Ever since Dante’s terrifying ordeal in the Engine Space, his nights had been haunted by nightmares—always the same, always horrifying. Bidenson was there, his maniacal laughter echoing as his jaw grotesquely split apart. And behind him stood a shadowy figure, shrouded in thick black mist. From within the haze, the faint shape of a goat’s head could be seen.

Now, that nightmare had stepped into reality.

The Spawn of the Black Goat.

The name surfaced in Dante’s mind, though he had no memory of where he’d learned it. Yet, he knew it to be true.

Mumu lay dying, its once-pure white coat soaked with blood and smeared with thick, oily black fluid. Its massive frame trembled weakly, barely clinging to life. If they had arrived just seconds later, the Spawn would have ripped out its heart. But now, the creature’s pitch-black, hollow gaze was fixed on Dante.

The Spawn abandoned Mumu without hesitation. It turned its pulsating, grotesque body toward Dante, its five misshapen legs moving in unnatural unison. Each step seemed to warp the space around it, the air vibrating with unease. It let out a noise—a twisted imitation of a bleat—that sent chills racing down Dante’s spine. The sound was not just unnatural; it was deeply wrong, like the agonized cry of a dying man trying to mimic a goat. It burrowed into his mind, clawing at his sanity.

Terror surged through Dante, threatening to paralyze him, but survival instinct took over. His body moved before his mind could catch up. With a sharp motion, he grabbed Billy’s bow from the boy’s limp hands and shoved him aside.

The force jolted Billy back to awareness, though he was still overwhelmed by fear. Torn between staying to help Mumu and the urge to flee, he froze, unable to act.

Dante, gripping the bow, had no clear plan—only the desperate need to draw the Spawn away. Deep down, he knew the bow would be useless against this abomination. He couldn’t explain how he knew, but the certainty was as firm as the terror gripping his chest.

“Hey! You ugly freak!” Dante shouted, his voice trembling but loud. “Come after me!”

He didn’t wait for a reaction. Turning on his heel, he bolted into the forest.

The Spawn shrieked, its cry an unholy blend of rage and hunger. Then, with horrifying speed, it gave chase. Despite its uneven, grotesque body, it moved with chilling precision, its limbs working in eerie harmony. The twisted rhythm of its pursuit was both mesmerizing and terrifying, a grotesque dance of death.

Billy watched as Dante and the Spawn disappeared into the dark underbrush. Guilt and determination flashed across his face. Forcing himself to move, he dropped to Mumu’s side.

“Mumu, it’s me! Hang on!” Billy’s voice cracked as he pulled out a vial of healing elixir. Pouring the glowing liquid over Mumu’s wounds, he watched as the worst of the injuries began to close, though the beast was far from healed.

“I’ll be back for you. I promise,” Billy whispered, his hand lingering on Mumu’s bloodied coat. He stood, gripping his knife tightly, and sprinted into the forest. He couldn’t let Dante face the Spawn alone.

Dante ran for his life, his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. Behind him, the pounding of the Spawn’s twisted hooves grew louder, closer. He didn’t dare look back. Just the thought of seeing it would shatter what little courage he had left.

But the forest betrayed him. The trees ahead closed in, forming an impassable barrier. He had run straight into a dead end.

Dante froze, his heart hammering in his chest. The pounding steps behind him stopped as well, the sudden silence pressing down on him like a weight. The air grew thick, and every instinct screamed at him to move, to do something, but his legs refused to obey.

Then came the voice.

It wasn’t a voice in the human sense. It was a sound so alien, so wrong, it defied explanation. The words—if they could even be called that—rippled through the air like shattered glass. Each syllable was a jagged piece of madness, slicing into Dante’s mind. It was a language of despair, a sound that no living creature was meant to hear. Yet, somehow, Dante understood it.

“Sacrifice… escaped… offering… devour… appease… I bring… Mother’s… love.”

The meaning of its words was almost more terrifying than the creature itself. Dante couldn’t decide what scared him more: the abomination’s twisted promises or the fact that he could actually understand them.

Pulling every ounce of courage from somewhere deep within, Dante spun around and nocked an arrow onto the black bow still clutched in his hands. His fingers trembled uncontrollably as he drew the string tight. Without aiming, he released the arrow. It flew straight at the beast.

Just as he feared, the arrow disappeared the moment it struck the creature’s slimy, pitch-black fur. It didn’t bounce off or pierce the surface—it was absorbed, devoured by the entity’s body as if the weapon had been swallowed whole. Dante felt his stomach twist in despair, but he knew there was no other choice. He had to try.

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And then, as he stood frozen in hopelessness, a voice erupted from the depths of his soul.

“Dante... Use... your... fragment... Heh-heh-heh... Kill it! Rip it apart! Consume it! Devour it!”

This voice, ancient and terrifying, made the Spawn of the Black Goat’s unearthly words seem almost harmless. It wasn’t coming from outside—it came from within him, buried deep in the core of his being. It was raw, primal, and it cut through him like a jagged blade, leaving him shaking and gasping as if his very essence was being torn apart.

It was the first time Dante had ever heard this voice, and it brought as many questions as it did fear. What was this voice? Why did it live inside him?

But there was no time to think.

The Spawn of the Black Goat moved again, its warped body jerking forward as it charged. Its face—or what passed for one—split open, revealing an impossibly wide mouth lined with rows upon rows of razor-sharp teeth. The creature let out a shrill, horrifying sound—a mix between a goat’s bleat and a dying man’s scream.

Dante’s body acted before his mind could catch up, driven purely by survival instinct. He reached into the depths of his soul, calling upon the Infinite Fragment. He didn’t know what it would do—he only knew he had to stop this nightmare.

In an instant, the black bow in Dante’s hands began to glow. A red, otherworldly light engulfed it, and its shape shifted rapidly. The string vanished, the limbs stretched and twisted, and the dark wood transformed into polished crimson steel.

Before Dante could even process what had happened, he found himself holding a spear.

It wasn’t just any spear—it looked strikingly similar to the one he’d seen at the Nameless Hero’s monument. Though smaller, it felt like it had been made just for him, its weight and balance perfect in his grip. The weapon pulsed with a strange, almost living energy, as though it were a part of him.

The Spawn lunged at him, its warped legs propelling it forward with unnatural speed. With no other choice, Dante thrust the crimson spear at the beast, aiming straight for the gaping abyss of its mouth.

"Ahwaaah!" A guttural, alien scream ripped from the creature as it staggered backward, black ichor oozing from its grotesque maw.

For the first time, Dante felt a glimmer of hope. The spear worked. He could hurt it.

Clutching the spear tightly, Dante tried to settle into a fighting stance, though his movements were clumsy and awkward. It was clear he had no formal training—his posture was instinctive rather than practiced. Even so, he adjusted quickly, finding something that felt... usable.

“How does that feel, you disgusting freak?” he shouted, his voice loud but shaky. Despite his words, his pale face betrayed the sheer terror coursing through him.

The Spawn’s head jerked violently, its deep black voids for eyes narrowing with rage. Its five twisted legs slammed against the ground, shaking the earth as it shrieked again. Without warning, it opened its enormous mouth once more, but instead of attacking, it spewed a thick, rancid black-green liquid. The stench of decay and acid filled the air as the torrent surged toward Dante.

His instincts screamed at him to move. Without thinking, the crimson spear in his hands transformed, shrinking and flattening into a smooth, white shield just as the liquid struck.

Ssssshhhrrrkkk!

The vile substance hit the shield, sizzling and bubbling as though it were dissolving the very air around it. Dante winced, feeling the heat radiating even through the barrier. The shield was already corroding, the once-pristine surface blackening and melting before his eyes.

Before the shield could fully deteriorate, it transformed again, wrapping seamlessly around Dante’s body like a second skin. In an instant, he was encased in suit, eerily identical to the one he had worn during his nightmare in the Engine Space.

The acidic liquid struck the suit with full force, hurling Dante backward. He collided with a jagged stone wall, the impact rattling his bones and forcing the air from his lungs. Pain shot through his body, and for a moment, stars clouded his vision. Yet, to his immense relief, the suit held firm. The acrid stench of decay filled his nostrils, but he remained unharmed.

However, like the shield before it, the suit began to corrode under the relentless attack. The material bubbled and warped, blackening as the acidic substance ate away at its surface. Dante’s thoughts raced. He couldn’t afford to stay on the defensive—this thing would tear him apart if he didn’t act.

Desperation and instinct drove his mind to an unlikely source of inspiration: Ares. During their countless years together in the prison, the God of War had often regaled Dante with tales of his past glories—his divine siblings, their endless rivalries, and, most vividly, the legendary weapons they wielded. One weapon had always captured Dante’s imagination: the Blades of Chaos.

Ares had described them with unwavering pride, boasting of their unparalleled destruction, their versatility in combat, and their ability to tear through enemies with ruthless precision. Dante had dismissed the tales as godly bravado at the time. But now, faced with a nightmare given form, he couldn’t imagine a better weapon.

The creature screeched again, an ear-piercing wail that shook the very air around him. Dante forced his body into motion, his survival instincts pushing him to roll to the side. Another deluge of foul, black-green liquid splattered against the spot where he had just been standing, the stone beneath sizzling and hissing as it melted away.

Gritting his teeth, Dante focused his thoughts, willing the suit to transform once more. A sharp, burning sensation coursed through his body as the suit responded. The corroded material dissolved into shimmering particles of light, reshaping themselves into two weapons that materialized in Dante’s hands.

Twin blades, short and wickedly sharp, glinted in the dim, flickering light. Their edges were serrated, exuding a raw and brutal elegance, while the sturdy handles were wrapped in chains that coiled and pulsed with a faint crimson glow. The chains clinked softly as they moved, alive with latent energy, ready to be unleashed.

These were the Blades of Chaos.

Dante felt the weight of them in his hands, heavy yet perfectly balanced. The weapons radiated power—a fierce, almost primal energy that sent a shiver down his spine. For a fleeting moment, he felt the magnitude of wielding something that had once been forged for a god. The blades seemed to hum with anticipation, resonating with his growing resolve to survive.

"Let’s see if these legends are as sharp as Ares claim," Dante muttered, his voice steady despite the fear thrumming in his veins. He tightened his grip on the weapons, their chains responding with a faint, fiery glow.