The tower was silent now. Its massive, twisted spire loomed over Dante like a dark monument to the forces that sought to control him. The Demon Lord, once a towering figure of malice, now lay in pieces—its essence scattered, its threats nothing more than fading echoes in the wind.
Dante stood tall over the remains, his claws still bloodied from the battle. The sensation of victory was hollow. The Demon Lord had been strong, powerful even, but Dante knew better than to assume this was the last test he'd face in this accursed world.
He turned toward the tower's entrance. The massive stone doors, once sealed with an aura of dread, now stood open—a path forward. Whatever lay inside this forsaken place was not just a ruin. It was something older, something dangerous.
And yet, Dante felt no fear. The hunger still lurked in the back of his mind, the urge to consume, to take what he needed to grow—but he pushed it down. He had resisted it for this long. There was no way he was going to give in now.
Into the Depths
The air inside the tower was thick with decay, the walls covered in dark, dripping moss that pulsed as if alive. The deeper he went, the heavier the atmosphere grew. Shadows stretched unnaturally, flickering and whispering against the stone.
Dante moved cautiously, his senses heightened. The tower was a maze of winding hallways and crumbling chambers, each one seeming more forsaken than the last. The air was thick with a sense of loss, as if the very foundation of this place had once held something powerful, something long forgotten.
The walls were adorned with symbols, ancient and cryptic. Some of them were familiar—dark runes that hummed with an unsettling energy. Others were alien, like the forgotten language of the gods themselves.
As he ventured deeper, a low, distant hum began to vibrate through the stone. A faint, familiar presence. Dante's heart skipped a beat. It was the same presence he had felt in the air before—the call that had drawn him here. But this time, it was stronger. More insistent.
It was not a sound. It was a feeling. An ancient, unrelenting force.
Dante pushed forward, his claws brushing the walls as he moved through the labyrinth. His pulse quickened with each step. There was something here—something that could change everything.
And then he found it.
The Heart of the Spire
At the center of the tower, in a vast chamber that stretched far beyond his vision, lay a colossal stone altar, surrounded by a pool of dark, viscous liquid that seemed to glow with an eerie, pale light. The hum he had felt earlier was now deafening, a resonance that seemed to shake the very core of his being.
Upon the altar lay a figure, its form covered in a shroud of tattered cloth. The figure was still, unmoving, but the energy surrounding it was palpable. The figure was the source of the hum—the center of the force that had drawn him here.
Dante's breath caught. It was not just a figure. It was alive.
The air around him crackled as he stepped forward, drawn by an unseen force. As he neared the altar, he could feel the weight of its power pressing down on him. His thoughts scattered for a moment, replaced by a sharp clarity. This was what he had been searching for.
The source.
He reached out, fingers trembling as he touched the cloth.
The instant his fingers made contact, the shroud exploded into a cloud of dust. What remained beneath was not a corpse, but a being—a figure draped in dark, ethereal energy, its eyes glowing with an intense, malevolent light.
The figure's voice echoed, ancient and hollow.
"So… you have come."
Dante's body tensed. He didn't know whether to run or fight. But there was no turning back now. His body moved on its own.
"I am the Watcher," the figure said, its voice reverberating through Dante's very soul. "The one who guards the threshold. The one who watches the eternal struggle between light and darkness. I have seen the rise and fall of countless souls, and I have watched yours from the moment you entered this world."
Dante's eyes narrowed. "You've been watching me?"
The Watcher's laughter was dry, almost mechanical. "Yes. Your defiance, your struggle, your refusal to be what they say you are… It has intrigued me. You are not like them. Not like the demons. Not like the humans. You are something else entirely."
Dante gritted his teeth. "What do you want from me?"
"Want?" The Watcher's form shimmered, its presence pulsing like a dark star. "I do not want. I merely observe. I have watched many pass through these halls, and none have had the will to resist as you do. But it is your resistance that makes you a target."
Dante's breath caught. "A target?"
"Yes. The Abyss has already marked you. But you are not just a Forsaken one. You are an anomaly. A being that defies the natural order. And that is something they cannot allow."
Dante's heart pounded. He felt the weight of it—the Abyss had sent demons after him, had turned its sights on him since the moment he arrived. But this? This was different. This was something older. Something far more dangerous.
"What do you want me to do?" Dante asked, his voice low, as if fearing the answer.
The Watcher's glowing eyes fixed on him. "I want nothing, Forsaken. But I know what they will do to you. The Abyss will not stop until you are broken. But you can stop them. You can break the cycle of their eternal control."
Dante's mind raced. Could he really?
"You must decide," the Watcher intoned. "Will you accept your fate, and become a pawn of the Abyss? Or will you continue to resist, even knowing the cost?"
The chamber hummed with power. The Watcher's gaze never left him.
Dante's heart burned. There was no question now. The Abyss had marked him. But he was not going to become its slave.
He had already defied it once. And he would do it again.
He lifted his head, meeting the Watcher's gaze.
"I will never submit."
The Watcher's eyes dimmed. "Then, Forsaken, you will walk the path of the eternal struggle. The path that may lead you to destruction… or something far worse."
Dante took a step back, his claws clenched in determination.
Whatever came next, he would face it on his own terms.