A silence, thick and unbearable, strangled the battlefield. The fractured land beneath them still trembled in protest, loose rubble skidding toward the molten depths where magma churned like a seething wound in the planet's flesh. The air reeked of burning rock and scorched ozone. The tension was suffocating, an unseen weight pressing into the bones of those who remained standing in the wake of Dante's devastation.
Aurélie, Aithne, and Ezerald stood rooted in place, their bodies taut, muscles coiled for action. None of them dared move. Not yet.
Because Dante wasn't just strong. He was something beyond mortal comprehension. Beyond reason. He had reduced their battlefield to ruin without so much as a proper attack. A single strike had been enough to fracture the earth, distort the very air, and stretch destruction beyond the horizon. It was neither magic nor divinity. It was simply power.
And now, they understood. The true weight of his strength.
Ezerald clenched her fists at her sides, fingernails digging into her palm as frustration clawed up her throat like bile. She knew Dante was powerful—she had seen it firsthand. She had watched him battle Rhiannon to a standstill, a feat beyond mortals. She had felt his overwhelming strength when he had demolished both her and Beatrice with frightening ease. She could only imagine what he had been like during the Age of Gods, when his legend was written in the blood of dragons, Gods, and entire civilizations.
And yet, even without witnessing that past, she knew.
She knew it was hopeless. She knew that, compared to him, they were less than dust caught in a storm. She knew—Gods, she knew—that no amount of strategy or planning could bridge the chasm of power between them.
But she still wanted their plan to succeed. She needed it to succeed.
Her breath came slow and controlled, but the weight of despair pressed against her chest like a boulder. Could Aegraxes even succeed with such a monster still walking this realm? And it wasn't just Dante. Another monstrosity lurked in the dark, waiting—Mikoto Yukio.
That name alone sent a shiver down her spine.
If Dante was destruction incarnate, then Mikoto was an anomaly—an unpredictable force who danced on the edge of reason. He was dangerous in ways that even Aegraxes did not fully account for.
The heat of the molten fissures roared beneath her feet, waves of blistering air licking at her skin, yet it was Dante who made her feel as though she were standing at the precipice of an abyss, staring into the open maw of oblivion. The mere act of him existing here was suffocating.
Her thoughts fractured as Aurélie exhaled, breaking the heavy silence.
"Tis a pity," the scythe-wielding Ancestor murmured, her voice laced with something almost akin to resignation. Her grip on her weapon tightened, knuckles turning white. "Our convictions align… yet you've not the strength for the risk." Her crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Even so, I am no fool. Even if I were free of this physical body, I still could not hope to defeat you."
She was being pragmatic. Logical. But there was an undercurrent of bitterness in her tone.
Aithne let out a chuckle, though it was devoid of his usual mirth. "I had the same thought," he admitted, shrugging. "I could ascend to my true form, shed these mortal constraints, but… well, let's not kid ourselves. You'd tear me apart just the same, wouldn't you?" He tilted his head. "Besides, I'd rather not incur the wrath of The Keepers."
Dante said nothing.
But the air grew heavier.
Ezerald flinched before she even realized why. Something changed.
It was not an outpour of mana, nor the malignant aura of an enraged warrior. It was something primal—a raw, unrelenting presence that dwarfed everything else in an instant. It pressed into their skin, into their bones, into the very core of their being. It was authority made manifest.
Dante shifted ever so slightly, his cape rippling from the lingering winds, his stance unshaken. And then—
"I was willing to show Gisèle that small mercy because of the woman she once was," Dante murmured, his voice cutting through the silence. "And I have extended the same courtesy to the three of you."
The shift was instantaneous.
Every muscle in Ezerald's body tensed, her instincts screaming. She wasn't alone—Aurélie and Aithne stiffened as well.
Because suddenly, there was an undeniable finality to his tone.
A warning. No—a sentence.
"Your plans will not change, even after realizing how vastly outmatched you are," Dante continued. His voice did not waver, did not rise in anger or contempt. It was simply factual. "And so, I will shatter whatever fleeting 'hope' you have for your fruitless endeavors. Right here and now."
The moment the words left his lips, his hand rose to his face.
A crushing weight bore down on them.
Ezerald's breath hitched. It was worse than before—an invisible force pressing down onto her from all sides, squeezing the air from her lungs, compressing her very soul.
"Arcane…"
Her pupils shrank.
The single word ignited something terrifying in the air.
The atmosphere twisted, as though space itself recoiled at his intent. The world grew darker—not because of a lack of light, but because his mere existence consumed all else. The molten fissures bubbled violently, as though the planet itself trembled beneath him.
And for the first time—the first time—Ezerald truly understood.
This was not a man.
This was a force of nature. A calamity that had somehow taken the shape of a knight.
And they—all of them—were nothing more than specks in its path.
"It would seem you're all at a disadvantage."
The voice rang out from above, shattering the unbearable tension.
Ezerald's head snapped up. Her mind was still reeling from the crushing pressure, but she forced herself to focus.
Perched atop a floating mass of debris, steadily sinking into the molten chaos below, Aegraxes stood, unfazed.
But Ezerald's gaze snapped past him.
Because she was there.
Beatrice.
She stood behind him, breathing heavily, her expression twisted with something between frustration and resolve. And with the simplest of motions, both figures descended, landing soundlessly on fractured ground.
"Aegraxes?" Ezerald's voice broke slightly, her composure slipping. Her lips parted again. "Beatrice…?"
Aithne smirked, tilting his head. "Oh? I'm surprised you're back." His gaze lingered on Beatrice with mild curiosity. "Didn't think you had the stomach for this."
Beatrice exhaled sharply, irritation flashing in her eyes. "I still want vengeance against that bastard Mikoto Yukio," she bit out. "But for now? I'll settle for him." Her gaze flickered toward Dante.
Ezerald's heart pounded. This was their last chance.
Because if Aegraxes and Beatrice were here…
Then maybe—just maybe—they could turn the tide.
But as her gaze drifted back to Dante, who still stood unmoved, his silhouette framed against the ruins of a shattered world, her hands trembled.
Because something deep inside her whispered:
It still won't be enough.
She knew, knew, that they could not win.
("But we have to.")
Her breath was unsteady. The searing heat of molten rock around them did little to burn away the growing, sinking dread pooling in her stomach. The battlefield was already a ruin—and yet, somehow, despite the sheer devastation that had unfolded, despite Dante's clear dominance, Aegraxes stood there.
And he smirked.
As if none of this concerned him. As if the obliteration of one of their own was nothing but an expected setback in the grand scheme of his machinations.
"I rather not dirty my hands," Aegraxes mused, examining the back of his palm as though Dante were beneath his attention. "But an opportunity like this? It may not arise again."
Dante turned to face him fully, his cape, already loosened, billowed behind him in the scorching winds of the battlefield.
"That you should show your face here," he scoffed, voice thick with disdain. "Does your hubris know no bounds? Or do you truly believe that those gathered here," his gaze flickered to Ezerald, Aithne, Beatrice and Aurélie for but a fraction of a second, before settling back onto Aegraxes, "are enough to ensure my demise?"
Aegraxes merely smiled. That same, aggravatingly composed smile that never faltered, never wavered, even in the face of inescapable destruction.
"Oh, of course not." His chuckle was light, almost playful, as if this was all some grand joke that only he was in on. "I would have to be an utter fool to think raw power alone would suffice against you, Dante."
His smile widened slightly, his red eyes glinting with something just shy of mocking amusement. "No, no, that would be a mistake of lesser men." His fingers flexed slightly, and the air around them shifted, warping like a rippling mirage. "But honestly," he sighed, tilting his head, "it's quite pathetic how you so desperately want to save this misbegotten era. Why waste your breath? A simple glance at Aethel will tell you all you need to know."
His voice carried an eerie smoothness, each word purposeful, like the twisting threads of fate itself.
"The people—your precious masses—are watching this battle unfold with glee," he continued, voice rich with satisfaction. "They're not terrified. They're not mourning. No, they're entertained."
Aegraxes' smile widened, his tone dipping into something more mocking.
"They are watching this grand display of strength and reveling in it." He let out a low chuckle. "Violence, Dante, is the most primal truth of this world. And no matter how much you fight, how much you struggle, they will always return to it."
Ezerald could not help but dislike how his words sank into her like venom, creeping through her veins, wrapping around her thoughts like a noose.
Aethel. The great world. Even now, its people were cheering. Not mourning. Not fearing. Not trembling at the horror of what was transpiring.
They loved it.
But Dante? He was unmoved. If Aegraxes had hoped to shake him, to unravel his conviction, it had failed spectacularly.
"You speak of the same thing over and over," Dante exhaled, as if bored of the conversation itself. "I grow tired of rebutting nonsense."
His hand reached for the clasp of his cape.
With a sharp, decisive motion, he ripped it off. The thick fabric caught in the wind, fluttering like a discarded banner before being lost to the storm of heat and ash around them.
"Your plans are imperfect," he declared, voice ringing with finality. "You will gain nothing from them. The calamities will not bring you salvation—they will ruin the realms beyond repair. And not even you can account for that." His voice darkened. "Not even you can fix it."
Ezerald frowned.
The calamities—Aegraxes' grand design. She believed in them, in their necessity. She had to.
Hadn't she?
("Then why does doubt linger?")
She gritted her teeth. No. There was no room for doubt.
"As such," Dante's voice rang, cutting through the boiling atmosphere like the edge of a blade, "it falls to me to expunge you right here and now."
Aegraxes smirked.
"You're welcome to try."
His hand lifted.
From it, a bright glow radiated—blinding, ethereal, impossibly complex.
A translucent orb began to take form in his grasp, countless gears surrounding it, interlocking, shifting, ticking in perfect synchronization.
Ezerald's breath hitched.
("That's—")
Aegraxes tilted his head, voice deceptively calm.
"You would call my plans imperfect, Dante. But tell me," his smile sharpened, the light in his palm intensifying, "what is more imperfect than man's own history?"
The gears spun faster.
"Allow me," he murmured, "to show you what perfection truly looks like."
And then—
The battlefield shattered.
A cascade of impossible lights ripped through the air, bending reality itself, forcing time, space, and cause to collapse inward. The very concept of sequence began to blur, unraveling like a painting unmade by invisible hands.
Ezerald's breath hitched.
Because she understood.
What Aegraxes had done—
And Dante was already moving.