The Black Goat Spawn froze the moment its abyssal gaze fell upon the Blades of Chaos. Its inky, endless eyes seemed to study the weapon, as though probing its essence. An eerie stillness engulfed the clearing, and Dante gripped the blades tightly, feeling the weight of the silence press down on him.

Cold sweat trickled down his face. He could sense it—the Spawn wasn’t afraid. It was calculating. That realization made his blood run cold. Up until now, he had clung to the hope that the creature was nothing more than a mindless predator, driven solely by instinct. But this was something far worse: a predator with a sharp, cunning mind. Worse still, perhaps it possessed something akin to a soul—twisted and grotesque, yet undeniably present.

The silence shattered when the Spawn released a sound that chilled Dante to his core—a guttural, wheezing laugh. It wasn’t fear; it was mockery. The sound twisted the air, filling the space with cruel amusement, as if the abomination was reveling in Dante’s futile defiance. Dante’s confidence, fragile as it was, crumbled further. There was no winning this fight—not with his lack of skill, not with these legendary weapons he could barely wield. His only chance was survival, stalling long enough for Leon to arrive. If Leon arrived in time.

Suddenly, a desperate shout pierced the tension. Billy.

From the underbrush, the boy charged into the fray, his hunter’s dagger gleaming as he raised it high. Letting out a feral yell, he leaped onto the Spawn’s back, driving the blade into its writhing black hide. The blade vanished upon contact, swallowed into the creature’s unnatural mass as if it had never existed.

“Billy! Stop!” Dante screamed, but it was too late.

Billy’s bare hand struck the creature’s hide with no effect. The Spawn’s twisted limbs moved faster than the boy could react. One of its legs lashed out, striking Billy with bone-shattering force. His small body flew through the air and slammed into a tree with a sickening crack. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground, limp and lifeless.

“Damn it, Billy! Why didn’t you run?!” Dante yelled, desperation tightening his throat. His pulse thundered in his ears as his choices narrowed to one grim certainty—he had to fight.

Gritting his teeth, Dante swung the Blades of Chaos. One of the chained blades lashed out in a wide arc, the crimson glow of its edge slicing through the air. The blade hurtled toward the creature’s grotesque head. But the Spawn reacted instantly. A writhing, horn-like appendage whipped forward, catching the blade mid-strike. The horn coiled around the weapon, pulling it with an unnatural strength that yanked Dante forward.

Dante stumbled, dragged by the weapon still chained to his wrist. He swung the second blade in desperation, but another pulsating appendage intercepted it, coiling tightly around the chain. Now completely entangled, Dante was helpless as the creature wrenched him forward, dragging him toward its gaping maw of endless, razor-sharp teeth.

"Shit—!! Ares, you lying bastard!" Dante roared as he hurtled toward certain death. The legendary Blades of Chaos, which Ares had boasted of as unstoppable, seemed useless in his inexperienced hands.

But the fault wasn’t with the weapons. The truth was painfully clear—Dante lacked the skill and power to wield them as they were meant to be wielded. Their true potential was far beyond his grasp. As he spiraled toward the creature’s grotesque maw, despair consumed him, not only for his life but for his own inadequacy.

Far away in the infinite prison, Ares sneezed violently. Scowling, the God of War muttered, “Which fool is cursing me now?” He wiped his nose with a sneer before returning to his endless, monotonous existence.

Meanwhile, Dante’s world closed in. The Spawn’s twisted maw loomed closer, the rows of jagged teeth gleaming with hunger. Just as despair began to take hold, the creature’s abyssal throat writhed unnaturally.

A sickening squelch filled the air, the grotesque sound of something rising from within. Dante froze, his breath catching in his chest. Slowly, agonizingly, a human head emerged from the Spawn’s maw, its visage soaked in the black ichor that dripped from its slimy body.

When the face finally came into view, Dante’s blood turned to ice—it was Bidenson’s head.

The face, once human, was now a nightmarish distortion. Jagged cracks ran from the corners of Bidenson’s mouth, splitting his grin grotesquely wide. The raw, wet flesh along the fissures pulsed unnaturally, oozing a sickly liquid that dripped down his chin. Despite this horrific transformation, the face retained its human features—an obscene mockery of what Dante remembered.

Worst of all were the eyes. Black and endless, they mirrored the Spawn’s own void-like gaze, drawing Dante into their abyss. A spiraling madness clawed at his mind as he stared, unable to look away.

Bidenson’s lips curled into a wide, unnatural grin, the cracks widening further until they nearly split his face in two. When he spoke, his voice was low and guttural, dripping with venomous malice.

“Heh... heh... heh... Remember me, Dante?” Bidenson’s voice slithered through the air, carrying a weight that crushed Dante’s spirit. His grin stretched impossibly wider as he leaned closer. “Soon, we’ll be brothers.”

“What the fuck!!!” Dante shouted, his voice raw, a mix of terror and disbelief. The words erupted from him as though they might shield him from the incomprehensible nightmare before him.

Just as his terror threatened to overwhelm him, a deafening roar tore through the suffocating tension—a fierce, commanding sound that reverberated through the forest like an omen of retribution.

A flash of silver streaked from above, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The gleaming blade plunged into the Spawn’s grotesque form, embedding itself deep in its twisted flesh, striking both the creature and the horrific visage of Bidenson’s head.

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The abomination unleashed a hideous, otherworldly scream, its body writhing violently as though the weapon burned it from within. Dante seized the opportunity, his survival instincts kicking in. Without hesitation, he turned and bolted, desperate to put as much distance as possible between himself and the monstrous entity. His heart pounded, every nerve screaming for him to flee.

Only after a few frantic strides did his thoughts clear enough to remember Billy. Panic gripped him as he skidded to a halt and spun around. The boy lay crumpled and motionless against a tree, his body broken from the Spawn’s earlier attack. Gritting his teeth, Dante forced his trembling legs to carry him back toward the injured boy, even as the creature’s agonized wails echoed behind him.

“Billy!” Dante called, dropping to the boy’s side. There was no response. Dante quickly checked for signs of life—Billy was breathing, though barely. Relief swept through him, but it was short-lived. Blood trickled from Billy’s mouth, and the way his chest sagged unevenly told Dante the injuries were severe.

Frantically, Dante searched through Billy’s satchel and found a vial of healing potion. Uncorking it with trembling hands, he carefully poured the shimmering liquid into Billy’s mouth, silently willing it to work. Dante’s own pain screamed for attention, but he ignored it. Keeping Billy alive was all that mattered.

Behind them, the Spawn stirred once more. Its writhing appendages twisted grotesquely as it reached up to grasp the silver blade lodged in its flesh. Slowly, it pulled the weapon free, black ichor seeping from the wound. But the weapon seemed alive—its silver gleam intensified, and with a sudden, fluid motion, the sword slipped from the creature’s grasp and shot skyward, returning to its master.

Dante followed the weapon’s path, his eyes widening as four aerial mounts descended rapidly toward the clearing. At the forefront was Leon, astride a massive black winged tiger. Its golden scales shimmered like armor in the sunlight, and its piercing eyes burned with predatory rage. Flames licked from its maw, and a golden horn jutted from its forehead, radiating lethal energy.

Flanking Leon were two strangers. One was a lean, imposing man clad in sleek silver armor, his long black hair flowing behind him as he gripped the hilt of the returning blade. His movements were fluid and precise, exuding the confidence of a seasoned warrior.

The other was a striking woman with fiery red curls cascading down her shoulders. Clad in the elegant robes of a battle mage, her hands glowed with a faint golden light, and her sharp eyes scanned the battlefield with a seasoned intensity.

Descending alongside them were the three Armed Sentinels, who wasted no time. Before their mounts could even land, the Sentinels leapt from the air, their armored forms crashing to the ground with thunderous impact. They moved with purpose, heading straight for Dante and Billy.

“Prisoner Dante! Evacuate immediately!” the lead Sentinel ordered, its metallic voice sharp and unyielding.

“I can’t leave Billy! He’s hurt—he won’t survive without help!” Dante snapped back, his voice frantic.

The Sentinel hesitated for a moment, then produced a glowing rune stone. Crushing it in its armored hand, the stone released a protective yellow barrier that enveloped Dante and Billy.

“Remain within the protective ward. Do not leave!” the Sentinel commanded curtly before turning to join its comrades.

The Sentinels advanced cautiously, forming a wide perimeter around the Spawn. Their movements were calculated, each step betraying the knowledge that this was no ordinary foe.

Leon and his companions landed, their powerful mounts striking the earth with a controlled yet thunderous grace. Leon’s sharp gaze swept the area, landing on Dante and Billy. Relief flickered across his face as he took in the sight of Dante crouched over the boy.

“They’re alive,” Leon said, his tone steady but laced with tension. His gaze hardened as it shifted to the Spawn, now writhing in the center of the clearing. Fury sparked in his eyes as he took in the grotesque sight.

The silver-clad swordsman, Aelric Sylverin, caught his returning blade midair with effortless precision. He glanced at the abomination with a cold, calculating expression. “A dark beast in these pastures…” he murmured. “It’s been centuries since one of these things emerged.”

And the battle mage, Velanna Thalorin, her fiery hair glowing faintly in the dim light, clenched her hands as the air around her shimmered with the readiness of magic. Her sharp, emerald eyes locked on the monstrosity, and her voice, unusually subdued, broke the tense silence. “It doesn’t feel like a normal dark beast,” she said, her tone edged with unease. “There’s something… profoundly wrong about it.”

Both Leon and Aelric tensed at her words. Velanna wasn’t one to exaggerate. Among the trio, her encounters with dark beasts were the most extensive, and her expertise in magical aberrations was unmatched. If even she found this creature unnatural, the danger was beyond anything they had prepared for.

“We must alert the Guardian immediately,” Aelric said, his calm voice betraying a sliver of urgency. “This thing isn’t just dangerous—it’s something we may not be able to kill.”

Leon hesitated briefly, his piercing eyes darting toward Dante and the unconscious Billy. “You’re right,” he finally said. “But the Guardian won’t arrive instantly. Until then, we’re the only thing standing between this monstrosity and everyone else.” His jaw tightened as he pulled a small, rune-inscribed box from his pouch. With a quick press of its central gem, a crimson beam of light shot skyward, breaking through the dense canopy. This was no ordinary distress call—it was a beacon meant for emergencies of the highest magnitude.

As the sky burned red with the signal’s glow, Leon turned back toward the Spawn, its grotesque form seemingly rejuvenated. The gaping wound inflicted by Aelric’s silver blade had healed completely, and any trace of damage was gone. What should have been a mortal blow had only caused it momentary discomfort.

The Armed Sentinels, standing like statues, maintained their formation. Their expressionless faces betrayed no hint of fear, but their precise movements spoke of calculated caution. Yet, even their imposing presence paled against the horror before them.

The Spawn, its abyssal gaze now fixed squarely on Leon, Velanna, and Aelric, seemed to vibrate with anticipation. The tension in the air thickened, oppressive and suffocating. Its grotesque body quivered as if laughing—its amusement made manifest in the haunting echoes of its guttural sounds.

Leon, unyielding, gave a commanding cry. “Montas! Sacra Flamma!”

The mighty Obsidian Skyfang Montas responded with a roar that shook the earth. The colossal, winged tiger reared onto its hind legs, golden flames dancing in its maw, before releasing a devastating fireball. The radiant, holy energy tore through the air with an ear-splitting roar, aimed directly at the Spawn. The fireball erupted in a blinding explosion, bathing the clearing in divine light. The shockwave sent trees splintering and hurled the Armed Sentinels back.

For a brief moment, the light of the flames obscured everything. Even Dante, sheltered within the protective ward, shielded his eyes from the brilliant intensity. The sheer force of the attack left no doubt—it was a strike meant to annihilate.

But then, something unnatural began to happen. The holy flames that should have reduced the creature to ash started to pull inward, as if being devoured. The force drawing in the fire wasn’t external—it was the Spawn itself. Within moments, every ember, every trace of the sacred flames had vanished, consumed entirely by the abomination.

The creature’s grotesque laughter grew louder, more manic, echoing with a disturbing resonance that seemed to mock the futility of their efforts.

This sight left Leon and his companions momentarily frozen, their disbelief quickly giving way to a cold realization. For the first time, they felt the true terror of the Spawn of the Black Goat—an entity that could not only endure their mightiest blows but turn their strength into its own.