Serafall leaned delicately to the side, her posture elegant, but her face betrayed a clear look of disturbed disgust. She was trying—and failing—to gain as much physical and emotional distance from Sirzechs as possible without sacrificing the dignity expected of her station.
It had been several minutes since Dante had exited the stadium, but Sirzechs still wore that insufferably wide, joy-filled smile—a grin so unfiltered and unrestrained that it practically radiated some forbidden emotion none of them could fully understand.
And none of them dared to try.
Zekram cleared his throat, cutting through the awkward silence. "Well… I didn't expect that," he muttered, voice low with measured surprise.
Praxis Bael gave a noncommittal grunt, his arms crossed, refusing to offer more than the bare minimum agreement. His silence was his brand of diplomacy.
Serafall's fingers tapped rhythmically on the ornate armrest of her council throne. "Yes," she agreed, her tone thoughtful, "for him to show such levels of respect to the Juggernaut of the South… extremely unexpected. Does Dante even understand the implications of his actions?"
She tilted her head, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "I wonder if anyone ever taught him the appropriate ways nobility is meant to treat the lower classes… It would be fascinating to see how he handles combat against the upper-class devils."
Zekram smirked, lifting a brow. "I think you've missed a detail, General Sitri. It's not 'Juggernaut of the South' anymore. Lord Dante has rechristened her 'Shield of the South.' A title the people seem to adore. Frankly, I find the name rather fitting—it speaks not just to her strength, but to her purpose."
Serafall raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "You'd use her to rally soldiers?"
Zekram gave a light shrug, his smile fading into something more calculative. "Why not? Her record speaks volumes—evacuating over a hundred civilians from Murmur territory and getting them safely to Agares lands? It's been a talking point in the council for months. She's already become a symbol. If the people need an emblem to rally behind, we'd be fools not to let them."
Praxis added gruffly, still refusing to use any title, "And with Dante's words—those lines of defiance and inspiration—you'll have hundreds, maybe thousands, lining up to join the cause."
Zekram nodded firmly. "Exactly."
Sirzechs, still bearing that mystifying grin, finally spoke. "Are you all done scheming politics?"
His eyes slid lazily over to the trio, his tone laced with amusement but undercut by a subtle sharpness. "If you'd taken even a moment to watch with your hearts instead of your strategies, you'd have seen that this sort of manipulation is unnecessary."
Praxis cocked a brow, unimpressed.
Serafall, however, was ready with a retort. "Our 'scheming,' as you call it, is what makes results, Sirzechs. Don't belittle the process."
Sirzechs shook his head, his tone calm but resolute. "If you'd paid attention to the crowd—really looked at them—you'd realize today's devils no longer require heavy-handed manipulation. They're ready. Valeria's courage speaks louder than any edict or slogan. Her defiance is living proof that the Old-Satan system can be challenged. Dante's words only amplified what was already there."
He leaned back, gaze distant, reflective.
"The momentum has already begun. There's no need to steer a current that's already flowing."
Praxis, now more engaged, asked, "What about the next matches? What do you think they'll bring?"
Sirzechs didn't hesitate. "Validation."
He let the word sit in the air.
"Dante has positioned himself as an icon—one that resonates not just with the lower-class devils, but with anyone who's ever dreamed of more. Valeria's resilience shows that rebellion against tradition is possible. Dante's voice, his presence, gives them the courage to believe it. This is what every military dreams of—genuine loyalty born not of fear, but of belief."
Zekram smirked faintly. The boy was learning, he thought.
Praxis nodded, quietly digesting the implications of a symbol that could inspire without command.
Serafall, meanwhile, returned her gaze to the screen playing the replays of the matches. She watched Dante's previous fights with practiced scrutiny, but it was the final image—Valeria, unconscious yet safe, cradled in Dante's outstretched arm—that captured her attention.
Her lips curved into a small smirk.
There was something undeniably artistic about that frame. Noble and soldier. Power and protection. Hero and shield.
It was an image destined for murals.
A symbol of nobility standing with its people—not above them, but beside them.
Her smirk deepened.
Yes… that did look good.