Chapter 108: First Blood
The Inferno Club pulsed like a diseased heart. Dante stood in the shadows of the VIP balcony, watching the writhing mass below through half-lidded eyes. The thumping bass vibrated the plush velvet under his fingertips, the scent of expensive bourbon, sweat, and that faint, ever-present sulfur a familiar cloak. Below, Dabi moved through the crowd with newfound confidence, a dangerous edge in his blue eyes that hadn’t been there before Sukuna’s… attention. Adam hadn’t shown his face since the dungeon. Dante smirked. Good. Let him stew.
A ripple of wrongness prickled across his skin. Subtle, like a discordant note in a symphony he conducted. His hellfire eyes narrowed, scanning the VIP section. A demon messenger, trembling and reeking of fear, shoved past a group of laughing succubi. He skidded to a halt before Dante, dropping to one knee, head bowed.
"Prince," the demon gasped, voice ragged. "Word from the upper circles. Lute… Adam’s lieutenant… she’s talking war. Payback for… for his first death. Against your sister. Against Hell."
Dante’s expression didn’t shift, but the air around him chilled several degrees. The demon flinched. "Lute," Dante repeated, the name a low rasp. Charlie had defended her realm. Adam’s friend had paid the price. Now this bitch wanted to dredge up corpses? He took a slow sip of his bourbon, the ice clinking sharply against the crystal. "Find Adam. Tell him he handles his rabid bitch lieutenant. Now. Or I will. And he won’t like how I handle it."
The demon scrambled away, relief palpable. Dante watched the dance floor, the simmering anger a low thrum beneath his calm exterior. Lute. He remembered her. Zealous. Obsessed with Adam. A problem Adam should fucking solve.
Days later, Adam stood rigidly in the dimly lit corridor near Dante’s private sanctum. Dante leaned against the obsidian doorframe, arms crossed, radiating impatience. "Well?"
"Handled," Adam stated, his voice tight. He avoided Dante’s gaze, focusing on a point over his shoulder. "Talked to Lute. Made it crystal fucking clear. Back off. Leave Hell alone. Told her you’d get involved if she so much as sneezed in our direction." He finally met Dante’s burning eyes, his own steely. "She said she understood. Said she wouldn’t do anything. Swore it."
Dante studied him, the Detroit rasp cool. "She bought that?"
Adam shrugged, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. "Seemed to. She got quiet. Looked… thoughtful. But she agreed."
A beat of silence. Dante pushed off the doorframe. "See that she stays bought, Feathers." He turned away, dismissing Adam. The angel lingered for a second, a muscle ticking in his jaw, before vanishing down the corridor. Dante didn’t see the spark that had ignited in Lute’s mind the moment Adam had uttered his name. A spark that had nothing to do with surrender.
The wrongness returned. Sharper. Hungrier. Dante was alone in his lavish private lounge, reviewing ledger projections flickering on a holographic display. The air thickened, tasting suddenly of ozone and grave dirt. The neon lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows flickered violently. A circle of pure darkness, etched with glowing, pulsating runes he didn’t recognize, bloomed on the intricate Persian rug before him.
Before he could react – before he could summon power – the runes flared blinding white. Chains, forged from solidified shadow and crackling violet energy, snapped out of the circle. They wrapped around his wrists, ankles, throat with impossible speed. Cold. Deeper than ice. It seared through his infernal power, locking it down. Binding it. He felt it like a physical amputation – the vast, ancient reservoir of his strength sealed away. He gasped, a raw, unfamiliar sound. Powerlessness crashed over him, a tidal wave of nausea and dread.
A figure stepped from the shadows beyond the circle. She appeared young, heartbreakingly delicate. Flaxen hair framed a face untouched by time, pale skin like porcelain. But her eyes… deep pools of midnight, swirling with centuries of malice and whispered curses. An unsettling aura clung to her, a silent scream beneath the beauty. Nyx. The witch.
Behind her, another form coalesced. Male. Terribly, unnervingly beautiful. Perfectly symmetrical features that felt carved, not born. Skin like cracked gold, catching the dim light with an inner, sorrowful gleam. His eyes burned, not with fire, but with a profound, sorrowful hunger that pulled you in even as it promised annihilation. Malchion. The demon. He looked like an angel who remembered the light but had drowned in shadow.
"Hello, Prince," Nyx said, her voice a sweet, poisonous chime. "Or should I say, former Prince?"
Malchion didn’t speak. He simply looked at Dante, shackled, powerless, his golden eyes drinking in the sight with that sorrowful hunger. He stepped forward, his movements unnaturally smooth. His hand, shimmering like gilded bone, shot out, gripping Dante’s jaw with crushing force. Dante snarled, trying to wrench away, but the shadow chains held him immobile. Malchion leaned in, his breath cold against Dante’s ear.
"Where is Sukuna?" His voice was like crumbling velvet, beautiful and terrifying.
Dante spat blood and defiance. "Go fuck yourself, glitter-boy."
Malchion’s sorrowful eyes flashed. His other fist snapped forward, cracking into Dante’s ribs with a sickening crunch. Agony exploded through Dante’s chest, stealing his breath. He sagged against the chains, coughing blood. Malchion grabbed a fistful of Dante’s dark hair, yanking his head back, and slammed his knee up into Dante’s gut. Again. And again. The blows were precise, brutal, designed to maximize pain without unconsciousness. Dante choked, his vision swimming.
"Where?" Malchion asked again, soft, relentless.
Dante forced his eyes open, meeting Malchion’s gaze. He bared bloodied teeth in a vicious grin. "Suck... my... cock."
Malchion sighed, a sound of profound disappointment. He raised his shimmering hand. It began to glow with a sickly, greenish light. Dante braced. The light touched his skin. It wasn’t fire. It was worse. It felt like his nerves were being peeled back, layer by layer, dipped in acid, and set alight. A raw, guttural scream tore from Dante’s throat, echoing in the suddenly silent lounge as the power binding him also dampened sound. Nyx watched, her youthful face serene, her midnight eyes absorbing every tremor of agony.
Time lost meaning. The luxurious lounge was gone, replaced by a cell carved from black, weeping stone deep beneath a forgotten place. The shadow chains remained, anchored to the walls, keeping Dante suspended, limbs stretched taut. Weeks bled together in a haze of unrelenting torment.
Malchion was an artist. He used knives that flayed strips of skin without severing arteries. He used brands that burned with icy cold instead of heat, searing patterns onto Dante’s flesh that wept glowing ichor. He used pressure points that induced hallucinations of suffocation, of drowning in blood, of his sister Charlie screaming. He broke bones, meticulously, letting them heal just enough before shattering them again in different places. Dante’s tattoos were ruined landscapes of scar tissue and dried blood. He hung limp, a broken thing, breathing in shallow, painful rasps. Hunger gnawed. Thirst parched. But worse was the helplessness. The utter, degrading powerlessness.
And Malchion always came back to the question. "Where is Sukuna?"
Dante’s answer was always silence, or a blood-choked curse, or sometimes, delirious laughter. He wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t say shit. He clung to Sukuna’s name in his shattered mind like a lifeline, a secret he’d die protecting.
The sexual violence was part of the dismantling. Malchion didn’t seek pleasure; he sought annihilation. He’d force Dante’s mouth open, shove his shimmering cock down his throat until Dante gagged, choked, vomited bile onto the stone floor. He’d flip him roughly, the chains grinding against raw wrists, and enter him dry, tearing him open with brutal, methodical thrusts. It was violation as profound as the physical torture, a weapon to erase any sense of self, of pride, of being the King of Hell. Dante endured. He bit through his lip, choked back screams, focused on the dark rage simmering beneath the agony. He bled internally and externally. He weakened. Drifted. Barely hung onto the frayed thread of consciousness.
One day, after another savage taking against the cold stone wall, Malchion withdrew, tucking himself away. Dante hung like a bloody rag doll, trembling uncontrollably, semen and blood dripping down his thighs. Malchion wiped his hands fastidiously on a pristine cloth. "Still silent, Prince?" The sorrowful hunger in his eyes was tinged with frustration. "Your defiance is… tedious."
Nyx appeared in the cell doorway, her delicate form looking incongruous amidst the gore. She surveyed Dante’s broken state, her midnight eyes calculating. "We don’t need Sukuna anymore," she announced, her voice cutting through Dante’s haze of pain. A sliver of cold dread pierced him deeper than any blade. "I figured it out."
Malchion raised a perfect, shimmering eyebrow. "Figured what out, Witch?"
Nyx stepped closer to Dante. She raised a hand, not touching him, but hovering over his chest. Her delicate fingers traced intricate patterns in the air, leaving trails of shimmering, sickly green light. Ancient words spilled from her lips, guttural and dissonant, scraping against Dante’s senses. The runes she wove glowed brighter, sinking into him, past his ruined flesh, deep into the core where his bound power still pulsed faintly, imprisoned.
It wasn't an unlocking. It was a forcing. A violent, invasive extraction. Nyx wasn't trying to control Dante; she was trying to rip out the most feral, ancient part of him – the part he kept chained even deeper than his power.
Agony unlike anything Malchion had inflicted tore through him. It felt like his soul was being flayed. He arched against the chains, a silent scream locked in his ruined throat. His skin began to change. The dark tattoos stretched, faded… dissolved. His flesh rippled, the warm tan hue bleaching away, replaced by a pale, light lavender shade that shimmered faintly under the cell’s dim light.
His eyes flew open wide. No longer hellfire, they burned with a deep, luminous amethyst light, ancient and utterly inhuman.
A cracking, tearing sound echoed as two massive pairs of horns erupted from his brow and temples. They were curved like sickles, obsidian black, ridged and wickedly sharp. From his shoulder blades, with a wet, leathery rustle, enormous wings unfolded. Not angelic feathers, but beautiful, night-black leather, bat-like but impossibly grand, the membrane stretched taut over strong, articulated bone. His fingernails elongated, thickened, hardened into razor-sharp black claws.
The transformation was horrific. Beautiful. Apocalyptic. This wasn't his full, world-shaking demonic majesty, but the form of an ancient torturer, a scourge of the damned from Hell's earliest, bloodiest epochs. He hung suspended, no longer the broken humanoid, but a creature of nightmare grace and power, radiating pure, undiluted menace. His amethyst eyes blazed with a fury that eclipsed pain.
The shadow chains strained but held, still leeching his power, keeping this terrifying form contained. But Dante wasn't under their control. The rage in those amethyst eyes was his own. Primal. Unforgiving.
Lute stepped from the shadows behind Nyx, her angelic features twisted in a vicious smile of triumph. She took in the monstrous, bound figure before her – the Pale Scourge, the Apocalypse Bringer, forced into the light. Her voice cut through the heavy silence, dripping with venomous anticipation.
"This," she purred, her eyes gleaming, "will be fun."
The Pale Scourge hung suspended, a nightmare vision of lavender skin stretched taut over powerful muscle, obsidian horns casting jagged shadows, vast leather wings folded tight against the weeping stone. Amethyst eyes, ancient and blazing with pure, undiluted fury, locked onto Lute. The chains of solidified shadow groaned under the strain of his contained power, vibrating with the low hum of his rage. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The promise of annihilation radiated from him like heat from a forge.
Lute met that gaze, her angelic features alight with vicious delight. "Oh, yes," she breathed, stepping closer, heedless of the palpable menace. "This is exactly what I wanted to see." She traced a finger along the ridged curve of one massive horn, a mocking caress. "The mighty Prince of Hell, reduced to his basest form. A caged beast." Malchion watched, his golden eyes reflecting sorrowful hunger, while Nyx observed with detached calculation, her midnight gaze scanning the runes binding him.
Hours bled into the cell’s oppressive silence. Dante remained motionless, a statue carved from fury and pain. The chains leeched his strength, but the inferno in his amethyst eyes never dimmed. He tracked every movement, every whisper between his captors. Nyx finally stirred, returning from a recess in the damp rock where she’d been consulting crumbling, flesh-bound tomes. A faint, satisfied smile touched her porcelain lips. "It’s ready," she announced, her voice cutting through the stillness. "The final key."
She approached Dante again, ignoring the low growl that rumbled deep in his chest. Her delicate hands wove intricate patterns in the air, trails of sickly, phosphorescent green light coalescing into complex sigils that pulsed with malevolent energy. The guttural incantation she chanted scraped against Dante’s senses, worse than Malchion’s knives. It wormed past his physical agony, past the chains binding his power, delving deep into the core of his being – the feral, ancient consciousness she’d forcibly dragged to the surface.
The sigils flared blindingly bright, then slammed into Dante’s chest. He convulsed violently against the shadow chains, a silent scream tearing through him as the invasive magic burrowed deeper, seeking the last vestiges of his will. It wasn't pain this time; it was violation on a soul-deep level. A cold, alien presence flooded his mind, icy fingers wrapping around the core of his identity, his rage, his very self. The blazing amethyst light in his eyes flickered violently, like a guttering candle. Then, with horrifying finality, it snuffed out.
Replaced by a luminous, toxic green. Hazardous waste green. The color of absolute control.
The transformation was instantaneous and chilling. The primal fury vanished, replaced by blank, eerie stillness. The terrifying menace bled away, leaving only an unnerving vacancy. Dante hung limp, his massive head lolling slightly, those toxic green eyes staring sightlessly ahead. The chains stopped groaning. The air itself seemed to freeze.
Lute’s breath hitched. Triumph blazed across her face. "Unchain him," she commanded Nyx, her voice tight with anticipation.
Nyx waved a dismissive hand. The shadow chains dissolved into wisps of darkness, vanishing like smoke. Dante’s transformed body crumpled to the wet stone floor with a heavy thud. He didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just lay there, breathing shallowly, those toxic green eyes fixed on nothing.
"Get up," Lute ordered, her voice sharp.
Dante moved. Jerkily at first, limbs stiff, like a puppet learning its strings. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, then slowly, mechanically, rose to his full, imposing height. He stood perfectly still, awaiting the next command. The lavender skin, the horns, the wings – they were still there, imposing and terrifying, but the creature inhabiting the form was hollow. A shell.
Lute circled him, inspecting her prize. "Impressive work, Witch," she conceded. "But let’s test the leash." She stopped before him, looking up into those vacant green eyes. "Go upstairs. Into the club. Find a demon named Absel. Bring him here. Alive."
No hesitation. Dante turned with unnatural smoothness and walked towards the cell door. His massive wings brushed the damp stone walls. He didn't open the door; he simply walked through the solid rock as if it were mist, leaving no trace. Silence descended again, thick and charged. Malchion watched the spot where Dante vanished, his sorrowful eyes unreadable. Nyx leaned against the wall, looking bored. Lute paced, a predator waiting for the kill.
Minutes later, the air near the cell door shimmered. Dante stepped back through the solid rock as effortlessly as he’d left. Clutched in one massive, clawed hand was the collar of a terrified, struggling lesser demon – Absel. The demon’s eyes were wide with terror, his claws scrabbling uselessly against Dante’s unyielding lavender skin. "Prince! Prince, please! What—?!" Absel’s panicked cries cut off as Dante flung him onto the stone floor at Lute’s feet. Absel scrambled back, whimpering, staring up at Dante’s monstrous, vacant form and Lute’s cruel smile.
"Excellent," Lute purred, her gaze fixed on Dante’s toxic green eyes. She pointed a slender finger at the cowering Absel. "Now. Rip him apart. Piece by piece. Slowly."
Dante moved. Fast. Brutal. No flicker of emotion in the green eyes. One massive clawed hand shot out, grabbing Absel’s right arm just below the shoulder. The claws sank deep into flesh and bone. Absel screamed, a raw, piercing sound of agony. With a sickening crack and a wet rip, Dante tore the arm clean off at the shoulder joint. Blood fountained, spraying the damp stone, splattering Dante’s lavender skin and Lute’s pristine boots. Absel shrieked, writhing in a spreading pool of his own blood.
Dante dropped the severed limb. It landed with a wet slap. He reached down again, his movements methodical, unhurried. His claws closed around Absel’s left thigh. Absel sobbed, begging incoherently. Dante ignored him. He braced a foot on Absel’s chest, pinning him down, and pulled. Muscle tore. Tendons snapped. Bone splintered. The leg came free with another horrific tearing sound. Absel’s screams dissolved into choked, wet gurgles.
Lute watched, rapt, her eyes gleaming with dark fascination. Dante tossed the leg aside. He knelt beside the ruined, trembling torso. Absel was still alive, barely, eyes rolling back in his head, breath bubbling through blood. Dante’s claws, slick with gore, slid under Absel’s ribs. He hooked them deep. With a terrible, wet crunching sound, he began to pry the ribcage apart. Absel convulsed once, a final, silent spasm, then went utterly still. Dante continued, ripping through cartilage and bone, exposing the glistening, ruined mess within. He reached in, grasped something pulsing and vital, and tore it free, holding the dripping organ aloft for a moment before letting it fall with a wet plop onto the carnage.
He stood amidst the scattered, steaming pieces of Absel. Blood soaked the stone, dripping from his claws, his lavender skin, his obsidian horns. He turned his toxic green gaze back to Lute, awaiting her next command. Blank. Obedient. Perfect.
Lute’s smile widened. It stretched across her face, sharp and utterly devoid of mercy. Pure, unadulterated triumph. She looked from the gore-splattered monstrosity to Nyx and Malchion. "It worked," she breathed, the words thick with satisfaction. "We’ve got him now."