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It was cold.

So very cold.

Not the gentle cold of distant currents or the familiar bite of deep water pressing against skin, but an unnatural chill. It sank into bone, into thought, into whatever fragile thing remained that could still feel. It lingered there until even the act of existing within it felt painful.

And that was what made it so strange.

She had always known the cold.

The abyssal depths of the ocean were her cradle and her dominion. Places where light surrendered, where pressure crushed lesser beings without ceremony, where the water clawed and pulled and demanded submission. Cold lived there too and it was absolute and endless—but it had never troubled her. It was a sensation she acknowledged, nothing more. A fact of the deep. Gods did not recoil from such things. Primordial Gods least of all.

It had never been this uncomfortable or wrong.

But this was so very different.

This cold made her uneasy.

It felt as though something fundamental had been peeled away, as though the mantle of divinity she had worn since the dawn of oceans had been stripped from her without permission. As though she were exposed in a way she had never been before, laid bare in essence.

Her body drifted.

If it could even be called a body anymore.

She floated through what could only be described as an abyss—though even that word felt insufficient. Darkness stretched endlessly in every direction, without depth or horizon. There was no up, no down, no current to follow. Direction felt meaningless here.

And within all that black, she alone was color.

Her form was bare, unadorned by cloth or any symbol. Long aqua hair spilled freely around her, fanning out in the void like ink diffusing through water, instinctively veiling her most intimate places. Her skin was pristine and smooth to the point of seeming unreal—radiant even now and luminous in the consuming dark, as though her divinity refused to vanish entirely.

She drifted, vacant aqua eyes staring into nothing… or perhaps into everything. It was difficult to tell. Difficult to care.

("Cold…")

The thought surfaced clumsily. It took effort—far more than it should have—to even form it. That alone unsettled her. She was not used to struggling with thought, with sensation. She was a God. More than that, she was a Primordial God—one of the best, one of the foundations. Existence had shaped itself around beings like her.

And yet now she felt small.

So vulnerable.

The cold crept deeper, accompanied by a distant pain that tore through her delicate form. It was not the pain of injury, it was the pain of absence. Of something missing that had always been there before.

("But… so loud…")

There was no sound in the abyss. No vibration, no echo or movement to carry noise. And yet she heard something anyway. At first it was indistinct—like pressure against the mind rather than the ears. Then it sharpened. The clash of forces. The violence of it. She could not hear words, but she could feel the intent. The conflict of battle.

Her brow knit faintly.

She closed her eyes, instinctively, as though that might shut it out.

Instead, she saw.

Even with her eyes closed, vision flooded her awareness. The abyss vanished, replaced by devastation. Ruined plains torn apart by force and elements. Earth split and shattered, scorched and frozen in equal measure.

She was not surprised.

Her sight was not her own.

It was borrowed—filtered through the senses of the one who now wielded her divine body as a vessel. Through their eyes, she watched the world tear itself apart. A massive three-headed hound dominated the plains, each head snarling. Opposite it stood a lone figure clad in black, their face hidden, their presence immovable.

She could not even tell their gender. Their form was obscured, the only one thing that stood out clearly was long, silvery-white hair flowing behind them.

And at the sight of that, something stirred within her.

A warmth bloomed beneath the gnawing cold.

("Is that you…?")

The thought was fragile and so uncertain. She reached for a name—their name—knowing with aching certainty that she knew it, that she had spoken it countless times before.

But it would not come.

The harder she tried to grasp it, the more it slipped away, like water through open fingers. Frustration welled up within it. And with it came another feeling—recognition with affection.

Despite her muddled state, she knew them.

That knowledge alone brought warmth. It was small, but real.

But it did not last.

A pull tugged at her very being, a demand placed upon her essence. Her power stirred—drawn outward, seized without consent.

She understood immediately.

Her divinity was about to be used again.

Used to harm them.

("No.")

The thought flared clearly, cutting through the haze.

No—she could not allow that.

("I… I don't want… that…")

The effort it took to think coherently made her feel weak, but she pushed through it, clinging to the image of them standing against impossible odds.

("…that dummy getting hurt.")

The thought was clumsy, tinged with something close to childishness, but it was sincere. Her eyes remained closed as she focused inward, gathering what little of herself she could still reach.

She was cold.

She was afraid.

She was diminished.

But for their sake—just this once—she would try.

--------------------

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

("There…")

The thought anchored Echidna in place as she focused, forcing her attention inward even as the plains continued to tremble around her. In battle, exertion rarely demanded this much of her concentration. Her power had always answered readily, eagerly, bending to her will as naturally as breath.

But Dante was different.

Not that much stronger than the Gods she had faced—no, that was not it. He was inconvenient. "Resistant" seemed to be a more apt term for him. He was an existence that refused to be cleanly categorized or overwhelmed. That alone was enough to irritate her.

Her serpentine body shifted, coils tightening and loosening in a restless motions that betrayed her agitation. She stilled herself at once. Echidna did not indulge in such tells. Emotion other than her love for her children was a weakness; control was much more useful.

Her pale hands rose and cupped together, fingers steady despite the tension crawling up her spine, as she drew upon the divine power bound within her. The air around her palms grew cool. Thin droplets of water condensed between her fingers, trembling as though uncertain whether to fall or remain.

Then she separated her hands.

The water stretched with them, resisting for a breath before obeying. It elongated and refined—no longer liquid but a solid form. In the next instant, the water shed itself away in rivulets, revealing what had been hidden within.

A spear.

Its shaft was long and perfectly balanced, gleaming in a gold hue, as though forged from something purer than metal. A radiance pulsed along its length, at its pommel bloomed in a dark blue, dark indigo flowers etched and raised along the grip, their petals curling elegantly. The blade itself was pristine—long, narrow and sharp, its edge so refined it seemed capable of cleaving through anything easily, be it flesh or steel.

"Divine Relic: Tidebreaker's Judgment," Echidna murmured, her voice low. The spear matched her in length, proportioned not for mortal hands but for a being of her scale. She adjusted her grip experimentally. "I was never one for weaponry," she continued, a small smirk touching her lips. "But a divine weapon forged by a God… that, at least, has a certain appeal."

She raised the spear, settling into the throw. Water gathered along its length, gathering around it like an aura, layers upon layers of pressure binding themselves to the relic.

Across the ruined expanse, Dante turned.

Even at a distance, Echidna felt his attention shift to her, still so calm. Cerberus still lingered behind him, recovering, its massive form rising as its three heads snarled softly.

She did not hesitate.

Echidna hurled the spear.

The release came with a thunderous bang that cracked through the plains, the shockwave strong enough to shudder through the ground beneath her coils. The spear tore through the air, trailing a ribbon of water, its trajectory flawless.

("Sturdy for a human he may be,") she thought coldly as she watched it fly, ("but even he would bleed before divine weaponry.")

Dante shifted.

He pivoted his heel, turning his body fully toward the incoming spear. His right arm rose. His hand clenched into a fist.

Echidna frowned.

("…Is he seriously intending to punch it?") The thought sharpened into disbelief. ("Is he truly that much of a brute?")

The question barely had time to settle before—

"—!?"

Vertigo slammed into her.

For a split second, the world lurched. Not physically, but internally, as though her very sense of self had been yanked sideways. Something seized control—something inside her.

Far ahead, the divine spear burst apart mid-flight.

It unraveled into water before it could reach Dante, the relic dissolving into a violent cascade that spilled uselessly across the ground.

Echidna gasped, clutching at her face as her coils tightened reflexively beneath her.

Cerberus reacted at once.

With a snarl, the massive hound launched itself forward, crossing the distance in a burst of speed, surprising despite its size. It landed before her almost protectively, its heads snapping outward as if daring anything to try something again.

Echidna's jaw clenched. Her grip tightened until her nails bit into her own skin.

"You…" she hissed, fury burning hot. "Annoying little Goddess." Her hand pressed harder against her face as she fought down the lingering disorientation. "Why?" she demanded, the question torn from her with equal parts frustration and genuine curiosity. "Why are you interfering at all?"

Her gaze slid past Cerberus, fixing on Dante now standing much closer than before, only a few paces away. Cerberus's heads growled low in response.

"For him?" Echidna continued, her tone sharp. "Did you not hear his words, little Goddess? He means to kill me—and by extension, you. He does not care for your well-being." She paused, listening inward, feeling the faint emotional echo that did not belong to her. "…Tch." Her lips curled into a thin smile. "I feel it. Such affection. Such foolish attachment. You even influenced me just now." Her eyes narrowed. "Make no mistake. It will not happen again." She said, staring at Dante.

"I do not need her assistance here," Dante said evenly. His voice cut through the tension without force. "It changes little."

Echidna turned fully toward him, her irritation flaring anew. "You really are so prideful, human," she spat. "But tell me—what have you truly done in this battle against my dear Cerberus? Given him a few love taps?" Her gaze turned briefly to the hound. "Your words ring hollow."

"You would do well to save your taunting," Dante replied, unbothered, "for the petty Gods of your realm. Or for someone who would care." Her glare sharpened. ("And after all,") Dante continued inwardly, ("I am merely biding time.") His awareness turned to his left arm—bloodied and twisted, still healing but no longer useless. Sensation had returned. Strength was following. ("Cerberus is not terribly strong,") he assessed coldly, ("but it is an annoying opponent. I will have to eviscerate it in one blow. As I did the Hydra.")

He did not need Arcane Ascendance anymore. He only needed an opening.

"You truly are infuriating," Echidna murmured, her voice dropping. "More than any pest. Your words. Your convictions. That strength of yours. Even the Gods never tested me so."

"Enough," Dante said. "I have wasted sufficient time on you, Mother of Monsters." He took a single step forward. "I will end this now. First your beloved Cerberus. Then you."

There was no threat in his voice. Only his own certainty. He had been pacing himself until now. Measuring and learning. But that was no longer necessary. He had seen what Cerberus could do. Understood its limits.

Now, he would slaughter the beast.

And then, without hesitation, he would end the Mother of Monsters herself.

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