Chapter 100: Divine Desecration
The darkness behind Dante’s eyelids wasn’t restful; it was a suffocating void filled with the phantom echoes of tearing flesh and the cold scrape of obsidian. Consciousness slammed back into him not with gentle awareness, but with a scream tearing raw from his shredded throat. Pure, scalding agony seared across his chest.
Abyzoth stood before him, the skeletal demon’s burning ember eyes fixed with rapt intensity on his work. In one spindly, clawed hand, he held a slender blade, its tip glowing white-hot, casting harsh, flickering shadows on the pearlescent walls and Dante’s own sweat-slicked, blood-streaked skin. The blade wasn’t just hot; it hummed with vile, infernal energy that burned beyond mere flesh.
He was carving. Methodically. Deeply. Each deliberate stroke etched a complex, twisting sigil into Dante’s pectoral muscle, the skin and tissue sizzling and blackening at the touch of the enchanted metal. The stench of burning flesh, acrid and nauseating, filled the sterile chamber, mingling with the coppery tang of fresh blood and the underlying decay clinging to Abyzoth. Smoke curled upwards from the seared wounds.
Dante convulsed, fighting the chains with every ounce of his diminished strength. But Nythera’s magic was a vise. It wasn’t just the cold metal manacles biting into his wrists and ankles; it was as if the air itself solidified around his limbs, holding them utterly immobile, stretched taut against the chains, exposing every inch of his ravaged torso to Abyzoth’s artistry. He couldn’t twist, couldn’t even flinch away. He was a pinned butterfly, forced to endure the meticulous, agonizing dissection. His scream fragmented into ragged, wet gasps, each breath scraping like broken glass in his lungs.
Lute stood frozen near the chamber door, the spot where she’d vomited still a damp, sour patch on the floor. Her single eye was wide, fixed on the horror unfolding. Her knuckles were bone-white where she gripped the doorframe. Horror warred with a sickening fascination. This wasn't just torture; it was a desecration written in fire and blood. She watched the sigils bloom on Dante's skin, each line a fresh eruption of pain that contorted his handsome, agonized face.
Abyzoth paused, tilting his skull-like head. He admired the smoking, bleeding patterns now covering Dante’s chest. A wet, rattling chuckle escaped his lipless maw. "Beg for mercy, Prince," he crooned, the sound like rocks tumbling down a grave. He brought the white-hot tip of the blade close to Dante’s left nipple, not touching, just letting the searing heat radiate. "Kiss my boots. Swear allegiance. Perhaps… I make the next sigil… quick."
Dante dragged his head up through sheer, defiant will. Sweat and blood matted his hair to his forehead. His crimson eyes, blurred with pain, blazed with pure, infernal fury. He spat a thick gob of blood and phlegm that splattered weakly against Abyzoth's bony thigh. "Fuck you," he rasped, his voice a ruined whisper scraping over broken glass. He sucked in a tortured breath, gathering the dregs of his defiance. "Go… fuck… yourself… abomination."
Abyzoth’s ember eyes flared. The obscene grin widened. "Brave words… on broken flesh." He lowered the white-hot blade, its glow reflecting in the pools of blood welling in the sigils. With chilling casualness, he extended two skeletal fingers, the blackened claws sharp as razors. He dipped them deliberately into the deepest, still-smoking wound just below Dante’s collarbone. Dante arched as far as the magical restraints allowed, a guttural, animalistic cry ripped from him as the claws probed the raw, burning nerve endings.
Abyzoth withdrew his fingers, coated thickly in Dante's dark, hot blood. He held them up, letting the viscous fluid drip. His gaze slid down Dante’s trembling body, past the ruined chest, past the heaving abdomen, to the Prince’s flaccid cock lying against his thigh. With the same deliberate slowness, Abyzoth brought his blood-smeared claws to his own groin. There, amidst the tattered remnants of whatever clothing he wore, his own cock, a grotesque, semi-erect shaft as grey and cracked as sun-baked mud, glistened with a thick, oily fluid leaking from its tip. He smeared Dante's blood along its length, mixing crimson with the grey ichor, the obscene tableau illuminated by the sterile chamber lights.
Dante’s eyes widened with dawning, visceral terror that cut through the blinding pain. "No," he choked out, the word barely audible. "Don't you fucking—"
Abyzoth didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer, his skeletal frame pressing against Dante’s stretched legs. He gripped his blood-slicked cock with one bony hand, positioning the swollen, leaking tip against Dante’s stretched, torn, and still-bleeding hole – the ruin left by the obsidian rod. Dante thrashed with impossible force against Nythera’s binding magic, a raw scream of denial tearing loose. The chains screamed in protest, but held.
Abyzoth thrust.
It wasn't penetration; it was impalement. A brutal, tearing invasion with no preparation, no give. Dante’s hole, already savaged, was forced open anew by the alien girth. The grey, blood-slicked cock slammed deep, ripping through tender, unhealed tissue. The sensation was beyond agony – a white-hot spear of violation lancing up his spine, exploding in his skull. He felt the rough, cracked texture scrape his inner walls, the unnatural heat of the demonic flesh burning inside him. His back arched violently, muscles straining to the point of tearing, every nerve ending shrieking. His scream hit a shattered, inhuman pitch, echoing off the sterile walls, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment.
Abyzoth grunted, a low sound of perverse satisfaction that vibrated through his skeletal frame and into Dante’s violated body. He withdrew slightly, the movement dragging against torn flesh, then slammed back in, deeper still. Schlick. Thud. Dante’s world dissolved into a white-noise roar of pain and violation. His body convulsed uncontrollably around the invading shaft, his cock twitching in a traitorous, agonized spasm. Tears and blood and sweat streamed down his face. He could feel the demon’s unnatural heat pulsing inside him, feel the scrape of cracked skin, feel the ichor mixing with his own blood leaking down his inner thighs. Humiliation burned as fiercely as the pain – the Prince of Hell, reduced to this, brutally fucked by a grinning nightmare.
Lute couldn’t breathe. The sight, the sounds – the wet, tearing thrusts, Dante’s shattered screams, Abyzoth’s low grunts – slammed into her like physical blows. The smell of blood, burnt flesh, decay, and now something else, something sickly-sweet and alien emanating from Abyzoth, filled her nostrils. Dante’s eyes, wide with a terror and agony she’d never imagined possible, locked onto hers for a fractured second before rolling back. He was breaking. Truly breaking. Not just his body, but his spirit, under this monstrous violation.
She couldn’t watch. Wouldn’t. The horror curdled into a desperate, choking nausea that had nothing to do with her earlier sickness. She turned abruptly, stumbling back through the doorway. The heavy chamber door hissed shut behind her, muffling, but not silencing, the sounds of Dante’s continued agony. Leaning against the cold corridor wall, she gasped, her hand pressed to her mouth, trying to erase the images burned onto her retinas. Panic, cold and sharp, replaced the nausea. He’s killing him. Or worse. She pushed off the wall. Adam. She needed Adam. Now.
The Celestial War Room was a stark contrast to the sterile torture chamber. Grand vaults soared overhead, illuminated by soft, ethereal light emanating from the walls themselves, covered in intricate celestial maps and glowing runes. At the center stood a massive, ornate obsidian table, its surface dominated by a pulsating orb that hummed with dense, otherworldly energy, casting shifting blue light onto the faces of the two figures standing before it.
Adam, the First Man, stood ramrod straight, his expression grim as he studied the swirling patterns within the orb. Beside him, radiating barely leashed violence, was Sukuna. The King of Curses leaned against the table, arms crossed over his bare, tattooed chest, his usual smirk replaced by a cold, impatient scowl. The air crackled with tension, the hum of the orb a counterpoint to the suffocating silence between them.
Lute burst into the room, her boots echoing sharply on the polished floor. Her face was ashen, her breathing ragged, her single eye wide with undisguised panic. The pristine, orderly atmosphere of the war room felt grotesque after the hell she’d just witnessed.
Adam’s head snapped up, his ancient eyes narrowing as he took in her disheveled state, the horror etched on her features. He noticed her before she could even form a coherent word. "Lute?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the hum of the orb. "What happened?"
Sukuna turned, his predatory gaze locking onto her. Instinct flared in his crimson eyes, sensing weakness, chaos.
Lute stopped a few feet away, trembling. The words tumbled out, raw and desperate. "I fucked up, Adam. I… I fucked up so bad." Her voice cracked.
Adam took a step towards her, his brow furrowed. "What did you do, Lute?" The question was low, dangerous.
She swallowed hard, the images of Dante’s torture flashing behind her eyes. "Her and Dythaniel… we had a plan. A fucked up plan. With Dante." She gestured vaguely, helplessly. "We were gonna follow through with it. We found a witch… Nythera… to summon him. A demon… Abyzoth… to weaken him. Then… then we were gonna bind him. With a spell. Get him under Dy’s command. Control him."
Sukuna didn’t let her finish. One moment he was leaning against the obsidian table, radiating simmering rage. The next, he was a blur of terrifying motion. Adam shouted, "Sukuna, wait—!" but it was too late.
Sukuna crossed the distance in less than a heartbeat. His hand shot out, fingers like iron bands wrapping around Lute’s throat with crushing force. He lifted her clean off her feet, slamming her back against the nearest vaulted wall hard enough to crack the celestial marble. Her feet dangled, kicking uselessly. Air vanished from her lungs. Panic flooded her vision as she stared into Sukuna’s face, inches from hers, contorted with pure, murderous fury. His grip tightened, promising to crush her windpipe.
Adam surged forward, his voice commanding, cutting through Sukuna’s rage. "Sukuna, WAIT!" He didn’t grab the curse user; he didn’t dare. But his words held the weight of immediate necessity. "She’s the only one who can take us to him! Let her go! Now!"
Sukuna’s burning eyes flickered towards Adam, the promise of violence still radiating from him like heat. His gaze bore into Lute’s terror-stricken face, his grip unrelenting for a terrifying heartbeat longer. Then, with a grunt of disgust, he opened his hand. Lute crashed to the floor in a heap, gasping and choking, clutching her bruised throat. Sukuna loomed over her, his fists clenched, radiating menace like a physical force. His voice was a low, dangerous growl. "Where. Is. He."
Lute scrambled backwards on the polished floor, her boots slipping in the sour puddle of her own vomit as Sukuna's raw fury pinned her more effectively than any chains. Her throat burned where his fingers had crushed it, each ragged gasp scraping like broken glass. "The Nexus Annex!" she choked out, pointing a trembling hand towards the corridor she'd fled. "Down the primary causeway! Third portal nexus! He's... Abyzoth is... he's tearing him apart!" The memory of Dante's raw, violated scream echoed in her skull, drowning out the hum of the celestial orb.
Sukuna didn't waste a breath. He was gone, a blur of tattooed muscle and terrifying intent, vanishing down the corridor faster than sight could follow. Adam hauled Lute roughly to her feet, his ancient eyes hard, devoid of their usual weary patience. "Move, Lute," he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. "You brought this nightmare. You'll help end it." He shoved her forward, propelling her stumbling after Sukuna's retreating form. Her legs felt like water, but terror of Adam's wrath, and the monstrous scene awaiting them, spurred her on. The sterile air of the causeway felt suffocating.
Back in the sterile torture chamber, agony was a white-hot brand seared into Dante’s very soul. Abyzoth’s grotesque cock, slick with blood and oily ichor, pistoned into his ruined hole with brutal, tearing thrusts. Each invasion ripped through tender, unhealed flesh, a fresh wave of violation that shattered thought, reducing existence to pure, screaming sensation. The skeletal demon’s bony hips slammed against Dante’s thighs with jarring force, the wet schlick-thud sounds echoing obscenely off the pearlescent walls. He grunted with each thrust, a low, satisfied rumble that vibrated through Dante’s core. "Prince... tastes... defeat," Abyzoth rasped, his breath a fetid gust against Dante’s sweat-slicked neck, his ember eyes burning with perverse delight inches from Dante’s pain-blurred vision.
Nythera stood near the humming console, her obsidian gaze fixed on the scene. Her expression wasn't pleasure, but cold, clinical assessment. She monitored the pulsing golden lines of the Devil’s Trap beneath Dante’s spread, trembling legs, ensuring its celestial and infernal weave held firm against his suppressed power. The Prince’s screams were data points, his convulsions proof of the trap's efficacy. She adjusted a dial with a spindly finger, tightening the magical vise holding his limbs immobile. "Resilience diminishes," she observed flatly, her voice cutting through the sounds of violation. "The binding holds."
Dante felt himself fragmenting. Pain, raw and absolute. Humiliation, a corrosive acid eating through millennia of pride. Fury, a molten core buried deep beneath layers of torment, began to bubble. He felt the rough, cracked texture of Abyzoth’s cock sawing inside him, the scrape of bone against ravaged muscle, the unnatural heat burning his insides. His own blood, warm and slick, mingled with the demon's oily fluid, running down his thighs. His cock, trapped against his stomach, throbbed with a sickening echo of sensation utterly divorced from pleasure. He was raw meat. A plaything. He was nothing. The spark of infernal fury, feral and desperate, fed on that utter annihilation. It fed on the sight of Lute’s horrified face imprinted in his memory. It fed on the cold gaze of Nythera. It fed on the wet, grunting breaths of the abomination violating him.
Then Abyzoth shifted his angle, grinding deeper, harder, seeking a new nerve cluster to obliterate. He found it. A white nova of agony, brighter and more shattering than anything before, exploded behind Dante’s eyes. It wasn't just physical. It was the final insult. The ultimate desecration of him. That spark of fury detonated.
SOMETHING SNAPPED.
The chains holding Dante’s wrists and ankles didn't break; they shattered. Not from physical force, but from a shockwave of pure, unleashed power that erupted outwards. The heavy steel links fragmented like glass, shards flying across the chamber to ping harmlessly off the walls. The glowing golden lines of the Devil’s Trap flared blindingly bright for a nanosecond – then snuffed out, extinguished like a candle in a hurricane. Nythera cried out, sharp and startled, stumbling back from her console as her intricate spellwork unraveled in an instant.
Abyzoth was hurled backwards as if by a titanic force. He crashed into the far wall with a sickening crunch of bone, his grotesque cock ripped free from Dante’s body with a wet, tearing sound. He slid down, momentarily stunned, his ember eyes wide with shock.
Dante didn't fall. He hung suspended in the center of the chamber for a fractured moment, wreathed in swirling darkness and crackling crimson energy. Then the transformation erupted.
His skin turned ashen gray, like cooled volcanic ash. Beneath the surface, thick lines pulsed with the incandescent glow of molten lava, mapping rivers of infernal power across his entire form. Massive wings, leathery and blacker than the void between stars, ripped from his back, unfurling with a sound like tearing sails to scrape the high ceiling. Insanely large, ebony horns, thick and wickedly curved, spiraled upwards from his temples, sharpened tips gleaming. His mouth stretched, jaw distending, revealing rows of razor-sharp fangs that glinted like obsidian daggers. His fingers ended in brutal black claws, long and curved, capable of rending steel. All the pent-up fury, the bottomless anger, the seething hate cultivated over eons, all the absolute worst depths of his infernal lineage, surged forth in this terrible, unstoppable manifestation. He was Apocalypse given form. He lowered his head, ash-gray skin tight over the still-bleeding sigils on his chest, the lava-veins pulsing with rhythmic, terrifying light. Massive wings shifted slightly, the motion stirring the thick air. His new eyes, burning pits of crimson fire where pupils and irises should be, scanned the room.
Nythera froze. Utter, primal terror washed over her ancient features, erasing all cold calculation. She took a slow, silent step backwards, towards the sealed gateway console, her obsidian eyes wide, fixed on the impossible monstrosity before her. Abyzoth, pushing himself up from the floor, his skeletal limbs trembling, mirrored her retreat, his burning ember eyes fixed on Dante with dawning, animalistic dread. They didn't want him to see them. Didn't want to draw the attention of this unleashed Primordial.
He saw them.
Dante moved. Not with speed, but with terrifying, inevitable force. One moment he was in the center, the next he was there, directly in front of Nythera. His massive clawed hand shot out, not fast, but unstoppable. She had no time to scream, no time to weave a ward. His clawed fingers closed around her head, palm engulfing her skull, claws digging into her temples. A sickening crunch echoed in the sudden silence, impossibly loud. Crimson fire flared from his grasp, incinerating flesh, bone, and ancient consciousness in a single, brutal heartbeat. Her body went limp, a ruined husk, before it even hit the floor. Effortless. Absolute. Her corpse thudded dully onto the pearlescent surface, a smear of ash and gore marking her end.
Dante didn't pause. He turned. Those burning crimson pits fixed on Abyzoth, who was scrambling backwards now, crablike, chains rattling frantically, his skeletal face twisted in pure, gibbering terror. The Prince’s molten gaze tracked the demon’s desperate retreat, the lava-veins pulsing brighter. He took a single step forward, the massive clawed foot landing with a heavy thud that vibrated through the floor. A low, guttural growl, like tectonic plates grinding, rumbled from his fanged maw. This one wouldn't be quick.
He stalked Abyzoth with deliberate, monstrous slowness. The skeletal demon scrambled, his chains clanking, trying to put distance between himself and the approaching nightmare. Dante reached down, his massive clawed hand closing not on Abyzoth, but on one of the heavy steel chains trailing from the demon’s limbs. Abyzoth shrieked, a high-pitched sound of utter terror, as Dante lifted him effortlessly off the floor by the chain, like a child lifting a doll by a string. He swung the flailing demon through the air and slammed him down onto the ornate summoning table with bone-shattering force. Equipment scattered, shattering on the floor.
Dante leaned over the broken demon. One massive clawed hand pinned Abyzoth’s chest, the black talons piercing the grey, cracked skin like it was parchment. Abyzoth writhed, shrieking incoherently, void-eyes wide with primal fear. Dante’s other hand, the claws glinting wickedly, rose. He didn’t aim for a killing blow. He started with the fingers of Abyzoth’s left hand. One by one. The claws snipped through the brittle bone of each digit with sharp, wet cracks, like snapping dry twigs. Abyzoth’s screams reached a new, agonized pitch.
The chamber door hissed open. Adam, Lute, and Sukuna stood frozen on the threshold, their silhouettes stark against the corridor light. They took in the scene: the monstrous, ashen-skinned entity with colossal wings and horns hunched over the shattered summoning table, the gory ruin of Nythera crumpled nearby, and the source of the agonized shrieking pinned beneath a massive, clawed hand. The air reeked of ozone, burnt flesh, blood, and overpowering, primal terror. They didn’t recognize the towering figure methodically dismembering Abyzoth.
Sukuna, his eyes narrowed, assessing the sheer, terrifying power radiating from the winged entity, took a half-step back. His voice was a low, disbelieving exhale. "Oh... fuck."
Adam, his face pale, tore his gaze from the grisly tableau to Sukuna. His whisper was tight with dawning horror. "What? What is that?"
Sukuna didn't look at him. His eyes were glued to the scene, to the monstrous shape twisting Abyzoth’s arm until the bone snapped with a sickening pop, eliciting another raw scream. His voice was flat, final, carrying the weight of absolute certainty and urgent dread. "That's Dante. And we need to fucking go. Now. Before he sees us." He was already turning, poised to flee.
Adam stared, comprehension warring with disbelief, his gaze snapping back to the terrifying figure now slowly, deliberately, peeling a strip of grey skin and muscle from Abyzoth’s screaming torso with its claws. "Is... is this..." Adam’s whisper was barely audible, choked with realization. "...the side his siblings had to fight fuckin' centuries to get him out of?"
Sukuna, already backing into the corridor, his predatory instincts screaming at the overwhelming threat, just gave a single, sharp nod. "Yes."