[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

[Rumplestadt Mines]

Even without light, the depths of the mine revealed themselves to Dante and Tamamo-no-Mae in unsettling clarity.

Shapes gleamed faintly ahead. Not reflections, nor tricks of the dark.

Statues.

Dozens of them.

Golden and hauntingly lifelike.

They stood—or rather, were frozen—in poses of fear. Some knelt mid-breath, others reached outward as if to shield themselves from an invincible force. A few had fallen over, their faces half-buried in the dirt, yet even so, every detail of their expressions had been captured: the widened eyes, the parted lips, the terror immortalized forever.

Their garments, though decayed and torn, clung to them with eerie realism. Boots half-broken, sleeves torn, buttons missing—little signs of once-living men. Yet all were now perfect sculptures of radiant metal, their humanity sealed away in gold.

"I detect pure mana clinging to each of them," Tamamo murmured, her tone quiet but laced with curiosity rather than fear. "A dense, refined strain. Whoever did this, whoever dwells here… left their mark upon every single one."

Dante studied the nearest figure. His gauntleted fingers hovered just above its shoulder. "I am no expert in magic," he said. "So tell me, do you have an inkling as to what happened to these men?"

Tamamo's tails coiled thoughtfully behind her. "Hmmm…" she hummed, her tone pensive. "My eastern sorcery differs from western magicks, but…" Her eyes narrowed as she leaned closer to one statue, the light from her fur brushing across the features. "If I had to hazard a guess… transmutation. The kind that forcibly converts life into matter. The bodies are still here—but their essence, their humanity, was refined out of existence."

"An unsavoury fate," Dante murmured. His voice carried neither pity nor approval, merely contemplation. He stepped past her, boots scraping across the stone. "So this is the source of the Retorta Guild's fascination."

He gestured slightly with his hand, motioning to the weapons scattered across the ground. Golden rifles, curved sabers, half-embedded shields—all transmuted.

"Curiosity drives men into the mouths of their own graves," Tamamo remarked softly.

Before Dante could respond, a voice echoed through the cavern.

"Tsk. I thought I told you I hadn't the mana for your little experiments anymore."

The words cut through the silence—calm, yet dripping with disdain.

Both Dante and Tamamo turned sharply toward the source. Footsteps followed, each one accompanied by the faint rattle of chains.

The sound grew louder.

And then she stepped into view.

From the darkness emerged a woman who did not belong to it. She appeared radiant, strikingly out of place in the gloom of the mine. Her blonde hair, straight and shoulder-length with uneven bangs, framed a face of haunting beauty. Her dull blue eyes, however, betrayed something different. They were tired. And when they looked upon the two intruders, it was with the flat indifference of someone who had seen too much and cared too little.

Her blouse was white, trimmed with gold designs at the cuffs and chest, its cross-shaped neckline held by twin blue ribbons that tied behind her neck. A long white dress fell around her legs, the fabric dusted by the grime of the cavern. The small, star-shaped blue earrings she wore caught what little light there was, twinkling.

But what drew Dante's attention most were the chains.

Thick, black iron bands encased both of her hands entirely, the heavy links running from her wrists down into the darkness behind her. Every faint movement caused them to clink—a sound that somehow seemed to echo across the chamber.

("Hm, mana embedded into them as well...") He internally noted.

Her gaze turned briefly to Tamamo-no-Mae, the faintest quirk of her brow betraying her indifference. Then her eyes shifted to Dante, studying the silent figure before her.

"Well," she said after a pause, her tone deceptively light, "are you going to answer me, or do you simply enjoy staring?"

Dante's reply was simple. "We are not with the Retorta Guild."

"Ah." The woman gave a small hum, raising her chained hands as far as they would go. "Then you must be the dashing knight who's come to save this poor, helpless maiden." Her lips curved into a mock smile. "Well then—go on. Be the hero. Free me."

Tamamo tilted her head, golden ears flicking. "Shouldn't you at least say please?" she asked.

The woman's eyes slid toward her, unimpressed. "I'll not take etiquette lessons from a fox," she replied dryly. "I'm sure your companion will forever cherish this day—the day he rescued a beautiful maiden from despair. That should be reward enough, don't you think?"

Tamamo's grin sharpened. "Oh? Not even a thank you? You mortals grow more ungrateful by the century."

"He can have that," the woman said evenly, "and more—if he frees me."

Tamamo smirked. "Oh? Like what, exactly? Don't tell me he'll get to—"

"That's enough," Dante cut in sharply, his tone flat. Tamamo rolled her eyes, her tails swaying with irritation. He turned his gaze back to the chained woman. "Whether I free you or not depends on the answers to my questions."

The woman's expression shifted slightly—part amusement, part irritation. "You see a woman chained beneath the earth and your first thought is interrogation?" she said, her voice carrying a trace of disbelief. "How very noble of you, knight."

"I am no longer a knight," Dante corrected her, he gestured subtly to the golden statues that lined the cavern. "And you'll forgive my caution. These men were all human once, weren't they?"

The woman exhaled through her nose, the sound small but weary. "Indeed," she admitted at last. "But they brought that upon themselves."

Something lit up behind her eyes then—a brief shadow of disgust, quickly masked. It was subtle, but Dante saw it. The way her gaze hardened, the faint tremor of revulsion when she looked upon the golden remains. Whatever she was, she wasn't lying.

And that, more than anything, made her dangerous.

"I see," Dante began at last. "Then what is your name?"

The woman looked at him—her dull blue eyes piercing. Her tone, when it came, was unimpressed. "It's only polite to introduce yourself first, don't you think?"

"Dante."

Tamamo-no-Mae smiled at his brevity. "And I am Tamamo-no-Mae," she added.

"A simple name," the woman murmured, her gaze lingering on Dante's imposing figure before sliding dismissively toward Tamamo. "Yours, however... I shan't remember."

Tamamo's ears twitched, her grin widening with faux sadness. "That makes me terribly sad. I'll have to cry myself to sleep tonight."

The woman ignored her quip, letting her bound wrists rise slightly—the chains clinked faintly. "I am Gretchen," she said finally, tone blank. "As you can see, my hands are bound, so I'll have to settle for you kissing them instead." Her gaze settled on Dante.

"I'll refrain," he answered simply, tone dry. His head tilted slightly. "Why are you bound down here?"

Gretchen breathed a small sigh through her nose, eyes drifting toward the golden statues that surrounded them. "Hm. You know, the usual spat," she said offhandedly, as though recounting something trivial. "I dabbled in alchemy. It began innocently—turning threads into gold, finding joy in creation rather than destruction. But you know how we humans are... easily frightened of what they cannot understand." She gestured lazily toward the statues. "They saw potential danger where there was none. And in their cowardice, the kingdom chose to bury me beneath the earth instead of facing their fear."

"Which kingdom?"

Gretchen's expression flattened. "One that no longer exists," she replied. "I hear whispers from above now and then—travellers, miners, fools who stumble too close. Enough to know that time has washed their banners away."

"Would you say their fear was warranted?" Dante asked.

Gretchen scoffed, her eyes narrowing. "Of course not. I didn't harm anyone—well, aside from a few down here who tested their luck." Her shoulders rose and fell. "They were small-minded cowards who couldn't bear the thought that someone they deemed lesser was that much stronger than them."

Tamamo's smile sharpened. "Not strong enough to escape or prevent captivity, it seems," she murmured, her tone cutting.

Gretchen's dull blue eyes flashed briefly with irritation, but she turned her head away rather than answer.

Dante said nothing at first. The silence between them stretched long.

("I still lack context. Her words could hold truth—or a lie wrapped in the skin of it. I've seen too much to take anything at face value. Even so… if there is even a chance she's unjustly imprisoned, can I really walk away?") He looked again at the statues, each expression frozen in what might have once been horror. ("But then… humans have always been capable of the most beautiful lies.")

"Very well," Dante said at last. "I shall free you."

Gretchen's lips curved faintly upward, almost triumphant. "Ah, so you've come to your senses—"

"Make no mistake," Dante interrupted, his tone turning cold. He stepped forward once—just once—and the sound of his boot against stone seemed to echo. "This is not mercy, nor is it compassion. I free you only because I am confident in my ability to end you should you prove to be a danger."

In the space of a heartbeat, he was there.

No sound preceded his movement, no sign of warning. One moment he stood several paces away, the next his gauntleted hand hovered inches from Gretchen's face as he stared down at her through those unblinking and inhuman violet lenses.

"If I see even a hint that you may bring harm to anyone," Dante said, his voice unyielding, "I will kill you."

The air seemed to still.

Gretchen's heart stuttered despite herself. A sheen of sweat broke along her temple, her breath catching in her throat. Those weren't empty words—she knew it. There was no ego behind his statement, no bluster. It was simply truth.

Tamamo watched silently, her usual teasing demeanor gone, for all her playfulness, even she recognized the weight behind Dante's words—the absolute conviction of a man who had long since stopped bluffing.

"I… understand," Gretchen finally whispered, her voice trembling despite her effort to maintain composure. Her fingers twitched within the heavy iron bindings. "You have my word, I won't test you."

Dante's hand lowered, but his presence did not ease. He simply turned his head slightly, as if evaluating something beyond her, before he stepped back and let the silence reclaim the chamber.

Tamamo flicked her tail once, breaking the tension. "Well," she drawled lightly, "that was almost romantic in a morbid sort of way. You certainly have a flair for making an impression."

He didn't answer. His head tilted slightly, violet lenses narrowing on the chains that bound Gretchen.

"I am not here to impress," he said, tone flat, "only to ensure that what's broken does not spread further."

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