[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Rumpelstadt]

A faint exhale ghosted through the filters of his helm — a weary sigh.

("Three weeks, and I've made little progress. Hm.")

The thought drifted through his mind as his gaze — filtered through faint lenses — followed the dim expanse of the overcast sky. The light above was colorless, and almost mournful, as though the skies had been drained of life.

("This realm… I've been here before, haven't I?")

He tilted his head slightly, as though trying to remember something distant — a faint pull of déjà vu.

("Well, no matter. I suppose I'll continue using the name Dante for now.")

The decision carried little weight. Names were just placeholders, after all — fragile identifiers in a realm that seemed to forget its own history.

He finally turned his attention from the dull heavens to the world around him.

The mining town of Rumpelstadt sprawled around. Worn shacks leaned against each other for support, blackened chimneys coughed trails of smoke and thin figures shuffled between the alleys — miners, traders, and beggars alike. Even the cobblestones beneath Dante's boots looked deadened.

At the town's center stood its only notable structure — a tall, crooked clock tower, known locally as the Spindle Tower.

("I've only studied the leylines here for a short while, but I'm certain… this realm must be Álfheimr.") Dante's fingers rose to his chin, the alloy of his gauntlet scraping against his helm as he thought. ("For that Fate Walker to have sent me to another realm entirely… hmph. I underestimated him. A mistake I will not repeat. But even so—")

He stopped thinking that line. The situation wasn't in his favor — and he knew it too well.

For all his power, for all his years, magic had never been his strength. He had no tricks, no hidden reserves of unique power. He only had his unrelenting strength — and that strength alone. It had carried him through countless battles, through centuries of blood… but not all battles could be won with brute endurance.

("Magic…") He almost scoffed behind the helm, though there was no humor in it. ("It would certainly be helpful now.") He looked back toward the horizon. ("With the second calamity already stirring in this realm, it would be prudent to remain here longer… at least until I've dealt with those dragons first.")

The words lingered in his head — when a sudden voice shattered his thoughts.

"Hey! You." The tone was rough.

Dante turned his head slightly, two figures approached from the crooked street . The taller of the two was a young man with brown hair, his posture brash. His companion — shorter, fair-haired, with a tired expression — followed just behind.

"C'mon, Alexander," the blonde sighed, already sounding defeated. "Let's not stir up trouble before dinner, yeah?"

"Shut it, Ivan." Alexander didn't even glance back. His glare stayed locked on Dante as he came to a stop just a few paces away — standing close enough that the reflection of the knight's violet lenses mirrored in his eyes.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Dante stood still and waited.

"You're the jackass that stole our bounty," Alexander said flatly, anger simmering beneath his tone.

Dante tilted his head ever so slightly. The movement was almost birdlike — as though studying the man in front of him.

("He must mean that Deseruit Beast.") He remembered it easily enough — a massive creature, malformed. He had slain it out more out of necessity than anything.

"Yes," Dante said simply.

Just that — one word.

Alexander's expression tightened. "That's it? That's all you have to say?"

Dante said nothing.

"You didn't even take the damn Eor!" Alexander snapped, his voice rising in frustration. "You just wasted a perfectly good bounty!"

"I see," Dante replied.

Alexander's jaw clenched. He couldn't see Dante's face behind the smooth black helmet, but he could feel something — indifference that made his blood boil.

"Alexander, calm down," Ivan muttered, stepping up beside him. "This knight… he's different. I can sense it — his mana's higher than normal. Not enough to be a wizard, but it's… substantial."

"Yeah, I noticed," Alexander muttered under his breath. "That scent, it's mana, all right. But why the hell does some random knight have so much?"

"I'm no knight anymore," Dante said quietly.

Ivan blinked, intrigued. "Oh? So you were one once, then?"

"Perhaps," Dante murmured, his tone flat.

Ivan chuckled softly. "Our mistake then. Still, those pieces of armor of yours doesn't exactly scream 'retired.'"

"That's hardly the issue here," Alexander cut in, glaring between them. "This guy still stole our bounty — and our pay! He should compensate us."

Ivan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alexander, what are you, a scam artist now?" He sighed and turned back toward Dante. "Still, I'll admit… it's curious. You didn't take the Eor reward. It was a hefty amount too."

"I had no need of Eor," Dante replied evenly. "Apologies if it caused you trouble."

Ivan paused, studying him. There was no sarcasm in his voice — no guilt either. Just sincerity.

"Well, it was our fault for leaving the bounty alone so long," Ivan admitted at last, much to Alexander's disbelief. "Ah — but where are our manners?" He smiled faintly, the diplomat between the two. "My name's Ivan Tsarevich, and this rather impatient companion of mine is Alexander. Just Alexander."

"Tsk," Alexander muttered. "I can introduce myself, you know."

"Heh. Now you care about introductions," Ivan teased lightly. "Here I thought you were too angry for courtesy."

"I am angry," Alexander shot back. "Don't test me."

Dante regarded the two silently, then inclined his head.

"I am Dante," he said simply. "But I am busy at the moment. Excuse me." He turned to leave, his coat billowing softly in the wind.

Alexander took a step forward, instinctively wanting to call out — but Ivan raised a hand, stopping him.

"Let him go," Ivan murmured.

Alexander glared but obeyed. He watched Dante's figure fade slowly down the road, the shimmer of his silver-white hair the only thing they saw.

"What an interesting fellow," Ivan said quietly, almost to himself.

Alexander folded his arms, his expression caught somewhere between irritation and curiosity.

"…Yeah. Interesting one word for it."

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

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

Staying in Rumpelstadt would do him good — at least, that was what Dante told himself. The town, after all had already lived past its final days. The tavern owner had offered him little more than bits of gossip.

Even so, scraps of truth were still truth.

But the question lingered.

Where to go from there?

He had wandered out of the town's edge by dusk, seeking solitude. The forest that ringed Rumpelstadt was small and colorless, its trees stripped of vitality. Amidst that decay, Dante sat in a small clearing.

The air felt heavy all around him.

He was seated on the ground, one arm resting upon his bent knee, the other resting loosely at his side. Before him, a small fire flickered — subdued and unnecessary. It offered no warmth to him anymore, nor did it serve to comfort. It was there for one reason only — familiarity.

There was a time, long ago, when he did feel the bite of cold. When his breath fogged before his lips. When his hands trembled beside a flame like this one. But that time was gone — a faint memory now.

He watched the fire's restlessness with detachment, his thoughts stirred along with it.

("I can not help but wonder how much blood will follow me on this journey.")

The thought was calm, his gauntleted fingers flexed slowly.

("How many must I kill in this realm… to save others? How much must I destroy so that others may endure?")

Bloodshed had long since become the rhythm of his existence. Even when he fought for something righteous — peace, order, protection — the road always circled back to violence. It was inevitable.

("I suppose it will never end.")

He accepted that. He had to.

He was content with that much — or at least he told himself so.

But contentment wasn't the same as peace. And as the fire crackled faintly before him, he felt the hollow truth of it settle against his chest.

It was, by every measure, a pitiful existence.

That much, he could admit.

("All great strength is only good for conflict,") he mused silently. ("To assert, to dominate, to end. To make others yield before your will. That's what strength becomes — the power to decide who breaks and who stands. That's what you taught me, wasn't it?")

His thoughts never rose as they passed soundlessly, meant only for himself.

He kept his gaze on the flame, the orange light clashing against the lifeless alloy of his helmet. For a long while, there was only the sound of wind and fire.

Then he exhaled quietly and shook his head.

Dwelling on thoughts like these wasn't his nature. He wasn't the type to drown in philosophy or self-pity. That kind of indulgence didn't suit someone like him.

"Come what may," he murmured aloud at last, his voice quiet beneath the helmet, "I shall simply persist."

The words hung in the air momentarily as suddenly—

"You know," came a lilting voice from above, "just earlier, I spoke to someone with the very same bad habit — talking to themselves."

It was teasing, feminine and familiar enough that Dante didn't even flinch.

He only raised his head slightly.

Perched upon a slender branch above him was a fox — not an ordinary one. Her fur shimmered with gold, seemingly casting faint rays that softened the dull gloom of the clearing. Her emerald eyes gleamed sharply at him. Nine tails swayed lazily behind her, each mesmerizing.

The creature smiled coyly.

"Tamamo-no-Mae," Dante said flatly. His tone neither surprised nor irritated.

He turned his gaze back to the fire.

"Well, I expected a warmer greeting," the fox said with exaggerated disappointment, leaping gracefully from the branch. Her descent was so fluid she barely disturbed the earth as she landed. "After all this time, I thought you might actually miss me."

"Hmph."

"Really?" she huffed, padding closer, her voice filled with mock indignation. "That's all I get? A grunt? Not even a 'how have you been, Tamamo'? You've had millennia to learn tact, and this is still the best you can do?"

He didn't answer. His silence only made her ears twitch irritably.

"What do you want, Tamamo-no-Mae?" he asked at last.

"Just Tamamo, please," she replied with a playful lilt, tilting her head as she stepped closer. "And what — I can't just come visit an old friend?"

"I do not recall our relationship escalating to that degree."

"Ouch," she said with mock pain, raising a paw and giving his leg a light tap — a gesture that, of course, did nothing. "Still so stiff. You've always been like this — buried in your thoughts, ignoring the world around you. You do realize you're terrible company, don't you?"

"I was unaware you sought my company."

She snorted lightly. "Maybe I didn't. Maybe I just missed watching you brood by campfires. It's nostalgic. But I would not mind it." Her tails swayed idly. "So, tell me — what name are you going by this time? You change them like the seasons do."

"Dante."

She hummed. "I still prefer your true name."

That made him turn, slowly. The faint glow from his lenses met her gaze directly. For a moment, neither spoke. Then she exhaled softly and looked away first.

"Fine, fine. Have it your way," Tamamo muttered, settling down with an elegant motion, her tails folding neatly behind her. "Though, for what it's worth, you're part of the reason I'm here."

He didn't reply, merely adjusted his posture.

"As powerful as I am, I'm still a spirit," she continued. "That gives me a bit more freedom — to meddle, to wander, to intervene when mortals start poking holes in things they shouldn't."

His tone dropped — the faint edge of suspicion slipping into his voice. "To what degree?"

Tamamo froze for a heartbeat, her expression twitching. She could feel the shift in his presence — the pressure that rolled off him.

"Relax," she said quickly, waving a paw dismissively. "Nothing drastic. Nothing that would put mortals in danger, if that's what you're worried about."

He didn't answer, but the tension in the air lingered.

"I'm helping someone," she went on, lowering her voice. "A friend. With… the calamity, you see? I also came to check on the leylines. They've been acting strange — leaking information they shouldn't. That kind of instability is… bad. For the planet."

His response was immediate. "Then you have no reason to linger."

She sighed, flicking one of her tails in mild irritation. "So tactless, as always." Her tone softened then, a hint of melancholy beneath her words. "A lady tells you she's troubled, and you don't even offer help. Tell me, were you ever a knight?"

"I am no knight anymore," Dante said sharply. "Officially. And besides, you have power enough that you would hardly need my assistance."

"Oh my," she teased, a grin curling at the corners of her muzzle. "Did you just compliment me? I didn't think you were capable of that."

"That was not—"

"Too late," she interrupted cheerfully. "I've already committed it to memory."

He said nothing. The silence between them started again, yet it was not uncomfortable. Dante merely rose to his feet. The movement fluid, the faint rustle of his coat punctuated the air as he swung his arm slightly toward the fire.

A single gust followed — not from wind, but sheer force. The flame shuddered, hissed, and then vanished, leaving only smoke lifting into the air.

"I've little time to spare for you," he said evenly, turning away.

Of course, she followed.

"Then maybe," Tamamo purred as she padded beside him, "I should make time to teach you some manners. Wouldn't that be fun?"

He ignored her.

Her tails flicked as she looked up at his helmeted face. "Still hiding yourself away, I see. I can't even peek under that thing. Some spell, right? You were never much good with magic."

"Hmph."

She laughed softly, eyes alight between amusement and a more somber emotion. "Good talk, Dante."

He said nothing.

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