While Dante went off to properly introduce himself to his new adoptive parents, Sirzechs sank deeper into the plush lounge chair with a sigh that felt like it came from his soul. It was, without a doubt, one of the most stressful moments of his life.
He never really knew what his parents thought of humans. Most devils, especially the noble-born, viewed them as little more than pests or—at best—tools, barely a step above the dregs that loitered in the dark corners of the Underworld. Sirzechs had feared the worst.
Yet here they were. Dante, a human—no, his adopted human son—was smiling, laughing even, while both of his parents smiled back as if he were a long-lost treasure. The tension that had threatened to crack Sirzechs' bones only moments ago melted into something he hadn't expected to feel: pride.
It almost felt like he had won a grand prize at a devil's familiar auction—if said familiar could lift books with his mind, construct personal barriers, and hurl sarcastic wit like fireballs.
Of course, Sirzechs didn't think of Dante as a mere familiar. Not anymore. He was... more. Family.
Now that introductions had gone surprisingly well, Sirzechs allowed himself to shift focus to the next item on the list: Dante's training.
They had touched on it briefly, but never settled on specifics. Dante had shown interest in learning swordsmanship, which Sirzechs could certainly teach, but the older devil believed it would be wiser to build a broader foundation. Specialization came later; first, Dante needed to survive.
Sirzechs' train of thought derailed when his mother turned to him, her eyes curious.
"Is it true that Dante wishes to join the war effort so soon after his freedom?"
Sirzechs nodded, the fatigue clear in his voice. "I didn't suggest it. He was adamant. Whatever they did to him... it left scars. Deep ones. I can tell. But I don't pry. That's not my place."
Venelana hummed softly in thought, then asked, "And you being here means you're to train the boy?"
"Yes," he answered firmly. "His powers are impressive, but his skills need honing if he wants to pass the gauntlet."
She tilted her head. "Would you like my help? He'll need more than swordplay. Understanding our culture, the way of devils, could save his life."
A rare, grateful smile touched Sirzechs' lips. "Would you? I—thank you, Mother. That would mean a lot to him. And to me."
Venelana beamed, practically glowing. "I wouldn't dream of saying no. If I get to spend time bonding with my new son, I'm all for it."
"Is there a place we can spar?" Sirzechs asked.
Venelana cast her gaze out a nearby window to the sprawling green fields stretching as far as the eye could see. "Mmm... I don't think we have enough room," she said, deadpan.
Sirzechs let out a bark of laughter at her dry sarcasm.
"I might also toss in some training in the demonic arts," Venelana added, her tone shifting slightly more serious. "If he shows promise, he might even hold our family crest. Make it official."
Sirzechs blinked. "So soon? Wouldn't you at least want to set up a trial?"
Her eyes leveled with his, sharp and unwavering. "Have we ever taken in humans to teach them our ways?"
"...Fair point," he conceded.
She exhaled, voice softening. "Besides, what trial could I possibly create that would surpass what he's already endured? He's passed my test by surviving, and judging by the humor on your father's face, he's passed his as well. There's no need to be stingy."
"I'm ashamed I ever thought otherwise of you," Sirzechs murmured.
Venelana's brow arched. "Oh? You thought I was cruel?"
Before he could reply, she pinched his cheek with the ferocity of a mother wrongfully doubted.
"I've waited centuries to see grandkids, and all I've been stuck with is you. Now you bring home someone else, and you think I'd toss him out?" Her eye twitched as Sirzechs squirmed. "Not a chance! That cute little boy is mine now."
Across the room, Dante and Zeoticus had paused mid-conversation. Zeoticus looked amused.
Dante, however, turned pale the moment the words "cute little boy" were uttered.
And then he ran.
"Why does she look at me like I'm a snack!?" he shouted over his shoulder.
Venelana, eyes sparkling with mischief, gave chase without hesitation.
Sirzechs sagged with relief.
Zeoticus simply chuckled from his seat.
From behind a pillar, a maid whispered with a bemused expression, "These Gremorys sure are strange."
Several others nearby nodded in silent agreement.
The day the new heir was introduced to the Gremory household would be remembered by the staff as one of the most entertaining days ever!
A few hours later, Dante found himself standing in the middle of a vast, open field. Calling it large would have been an insult to its true scale. This was no ordinary training ground—it was an ocean of green, endless in every direction, wrapped around the Gremory getaway estate like the arms of some lazy god. After spending a full hour ducking behind furniture and dodging around corners to escape Venelana's overly affectionate pursuit, Sirzechs had finally managed to call off his mother's advance by promising she could have more time with Dante later. The timely announcement of lunch certainly helped, and Dante, ever the opportunist, gladly took the reprieve.
It was over that meal that Dante came to a sobering realization: the Gremory family wasn't just wealthy. They were absurdly wealthy.
What they referred to as a "light lunch," Dante considered a feast fit to end an empire. If someone served this much food on Earth, they'd be charged with war crimes. A banquet of meats, pastries, delicacies he couldn't even pronounce—laid out like a declaration of opulence. At first, Dante feared he'd collapse into a food coma and wake up thirty pounds heavier. But thankfully, whatever demonic metabolism now powered his body burned through calories like a wildfire.
After the meal, and a quick internal check to confirm he hadn't developed a gut, Dante was told to meet Sirzechs outside.
It had been about fifteen minutes when the grass in front of him glowed with a fiery red hue, a demonic sigil expanding in slow circular pulses. Sirzechs emerged from the glyph alongside a floating weapons rack that hovered above the ground, filled to the brim with a vast assortment of instruments: swords, polearms, spears, halberds, and... something else.
Dante pointed at one. "What's that? Looks like someone jammed a sword onto a pole and called it a day."
Sirzechs followed his gaze and chuckled. "Sword-spear. Difficult to master. Only a handful of devils ever did, and most of them have long retired."
With practiced ease, Sirzechs plucked two longswords from the rack and tossed one to Dante, who caught it midair.
"Before we pick your preferred weapon, I want to see what you can do," he said, walking toward a clearing of shorter grass. "The longsword is a solid start. Good for learning blocks, coordination, and range. Get a feel for it. Take a few swings."
Dante nodded, feeling the weight of the blade in his hand. It wasn't just a hunk of sharpened metal—it was alive. A vibration buzzed up his arm, from fingertips to shoulder, like the weapon was reading him in return.
He shifted into stance: feet shoulder-width apart, knees bent, elbows aligned. Sirzechs raised an impressed brow.
"Good form. Are you sure you haven't had formal training?"
Dante gave a half-shrug. "Not really. Just a lot of reading. I got into swords when I was about fifteen. Read a bunch of stuff, practiced moves with sticks while camping. People always said, 'the sword doesn't become part of you, you become part of it.' So I figured, treat it like an extension of your arm."
Sirzechs beamed.
"The future has its philosophers, I see."
Dante smirked but held back a comment about firearms. Best not to break the man's heart.
He began twirling the sword between his fingers, transitioning smoothly from forward to reverse grip, then switching hands and repeating the motion with his left. The sword danced with him, obeying his touch like a loyal pet.
Sirzechs froze, eyes narrowing.
"Dante... are you absolutely certain you haven't been trained?"
"One hundred percent," Dante replied casually. "Unless playing pretend with sticks counts."
Sirzechs said nothing. Instead, in a blur of red and black, he vanished.
Dante's instincts flared. His grip reversed, and in a flash, he pivoted, his blade catching Sirzechs' attack with a metallic ring of steel on steel. The clash sent a gust of wind howling through the field, flattening grass in a wide circle.
Their swords were locked, and for a heartbeat, the world paused.
Sirzechs smiled.
"I see..."
He disengaged and stepped back.
Dante blinked. "Wait... what just happened?"
He glanced at his hands, still buzzing with the raw vibration of impact.
He had parried an attack.
An attack that had moved at Mach 2.
His brain caught up to what his body had done instinctively, and a slow, almost bewildered grin spread across his face.
"Holy hell," he muttered. "Did I just do that?"
Sirzechs, ever the teacher, folded his arms and watched with a smirk.
"Yes, Dante. You did."