St. Patrick's Cathedral, New York City. 2004.
nine years had flown by.
The clang of wood echoed through the training hall, sharp and fast, followed by a laugh that bounced off the stone walls.
Dante spun in a half-circle, his wooden practice sword whipping through the air. He slashed, ducked, and then twirled the blade onto his shoulder with a grin far too smug for someone who had just tripped over a chair.
"Smooth," Father Matteo called from the doorway, sipping from a chipped mug of coffee. "Very professional. You almost killed that poor chair. Truly the terror of demons everywhere."
Dante leaned on the sword, panting but grinning. "Hey, gotta start somewhere. First the chair, then the world."
"World's shaking in its boots already," Matteo said dryly, though his eyes twinkled with pride.
Dante ignored him, dropping back into a stance, crimson pendant bouncing against his chest as he shifted his weight. His strikes came fast, wild, but there was rhythm now — style. Every swing ended with a flourish, every block accompanied by a muttered quip.
It was reckless, showy, and far from perfect. But it was Dante.
Matteo took another sip of coffee and muttered, "God help the devil that actually takes this boy seriously."
Dante was midway through twirling his wooden sword when the cathedral's heavy doors groaned open. The sound echoed through the hall, breaking his rhythm.
"Oi, Matteo," Dante called, not even turning around. "Tell your parishioners to knock. I'm working on my masterpiece here."
"I'll be sure to put up a sign," Father Matteo replied, though his tone shifted when he saw who stepped inside. "Well, well… I didn't expect the Bloodstone name to darken my doorstep again."
Dante paused, lowering his sword.
The woman striding down the aisle wore a rugged brown leather coat, dust at the hem from long travel. Beneath it, her outfit was form-fitting, orange and daring, cut for movement as much as for style. A wide belt carried ammunition, and a shotgun rested casually against her shoulder like it belonged there.
Elsa Bloodstone.
"Father Matteo." Her voice carried the clipped edge of someone who didn't waste words. "I'm looking for my father. Ulysses. He's gone missing, and I have reason to believe your… unique connections might point me in the right direction."
Matteo sighed, setting down his coffee mug. "Ulysses Bloodstone. Now there's a name that drags more trouble than a flock of demons at Sunday Mass."
Dante leaned on his wooden sword, smirking. "What kind of priest keeps tabs on missing dads with shotguns?"
Elsa's gaze snapped to him, cool and assessing. "And who's this? The choir boy?"
Dante tapped his pendant, flashing a grin. "Choir boy? Nah. With a face like this, I'd be front row at confession every week. You know — give the sisters something to look at."
Elsa raised a brow, unimpressed. "Cute. Try that line on a vampire and see if it keeps your throat attached."
Matteo groaned. "Lord save me. He's discovered women."
Dante winked at Elsa, unbothered. "What can I say? You walk in looking like that, and I forget I'm holding a wooden sword."
Elsa's lips twitched — not quite a smile, more the look of a hunter humoring a pup. She turned back to Matteo. "So. Are you going to help me, or should I find another priest who doesn't babysit?"
Dante twirled his wooden sword, still grinning. "Hey, don't knock the stick. One day, this baby's going to make demons weep."
Matteo rolled his eyes skyward. "Lord, grant me patience. Or failing that, a stronger drink."
Father Matteo studied the two of them — Elsa with her shotgun and hunter's poise, Dante with his wooden sword and cocky grin. On the surface, it looked absurd: a seasoned monster slayer and a kid barely old enough to buy his own beer.
But Dante wasn't a child anymore. Matteo had trained him for years, sharpened his instincts, kept him alive when the nightmares clawed at his sleep. And Sparda's blood burned in his veins. He couldn't keep the boy hidden behind cathedral walls forever.
He set his mug down with a decisive clink.
"Elsa," he said, his tone shifting to something firm. "You came here for help, and maybe God's feeling merciful enough to grant it. But I'm not the one who'll be holding that shotgun beside you."
Elsa frowned. "Meaning?"
Matteo pointed at Dante. "Him."
Dante blinked, then smirked. "Wait… seriously?"
Elsa scoffed, giving Dante a once-over. "He's a child with a toy sword."
"Eighteen," Dante corrected, puffing his chest. "And trust me, I swing this toy better than most swing steel."
Matteo's voice stayed steady. "If he's ever going to face the real world, better he does it beside a real hunter than on his own. Consider this his trial by fire."
Elsa looked between them, her jaw tight. Everything about her posture screamed that she hated the idea of babysitting.
"Father, I don't do charity cases," she said flatly. "I need someone who can pull a trigger, not a boy who thinks a stick makes him dangerous."
Dante smirked, tapping the wooden blade on his shoulder. "Hey, don't knock it 'til you see me swing."
Matteo raised a hand, silencing them both. His voice came firm, steadier than either expected. "He's ready, Elsa. Maybe not polished, maybe not perfect, but ready. And if he's ever going to face the real world, better it be beside someone who knows how to survive it."
Elsa crossed her arms, glaring at the priest. "You want me to break him?"
Matteo shook his head. "No. I want you to test him."
Finally, she lowered the shotgun from her shoulder. "Fine. But if he slows me down, he's demon food."
Dante grinned ear to ear, resting the wooden sword on his shoulder. "Guess that makes me your new partner. Don't worry — I'll make you look good."
Elsa rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. "This is going to be a nightmare."
After a long moment of thought, Father Matteo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I need to give the boy a proper weapon. He's not swinging a broomstick at demons."
He turned, disappearing into the cathedral's archives. Dante glanced at Elsa, who arched a brow.
"What's he fetching?" she asked.
Dante smirked. "Hopefully a cooler stick."
Matteo returned carrying a long, dust-caked chest. He set it on the table with a grunt, unlatched the iron clasps, and pushed it open. Inside lay a blade wrapped in worn cloth.
He drew it free, and the air in the room seemed to shift. The weapon looked like a normal sword, gleaming faintly in the candlelight, its edge immaculate despite its age.
"This is the Rebellion," Matteo said, his voice carrying weight. "It belonged to your father."
Dante's eyes widened. "Cool… but I thought it would look cooler. Why does this thing look like a normal sword?"
Matteo's expression stayed grave. "Don't be fooled. It's just a sword until you make it more. Treat it with respect."
Elsa snorted. "So basically, he traded a wooden stick for a shiny stick."
Dante shot her a grin. "Hey, I'll make it shine brighter than you think."
Matteo reached deeper into the chest, pulling out a bundle of folded crimson cloth. He shook it out — a long red coat, its lining heavy, the color rich even after years in storage.
"And this," Matteo said, "He wore this whenever he faced the monsters that threatened others. Now it's your turn to carry it."
Dante slipped into the coat, the fabric settling across his shoulders. He gave a dramatic spin, coat tails flaring as he raised Rebellion.
The candlelight caught in his hair — stark white, like snow under moonlight, falling in unruly strands around his face. Against the crimson coat and the faint glimmer of his pendant, the color made him look otherworldly, a boy already marked by something beyond mortal blood.
His features were still young, sharp but not yet hardened by years of battle. His grin carried more mischief than menace, his eyes glinting with a reckless fire that belonged to neither priest nor soldier, but something else entirely.
For the first time, he looked less like a boy and more like someone stepping into his legend.
Elsa crossed her arms, smirking despite herself. "Well. At least he dresses the part."
He raised the blade high, coat flaring as he struck a dramatic pose. "How's that for an entrance?"