Godstealer-Chapter 29: When Fire Meets Madness

From deep inside his psyche...

a door opened.

The Trickster stepped out, wearing a therapist's sweater and comically large glasses.

"Okay, quick mental health check. Rate your instability on a scale from 1 to 'I'm gonna eat the sun for breakfast.'"

No response. Just cold silence.

The Trickster frowned.

"You're at a solid 'kill first, sarcasm never.' Yikes."

He floated across Dante's vision like static.

"Kid, this ain't you. You're not a monster. You're the beautiful mess that makes monsters regret existing."

No reaction.

Suddenly, the Aura Devourer regenerated his limb and lunged again. This time, he absorbed the heat from Dante's flames and grew twice in size.

"He's getting stronger the more you burn," the Trickster muttered.

He snapped his fingers.

In his hand: a shard of mirror glass, pulled from the realm of truth.

"Borrow some silence, kid."

The Trickster plunged the shard into Dante's mental chest—light burst from within. The raging aura that had poured from Dante moments ago collapsed inward, drawn into the mirror shard like breath into lungs.

The crowd gasped. Dante's glow was gone. He looked... human again.

The Aura Devourer laughed.

"You've burned yourself out. Now—"

Dante moved.

No fire. No energy. Just pure precision. He danced between the beast's claws, dodging without waste. Every motion was tight, honed, dangerous.

He was back.

Inside, the Trickster kicked back into a floating chair, sipping a drink with a curly straw.

"Welcome back, hybrid. I missed ya."

Dante slammed a hand into the monster's stomach, loading it with compressed aura.

"You're hungry?" he whispered.

"Eat this."

He unleashed the energy inward, burning the creature from the inside out. The beast howled, cracked, and then crumbled to ash, unable to regenerate.

Silence.

The arena erupted.

From inside his mind, the Trickster cackled.

"We're like peanut butter and chaos. You bring the six-pack, I bring the god-damned apocalypse."

Dante smirked. Just for a moment.

But the Trickster saw it.

He was still in there.

As guards approached to take Dante back to the dressing room, his eyes flicked to the gods again.

The Trickster's voice echoed, serious now.

"They made a mistake letting me back in. And when we find the green-eyed bastard..."

He snapped his fingers.

"Showtime."

---

The Aura Devourer collapsed into a steaming heap of smoldering ash. Dante stood over it, barefoot, shirtless, his body steaming as if he had just walked through hell itself. The crowd was thunderous, a mixture of awe, fear, and a strange, fervent admiration.

Guards rushed into the arena, surrounding him.

"By decree of the High Table, you will be escorted for containment—"

Dante turned his head, only slightly. The air around him shifted—hot, heavy, thick with raw tension. The guards hesitated.

Then a voice sliced through the noise. Calm, cold, and sharp like obsidian.

"Let him go."

The guards stopped. The arena grew quiet. A single god stood from the High Table, robes flowing like war banners, skin glowing faintly bronze beneath a polished breastplate. Eyes sharp red, gaze unwavering. A glint of silver adorned his ear—a piercing that caught the light like a threat.

He was, without question, the most handsome being in the divine stands.

The women in the audience, once fawning over Dante, now found their loyalties torn.

Was it the bloodied hybrid with fire in his veins... or the war god with thunder in his voice?

"I ask you, Dante," Idris said, "what do you plan to do with your wish, should you survive and earn a seat at the High Table?"

Dante cracked his neck. Smiled.

"Me? I just want to erase a tiny little apocalyptic law."

Idris raised a dark brow. "I assume... you mean the Hybrid Kill Law?"

He laughed, a full, rich sound that echoed across the arena.

"If you survive," Idris continued, "I'll do all within my power to grant you life... if you change that wish."

Dante's eyes narrowed. The flames around him dimmed. He didn't need fire for this.

"My name is Idris," the god said, stepping forward, "God of War. I can make that happen easily."

Dante didn't flinch.

"This isn't about me," he said. His voice was calm, cutting deep. "I don't care about my life."

He took a step forward. The guards stepped back.

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"This is for my father. My mother. For the hybrids who never had a chance to speak, never lived long enough to stand in this arena. This..."

He smiled. Not with joy—with purpose.

"...this is the less-violent kind of war."

Idris blinked. Then grinned slowly.

"You intrigue me, Dante. But know this—you will die like every other hybrid from your bloodline."

There was a pause.

Then Idris dropped the curtain.

"You know your little Trickster friend?" His smile curled darker. "He was once the most feared god of us all. Not because he was the strongest—because no one could predict him. Chaos incarnate. When we discovered he fell in love with a mortal, we passed a law to ban him. No love with humans."

He chuckled.

"Every god who feared what he could become... agreed."

Inside Dante's mind, the Trickster let out a long, furious screech.

"Oh that is rich! Look at them, golden-robed hypocrites with daddy issues! 'No love with humans'—says the guy with three demi-god kids and a Tinder profile!"

Dante sighed mentally.

"Calm down."

"Oh no, I'm calm. I'm collected. I just happen to be COLLECTING names for my future vengeance playlist!"

Dante ignored him, walking past the guards now parting before him. As he passed Idris, he muttered a slick line, barely audible.

"I'm not dying today. Not because I'm strong—but because I still have people to haunt."

Idris's eyes twitched. Just slightly. Enough.

The war god leaned back into his seat, intrigued... and just a little pissed.

As Dante exited the arena, the Trickster whispered again.

"They don't know what's coming."

Dante's smirk returned.

"No," he whispered. "But they will."