NOVEL ONLINE FREE Chapter 14: The Weight of Silence
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The echoes of battle still lingered in the ruined corridors of Red Grave City, a grim testament to the fury that had erupted only moments before. In the aftermath of the Hellforged Tyrant's obliteration—a spectacle of pure, unadulterated carnage—the air had finally begun to settle into a heavy, oppressive silence. Dante, Nero, and Vergil stood among the shattered remnants of a once-hallowed cathedral, now transformed into a twisted sanctuary of despair. Moonlight filtered through the shattered stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors onto walls that bore the scars of conflict and corruption.
Within this temporary refuge, the unlikely alliance sought a moment to catch their breath. Dust swirled in the cool night air, mingling with the faint, lingering odor of brimstone and blood. In one corner of the vast, ruined chamber, the Doom Slayer sat on a crumbling stone step. His massive frame, clad in battle-worn Praetor armor, was illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. Methodically, he cleaned his weapons—his Super Shotgun and other deadly instruments of war—with the same precise, unyielding efficiency that had defined his every action on the battlefield. His movements were measured and deliberate, devoid of any excess or flourish.
Across from him, Dante leaned casually against a broken pillar, Rebellion in one hand and a mischievous grin playing across his features. Despite the carnage that had been wrought moments before, his tone was light—cocky, even—yet beneath that playful veneer lay a touch of something more profound, a rare moment of introspection born from witnessing the unimaginable.
"Y'know, big guy," Dante began, his voice carrying both a teasing lilt and an uncharacteristic edge, "you fight like you've got a serious grudge against existence itself. No flair, no show—just straight-up destruction." He flipped Rebellion in his hand as if it were an object of endless amusement.
Nero, leaning back with his arms crossed and a skeptical frown etched on his face, added, "Yeah… and you don't talk either. What's up with that?" His tone mixed curiosity with a trace of irritation. It was as if he couldn't understand how someone could be so utterly consumed by battle and silence in equal measure.
The Doom Slayer did not answer. His gaze remained fixed on the weapons before him as he carefully reassembled his Super Shotgun. Every movement was precise, almost mechanical—a stark contrast to the flamboyant banter that flowed around him. His silence stretched long, filled with an intensity that seemed to weigh on the very air.
Dante raised an eyebrow and, unable to resist, nudged Vergil. "Come on, even you gotta have something to say about this guy. You love analyzing stuff." His tone was teasing, but his eyes searched Vergil's for any sign of acknowledgment.
Vergil's eyes, cool and analytical, were fixed on the Slayer. After a long pause, he replied in a measured tone, "…He fights without hesitation, without excess movement. Every action is precise. Every attack is meant to kill. No wasted energy, no theatrics." His words carried an unmistakable note of respect, as if he were acknowledging the raw, unfiltered efficiency of a weapon rather than a man.
Dante snorted in response. "Tch. No style, no soul. I'd say that's a little boring, don'tcha think?" His voice was light, but there was a flicker of something more—a tinge of envy, perhaps, for the raw, unadorned purpose that drove the Slayer.
For a long moment, the heavy silence filled the ruined cathedral, punctuated only by the soft clinking of the Slayer's reassembled weaponry and the distant drip of water from the cracked ceiling. Then, without any warning, the Doom Slayer slowly rose to his feet. He stood so tall that his massive silhouette seemed to dominate the space, his presence both formidable and enigmatic. He looked first at Dante, then at Vergil, and finally at Nero—each glance laden with unspoken meaning. For a long, lingering moment, his gaze held theirs. There was no anger in that silent stare—only a profound weight, as if his eyes were recounting the endless battles he had fought and the countless souls he had lost. Then, without another word, he turned away and walked slowly toward the broken cathedral doors.
The atmosphere in the chamber shifted palpably. The casual banter of moments before was replaced by a heavy, introspective quiet. Dante's smile faded, replaced by a look of thoughtful resignation. Nero's eyes grew distant as he watched the Slayer's retreating figure, and even Vergil, who rarely allowed emotion to cross his stoic features, seemed momentarily pensive.
Nero broke the silence, lowering his voice so that only the immediate group could hear, "…He's been through some serious hell, hasn't he?" There was a note of both pity and respect in his tone, a reluctant acknowledgment of the burdens the silent warrior carried.
Vergil, watching the Slayer's figure disappear into the darkness beyond the shattered doors, added quietly, "Hell has been through him." His voice, though low, carried the weight of countless battles and the scars of endless warfare.
Dante exhaled slowly, the playful spark in his eyes dimming to a more reflective glimmer. He tapped Rebellion against his shoulder thoughtfully and murmured almost to himself, "Guess we all carry our own demons, huh?" His words, typically laced with irreverence, now held a bittersweet sincerity that resonated in the stillness of the ruined sanctuary.
In that moment, the stark contrast between the Doom Slayer's brutal, silent efficiency and Dante's flamboyant, cocky style was laid bare. Here, in the quiet after the storm, the group found a fragile, temporary peace—a respite that allowed them to reflect on the nature of the warrior before them. The Slayer's silence was more than the absence of words; it was a heavy, unyielding presence, the cumulative weight of endless battle and sorrow etched into every line of his form. It spoke of a man—or perhaps something beyond man—who had fought so long and so hard that words had become superfluous.
As the group settled into the sparse safety of the ruined cathedral, the only sounds were the soft rustle of debris and the occasional distant clatter from the ongoing war outside. The stained-glass fragments on the floor caught the moonlight, casting fractured rainbows across the stone—a fleeting reminder of beauty in a world ravaged by darkness.
Dante, still leaning against the pillar, broke the silence again. "You know, for all your nonchalance, I've got to hand it to you, Slayer," he said softly, his tone a mix of admiration and mild exasperation. "You're like a one-man wrecking crew. But don't you ever get tired? Don't you ever feel… anything?" His question hung in the air, a rare vulnerability that only added to the mystery surrounding the silent warrior.
The Slayer did not respond. He resumed his methodical work, cleaning his weapons with a care that suggested each tool was an extension of his very being. His movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic, and in that quiet, unspoken moment, it was clear that his silence was not born out of indifference but of a deep, impenetrable burden—a weight so immense that even words would only serve to remind him of what he had endured.
Nero, unable to hold his curiosity, spoke up again, his voice softer this time, "Maybe he doesn't need to talk. Maybe his silence says enough. Maybe… he's fought so long that he's lost all the words." His tone was thoughtful, carrying an unexpected empathy that contrasted with his earlier bravado.
Vergil's gaze was intense as he surveyed the Slayer, his analytical mind piecing together the puzzle of a man who had become more than a warrior—a living embodiment of relentless vengeance. "There is a certain purity in his silence," he said slowly. "Every action he takes is a testament to a lifetime of unspoken struggle. He is the executioner of demons, but also the keeper of countless sorrows."
Dante, his usual cocky demeanor now softened by the gravity of the moment, offered a quiet smile. "Yeah… maybe you're right. Hell, we all have our demons. Some of us just have them on our sleeves, and some… well, some of us carry them like a second skin." His eyes drifted to the distant horizon beyond the cathedral doors, where the chaos of the outside world raged on, a stark contrast to the solemn refuge they'd found.
For a long while, no one spoke. The silence was heavy and profound, a shared understanding that transcended words. In that moment of stillness, each of them—Dante, Nero, Vergil, and even the silent, stoic figure of the Doom Slayer—acknowledged the scars of their past, the battles that had defined them, and the relentless, unyielding nature of the war they were destined to fight.
Then, as if sensing that the temporary respite was drawing to a close, the Slayer finally rose from his work. Without a word, he stepped away from his weapons and moved toward the broken cathedral doors, his silhouette outlined against the pale moonlight. His back was straight, his posture unwavering, and his every step carried the weight of a thousand unspoken battles.
The group watched him go, each in their own silent reflection. Nero's voice was barely above a whisper as he remarked, "He's not just a warrior… he's a force of nature. I wonder what it's like to bear such weight every day." His words, though soft, resonated with a deep, unspoken empathy.
Vergil remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the retreating figure. "Hell has been through him," he repeated, a final, contemplative note that lingered in the cool night air. It was as if he had seen not just the physical scars, but the invisible burdens etched into the very soul of the Slayer.
Dante, his gaze now more introspective than usual, muttered quietly, "We all carry our own demons, huh?" The words were not meant as a joke this time, but as a genuine acknowledgment of the silent sorrow that each of them bore.
In the quiet of the ruined cathedral, with shattered stained glass casting broken patterns on ancient stone, the unspoken alliances among them grew stronger. The contrast between the Slayer's brutal, wordless efficiency and Dante's flamboyant, ever-ready quips had sparked a moment of profound reflection—a realization that sometimes, silence speaks louder than any words ever could.
As the group prepared to leave their temporary sanctuary and return to the relentless chaos of Red Grave City, the weight of that silence lingered—a reminder of the battles fought, the sacrifices made, and the unending war that still lay ahead. Their alliance, forged in blood and tempered by mutual respect, was now bound not only by shared combat but by the quiet understanding that some wounds are too deep for words.
And so, beneath the blood-red skies and amid the ruins of shattered faith, they stepped forward together—each carrying the weight of silence in their own way, each determined to face the darkness with the strength born of unspoken resolve. In that shared, wordless bond, they found a measure of hope—an understanding that even in a world filled with relentless carnage, the quiet truths of the soul could be the most powerful weapons of all.
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If you like the story ! please support it
And the best way to do this is through patréon
You get access to +5 chapters ! form vergil !!
Or even 12+ chapters if you want ! from Dante!!
So please check out my patréon
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