After the papers were signed and officially dated, the file containing Dante's adoption into a family he had never known suddenly vanished in a miniature magic circle.
Dante eyed the space where the documents had been only seconds before, his gaze lingering thoughtfully. He then looked back at Sirzechs, who had already returned to his desk. The devil's sudden immersion into paperwork was unnerving. One moment, Sirzechs was composed and amiable, the next he was scribbling with the urgency of a man racing death. It was almost enough to make Dante reconsider his assumptions about devils. He had expected a flamboyant, smooth-talking noble with an air of laziness masking hidden intellect.
Instead, the man seemed borderline bipolar.
Sirzechs' focus was razor sharp, and his personality shifted as rapidly as ink dried under his quill. Flamboyant? Maybe. But he was far more complicated than Dante had assumed.
"So..." Dante ventured, testing if the crimson-haired devil was still listening. "What do I do now?"
Without lifting his eyes, Sirzechs answered, his voice trailing into a distracted monologue. "For now, we return to the front lines. This castle is too isolated for any strategic advantage. Perhaps it could be used as a barracks... No, no, too far from trade routes. Reinforcements would take days to arrive if attacked. Maybe—"
Dante blinked as the devil's words drifted into a rambling fog. It seemed Sirzechs was no longer talking to him but rather musing aloud. It was both impressive and worrying.
"Ah... Right," Sirzechs snapped back into awareness. He looked up. "Do you have any formal military training before your capture?"
Dante shook his head. "No, but I studied The Art of War. From what I've seen, your forces mirror Roman military structure, correct?"
Sirzechs gave a brief look of surprise before nodding. "Close enough. Our highest military rank is Commanding General — my rank. Unfortunately, it's not a position that can be earned anymore. It's assigned through council appointment or hereditary right."
Dante frowned slightly. Sounded like a privilege rank, not merit-based.
Sirzechs continued. "Below that is Commander. Each Commanding General oversees four legions, and each legion is composed of ten thousand soldiers. Commanders take orders directly from us and rarely operate on the same front to ensure flexibility."
Dante nodded, impressed. "And beneath them?"
"The Praetorian Guard. They act as the Commander's right hand. Not just one, mind you. Multiple Praetorians are necessary to keep the chain of command flowing smoothly. Commanding Generals can requisition Praetorians for special operations."
Dante raised a brow. "So multiple seconds-in-command?"
"Exactly," Sirzechs said. "Below them are the Elders, each commanding a battalion of 1,000. Elders delegate to Knight Sentinels, who manage squads. Any soldier not holding those titles is classified based on their combat specialty."
Dante leaned forward. "Let me guess. Sword-users become Knights, spear-users are Lancers, and spellcasters are called... what, Mages?"
Sirzechs hesitated a fraction. "Casters. But most are referred to as Initiates."
Dante tapped his chin thoughtfully. "It's a practical hierarchy."
Sirzechs inclined his head. "It is. It must be, given the stakes."
A pause stretched between them. Dante's eyes sharpened. "What are the requirements to join the military effort?"
Sirzechs looked up, his pen halting mid-word. "You just escaped six months of torture and your first thought is to throw yourself into war?"
The level of disbelief in his tone was almost comical. Sirzechs gave a baffled laugh and gestured broadly. "Are all you humans this insane?"
Dante smirked, the first hint of real fire flickering behind his eyes. "Not all of them... only the royally pissed off ones."
Sirzechs sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I understand your anger, Dante. Truly, I do. I don't know everything that happened to you in that prison, but running headlong into battle without preparation is—and I can't believe I'm the one saying this—utterly reckless."
He leaned back, folding his arms as he met Dante's gaze. "Have you even tried to understand your powers? Mastered them? Hell, even tested them?"
Dante's gaze grew distant. His thoughts traveled to his first day in this realm. The confusion. The fear. The crushing pressure inside of him, like his own soul was too large for his skin. He had wandered, desperate to relieve it. Searching for a release valve he didn't know existed.
And then the attack happened.
He didn't remember much.
One moment he was on the ground, shielding himself from a descending spear tip—then a white light erupted across the field, blinding and all-consuming. It surged outward for nearly a mile in all directions, leaving behind nothing but scorched earth. The twelve armored figures, now known to him as the Old-Satan Inquisition, were vaporized in an instant. And just like that, the oppressive pressure that had been mounting inside him for days vanished. In its place came a warmth, wrapping his body like a cocoon.
It wasn't until a day later, after his capture, that he learned the truth behind that warmth. The torture that followed was savage, relentless, and only grew more creative the longer he refused to break. Yet with every attempt to pierce skin or shatter bone, his body remained untouched. Whatever that warmth was, it had become a subconscious shield, driven by nothing more than a desperate desire not to be harmed. Once the interrogators realized that physical pain would not break him, they resorted to more unorthodox, psychological tactics.
Dante shook his head, clearing away the dark memories.
The truth was simple: he had a moderate handle on whatever force had awoken inside him, but no full grasp. As Sirzechs had rightly guessed, his control was limited. He could move objects—barriers, weapons, sometimes even people—but only one at a time. Anything more, and it felt like his brain was trying to juggle calculus and philosophy at once, splitting at the seams. The mental strain was unbearable.
Not to mention, his imprisonment made training impossible.
Pulling himself back to the present, Dante locked eyes with Sirzechs. The devil had remained patient and observant.
"I have a basic understanding," Dante admitted. "I know how to trigger it, but not how to command it. I can lift, move, defend... but nothing more. My footing is shallow."
Sirzechs gestured as if to say, "Exactly."
"It's good you know your limits," the devil said calmly. "But even if you were a master, I'd still require a full assessment. Which is what you'll be doing shortly. I have a friend—brilliant, eccentric, a bit annoying, but competent. She'll help you understand what you are."
Dante lifted a brow. "You summon liquor out of thin air, you radiate like an ocean above my head, and telekinetic powers leave you baffled? That doesn't add up."
Sirzechs smirked as he stood from his desk. "In all my years, I've seen angels shatter, dragons fall, and mystics unravel. But no angel, no devil, no dragon has ever walked away from devil torture unscathed... and untouched."
He turned his gaze to the far wall, a solemn weight in his voice.
"Some left crippled. Others left broken. A few never left at all. You? You didn't just survive—you walked away untouched. That terrifies me, Dante. Because what you possess isn't telekinesis. It's something deeper. More primal. More... complicated."
There was no boast in his tone, no exaggeration. Just honest concern. And that—more than anything—made Dante believe him.
Six months ago, he was an ordinary man. Now he was a linchpin in a civil war, wielding a power even devils tread carefully around. If life had a sense of humor, it was a twisted one.
"When do we leave?" he asked, clearing his head.
"Now."
The word had barely left Sirzechs' mouth before a portal unfurled behind him, oval in shape, humming with red and black energy. The swirling vortex glimmered with otherworldly pulses, its color palette practically screaming danger. Red and black—classic villain colors. Nothing ever looked safe with that kind of aesthetic.
A hand landed on Dante's shoulder.
He turned, finding Sirzechs towering beside him, expression amused. The devil was taller by a few inches, casting a faint shadow.
"Nervous? I promise, it only looks terrifying. It feels like stepping through a door."
Dante gave him a dry look.
"The last portal I went through dropped me at terminal velocity into a warzone. Excuse me for being a little traumatized."
Sirzechs chuckled. "Fair enough. Follow me."
Without waiting, the devil strode into the portal and vanished in a ripple of red light.
Dante glanced once toward the tent flap, then back at the portal. He opened his mouth to question why Sirzechs would leave his entire command post behind, but the devil was already gone.
"Of course," Dante muttered. "Leave the new guy behind again."
He exhaled, bracing himself.
And then he stepped into the unknown.