A Journey Unwanted

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Outskirts]

"Hmph."

The sound was low as Dante flicked his gauntleted hand to the side. Blood struck the grass in dark spatters, stark against the dullness. The section of plains he stood in was partially wooded, tall trees casting shadows across the landscape.

And the bodies—nearly two dozen—were left scattered.

Some lay twisted grotesquely, limbs bent backward, bones jutting through skin as though trying to escape their own flesh. Others had their chests caved in as if something had crushed them inward with a single merciless blow. A few had collided with the trees so violently that the bark was splashed with red and grey, their bodies slumped or spread across trunks in ruinous angles. All dressed the same as the two cultists who had ambushed him earlier.

Dante's boots stepped through grass darkening with blood.

From behind a fallen trunk came a sound—wet and rasping.

"M… monster…"

Dante's head turned slightly, the violet lenses of his helm narrowing. He walked toward the voice.

One cultist still clung to life, slumped against a tree whose bark was soaked in his blood. His entrails spilled from a long gash across his abdomen, pooling in the dirt. Each breath he took seemed borrowed.

Dante's shadow fell over him.

"You're alive," he observed, tone unreadable. "I see. I underestimated the vigor your kind possesses. Next time, I will ensure I use enough strength."

The cultist stiffened in pure instinctive terror. "S-stay… stay away!"

"No." Dante stopped before him, looking down. "I would know why you and yours insisted on following us. And why you believed an attack was wise."

The cultist's breath hitched. "Y-you'll get nothing… nothing from me! M-Mother Echidna shall reap vengeance! She watches! She—she sees—!"

"The mother of monsters," Dante murmured. "I did not expect her name to be worshipped in Álfheimr." The cultist shook uncontrollably. Whether from pain, fear, or righteous delusion was impossible to tell. "Your mother," Dante continued, voice even, "has no love for you. If she did, she would have stopped me from erasing your companions."

"Heretic!" the cultist wheezed, struggling to sit straighter despite the agony shredding his nerves. "You—you know nothing of Her! Of Her mercy!"

"To survive in a realm this decrepit," Dante said quietly, "it is expected that mortals reach for anything that promises stability. Even if the promise is hollow."

He raised his hand slowly—not threateningly, but with a finality that made the cultist whimper.

"I have served under Gods," Dante continued. "But I never worshipped them. Worship is the surrender of one's will. Faith is fickle—bestowed easily, broken easily. You will soon understand the weight of that truth."

"M-Mother Echidna… will welcome my soul…" the cultist gasped, tears streaking down his blood-coated cheeks.

"I doubt that."

With barely a whisper of movement, Dante's arm blurred. A wet slice split the air, and the cultist's head separated cleanly from his shoulders. The body slumped forward, spilling more crimson onto the ground.

"Zealots," Dante muttered internally. "No matter the realm, they worship anything taller than themselves. Ridiculous."

He shook his hand once more, flinging away the last droplets of blood.

A voice drifted from the treeline.

"Seems you really don't hold back."

Gretchen appeared, stepping lightly around a shattered trunk, boots avoiding the gore with almost habitual grace. She didn't flinch at the carnage—if anything, she seemed more irritated than disturbed.

"Tamamo sent you, I assume," Dante said, not turning but aware of her presence.

"She didn't send—she practically shoved me," Gretchen grumbled. "Said you'd 'probably get too caught up cleaning' and forget we exist. Charming fox. Truly." She came to stand beside him, eyeing the headless corpse. "You ended him quickly. I thought you'd want a little more time to interrogate."

"Fear ruins clarity," Dante replied. "And those who worship too deeply believe their devotion will shield them. Even Death does not loosen their grip."

Gretchen folded her arms. "That sounds like something you've seen before."

"Many times," Dante answered. "Men and women whose entire identity rested upon divine favor. They cling to salvation even as their bodies collapse and their souls unravel."

She breathed out slowly. "You sound like you pity them."

"It would be admirable," Dante said, "if it were not so pitiful."

Gretchen studied him for a moment. "And you? You don't have anything you believe in? Anything beyond yourself?"

"My own strength."

She blinked, caught between an eye roll and reluctant intrigue. "That's… blunt."

"It is truthful."

After a pause, she asked, "These cultists—who exactly do they worship?"

"Echidna."

"Echidna," Gretchen repeated, and the name pulled something sharp across her face. "Wait. One of the Deseruit Beast Progenitors?"

"You know of her?"

"Barely." She rubbed her neck. "Picked up scraps about her while learning alchemy. My teacher mentioned she was tied to the origins of… monstrous things."

Dante considered that. ("She did birth many beasts. I suppose she must have drifted into Álfheimr at some point…")

"These cultists are more idiotic than I thought," Gretchen muttered. "Worshipping a monster? Honestly."

"Just so," Dante agreed.

"I imagine that makes them even more foolish in your eyes," she said, raising a brow. "Given how you feel about devotion."

"Perhaps," Dante replied. "Or perhaps… one day you'll understand why I am opposed to worship."

There was a heaviness there, mayhap memories he would not share.

Gretchen fell silent long enough to leave the moment lingering. Then she sighed and walked with him as he turned away from the corpses.

"You enjoy being cryptic, don't you?" she muttered. "I would trade stories with you, you know. Real ones."

"Hm. We'll see."

"So is that a yes?"

"Perhaps."

Gretchen groaned. "I'm starting to really dislike you."

Dante didn't respond, but she suspected—just barely—that he found that amusing. They stepped out of the thin belt of trees and back onto the open plains, the wind brushing over the grass. Dante's boots pressed firm patterns into the dirt as he scanned the horizon.

"It seems most of the other cultists following us have finally scattered," he noted quietly, gaze sweeping across the empty stretch.

Gretchen let out a short breath. "I imagine they're just smart enough to run after watching you butcher their little friends." She slid a hand through her hair as she walked beside him. "Though I doubt they'll give up. Obsession makes people stubborn."

"It matters little," Dante replied, his tone even. "If they come again, I'll cull them until the lesson sinks in."

Gretchen shot him a sideways look. "You know… you really don't strike me as the bloodthirsty type."

"I am not," he said simply. No dramatic pause or defensiveness. Just a statement.

"Mm," she hummed, unconvinced. "Could've fooled me. That scene back there—" she gestured vaguely behind them "—didn't exactly scream restraint. You didn't hesitate at all."

"I won't claim the part of a saint," Dante said, voice low beneath the wind. "I live a simple life. Bloodshed has followed me for longer than I care to count, and change is beyond reach at this point. So yes, when the situation demands it, I kill. But that doesn't mean I desire it."

Gretchen studied him openly now, curiosity replacing the earlier sarcasm. "So you kill when you must… not because you want to." She nodded slowly. "That explains a lot. I did wonder why you didn't kill me the first time you found me in the mines. Especially after seeing what I'd done to those men." She folded her hands behind her back. "Or was sparing me just your way of pretending you're a good person?"

"It is unwise to judge at first glance," Dante answered, turning slightly. His violet lenses caught her eyes. "For cultists like those, the matter is simple. They are blinded by faith — fragile, desperate and misplaced faith. But others… people like you…" His head tilted faintly. "My life is long. You learn to read people after enough decades."

"Oh?" Gretchen raised a brow. "And what exactly am I to you, then? Go on. Enlighten me."

"It is simple to see you've suffered," Dante said.

She stopped mid-step, blinking in surprise. The wind tugged strands of hair across her face.

He continued, "Suffering alone does not excuse cruelty. But you had a reason for transmuting those miners into gold, I imagine."

Her gaze dropped to the ground. A pensive, almost guilty expression flickered over her features. "Of course there was a reason. I…" She exhaled slowly. "I don't like killing. Not really. Those men… they were the first I ever killed."

They walked a few more paces in silence before Dante spoke again. "I won't ask for your reasons yet. I am cryptic, after all — it's only fair to allow you the same courtesy."

Gretchen let out a short sound that almost sounded like a snort. "At least you're self-aware. That counts for something." She glanced at him with a mock glare. "Still tactless, though. And you did threaten to kill me."

"I imagine you won't forget that."

"Nope."

"Only fair, I suppose."

Gretchen sighed. "You know… most would apologize after threatening someone's life."

"I did not attempt to kill you," Dante pointed out. "If that helps."

"It doesn't," she deadpanned.

"Then I will consider apologizing when the time is appropriate," he said, tone neutral.

She scoffed. "That's not how apologies work."

"Is it not?"

"Definitely not."

Dante tilted his head, as though genuinely filing that away.

They walked a little farther, the sun lowering behind them.

After a moment, Gretchen spoke again, looking thoughtful. "Still you meant what you said, right? About people being blinded by faith?"

"I've seen many collapse beneath the weight of faith," Dante replied. "Men and women throwing themselves to monsters, to Gods, to ideas. Anything to drown their fear. It is a familiar pattern."

"And you?" she asked. "You really don't believe in anything?"

He paused for a breath. "As I said, I believe in my own strength. That is all I can rely on."

Gretchen turned her head slightly, studying the violet glow of his lenses. "I think there's more to you than that. Maybe you just don't want to admit it."

"Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not."

"Cryptic again," she sighed.

"It seems to be a habit."

"You don't say." She hummed lightly.