The volcano roared like a living beast, belching fire and thick plumes of smoke into the sky. The heat twisted the air, making everything ripple like an illusion. Dante stood at the edge, watching as the Trickster stretched lazily, as if about to dive into a lake instead of a pit of molten death.
"You sure about this?" Dante asked, shading his eyes against the fiery glow below.
The Trickster shot him a sharp grin. "I've been sure about dumber things." Then, without another word, he dove.
The moment he hit the lava, the surface buckled and swallowed him whole. Dante didn't flinch, but he couldn't deny the tension settling in his gut. He knew the Trickster would be fine—he always was—but still, watching someone disappear into a sea of fire wasn't exactly reassuring.
Seconds stretched into minutes. Dante rocked on his heels, his arms crossed, scanning the hellish crater below. The volcano pulsed like a beating heart.
Then, with a sudden whoosh, the lava parted, and the Trickster shot up from the depths, holding something in his hand. The artifact gleamed in the firelight, its once-dull surface now thrumming with life, as if the molten core had awakened it.
With effortless grace, the Trickster landed beside Dante, tossing the artifact in the air before catching it again. "And that's how you unlock an ancient relic."
Dante stared at the artifact—then at the Trickster, still dripping with bits of lava that slid off him like water. "You done showing off?"
"Not even close." The Trickster smirked, then grabbed Dante's wrist, pressing the artifact to his skin.
A shock ran through him. Dante's body went rigid as the artifact latched onto him, sinking just beneath his skin. The stabilizing energy wrapped around his very essence, binding to him like a second soul.
For the first time in weeks, he felt… steady.
The sensation of shifting, of his body slipping in and out of existence, of the Trickster's control twisting through his bones—it was all gone. He clenched his fists, taking a slow breath. His body felt real. Whole.
"What's next?" Dante asked, flexing his fingers.
The Trickster's grin faded, replaced by something sharper. "What's next…" He tilted his head, watching Dante carefully. "...is you getting your body back."
Dante blinked. "Wait. That's it? That was the whole reason for this?"
"Did you think I was just holding on to you for fun?" The Trickster flicked Dante's forehead. "I told you—I needed you stable first. Now that you are, we can move on."
Something about his tone made Dante wary. "Move on to what?"
The Trickster's smirk returned, but this time it didn't reach his eyes. He let the silence linger, stretching the moment just long enough for unease to settle in Dante's gut.
Then, finally, he said it.
"The Celestial Gauntlet."
Dante frowned. "The hell is that?"
The Trickster chuckled, but there was something unreadable in his expression. "A tournament. The kind where gods rip each other apart for a seat at the High Table."
Dante took a step back. "You want me to enter a god tournament?"
"Want? No. Need? Absolutely." The Trickster rolled his shoulders. "If you win, you get to rewrite the rules. Their rules. You get to make them see you. And trust me, Dante, that's something you're going to need."
Dante shook his head. "That's insane. I'm not a god."
"Not yet."
Something about the way he said it sent a chill down Dante's spine.
Dante exhaled sharply. "Fine. Whatever. When's this damn tournament?"
The Trickster's smirk widened. "Eight years."
The words hit Dante like a hammer. He stared at the Trickster, waiting for him to correct himself, to say he was joking. But he didn't.
Eight years.
Dante's mouth felt dry. "When I turn twenty-four."
The Trickster's grin faltered, just slightly. "Yeah."
Dante swallowed hard.
Twenty-four. The age where hybrids from his family die.
His breath hitched. His mind reeled back to the stories, the warnings—the reality that had been drilled into him since childhood.
No one in his bloodline made it past twenty-four.
A sick feeling twisted in his stomach. He turned to the Trickster, voice low. "You knew."
The Trickster didn't deny it. He simply met Dante's gaze, his expression unreadable.
Dante clenched his fists. "So what, then? I have to train for eight years, knowing I probably won't even make it to the tournament?"
"No." The Trickster's voice was quiet, but firm. "You have to train for eight years… to make sure you do."
The words sank in, heavy as stone.
Dante let out a slow breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "And where exactly are we doing this training?"
The Trickster finally grinned again, his usual arrogance slipping back into place. "Oh, you'll love it. It's nice and cold."
The wind howled like a starving beast, clawing at Dante's skin as he trudged through the endless snow. The sky above was black, speckled with stars that barely seemed to flicker through the icy haze.
They had reached Evermont Peak, the tallest mountain in the universe, where the cold could freeze a god's bones and the air was thin enough to choke the life out of anything less than divine.
Dante exhaled, watching his breath turn to frost in an instant.
"This is hell," he muttered.
The Trickster, standing a few paces ahead, laughed. "No, no, hell is warm. This is worse."
Dante scowled. "And you expect me to train here for eight years?"
"I expect you to survive here. The training comes after that."
Dante gritted his teeth. His body ached from the climb, but he pushed forward, forcing himself to stand tall despite the relentless cold.
The Trickster clapped his hands together, surveying the frozen expanse before them. "Alright, first lesson." He turned to Dante with a wicked grin. "Don't die."
Dante groaned, rubbing his temples. "This is gonna be a long eight years."
The Trickster's grin widened. "Oh, you have no idea."
As the blizzard raged around them, Dante knew one thing for sure—whatever hell he had been through so far was nothing compared to what was coming next.
And for the first time, he truly understood… he was running out of time.