Chapter 79: Don't Be an Idiot

Dante blinked a few times, adjusting his eyes to the soft light coming through the partially covered window. The familiar warmth of her hand on his was the first sign that he was no longer on the battlefield, but in a safe place. He took a deep breath, feeling his body heavy and sore, as if he had carried the whole world on his back.

Clara was there, silent. With her back to him, her hair tied in a loose bun, some strands falling over her neck. She wore a simple white robe, the same one that seemed to have become her trademark. The sound of the pen scratching the paper on the desk filled the silence, rhythmic and constant, almost comforting.

He lowered his eyes to his hands. Hers was resting on his, her delicate fingers wrapping around his firmly, but in a way that didn't seem intentional, as if the touch was natural, automatic.

"Felt like my bed was a bit small," he said, his voice hoarse but filled with irony.

Clara stopped writing for a moment, but didn't turn around immediately. Her head tilted slightly to the side, and a small sigh escaped before she answered.

"You woke up." Her voice was low, almost a whisper. She resumed moving her hand, finishing the line she had been writing before turning her face to him.

Her eyes met his, and there was something in them that Dante couldn't decipher immediately. It was a mix of relief and concern, as if she were analyzing every detail of his face to make sure he was really there, awake, and whole.

"You should rest more," she said, in a gentle but direct tone.

"I am resting." His smile was a little painful but sincere. "Or I was, until I realized you took up my whole bed."

Clara raised an eyebrow, feigning great indignation.

"My bed?" She gently released his hand, leaning on the desk to stand. "I don't remember you paying for it."

Dante laughed softly, even though it caused a slight twinge of pain in his chest. He adjusted himself in bed, his muscles protesting the movement.

"Alright. You win. You can have it." He raised his hands in surrender.

However, Clara just shook her head, returning her attention to the papers. Even with the light words, both knew there was something to discuss. About the attack in the last few days.

"I heard Vick say your body couldn't handle it," she held the pencil, but her voice trembled. "You should... take better care of yourself."

Dante fell silent for a moment, watching the way she kept her eyes fixed on the pencil, as if avoiding looking at him directly. He felt a different weight in her words, something more than just concern.

So, that's it.

He had a lapse of a second, almost hesitating, but he stretched his hand out and lightly touched her fingers. Clara stopped, surprised, and looked at him. Dante hadn't expected it, but she responded to the gesture, closing her fingers over his with a delicacy that contrasted with the cold surroundings. The warmth of that touch, no matter how small, felt more comforting than any words.

Dante tilted his head slightly, his voice low, almost a murmur:

"I'll try... for you."

Clara gave a weak but sincere smile, her fingers staying together for a few more seconds. She then slowly released his hand, returning her gaze to the pencil, but something in the air between them had shifted.

The moment was good enough for Dante. Clara's delicate touch was a relief amidst the constant chaos. Maybe that's why, when Marcus entered the room without warning, Dante rolled his eyes immediately, which only worsened his mood.

The Shooter froze the moment he saw the two with their hands still touching. His eyes widened, and he stood in the doorway as if he had just entered a minefield. Even with his clothes soaked from the rain and the thermal glasses still hanging on his forehead, the embarrassment was impossible to hide.

He took a step back, trying to retreat, but Clara's voice stopped him before he could escape.

"Stop right there, Marcus. Since you're here, you can speak."

"I don't want to interrupt, ma'am," he replied, stepping a bit further back into the wooden doorway. "I can come back another time to... let you finish what you were doing."

Dante let out a quiet laugh, breaking the tension.

"Ah, now he gets all embarrassed, but kisses Luma's hand like no one's watching. Does he also turn red when someone catches him flirting?"

Marcus spun around instantly, quick as a shot, pointing a finger at Dante and speaking loudly, without thinking.

"That was a secret! I don't do anything!"

Clara raised her eyebrows, clearly amused, but with a fake innocent expression that only made Marcus's embarrassment worse.

"If it was a secret, why are you upset, Marcus?" she asked, tilting her head with exaggerated curiosity. "Everyone knows you have a thing for her. It's not a secret."

Marcus seemed ready to explode but had no arguments to counter. He gestured uselessly, mumbling something unintelligible, before turning his back and disappearing down the hallway, still with heavy footsteps as if he were completely exposed.

Dante leaned back in the chair, a lazy smile on his lips as he watched the door swing shut from his abrupt departure.

"And you thought I was the only one terrible at dealing with feelings."

Clara laughed, shaking her head as she picked up the pencil she had dropped.

"Yeah. At least you try. I'll see what he wants, you focus on resting, okay?"

Dante adjusted himself again, sliding down the sheet and pulling the blanket up to his neck.

"I'll try to get some more sleep."

Clara pushed the desk aside and stood up to head for the door. As soon as she left, Dante was alone again. He closed his eyes, trying to recall better the scene from the last day. The pain he felt when he made his final attack.

"Body limit exceeded, Dante. You went beyond what Jix said, resulting in a 2% significant increase. Muscle damage: 16%. Recovery in progress – one day until full recovery."

Dante opened his eyes then.

"And what's the percentage of damage I caused to Two-Face?" Dante asked, his voice heavy with dissatisfaction. He knew the blow had been powerful, but something inside him told him it hadn't been enough. "He didn't die. I felt that."

The answer came with Vick's neutral and calculated tone, echoing in the silence of the room:

"Calculating... Damage from the blow: 43%. Energy Conversion below expectations. The use of Cosmic Energy to compensate for what was missing damaged skin, organs, and major muscles. And no, the blow did not kill. Calculating... chance of Two-Face being alive is 51%."

Dante clenched his fists, his jaw tightening. It wasn't the result he wanted to hear. He needed to be more precise, more lethal. Before he could lose himself in his thoughts, Vick continued, as if knowing what was coming.

"You still condense the blow into too large an area. The enemy can't escape, but the dispersion reduces the power. Refinement will be necessary."

The words made sense, but only increased the whirlwind of doubts in Dante's mind. He had so many questions about his own abilities, about what he could really do. Even with his father's teachings, Render had always given him space to learn on his own, as if the journey was as important as the destination.

But now, Dante needed answers. Any answers.

"Vick..." he said, almost whispering, sitting in the corner of the room with a cloudy mind. "Sometimes my dad appears to me. Not in dreams, but when I'm fighting. I... don't know what it is, but it excites me. Remembering him is something good, right?"

Vick's answer came after a brief pause, almost as if considering the question:

"The image of Render is closely tied to your posture, your inner battle, according to what I perceive from seeing through your eyes. Your father was a very strong man. There was no one who could surpass him."

Dante nodded, agreeing silently. He knew this better than anyone.

"He's amazing, isn't he?" he asked, almost with a smile.

"Yes. However..." Vick hesitated, which was rare. "... as soon as I connected to your memories, I found out that the intensity of Render was less than yours."

Dante lifted his gaze, surprised.

"Your father's body had a great difference: he was fast, strong, and trained to the extreme. But, according to the analyses I collected during your fights, your body is completely linked to your mind. This connection makes you unique, and it leads me to question something."

"And what would that be?" Dante asked, frowning.

"If you're not as stupid as your father was when he was young, then I believe your potential is much greater than I expected."

The answer drew a short laugh from Dante, but Vick continued, unperturbed:

"I can't measure that with numbers, but I can use the same words I said to Render when I made similar analyses: fighting is your life."

Dante tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling of the room. Vick's words echoed in his mind. "Fighting is your life." As true as they were, they were still a weight he carried, an expectation he couldn't avoid.

He closed his eyes, feeling his father's memory more alive than ever. Render had always been a colossal shadow in his life, but maybe, just maybe, it was a shadow he could surpass.