[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

Is pure strength ever really enough?

Dante had asked himself that question a hundred times before, but the thought landed differently now. People always spoke of strength as if it were a universal key, a final answer pressed into a single word. Strength. Say it with enough conviction and it sounded like it solved everything. But standing there, the ruined plains stretched around him and beneath his boots, the thought felt almost ironic.

Strength alone is force without guidance—a hammer without a hand. You can crush an obstacle, but can you read it? Can you shape it? Can you choose not to strike?

Strength solves problems, yes, but only the kind that break when hit.

But what about the ones that don't?

What about the ones inside you?

What about the ones that demand silence, restraint, or patience instead of dominance?

What about the battles where brute force is the wrong language entirely?

If all you have is strength, then the world becomes a field of nails waiting for you to swing. And in that moment, strength becomes a cage—one you build around yourself.

So maybe the real question isn't whether strength is enough.

Maybe it's whether strength without purpose, without thought, without direction…

…is even strength at all.

Even so, Dante knew one thing with certainty: his strength had direction enough.

The ground beneath him trembled, and instinct made his body respond. Dante pushed off the earth in a clean motion, flipping backward just as something colossal slammed into the dirt where he had been standing. Shards of stone burst outward, raining across the plains.

He landed lightly, boots digging a shallow trench in the dust, his gauntleted hand sliding out to steady himself.

Dust swelled into a choking cloud around the impact site. Not Orthrus this time. The air vibrated with a different kind of malice. As the haze thinned, a massive silhouette emerged—gold, radiant and very unnatural.

A lion.

Or rather, something wearing the idea of a lion.

Its mane was a living corona, each strand glowing like the very sunlight. Its body dwarfed Dante many times over, and yet its steps were light,. Crimson eyes—too sharp and too aware—locked onto him.

("Nemean Lion.") He marked the thought.

The ground quaked again. A piercing screech tore across the atmosphere, slicing through the clouds.

Dante looked up.

A massive emerald serpent soared above, its wings jagged like bone, each beat stirring violent winds. Its eyes were fiery orbs, its spine serrated and wicked.

("Colchian Dragon... and—")

A shadow swallowed him whole.

Dante's lenses narrowed, and he slowly tilted his head back to see the impossible.

Its true scale defied reason—mountains would shrink beside it. Its emerald scales shimmered like perfect gemstones. Nine serpentine necks coiled above him, each head bearing different attributes to them—a forest of spikes, an aquatic jaw lined with fins, another burning with manic vitality.

All nine heads stared at him, their collective hatred heavy enough to suffocate the air.

("Lernaean Hydra.")

Lightning cracked beside him, sharp and sudden. The two-headed hound materialized in an explosion of sparks—Orthrus—snarling, its twin throats rumbling.

The Colchian Dragon landed with a quake behind him.

He was surrounded.

"A lovely sight, isn't it?"

Echidna glided forward, her massive serpentine tail sliding across the broken earth with grace as she slid effortlessly between Orthrus and the Nemean Lion, her upper form poised and graceful in her own right. She watched Dante as though admiring a stubborn child. "I recreated them from memory," she said, brushing her fingers across one of Orthrus's snout. The monstrous hound leaned into her touch like a loyal pet. "To a mother, such things are simple. Remembering my dearest children. Down to every scale and tooth." Her hand trailed lovingly over the Nemean Lion's mane. "You did surprise me initially, I will grant you that much. But surely—even you know how badly your odds have dwindled."

Dante straightened, rolling one shoulder back. "Increasing the number of monsters means little," he said, voice flat. "It will only prolong your existence a short while longer. I will expunge all present."

Echidna laughed softly—a warm, condescending sound.

"Oh, precious child. Do you actually believe it? Or do you simply repeat it so you don't have to think too hard?" She gestured with a slow sweep of her arm, showcasing her army of living calamities. "Each of my children has a legend that dwarfs your mortal understanding. Gods hesitated before them. Heroes trembled. Yes, some met… unfortunate ends, but only after terrorizing eras. And here you stand, thinking hubris alone will allow you to match them? The Hydra alone inspired entire cities to build walls. The Lion turned heroes into myths. The Dragon scorched half a kingdom. Orthrus—well, he had fun with shepherds."

"I have no need for hubris," Dante replied. "It is worthless. My actions here shall be enough."

"You say that yet," she murmured, "actions born without belief crumble. You sound like someone convincing himself of something he hasn't truly decided. So tell me do you think standing in the center of them proves something?" Echidna continued softly. "It proves only that you're too stubborn to run."

"I will not run," Dante said simply.

"Yes," she murmured, circling him slowly. "I can see that. Even with nine heads staring down at you, even with legends breathing down your neck, even with death close enough to taste—you stand still. Upright and so ridiculously calm. However I am curious as to how far I can push you. But words are naught but air."

"Hmph, you are correct—words shall not kill your brood. Perhaps I will lose a limb. An eye. It matters little. Your existence cannot be permitted. So even if it costs my body—I will kill you."

Echidna's expression softened, almost tender, as though she were hearing a child swear eternal vengeance at the playground.

"My, my. Such boldness. Or is it madness?" Her tail curled lazily. "I have lived a very long life, nurtured countless children, observed the rise and fall of hundreds of humans. Yet none quite like you. A man so blindingly devoted to his convictions he forgets his own mortality. A man who talks about destroying himself like it's a small inconvenience. What kind of life shapes someone into that?"

Dante tilted his head, unconcerned. "My goal requires that I do not die here. Your assessment of my mentality is incorrect, Mother of Monsters."

"Oh?" Echidna slithered closer, her presence cold and strangely maternal. "And what goal demands you risk yourself in the jaws of the impossible?"

"That," Dante said, "is not for you to know."

Echidna let out an amused breath. "How very crass."

For a heartbeat, the world stilled.

Dust swirled across the plains. The Hydra's many throats rumbled in growing agitation. The Colchian Dragon's massive wings unfolded, casting a dark shadow over Dante. Orthrus's twin heads growled under their breaths, debating over which angle to tear into first. The Nemean Lion lowered its body, muscles coiling.

Echidna watched him through narrowed eyes, studying the way he stood.

("Hm… she's burned through a considerable amount of mana already,") Dante noted inwardly, watching the distortions that rippled around the summoned copies. They were almost imperceptible, but he caught every detail.

A beat of silence passed.

("If what she said holds true—if these replicas really mirror the strength of the originals—then it tracks. But it also means she's cornered me deliberately. She must know how this tilts the field.") His thoughts sharpened. ("She can likely call up at least two more if she avoids spell-casting. That puts me at a disadvantage… an irritating one.")

For a moment, the monsters surrounding him—the ones whose very names once made Gods wary—shifted their stance. Not mindless constructs but copies carrying the instincts of their originals. A single misstep truly could end him.

And yet he felt nothing resembling fear. Only clarity, maybe even purpose.

Death means nothing. Pain even less.

These thoughts didn't comfort him—they simply rang out in his mind.

"If these monsters frighten you, you can still kneel," Echidna suddenly offered. Not mockingly. Not even tauntingly. Simply stating it as though it were a reasonable outcome. "Legends or not, they are only stories brought to life. You and I both know stories don't always end the way people expect."

"They don't," he agreed softly. "But I am not the one who needs the reminder. You said you wanted to see how far you could push me," he said. "I shall save you the trouble. I do not intend to run, surrender, or plead. Not now. Not ever."

"You seem like someone intent on choosing the path that will always destroy you," Echidna noted. "Why is that, I wonder?"

"Because in this moment, killing you," he said, the words spoken calmly, "is all but decided." His words rang out, ("I care little for what I may need to sacrifice in this fight, but come what may, I shall simply persevere. Echidna, I shall not underestimate you. However, in the grand scheme of things, you shall be but another body added to the pile. Of that, I will make sure.")

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