Chapter 41: Round 3
The second wing tore free with a wet, splintering crunch. Cain tossed it aside like firewood, landing with a heavy thud beside its twin. Dante convulsed, a choked scream tearing from his throat before dissolving into wet, ragged gasps. His body slumped forward, held only by the groaning chains. Blood, thick and dark as tar, pulsed from the twin stumps on his back, soaking the remnants of his jeans and pooling beneath him in a widening, viscous circle. Sweat plastered his hair to his forehead, mixing with tears and blood streaking his face. His remaining eye, the storm-grey dulled to slate, stared unfocused at the slick stone floor. The defiant grin was gone, replaced by a rictus of pure agony.
Cain stepped back, wiping his dark blade clean on his apron. He surveyed his handiwork: the magnificent wings discarded, the violated body hanging broken, the raw wounds weeping. A flicker of something – not satisfaction, perhaps completion – crossed his gaunt face. He tilted his head, listening to Dante’s shallow, wet breathing. Then, he paused. For several long moments, the only sounds were Dante’s ragged gasps, the drip of blood onto stone, and Dabi’s own frantic heartbeat hammering against his ribs from within the cage.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Dabi pressed his face against the cold obsidian bars, nausea churning violently. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t unsee the ruin of the man who’d drawn him in with impossible magnetism. The King of Hell, reduced to a bleeding, broken effigy.
Cain moved. Not towards the door. Back towards Dante. He stopped inches from the suspended form, his gaze traveling over the bruised ribs, the torn flesh from the blade wounds, the blood-smeared tattoos. He reached out, not with the blade yet, but with his bare hand. Calloused fingers traced the edge of a deep gash on Dante’s flank, left by the earlier stabbing. Dante flinched violently, a low groan escaping his cracked lips.
"Still breathing, Prince?" Cain murmured, his voice devoid of inflection. He pressed his thumb hard into the wound. Dante jerked, a sharp cry ripped from him. "Good." Cain withdrew his thumb, slick with dark blood. He picked up a tool discarded earlier – a pair of heavy, blackened iron tongs. He walked to a brazier glowing dully in the corner, its coals radiating intense heat. He thrust the tongs into the coals.
The hiss of superheated metal filled the chamber. Dabi watched, horrified fascination locking him in place. Cain waited, patient as stone, until the tips of the tongs glowed cherry red. He pulled them free, the heat radiating visibly in the damp air. He turned back to Dante.
"Let's see how well Hell's heir cooks," Cain said flatly.
He pressed the glowing tips against Dante's bare chest, just below the collarbone. The sizzle was immediate, horrifying. Flesh vaporized in an instant, the smell of burning meat and ozone flooding the small space. Dante arched off the chains, a raw, animalistic scream tearing loose, echoing off the stones. His body thrashed wildly, the chains shrieking in protest. Cain held the tongs steady, applying pressure, watching the flesh sear and blacken. He lifted them, leaving a charred, smoking crater. Before Dante could even gasp, Cain pressed the tongs again, lower, onto his abdomen. Another sizzle. Another scream, higher, more desperate. Smoke curled upwards.
Cain worked methodically. Burn after burn. Shoulder. Hip. The meaty part of his thigh. Each press elicited a fresh scream, each scream weaker than the last, dissolving into choked sobs and wet, hacking coughs. Dante’s struggles grew feeble, his body trembling uncontrollably, slick with sweat and blood and the reek of burnt flesh. Cain paused only to reheat the tongs, the process becoming a grim ritual: the hiss in the coals, the approach, the sizzle, the scream. Dabi retched, bile burning his throat, but nothing came up. He slid down the bars of the cage, trembling, unable to look away from the systematic destruction.
When the tongs finally cooled beyond usefulness, Cain tossed them aside with a clatter. He picked up his dark blade again. He didn't stab deep this time. He sliced. Long, deliberate cuts across Dante’s chest and arms, opening shallow furrows that wept dark blood. He used his fists, driving blows into Dante’s ribs and stomach with brutal efficiency, the wet thuds punctuating Dante’s ragged gasps. He grabbed Dante’s jaw, forcing his head up, and slammed his fist into his cheekbone. A spray of blood and saliva flew. Not broken. Bruised instantly, darkening beneath the grime. Dante’s head snapped back, his eye rolling, consciousness flickering.
"Stay with me, Prince," Cain growled, delivering another punch to the gut. Dante doubled over as much as the chains allowed, retching dryly. "We’re just getting started." Cain picked up a short, serrated knife. He grabbed Dante’s forearm, pinning it against the chains. With slow, deliberate pressure, he began to saw through the skin on the inside of Dante’s wrist, opening a deep, jagged wound. Blood welled, thick and fast. Dante whimpered, a broken, pathetic sound. Cain moved to the other wrist, repeating the process. Then he did the same on the insides of Dante’s ankles, above the pooled jeans. Blood flowed freely now, joining the streams from his back, creating slick trails down his legs onto the ever-growing pool beneath him.
Hours bled. The torches guttered low. Cain was relentless. He used heated irons again, smaller ones, branding intricate, painful patterns onto Dante’s shoulders and hips. He used thin, razor-sharp wires, slicing shallow, stinging lines across Dante’s back and thighs. He used pressure points, digging fingers into nerve clusters that sent lightning bolts of agony through Dante’s shattered system, making him convulse and shriek. He used cold – dragging a chunk of glacial ice from a corner recess and pressing it against Dante’s burned chest, eliciting a different kind of scream as the nerves shrieked from thermal shock. Through it all, Dante endured. He screamed. He sobbed. He choked on his own blood and vomit. He cursed Cain, Lucifer, Hell itself in a voice shredded to a raw whisper. He laughed, sometimes, a hollow, broken sound that was more terrifying than any scream. But he didn't beg. He didn't break in the way Cain perhaps sought – no utter collapse of spirit, no broken pleas for mercy. He remained defiantly Dante, even in utter ruin, a core of furious, unyielding pride buried deep beneath the layers of agony and degradation. His eye, when it focused, still burned with hate.
Dabi watched it all. He saw Dante reduced to a shuddering, bleeding wreck, suspended in a web of his own gore. He saw the burns, the cuts, the bruises layered upon bruises. He saw the raw stumps where magnificent wings had been. He saw the utter violation etched into every line of Dante’s broken body. And he saw the stubborn, flickering ember of defiance that refused to be extinguished, even when Dante’s screams faded to whimpers and his struggles ceased entirely, his body hanging limp, sustained only by the chains and his own infernal resilience. Time lost meaning. The dungeon became a timeless chamber of suffering.
Finally, Cain stopped. He stood back, breathing slightly heavier, his leather apron soaked through with Dante’s dark blood, his own knuckles split and raw. He looked at his work. Dante hung utterly still, head lolled forward, chin resting on his chest. Blood dripped steadily from dozens of wounds, from the stumps, pooling beneath him. His skin was a tapestry of burns, bruises, and deep cuts. He was breathing, shallow and wet, but utterly unresponsive. Cain grunted, a sound of finality. He wiped his blade clean one last time, sheathed it, and turned. Without a glance at Dabi or Dante, he walked to the hidden door. It slid open. He stepped through. It slid shut. Silence descended, heavier than before, broken only by Dante’s wet, labored breathing and the relentless drip, drip, drip of blood on stone.
Dabi remained frozen in the cage, curled on the floor, his own body trembling with exhaustion and horror. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. The image of Dante’s broken form was seared into his mind.
The silence stretched. Minutes? Hours? Dabi didn’t know. Then, the main iron door groaned open. Lucifer stepped inside, pristine as ever, untouched by the dungeon’s filth. His pale eyes swept the scene: the discarded wings, the massive pool of dark blood, the mutilated, barely breathing form hanging from the chains. A faint, cold smile touched his perfect lips. He walked towards Dante, his boots making no sound on the bloody stones. He stopped before him, reached out with a single, immaculate finger, and lifted Dante’s chin.
Dante’s head lolled back. His eye was half-open, unfocused, the grey dull and clouded. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He didn’t react. Didn’t seem to register Lucifer’s presence at all.
Lucifer tilted his head, studying his son’s ruined face. "Close enough," he murmured, almost to himself. He released Dante’s chin, letting his head drop forward again with a sickening loll. He turned, his gaze shifting to the obsidian cage. His eyes locked onto Dabi, curled within.
"Now," Lucifer said, his voice smooth as poisoned honey, "your little boy toy can leave." He gestured casually. The lock on the cage clicked open. The barred door swung inward silently. "Come."
Dabi stared, paralyzed. Fear, cold and absolute, gripped him. Leaving meant facing whatever lay beyond this nightmare. Staying meant… he looked at Dante. He couldn’t stay. Shakily, using the bars for support, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs felt like water. He stumbled out of the cage, his bare feet slipping slightly in Dante’s blood. He kept his eyes down, unable to look at Lucifer, unable to look back at Dante.
Lucifer watched him approach, that cold smile still playing on his lips. When Dabi stood trembling before him, Lucifer reached out. Not to touch him. He simply placed a fingertip under Dabi’s chin, forcing his head up. Dabi’s eyes, wide with terror and residual horror, met Lucifer’s frozen diamonds.
Then Lucifer’s eyes changed. The pale blue vanished, replaced by a searing, hellish red light that burned with impossible intensity. It wasn't just color; it was pure, malevolent power, boring into Dabi’s soul. Dabi gasped, frozen, unable to look away, feeling that gaze scour his very being.
"You saw things," Lucifer stated, his voice resonating with unnatural power, vibrating in Dabi’s bones. "Things mortal eyes were never meant to witness." The red light pulsed. "If you speak of them… a single word… to anyone…" The pressure intensified, crushing Dabi’s will. "Your little King?" Lucifer’s lips curled in a cruel smile. "He will be dead ash before any help – be it his meddling siblings, his wretched mother, or any other fool who thinks they matter – can even think of arriving." The red light flared, blinding. "Do you comprehend the finality of that, boy?"
Dabi couldn’t breathe. The threat wasn't just words; it was a brand seared onto his consciousness, a promise of absolute, irrevocable destruction. He managed a jerky, terrified nod, tears blurring the terrifying red glare.
The light vanished from Lucifer’s eyes, returning them to icy blue. The crushing pressure lifted. He removed his finger from Dabi’s chin. "Good." He gestured towards the open iron door. "Get out. Forget this place. Forget him. Live your insignificant little life." His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "And pray you never remember vividly enough to risk a whisper."
Dabi stumbled back, then turned and fled. He didn't look back. He ran through the doorway, into the dark corridor beyond, the image of Lucifer’s burning red eyes and Dante’s broken, bleeding form chasing him into the unknown dark. The heavy door clanged shut behind him, sealing the King of Hell once more in his silent, bloody tomb.