She wasn't just one mortal girl. She was everything.
His shadows writhed around him. The temperature dropped another ten degrees. Frost crept across the floor, climbing the legs of the nearest soldiers.
"Let her go." A growl more than words.
"Or what?" Caelum's smile widened. "You'll fight through my entire army? Destroy thousands more while I watch? You've already killed hundreds, Reaper. How many more will you obliterate before you admit you can't win through force?"
He spread his hands in a gesture of reason.
"Even the Reaper himself eventually tires. And I..." He gestured at the endless army, at the chambers humming above. "I have soldiers without end. All the time in existence. All the patience required to wait for you to exhaust yourself."
He was right. Dante could feel it: the drain, the wounds, the power that had been infinite an hour ago now scraping against its edges.
He couldn't fight forever. But he didn't have to fight forever. He just had to fight long enough.
The army stood motionless. Above, the chambers hummed and souls screamed.
Caelum's expression turned thoughtful.
"So let's be civilized. Find a solution that satisfies us both."
His eyes gleamed.
"We both want Brynn alive. Whole. Herself. The question is whether she remains that way... or becomes fuel for something greater. Her essence, purified, serving eternal paradise. Isn't that better than a brief mortal life?"
Caelum didn't understand. He couldn't.
Dante would trade every century of his existence for one more night with her.
Caelum touched the chair near her shoulder. She jerked away, and Dante's shadows surged forward before he forced them back.
"What do you say, Reaper? Shall we discuss terms? Your strength and her abilities could be valuable to my vision. If you'd only see reason."
His shadows expanded.
"There's no negotiation."
The temperature plummeted. Frost formed on everything—armor, weapons, the chair she was strapped to.
"There's only you. And me. And what I'm going to do to you for touching what's mine."
"Pity." Caelum sighed, genuinely regretful. He gestured.
The army moved.
They came in waves. Dante met them with unleashed power—shadows tearing through dozens at a time. But thousands more waited. The soldiers adapted, found gaps, pressed closer.
More blades got through, more cuts opening. His power flickered as weariness mounted.
She was watching. She needed to know he wouldn't give up on her.
Not ever.
The army pressed harder, surrounding him, forcing him to fight on all sides simultaneously.
He was tiring. Caelum knew it. He could see it in the bastard's smile.
LXVII.
