The T-virus zombies were definitely dangerous—if your firepower sucked.
But with enough firepower?
They were just slow-moving, rotting meat bags waiting to be mulched.
So naturally, the perimeter was cleared in record time.
Even Harley was smashing through them gleefully with her favorite baseball bat.
"I'm honestly curious. What the hell is that bat made of? She's caved in so many skulls and it still looks brand new."
Dante watched the chaotic older sister dive in and out of the undead mob like it was Tuesday at a batting cage, muttering his question to Fury.
"Oh, Adamantium," Fury replied flatly. "Leftovers from a black-budget weapons project from the last century."
Dante gave him a sidelong look.
"...Aren't you babying her a little too much?"
Adamantium? This bald bastard was really willing to go all in.
Spoiling your daughter too much can lead to big problems.
Especially when your "daughter" is certifiably unhinged.
"Quit complaining. Look over there." Fury gestured ahead. "We're making all this noise, but those Tyrants? Haven't moved a muscle. Just standing there like statues guarding that structure."
"Wait, is that... a temporary building in the middle of the Tyrants?"
"Not sure. We'll find out once we clear them."
The two moved up in a tight, two-man tactical formation and opened fire on the Tyrants.
Let's just say — these limited-edition sci-fi weapons made modern military firepower look like airsoft guns. Even these weird new Tyrant variants didn't last long.
By the time the thirteenth Tyrant collapsed, they were standing in front of what looked like a structure ripped straight out of a future tech showroom.
Dante raised his voice.
"Hey! Whoever's in there — the Federal Bureau of Investigation has a message for you! If you surrender your weapons now, they promise wealth, glory, and piles of cash!"
"...Where the hell did you get that line?"
"Stop clowning around."
Fury looked exhausted. Dante just shrugged and blasted away half the door with a single shot.
He stepped forward, about to kick in the rest of the entrance while preparing to deliver another classic FBI catchphrase—
But before he could, the other half of the door blew out from the inside.
From the shadows stepped a blond man with slicked-back hair, wearing a long black trench coat and sunglasses.
"I'll play with you for seven minutes. Tops."
That tone. That face. That voice.
Dante knew instantly who it was.
Albert Wesker.
One of the biggest bosses from Resident Evil lore. And arguably the one who got screwed over the hardest in the franchise's ending.
But in this merged universe, he was still very much alive.
The question was—what version of him was this? Had he already developed the Uroboros virus?
"Albert Wesker. One of the world's top-tier bioterror lunatics. Disappeared five years ago, and now he turns up in America."
"Bioterror lunatic? Please. Ordinary minds can't comprehend my ideals."
Wesker shook his head. And in the very next instant, he was standing right in front of Fury.
He didn't run.
He appeared.
With insane speed, Wesker knocked the heat ray rifle right out of Fury's hands before the old man could even blink.
Then one punch—just one—sent Fury flying back, vomiting blood and bile, collapsing like a deflated sack of meat.
Yup.
It was peak Wesker.
Dante broke into a sweat.
Goddammit.
Sure, in the original game he died from a rocket launcher to the face and a lava bath combo—but let's not pretend he wasn't cracked as hell before that.
The two crazy sisters were still busy cleaning up stragglers and hadn't noticed the boss fight had started. Not that they'd be much help anyway.
"Things have changed since my FBI days."
That line made Dante's heart skip.
Wait, what?
He's from the Bureau too?!
Is the FBI just a villain factory now?! Are they cloning bosses just to make my job harder?
"Do you always feel the need to flex your backstory?"
Dante didn't hesitate. He tossed his rifle aside and pulled the military bayonet from his belt.
If you can't land a hit, even the best weapon is just an expensive flashlight.
Better to ditch it now than have it taken from you.
"Six minutes left. I'll give you a chance. Come challenge me."
Wesker moved again, and Dante was forced into close combat.
Their first clash gave Dante one good piece of news—and one very bad one.
The bad news: for every ten attacks Wesker threw, Dante could only counter once.
The good news: thanks to the Dionysus Factor, his body could just barely keep up with the damage.
Fortunately, this was still just Wesker. Fast as hell, but his killing power wasn't beyond Dante's limit. If it had been someone like Thor, he'd be dead already and waiting for his respawn timer to tick down.
So Dante settled in.
Every time he managed to land a blow, he went all in. Fierce. Brutal. Surgical.
The Uroboros virus might be powerful, but it was still miles behind the Dionysus Factor.
Five minutes passed.
Wesker was the one panting now.
Bloodied. Bruised. His sunglasses had been obliterated by a clean punch to the face, and even the Uroboros virus couldn't keep up with the damage anymore.
"You said you'd play with us for seven minutes. Well, you've got one minute left," Dante said, calm but cold. "Whatever you're hiding in that lab—hand it over. I can guarantee you a quiet life. In a Federal Bureau of Investigation prison."
Wesker didn't answer. His eyes burned brighter.
"You… you've got an even stronger regeneration ability? You've been infected too, haven't you? Another biochemical anomaly?"
"Virus? You're insane."
Dante shook his head. Talking to this guy was like debating evolution with a toaster that thought it was God.
"It doesn't matter," Wesker said. "Even if you won't talk, once you're dissected, your secrets will still be revealed."
As he spoke, black, viscous tentacles began to ooze from his wounds.
Oh boy.
Here it comes.
That classic Resident Evil final form nonsense that completely ignores the laws of physics.
The tentacles rapidly spread, covering Wesker's entire body—except for his face—which now looked like something straight out of a monster movie.
Dante's expression tightened.
Not good.
This version had traded speed for raw power.
And even with the Dionysus Factor, that much brute force meant one thing: he'd get pancaked and have to rely on regeneration from the floor.
Then again—
His peripheral vision caught something.
He relaxed.
"Tell me, Wesker. Why the hell are you so obsessed with the Uroboros virus?"
"You wouldn't understand," Wesker growled. "I was born from the genome project. I've always pursued a higher evolution…"
"Tch. So it's an identity crisis. You don't really accept yourself as a clone, so now you're compensating with all this evolutionary obsession."
"Maybe. But the victor will always be Albert Wesker."
"Bullshit. That bald bastard may've gone down in one hit, but something about that seems fishy. You, on the other hand, Mr. Dramatic—eat shit."
BZZZZZT!
As the words left Dante's mouth, a beam of heat energy sliced down from above and melted Wesker's entire head.
(To be continued.)