“We will be landing very soon, my lord.” declared a kneeling man, dressed in a dark robe.

  He kneeled in a dimly lit room, illuminated only by sparse white lights, placed at regular intervals. Racks of blades—long, curved, straight, and of all kinds—were arranged along the walls, next to training dummies. Two hooded men wearing the same robe guarded the only door in the room. In the middle of the room stood a tall shirtless man, wearing only black baggy pants fitted in combat boots of the same color. His muscular back was presented to the kneeling man, revealing the tail of a Miligorgon, a monstrous bladed centipede, tattooed on his right omoplata. The rest of the Miligorgon could be found on his right arm continuing until his wrist where its maw could be found, an unsettling yet mesmerizing design.

  Wordlessly, the two men guarding the door approached him as he turned around. One took the training swords he had been holding, neatly returning them to their place. The other handed Dante a towel, which he used to dab the dripping sweat from his brow.

  As he wiped away the moisture, his piercing steel-grey eyes locked on the kneeling figure.. His stubble did not hide his sharp features, disfigured by a scar in the form of a cross. The vertical cut ran across his left eye and part of his cheek, while the horizontal cut drew a straight line from underneath his right eye to his left cheekbone. His dark hair was grown out and parted neatly in the middle. His upper body was marred by multiple scars and burns of different kinds. Atop the particularly large bullet scar on his left pelvis sat the tattoo of a curled horned desert viper, its jaws open and striking. A nest of snarling snakes was pictured unto his right ribs. Finally, a symbol was tattooed over his left pectoral, reading [LEG – III] atop three arrows of lightning clasped in a fist. The Emperor’s Fist stood untouched, as did the designation of the Third Legion. A reminder of Dante Saint’s loyalty to the Emperor.

  “Am I needed on the bridge, Adam?” Dante asked, his voice low and even.

  “No, my lord,” Adam replied. “But you do need to look presentable for your arrival. You’re representing His Majesty, after all. I’m simply here to remind you of your duties as his envoy — at your own request, might I add.”

  “Right. Thank you, Adam. How are the snakes?”

  Adam’s eyes flickered momentarily, an almost imperceptible shift in his expression before he replied, "All are well, my lord. They have adjusted perfectly to the artificial environment of the ship.”

  Dante’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice quiet but insistent. “How will they be kept on Pelegeion? The conditions there won't be kind to them, and I cannot afford to risk their safety. I trust you’ve made proper arrangements.”

  Adam stiffened slightly, his words chosen carefully. "The care arrangements have been made, my lord. They will be housed securely within the transport vessel, kept out of sight until we reach our destination. No one on Pelegeion will know of their presence, I’ve ensured it.”

  Dante's lips barely twitched, the hint of a smile that never quite reached his eyes. " Pelegeion is a planet as rich in superficiality as it is in wealth. Even if the Verlones do learn of the snakes, it will not matter so long as they believe the snakes are just pet.”

  He stood still for a moment, his gaze far away, reflecting on the nature of the people they were dealing with. There was no anger, no heat—only the cool observation of a man who knew exactly how to manipulate those around him. “The Verlones will welcome us with open arms, of course. But it's all a fa?ade. They play at beauty and perfection, but it's a brittle, shallow thing. They don't understand the value of strength. Not real strength, anyway.”

  Adam didn’t respond, but his stance was careful, attuned to the nuances of Dante’s mood. Dante had long since learned that the world's surface often hid its true nature. He could read it all. And Pelegeion, with its gilded beauty and hollow politics, was no exception.

  Dante’s voice was low, without a trace of concern but still resolute. "So let them believe the snakes are nothing more than pets. Let them admire the image we present. Let us present a fa?ade as well.”

  Adam’s eyes flickered briefly, the weight of Dante's words settling in. He nodded, his expression unwavering. "Understood, my lord."

  Dante turned toward the door, the cool detachment returning to his posture. "Good. We have our roles to play. Just remember: we are here to serve the Emperor, not for their games. We will do what we must, but we should not indulge their antics."

  As Adam followed him out, Dante’s mind remained fixed on the task at hand, and on the knowledge that, while the Verlones may believe they held power here, it was a power built on illusion—a house of cards poised to fall at the slightest breath of truth.

  Dante exited the training room, still shirtless, his broad shoulders rippling with the remnants of the training session. His muscles moved with a fluid precision, a testament to the years of discipline and combat that had shaped him into the weapon he was now. Each step carried the weight of someone accustomed to both command and solitude.

  The halls of the ship were stark, illuminated only by dim lights that cast long shadows across the smooth, metal floors. The air was cool, almost sterile, a reminder of the ship's utilitarian design. Comfort was secondary to efficiency. The temperature was kept low to maintain optimal conditions for the Blade Attendants' rigorous training and the functionality of the vessel itself. Everything aboard was built for one purpose: to support their mission, to serve the Emperor’s will, and to ensure their survival. There were no luxuries here—just the necessary tools to maintain focus and discipline.

  As Dante walked through the corridor, the Blade Attendants stood in neat rows along the walls. Their robes were as much a part of them as their weapons. Each robe was black, long and flowing, the fabric made from a specialized, lightweight material that allowed for maximum movement while hiding their silhouettes. The hoods were drawn low, casting their faces in shadow, but their posture was unwavering—each one of them stood silently, deadly and poised. Across their chest, subtly embroidered in gold thread, was the symbol of the Emperor: the Fist of Lightning, three jagged arrows clasped tightly in a fist.

  Adam stood among them, his presence was marked by another symbol. On the gauntlet protecting his left hand, was the symbol of a coiled serpent, poised and lethal, wrapping around a curved dagger with a bite that could kill in an instant —the emblem of Dante Saint himself. And if one looked closely enough at the other Attendants, they would see the same symbol. Hidden. Some wore it on their swords. Other had it embroidered in the lower hems of their robes. But all bore the mark of their master.

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  Adam’s hood was down, revealing his sharp features and dark hair. His stance was relaxed yet controlled, the epitome of a man who had spent years in Dante’s shadow, absorbing the teachings of a Blademaster.

  Dante didn’t acknowledge them as he walked past. There was no need to. His eyes were focused ahead, the only sign of his thoughts hidden behind the cold, impenetrable expression on his face. The Blade Attendants knew their place, and they knew their lord. His presence alone was enough to make them pause, to adjust their posture, to offer the smallest but most meaningful gestures of respect—an almost imperceptible bow of the head, a subtle straightening of their backs, the barely noticeable tightening of their grips on their weapons. They knew him as their master, the one who had trained them into the deadly force they were now. They were tools, instruments of death, but Dante was the man who had forged them.

  After a few corridors, Dante arrived at his personal quarters. The door slid open with a soft hiss, and he stepped inside, immediately greeted by the quiet hum of the ship’s internal systems. Here, there was no need to be vigilant. No one followed him in. The Blade Attendants understood the need for solitude, for peace before the storm.

  The room was stark and functional, much like the rest of the ship. A bed, a desk, a few personal items scattered about—nothing to distract from his purpose. With a single fluid motion, Dante crossed to the shower and stepped inside. The water was cool, the pressure high, a refreshing but impersonal assault on his skin. He closed his eyes, letting the spray wash away the sweat of training, the remnants of the past hours. His mind wandered briefly, but only for a moment. His body needed the attention, but his thoughts were always several steps ahead.

  Once he finished, he took a moment to dry off, his movements precise, like everything else he did.

  Dante approached the wardrobe with deliberate steps, his sharp eyes scanning the contents. He reached for his standard outfit: black, practical, and efficient. No flourishes, no unneeded embellishments. He pulled on a fitted black shirt, its fabric snug against his torso, allowing full movement for combat. It was made of a lightweight, durable material designed to breathe, but it was tough enough to withstand the rigors of battle without hindering him.

  His movements were methodical, precise. Next came the black combat pants, fitted at the waist and thighs but loose around the legs, perfect for maneuvering in close-quarters combat. The pants tucked neatly into combat boots, their soles made of hardened rubber, designed to provide silent steps but with enough resilience to endure any terrain.

  Then, with the precision of someone who had done this countless times before, Dante reached for the his armor. The plates, ultrathin and forged from an advanced, lightweight alloy, molded to his body like a second skin, offering protection without sacrificing mobility. He slipped the chest plate over his torso first, its surface matte black, and indistinguishable from the rest of his attire. The subtle curves and contours of the armor were designed to blend seamlessly under his clothes, remaining hidden from view, though offering immense protection. It was a custom-forged carapace, slim as skin, flexible as breath, hidden beneath his clothes. It did not shine. It did not clink. It simply endured.

  Once the armor was in place, Dante reached for the final piece: his robe. Black with a subtle sheen, he draped it over his armor, its flowy design adding an air of grace to his otherwise deadly form.

  The robe itself was cut with a minimalist, yet distinct design. At first glance, it appeared elegant, even regal, but it was functional. Made to accommodate his movements in combat, its material was resilient, its smooth surface hiding the steel beneath. It allowed Dante to move in ways others couldn’t, while maintaining the deceptive appearance of serenity. The robe had an undeniable aura of authority, its long flowing fabric shifting as he moved, giving him an almost ethereal presence.

  The Emperor’s fist could be found on his collar on the inside of his robes. Pressed to his skin. While on the hems of the robe, there was a touch of aged gold lining the edges—subtle, yet there. It matched the same patterns found in the robes of his Blade Attendants, a mark of their shared loyalty to the Emperor.

  And like the other face of a coin, his own Serpent Sigil was carved inside the clasp of his belt. The snake wrapped around the curved dagger. A reminder of the past. A lesson for the future. The desert does not forgive. Neither did its inhabitants.

  Once the kimono-like robe flowed over his form, Dante moved with methodically, his every action deliberate. He felt whole, wrapped in the familiar layers of war. But there was one final part left: his weapons.

  He first reached for the set of throwing knives, each one sleek and deadly. He didn’t rush. He never rushed. One by one, he inspected them, his fingers moving along their razor-sharp edges, testing their balance, ensuring there were no imperfections. They were perfect.

  But it wasn’t enough to just carry them. He picked up a soft cloth, dipping it carefully into a prepared bowl of silvery venom. His latest concoction. Built from the raw venoms of his prized snakes, each one chosen and bred for its deadliness.

  Slowly, with practiced precision, he began to coat the tips of the throwing knives, ensuring that each one was coated with a thin layer. His movements were fluid and deliberate, each stroke of the cloth a reaffirmation of his mastery. Yet the act of applying venom, allowed Dante to focus, to enter the proper mindset. Once finished, he sheathed the throwing knives in their specialized pouches, positioned carefully on his waist, ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice.

  Next came his curved knife. He admired the smooth, curved edge, the gleam of the claw-like blade in the dim light of his quarters. He held it with reverence, his fingers tracing along the sharp edge through the cloth as he applied venom to it, repeating the ritual he had performed on the throwing knives. The venom was an ever present reminder. Of the past. Of the desert. Of both life, and death.

  Once it was ready, he slid the knife into the sheath at his side. Then, the hunting dagger. Slightly longer than the karambit, with a straighter edge but just as lethal. It followed the same procedure, the same careful checks, the same slow application of venom. That one, he slid into a sheath under his robe strapped to his left thigh.

  With each weapon secured in place, Dante's movements became even more deliberate.

  He turned to a black case, lying next to his bed, its surface gleaming under the cool light. He reached for it with care, his fingers grazing the cool surface of the case before he opened it with a single motion.

  Inside, a longsword laid still with its graceful curve, almost beckoning him to hold it. Its surface is a dark mirror, almost fluid in appearance, with ripples of silver dancing along the edge. The hilt is stark, without gem or flourish, but inscribed with Old Imperial — words that only Dante can read.

  Dante stood there for a moment, his gaze fixed on the blade. It was more than just a weapon—it was a part of him, the companion with which he had carved his reputation. The weight of it in his hand was familiar and comforting, yet a reminder of the countless lives it had ended, of the unspoken promise it carried. He drew the blade from its case with a single, fluid motion. The sound of the metal slipping free was soft, almost silent. He could feel its balance, its perfect weight. He twirled it in his hands, performing a few swift cuts through the air, his movements precise, almost like a dance. The fluidity, the speed—it was as if the blade was an extension of his very being, moving with him, anticipating his next motion.

  Dante’s mind was always calculating, always focused. As he swung the Profane Twilight, he tested its readiness, verifying that it could be drawn and swung in an instant, silently and without resistance. He performed the motions several times, each one as smooth as the last, the blade always responding as if it understood its purpose.

  Satisfied, Dante returned to the black case, reaching for the sheath. He sheathed his sword in one smooth motion, the blade slipping home silently. He fastened the sheath securely to his belt.

  He stood still for a moment, his mind sharp, feeling the weight of the sword settle against him, every muscle in his body taut with readiness. His outfit, his armor, his blades—they were all part of his being now, part of the machine that would carry him through the challenges ahead, through Pelegeion.