The arena was chaos. The fight had lasted for nearly an hour, and Dante's body was in shambles. Burn marks laced his chest, one so deep it exposed part of his ribcage. His healing couldn't keep up anymore. Some wounds just refused to close.
Carnyxx wasn't much better. Blood poured from the stump where his arm used to be, and yet he stood tall, smiling like the devil himself. The crowd was torn—some roared Dante's name, others screamed for Carnyxx, but most? They were just there for the carnage.
Dante wiped the blood from his lip and gave a crooked grin. "You're bleeding out, hothead. Want a towel?"
Carnyxx's eye twitched. Then he laughed. A slow, broken laugh that spiraled into madness.
"You think you—a hybrid mutt—can defeat me?" he snarled. Then, without warning, he bent down and drank his own blood.
The arena held its breath.
Wind exploded outward. Blood spiraled through the air, and the ground trembled beneath them. Something ancient stirred.
Carnyxx's body cracked. Shifted. Wings tore from his back, massive and leathery. Scales spread across his flesh like molten steel. Horns erupted from his skull, and his mouth stretched into something inhuman. In seconds, he became something else entirely.
A dragon.
Standing tall, radiating heat, he looked down on Dante like a god.
"It's time I finish this. I'll burn your body, scatter your ashes, and—"
But he never finished.
Dante flickered.
One moment he was in front of Carnyxx. The next—gone.
He reappeared behind the beast in a blur, blade in hand.
And with one clean motion, he cut through Carnyxx's neck.
The head fell. Dante caught it mid-air, turned toward the roaring stands, and raised it high for all to see.
Gasps. Then screams. The arena erupted in a frenzy.
Dante, bloodied and bruised, held the head of the Hybrid Butcher like a trophy.
The announcer's voice boomed across the arena.
"Winner of Match Four… Dante!"
He stood there, grinning through the blood and pain.
And the gods watching from above?
They had just witnessed something they would never forget.
---
As the roar of the crowd still echoed behind him, Dante limped down the corridor, Carnyxx's blood still fresh on his hands, his skin scorched, torn, and bruised in a dozen places. But his smirk? Untouched.
He looked up toward the high box where the gods sat in silence, their glowing eyes trained on him.
"Guess I ain't dead yet," he muttered with a smug tilt of his head, before slipping into the shadows of the corridor.
His dressing room door slammed shut behind him, and he finally let out a shaky breath. Collapsing onto the stone bench, he hissed as his hand brushed the charred remains of his chest. His fingers trembled, but not from fear—from the sheer toll of surviving.
The Sound God's voice echoed in his mind. "Impressive. But don't let your guard down. The gods are watching now."
"I noticed," Dante muttered, eyes narrowing. "Where the hell is that bastard…"
He tried reaching out, calling for the Trickster. Nothing. Just a low buzz of silence.
"Of course," he growled. "Vanishing act when I need him most."
He focused instead on healing, hands glowing faintly as skin began to knit back together—slowly. Too slowly. He was drained.
And then—chill.
A coldness crawled across the room, like a shadow breathing on his neck.
"Hey, hybrid."
Dante froze. The voice was low, smooth, but filled with venom.
He stood, sword manifesting in a whisper of light as he spun around—but no one was there.
"You're starting to make noise," the voice continued, calm and eerie. "The gods don't like noise. You keep this up, they'll burn your name off the stone tablets themselves."
"Show yourself," Dante growled, blade raised. "So I can give you a reason to whisper."
"Oh, I will. But not before giving you a little taste of reality."
Before Dante could move, he felt a sting in his neck. He reached for it—but it was already too late.
A toxin surged through his veins like fire. His breath caught.
"You think… you think poison's gonna make me yield?" he gasped, knees buckling. "I trained my body for eight… long… years…"
His vision blurred. The sword slipped from his fingers, clattering uselessly to the floor.
And then—darkness.
As Dante collapsed, a figure stepped out from the shadows. Cloaked in smoke, masked in shadows, the stranger crouched beside him and whispered in his ear.
"This is your only warning. Lose the next match, or I'll make sure you don't live long enough to regret it."
Then the figure dragged Dante into the night—vanishing just as quietly as they had come.