Location: The Titan Pit (West Flank).
Time: Synchronized with the Fall of Iron-Head (14:50).
The dust from Subject Alpha's collapse hadn't even settled. The desert floor was still vibrating from the impact.
Dante stood on the heaving chest of the corpse, his own chest rising and falling in ragged gasps. Steam vented from the exhaust ports of his mechanical arm, hissing in the dry air. Below him, Captain Grist was cheering, kicking the dead Titan's gelatinous eye with his boot.
"That's how the Iron Legion does it!" Grist roared, raising his gore-slicked machete to his cheering men in the distance. "Did you see that? I took its head off! I am the Titan-Slayer!"
Dante didn't celebrate. The "Green Fire" in his veins was dimming, the uranium fuel burning low. He felt a vibration in the soles of his boots. Not the aftershock of the fall. Something new.
"Seismic anomaly detected," Prime warned, his voice urgent. "Directly beneath you. Magnitude rising."
"Grist! Move!" Dante shouted.
It was too late for a warning, but just in time for a reaction.
The sand exploded.
Subject Gamma—the smallest Titan—erupted from the earth like a trapdoor spider the size of a house. It wasn't made of wet flesh and muscle like Alpha; it was a clicking, shifting nightmare of armored bone-plates and chittering mandibles. It didn't roar. It clicked.
SNAP.
A scythe-like limb, sharpened to a monofilament edge, swept horizontally through the air.
Dante threw himself backward.
He wasn't fast enough.
The blade caught him across the stomach. It sliced through his reinforced wool coat, through the Kevlar weave beneath, and bit deep into his abdomen.
Dante hit the sand, rolling. He didn't bleed red. He bled a dark, viscous sludge—pure entropy in liquid form—that hissed when it touched the ground, eating into the silica. He clutched his stomach, feeling the terrifying sensation of his physical form unraveling.
The Silvergrin flickered. His face momentarily became a blur of visual static, like a corrupted video file.
"Dante!" Silas screamed from the car, his voice cracking.
Subject Gamma ignored Grist. It swiveled its armored, eyeless head toward the wounded source of Entropy. It sensed the anomaly. It wanted to eat it.
The Titan lunged, its mandibles clicking open to reveal rows of spinning, organic saw-teeth.
Dante looked up. The pain was distant, muted by the shock of mass loss.
Analysis:
Target: Subject Gamma.
Armor: High-density calcified bone. 90% Kinetic Resistance.
Weakness: Internal Thermal Regulation.
"You want a meal?" Dante wheezed, his voice distorted and echoing as if spoken through a long pipe. "Choke on it."
He didn't try to stand. He waited until the Titan was inches away, the smell of dry rot filling his nose.
He thrust his Gentleman's Ripper—his mechanical right hand—directly into the spinning maw of the beast.
GRIND.
The saw-teeth ground against the alchemical alloy, sparks flying like fireworks. The metal groaned but held.
"Payload Injection: Liquid Nitrogen."
HISSSSSS.
The canister in Dante's arm emptied instantly. The super-cooled liquid sprayed down the Titan's throat and onto its internal organs.
The clicking stopped. The wet, pink flesh inside the armor froze instantly. The steam venting from the creature turned to falling snow.
"Shatter," Dante said, triggering the pneumatic piston in his elbow. Impact.
He punched the frozen interior of the Titan.
Thermal shock is a cruel law of physics. The frozen flesh couldn't absorb the impact. Subject Gamma cracked. The vibration traveled through the frozen core, shattering the internal organs into millions of ice shards.
The Titan went limp, collapsing on top of Dante with the sound of a falling chandelier.
Dante shoved the heavy carcass aside, gasping. He looked at his stomach wound. It was leaking existence.
He grabbed a handful of sand—silica—and pressed it against the wound.
"Transmute: Glass Seal."
SIZZLE.
It was agonizing. The sand melted and fused with his skin, cauterizing the wound with molten glass. It was a crude fix, like putting duct tape on a leaking dam, but it stopped the bleeding.
He stood up, swaying.
"Two down," he spat, the static clearing from his face.
"Hey!" Grist shouted, running over. He looked at Dante's stomach patch, then at the dead Gamma. "You stole that kill too! Leave some for the captain, Scavenger!"
Dante looked at Grist. The man was untouched. He hadn't fired a shot to help.
"Don't worry, Captain," Dante said, his voice cold. "You get the big one."
He pointed.
Subject Beta—the Wolf-Titan—was circling them. It was wary now. It had seen its brothers die. It was crouching, its dorsal spines venting furious steam, preparing for a killing pounce.
And it was looking at Grist.
"It wants you," Dante lied smoothly. "It knows you killed Alpha. It wants revenge."
Grist puffed out his chest, his ego overriding his survival instinct. "Let it come! I'll skin it alive!"
"It's too fast for your tank," Dante said, stepping closer to Grist. "You need to lure it. Stand near the wreckage of Alpha. When it charges, I'll hit it from behind. You strike the killing blow from the front."
Grist grinned. "The Anvil and the Hammer. I like it. You be the anvil, Scavenger. I'll be the hammer."
Grist jogged over to the corpse of Subject Alpha, standing tall, banging his machete on his chest plate.
"Come on, doggy!" Grist roared. "Come get some!"
The Wolf-Titan roared. It dug its claws into the sand and charged.
It was a blur of muscle and rage.
Dante watched from the flank. He held his Transmutation Daggers ready.
"Calculated trajectory," Prime whispered. "The Titan will impact Grist in 3 seconds. Grist expects you to intervene in 2 seconds. Probability of Grist survival without intervention: 0%."
"Hold," Dante thought.
The Wolf leaped.
Grist braced himself, raising his weapon, waiting for Dante to hamstring the beast as promised.
"Now, Dante! Hit it!" Grist screamed.
Dante didn't move. He stood perfectly still, his eyes fixed on Grist.
The Silvergrin shifted. It formed a smile. Not a predatory smile. A polite, goodbye smile.
Grist saw the smile.
In that fraction of a second, the realization hit him. The "accident" wasn't an accident.
"You—"
CRUNCH.
Subject Beta didn't bite Grist. It landed on him.
Fifty tons of bio-engineered muscle hit the mercenary captain. There was no scream. Just the wet, sickening sound of a human body turning into paste inside a suit of leather armor.
The Titan skidded to a halt, confusingly pawing at the red smear on the ground.
Dante walked forward.
"Target stationary," Dante said.
He leaped onto the Wolf's back while it was distracted by the kill. He placed both hands on the creature's spine.
"Breakdown."
He didn't hold back. He poured his remaining uranium-fueled mana into the beast. The green fire in his veins sputtered and died.
The Wolf howled as its spinal column turned to dust. It collapsed, its legs useless.
Dante walked around to the front of the beast. The Wolf snapped at him, but it couldn't move.
Dante drew his dagger. He drove it through the Titan's eye, into the brain.
The light faded from the monster's eyes.
Silence fell over the Titan Pit.
Dante stood alone amongst three dead gods. He was covered in black sludge, blue titan blood, and grey dust. He looked less like a man and more like a ruin.
He walked over to the red smear that used to be Captain Grist. He picked up the captain's bent machete.
"Tragic accident," Dante whispered to the wind. "He died a hero."
He dropped the machete. Clang.
"Heart rate steady," Prime noted. "No physiological signs of guilt detected."
"It was him or me, Prime. He would have shot me in the back the moment he had the chance. I just pulled the trigger first."
Dante turned to signal Silas to bring the car.
But Silas wasn't looking at him. Silas was looking at the horizon, his face pale.
"Dante!" Silas yelled. "Incoming! Twelve o'clock!"
Dante spun around.
From the cloud of dust where the main battle had been raging, figures emerged.
They weren't the Iron Legion. They were the survivors of Bravo Group, running for their lives. They were screaming, throwing away their weapons.
And chasing them was a white blur.
Valerius.
He moved like a reaper through wheat. He cut down a straggler without breaking stride, his crystal sword flashing red. He wasn't stopping. He was heading straight for the Titan Pit.
Dante raised his mechanical arm, but he was too slow. He was exhausted, his mana drained by the three Titans.
Valerius cleared the distance in a single, inhuman leap. He landed on the corpse of Subject Alpha, looking down at Dante.
His white armor was cracked on the shoulder. He was bleeding blue blood. But his eyes were bright, focused, and terrifyingly calm.
Behind him, the Black-Gardens scuttled over the dunes, surrounding the pit like a ring of spectators.
"Impressive," Valerius said, his voice carrying over the wind. "You killed the Triplets. And your Captain seems to have... suffered a mishap."
Dante wiped the sludge from his mouth. "He slipped."
Valerius smiled. It wasn't a cruel smile. It was the smile of a man meeting an equal.
"Rest, Scavenger," Valerius whispered.
He vanished.
Dante's instincts screamed LEFT.
He threw up his mechanical arm to block.
CLANG.
The impact felt like being hit by a train. Valerius's crystal sword slammed into the Gentleman's Ripper.
Dante was launched. He flew backward, smashing into the side of The Psychopomp. The heavy brass armor of the car dented around him.
Dante slid to the ground, coughing up black ichor. His vision blurred.
Valerius stood ten feet away, flicking his sword.
"Get up," Valerius commanded softly. "The Baron is watching from the ridge. Make it a good show."
Dante looked up. His arm was sparking. His stomach wound was tearing open under the glass seal. He was out of ammo, out of mana, and facing a Sword-Saint who moved faster than sound.
The Silvergrin clicked, resetting into a snarl.
"Okay," Dante groaned, standing up shakily and drawing his transmutation daggers. "Let's dance."