[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

Dante's attention shifted.

His gaze slid to the side just as a vast orb of water hovered there, suspended unnaturally in the air. It quivered, surface rippling as though struggling to maintain cohesion, before collapsing in on itself and dispersing. Droplets scattered outward in a wide spray, pattering against the broken ground and his coat.

Behind the veil of falling water, Echidna was revealed.

Her massive form loomed, serpentine lower body coiling and uncoiling with irritation. Her pale skin glistened with moisture, wet hair clinging to her shoulders as she exhaled slowly. The expression on her face was not rage—no, it was something closer to dissatisfaction, as though something had failed to meet her expectations.

She lifted a hand and dragged her fingers through her damp hair, emerald eyes narrowing as they fixed on Dante.

"You expunged the venom in your system," she said at last, her tone sharp. "How?"

Dante turned fully to face her.

"Would knowing change what occurs next?" he asked calmly. "Knowing will not prevent your death."

The words were not spoken with malice. They were delivered like a simple statement.

Echidna clicked her tongue, the sound echoing. "Hmph. I suppose it matters little," she replied aloud, dismissive—yet her thoughts churned beneath the surface. ("Just what is with this human…") Her gaze traced him instinctively, measuring him once more. ("First such absurd strength, then adaptation at a rate that borders on impossible… and now he purges Hydra venom entirely? That toxin corrodes much more than merely flesh.") The unknowns continued to stack, and for all her intellect, answers refused to present themselves.

("Still… the board favors me.") Her eyes turned briefly to his left side. ("His arm is useless. His injuries are numerous. Cerberus remains whole. Even slowed, he should not be capable of overturning this.")

And if necessary, she still possessed divine power.

That thought settled her—almost.

Then it happened.

["LE—##&#—OUT"]

The intrusion slammed through her skull without warning, a fractured snarl of sound and intent that was not meant for mortal cognition. Echidna stiffened for a fraction of a second, jaw tightening as the sensation scraped across her consciousness. She ignored it outwardly, refused to acknowledge it, but the afterimage lingered like a headache buried behind the eyes.

("Tch.")

Using the Goddess's power sharpened her presence, made her more visible—to forces that had no right to notice her. It did not threaten her control, not truly, but it was irritating. Like a whisper at the edge of hearing that refused to fade.

("Hush, little Goddess.") Echidna thought coldly. ("Your power is mine now. It would be wise of you to accept that.")

She turned her attention back to Dante—

—and paused.

Something washed over her then. Not emotion, not exactly. Familiarity. A strange, borrowed warmth that did not belong to her, tugging at the edges of her awareness. For the briefest moment, it felt like standing before someone she had not seen in a very long time.

Confusion flickered across her expression.

Then realization dawned.

"Oh?" she murmured.

Her pale hand drifted slowly across her smooth abdomen as a smile crept onto her lips—knowing and sharp around the edges.

("So that's it.")

"This feeling," she said softly, eyes never leaving Dante, "it isn't mine… it's hers, isn't it?" Her smile widened as she tilted her head slightly. "Recognition, familiarity and affection." Echidna's gaze sharpened, predatory. "It seems this little Goddess was an acquaintance of yours," she continued. "How curious."

Dante did not respond.

He stood there in silence, water dripping from his form, posture unreadable. The lack of reaction only encouraged her.

"I wonder," Echidna went on, voice thoughtful and almost conversational, "has this changed your obligations?" She studied him closely. "Such a strong emotional echo. Whatever relationship you shared with her, it was clearly not insignificant." She leaned forward just enough for her shadow to stretch toward him. "Killing me," she added lightly, "will cause the Goddess to perish as well."

The words hung between them, heavily.

Dante did not hesitate.

"My course remains unchanged," he said.

For a moment, Echidna stared at him. Then she laughed—softly at first, the sound low and amused, before settling.

"My," she mused, "how cruel." She straightened, coils shifting beneath her. "Humans truly are a cruel lot," she continued, a small smirk touching her lips. "And that is coming from me—a monster." Her eyes gleamed with something like interest. "But perhaps," she added, studying him anew, "you are simply the exception."

And then warning came a heartbeat too late to be spoken.

Dante moved anyway.

The ground behind him detonated as Cerberus crashed down into the space he had occupied moments earlier. The impact was apocalyptic as the earth folded inward, then burst outward in a violent burst of shattered stone and pulverized soil. The plains buckled under the weight of the hound's descent, fissures racing outward like spiderwebs as shockwaves rolled across the land.

Dante was already in motion, boots skimming over ground as he leapt back, coat snapping sharply behind him. He felt the pressure of the impact rake across his back, a hot wall of displaced air that threatened to knock him from the sky—but he twisted mid-leap, rolling with it, refusing to give the force a clean angle to claim him.

Cerberus did not pursue immediately.

Instead, the runes carved into its blackened hide began to glow.

Red sigils flared alive along its massive frame, crawling across muscle and bone. Heat bled outward in waves, the air warping around the hound as flames erupted across its body, swallowing its silhouette in roaring fire. The blaze consumed and it transformed.

The enormous form convulsed, joints snapping and reconfiguring with a sound like grinding iron. Fire tore itself apart, splitting cleanly into three surging masses that slammed into the ground in a wide circle around Dante.

The Cerberus had divided once more.

The first to announce itself was the Ice-bound hound.

It threw its head back and howled—a resonant sound that dragged the temperature down with it. Frost raced across the ground at its feet, spreading outward in a widening circle. Then it slammed one massive paw into the earth.

The plains answered.

Ice erupted.

A colossal wave of glacial force surged forward, the ground being seized and overwritten by uneven crystalline spires. Walls of ice climbed skyward in seconds, towering higher and higher as they rushed toward Dante, freezing debris mid-flight and encasing earth as if it had always been meant to exist that way.

The scale was obscene. The attack did not seem to seek to strike him—it sought to erase the space he occupied.

Dante was still moving backward when he saw it coming. His heel skidded across stone, water still splashing beneath his boots as he planted his foot hard into the ground. He drew his right arm back—his posture shifted, weight settling and spine aligning. The air seemed to compress around that single point of movement.

Then he punched.

The force that erupted from the strike did not resemble a shockwave so much as pure annihilation. Air screamed as it was torn apart. The ground beneath Dante's feet cratered, stone collapsing inward as if crushed by an invisible hand. The blow tore forward in a concentrated line of impossible pressure, a distortion that bent light and pulverized all matter in its way.

It met the wall of ice head-on.

For an instant—just one—the glacial wave held.

Then it shattered.

The ice was obliterated. Entire spires disintegrated into vapor and dust, the force of the punch annihilating the attack from its core. What remained was hurled skyward in a blinding storm of ice shards and mist, the remnants of the wave reduced to a collapsing cloud that rained harmlessly around him.

The plains beyond were left scarred—furrows carved deep into the earth, ice dust settling like snowfall over miles of ruined land.

Dante exhaled once.

He did not have time to rest.

A flicker at the edge of his awareness—a violent crackle of something—pulled his attention upward just as the Lightning Cerberus launched itself into the air.

It spun as it came.

Its body twisted into a rotating mass of black lightning, arcs snapping violently across its hide as it accelerated. The hound folded in on itself, limbs tucked tight, becoming a living wheel of annihilation that tore through the sky with a shrill, piercing scream.

The air split open in its wake.

Dante did not retreat. He charged on.

Stone exploded beneath his boots as he surged forward. His eyes tracked the hound's rotation, the rhythm of its spin, the minute hesitation between bursts of lightning. He leaned into the charge, timing his approach to the fraction of a second.

He leapt.

Dante twisted mid-air, drawing his leg back before snapping it forward in a brutal, precise kick. His boot connected with the Lightning Cerberus's back at the exact moment its rotation exposed the weakest angle.

The impact sounded like thunder breaking apart.

A devastating force rippled outward, lightning dispersing violently as the hound was ripped from its trajectory. The spinning mass unraveled, arcs of lightning tearing loose as the Cerberus was hurled sideways through the air like a discarded toy.

It slammed into the Fire Cerberus just as that form charged forward, the collision detonating in an explosion of flame and lightning. Both hounds were sent crashing across the plains, gouging trenches through the earth as they skidded and rolled, fire and lightning tearing free in chaotic bursts.

Dante landed lightly, boots crunching against stone.

He pivoted immediately.

Ice screamed through the air.

A hailstorm of sharp shards tore toward him, launched from the Ice Cerberus with mercilessness. The projectiles were enormous—spears that spun and whistled as they cut through the air, shattering the ground wherever they struck.

Dante leapt back again, twisting through the storm. Shards tore past his shoulders, clipped his coat, detonated against the ground at his feet. One grazed his side, ripping fabric and drawing a line of pain across his ribs—but he did not slow.

The three Cerberus forms recovered with terrifying speed.

Fire surged as the blazing hound rose, flames roaring higher as it dug its claws into the ground. Lightning crackled as the second hound shook itself free, bursts snapping violently as it lowered its head. Ice spread once more as the third prowled forward, breath frosting the air with every exhale.

They began to circle him slowly.

The ground between them was ruined—cratered, frozen, scorched, and split open—but the hounds moved as if it meant nothing. Their movements were synchronized and their eyes locked onto Dante with focus.

Dante straightened.

Water dripped from his attire. His left arm hung useless at his side. His breathing was steady, betraying none of the strain etched into his body. A knight, however, would continue the fight no matter the strain. He may have left the title of knight behind, but even he had some measure of pride.

He would not fall here.

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