Dante took note of that familiar head of bright green hair first. ("This Fate Walker was with Rhiannon at that time.") He noted she still wore the same green dress, but there was clearly something different about her. As she stood up from the ground in a slight daze, he saw she lacked her horns; furthermore, her mana was absurd.
It was thick with potent power and was large in reserves; it spread out in waves across the barren land of Vel'ryr.
"The Fate Walkers, they desperately yearn to bring back their fallen brethren. They will go to any and all lengths to accomplish just that; the two protégés I've taken are proof of that. How strong they've grown due to the sacrifices of their two brethren."
Rhiannon's earlier words rang clear in his mind, "I see." A simple deduction was made, and Dante scoffed regarding the Chaosmaw, no, the Fate Walker known as Beatrice. "You sully your brethren to sacrifice them for power."
Immediately the aforementioned woman leveled a fierce glare his way, "What would you know?" She spat out.
"Enough," he answered offhandedly. "Did Rhiannon's promise for power have you so enticed?"
"Tch! With this power, our goals will be realized!" Beatrice declared, "And with this power, I can exact revenge on the one who took Arne away from me!" She exhaled sharply, "Asmodai and Nybbas. I'll not pretend I've known them well, but they were my brethren, and to quickly give up their existence so we might be granted power to bring our realm back to how it is supposed to be speaks volumes of their conviction."
"Asmodai was a sod, but I agree." A voice suddenly resounded behind Dante; he merely glanced back at it and was not surprised at what he saw. Ezerald, like Beatrice, she lacked her usual horns, but furthermore, her hair was noticeably shorter.
("A mix of alchemy and ceremonial magic. A common ritual to sacrifice a life for power, equivalent exchange. Used by an amateur, it will not amount to much, but if it was prepared by someone as powerful as Rhiannon, then the results are drastic.") The proof was before his very eyes.
"The goal is to destroy the realm and build it anew. To restore your parted brethren." Dante reiterated, "That is nothing but fantasy."
"One within reach." Ezerald reminded, "We almost have all we need to kickstart the first calamity. And we both know how things will play out: if the first calamity does not destroy the realm, then the next one's will." Ezerald raised her right palm to her eyes. "Maybe once it was naught but a tall tale, but know we have the power to ensure our goal. To bring back all those we have lost due to the Gods and dragons. Aethel will be restored to what it was always meant to be, a utopia filled with peace and prosperity."
"You should want the same thing, damn it!" Beatrice suddenly exclaimed. "You're from that time too, and we know you're not a mere spawn! Why stand against us? Have you not loved ones you want to see returned!?" She bellowed.
"Whether I did matters not." Dante brushed off, the wind kicking up as his cape flowed freely like a flag. "To cling to those of the past so desperately, you do them no service. Your ideals and conviction only taint them and what they stand for. And a utopia filled with peace and prosperity? That is bad comedy; long since the Gods and dragons plagued Aethel, there was unrest and unfairness." He stated his words carried a conviction stronger than theirs combined.
Beatrice, in a moment of weakness, could not help but avert her eyes from the imposing figure of Dante. There was some truth to his words; she hated that. Her own kind had ostracized her; her affinity went against what the Fate Walkers stood for. The order they desperately clung to.
"To disregard those imperfections speaks of your shortsightedness." Dante let his words hang in the air as Ezerald spoke.
"Even so, that era was far better than the current one. Petty squabbles, senseless war, disregarding the very earth they walk on. Humanity is avarice and malevolence incarnate; they will take and take until there is naught left." Ezerald reasoned with vigor.
"There can be no good without evil. Despite humanity's many flaws, you overlook what makes it also beautiful." Dante shot back. "But I tire of trying to dissuade you. If you wish to battle, then I will show you two minutes of mercy."
Beatrice's mouth morphed into a fierce and annoyed grin. "Underestimating us, huh!? Do you not see how much more powerful we've grown!? We're fully realized."
"Hmph, imagine if an ant approached you haughtily and started to issue challenges. Would you take it seriously?" He asked, though his bland tone made it hard to see it as an insult. Either way, Beatrice glared at him viciously, veins all but evident on her forehead, whilst Ezerald's eyes narrowed in contempt.
The air grew thick with her mana as Beatrice's patience finally waned, her green hair flickering with her mana that surged through her. In a quick motion, she raised her arms, and the ground beneath her trembled, responding to her. Dark mana, swirling like a storm cloud, began to gather around her, forming an enormous, dark pillar that towered into the sky. She unleashed the mana, the pillar of black mana crashing down towards Dante with a loud roar, as if the mountains themselves cried out.
The air filled with the acrid scent of decay as the dark mana consumed everything in its path, devouring the earth, twisting the fabric of nature. A nearby mountain seemed to wither under its hunger, stones crumbling to dust, what little vegetation the barren land had shriveling into nothingness. Dirt and debris erupted into the air, being thrown around like rain.
Dante stood unyielding and eerily calm, even as the turbulent mana surged toward him. The sheer force of the pillar crashed down, its malevolent mana wrapping around him, yet he did not retreat nor falter. Dante sensed the dark magic's intention to phase through his armor—to attack his physical body alone.
Dante raised a gauntleted hand, the fingertips grazing the dark mana. "Is this all you can muster?" His voice was steady, its coldness almost contrasting. The mana crackling around him bent and twisted, recoiling in something akin to confusion, for the destructive magic failed to find its mark. Instead, it dissolved like mist against a wall. The ground around Dante rippled, struggling against the encroaching mana.
Dante's hidden eyes, obscured by the polished surface of his helmet, focused on Beatrice, who stood still, astonished as the dark mana around him ebbed away like a tide withdrawing from the shore. The mountain might have been left haggard and grotesque, but Dante remained untouched.
"You seek chaos, yet all you accomplish is a dull display," he taunted, though with his bland tone it was difficult to see it as such.
"Shut up!" Beatrice bellowed.
Meanwhile, Ezerald seized the moment. The atmosphere was tainted with her mana as she acted; she executed a perfect, elegant leap toward Dante. The graceful arc of her movement left each muscle in her leg coiling and uncoiling, propelling her upward with a fluid motion.
As she soared through the air, Ezerald conjured a large, sleek, and mythical axe from nothing, its handle adorned with runes that shimmered with mana. The axe's blade glinted as she brought it crashing down towards Dante with a battle cry, the air around her vibrating with her mana. The ground beneath him cracked and splintered as Dante raised his white gauntlet to intercept the strike.
The clash reverberated across the plains, the impact sending shockwaves that rippled through the land. Yet Dante stood firm, braced against the monstrous blow. The force of her assault was immense; he could feel the vibrations travel through his arm and into his core, yet he held on with ease. The earth beneath him further splintered into fractured disarray—great fissures snaking across the barren terrain.
"Burn!" Ezerald exclaimed with animosity, and in a sudden eruption of dark flames, the axe ignited with an intense blaze that enveloped Dante's form, swirling with violent intensity. Flames licked at his armor, licking around his figure as they attempted to consume him. Ezerald vaulted backward, her black robe trailing behind her, the axe disappearing in an instant as if the dark flames had devoured it entirely as well. For the briefest moment, it seemed as if Dante had been taken by the fire, swallowed whole—but when the flames parted, there he stood, unscathed and unchanged.
As if the flames had merely been nothing but an annoyance, he maintained that placid demeanor, eyes fixed on Ezerald as she staggered away. Without breaking stride, Ezerald conjured a sleek black bow, its shape detailed and sharp. Three arrows manifested in swift succession as she notched them against the string, her auburn eyes narrowing.
("Mimicry, hm. Or dreamweaving.") Dante leisurely deduced.
With an expertly timed gesture of her wrist, she released the arrows in unison, projecting them forth with a blur of speed. They sliced through the air as their trajectory aimed at Dante, who, despite the imminent threat, remained composed.
The world around Dante faded into a blur as time seemed to slow. As each arrow zipped toward him, he acted—leaning slightly to the left, then shifting right, allowing each arrow to breeze past him by mere inches.
The arrows embedded themselves into the ground behind him, creating tremendous explosions that erupted in waves of debris and shockwaves, sending plumes of dirt and rock shooting into the air. Each impact echoed like a cluster bombing. Undeterred, Dante stood at the center of the destruction, the dust swirling around him.
As Ezerald's feet finally touched the scarred ground, she harnessed her magic again, channeling it. The air around her rippling, and with a gesture of her hand, two thick, dark gauntlets materialized around Beatrice's hands, their surfaces polished and gleaming, decorated with jagged edges and designs resembling shadows imbedded into their fabric. Each gauntlet pulsed with a deep, resonant mana. They must have realized that victory would only be assured if they worked in unison.
In the blink of an eye, Beatrice surged forward; her movements were a blur, footsteps barely ringing against the ground as she breached the gap between them with astonishing speed, the world falling away behind her.
With a roar, she launched a punch aimed straight at his torso. The strike carried with it the weight of her pent-up anger, it seemed. She unleashed the punch with such force that the air split around her hand, a shockwave of force resonating outward in expanding rings, rippling the ground and bending the fabric of space before it. Dante met her strike calmly, raising his forearm in response, the metallic surface of his armor gleaming.
When the blow connected, it was as if two landslides had collided; the force would be staggering to most. Dante felt the reverberation travel through his arm and across his body—a thunderous echo that reminded him of mountains shattering under pressure. The ground buckled beneath his feet, fissures racing away from the point of impact, engulfing the earth. Massive chunks of soil and rock erupted into the air, scattering like debris in a storm. Dante's stance held firm with ease.
Though it felt as though Beatrice's punch had a double impact—a shock of energy surged not just from her gauntleted fist but was followed by another unseen force that bolstered the damage. Dante noted this with keen awareness: ("These gauntlets, Octavia possessed a similar set. So mimicry it seems.")
Yet there was no time for contemplation, for Beatrice, not allowing a moment's rest, launched herself forward. Her body became a blur once more as she unleashed a flurry of rapid punches—the gauntlets glimmered with more mana as she weaved her arms through the air, each fist striking with incredible force, aiming not to give Dante a single moment to breathe.
A right hook soaring up above her shoulder, followed immediately by a left jab that sliced through the air like a whip. The ground beneath them quaked further, craters forming wherever her fists brushed too closely against the earth. She twisted her body, driving her knee forward into an upward thrust, then pivoting off her planted foot to deliver a following roundhouse. Dante merely bobbed and weaved, his footwork precise as he sidestepped her initial strike with a quick lean, his body moving fluidly as Beatrice's fist streaked by, missing him by mere inches. He ducked low as another punch whizzed overhead, catching the air and stirring up clouds of dust that moved in the aftermath.
Each of Beatrice's punches brought with it a wave of raw force, the atmosphere shuddering as she attacked. He countered each assault, allowing her punches to flow past him, easily escaping her grasp as dirt and debris showered down around him.
She lunged again, intending to connect with a powerful uppercut that had the force of a meteorite, but Dante was already shifting to the side, sliding just out of range.
Yet he would note that she possessed absurd strength, no doubt enhancing herself with her new potent mana—each time he dodged, the environment suffered; dead trees were uprooted, and the landscape heaved under the weight of the mere shockwaves of her punches. ("She is also implementing her decay magic from earlier, it seems. The other one seems busy with a large spell, so she must be biding time.")
Beatrice continued to unleash her relentless attacks on Dante with fueled vigor. Her gauntlets glimmered as they struck the air. She lunged again, executing a combination of jabs and hooks, each one connecting with a devastating force, only to find Dante elusive, weaving through her attempts. Each punch flowing seamlessly into the next. She shifted her weight, pivoting on her heel to launch a spin kick aimed at Dante's head, but he anticipated her trajectory, ducking under the sweeping arc. The ground exploded where her heel met earth, a cloud of dust erupting as rock and dirt scattered from the impact like shrapnel.
Yet, mid-skip, the atmosphere changed dramatically—a thick, charged mana erupted from Ezerald. The world around them seemed to vibrate with her power as she raised her arms toward the sky. Above her, the air shimmered violently, and dozens of ethereal, designed staffs began to manifest, each one radiant with arcane symbols and swirling mana, hovering motionless in the air as if waiting for her command.
"This is the end for you!" She declared. Ezerald directed the staffs to align in a circle, their pointed tips glistening. The air was charged as lightning began to gather amongst them, blue-white arcs sparking and flickering. Beatrice, vigilant, sensed a change in the atmosphere—her instincts alerted her, and she executed a swift leap backwards, propelling her body away from the impending storm of magic.
A thick mana pulse erupted from Ezerald as she thrust her arms forward, and in an instant, the staffs unleashed their incandescent power, sending an array of powerful streaks of lightning streaking down toward the earth. The bolts slashed through the sky with terrifying speed, splitting the air with an audible crack that reverberated like an explosion. When the first bolt ignited the ground, time seemed to slow as it struck Dante's form, enveloping him in an embrace of lightning.
The collision was cataclysmic—an earth-shattering eruption that obliterated everything in its wake. The surrounding landscape became the first victim, as hills and mountains trembled under the unleashed might, crumbling into dust clouds that spiraled upward in plumes. The ground was vaporized, and fissures rapidly spread outward like veins, carving out new scars across the landscape.
As the blinding lightning cascaded over him, Dante became obscured within a violent curtain of smoke and debris, trailing sparks of residual energy that illuminated the haze. It filled the air with billowing clouds, a swirling cloud of dust and ash that almost danced, obscuring the entirety of his form from view. Both Ezerald and Beatrice, grounded, stared into the tumultuous smoke, their eyes wide, uncertain of Dante's fate.
("That must have dealt some damage.") Ezerald reasoned, and Beatrice seemed to be much of the same mind.
The atmosphere around them thickened, the reverberations of the lightning still echoing through the air.
Within that enveloping screen of smoke, the silence felt ominous; moments stretched into eternity as neither combatant dared to move, uncertain of the aftermath of Ezerald's magic. As the swirling smoke and remnants of mana began to dissipate, the battlefield was slowly revealed, but amidst the devastation, one figure stood. Dante emerged from the haze, seemingly unbothered, safe for his singed and slightly damaged armor.
("Impressive, unlike the green-haired one, she adjusted her magic to damage both my armor and body. Even going as far as targeting my soul.") He quickly deduced the situation.
Beatrice and Ezerald stood somewhat still, baffled. ("He survived that?") The former mentally questioned, eyes wide in befuddlement.
("But I targeted his soul directly, yet he looks unbothered.... Who is this man?") Ezerald questioned, her eyes narrowing in uncertainty as a bead of sweat rolled down her forehead.
"Your two minutes are finished," Dante suddenly announced, much to their confusion. Suddenly Dante blurred, the air around him warping as he moved with an explosion of speed, becoming a streak of white that defied the eye.
In that moment, time itself seemed to suspend as Beatrice turned with confusion spreading across her features. But before she could fully comprehend his movement, Dante materialized before her, his form a finely honed.
With a bellow that echoed across the ravaged land, he unleashed a punch aimed directly at her abdomen. The sheer force of his blow was a catastrophe, propelled by the acceleration of his prior movement. Beatrice's eyes widened in horror as she remained suspended, caught in that moment of realization, unable to react in time to fend off the impending strike. The punch shot forth, a physical manifestation of strength incarnate.
The impact was cataclysmic. At the moment of connection, the air erupted with the potency of a bomb—an audible crack resounding across the land as if the very fabric of reality had torn. Dante's fist collided forcefully with Beatrice's midsection, a resounding sound bursting forth like the breaking of a dam: a swell of overwhelming force emanated outward, swallowing the area in a radiant shockwave. The ground seemed to shudder, impacted by the collision as fissures spiderwebbed beneath the surface, and the nation of Vel'ryr shook violently.
Beatrice's body was propelled backward as her eyes rolled to the back of her head, blood ripping out from her throat; her form soared through the air as if she were a feather caught in a tornado, her gauntleted arms flailing instinctively as the raw power of Dante's strike overwhelmed her. She traveled skyward before crashing into the mountains in the distance, her trajectory a blurring line across a sky tainted with clouds. Each second felt like an eternity as her body ripped through the towering peaks of mountains, shattering stone and sending massive boulders and debris cascading downward in an avalanche.
With each engagement of her body on the mountains, the crags fragmented violently, jagged rocks exploding outward like springs releasing tension, trees uprooted, and dust clouds enveloping chunks of the landscape. Sonic booms erupted with every successive impact as Beatrice careened through the mountains—each collision uprooting centuries-old formations, sending fragments scattering like confetti, crumbling to the ground.
As she streaked through the mountain range like a comet trailing, her journey seemed to end. Though she was now out of the equation. Dante turned to Ezerald, "Next."