[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

("First Chimera… and now Ladon.")

The thought surfaced with an edge of irritation Echidna rarely allowed herself to feel. Beside her, an intense emerald glow ignited, not violent, but dense—mana layered upon mana, condensing with care. Within that light, a form began to take shape, its outline indistinct, coiling and unfurling as though deciding what it wished to become.

She did not look away from Dante as it formed.

The Nemean Lion and Orthrus still had not moved.

They stood tense, bodies coiled tight, claws digging furrows into the shattered ground. Fury rolled off them in waves, instinct screaming for release—yet neither advanced. Echidna noticed the hesitation immediately, and for a fleeting moment, she felt something unexpected press against her ribs.

They were copies, yes. Constructs shaped from memory and divine mana.

But they were still her children.

A tenderness she had not invited crept through her, warm and unwelcome. Her gaze softened for half a breath as she looked upon them, remembering the first time she had shaped their forms, the importance of their existence settling into the world.

Then her eyes shifted again—to Dante.

Behind him, the Hydra's massive body writhed and twisted, its many necks struggling to rise, scales grinding against the ground. It hissed, furious and wounded, poison dripping uselessly into the earth. And Dante stood before it as though the suffering titan behind him were nothing more than background noise.

("And how easily he handles you…") The thought carried something close to disbelief. Her emerald eyes slid back to the Nemean Lion. ("With divine mana, I replicated your invulnerability.") Her jaw tightened. ("And yet… even so, his strikes still shake you to your core.")

That, more than anything, unsettled her.

("Even Zeus's half-blood struggled to lay you low.") Her gaze turned next to Orthrus, lingering on the twin heads, the lightning humming through their hides. ("And you,") she thought. ("My relentless one. My child born of strength and protection. You who helped me sire others. You who endured what should have broken you.")

A human.

A mortal man.

And he was beating them.

The realization settled heavily, sinking into her. She knew—she knew—that Dante bore the touch of a God. But as she watched him, truly watched him, she understood with growing certainty that the blessing was not the source of what she was seeing.

It was not divinity that made him terrifying.

It was him.

That only deepened her confusion. Monsters such as these were meant to humble heroes, to test demigods, to stand as warnings to the divine themselves.

Yet this human was dismantling them.

A strange sensation stirred low in her stomach—not fear, not anger. Something closer to unease.

Then the thought struck her, sharp and sudden.

"You…" Echidna said aloud, her voice lowering. "You're not human, are you?"

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him.

Dante's head tilted, just slightly.

That was all.

No shift in stance. No change in breathing. No flicker of uncertainty. The helmet denied her everything else—no eyes to read, no expression to measure. The violet lenses stared back at her, hollow and unreadable.

The silence stretched.

"I am a human," Dante replied at last, his voice unadorned. Then, after a pause, he continued, tone sharpening. "However, if it troubles you," he said, "think of me as a demon. Or a pest. Whatever makes the truth easier to swallow."

He turned his head a fraction.

"Perhaps," Dante continued, tone unchanging, "it will help you accept what comes next. So you do not convince yourself this was folly. So you do not cling to the comfort of believing you fell to a mere human."

The insult was not loud.

That was what made it sting.

Echidna's brows furrowed, irritation flickering beneath her composure. There was no fury in him—no pride either. Just certainty. As though the outcome were already settled and he was simply informing her.

("Merely a human… hm?")

The word human carried a very specific meaning to her. A fragile, adaptable species. Brief lives, sharp instincts. Creatures that thrived in conflict because they had to. Unnatural in their persistence. Unpredictable in their defiance.

And yet a human stood before her.

A human tossed her children aside as though they were obstacles, not legends. A human slew monsters forged to humble Gods.

Something twisted uncomfortably within her.

("Am I hesitating?") The thought irritated her more than his words. ("Am I truly being cautious?")

She did not like the question. She did not like that she had to ask it.

This was no ordinary human—that much was undeniable. She had already conceded that truth, even if she despised it. Still, the fact remained: he bled. He breathed. He stood upon mortal ground.

Echidna straightened.

"Very well," she said, her voice firming, resolve hardening. "Then let us set aside what you are and speak plainly." Her eyes locked onto him. "If this is truly a matter of conviction," she continued, "of will and resolve… then tell me, human." A small, dangerous smile touched her lips. "Do you believe your conviction can match a mother's?"

Dante did not answer immediately.

"Hmph."

The sound was dismissive.

Echidna exhaled slowly, taking it for what it was—a refusal, a challenge and an insult all at once.

"Go." Echidna ordered and the moment stretched—just a breath too long.

Then everything moved at once.

Orthrus and the Nemean Lion bolted forward simultaneously, not in hesitation now, nor in restraint, but with explosive intent. The ground shattered beneath them as they launched, claws tearing trenches through stone, their combined momentum collapsing the plains further. It was not a charge born of any kind of strategy—it was merely instinct and a surge of violence.

And Dante moved with them.

The instant their bodies crossed into lethal range, Dante pushed off the ground with such force that the earth caved inward beneath his boots. He surged forward in a blur, coat snapping violently behind him.

Orthrus struck first—one of its massive heads lunging in with jaws wide, fangs crackling with residual lightning. Dante twisted mid-step, his body shifting just enough to slip past the bite, and his heel came up in a tight, compact arc.

The kick landed with a boom.

The impact detonated outward, air compressing so violently that a visible shockwave rippled across the plains. Orthrus's head snapped sideways with a grotesque crunch, its body lifted clean off the ground as though it weighed nothing at all. The beast was hurled back end over end, roaring in pain, lightning sputtering uselessly from its hide as it tore through stone and debris before crashing hard into the plains.

Before Orthrus had even finished flying, Dante had already turned.

The Nemean Lion was upon him—its charge relentless, its golden mane blazing as it barreled forward, jaws open.

Dante stepped in, there was no wind-up or hesitation. He merely drove his fist straight forward and the punch landed squarely on the Lion's snout.

For a fraction of a second, nothing happened.

Then the Lion screamed.

Blood burst outward—dark and thick—splattering across shattered ground as the beast's massive head snapped back. The force carried through its entire body, lifting it off its feet as though the laws of weight had briefly been suspended. The Nemean Lion was flung backward, skidding and rolling through the plains, its roar collapsing into a pained snarl as it crashed through rubble.

Silence followed.

Only for a heartbeat.

Echidna stared.

Her eyes were wide now, for he drew blood.

Her fingers trembled slightly at her side.

("That isn't possible.")

She could understand staggering it.

The Nemean Lion was not merely strong—it was near invulnerable. Its hide had resisted blades blessed by Gods, strikes empowered by divine wrath. Even when defeated, it had never been hurt like that.

Yet there it lay, blood darkening its radiant mane.

Her focus snapped back just in time.

Dante moved to pursue—but the ground screamed in warning.

One of the Hydra's colossal heads came crashing down from above, its jaws snapping shut with enough force to pulverize mountains. Dante reacted instantly, twisting and leaping sideways as the head slammed into the earth where he had stood a moment before.

The impact was catastrophic.

Stone exploded upward, the shock of the collision ripping outward in a violent wave that tore the ground apart. The Hydra's hiss followed, enraged and venomous, as its remaining heads reared up, eyes burning with renewed fury.

Dante landed lightly, boots scraping across fractured stone as he turned to face it.

("It recovered faster than expected.") He internally noted.

The Hydra rose higher now, its massive body coiling and shifting, heads weaving and snapping as poison dripped onto the shattered plains.

Dante barely had time to adjust.

Red lightning erupted in front of him.

Orthrus materialized in a violent burst, its body surging forward, tail lashing out with crushing force. The strike came fast—too fast for most—but Dante caught it mid-swing. His gauntleted hand closed around the scaly appendage. The force of the impact tore up the ground beneath his feet—but he did not move.

With a sharp twist of his torso, Dante swung Orthrus bodily through the air and hurled it sideways, straight into the path of the recovering Nemean Lion. The two massive beasts collided with a thunderous crash again, limbs tangling as they were sent sprawling across the plains in a storm of dust.

Dante did not watch them fall.

He was already moving.

He bent his knees—and launched.

The leap shattered the earth beneath him, stone collapsing inward as he rocketed upward in a violent burst of force. He tore through the air toward the Hydra, his ascent so sudden that even its many eyes struggled to track him.

One head snapped toward him, but it was much too slow.

Dante drove his fist upward and the uppercut connected beneath one of their jaws. The impact was devastating. A shockwave exploded outward, rippling across the plains as the Hydra's massive body was lifted partially off the ground, its heads snapping backward as it shrieked in fury and pain. The force traveled through its entire form, scales grinding against one another as its enormous bulk was shoved aside, trenches carving themselves into the land beneath it.

Echidna slithered back a step.

Her composure cracked.

"Again?—" she breathed, the word slipping free before she could stop it. Her eyes darted between the monsters, her mind racing. "How can he—" Her gaze locked onto the Nemean Lion again, onto the blood still dripping from its muzzle. "No," she whispered, disbelief threading through her voice now. "His hide... no mortal could damage him. Its invulnerability isn't some metaphor—it's absolute. Even Gods—"

Her words trailed off.

Dante landed gently and stood amid the devastation, unshaken, violet lenses fixed on the Hydra as it writhed and hissed.

Echidna clenched her fists.

"What are you?" she demanded, her voice sharper now, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. "Do you even understand what you're doing? He was made to be untouchable—its legend exists because it could not be harmed!"

Her gaze turned back to the Lion again, then to Dante.

"And yet you hurt it."

The realization struck her fully now.

This was not strength born of legend.

This was something else entirely.

Something terrifyingly simple.

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