The thunder of the crowd still rolled across the coliseum when, high in the obsidian skybox reserved for the elite, six pairs of eyes fixed on the crater that cradled Brinyalf Stolas.
Sirzechs Gremory— ordinarily a portrait of unflappable composure—found his fingers tightening on the balcony rail. Crimson irises flicked from the unconscious heir below to the lone figure standing over him. Dante. Every controlled breath, every disciplined strike the boy had executed replayed in Sirzechs's mind like training‑hall footage. Close‑quarters mastery. Telekinetic augmentation. Perfect timing. Pride warmed his chest, but a chill of concern followed: There is no ceiling in sight for him, is there?
Beside him, Serafall Leviathan had gone uncharacteristically still—no playful salute, no sing‑song commentary. Only after a long heartbeat did she turn, flash a single thumbs‑up, and mouth nice hit with a begrudging smirk. Even so, her brow remained furrowed. The Magical Girl of Maous never liked being surprised.
On the far side, Praxis Bael leaned forward, violet eyes wide, lips parted as though tasting words he hadn't yet found. The scion of Destruction Magic had witnessed countless duels, but this—this fusion of raw power and martial science—left him momentarily speechless.
Zekram Bael, ever the cynic, reclined deeper into his chair, a chuckle vibrating in his chest. "To the trash he goes," he murmured, just loud enough for the family entourage to hear. The old mastermind's gaze sparkled with wicked amusement; for him, fallen arrogance was a vintage wine.
But it was Praetor Saladin's expression that snagged Sirzechs's attention. The grizzled veteran of a hundred campaigns usually wore the iron mask of stoic discipline. Now, though, one salt‑and‑pepper brow arched high, and his scarred lips parted in a slow exhale. Awe was too grand a word for the reaction; astonishment, too simple. What glimmered there was respect—the kind a commander offers only to warriors who transcend expectation.
No one spoke for several breaths. The arena's noise receded to a distant roar, like surf against cliffs.
Dante Vale Gremory, Sirzechs thought, allowing himself the shadow of a smile. With this victory you've secured your place among the Knight Sentinels. Brinyalf's ranking would plummet to Initiate status—roles reversed in a single clash. The Red Legion would formally claim Dante now, regardless of future outcomes, and from Sentinel the next step was Captain—perhaps even High Sentinel—if he could string together two more wins.
Sirzechs's mind leapt ahead: What if he reaches Sentinel Captain before his twenty‑third year? A dangerous precedent—yet a thrilling one.
Serafall finally broke the silence, her voice a half‑whisper laced with reluctant admiration. "He fights like a storm wearing dance shoes. Messy for the enemy, gorgeous for the crowd."
Praxis exhaled, a rueful chuckle escaping. "And here I thought my Destruction lineage put on a show."
Saladin's baritone cut through. "Destruction is loud. Discipline is lethal. The boy wielded both." He leaned on the rail, eyes never leaving Dante, who now lifted his spear in acknowledgement of the roaring stands. "I trained a company of war mages for eighty years. Only three ever mastered the body and the vortex as cleanly as that."
Zekram's chuckle deepened. "Then we best keep him close, before some other faction steals him away."
That single remark yanked Sirzechs from reverie. Exactly. Dante's ascent would draw covetous eyes—the Old‑Satan loyalists, the mercenary clans, perhaps even celestial observers beyond Hell's borders.
He straightened, resolved. "I'll speak with him after medical checks. His next match begins in forty‑six hours; he'll need guidance, not flattery."
Serafall shot him a side‑long grin. "Oh, come now, Gremory. A little flattery never hurt anyone."
"Tell that to Brinyalf," Praxis muttered.
A ripple of dry laughter circled the box. Yet under the levity ran a silent current of revelation: a fresh force had stepped onto Hell's chessboard, one who broke arrogance like brittle crystal and turned ridicule into momentum.
Sirzechs allowed himself one last glance. Dante stood at center ring, backlit by violet torches, as rose petals drifted through the smoke. Sentinel today—perhaps savior tomorrow.
He just rewrote the script, Sirzechs thought, a thrill coiling in his chest. Let's see how the stage adapts.
Rosalina Phenex hovered at the railing of a mid‑tier observation booth, her usual mask of patrician detachment shattered by a feral gleam in her eyes. From this vantage—only a few meters above the raucous lower tiers—she had watched Dante do more than bleed Brinyalf Stolas. He had broken the peacock devil in front of tens of thousands, under the nose of Lord General Sirzechs Gremory and General Serafall Sitri.
When her gaze drifted upward to the gilded royal box and spotted Praxis Bael—history's most ruthless field commander—seated beside his cunning grandsire Zekram, Rosalina felt her knees tremble. Too perfect, she thought, barely suppressing a giddy laugh. With Brinyalf publicly humiliated, the marriage contract her power‑hungry brother had shackled to her name would disintegrate. Freedom—delivered on a lightning‑kissed spear.
A dangerous smile curved her lips, something lupine and luminous. She couldn't tear her gaze from Dante—the so‑called Rogue Heir, the Shadow Heir—standing alone amid smoke and rose petals. Power radiated from him, but it was the meticulous craft beneath the raw force that hooked her thoughts and tugged them somewhere blush‑worthy.
Heat touched her cheeks. She coughed into her hand, a dainty attempt to hide the sudden flush. Two fellow high‑class spectators noticed at once.
Nyx Oriax—slim, black‑haired, his beard little more than charcoal stubble—arched an eyebrow. "You all right?" he asked, tone mild as cooled wine.
"I‑obviously!" Rosalina sputtered, eyes snapping away from the arena. "The air is filthy down here; it caught in my lungs."
Nyx's brow climbed another notch. "Sure," he murmured, turning back to the pit where Dante rested a forearm on his spear and contemplated the cratered earth.
Abigail Valac, heart‑shaped face and mischievous green eyes, strolled up behind Nyx and clapped him on the back hard enough to jolt the Oriax heir. "Relax, statue," she teased as he cursed under his breath. She leaned conspiratorially toward him, palm half‑masking her lips. "Is it just me, or is Lady Rosalina staring holes through Lord Dante?"
Nyx followed her gaze. Rosalina indeed stared, lower lip caught between teeth, entirely unaware of how transparent her fascination had become. He shrugged, nonchalant. The last man who'd sparked her interest had turned into a housebroken lapdog within twenty‑four hours—hardly worth remembering.
Before he could voice the thought, Nyx felt a ripple of murderous intent. He turned—and there stood Lady Stolas, Brinyalf's mother, advancing along the corridor with eyes like poisoned daggers fixed on Rosalina.
"Heads up, Phenex," Nyx drawled. "Mama Stolas is headed your way, and she looks ready to breathe brimstone."
Rosalina cut the approaching matriarch a sideways glance. A slow, triumphant smirk unfurled across her lips—equal parts invitation and challenge. The sight made even Abigail step back.
"Abigail, darling, keep my seat warm." Rosalina smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her silken sleeve. "I have a… diplomatic matter to settle." Without another word she glided out of the booth, satin skirts whispering like drawn steel.
Nyx and Abigail shared a look.
"Politics," Abigail sighed, folding her arms.
"Politics," Nyx agreed—then promptly erased the subject from his thoughts, eyes drifting back to the arena where Dante stood alone, uncrowned yet unmistakably victorious.