Godstealer-Chapter 28: The Ash Within

The arena trembled. The wind was sharp, the crowd roaring like wolves tasting blood in the air. The beast before Dante snarled—part lion, part lizard, its shadow stretched like a god's wrath.

Dante stood barefoot in the center of the sand, shirtless, hands relaxed by his sides, a smirk creeping across his face like a crack in glass. His eyes, colder than starlight. His posture—arrogant, silent, wrong.

The Sound God stiffened. He tapped his divine drum lightly, sending a ripple of sound not to Dante—but to Zerathis.

> "He's smiling like the Trickster," the Sound God whispered.

"No," Zerathis replied, leaning forward in a room darkened with lore and wine, "That's not the Trickster's smile. That smile... belongs to something else."

> "He's losing himself. You know what this means."

Zerathis' voice, usually soaked in humor and chaos, turned razor-sharp.

> "When a hybrid loses contact with their god, they don't just lose power... They start losing everything else. Their sense of humor. Their restraint. Their humanity."

> "You think he's dangerous now?" he added, pouring wine without drinking it. "Let him spiral another day without the Trickster, and he'll burn this pantheon to ash just to feel something."

Down in the pit, Dante laughed. The beast roared, "You dare mock me?!" and charged with a scream that cracked the stone.

Dante tilted his head. "Fire, huh?"

His hands twitched. His bones tightened.

He remembered Carnyxx's flame—the way it burned, the way it hurt. And then—

FWOOM.

Fire.

It erupted from his palms like inherited wrath. Like the Trickster had left him one final gift wrapped in fury.

The Sound God stood in his divine booth, stunned. "I didn't know you could do that."

Dante didn't look at him. He smiled wide, wicked. "Neither did I."

And then the firestorm began.

He didn't fight to win—he fought to erase. The beast screamed, limbs melting, muscles cracking, bones trying and failing to regenerate. Fire danced in Dante's eyes, wrapped around his skin, turned his silhouette into something godlike and wrong.

A young girl in the crowd whispered, "He's so bright... the sun looks dull compared to him."

When it was over, there was no beast. Just ash.

No one cheered at first.

Then the applause hit—screams, praises, chants of "DANTE! DANTE!" shaking the heavens.

Dante didn't bask in it. He looked up. Right into the gods' table.

He started walking. Calm. Barefoot on scorched earth. The heat didn't touch him.

He reached the very edge of the arena, standing just under the rim of the divine dais. The gods tensed. A few stood. Others whispered. One reached for a weapon.

Dante raised his head slowly. His voice, low and slick:

"Which of you sent the dog?"

Before anyone could move, divine guards dropped from above and tackled him.

He didn't resist.

He just laughed.

Dragged into the dressing room, blood on his chest, ash in his hair, he leaned back on the wall like a king who'd conquered a city.

The Sound God stormed in. "You need to calm down."

Dante didn't blink. "I can feel it. The fear under their cheers... the screams inside their minds. I can smell it now. I hear it all."

The Sound God backed off slightly. Something was different about him. Something even he, a god of vibration and resonance, couldn't quite tune into.

He whispered to himself, "Please... either he finds his way back—

Or the Trickster returns to drag him out."

But the Trickster?

He was nowhere.

And only one being knew where he'd gone:

The Knower of Truth.

The one who moves the multiverse and sees all.

–––

The message came in a whisper.

Not through words, but through vibration—a ripple across the walls of the Sound God's sanctum. His chamber was unlike the others; woven with humming threads of melody and layered frequencies that only gods could interpret.

The Sound God stood still, palms flat against a floating orb of vibrating light.

"You know where he is, don't you?" he said, voice deep as bass and sharp as cymbals.

A figure shimmered into form. Zerathis—eyes veiled behind a glimmering visor of blacklight, draped in a cloak that never stayed still.

"Yeah... I know."

"Then tell me."

Zerathis exhaled. Sparks of starlight spilled from his mouth like mist.

"He's in a place of truth. Where gods don't tread, because their lies would scream back at them."

"The Mirror Realm," the Sound God said grimly. "What the hell could he possibly be doing there?"

"Something about wanting a face back... and a weapon sharp enough to gut a god."

---

Cut To: The Mirror Realm

Endless glass. No ground. No ceiling. Just floating shards, suspended in infinite void.

The Trickster drifted in the nothing, arms folded behind his head, one leg crossed over the other like he was lounging on air. His reflection blinked back at him from every angle—smirking, whispering, distorting.

"Gods break laws. I break mirrors," he murmured to himself.

A pillar of golden light descended in front of him with a crack like splitting thunder. It coiled into the shape of a man—Kitian, Gatekeeper of Memory, radiating soft judgment and eternal irritation.

"Jamie Kennedy Foster. Back again? Should I start charging rent?"

The Trickster raised an eyebrow.

"Only if rent comes with a long-lost memory and a god-corroding death stick."

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Kitian's form shimmered with distaste.

"Why should I trust the man who shattered my daughter's heart and crashed a moon into my vineyard?"

"Look," the Trickster said, floating up to face him, "that was a millennia ago and she launched the first asteroid, alright?"

"She warned you."

"With a celestial threat!"

Kitian folded his arms.

"You want the memory and the weapon?"

"Yes, please."

"Then you owe me... one date. With her. Proper. Dinner and everything."

The Trickster groaned. "You divine bastards always play hardball."

"Say it."

"...Fine. I'll take her out."

Kitian snapped his fingers.

Light exploded into the Trickster's mind. The woman's face. Her laughter. Her touch.

And then—something darker. Coiling around his wrist like black mist—Virellius, the Blade of Corrosion. Alive. Breathing. Waiting.

"Now... how the hell do I leave this disco ball of despair?"

Kitian pressed a floating rune.

Reality split.

---

Cut To: Dante's Dressing Room

Steam hissed from broken pipes. The walls throbbed with the cheer of the crowd. Dante stood barefoot before a cracked mirror. Shirtless. Bruised. Breathing slow.

His pupils were dilated. His skin faintly glowing.

The Trickster appeared behind him, inside the mirror, lounging sideways in the reflection like a lazy cat.

"Daaaante. Long time no scream. Miss me?"

Dante didn't look back.

"I don't need you anymore."

The Trickster's grin twitched, just a little.

Behind the mirror, the Sound God's voice whispered through Dante's walls to no one in particular.

"He's losing himself. No contact for too long. The bond's fraying. He's slipping... into the cold."

The Trickster whispered quietly, mostly to himself.

"Time to get my funk on."

He faded into Dante's mind like smoke through cracks.