with each lingering aftershock.
Aithne exhaled sharply as he steadied himself, his footing no longer as sure as before. His robes bore the faintest traces of dust, an indignity he rarely suffered. His red eyes narrowed slightly as he surveyed the wreckage—the vast, kilometers-wide craters, the rivers of lava, the obliterated peaks that once stood tall.
The damage was beyond comprehension.
It was not the result of magic. Not some forbidden devastation nor any kind of unique ability.
No.
This was strength, raw, unfiltered power.
Ezerald, still recovering, let out a soft breath, before violently shoving off a massive slab of stone that had pinned her down. Her attire was marred by dust and cracks. She didn't speak, but her grip on her magic had tightened.
Aurélie had already steadied herself. Her scythe was planted into the ground, stabilizing her against the lingering tremors. Her split-colored hair whipped wildly, but her red eyes were still cold.
And yet her fingers were tighter on her weapon.
Aithne noticed it, it was a small detail. Almost imperceptible.
But it was there.
("Even her…?") For the first time, a single thought flickered in Aithne's mind. ("We are outmatched.")
Not outclassed. Not at a disadvantage.
Completely, utterly outmatched.
The fate of this battle was already decided the moment he arrived. Still—Aithne's eyes drifted upwards, narrowing as he analyzed the absence in the air.
Gisèle was gone.
("She couldn't survive in the vacuum of space… so they took her out.")
His mind was swiftly processing every detail. He had felt it—the trace of a teleportation spell. The ripples of space-time distortion still faintly lingered, though rapidly fading. ("Odd… Why not just let her die?")
Aithne wasn't foolish. There was a reason she had been extracted. There was something at play. But that wasn't his most glaring concern.
No—his real concern was standing before him.
Dante.
Even now, as the winds screamed, as the planet burned, as the world itself mourned the devastation he had wrought—Dante stood there.
His white cape billowed in the violent gales, yet his stance remained rooted, as though no force in the world could shake him. His head, slightly tilted, was the only motion he made—an acknowledgment of Aithne's scrutiny.
Aithne let out a low chuckle. He shook his head, lips curving into something between amusement and incredulity.
("I suppose he was not a guardian of Celestiallia without reason.")
The true name of Dante was one spoken in hushed voices—with reverence, with fear.
A knight of blood, his hands so drenched in war that dragon and God alike feared him.
The man who killed the most in the Great War.
A pure force of violence that should never have existed—yet there he stood.
Aithne sighed through his nose, raising a leisurely hand.
"You know," he began, his voice casual despite the immensity of destruction surrounding him, "A—no, it's Dante now, right?"
He waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away the formality.
"I have to admit, I'm surprised." His eyes twinkled with faint amusement. "At the sheer… devotion you show to this era."
He gave a small smirk.
"It matches your loyalty to Celestiallia."
Dante did not react immediately. His head tilted ever so slightly, the faintest inclination of acknowledgment but he said nothing.
He simply…waited.
"Such loyalty for an era too far gone, no?" The question hung in the air. "The fate of this era is already set in stone." His voice was smooth. "A repeat of the Great War… Even if all the calamities were stopped, do you really think it would change anything?"
Silence.
Then Aurélie spoke.
"But I wonder," her voice was cool, sharp as the edge of her scythe, "what it is you're really trying to protect?"
Her red eyes locked onto him.
"This era? The people? Or your own sense of ideals?"
A slight tilt of her head, as if contemplating something.
"Rhiannon saw it too, didn't she?"
Aurélie's fingers flexed over her scythe.
"The state of this era… All the doing of The Keepers, sowing chaos."
Dante finally spoke.
"It is true." The words, simple yet absolute. "This era is destined for ruin if it continues down its current path. However..."
The air itself seemed to tighten.
"While their path is set… fate deviates. There is no singular path. Multiple paths exist. Though preordained, not all lead to ruin. It is for that very reason that I gave up my name. My face. My past."
The weight behind his words struck them.
Then—
His next words came with finality.
"And it is why I would lay down even my very life."
It was not a declaration, it was not an exclamation it was undeniable truth.
Aithne. Aurélie. Ezerald.
For the first time—
Their convictions wavered.