Max stepped forward once more, his hammer steady in his hand. His legs trembled, but his gaze radiated confidence.
In front of him, Dante—inside Azael's body—breathed with difficulty. His shoulders rose and fell unevenly. Green fire ran through his wounds like exposed veins, pulsing with every beat.
His eyes glowed. But there was no calm left in them. Only fury.
"…my horns…"
His voice came out broken. Distorted.
"…that bastard cut them off…"
Max didn't answer right away.
With his free hand, he opened his backpack. He rummaged briefly and pulled out the vial—the one containing Lamia's poison.
The dark liquid sloshed inside the glass.
Dante saw it and smiled. But it wasn't an amused smile.
It was… irritated.
"…don't even try."
He straightened his body, though the pain still ran through him.
"It won't work."
His fingers tensed.
"I already know all your tricks."
Max swallowed. The fear was there.
Of course it was. Anyone would feel it.
But he didn't stop.
