Dante moved through the forest, his body still adjusting to the new power coursing through him. Though his wounds from the fight throbbed, they weren't as severe as he expected. Was his regeneration faster?
The Lupine Reflexes skill was subtle, but he felt the difference. His balance was sharper, his footwork smoother, and his reaction speed just a little faster than before. It wasn't an overwhelming change—but it was proof that he could grow without consuming souls.
And that meant he had a real chance.
But his victory had cost him.
Blood still coated his side, seeping from the gashes the Shadowfang had left. The pain was dulling, but it wouldn't heal on its own. He needed supplies, shelter, and answers.
Most of all, he needed a direction.
The Ruins Ahead
The forest was massive, but as Dante continued deeper, something stood out. Through the tangled trees, he spotted stone structures in the distance—ruins.
A good sign. Civilization, or at least traces of it.
Dante moved cautiously. He had no illusions that this place was safe. If there had once been people here, something had wiped them out.
As he approached, he saw the remains of what looked like an ancient fortress. Crumbling stone walls stretched across the clearing, half-buried under creeping vines and twisted roots. Faded banners, long torn by time, hung limply from rusted spears.
Something about this place felt old. Powerful.
And then—he felt it.
A presence.
Something watching him.
Dante froze, his muscles tensing. His new instincts flared to life, screaming danger. The shadows of the ruins shifted.
Then, out of the darkness, it stepped forward.
The Wraithknight
The figure was clad in blackened armor, its skeletal frame wrapped in decayed, ancient steel. Its helmet bore a single glowing eye, flickering with eerie blue fire. A massive, rusted sword rested in its hands, its edges humming with cursed energy.
A Wraithknight.
Dante's mind raced. These things were powerful—remnants of fallen warriors, cursed to guard their domains long after death.
The Wraithknight tilted its head. It was studying him, much like the Shadowfang had. Testing him.
Then, in a voice like a distant whisper carried on the wind, it spoke.
"You bear the mark… yet you resist."
Dante stiffened. It knows.
The Wraithknight took a step closer. The air grew heavier.
"Forsaken one… will you flee?"
Dante's claws tightened into fists.
Flee? No.
Not anymore.
If this world wanted to kill him—he'd carve his own path through it.
Dante lowered his stance. The battle was coming. And this time, he wasn't just fighting to survive.
He was fighting to win.