MTLNOVEL Chapter 22: Dante Greaves
Dante had always been a lover of firearms, ever since high school when he first held a gun during a survival training class.
There was something beautiful about the precision, the power, the artistry of it all. Every weapon had a personality, every bullet a purpose.
It was no surprise to anyone who knew him that when he awakened in the Main World, his class reflected that passion.
His B-rank class, Gunslinger Virtuoso, was a natural fit—a class designed for those who turned shooting into both science and spectacle.
But his signature skill was where Dante truly shined.
Symphony of Perfection.
A skill born from obsession.
Every bullet fired wasn't just a shot; it was a note in his masterpiece—a meticulously arranged grand design where his bullets formed an invisible web of death.
Once the pattern was complete, Dante could activate the symphony, triggering a synchronized crossfire from every angle at once—an inescapable hailstorm of gunfire, a conductor of carnage orchestrating his perfect performance.
As Dante exited the arena, the crowd was silent for just a moment, stunned by what they had witnessed. Then the silence shattered into a chaotic roar.
"He… he actually won?! Against Vera?! With Shadow Bond active? How the hell?" one spectator shouted, slamming his fist against the railing.
"Did you see how calm he was the whole time? Like he was playing with her! That man's a psychopath—I love it!" a woman's voice rang out, excitement bubbling over.
"I thought he was dead for sure! That skill—that was no ordinary trick. That was planned from the start!" another man added, his tone somewhere between admiration and disbelief.
A panicked gambler clutched his hair, face pale as sweat dripped down his forehead. "I bet everything on Vera! That was my house! My life savings! Everything all gone because of some damn showoff!" His cries were drowned out by the cheers.
Another man, calmer but no less defeated, slumped into his seat. "I knew Vera was cruel, but damn... I didn't expect perfection to be her opponent."
The energy in the arena was electric—some horrified, some elated, all captivated by the man who stood victorious.
Dante had proven his perfection, and in doing so, he'd stolen the show.
But none of that mattered to Dante.
He'd won. That was all that mattered.
With his usual swagger, he made his way back through the halls, the roar of the crowd fading behind him.
Whatever awaited him in the waiting room—praise, confusion, or questions—he didn't care.
After all, perfection always spoke for itself.
****
Dante swung the door open with his usual flair, arms outstretched as if expecting a standing ovation.
His grin was wide, confident—the smile of a man who had just proven, once again, that perfection was his birthright.
"Well, guys! How about you rate how awesome I was? A solid ten out of ten, right? Maybe an eleven for style?" He struck a pose, waiting for praise to rain down on him.
Instead, silence.
Everyone was there except Aiko—her absence was explained by the artifact in the center of the room, currently displaying the arena where her match was set to begin.
No one even glanced in Dante's direction. Not Oliver. Not Tariq. Not Lina. They were all focused on the visual feed, their faces neutral.
Dante's confident smile flickered. "Uh... hello? Guys?"
No response.
He stood there, confusion crossing his face.
Hadn't they seen it? The Symphony of Perfection, the flawless victory, the artistry of his every move?
He had won, and with style they couldn't have missed it.
For his brain to cope, he started thinking of different reasons for their dismissal.
Before finally coming to a conclusive answer, jealousy—that had to be it. They were jealous of his brilliance, unwilling to admit his talent.
Yes. That was it.
The others, however, had a much simpler reason for their dismissal.
In this world, survival meant adapting, and adapting to a narcissist meant ignoring them whenever possible—feeding his ego would only encourage him to go overboard.
It was easier to let his boasts echo unanswered.
And truth be told, the team name Dante had chosen still rubbed them all the wrong way.
It made them sound like his personal entourage, a group of devoted followers worshiping at the altar of his so-called perfection.
But none of them would say it aloud. It would sound petty—and frankly, it wasn't worth the argument.
So, they did the next best thing: they focused on Aiko's match instead.
Dante, still standing awkwardly, sighed and gave up—for now.
His attention turned to the artifact as well.
Aiko was stepping into the arena, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to his showmanship.
A defense magic specialist.
How would she win?
Would she slowly exhaust her opponent, wearing them down like water against stone?
There was only one way to find out.
The match was about to begin.
The arena settled into a low murmur, curiosity rippling through the crowd as the next fighters prepared to enter.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena, dripping with excitement.
"On our right—a walking nightmare, a man who knows no mercy, only hunger! The scourge of the borderlands, the flesh-devouring beast—KRAAL THE EATER!"
The iron gate groaned open, and Kraal stepped into the arena, his bare chest covered in twisting tattoos that seemed to pulse with every movement.
His skin was scarred from countless battles, and his only clothing was a ragged loincloth stained with old blood.
His wild, matted hair framed a face twisted with hunger and sadistic glee.
"Representing the infamous Iron Chain Marauders! His crimes? Cannibalism, dismemberment, and the ritualistic consumption of no fewer than twenty-six men, women, and children—before he was captured in the middle of his feast!"
The crowd roared—some in disgust, others in savage excitement.
They had come for monsters like Kraal, the kind who made even the most hardened criminals uncomfortable.
But then, the announcer's tone shifted, his voice taking on a dramatic flair.
"And on our left—a new face in the Crucible! A fresh challenger whose name has yet to be written in blood and glory! Representing Dante's divine vanguard..."
The name itself drew mixed reactions from the crowd. Some sneered, others chuckled at the sheer narcissism.
The announcer continued from where he left off.
"Aiko Tanaka!!!"
Their amusement faded when they saw who stepped forward.
A petite girl, barely over five feet tall, with jet-black hair tied into a neat ponytail and a calm, almost detached expression on her face.
Her traditional combat robe, adorned with faint defensive runes, barely shifted as she walked onto the field with serene confidence.
The arena was filled with murmurs.
"Is that a child?"
"What's she doing here? Did they throw in a sacrifice?"
"She's gonna get eaten alive."
Even Kraal's scarred face twisted into a grin, tongue running across his teeth as his eyes devoured her.
"She's small—but small cuts taste the sweetest," he growled loud enough for the crowd to hear, drawing laughter and cheers from the bloodthirsty spectators.
The announcer, feeding off the energy, raised his hand high.
"Let's see if this little lamb can stand against the wolf — FIGHT!"
The gong rang, and Aiko's match had begun.