The key slid into the lock with a soft metallic click, and Sirzechs gave it a light twist. The old mechanism groaned in protest, but relented as the carriage door creaked open, revealing the figure inside.
For a long, heavy moment, Sirzechs simply stared.
The voice he had been speaking to for the past several minutes had belonged, according to the whispers and field reports, to a child—at least, that's what the fragmented rumors had suggested. And while the gender had been confirmed, the age had always fluctuated. Some claimed the Phenomenon was a boy no older than ten; others insisted it was a young teen. His most reliable spies had assured him it was indeed a child.
But the man sitting within the carriage—no, lounging, as if this were a waiting room and not a prison—was no child.
He looked roughly the same age as Sirzechs himself. Muscular, well-toned despite clear signs of confinement. His crimson-red hair shimmered faintly even in the dark, oddly similar to Sirzechs' own, and his striking blue eyes glowed faintly in the gloom, almost ethereal in their luminescence. He was draped in tattered rags that barely covered his torso and waist, but they did nothing to diminish the sheer vitality that radiated from him.
The man's hands were raised, still bound in rusted cuffs, but he gave Sirzechs a lazy wave.
"Nice hair," he said offhandedly, as if they'd just met in a tavern and not a war-torn dungeon.
For a moment, Sirzechs filed this entire event away as one of the strangest rescue operations he'd ever conducted. With a small shake of his head, he extended his power, sending a pulse of energy through the room. The iron shackles binding the man shattered instantly, clattering to the floor in a muted chorus of metallic thuds.
Sirzechs stepped back, allowing the red-haired man room to stand up and catch a proper sight of everything.
The man stretched, cracking his neck and shoulders. Audible pops echoed through the cramped carriage as he groaned softly, savoring his first full stretch in what must have been weeks.
Then he looked at Sirzechs, a wry smirk playing on his lips.
"Were you expecting a damsel in distress?" he quipped. "I could jump into your arms if that would help you know?"
Sirzechs blinked, his expression shifting into something between confusion and mild offense at what he had just heard.
Before the devil could respond, the redhead looked down at his sorry state of clothing and gave a quiet grunt. Without hesitation, he turned and walked across the room, stopping at the body of a fallen inquisitor.
He crouched.
"Hm... seems about my size," he said casually, as he began stripping the body of its garments.
Sirzechs stared, both appalled and quietly impressed. The disregard for the dead might have disturbed him under normal circumstances, but he understood. Few who had suffered at the hands of the New-Satan faction left with anything resembling reverence for their tormentors. To men like this, their abusers were already corpses.
It was grim logic, but it was logic all the same.
The redhead eventually returned, now clad in a patchwork outfit of scavenged finery. He wore the nobleman's black overcoat, fitted with a blood-red undershirt and black slacks. Over this, he had affixed the inquisitor's steel chest plate, greaves, and gauntlets. A mismatched ensemble, roguish in style, yet not entirely lacking in dignity. He tugged on the collar of his undershirt, then folded it neatly over the coat's lapel.
He gave a mild look of disgust as he glanced down at the formal shoes he'd slipped on, but made no comment.
'Rather unorthodox… but at least he's clothed,' Sirzechs thought with mild relief, brushing away his earlier distaste.
"Been a while since I wore something that didn't itch or stink," the man said, flexing his gloved fingers with a faint clink of metal. "You don't really appreciate clothes 'til you've been denied them."
Then, with a casual air, he extended his right hand in greeting. Sirzechs accepted it without hesitation.
"I would have introduced myself earlier," the man said, withdrawing his hand, "but first impressions matter. And I figured I'd be more memorable with pants on. You understand."
Sirzechs chuckled softly, then nodded. "I think I would have made an exception. Not many prisoners hold a proper conversation while still in their chains."
The redhead smirked at that, then offered a surprisingly elaborate bow. His right leg crossed in front of the left, his right hand sweeping across his chest while the other tucked behind his back. It was theatrical, almost absurd.
"Dante Vale, eldest son of the Vale family," he announced, rising from the bow with a charming, dirt-streaked grin.
Sirzechs' brow furrowed slightly. "House of Vale? I've never heard of it. You're part of the Ars Goetia, are you not?"
At the mention of that name, something in the air shifted. The room grew heavier.
Dante's grin didn't falter, but something behind it changed. A glint. A warning.
"I don't know what the Ars Goetia is," he said, his tone perfectly calm, perfectly still. "But the name does ring a bell. That's Solomon-related, isn't it?"
Sirzechs nodded, suddenly cautious.
"Learned about that in religion class. Four years ago. On Earth."
The realization hit like a cold slap. His language. His unfamiliarity with devil customs. Even his name—Dante Vale. Not a single devil bore a name like that.
He wasn't one of them.
"Are you... an Archangel?" Sirzechs asked, the only explanation that made any sense. A regular angel wouldn't survive hell's depths. But an Archangel…?
Dante barked a laugh and shook his head. "That's a nice compliment, but no, I'm not."
"Then you're with the Grigori. A fallen angel, perhaps."
Another laugh. Another shake of the head.
"I appreciate the compliments, really. But I'm not that good looking. Never been told I had an angelic face before." He brushed a gauntleted hand across his cheek. "And... what the hell's a Grigori?"