[???]
Guinevere clicked her tongue in irritation—not merely at the pain she felt, but at the fragility of her form in the face of such a thing. Her hand pressed firmly against Typhon's mane, not just to steady herself, but to remind herself that she was still tethered to this world, that she still existed within its laws. The Divine Beast rumbled softly beneath her.
Her journey to the ninth plane—to glimpse the veil of that reality—was never one paved in light or guidance. No, the path was Death-kissed, and she had known this intimately. To even graze that higher reality, she had chosen a method both desperate and obscene: she had sabotaged her own vessel. She had targeted her most vital organs—her lungs, her liver, her heart—wounding herself to bring herself within the edges of mortality. The brink between Life and Death, she believed, was where the boundary to the ninth plane lay thinnest. And so, bleeding and trembling, she brought herself there.
She was in the midst of mending those same injuries, when whatever force had collided with her sent a jarring backlash—not merely through muscle, but through the lattice of her soul. Her soul… yes, that was where it hurt most. Something deeper than flesh.
And yet, none of that mattered. Not the ringing pain. Not the fractured soul. Not the trembling of her body.
Because before her, looming in silence, was the dragon.
The eyes… they were no longer bestial. They no longer belonged to a creature of anger or panic. No, they were something focused. Clear. A gaze sharpened by experience.
"Damn that bastard…" the dragon spoke—not roared, not growled, but spoke—with a voice neither male nor female, but something androgynous. "That they would defile the sanctity of my soul… desecrate what was once divine… I shall extract vengeance—in the name of our Father."
Guinevere's lips parted to question the meaning of those words, but the world did not wait.
In the span of a breath, a column of gold light surged upward from the dragon. A pillar so wide it distorted gravity and bent space, so tall it tore through cloud after cloud, rending the sky apart. The air screamed, spiraling away in a vortex of pressure, hurling boulders and broken debris as though they weighed nothing. The shockwave slammed into Guinevere, her dress and hair thrashing. She shielded her eyes with her forearm, bracing against the Divine Beast's massive side. Typhon steadied itself, claws raking furrows into the cracked earth as it took the brunt of the blast.
Guinevere squinted through the blinding light. "What...?" Her mind reeled, "It's… solidifying its soul? No—this is something far more profound."
For the first time, the court mage felt awe.
The golden pillar slowly began to contract, thinning, its colossal light folding inward like collapsing wings. Yet even as the light waned, the creature at its core was obscured still—until, at last, the veil shattered into shards of gold, swept away on a wind.
And then she saw him.
Not the dragon. No, that form was gone.
What remained was not beast.
A figure that defied the aesthetics of the mortal world—so exquisitely beautiful, it felt wrong. The kind of beauty that breaks minds because it was never meant to be seen by them. Hair as pale as snow flowed behind him in waves, glowing softly with a light that pulsed. Ruby eyes gazed not at her, but through her.
Upon his brow rested a crown-shaped diadem, sculpted in gold, embedded with a blood-red gem. His armor gleamed with a sanctity unsoiled, white as snow, traced with inscriptions. A fur-trimmed cape the same hue draped from his pauldrons and flowed freely.
Then, as if announcing something, six blood-red wings unfurled behind him in a flare—each feather glinting like garnet. They spread wide, eclipsing his body.
Guinevere's eyes widened. ("Six wings… Like Octavia...") her thoughts ran wild. ("Octavia descended with her siblings—souls reborn again and again. This one... has reawakened. But how?")
"I am he who stood at the Gate of Eden," the being declared, voice neither loud nor soft—but absolute. A voice that needed no volume to command reverence. "He who reigns over the world above... and Tartarus below." He extended an open palm toward the heavens, as if cradling them in gesture. "God is my light. I am Archangel Uriel. Listen well, mortal."
Typhon tensed beside her, body low and defensive, its tail swaying with caution.
"For too long have I endured the insolence of your kind," Uriel spoke again, ruby eyes drifting skyward as if recounting grievances. "I have watched you mortals—your wars, your arrogance, your defilement of what is sacred. And yet I held my peace. But this... this desecration of my soul, this affront to all that is divine…" His gaze snapped downward. "It shall be corrected."
Guinevere's fingers twitched.
"So that's it, then?" she snapped, her tone annoyed. "You intend to kill me for touching your soul? For trying to reach my mother?" She scoffed. "Fine. Let's be done with this. I've no time to die—I still have to bring her back."
Uriel's eyes narrowed. A sliver of annoyance, perhaps.
"Impudence," he muttered, and raised his left hand.
The air ignited around his fingers—an explosion of flame, condensing and reshaping into something. The fire outlined a sword as it formed, its blade pure white, its hilt a blossoming floral design. Only the gem at its guard offered color—red, like coagulated blood.
("That's...a correction of reality? No… no, that's not...") The thought shattered in her mind like glass—her mental words unfinished, suspended mid-thought, as an eruption of speed cleaved the air. Uriel vanished from sight in a flicker of force.
Her eyes strained, sluggish as her body disobeyed her will, but instinct screamed—she twisted around just in time to witness it.
The blade.
Impossibly white, arcing toward her, Typhon, for all his power, for all his might, was too slow.
("Shit...") Her lips barely moved.
Though her body bore no fresh wounds—her flesh long since mended from previous violence—it was her soul that ached, fractured, and that wound bled into her limbs like poison seeping through her being. She was braced for the worst—an eye, a hand, perhaps more. A loss was inevitable. The pain she readied herself to meet was not a stranger.
She clenched her teeth.
CLANG.
The pain never came.
Instead, an eruption of sparks—white-gold firework bursts—crackling into the air as steel met something.
The angel's blade had been intercepted.
Uriel's expression shattered into surprise. His blade trembled as it met resistance, and with a gust of displaced air and spread of wings, he blurred, withdrawing several paces to reassess. His footfalls were soundless and glare cold.
"Hm," came the voice. Muffled but familiar. "An Angel, is it?"
Typhon's great tail swayed slowly behind Guinevere, and even in its subtle motion was a sense of restrained excitement.
Guinevere's eyes widened. She turned, blinking against the wind that picked up dust and ash around her.
"…Dante?"
There he stood.
Draped in that pristine white armor, his face as ever sealed behind a helmet. The long, dark tailcoats of his armor fluttered. Though he bore no cape currently. Not a single inch of his skin was visible. He was more symbol than man. A faceless knight.
And yet, somehow, he made the world feel still.
"Guinevere. Typhon." His voice was low, he stepped forward, the sound of his sabatons clicking softly. With a gauntleted hand, he gently stroked the Divine Beast's mane. Typhon leaned into it without hesitation—an act of mutual recognition.
"Can you explain the situation?" he said simply.
The court mage, despite the bruises that lingered in her soul, stood straighter, brushing dust from her shoulder.
"Well, to condense a tragedy into duller terms," she said, eyes flicking to Uriel with disdain, "dear old father weaponized mother's soul. I tried to recover it—naturally, because I have some sense of familial obligation—and instead, I seem to have… woken up an Angel who thinks mass cleansing is foreplay."
She offered him a crooked smile. "And then you arrived, Dante. A knight, all glittering armor and dramatic timing. With how you show up to catch me at my lowest, I might just end up like Mother—falling for the stoic one."
He made no comment. If the jab struck, he let it pass like wind.
"I see." He turned his gaze toward Uriel, whose blade still stood at the ready. "You're injured," Dante continued. "You should forfeit the festival. You're in no state to finish this fight."
She shook her head.
"I've no wounds left to show," she said. "But what he struck wasn't flesh. My soul—it's been scorched. I can still stand. I can still speak. But I'd only be dead weight if I stayed to fight." Her voice dropped. "He's not of this realm, Dante. And I—I'm not enough."
"Then let me be." His words came quiet, but they struck her. "I'll stand in your place. For now, rest."
That single sentence—no fanfare, no grand declarations—brought a profound stillness to her heart. She exhaled and smiled faintly.
"You're far too dependable for your own good," she muttered, more affection than irritation in her voice. With a grunt, she pulled herself onto Typhon's back. "Well then, my dashing knight, good luck. Do try not to die."
With a thunderous burst, Typhon launched into the air, kicking up dust in a wide circle as his massive body shot away. In moments, the two were gone—carried to safety in a streak of speed that left only wind in their wake.
And so only two remained.
Dante exhaled slowly, watching the angel.
He'd wanted to pursue Aegaxes. There were more dangerous players on the board—this he knew. The Fate Walker had likely already forfeited, which was telling in itself. Calamities stirred at the edges. If so, then they may begin any moment.
("I'll trust Percival to hold the line... but I cannot turn my back on a hostile Seraphim.")
He stepped forward, arms folded across his chest. The alloy of his gauntlets rasped as they crossed.
"Do your oaths mean so little now, Angel?" Dante asked, voice neither loud nor scathing, but deeply disappointed. "Do the laws you once swore beneath heaven's gaze carry no weight anymore? Have you truly fallen so far?"
Uriel's eyes narrowed.
He peered into the faceplate, trying to glimpse who dared speak with such familiarity and authority. But there was nothing—only his reflection, distorted across the polished alloy. His lips, once untainted by emotion, curled into a frown. He stabbed his blade into the earth between them, both gauntleted hands resting on its pommel.
"You speak with gall. Name yourself, mortal," Uriel demanded.
"To demand names while forsaking the covenant your God placed upon your kind," Dante replied, "is to abandon the weight of your own history. The Keepers of Order were born from the will to balance chaos. You knew this. Had I not intervened, an Executioner would have come next. They still might."
Uriel scoffed. "Your Keepers forged those chains. Not I. I am not beholden to false prophets." He looked away, disgusted, his words dripping with disdain. "I serve only the original breath—the First Word, the only true God. And yet I was made to kneel before mortal decrees. I am sullied. Polluted by this realm and its defiance. No longer. Two of my siblings stir as we speak. This age reeks of decay." He looked back. "I shall cleanse it."
"You believe that grants you the right to play judge?" Dante asked. "To erase an entire realm simply because you find its scent distasteful?"
He shook his head slowly.
"I had thought the Angels wise. Above the pettiness of men. But here you are, drunk on righteousness and blind to your own pride. You, too, would shape the world in your image."
Uriel's blade hummed, vibrating.
"Your arrogance knows no end," the Seraph spat. "Do not mistake my patience for tolerance. I have guided your kind through flame and darkness, and in return, I have watched cities rot. Watched kings defile their own bloodlines. Watched mortals spit upon the divine."
His voice rose.
"You are broken. And thus, you shall be culled."
Dante grunted. "Since your oaths mean so little to you, then I shall have your soul."