"Do you understand, Dante?"
Dante sprang awake, blinking rapidly as his consciousness clawed its way back to reality. He had dozed off for a few minutes during one of Venelana's famously long lectures on the intricate politics of the ongoing civil war. His body remained seated on the elegant velvet sofa, but his mind had taken a brief detour into unconsciousness, lulled by the quiet rhythm of her voice and the warm light streaming through the high windows of the Gremory estate.
He shook his head to clear the fog, blinked a few times more, and raised his eyes to meet those of the woman standing across from him—his adoptive mother, the matriarch of the Gremory clan. Venelana Gremory was regal as ever, arms crossed beneath her chest, her violet eyes half-lidded in a familiar expression of disappointment. Her cheeks were puffed in a slight pout, like a schoolteacher dismayed by her star pupil's sudden lapse.
"I do not think it wise to stare at your teacher," she said flatly, her voice laced with a mixture of disapproval and amusement as she followed his gaze, which had briefly wandered to her flowing red sundress.
Dante, momentarily frozen in embarrassment, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Apologies, Mother. My mind has been... rather crowded lately. I promise I'll stay focused."
Venelana arched one elegant brow, her tone shifting slightly. "Oh? Would that be due to your training with the sword? Or perhaps your dreams again?"
He shook his head more firmly this time. "I have no excuse for failing to listen. Your lessons are valuable, and I'm grateful for them. Please—continue."
She studied him in silence for a long moment, weighing his words, his posture, and the truth behind them. Then, with an almost theatrical pivot, she transformed. Her features softened into warmth, her stern demeanor giving way to a glowing smile. This was the flip side of Venelana's mercurial teaching style—blistering critique followed by boundless praise. Dante had recently realized just how much Sirzechs had inherited from her. The emotional whiplash, the dramatic flair, even the tendency to smother others in affection—it all started here.
"Then tell me, dear," she said sweetly, sitting across from him with legs crossed. "Can you summarize the state of the Ars Goetia? Its governance—or lack thereof—and the current figureheads shaping our future?"
"Yes, Mother," Dante said with a deep breath, straightening up. "Due to the centuries-long conflicts with both the angels and the factions within our own realm, the Ars Goetia has not yet formed a cohesive governing structure independent from the rule of the Four Great Kings. While the monarchy persists in name, its actual power has dwindled. However, with the recent capture and stabilization of Leviathia—our provisional capital—the noble families still loyal to the Anti-Satan cause have begun laying the groundwork for a modernized political framework."
Venelana gave a pleased nod but said nothing, waiting for more.
Dante continued. "There are five primary families involved in spearheading this reform. First is the Gremory family—our own. We have taken leadership of the refugee campaign. Given the vast lands under our control and our relatively stable strongholds, we've accepted responsibility for sheltering and aiding displaced devils. Many of them are veterans, former loyalists, or non-combatants from cities torn apart by the war."
Venelana's hand reached out and gently patted his head, ruffling his hair. It was a habit she never seemed inclined to break, and Dante endured it with thinly veiled exasperation. It was her version of giving gold stars, and he'd often joke—silently, to himself—that if she ever pulled out an actual cookie, he'd walk out of the room.
When she withdrew her hand, he resumed. "Second is the Sitri family. Their focus is on infrastructure and urban restoration. Once our forces have secured a region, the Sitri engineers and planners move in to assess damages, restore housing, and rebuild essential services. Without them, our reclaimed territories would be in shambles."
He dodged another hand pat with a subtle shift of his shoulders. Venelana chuckled at his quiet rebellion.
"Third, the Astaroth family. They handle both medical care and arcane research. Their healers are renowned, and they've trained dozens of new field medics equipped with both conventional and magical treatments. They also manage the development of specialized healing spells and biological advancements, many of which have turned the tide in our skirmishes."
Dante paused to breathe, quickly sidestepping yet another attempt at a maternal gesture. Venelana, ever patient, giggled again as though he were performing for her amusement.
"Fourth is the Glasya-Labolas family," he went on. "Their influence lies heavily in the military sphere. They oversee recruitment, training, and long-term deployment strategies. They're also the founders of the Gauntlet Program—a merit-based advancement system that allows recruits to rise through the ranks based on battlefield performance and leadership potential. This program has drastically increased both morale and efficiency."
Venelana raised her eyebrows. He knew why.
"And lastly," Dante said, voice steady, "the Bael family. Lord Zekram Bael, head of the house and patriarch of the Old Guard, was the catalyst for the revolution. His political acumen and reputation drew the other families into alignment. His heir—Praxis Bael, your younger brother and my uncle in name—is currently a commander in the Red Legion. He serves as the bridge of communication between the four commanding generals. While Zekram retains overwhelming political power, the generals have full command over military operations. The balance is tenuous but stable—for now."
Venelana clapped softly, her face lighting up. "Exquisite. Absolutely perfect. You've absorbed everything I taught you."
Dante exhaled, watching her fondly but with a trace of caution. He had learned that her praise wasn't always just encouragement—it was her way of establishing dominance. When he performed poorly, she'd correct him with grace and iron judgment. When he excelled, she'd drown him in adoration so suffocating it left him red-faced and scrambling for excuses to leave.
Her methods were devilish in more ways than one.
She closed the distance between them and sat beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He tensed slightly, the way he always did. It wasn't discomfort—at least, not exactly. It was confusion. He never quite understood how to respond to this level of maternal affection, especially from someone so powerful, so old.
He had once asked Sirzechs—his mentor, surrogate brother, and Venelana's firstborn—why she behaved this way. Why she coddled him like a child. Sirzechs had just smiled, shook his head, and muttered something like, "Little boy," or, "You'll understand when you're older."
What Dante had gathered was this: Sirzechs had always wanted a sibling. Venelana had always wanted another child. And though Dante wasn't theirs by blood, he had filled that void. Unintentionally. Unavoidably.
At twenty-three, he was a grown man by human standards. But to devils—especially ancient nobles like the Gremory—he was barely more than an infant. A baby who had barely begun to crawl, let alone stand. Their instincts toward him were as protective as they were overwhelming.
And it was overwhelming. Venelana would pet his hair, squeeze his cheeks, tuck him into elaborate silk blankets when he nodded off in the library. Once, she'd even kissed his forehead before a mission. A forehead kiss. He didn't speak for an entire hour after that.
He lived in a strange world now. One where war loomed at the borders and political intrigues spun webs through every city—but also one where his adoptive mother seemed perilously close to asking him if he wanted to be burped after dinner.
That was his biggest fear. That one day, she'd look him dead in the eyes and ask, in all seriousness, if he needed milk.
If that day ever came, he wouldn't answer. He wouldn't even run. He'd just evaporate on the spot out of sheer existential horror.
Venelana leaned against him gently, still smiling.
"You're doing so well, Dante," she whispered. "You remind me more and more of Sirzechs when he was your age."
Dante didn't respond. He didn't need to. He merely sat there, caught between pride, mild trauma, and a maternal headlock.
Monkey in the middle, he thought.
And in the devil world, he was starting to realize, being the youngest in the family didn't mean less responsibility.
It just meant more hugs.