It wasn't what he expected.
There was no remote, no obvious interface, no flashy buttons or arcane runes to press. Just the sleek, disk-shaped contraption and the hologram that had burst to life with all the theatrical flair of a stage magician. It seemed devil-kind didn't need electronics—their version of entertainment was magic-fueled, graceful, and oddly delayed.
Dante had waited in silence for almost a full minute, tapping his fingers against his knee, before the projection finally flickered to life.
And what it displayed nearly knocked the soul out of him.
"What the hell—?!" he muttered, half-falling into the luxurious comfort of a nearby couch as his eyes widened in disbelief.
On screen, the camera zoomed into the roaring crowd from the arena, now cut into a highlight reel of interviews and reactions.
A young devil child with bouncing curls practically screamed at the top of his lungs, his eyes glittering with unfiltered awe.
"By the Satans, he's awesome! There was like this massive Arc bolt—LOUDER than thunder—and Lady Valeria just stood there and tanked it like—WHAM! Mom was terrified, but I thought it was SOOO cool!"
The feed cut abruptly to a smiling woman—likely the boy's mother—who had the air of a civilian survivor.
"I've known nobles before," she said softly, smiling toward the camera, "but I've never seen one treat a low-class devil like an equal. It makes me grateful I pledged to the Gremory house all those years ago. They're kind. More than kind."
The shot dissolved again.
Then it happened.
"I WILL BEAR ALL HIS CHILDREN!" screamed a gorgeous woman in the crowd, practically climbing over the railing in desperation.
Another woman, clinging to her arm like a wingwoman from hell, yelled back, "SO WILL I!"
The camera lingered just long enough to catch a sea of red-faced teens and swooning women behind them—dozens, maybe more—clearly fantasizing wildly and unapologetically about him.
Dante's face went blank.
His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.
"Oh no," he whispered in horror, slowly sinking further into the plush couch. "What have I done?"
This... this was not the outcome he had planned when he'd spared Valeria. This wasn't a calculated moment of political heroism. He'd just... done what felt right. And now?
Now he was apparently the poster boy for every devil maiden's late-night daydream.
The highlight reel kept rolling. Reactions, commentary, applause, analysis—some of it genuine, some almost poetic in their praise. Even a few evaluators appeared, discussing his form, his composure, and—gods help him—his honor.
Dante exhaled, long and deep. Compliments weren't foreign to him, but this? This was borderline myth-making.
He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling bitterly. "Should've known... the moment I helped Valeria, I walked straight into this." He tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling.
Valeria had been a symbol—heroic and resilient. A low- to mid-class devil who clawed her way into legend through sweat, pain, and sacrifice. And he... he'd uplifted that symbol. Recognized it. Validated it.
The people didn't just appreciate that.
They worshipped it.
And just when he thought the praises would end, the screen cut to another interview.
"What's your opinion on Lord Dante?" asked a well-dressed interviewer.
"I think he's all show and no go," answered a voice dripping with ego.
Dante's eyes narrowed.
The camera panned to the speaker: a devil male, close in age, with the physique of a fighter and the smugness of a man who had never once questioned himself. He wore a trimmed beard and a high-fade haircut that immediately screamed devil version of Conor McGregor.
The resemblance was so uncanny Dante almost laughed—almost.
"He wastes time on weaklings. Three low-class devils and he fights them fairly? What a joke," the man scoffed. He crossed his arms like he'd just won the debate of the century.
The camera didn't pan away immediately. It lingered. Long enough to capture the daggers being shot at him from nearby women—glances so sharp they could kill lesser devils where they stood.
Dante arched a brow.
"The absolute madman," he whispered with a chuckle. "Underestimation? Check. Arrogance? Double check. Follow-up?" He tilted his hand in an uncertain wiggle. "We'll see."
His smile slowly faded as he watched the man practically radiate hostility through the screen.
The interviewer, clearly sensing the heat, asked carefully, "Your words speak of confidence. Are you saying you could defeat him?"
The man's eyes flashed with something primal. There was a tension in his posture, the kind that made Dante's instincts flare. This wasn't just ego—this was a man spoiling for a fight.
And that made him dangerous.
Dante's gaze sharpened.
"Easy to piss off," he noted aloud. "That'll be useful."
He crossed his arms and leaned back into the couch once more, now less amused and more intrigued.
The game had shifted.
And the next piece had just declared himself.
"Tsk... easy," scoffed the high-class showboater on the projection, his tone thick with disdain. "That twig of his couldn't cut through me even if I let him!"
His grin stretched wider, eyes gleaming with reckless bravado. He leaned toward the camera, his voice practically barking through the magic-infused display.
"And I hope he's watching right now. YOU HEAR ME, Lord Dante? I'm gonna whoop that low-born-raised ass all over the arena! You're gonna wish your mom was around to heal you up from what I do to you! HAH!"
With that final shout, the devil turned and strutted away from the camera like he'd just conquered a kingdom. He didn't acknowledge the stunned silence of the interview crew or the death glares from every woman nearby.
The announcer's voice returned, flat but composed. "And that concludes our interview with Lord Brinyalf Stolas. The next match will feature challenger Lord Dante Vale Gremory versus Lord Brinyalf Stolas, current Knight Sentinel defender. Stay tuned for more after the break."
As the broadcast cut to a line of commercials—some of which, amusingly, advertised Arc-infused hair gel and enchanted toothpastes—Dante sat there, jaw slightly slack, expression unreadable.
"...Wow," he muttered, leaning forward with a slow nod as if that single syllable could encompass the entirety of what he'd just witnessed.
From the corner of the room, Infernum Fulgur pulsed softly.
Dante didn't look at it. He didn't need to.
"Yup," he muttered, smirk tugging at his lips, "seen those kinds before."
He gestured vaguely toward the screen with a casual flick of his fingers. "I've been chirped at by better. He drags my mom into it? Classic."
The blade pulsed again, brighter this time. A low hum echoed, like a barely restrained snicker in steel.
Dante sighed and dropped his head into his hands with exaggerated exhaustion. "For the last time, woman, I'm not killing allies."
Fulgur glowed again—this time dimmer, playful, almost mocking.
And Dante blinked.
His face twisted. "Oh no," he said, voice dropping low. "I ain't calling you that. Just 'cause I called you 'woman' doesn't mean I'm ever gonna say that."
The glowing blade flared briefly, and whatever it said—only Dante could understand it—made his expression turn pale with unfiltered horror.
"Ugh. Disturbed. Traumatized," Dante mumbled, backing away a step. "I need soap. Spiritual soap."
"You're right," came a dry female voice behind him. "He is a little insane."
Dante turned and blinked, now staring at two figures who had entered the room without him noticing.
The first he recognized immediately—the familiar crimson hair and amused smirk could belong to no one but Sirzechs.
The second... was a small woman. Petite, youthful in appearance, and currently giving him a very flat look.
"Um? Hello?" Dante greeted, glancing between the two of them before his eyes landed on the smaller figure. "Who's the kid?"
There was a beat of silence.
Then Sirzechs let out a choking sound and immediately turned away, shoulders trembling as he fought—and failed—to contain his laughter.
"Little kid... HAHAHAHA!" Sirzechs finally burst out, completely abandoning all semblance of nobility.
The small woman did not move. She did not blink. But her left eyebrow twitched in a way that suggested she had just added Dante to a very short, very personal list.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and bowed—graceful, composed, but icy.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Lord Dante Vale Gremory," she said, voice high and melodic but edged like a razor. "I am Serafall Sitri, Commanding General of the Blue Legion."
Sirzechs' muffled laughter continued in the background.
Dante blinked. Then he blinked again. And then slowly, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders slumped.
"Oh." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Right. That... makes more sense."
Fulgur, still pulsing in the background, glowed faintly.
If blades could smirk, it was definitely doing it now.