[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

They call him the Hound of Hades, but that name softens what he truly is—rounds the edges, makes it easier to swallow.

A hound suggests obedience. Loyalty. Something that waits at a master's heel.

But what stood before him was not merely a guardian. It was a boundary given flesh. In the old stories, even the residue of his existence was feared. It was said that where his saliva struck the ground, aconite bloomed—pale, cruel flowers whose beauty masked a lethality so absolute that the plant itself became synonymous with poison. Not venom meant to kill swiftly. Not mercy. It was corruption. A declaration that Death does not simply end things—it claims them, absorbs them, ensures they do not return unchanged.

That was why the poison of the Hound was mythic.

Not because it killed fast—but because it did not hurry at all.

To be tainted by him was to be noticed. As if the underworld itself had turned its gaze upon you and decided you were already halfway home. Heroes wrestled him. Outsmarted him. Dragged him screaming into sunlight. But none of them ever drank from the ground he fouled. None of them tested that boundary. That understanding existed without words.

Dante felt it with perfect clarity—even as he refused to give it the satisfaction of a cry.

Pain ignited through him all at once, every nerve flared as if lit from within, every muscle screaming as though it were being torn loose from bone. His body did not convulse; it resisted—locking itself into rigidness, as if flesh itself were attempting to abandon the skeleton it was bound to.

Each breath scorched. Cold at first, then burning hot. As if his lungs were pulling in soil, ash, and rot instead of air. It was not pain sharp enough to scream through.

It was worse.

A deep, grinding agony that distorted time around him. Moments stretched, then collapsed. Thoughts drowned, resurfaced unfinished, slipped away again. His vision blurred at the edges, the world dimming as though someone were slowly lowering a veil.

And yet he saw the hound all the same.

Its presence was nothing like the others. Orthrus, the Lion, even the Hydra—terrible as they were—felt loud. Violent and merely assertive. This was different. This was suffocating. A pressure so absolute it robbed the air of meaning. To stand near it was to feel fear coil around your chest and squeeze, to feel the primitive certainty that you were standing in front of something that existed before fear learned to speak.

Even Echidna's presence paled beside it.

And still, Dante did not look away.

The creature stood as though it belonged to the ruined plains, as though it had been shaped to accommodate its bulk. Massive and hulking, dwarfing Orthrus and the Nemean Lion alike. Its fur was pitch black, not merely dark but absent, an abyss that devoured all the light around it. Power rolled off its frame in heavy waves.

Crimson runes traced its hide—warped, imperfect spirals that radiated a small glow, it was stark against the void of its fur. They looked less like markings and more like scars that refused to fade.

Three heads rose from the same monstrous body.

They were mockeries of hounds—too large and too powerful. Jaws lined with razor teeth that dripped black ichor, the fluid sizzling where it struck the ground. Their eyes held no pupils. Only blazing red, fixed upon Dante with an intense hunger.

Behind it, three barbed tails lashed the air.

One of them was slick with blood.

Dante did not need to guess which had struck him.

This was Echidna's most dangerous child.

The one entrusted with the threshold itself.

Cerberus.

Dante's gaze never left the hound as he brought a gauntleted hand to his shoulder, fingers brushing wetness. His movements were slower now—strained—but he did not care. Pain flared at the motion, hot and invasive.

("I'd heard the poison came from its maw,") he noted distantly, flexing his fingers. ("Not the tail. And this… this is stronger than the stories suggest.")

"He's as wonderful as I remember," Echidna said, her voice drifting through the silence with unsettling fondness. Her lower body slithered closer, coils gliding across broken stone until she stood beside Cerberus. She rested a hand against his flank, emerald eyes sliding back to Dante with open satisfaction. "You're feeling it, aren't you?" she continued softly. "The poison. Oh, don't misunderstand—Cerberus has always been potent. But compared to my dear Hydra?" She chuckled, tilting her head. "I made a few… adjustments."

"You added the Lernaean Hydra's venom," Dante said evenly.

It was not a question.

Echidna's brows lifted, impressed. "Correct. A clever conclusion." Her smile widened. "This Cerberus mirrors the original therefore he could hurt you. And I suspected the Hydra alone would never manage to deliver its gift properly."

Her gaze lingered on him, assessing.

"But you surprise me yet again," she continued. "You're still breathing. Usually it takes but a single breath of Hydra venom. Even the Gods feared it."

The ground rumbled as she spoke.

Behind her, the Hydra slithered forward, enormous and whole once more—its two ruined heads fully regrown. Orthrus limped beside it along with the Nemean Lion, mane rigid, blood spilled over it.

"Oh, my sweet children," Echidna murmured, spreading her arms. "Come. Let my warmth embrace you."

Emerald light poured from her, enveloping them. The Lion's shattered snout reformed, bone knitting seamlessly. Orthrus's missing head regenerated grotesquely—skull first, then veins, membrane, flesh, eyes, fur—each layer snapping into place in a heartbeat.

("Even now, she has mana to spare,") Dante observed silently. ("Enough to sustain them… but not to create anew.")

"Tell me, human," Echidna said suddenly, eyes narrowing with curiosity. "Do you know the name Chiron?"

Dante did not answer.

"You seem knowledgeable," she continued. "So I assume you do. When that half-blood of Zeus fought my Hydra, he made clever use of its venom—dipped his arrows in it. One struck dear Chiron." She laughed softly. "Can you imagine? An immortal writhing in agony so profound he begged for mortality itself." Her eyes gleamed. "You're enduring something similar now. Admirably so. But there is no shame in surrendering. No one would fault you for embracing Death."

She gestured to her children, confidence radiating from her posture.

"I will concede this," she went on. "You impressed me. You obliterated Hydra's heads—a feat once requiring divine blades and strategy. You injured the Nemean Lion despite its hide. You tore Orthrus apart with sheer ferocity."

Her gaze turned to Cerberus.

"But now they stand whole. With their mightiest sibling at their side." She straightened, voice firm. "And you stand there bleeding. Venom in your veins. Even if my children fail…" Her smile sharpened. "Your Death is assured. I have won."

Silence followed.

Even the wind seemed unwilling to intrude.

Echidna frowned slightly as Dante remained motionless. For a moment she wondered if he had died standing.

Then he spoke.

"Are you finished?" The words were calm as a faint scoff followed. "I'll admit… the pain is inconvenient. But to presume it guarantees your victory?" He shook his head slowly. "That's optimism bordering on delusion." He lowered his hand from his shoulder.

Echidna's expression darkened. "You still cling to your meaningless conviction?" she scoffed, though doubt flickered behind her eyes. ("A bluff,") she thought. ("He's barely holding together. No one endures this for long.")

Dante rolled his shoulder once. "Beings like you are predictable. You mistake your age for authority. Survival for destiny." His voice hardened. "You think fate belongs to you simply because you've existed long enough to watch others die."

He took a step forward.

"Let us say it's conviction as well," Echidna replied coolly, lifting her chin. "My conviction. My drive to return home. I will not be felled by a human."

"We shall see," Dante said quietly. Those violet lenses fixed on her—cold and unwavering. "Conviction," he continued, "is only proven when it's tested."

Even as the poison screamed through every inch of his being, Dante did not stagger. He did not falter, did not sway, did not so much as allow his stride to shorten. He moved forward with the same intent, boots pressing into the ruined earth as though nothing inside him was unraveling.

That alone drew a frown from Echidna.

("The pain should be unbearable by now…") she thought, her emerald gaze narrowing. Any other creature—God or mortal—would have been reduced to convulsions, breath stolen, mind shattered by the venom burning through their veins. And yet he advanced. Not hurried, nor even desperate. Simply… continuing.

It was wrong.

His body carried the most refined poison her lineage had ever produced. Her children stood restored at her side. Cerberus, her greatest creation, loomed between them. Logic, experience, even history aligned in her favor.

Victory was inevitable.

And yet that tension refused to loosen its grip.

Because this was only a human. Powerful, yes—but still bound to time, to flesh, to decay. Humans bled. Humans aged. Humans died. That was the order of things. She had watched entire generations vanish like breath on glass.

So why, she wondered, did this one walk as if inevitability belonged to him?

Her fingers curled slightly, unease creeping in despite herself.

("Who are you…?") she asked silently, watching him close the distance, unsure for the first time whether the answer would comfort her—or damn her.

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