Beyond Fortuna, in a place where even the wind rarely blows, there's a place that's been erased from people's minds. A once-active volcano's slopes are now covered in an ancient forest, and fog moves across the landscape as if it were a living thing. There, the sky is perpetually gray and obscured by a thin layer of light, making it impossible to tell the time of day or night – only an unending twilight that fades. It's an old place; the stones are covered in moss and look like the remains of a church or monastery from before the Fortunian Order. Everything is so ancient that even demons don't risk touching these walls. It's not just the lack of sound that makes it silent. It's dence, almost material, and goes right through to the bones. The wind rustles the trees, which look like they've been erased for a long time but are still standing there with their stone faces; like guardians.

Dante comes here annually. He leaves no trace, leaving nothing behind him – only the faint tension and the ozone odor in the air, as if everything itself were aware of his presence. There, Dante arrives without feeling. He walks slowly, and his eyes are focused but not angry. This isn't a battleground. This is a place of memory. Perhaps a battle,a loss, or an oath occured here in the past. Now, though, it's his own starting point. As if he feels something here must be kept safe... or not awaken, he always walks around, touches some ruins, and checks the energy balance. These aren't merely memories; they're a seal.

After circling the ruins, Dante stops in one spot where a collapsed section of the wall exposes a small ledge with expansive view, including far-off rocks covered in gray moss, and clouds that are slowly rolling overhead. He settles down, not out of fatigue, but with contemplation. Such as someone who takes a moment to relax between battles. Perhaps it's even a habit; to sit on this fragment of stone, where the imprint of an ancient pattern still survives. The moment his hand inadvertently resrts on col, lichen-covered surface, something in the air changes.

The air becomes denser, heavier, as if the oxygen is contracting around it. The silence is no longer tranquil; it's tense, resembling a piece of sting. Something moves in the fog from behind the trees. It wasn't noisy, but it's too smooth. An elongated, tall figure, resembling a human, is onscured by a shadow that passes between the trunks. No sound – no footsteps, no breathing. Only a slight curvature of space, like smoke over a bonfire.

Dante doesn't flinch. His eyes narrow, his head tilted – like a hunter who's caught movement but is waiting. He doesn't reach for his weapon. Not yet. There isn't an open threat here. It's something else. He observes the shadow as it traverses the trees. It comes to an end at some point, precisely where the fog meets the real world, where the distinction between the two becomes blurry. Standing motionless, the silhouette gazes directly at him. You can just barely make out the outlines in the light coming through the branches; could it be a man,a woman,or... Someone else?

"So... You're a demon or not. Come here, let's talk." ,- his carefree voice echoed with a hint of irony as he waved his hand and smiling lightly.