While his thoughts were locked onto rather disturbing and oddly academic subjects, Dante was caught entirely off guard by his mother's sudden assault on his person. One moment he was lost in thought, and the next, his head was encased in an iron embrace—Venelana's arms, which somehow managed to feel both tender and unyieldingly strong, wrapped around his head and neck with the possessive force of steel bars. Her weight dropped into his lap with absolutely no hesitation, pinning him to the plush couch as though he were nothing more than a very beloved, oversized cushion.
Dante's expression turned blank. His eyes slowly swept across the room from left to right, unblinking, emotionless, almost cartoonishly deadpan. Meanwhile, Venelana continued to pat and muss his hair with a vigor more suited to a local petting zoo than a noblewoman of ancient lineage. Every now and then, she would switch to rubbing his scalp in small, circular motions, or dragging her fingers leisurely through his hair, nails just grazing his scalp. It was... soothing.
He didn't resist. Not really. It wasn't as though he was starved for affection—he'd had relationships before, and he wasn't unfamiliar with physical intimacy—but this was different. It wasn't romantic, it wasn't strictly familial, and it definitely wasn't casual. It was motherly, in a way so foreign and so complete that Dante found himself going still. Not tense, not frozen. Just still. Relaxed.
And, to his own mild horror, enjoying it.
He wasn't sure how long infancy lasted by devil standards. From what he'd seen, it could go on for centuries. For all he knew, Sirzechs had been a thousand-year-old teenage warlord, tearing through enemy forces with divine wrath—and then, after the battle, returning home to curl up in his mother's lap for cuddles and compliments.
He did not want to know if that was true.
But Venelana was disturbingly good at head massages. And Dante had been on the verge of burnout for days.
It had started around the second day of training. Today marked day four. On day two, he'd been mid-lecture with Sirzechs—learning the differences in squad-based sword styles and formations—when he simply... blanked out. One moment he was focused, the next he was waking up to Sirzechs scolding him for passing out mid-sentence.
The diagnosis had been obvious. Mental fatigue. Not just physical exhaustion, but real, cognitive burnout. The culprit? His own abilities. Dante's powers required constant mental activity—calculating, multitasking, coordinating fine movements of psychically-controlled weapons or altering strategies on the fly. It wasn't just effort—it was strain. Every day, he studied devil culture, etiquette, battlefield tactics, and practical combat forms, all while trying to develop and refine a new style involving dual weapon play. He'd been lifting, maneuvering, and memorizing simultaneously, constantly.
His body, thankfully, hadn't suffered. Whatever residual strength his body had retained during those six strange months in Wonderland had ensured he didn't lose much of his physical conditioning. His body could keep up. It was his mind that needed a break.
And right now, this—however bizarre it seemed—was that break.
He could admit, if only to himself, that this was the most relaxed he'd felt in days. Since his formal induction into the Gremory household, it had been non-stop. From familiarizing himself with his new spear-sword hybrid to testing it in mock combat against Sirzechs, followed by lectures with either Zeoticus or Venelana about noble conduct, devil customs, titles, etiquette, and the complex ritual of introducing oneself to other noble heirs or heiresses.
There had been a subtle dig at his introduction skills in there somewhere. He remembered.
He had once asked why he was even considered an heir to the Gremory family. He wasn't blood. His origins were very, very human.
The answer had come swiftly: Military Reservation Status. It meant that while he was recognized as a provisional heir, he was not expected or obligated to form political alliances through romantic relations until his military service was concluded—or until his death. They had mentioned that part with the same offhand tone one might use to mention a weather forecast.
His mind was rambling again. It did that when he wasn't strictly focused. And in this moment of odd maternal affection, he wasn't prepared for what Venelana did next.
A soft kiss planted itself on his cheek.
Dante's eyes slowly tilted downward to the woman currently curled against him like a predatory cat claiming territory. He raised an eyebrow at her with all the droll patience of someone resigned to madness.
"That was for... what, exactly?" he asked.
Venelana smiled up at him with all the warmth of a woman who had just declared emotional war. "It's just hard not to want to pinch those cute little cheeks of yours."
As if to reinforce the point, her hand reached up and grabbed a gentle fistful of his left cheek, tugging slightly as if testing its elasticity. Thanks to his enhanced durability, Dante barely felt the pressure. He didn't flinch—just stared.
His mind betrayed him again.
He groaned inwardly as he remembered one of the more disturbing lessons from a few days ago. While Venelana had been walking him through devil biology, social structure, and cultural development, the subject had—for reasons beyond his understanding—drifted into devil reproductive behavior.
It had been awkward. Extremely awkward.
Especially because Venelana had chosen to explain it while seated next to him. Closer than necessary. In full detail.
To devils, natural fertility was a rare and treasured thing. Humans surpassed them in that regard without even trying. Many centuries ago, demonic forces had attempted to exploit this by forcibly breeding human women with male demons in a bid to mass-produce powerful offspring. Spoiler alert: it didn't work. The offspring were weak, unstable, and often soulless. Worse, it had triggered a violent crackdown from Heaven.
Eventually, through evolution and Lucifer's direct influence, the devil species solidified, and their society rebuilt itself. But one truth remained: their numbers were dwindling. War after war had culled the population, and extinction loomed.
So came the laws.
To ensure the continuation of their species, devils had institutionalized reproduction. It was considered not just a personal duty, but a national one. Noble devils, especially powerful males, were expected to take multiple partners and sire many children. What humans called polygamy, devils treated like a biological imperative. The more partners, the higher the statistical likelihood of viable offspring.
In some cases, Dante recalled, it was the opposite—a powerful female would take multiple male partners. Venelana had explained that part with a straight face.
Dante had very deliberately blacked it out the moment she finished.
At first, he had been uncomfortable—repulsed, even. But over time, he began to understand. Devils weren't humans. They were forged in blood and war, raised on loss, and taught to value survival over pride. To them, repopulating their kind was sacred. It wasn't about lust or indulgence. It was about legacy. Continuation. Power.
And when he compared that to his own species—humans, who spent so much time offended by everything and everyone, and who could barely agree on what day it was—he could almost respect it.
Just not like it of course.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Dante sighed heavily, rubbing his temples with both hands. He needed composure. Venelana wasn't beyond reason. If he asked her to get up, she would—eventually. Maybe there would be some mild whining, a pout, or even a flat, hard "no," but usually, after enough blank staring from him, she'd relent and stand up.
But her current behavior brought something else to mind, something Zeoticus had told him just the day before.
Venelana had been born into the prestigious Bael clan, while Zeoticus was of pure Gremory blood. After their union, Venelana officially became a Gremory by title and responsibility. That included taking on the same role Zeoticus had—serving as the public face of the anti-Satan faction during the revolution. Their duties were not those of warriors, but rather of compassion: search and rescue operations.
Whenever the anti-Satan military made a push into contested territories, it was Zeoticus and Venelana who arrived shortly after the frontlines—offering blankets, healing spells, warm smiles, and hope. They were the first friendly faces anyone displaced by the war would see. In a conflict where brutality was commonplace, they were the humanizing force. Their presence was symbolic, representing unity, survival, and restoration.
To the common devil citizen, Zeoticus and Venelana weren't just nobles—they were heroes.
Right now, however, they were technically on leave.
Dante had learned that just before his own release from captivity, the third and fourth commanding generals—Serafall Sitri and Falbium Glasya-Labolas—had launched a joint campaign. Their combined efforts had resulted in the reclamation of Leviathia, a critical capital city once lost to the old-Satan loyalists. It was a major turning point.
As Sirzechs had cheerfully dubbed it, the revolution was now "on the board."
With that victory, the old Satan supporters were scattered, and momentum had finally shifted. Zeoticus and Venelana, having completed a strenuous tour coordinating relief efforts in the aftermath, were finally granted a short reprieve by the Council of the 72.
The Council—headed by the formidable and cunning Zekram Bael—was the civilian ruling body that handled administration, logistics, and political appointments in the anti-Satan faction. They were the executive branch to the military's martial hand, and Zeoticus and Venelana were among their most trusted agents.
This short vacation wasn't just rest. According to Zeoticus—who had said it with his usual amused smirk—it was also a chance for the couple to attempt conceiving another child. In devil culture, where reproduction was rare and treasured, that process could take days or even weeks depending on success.
And Dante... Dante had unwittingly thrown a massive wrench into their plans.
He wanted to cry.
He was a cock-blocker.
"Can you get off me, please?" he asked, tone verging on pleading. The more his thoughts circled back to what Venelana and Zeoticus were likely doing—or trying to do—the more urgent his voice became. "Sirzechs is coming back soon for our sparring session. I need to go warm up."
"No...you're comfy..." came her annoyingly sweet reply.
Dante let his head fall back against the couch cushion, releasing a slow, exaggerated breath of suffering. Time to assess the situation.
He was currently being sort-of straddled by his new, overly affectionate adoptive mother. Who, due to devil biology and timing, was very clearly in heat. Her cuddly nature—endearing under normal circumstances—had taken on a slightly more... sensual dimension. And thanks to her lack of self-awareness, she was subconsciously using him as a living, breathing body pillow.
Worse than that, a grinding post.
"OKAY!" Dante announced, suddenly springing up like a man escaping a bear trap. Venelana gracefully slid off him and back onto the couch, blinking at him in confusion, a pout already forming on her lips.
"Mmhm-mmhm, nope. I'm out!" Dante declared, spinning on his heel without even looking back. He strode briskly toward the door of her study, practically kicking it open with his urgency.
Venelana sat quietly for a moment, head tilting slightly as she tried to process his sudden exit. "What did I do?" she asked aloud.
Then she looked down at her position on the couch… and remembered.
A full, furious blush bloomed across her cheeks.
"Oh my… How scandalous of me," she muttered, lips curling in embarrassment. "I still have such terrible control over myself…" She huffed softly, crossing her legs and hiding her face behind her hand. "Damn that Zeoticus and his pheromones..."
Dante, now halfway across the estate, could only pray Sirzechs would arrive soon.
And that he never—ever—had to walk in on another one of these moments again.