New York City, subway sewers, 2004.
The tunnels under Manhattan were damp, cold, and reeked of mold — not that Dante seemed to mind. He was too busy cracking jokes about the rats.
But Dante wasn't the one who drew the eye.
Elsa Bloodstone walked ahead, shotgun slung across her back, boots crunching gravel with steady confidence. Her rugged brown leather coat, frayed at the edges from long travel, swayed as she moved. Beneath it clung an orange outfit — bold, practical, cut tight to her frame and strapped with belts carrying spare shells and blades. The orange against the gloom made her look like fire walking in the dark.
And then there was her hair — ginger, bright even in the stale underground light, spilling in waves past her shoulders. It gave her a look that was both wild and untouchable, like she'd stepped straight out of some pulp novel about monster slayers.
Dante rested a massive broadsword against his shoulder, its weight still new in his grip. "So… shotgun, coat, ammo belt. I'm guessing you're not the knitting type."
Elsa didn't even turn her head. "I knit," she said dryly. "Usually with silver wire around vampire throats."
Dante laughed, the sound bouncing off the tunnel walls. "Cute. So you do have a hobby."
Elsa glanced over her shoulder, unimpressed. "And yours is getting killed young?"
Dante grinned wider, giving Rebellion a flashy spin. "Nah. Mine's making sure people remember my name before I do."
The tunnels sloped downward into a cavern choked with mildew and candle smoke. Whispered chants echoed against the stone, low and guttural, like a dozen voices speaking with one throat.
Dante slowed his steps, twirling the blade loosely in one hand. "Well," he whispered, "either this is the creepiest subway choir in New York, or we've hit the jackpot."
Elsa shot him a glare, finger to her lips. She moved with hunter's precision, shotgun raised, eyes sweeping the gloom. Dante trailed behind her, still grinning, though even he felt the wrongness in the air — like the walls themselves were breathing.
The cavern opened into a wide chamber. Cultists in tattered robes knelt in a circle, hands raised toward a crude altar of bones. At its center burned a brazier, green flame writhing like a living thing.
Dante stopped dead, his grin faltering for the first time. He lowered his voice, muttering, "…Holy crap. They actually do this kind of thing? Like — robes, bones, the whole works?"
Elsa's shotgun came up, her eyes sharp. "First time seeing a ritual?"
"Uh, yeah." Dante smirked nervously. "Back in Russia, the creepiest thing I ever saw was a goat with two heads. This? Way worse."
Elsa's lips twitched, but she kept her focus on the cultists. "Then keep up. And don't do anything stupid."
Dante straightened, forcing the cocky grin back on his face. "Stupid? That's my specialty."
One of the cultists hissed, raising a dagger. "Blood calls to blood. The vessel awakens."
Dante smirked. "Guess that's our cue." He rested Rebellion on his shoulder and strode into the chamber like he owned the place. "Sorry to crash the party, fellas, but you forgot the balloons."
The chanting stopped. Dozens of heads turned at once, eyes gleaming sickly green in the candlelight.
Elsa cursed under her breath. "Subtlety really isn't in your vocabulary, is it?"
"Subtlety's boring." Dante winked, then raised his sword. "Let's dance."
The first cultist shrieked, rushing forward. Elsa's shotgun barked, buckshot tearing him off his feet. The chamber erupted in chaos — blades flashing, green fire spitting sparks, and Dante diving headlong into the fray with reckless glee.
Rebellion clashed against jagged steel, sparks flying. Dante twisted his wrist, knocked a cultist's blade aside, and shoved the robed figure back with a boot to the chest.
"Not bad for a choir boy, huh?" Dante quipped, spinning the blade into a flashy arc.
Two more cultists closed in. Dante ducked under a wild slash and drove Rebellion upward in a rising cut that tore through cloth and bone. He pivoted, booting the second in the gut before smacking him across the face with the sword's pommel.
Elsa pivoted on his flank, her shotgun blasting another robed figure. She glanced at Dante — just long enough to realize he wasn't flailing blindly. His swings were flashy, show-off garbage, but there was instinct beneath it. Precision wrapped in chaos.
Dante fought like he'd been born with a sword in his hand.
The last cultist fell with a scream, blood spraying across the brazier.
For a moment, silence hung in the chamber. Then the green flame roared higher, splitting the altar. The cavern shook, dust raining from the ceiling.
The cultists still clinging to life screamed louder, voices cracking with ecstasy:
"Blood calls to blood!"
"The vessel awakens!"
"The Forsaken General's blood shall awaken!"
From the heart of the flame, something clawed its way out.
A hulking form heaved into the chamber — skin like charred stone, limbs too long, a maw split wide with jagged teeth. Its eyes glowed a deep, blood-red, burning like coals. A N'Garai brute, born from the rift.
Dante raised Rebellion, grinning nervously. "…Okay. That's new."
The brute lunged, claws swiping like hammers. Dante blocked — and the impact rattled his bones. Rebellion screeched under the pressure, sparks spitting off its edge. The brute shoved forward, knocking Dante back.
He staggered, ribs aching, blood trickling from his mouth. He tightened his grip and spat to the side. "Alright, big guy. Round two."
The brute roared, charging again. Dante slashed wildly, steel biting deep — but the blade barely slowed it. With one savage swing, the monster knocked Dante off his feet, sending him crashing into a stone pillar. His own blood smeared across the hilt and blade.
And that's when it happened.
The sword pulsed.
A crimson glow bled from the steel, crawling along the jagged edge like veins of fire. Dante stared as the weight shifted in his hands — heavier, alive, a hum filling the air like a heartbeat.
Rebellion had awakened.
Dante's lips split into a grin, sharp despite the blood on his chin. "Now that's more like it."