The arena roared with the deafening cheers of thousands—a chaotic blend of excitement, bloodlust, and twisted anticipation.
Each spectator was there for their own reason. Some came to feed their sadistic cravings, delighting in every scream and spatter of blood.
Others sought to justify their own miserable lives, finding solace in the suffering of others.
But the majority were here for one thing—violence. The thrill of death. The raw, primal spectacle of life being torn away in the dirt of the Crimson Crucible.
As Dante walked through the dimly lit corridor beside the female worker, the roar of the crowd grew louder with each step.
The walls seemed to vibrate with the chants, a pulsing rhythm of bloodthirsty demands. A small smile tugged at the corner of Dante's lips. So many people, all gathered here to witness one thing—his perfection.
The worker stopped at a thick iron door, the final barrier between Dante and the arena floor. "This leads to the arena," she said in a bored tone, as if she had done this a hundred times before. "Before you go, I need your team name."
Dante leaned in and whispered it. Her eyebrow lifted slightly in surprise, but she said nothing.
With a small nod, she stepped aside and pulled a heavy lever. The door groaned open, revealing the blinding light of the arena beyond.
The arena was vast, a perfect circle of flattened stone and dirt, worn smooth by countless battles fought and lost.
Towering stone barriers lined its edges, topped with jagged spikes to discourage escape. Beyond them, the stands were packed, a chaotic sea of faces screaming for blood. Overhead, a massive iron cage arched across the arena, shimmering faintly in the sunlight—a magical barrier ensuring that no stray attacks would reach the audience.
The moment Dante stepped onto the bloodstained sand, a pulse of energy rippled across the dome, signaling the match was about to begin.
At the far end of the arena stood his opponent, a towering woman whose body was a canvas of corded muscle and scars, her bronzed skin hardened by years of sun and battle.
Her fiery red hair was pulled back into a thick braid, though loose strands framed her face.
A black eyepatch covered her left eye, but her remaining eye gleamed with a twisted excitement.
Her ample chest barely fit into her tight leather armor, her presence exuding raw intimidation.
Dante's smile didn't waver. Man or woman—it made no difference. Perfection bowed to no gender.
The announcer's voice suddenly boomed across the arena, amplified by magic, laced with energy to whip the crowd into a frenzy.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Bloodthirsty fans of the Crimson Crucible! Today, we welcome a new challenger to the sands of death! On our left, stepping into the arena for the very first time, representing Dante's Divine Vanguard!…" —a brief pause— ""
Oliver and the rest were baffled by the name.
Each of them were wondering if it was a good idea to let him go out first.
The announcer continued.
"Dante Greaves!"
"His origins? Unknown! His past? Irrelevant! All that matters is whether he has the strength to survive the Crucible or if he will be just another corpse feeding these sands!"
The crowd roared its approval, eager to see fresh blood spilled.
"And on our right, a familiar face to all you loyal spectators! You've seen her tear through flesh! You've heard the cries of her victims! You know her name well—Vera the Red Reaver! Representing the Iron Chain Marauders, she has earned her place in the Crucible the hard way!"
The announcer's voice took on a sinister edge, feeding the crowd the story they craved.
"Once a predator of the weak, she stalked young men—breaking them, defiling them, and tossing their broken bodies aside like trash! For years, she evaded justice, until her arrogance led her to the wrong prey—the heir of a noble house! Now, her punishment is to entertain you all, her life worth only the moments of pain she can bring to the sands!"
The crowd erupted into a cacophony of cheers, boos, and chants, the arena boiling with hunger for carnage.
The announcer let the fever pitch rise before delivering the final words:
"With introductions complete—let the bloodbath BEGIN!"
Back in the waiting room, Oliver and the others watched the battle unfold through a visual artifact.
Oliver leaned back, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Let's see if Dante is all bark and no fight.
The arena flared to life as Dante faced Vera. In her hand, a long, barbed whip slithered like a living thing.
Dante raised his sleek black pistol without hesitation and fired the first shot.
Vera's whip snapped with impossible precision, deflecting each bullet mid-air. "You'll make a fine addition to my collection," she purred, lunging forward, her whip cutting through the air in deadly arcs.
Dante dodged smoothly, sidestepping with practiced ease.
But Vera was relentless, never giving him the chance to reposition or create distance.
The smirk on Dante's face vanished, replaced by cold calculation as he fired shot after shot, reloading with mechanical efficiency whenever the clip ran dry.
Watching from the waiting room, Oliver frowned.
Why isn't he using any skills? None of them knew why Dante was holding back—Vera hadn't used a skill either, but it would be smarter to end it quickly.
As if on cue, Vera's whip shimmered with a deep, dark glow.
Her skill had activated. The whip lashed out again—Dante dodged instinctively—but this time, the tip struck his shadow.
Instantly, his body locked in place.
Vera's smile widened. "You'll fall just like the rest."
In the stands, murmurs spread like wildfire.
"She used shadow Bond… looks like the match will be ending quickly," one said.
"The vixen claims another victim," another added.
"At least he died to a beauty," someone else joked.
Vera raised her whip for the final strike—but a low chuckle stopped her cold.
Dante was laughing.
The sound startled everyone—the crowd, Vera, even his own teammates watching through the artifact.
"You think you had me?" Dante's voice was smooth, amused. "I had you the moment this match began."
Vera's eyes narrowed—then froze as glints of red light flickered across her body. Dozens of tiny targeting markers covered her from head to toe.
The source? Every bullet hole Dante had fired into the arena's walls, floor, and pillars.
Each shot placed with surgical precision, forming a lethal crossfire.
Vera's body tensed—but it was too late.
She couldn't deflect all the bullets with her whip she was surrounded.
The glowing marks pulsed. And in the next instant, her body was riddled with fresh holes, each shot finding its mark with flawless accuracy.
Blood sprayed, her body crumpling to the dirt before Dante, the shadow skill unraveling as her life faded.
Dante turned his back on her corpse, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder.
"You should never underestimate perfection," he said coolly, walking out of the silent arena, leaving the stunned audience behind.