CHAPTER 318: CHAPTER 308: THE RAIN NEVER STOPS

[Realm: Álfheimr]

[Location: Rumpelstadt]

The rain came down in steady sheets — the kind that pressed down heavily, that seeped into stone and skin alike.

Dante walked through it without hesitation.

His coat hung heavy at the shoulders, dark fur dampened and darkened to near black. Droplets traced the filigree that lined his gauntlets, beading and sliding from alloy to ground. The sound of his boots against the cobbled street was softened by the mud that had begun to swallow the cracks between stones.

This was no doubt a town that had long forgotten what it was like to wake beneath clear skies. The buildings leaned tiredly toward one another, wooden beams swollen from the rain. His eyes naturally went to the only notable structure, the Spindle Tower rose almost majestically.

Dante’s steps slowed as he drew near. He tilted his head slightly, the rain streaking down the surface of his helm, sliding over the horned ridges before dripping from the chinplate.

He wondered, briefly, when this town had last known joy.

It was a strange thing, he thought — the way the world could keep turning while certain places seemed forgotten by its motion. Rumpelstadt felt like one such place. A wound that had never healed, left to fester beneath the same ceaseless rain.

He raised his gaze toward the tower.

The chime came fractured — not the proud toll of a towns heart, but the weak noise of something trying to remember what it was supposed to be.

"Out of rhythm," he murmured, the words barely audible beneath the rain.

A pause.

Perhaps that described the world itself — out of rhythm.

The thought lingered longer than he wanted it to.

The rain struck harder now, flattening his silver hair against the back of his form, the cold biting through even the alloy. But Dante didn’t move to seek cover. The sensation of being drenched was grounding — something immediate in a world where his every step felt detached from the earth beneath him.

He had seen so many skies, in so many lands, and yet this one... this one felt different. He couldn’t name why.

Maybe it was the color of the clouds — a deep, bruised gray, like old smoke. Maybe it was the faint metallic scent in the air, the kind that preceded violence. Or maybe it was something simpler.

"Strange," he muttered to himself. "The clouds weep... and yet, I feel no sorrow from them."

He stopped, watching the droplets ripple across a nearby puddle. His reflection was little more than a shadow with eyes. The rain distorted it into a thousand fragments, each one flashing violet, each one vanishing a heartbeat later.

"Perhaps it is not the sky that grieves," he said under his breath. "Perhaps a God does."

The thought came unbidden — but it stayed.

Was that what this endless rain was? The tears of something divine?

He found the idea strangely... human. The notion of a God weeping. It suggested regret. And regret, he knew, was the mark of understanding.

He wondered if that same regret lingered within him, buried beneath layers.

A memory passed — screams, the clash of titan like beings, the way the world burned beneath a red horizon, the smell and taste of blood — it all felt distant, yet present enough to taste. The scent of blood never left the soul. It only waited for silence to resurface.

He turned from the Spindle Tower, gaze following the winding street ahead — narrow, slick with rain, lanterns swaying on rusted hooks.

"How many more will die before this is finished?" he asked the empty air. His voice was steady, as if he expected no answer. "Will Death still persist?"

The rain didn’t hesitate. It fell harder, as though answering in kind.

He thought of Gretchen then. Of her suspicion, her anger barely masking a deeper exhaustion. The way her words trembled between disdain and desperation.

She didn’t trust him — she had made that clear — and perhaps she was right not to.

He was not her savior.

He had never been anyone’s.

After all what good was a knight only good for bloodshed?

Dante continued walking, the rain trickling down the sides of his helmet. His footsteps passed by shuttered doors and quiet figures huddled beneath cloaks, faces half-lit by torches that twisted weakly.

A small boy peeked from behind a doorway, holding a broken wooden toy sword. For a second, Dante met his gaze — violet light reflecting in wide, uncertain eyes. Then the child vanished back into the shadows, the door closing softly behind him.

"Children still play at war," Dante murmured. "As if it were ever a game worth winning."

He let the silence stretch, broken only by the rain striking the ground like distant applause.

What did war look like in a world such as this?

Different faces. Different banners. The same story written again.

And when the blood began to flow — and it would, inevitably — would these streets flood with it too?

He doubted the God would weep for that.

"Humanity does not need divine pity," he said to himself. "It needs the courage to stop repeating its own mistakes."

He stopped walking for a moment, letting that thought sink in.

Courage. It sounded like such a simple virtue, yet it was rarer than gold. Courage meant more than standing against an enemy. It meant looking upon one’s reflection — truly seeing the cost of every act — and still choosing to move forward.

He wondered if anyone here still possessed that. He wondered as the Spindle Tower loomed behind him, its broken clockface glowing in the dark. The sound of its gears — faint and irregular — echoed through the drizzle.

He turned his head slightly, addressing the silence.

"If there is a God watching this world," he said, his voice low, "then either they’ve grown tired of it... or they’re waiting for someone else to finish what they began."

A flash of lightning carved across the clouds — distant — and for a heartbeat, the entire town glowed white. Then it was gone, leaving only the rhythm of the rain.

Dante walked on.

He didn’t know if he believed in Gods anymore. But if one truly was weeping tonight... then perhaps it wasn’t for the dead — but for the living who refused to learn.

The rain did not relent as Dante walked slowly through.

He could hear the creak of shuttered windows. A dog barked once, then stopped — silenced either by its master or the storm. He should have moved on. He meant to. But something made him pause.

A feeling — instinctive — the awareness that someone was watching.

His hand twitched, not in alarm but out of reflex. A warrior’s response. But he didn’t act on it. The sensation was too faint to be hostile. Curious, perhaps.

He turned.

And there — half-hidden beneath the arched doorway of a worn brick house — stood the same boy he’d noticed earlier. The small figure clutched his wooden toy sword against his chest, the blade little more than a splintered stick carved unevenly at the edges. Rainwater dripped from his messy hair, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

The boy didn’t flinch beneath Dante’s gaze.

Those wide, amber eyes looked straight at him — not with fear, but something like wonder.

"...Are you a knight?" the boy asked suddenly. His voice was small, carrying through the rain, but barely.

"Not anymore."

The boy tilted his head, confusion flickering across his face. "But... you look like one," he said. "You’ve got armor, and you dress fancy, and... and that glow in your eyes! Knights have that, right?"

"Once," he replied, "I might have fit the name."

"Why not now?"

The question came without hesitation. The boy stepped out from the doorway, rain matting his hair flat as he looked up, small shoulders squared as if braving a challenge.

Dante studied him for a long moment. He could have ignored him. He could have walked on. But something in that unguarded honesty made him stop.

"Because a knight," Dante said slowly, "is more than power and title. It is not the armor that makes the man — nor the sword that makes the purpose."

The boy blinked, puzzled but listening.

Dante continued, his tone even.

"A true knight," he said, "is bound by virtue, not command. By choice, not duty. He stands for something he believes is worth protecting — even when the world offers him nothing in return."

The boy’s brows furrowed in concentration. "So... it’s like a promise?"

Dante nodded once as he kneeled slightly. "A promise," he repeated. "One made not to kings or Gods... but to oneself."

The boy’s eyes lit up, his excitement breaking through the dreariness of the street. "That’s what I’ll be, then! A knight who keeps promises! I’ll protect my ma and the baker lady and the man who fixes shoes—"

His words tumbled over each other, full of earnest enthusiasm. The way his voice cracked on certain words — the way he grinned despite the cold — it was enough to cut through the rain’s monotone.

Dante found himself... listening.

The innocence of it struck him harder than he expected.

Even here, in this forgotten, rotting town — in a place where roofs caved and walls molded, where hope had turned into a rumor — there was still that spark. That small, unspoiled conviction that goodness could exist if one only willed it to.

He thought of the countless faces he’d seen before battle — men and women hardened by survival, their eyes hollowed of youth. None of them had looked at him like this boy did now. With awe. With belief.

Perhaps that was why this moment felt heavier than it should.

"What is your name?" he asked.

The boy hesitated before answering, as if uncertain if his name mattered. "...Tomas," he said at last.

"Tomas," Dante repeated quietly. "Then remember this. To be a knight is not to be fearless. Fear means you still care for something. What matters is that you face it anyway."

The boy’s expression softened, his grip on the wooden sword tightening.

Dante rose back to full height, the rain pouring down harder now.

"You’ll grow," he said. "And one day, you’ll see what this world truly is — all its ugliness and cruelty. When that day comes... hold on to what you feel now. That spark. Protect it. Because the world will try to take it from you."

Tomas nodded quickly, water dripping from his chin. "I will. I promise!"

For the first time, Dante allowed himself a quiet breath that almost resembled relief.

He turned then, starting down the road once more, the heavy sound of his boots mixing with the rain. But the boy’s voice called out again, stopping him mid-step.

"Wait!" Tomas shouted. "Mister Knight!"

Dante half-turned.

The boy looked up, rainwater glistening on his cheeks. "Are you... gonna save the town?"

The silence stretched. The rain filled the gap. Dante looked at the boy for a long time. And when he spoke, his voice carried none of the weight of grandeur or certainty — only conviction.

"Yes," he said. "I will."

No promise beyond that. No boast. Just the truth of a man who intended to do exactly what he said.

The boy’s face brightened, and for a heartbeat, even the rain seemed to soften.

Dante turned again, walking toward the heart of the town — toward whatever waited beyond.