A Journey Unwanted N Chapter 258 - 251: Down the rabbit hole the Blood Starved Kn

Chapter 258: Chapter 251: Down the rabbit hole the Blood Starved Knight goes

[???]

"I could go for so chocolate right about now,"

The idle musing escaped Mikoto’s lips.

He sat there—slouched rather ungracefully—his petite fra nested against the fractured edge of a half-destroyed boulder that had long since cooled from whatever blast had sheared it in half. The gauntlets of one arm loosely hung over a knee, the other resting just beside the form of Sabre, who lay next to him.

Mikoto’s expression was unreadable—his eyes drifted lazily skyward toward a expanse sared in dull gray. There was no sun, no moon, no stars. Just oppressive cloud cover and the distant flashes of mana detonations booming.

Another tremor rattled the brittle ground beneath him, followed imdiately by the deafening ripple of mana combusting far off on the horizon. The air stung—rich mana, thick enough to chew.

Lyra and Aelfric.

They were still at it. That violent battle had been echoing for so ti now.

"Those two..." Mikoto thought, a dry breath leaving his lips, "They’re really going at it."

But one na echoed louder than the tremors.

Aelfric.

He didn’t need to whisper it. That na was a blight in his mind. A bitter taste. A splinter of glass lodged behind his ribs.

"The definition of scum, huh?"

He tilted his head back against the cold stone, let his gaze blur into the oppressive skies, and fell into that familiar silence—the kind only a monster learns to endure.

There were only two people in existence who dredged that depth of loathing from him. His father...and Aelfric.

The forr had made him. The latter had destroyed far more no doubt.

But in truth, Aelfric was more than just hate. He was everything Mikoto despised. A walking contradiction of trauma and cowardice. A man desperate to affix bla to soone, anyone, just to feel like a victim. A fool with vengeance scraped together from half-truths and sanctimonious bile. A man who feared Death not because it was an end—but because it was honest.

He was a man who lost everything, and in doing so, decided everyone else should too.

And maybe that was the worst part. That Mikoto could...almost understand it.

A breath caught in his chest. He scoffed, and turned his gaze sideways toward Sabre.

"Still...I thought Lyra would want the honor to kill that bastard.

His gaze fixed on the gleaming blade then trailed back to the horizon where red and black streaks of mana clawed through the clouds.

"Yet she wants

to do it."

He couldn’t fathom it. Couldn’t even wrap his mind around the contradiction of it. Aelfric was the source of her grief—the embodint of her tornt. The one who had marked Alyssia for Death and watched Lyra unravel into despair.

And she passed that chance—that vengeance—to him?

"I just don’t get it..." he muttered.

Because he would never.

He would never relinquish the right to kill the one who took everything from him. Not out of rcy, not out of love, not for anyone. He rembered the sensation vividly—when his knife pierced through his father’s throat. That mont when the world stilled, and a lifeti of hatred finally ruptured like a dam. That one heartbeat of euphoria, the apex of all that he was.

And he never felt that high again.

Not when he slew Vel’ryr soldiers.

Not when he killed Selwyn.

Not when victory ca wrapped in dissatisfaction.

Nothing asured up to that mont.

Nothing ever would.

And she had thrown it away.

Why?

The answer must have been simple. So obvious he almost missed it.

Maybe Lyra wasn’t like him.

Maybe she’d shed vengeance—let it rot and fester in the pit it belonged—and chosen sothing far harder to cling to.

Love.

Love for soone who carried the mark of Death. Love for Alyssia. Love deep enough that she would rather protect her soul than tarnish it with vengeance.

Even if it ant passing the blade to soone like him.

He looked down at his gauntlets, fingers curling loosely. They shimred faintly with returning magic.

"She really is a better person than ..."

The words ca slow. Barely spoken. As if they weighed too much for his lips alone to carry. Not out of envy, buT solemn acceptance. Like a knight standing before a throne he’d never earn.

He looked so small like that. Slumped and curled beneath his armor, beautiful and breakable, with a face too pretty to wear such grim thoughts.

A gentle breeze stirred the hem of his black tail coat, brushing across the ground.

He sat in silence again, waiting—not for the pain to pass, not for the battle to end—but for the conviction to rise again within him.

Because if Lyra could give up vengeance...

...then he had to decide if he was still the kind of person who needed it.

"Now, now~ pouting like that simply will not do, Mikoto~??"

The voice sliced through the silence as saccharine as it was loving.

Mikoto’s expression didn’t change, but the corners of his lips pulled into a subtle frown. His eyes shifted sideways with a lethargic blink.

There, leaned against the sa fractured stone as if she had always been there, was her.

Verence.

The jester woman spun with theatrical flair, her frilled skirts flaring out, she halted mid-spin, ending in a dramatic curtsey before stepping forward.

"The clown chick," Mikoto muttered under his breath, his tone flat.

"Still jester, silly~??," Verence chirped, wagging a slender, gloved finger with a teasing reprimand.

"Like I care," Mikoto replied, pushing himself up and off the stone. The black gauntlets on his hands glead faintly as he grasped the hilt of Sabre, dragging the weapon through the dirt before embedding it beside him with a dull thunk. His voice remained flat. "What do you want now?"

"No need to be so harsh, darlin’~??" she cooed, winking dramatically as she cupped her cheek in one gloved hand, as though wounded by his tone.

He didn’t entertain the act.

"What even is your deal, huh?" Mikoto asked with an edge to his tone, not sharp with anger but with suspicion. "You’re too composed, too consistent with that mystery bullshit. Even the others have cracks, but you? You don’t exist outside the act." This clown was by far the most mysterious.

"Still jester..." Verence sang again.

Mikoto tilted his head just slightly, a single strand falling across his eyes. His expression didn’t change, but the silence that followed was filled with tension.

He gave her a long, skeptical glance. "You’re like a closed book. Every page blank except the title—and even that’s a joke."

"You wound ," Verence said with faux heartbreak, clutching her chest, "but yes~ I’m a jester... a beautiful, tragic enigma penned by fate’s cruel ink.??"

Mikoto didn’t laugh. "You know I can see the flow of mana, right? Yours is too refined, familiar too. You’ve been around

for a long ti, haven’t you? You’re soone who’s watched everything I’ve done."

"Guilty~??," Verence admitted with a glittering smile, her hands folded behind her back like a schoolgirl confessing mischief. "I simply love you, see???"

Mikoto blinked. His stare remained flat, yet sohow more deadpan. "You sound way too genuine when you say that. It’s sickening."

She twirled a lock of her own hair with a dreamy sigh. "Oh, you do know how to flatter a woman."

Mikoto ignored her quip. "So why? Why ? I don’t recall making that much of an impression. Or maybe my eyes are still that irresistible to you?"

He ant it sarcastically of course.

Verence’s grin softened—not vanished, just lessened. For a mont, her eyes lost their glimr, replaced by sothing far too sincere.

"It’s because you’re simply you," she answered. Her voice, stripped of theatricality, ca out quietly. "A contradiction that should not exist. A shard of glass that reflects the entire sky... even when it’s cracked."

Mikoto stared at her, silent.

Then he looked away.

"Hmph," he muttered, gripping Sabre by the hilt and twirling it before letting it rest across his delicate shoulder, the blade’s curve hugging the black alloy of his armor. "Not gonna give

a straight answer, huh? Figures. All this build-up for vague taphors and recycled riddles."

He started walking past her, Verence didn’t stop him.

"...Suppose I should thank you for the tip about that bastard Aelfric," he said without looking at her. "So... thanks, clown."

Verence’s smile returned. Just a soft curl of the lips, touched with sothing distant.

"You’re welco~??" she whispered.

----------------------

Dante stood in the cratered terrain, his sabatons sunk into fractured stone, the snow white of his armor gleaming faintly beneath the ambient red light radiating from the object he now cradled in his gauntleted hand.

A single orb.

Small. Pulsating with a rhythm that mimicked a heartbeat.

It hovered in place, its glow dim but steady. It looked simple, modest even, like a glass ornant ant for a child’s toy chest. Yet what it contained was anything but trivial. A soul—a confluence of spirit and mory.

True to his word, Uriel had relinquished everything—his form, his power, his identity—and entrusted his entire being to Dante. All for her.

Dante’s fingers curled slightly as he inspected the orb. It pulsed in ti with sothing he could not na—sothing foreign. Fragility. It was unsettling, this soul. It was alive, and yet it wasn’t. And in his grip, it felt too delicate—like an object that could shatter if he exhaled too harshly.

He said nothing. He simply stared.

"Well," ca a smooth voice. "That was... considerably faster than expected."

Dante didn’t need to look up. The cadence in that voice—it could only belong to one person.

Guinevere.

He turned his head slightly, helm following her voice, catching the gentle sway of her figure from the corner of his vision. She had dismissed Typhon—her Divine Beast was nowhere to be seen as it was no longer needed. She looked fine as well, no doubt she nded her soul.

"Even so," she spoke again, "I had no doubt, of course. But even I must admit, you exceeded expectations."

Dante’s helm shifted toward her, expression unreadable beneath the alloy mask. He raised the orb slowly, offering it toward her.

Without a word, she stepped forward—too close almost—and reached out with both hands. Her fingers wrapped gently around the orb, as if afraid to bruise it. She drew it toward her chest—toward the curve of her bosom—and as it t her skin, it phased soundlessly into her, as though absorbed by her.

A tremor rippled briefly through her form. She shivered, faintly. Her lashes fluttered shut for a heartbeat as the orb vanished. Then she opened her eyes again.

"She’ll be safer within ," she murmured. Her tone was softer now. "Her soul will resonate with my magic. I can shield it until we can bring her back fully."

Dante gave a slow nod. "A wise precaution," he said. "If sothing were to happen to her, she’d be lost again."

Guinevere exhaled—part relief, part sothing else. "Still," she continued, "I can’t pretend I wasn’t worried. Facing an angel... even I don’t know how I’d fare. Not really eager to find out, if I’m honest."

She halted at his side, close again.

"Mother will be...delighted by your heroism," she added. "Once she’s back. No doubt she will be even more taken with you than she already was."

Dante did not answer that. His helm turned toward the horizon. The wind stirred the fur of his helt. "You aim to bring her back then," he said at last. "I assu there’s a plan to give her a body?"

Guinevere tilted her head slightly. "You assu correctly," she replied. "We’re not improvising this one. We’ve worked out every step. Trust , it’ll be seamless. Mother will return—whole and real."

Dante was silent.

Guinevere smiled faintly.

"...You’re always so quiet," she said, softer now. "Even after all this. Even after all you’ve done. Does it never weigh on you?"

Dante turned toward her slightly.

Guinevere’s voice lowered even more. "...Or is it the mask that bears the weight for you?"

"...Who knows?" he said dryly as he started walking.

"Still so mysterious," she mused, following after him. "Not once have I heard you really answer any questions thrown your way, you know?"

Dante rely grunted. "Because questions waste ti."

She gave a small hum of amusent. "And here I thought you were simply too brooding to bother with conversation."

"I don’t brood."

"Oh no? Then what would you call this quiet storm of yours?" She gestured broadly with one hand. "That helm. That voice. That posture. It’s all...tragic."

Dante stopped suddenly, causing Guinevere to nearly collide into him. He turned, armor clinking softly, helm tilted slightly.

"I’m not here to be tragic. I’m here to finish what others could not."

"All business, aren’t you?" she murmured. "It’s so infuriating. And yet so very you."

Dante’s gaze drifted across her without lingering. "You speak as if you know

well."

Guinevere’s lips curved, this ti with a subtle warmth. "Maybe I do. You’ve been in my life since I’ve been a little girl. I had such a crush on you, you know?"

He didn’t respond, but she pressed forward. She stepped close again.

"You walk through hellfire like it’s routine," she said. "Facing down an angel, banishing monsters, enduring everything thrown at you—and you never waver. Not even when the whole world tips on its side."

She placed a hand on his chestplate.

"But you don’t breathe easy. Not even when you win."

"...There’s still more to do," he said, his voice flat.

"I know," Guinevere whispered. "And I’d like to follow you into it."

The weight of those words lingered, she stared down at him, her face illuminated by the light peaking out of the clouds. She was stunning, even in this ruined world.

But Dante did not shift, instead, he reached up, gently closing his fingers around her wrist, and removed her hand from his chest.

"I don’t need a follower," he said.

Guinevere blinked, expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then she gave a low, lodic laugh. "You always know how to kill the mood."

"I wasn’t aware there was a mood."

"Oh darling, there’s always a mood with ," she whispered. "But tell

sothing, Dante," she asked suddenly. "If I told you I wanted to help—truly help—not just play gas and look pretty—would you let ?"

"I don’t stop people from helping," he said after a long pause.

"Even if they have...ulterior motives?" Her tone dipped into sothing else.

Dante was quiet for a mont too long. Then:

"As long as they get the job done."

Guinevere smiled faintly, more to herself than to him. Her chest rose and fell gently. "Then I’ll get the job done. For her. For us. But still, you don’t rest, do you?" she asked softly. "Even after a victory. Maybe I am needed."

Dante didn’t respond.

His silence was familiar by now—never cruel. Not indifferent, but rather withholding.

"You burn from the inside." she said after a beat. "Not in the poetic way—no, I an truly. Like there’s sothing caged within your ribs, and you’re terrified that if you slow down long enough, it’ll crack open and consu you."

Again, no response.

"Or maybe I’m projecting," she added, half-smiling to herself.

They ca to a stop atop a ridge of broken stone, where the world below sloped into a valley, painted in ash and dust.

Guinevere moved to his side, folding her hands behind her back as she gazed out at the ruined landscape. Her tone shifted.

"When I was a child, Lyra used to tell

stories about souls. About how we’re not born with one—not entirely. We build it. Choice by choice. Hurt by hurt. That the soul isn’t sothing you’re given, it’s sothing you fight for."

She tilted her head, her voice softening.

"Is that why you’re still standing, Dante? Are you still fighting for yours?"

Dante’s helm remained fixed forward, but his voice finally ca.

"I’m not fighting for anything," he said. "I’m rely cleaning up what others made a ss off."

Guinevere’s expression faltered, if only briefly. "You say that like you’ve no stake in any of this. But I know that isn’t true."

"I don’t have ti for stakes," he replied.

"Well then," she said, brushing her hair behind her ear, "If you had ti...what would you do with it?"

Dante said nothing, and the silence pressed against them.

So she asked.

"...Do you believe in love?"

Dante’s head turned just slightly. Enough to show that he’d heard. But before he could answer—before a single word escaped his lips—his entire body tensed. His eyes, hidden beneath the helt, snapped to sothing Guinevere could not see.

"Move," he muttered.

"What—"

"MOVE!" he barked, voice no longer quiet.

Without hesitation, he turned, his body lunging forward—not away from the threat, but toward her. One gauntleted hand struck her square in the stomach—not to injure, but to throw. His strength was imnse; the impact sent her flying back, her heels skidding across the stone, dress whipping violently behind her as she tumbled and caught herself in a crouch nearly thirty feet away.

The sky shattered.

A massive purple-black shadow, thick and oil-like, expanded in a single pulse. It like the mouth of so beast, yawning open to claim sothing. The air was sucked inward with a violent pull, drawing Dante into the center of the anomaly. Appendages of shadow whipped out from the darkness, wrapping around his limbs, his torso, even his helm. The shadow’s embraced, as if they had found sothing long lost and were now dragging it back.

Guinevere’s eyes went wide, her mouth parted as the scene unfolded faster than thought. Her voice caught in her throat as she leapt to her feet, her heart slamming in her chest.

"Dante!"

No reply.

In that mont, everything slowed. She reached out—not with magic, but simply with her hand, trembling.

But he was already halfway gone.

The last thing she saw—just before the shadows enclosed him entirely—was the faintest shift of his helm, turning toward her one final ti.

The shadows exploded inward, collapsing.

And he was gone.

Silence was left behind.

"Damn it, you always find yourself in these situations...you better co back." She turned slowly, brushing the dust from her robes. "I didn’t even get to hear your answer..."