A second bolt of lightning crashed down onto the arena floor, a blinding white lance that split the air with a crack like the heavens themselves were being torn open. It connected with Dante's extended strike, fusing into a single, furious current that surged forward with unrelenting force. The sky roared in response—not with triumph, but with fury.
For the first time in a millennium, rolling thunder announced the presence of something ancient and primal. But its cry was not a song of celebration.
It was a scream of frustration.
Because its first command was not to kill...
...but to spare.
And it obeyed—reluctantly, simmering with restrained malice.
Valeria's eyes widened like twin moons. Never before had she seen such raw destructive power up close. She had heard tales whispered in fear and awe about the abilities of High-class Devils, and even a few legendary Ultimate-class ones, but none of those stories had prepared her for this. Not for this storm. Not for him.
She didn't waste time marveling. In the same breath, she flooded her armor with every ounce of demonic energy she could muster. Her suit responded instantly, its absorption plates glowing violently, thirsting for magic to consume. She activated the shield's repulsion systems, forcing them to beat like a second heart. Her fractured arm trembled, but she raised it, bracing it with her free hand. Her boots sunk deep into the fractured, cratered ground as she locked her body into place.
Then the bolt arrived.
It moved like a god's judgment—swift, merciless, and absolute. It collided with her defense like a divine hammer, far stronger than any war hammer she had ever stood against. The impact exploded outward, a shockwave that rippled through the arena and drowned out her own scream of effort. Even behind the protective dome, the crowd reeled, gripping seats, eyes wide. Many roared in awe and disbelief.
But the High-class Devils in the viewing stands remained silent, stone-faced.
Valeria held.
Against all odds, against centuries of arcane lineage, she held.
The lightning clawed for ground. It fought her for every inch, every heartbeat, every shred of resistance. The force was enough to peel the arena's tiles from the earth, to carve trenches into stone, and yet—Valeria stayed rooted. Her body was slowly, inexorably pushed back, the soles of her boots grinding against pulverized ground, but she did not fall.
For a full minute, the clash endured.
And Dante watched.
He stood motionless, eyes narrowed, feeling the heat and fury pulsing from the strike he had loosed. It had gone on too long. He had made his command to Fulgur clear: Do not kill her. But the sword—ancient, sentient, and endlessly hungry—had other ideas. It hated being restrained. Hated mercy.
"Fulgur... Did I stutter? I said SPARE, not TEAR. Cease this assault NOW."
The command surged through Dante's mind like a whip, his thoughts like steel, sharp and unyielding.
The blade pulsed in response. Once. A blinding, furious heartbeat.
Then again—softer. Begrudging. Obedient.
And then silence.
The arc bolt dissipated, vanishing like mist beneath a rising sun. The air was left vibrating, ears ringing, and the light faded slowly, leaving behind the memory of its searing presence in every blinking eye.
Dante exhaled, his expression tightening at first with tension—then relaxing into something more human. Relief. Surprise. Respect.
Valeria still stood. Not collapsed. Not broken.
Her form was locked in the stance she had chosen: arm up, legs planted, chest heaving faintly, her skin ghost-pale from the strain. She looked more like a statue than a person, forged of steel and will. Even her heartbeat, steady and fierce, reached Dante's senses.
He walked slowly, each footstep deliberate, until he stood just beside her. He said nothing at first, letting the silence pay its respects to what had just transpired.
Behind Valeria, the arena wall bore a deep, molten scar, a burned mural left by the power of the bolt—its very presence having kissed the stone like the sun itself.
Dante regarded the mark with a soft, almost reverent smirk. Then he glanced sideways at her unmoving form.
"Glad to see you're still alive," he murmured, his voice low—not mocking, but acknowledging. Respectful.
Because few could have done what she had just done.
And he knew it.
No reply came from Valeria, but Dante saw it—the faint, trembling quake in her armored shoulders. It was the only answer she could muster.
"You've done well, Valeria—Juggernaut of the South," Dante said, his voice low, reverent. "You've proven your worth time and again in my eyes. There's no reason to continue."
The crowd erupted behind them, a mixture of awe and confusion. Some cheered, their voices rising like thunder in admiration of the spectacle. But others watched in silence, eyes locked not on the fallen warrior—but on Dante himself. Among them were evaluators, yes, but most were civilians. Fans. Families. Children. Young and old alike stared at him with layered expressions: hope, worry, confusion... and for some, hatred.
Dante met their gazes with a quiet understanding. He could guess who they were—survivors, refugees, the rescued. People Valeria had protected.
He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. Here he was—the "final boss." The noble devil standing in the path of a hopeful hero's journey. The one they had to defeat to prove something. It was a role he'd seen played out countless times in stories, cartoons, anime… and now, it was his turn to wear the mantle. Not as a tyrant, but as the unscalable wall, the test, the mountain that made legends out of mortals.
He admired the irony.
Valeria's body began to shake, soft whispers escaping her lips. Her voice cracked, barely audible but filled with a stubbornness that broke Dante's heart.
"I… m-must… n-not… fall… n-not… here…"
He heard it. Every breath. Every stuttering word choked by pride and fear. She wasn't afraid of dying—no, this was deeper. She feared falling in front of them. In front of the children who looked at her with such belief, such reverence.
Before her body could finally collapse forward, Dante moved. Swiftly. Deliberately.
He stabbed his spear down at an angle in front of her, driving it into the earth like a pillar of resolve. The weapon halted her fall abruptly, the clash of steel and soil echoing briefly as her weight was caught—not by strength, but by will. The crowd collectively held their breath.
A noble devil helping a lower-class one to stand?
It was unheard of.
In their society, nobles reveled in dominance, in watching the weak crumble. Yet here Dante stood, arm extended, body steady, catching a woman too stubborn to fall. Gasps rippled across the arena. Eyes widened. The silence was no longer awe—it was disbelief.
Dante didn't care. Noble blood had never mattered to him. His station was a fluke. A cosmic accident born of violence, survival, and bitter, undeserved luck.
He reached out, hand resting firmly against Valeria's breastplate, steadying her as gently as he could. "Then don't fall," he said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Valeria stiffened at the contact, her breath caught in her throat, but Dante ignored the instinctive tension. He smiled faintly, lowering his voice into something soft and understanding.
"I understand your determination now, Valeria. I may not know the full story of your heroism, but I can see the effect it's had."
He glanced up—toward two children watching from the stands. Their eyes were locked on Valeria's form, wide with tears and trembling awe. That look…
It struck something deep inside him.
Once, he'd seen eyes like those too—staring at him, pleading for salvation that never came.
He blinked away the memory.
"We've both seen the atrocities committed by the Old-Satans," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But while I failed to save anyone back then… you have. You did."
Valeria gave a slight gasp, a hitch in her breathing, but still said nothing.
Dante's tone grew firmer, but not cold. "Don't buckle under the weight of the hopeful. Don't hide from the pain that you carry for them. Bearing it… is part of the honor. Let it remind you why you must rise again."
He looked down at her once more, his voice warm and resolute.
"Stand tall, Shield of the South. For a shield's place… is upright and firm."
His words weren't perfect. A little theatrical, maybe even cheesy, but sincere. And in this world—where poetic speeches weren't commonplace, where inspiration was a rare and precious flame—his voice echoed like scripture. Especially for the devils whose ears were tuned to every syllable.
From the VIP booth above, Dante caught a glimpse of Sirzechs. The crimson-haired Devil King stared at him with a mixture of joy and pride that practically radiated through the thick glass. Beside him, three unfamiliar figures had their own reactions: one stared in open shock, another with a serene, approving smile… and the third, a hard-set man, scowled with thinly veiled contempt.
Mixed reactions. Predictable.
Dante guessed that due to the Gremory family's reputation, many expected kindness from him—but now, this moment, this mercy, had likely sent his image skyrocketing. If he wasn't careful, they'd start treating him like some kind of devil saint.
He rolled his eyes inwardly.
Still… the children were smiling now. No longer afraid. Some wept openly, smiling through their tears. For Dante, that was enough.
He looked back down just in time to see Valeria trembling again. But this time, it wasn't from pain or effort. It was emotion. Raw, overwhelming, and unrestrained.
"Thank you… Thank you…" she whispered, her tears spilling freely as her body finally gave in. Her consciousness slipped away, and her weight sagged fully against his grip.
He didn't let her fall.
Not until the light of teleportation surrounded her, whisking her away in safety.
"Knight Valeria is down. Time of match: 5 minutes and 10 seconds. Lord Dante advances to the final stage!"
The announcer's voice echoed across the arena, but no explosion of cheering followed. There were no cries of bravado, no squeals of infatuation from swooning fans.
Only applause.
A standing ovation, loud and unified.
Dante scratched the back of his neck and sighed. Of course. Standing O's always got to me…
A small blush crept up his cheeks, hidden as best he could beneath his neutral expression. He gave the crowd a casual wave, tossing out a closed-eyed smile in a random direction, then turned to leave the battlefield.
The exit gates opened automatically for him—a silent gesture of respect.