"Oh shit..." Dante muttered under his breath.
Serafall, ever poised, simply nodded at his crude acknowledgment. She could've made a point out of it, but chose to let it slide. The moment he stood, however, she noticed something more telling—he didn't salute. That detail, though minor to an outsider, was very intentional. Sirzechs had briefed him well: never salute a General unless you're part of their legion or pledging loyalty. Dante, while technically an initiate, was of the Red Legion. Saluting the Commander of the Blue Legion would have been tantamount to swearing allegiance on the spot.
And judging by Serafall's strict demeanor, that definitely wasn't in anyone's best interest.
Dante composed himself, slipping into his more introspective demeanor—a state of mind he found useful for delicate social interactions. He thought more clearly this way, could weigh his words without the sarcasm or wit that normally ran unchecked. A survival mechanism, perhaps. One honed over years of navigating hellish expectations.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, General," he said, his voice smooth but not overly formal. "Apologies for the earlier slip-up... I was a little distracted. Apparently, I've become quite the popular name."
There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes, and Serafall's sharp gaze caught it.
Sirzechs chuckled lightly, stepping forward to stand beside the hovering hologram—which now displayed a blushing mother being teased by her own son as he gushed about Dante. "Quite the fanbase you've built, Dante. Can't say I'm jealous... but I am entertained."
Dante gave a small shrug. "Wasn't exactly the plan."
Serafall's smirk was brief, but unmistakable. Her eyes flicked back to the hologram where a group of children shouted Dante's name with awe-struck excitement.
"It was a shocker, what you did," she said at last, turning to face him fully. Her tone had not changed—still cool, professional, inquisitive. Her eyes, however, held something new: curiosity.
Dante glanced at Sirzechs, who had gone silent, arms crossed. The crimson-haired devil gave him no signal, no hint of what Serafall might know or suspect.
"Why did you help her? Knight Valeria? You had no prior contact. No debt. No reason. Why take that risk?"
Dante tilted his head slightly. It wasn't the first time he'd considered this question. He'd answered it in his mind many times before. But Serafall—with her by-the-book manner and unreadable face—wasn't asking for poetry. She was digging for motive.
"It was what we both had gone through," he said, measured but honest.
Her brow arched at the vague response.
"I witnessed the atrocities of the Old-Satan faction. So did Valeria. Maybe she had it better. Maybe not. But when I saw her standing there, determined to protect others with everything she had... it hit me. We're kindred in that pain. So yeah, I helped her."
The answer was just enough. Vague enough to shield the depth of truth, yet true enough to pacify prying eyes.
"Is that all?" Serafall asked coolly.
Dante's gaze darkened just a fraction, his eyes sharpening.
Sirzechs picked up on it immediately. That edge. That razor-thin shift in aura that reminded him of the first time he met Dante—a man cornered by his own past, ready to strike.
"Know the limits of your questions, Serafall," Sirzechs interrupted smoothly, voice calm but carrying weight. His eyes met hers with an even stare. "Prying into a past you have no part in is dishonorable."
Serafall froze. A heartbeat passed before her eyes widened in realization.
"Oh! By the Satans, I've done it again," she blurted, her previously measured composure cracking like thin glass. She turned sharply to Dante, who was blinking rapidly like someone who'd just been hit with a face full of pepper spray.
"I apologize for the intrusive questions," she said quickly, her hands raised in defense. "Sometimes work gets me all fired up and I go full soldier-mode without realizing."
As if to punctuate her apology, she knocked a knuckle against her head and stuck out her tongue playfully.
Dante stared.
That... was a complete 180.
He leaned slightly toward Sirzechs and whispered, "Are all devils this bipolar?"
Fulgur, still resting against the wall, pulsed faintly in response.
Sirzechs merely laughed.
Dante sighed.
He was starting to think he preferred homicidal maniacs to politicians and generals.
At least with those, you knew exactly what kind of crazy you were getting.
Dante blinked rapidly, the confusion on his face impossible to hide. His mind raced to make sense of the sudden mood swing from the general in front of him. Moments ago, Serafall Sitri had been a rigid figure of cold discipline, her questions direct and probing, her demeanor bordering on interrogative. Now, she was—apologetic? Almost bubbly? There was even a cringe-inducing playfulness to her apology that felt wildly out of place given the earlier tone.
He wasn't sure if he was talking to a general or a stage performer at this point.
Noticing his hesitation, Sirzechs stepped in, bumping Serafall lightly with the shoulder in a casual way that broke the tension like a practiced stage cue. He spoke with his usual calm reassurance.
"In case you were wondering, Dante, we came here to congratulate you on your performance in your first matches," he said with a smile. "Your training has paid off very well."
Dante nodded slowly, pushing away the disorientation caused by Serafall's emotional whiplash. These devils and their moods were something else. He exhaled, falling back into his throne-like chair and slouching just enough to feel human again.
"I'm not so sure about that, Sirzechs. Khiron and Helena were skilled in their own way, sure—but they didn't exactly push me. Honestly, I was hoping the evaluators had made some kind of mistake. Maybe they were short-staffed or had to shuffle the bracket?"
Sirzechs could only snort at that, stifling a laugh. Beside him, Serafall raised a delicate brow, clearly intrigued.
"I'm afraid not, Dante," Sirzechs replied with a grin. "They gave you the best candidates available. Unfortunately for them, you're simply a prodigy with the sword-spear. That much is undeniable."
"It's a curse among the strong," Serafall added, her voice touched with a kind of tired amusement. "Finding a true challenge becomes... rare."
Dante groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "Fantastic. So my ego inflates and my boredom deepens. Great combo. At least Valeria was a challenge. Sort of."
Serafall tilted her head slightly, her tone curious. "What do you mean by that?"
Dante didn't even have to think. "I mean it was a challenge not to kill her. That was the hard part. When you're significantly stronger than your opponent, the real test becomes restraint. If I was going for the kill, I'd have dropped every match in under fifteen seconds. But that's not the point, is it? Where's the fun in winning if you never get pushed?"
He scratched his cheek thoughtfully. "I just hope these high-class contenders can take a hit. Because I'm seriously itching for a real fight."
Serafall stood straighter, something unreadable crossing her expression. Her tone came across like a mix of reprimand and fascination—a strange hybrid Dante was quickly learning was her default mode.
"It's not wise to underestimate your enemies, Lord Dante," she said smoothly. "Nor is it wise to seek defeat."
Dante studied her for a moment, noting the way her eyes glinted—not in anger, but assessment. She was testing him. Gauging his mindset. Trying to see what kind of devil he really was when no crowd was watching.
He gave her the answer she deserved.
He frowned, not harshly, but just enough to show where he stood. "Yeah, I know. Underestimating your enemy is the quickest way to get yourself impaled. But seeking defeat? That's not weakness. That's hunger. You don't learn anything from flawless victories. You learn from struggle. From missteps. Not on the battlefield, of course. But in a tournament like this? Absolutely."
Serafall's smirk deepened. "That's good to hear, Lord Dante. I feared you might be the arrogant type. But it seems you're far more seasoned than some of my advisors."
She tapped a finger against her lower lip, as if contemplating something.
"Say... I have a question for you."
Dante leaned forward slightly. "Shoot."
Her eyes twinkled now, the glint of a strategist behind the polished commander. "What is the life expectancy of strategy?"
The room fell silent for just a moment longer than it should have. The question hung in the air like the opening move of a game yet to begin. And Dante—sharp, amused, and always ready for a challenge—smiled.
This was going to be interesting.