This revelation stumped Sirzechs. The man—Dante—was neither an angel nor a fallen one, and yet it was impossible to think otherwise. The powers Dante possessed, the raw, unfiltered might radiating from him, were not something Sirzechs could attribute to anything less than an Archangel. And yet, he wasn't one.
He couldn't be a mystical creature either. Sirzechs would have known—those beings had distinct pheromonal signatures, unmistakable to any high-ranking devil. Within arm's reach, any mystical being would have given itself away. But Dante smelled like nothing. Not dragon, not fox spirit, not vampire, not fae. Nothing.
Besides, most of the truly powerful mystical races had been wiped out in the Great War a hundred years ago.
Still, he tried to reason. "Then what species do you hail from? Is it dragons? Kitsune? Vampire? Elves? Nekomata?" Sirzechs listed them rapidly, watching for a reaction.
Dante blinked at him, eyes narrowing with a look that suggested disbelief. It was almost as if he was shocked Sirzechs hadn't already figured it out. The redhead's mild amusement was starting to annoy him.
"Then what are you?" Sirzechs asked again, his voice tight with restrained frustration.
Dante smirked, clearly enjoying the devil's confusion. "I'll answer that… but let me ask you a few questions first. What did God consider His most valued creation? The one He ordered His angels to love, protect, and revere? And tell me this—what does Lucifer hate more than anything?"
To Dante, the answer seemed obvious, perhaps even elementary. But to a devil, one forged and raised in the fires of war, molded by propaganda and centuries of bloodshed, it wasn't so simple.
Sirzechs frowned, repeating the question softly as if to test it on his tongue. "What's God's most valued creation?"
Dante gave a slight nod. "That's right."
Silence fell between them.
Sirzechs searched his memory. He went deep, farther than he had in years, brushing past ancient instincts born in the crucible of war. For him, the conflict with Heaven had always existed. It was a constant in his life, as certain as the rising and falling of the tides. From the time he was a child, he was being groomed for war. A position in the military had always been his birthright, thanks to his family name and immense power. All that had been required was time.
When that time came, he leapt from training into the furnace. From simulated skirmishes to blood-drenched fields. He remembered the first time he killed. The first time he watched an ally bleed out in his arms. The despair. The confusion. The horror. But even then, no one ever told him why. There were no long speeches about divine purpose. No holy mission.
There was just the war.
The dictatorship of Lucifer demanded participation. All able devils were conscripted. Refusal was death. Compliance was survival. Over the years, the reason behind the war had become little more than an echo—a hollow myth buried beneath decades of death. Most of his peers never questioned it. They simply fought because it was expected.
Propaganda became their doctrine. Tales of the tyrannical angels. Of their merciless God. Of the savagery of the Heaven Hosts. And so they fought. They killed. They obeyed.
But then a memory resurfaced. One that had long been buried beneath blood and time.
It was the day he had been promoted. The day Lucifer himself had bestowed upon him the command of a legion greater than any his noble house had ever seen. A gift earned through the legendary feat of slaying an Archangel in single combat.
He couldn't remember the angel's name. That detail had long since faded. But he remembered the ceremony. Remembered the moment, young and still uncertain, when he dared to ask Lucifer the one question that had plagued him since the war began.
Why?
He had expected to be struck down for such insolence. Instead, Lucifer had smiled. Not a kind smile. Not a warm one. But a twisted, bitter one. A smile that promised only fire.
And then he spoke.
"My father is perfect. Creation incarnate. A being so mighty that He forged me—a construct of celestial light, shaped by His divine will. But even in all His glory... He favored them."
Sirzechs could still hear the venom in that voice. It burned like acid even now, despite the time that had passed.
"Those things. Those filthy humans. He made them weak. Imperfect. Prone to violence, betrayal, lust, wrath... but He loved them. He ordered us to kneel to them. To serve them. To watch them stumble and falter and rise again, and to cherish every breath they took. And I? I chose different. I rebelled. And when we win this war, I will wipe every last one of them from existence. This I vow."
Sirzechs had been horrified by the hatred. By the raw, unrelenting fury. He hadn't questioned further.
Now, standing before Dante's unwavering gaze, the memory struck with renewed clarity. And at last, the answer formed.
He whispered it, almost too quiet to hear.
"Humans..."
Dante's smile turned knowing. "Bingo."
Sirzechs stared at him, unsure whether to feel awe or dread.
"You're... you're human? That's impossible. You shouldn't even be alive down here. No mortal can survive the descent into Hell—let alone endure torture at the hands of the Inquisition."
Dante shrugged. "I shouldn't be. But I am."
There was no arrogance in his tone. Just fact. A truth so absurd that it looped back around to terrifying.
"And the power... the things you did. That barrier. The control. The energy... how?" Sirzechs asked, barely able to form the words.
Dante tilted his head slightly, that maddening half-smile never leaving his face.
"I don't know. But I do know this: I wasn't born special. I bled. I starved. I screamed. But whatever happened to me... whatever changed me... it wasn't divine or demonic. It was survival."
The air felt heavier than before. The implications were staggering. A human. In Hell. Alive. Powerful.
And furious.