Chapter 63: Asag’s First Message
The bass thumped through Dante’s bones, a familiar pulse syncing with the rhythm of his ancient blood. He leaned against the polished obsidian bar in the Inferno’s VIP section, swirling a glass of amber liquid that smelled faintly of brimstone and aged oak. Around him, the usual tableau unfolded: Lilith draped over a chaise, her laughter sharp as broken glass; Mammon deep in hushed conversation with a trembling financier whose soul practically glowed with avarice; Dabi, a dark silhouette against the pulsating neon chaos of the dance floor below, leaning on the railing. Dante’s gaze lingered on the young man, a possessive warmth momentarily chasing away the perpetual chill of his existence. The memory of Dabi’s rough dominance in the private room, the sting of his teeth, the delicious surrender… it still simmered beneath his skin.
Then, it hit.
Not pain, first. A pressure. Immense. Crushing. Like the weight of collapsing stars pressing inward on his skull. His vision swam, the neon streaks bleeding into blinding white static. He gasped, a sound lost beneath the music, his fingers tightening on the glass until crystal groaned.
Fuck.
The pressure exploded into agony. White-hot filaments of pure torment lanced through his brain, searing pathways he hadn’t used in millennia. His control, usually iron-clad, shattered like cheap glass. Molten fire erupted beneath his skin, veins igniting like lava rivers tracing his forearms, his neck, pulsing with unholy light. The air crackled, ozone and sulfur thickening unbearably.
A collective gasp ripped through the VIP section, followed by terrified silence as the music seemed to hiccup and die. Lilith shot upright, her eyes wide. Mammon froze mid-sentence.
Dante doubled over, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. His spine arched violently. With a sickening, wet rip of fabric and flesh, vast, obsidian-feathered wings burst from his back, scattering feathers like ash. Horns, thick and spiraled like charred bone, erupted from his temples, scraping the low-hanging velvet canopy above. His fingers elongated into razor-sharp claws that gouged deep furrows into the polished bar top as he clutched his head. His eyes, when he managed to lift his face, were no longer their usual dark, amused pools. They blazed with incandescent white fire, devoid of pupil or iris, windows into a searing, ancient fury.
He dropped. Hard. Knees impacting the marble floor with a crack that echoed in the sudden stillness. He knelt, hunched, wings mantling around him like a fallen angel’s shroud, horns scraping the floor, breath coming in ragged, tortured gasps. The air vibrated with the raw, terrifying power radiating off him.
Inside the inferno of his mind, a voice scraped like gravel over broken glass. Cold. Ancient. Utterly devoid of mercy.
Dante Morningstar.
It was Asag. Not physically present, but his psychic presence filled Dante’s consciousness like a suffocating poison gas.
You cling to this pathetic charade? This… club? These fleeting distractions? The voice dripped contempt. Images flooded Dante’s mind: The Inferno crumbling into dust, its neon lights shattered, the velvet soaked in blood and ash. Faces flashed – Lilith’s defiant smirk dissolving into terror, Mammon’s avaricious glee replaced by blank death, Dabi… Dabi’s striking features contorted in agony, his rebellious spirit extinguished, his body broken.
See it, Princeling. See the emptiness your defiance creates.
The psychic assault intensified, each image a hammer blow to Dante’s soul. He saw cities burning, not with mundane fire, but with the cold, devouring flames of primordial chaos. He saw legions of twisted, gibbering things Asag would unleash upon the fragile mortal world. He saw Hell itself, his father’s fractured domain, torn apart, its hierarchies shattered, its torments amplified into meaningless, eternal screams.
I will unmake it all. Asag’s voice was a glacier grinding stone to powder. Your playgrounds. Your pawns. Your precious little rebellions. Everything you pretend to care for. Reduced to screaming atoms scattered in the void.
Dante tried to roar, to push back, but the agony held him paralyzed, kneeling like a supplicant before this psychic onslaught. His claws dug deeper into the marble, cracking it.
You think you can stand against the tide? Against entropy made manifest? The contempt deepened into cruel amusement. Foolish child. Your power is a flickering candle against the coming storm.
The images shifted again. Focused. Dabi, specifically. Not just dead. Defiled. Broken utterly, spirit crushed, used as a plaything by horrors Dante could barely comprehend. The possessive fire that had warmed Dante moments ago turned to icy dread, a cold knife twisting in his gut.
This one… he burns brightly for a moth. Asag’s psychic touch lingered on Dabi’s image, a violation. Such spirit. It will be exquisite to watch it gutter and die. To hear his screams join the chorus.
The ultimatum slammed into Dante’s mind, final and absolute.
Join me, Morningstar. Embrace the inevitable unraveling. Stand at my right hand as we scour creation clean. Your power amplified. Your reign absolute over the ashes. A pause, heavy with finality. Or…
The psychic pressure intensified, focusing into a single, excruciating point behind Dante’s eyes. The images of destruction, of loss, of Dabi’s utter annihilation, burned brighter, more vivid, more horrifyingly real than the club around him.
…try to stop me. Play the hero. And I will ensure there is nothing left for you to save. Nothing you love will endure. Not a stone upon a stone. Not a whisper of memory. Only the void. And your eternal, impotent regret.
The connection severed abruptly. Like a guillotine blade falling.
The blinding white fire in Dante’s eyes flickered, dimmed, then vanished, leaving his usual dark irises wide and shockingly vulnerable. The obsidian wings folded in with a rustle like dried leaves and vanished back into his flesh. The horns retracted, leaving only sore, bloody patches on his temples. The claws shrank back into human fingers, trembling and slick with blood from the gouged marble.
The sudden absence of the psychic assault left a vacuum. Dante slumped forward, catching himself on his hands, his breath still ragged, shuddering gasps that echoed in the stunned silence of the VIP lounge. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead, mixing with the blood trickling from his temples. He felt hollowed out, scraped raw.
“Dante!” Lilith’s voice, sharp with fear, cut through the silence. She was beside him in an instant, her cool hand on his heaving shoulder. Mammon was close behind, his face uncharacteristically grim, devoid of its usual avaricious calculation.
Dabi pushed through the frozen onlookers, his face pale beneath the club’s eerie lights, his earlier rebellious air replaced by stark, primal concern. He dropped to his knees beside Dante, ignoring the shattered crystal and blood. “What the fuck was that?” His voice was rough, strained. His hand hovered, unsure, near Dante’s arm. “Talk to me, Dante. What happened?”
Dante lifted his head slowly. His dark eyes, though human again, held a depth of ancient weariness and a chilling, newly ignited fury. He looked past Lilith, past Mammon, his gaze locking onto Dabi’s. The image Asag had burned into his mind – Dabi broken, screaming – flashed behind his eyes. The icy dread surged back, colder and sharper than before. But beneath it, beneath the terror for everything he stood to lose, something else solidified. Hard. Unyielding. A core of defiance forged in the heart of Hell itself.
He didn’t answer Dabi’s question. Not yet. His voice, when it finally came, was a low rasp, scraped raw by the psychic violation, but carrying an edge of terrifying, absolute conviction. It wasn't directed at Dabi, or Lilith, or Mammon. It was a vow spat into the charged air, a promise to the absent demon lord, and to himself.
"No."
The single word hung in the dead air of the VIP lounge, a cracked bell tolling defiance. Dante pushed himself upright, movements stiff, jerky, blood still smearing his temples where the horns had ripped through. He ignored Lilith’s outstretched hand, Mammon’s stunned silence. His eyes, dark again but fractured, swept past them, past the terrified onlookers, landing for a searing instant on Dabi. Raw fear warred with fury in that look – a silent plea and a warning etched in the lines of his face. Then he turned. Stumbled. Pushed through the heavy velvet curtain separating the lounge from the quieter back halls.
Dabi moved instantly, a silent shadow trailing the demon prince. His own gut churned, icy dread spiking with every unsteady step Dante took down the dim corridor lit by flickering sconces shaped like tormented souls. The scent of polished hellstone and ancient paper filled his nostrils as they neared Dante’s private office. Dante shoved the heavy, carved oak door open with more force than necessary, nearly tripping over the threshold.
Inside, the opulent office felt suddenly claustrophobic. Dante staggered towards the massive obsidian desk, its surface littered with arcane artifacts and mundane club paperwork. He didn’t make it. Halfway across the thick crimson rug, his legs buckled. He dropped to his knees again, a choked gasp escaping him.
Dabi froze in the doorway, unseen. His breath hitched. Dante wasn’t kneeling in defiance now. He was collapsing. Tremors wracked the demon’s powerful frame, violent shudders that looked painful. Dante clutched at his chest, fingers digging into the black silk of his shirt like talons seeking purchase. His breathing wasn’t just ragged; it was tearing out of him in short, desperate pants, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a ragged sob caught in his throat. "Fuck," Dante wheezed, the word mangled, barely audible. "Fucking... stars..."
Behind Dabi, a cool, familiar presence materialized. Sapphire. Her usually serene face was etched with deep concern, her violet eyes fixed on Dante’s hunched form. She laid a gentle hand on Dabi’s tense arm. “Give him a minute,” she murmured, her voice low and strained. “Whatever that was… it’s bad, Dabi. Real bad. He’ll figure out what to do. He always does. But give him this.”
Dabi couldn’t tear his eyes away. The sight was terrifying, unnatural. Dante Morningstar, King of fucking Hell, brought low. "I've never..." Dabi started, his voice rough, cracking. "Never seen him like this. Not even close." He felt sick. This wasn’t the powerful entity who’d fucked him raw against the wall an hour ago; this was primal terror, barely contained.
“Me neither,” Sapphire whispered back, her grip tightening slightly on his arm. “Not in centuries. Not since… well. Never like this.” They watched, silent witnesses to the unraveling. Dante’s wings, mere flickers of shadow and obsidian feather, kept erupting spasmodically from his back, rustling violently against the air before vanishing again as if his control was utterly shredded. Sweat plastered his hair to his skull, mingling with the drying blood. He rocked slightly, fingers still clawing at his chest, his gasps turning into low, animal moans of pure, suffocating panic. "Can't... breathe..." he choked out, head bowed low.
The frantic rustling of his phantom wings slowed. Then stopped. The terrible, wrenching gasps began to deepen, fractionally. Still shaky, still far too fast, but less like he was drowning. He dragged in one long, shuddering breath, held it for a beat, then let it out slowly through clenched teeth. His grip on his chest loosened, knuckles white. He stayed on his knees, head hanging, shoulders slumped, but the violent tremors subsided into a fine, persistent shake. The raw edge of terror in the air dulled, replaced by a crushing exhaustion and the chilling residue of whatever horror Asag had shown him. He lifted his head just enough to stare blankly at the intricate patterns of the rug, his expression hollow, haunted. The silence stretched, thick with the aftershock.
The silence stretched, thick with the aftershock. Dante remained kneeling, a statue carved from exhaustion and dread, staring blankly at the intricate patterns of the crimson rug. The phantom wings had stopped flickering, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and scorched feathers hanging in the air. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, each ragged inhale sounding like it tore at his throat.
Sapphire’s hand tightened slightly on Dabi’s arm, her touch cool and grounding. She leaned close, her voice barely a whisper against the oppressive quiet. "He needs space," she murmured, her violet eyes filled with a worry Dabi had never seen there before. "But he needs you more. Just… be there." She gave Dabi’s arm a final, reassuring squeeze, her gaze lingering on Dante’s hunched form for a heartbeat longer. Then, with the silent grace of her kind, she slipped backwards through the heavy oak door, pulling it shut with a soft, definitive click. The latch echoed in the sudden solitude.
Dabi didn't hesitate. He crossed the plush rug in three strides, the thick pile muffling his steps. He dropped to his knees beside Dante, the expensive leather of his pants whispering against the wool. Close now, he could see the fine tremors still vibrating through Dante’s powerful shoulders, smell the coppery tang of dried blood mingling with sweat and the lingering, acrid scent of fear. Dante didn’t react to his presence, didn’t lift his head. He just knelt, breathing in those awful, panicked gasps.
"Hey," Dabi breathed, his own voice rough with concern. He reached out slowly, his hand hovering near Dante’s arm, unsure where to touch, what would help. Dante flinched minutely at the proximity, a tremor running through him. Then, slowly, agonizingly, Dante lifted his head.
The sight punched the air from Dabi’s lungs. Gone was the King of Hell’s arrogant smirk, the predatory gleam, the effortless control. Dante’s face was ravaged. Exhaustion carved deep lines around his eyes and mouth. Blood, dried and crusted, streaked his temples where the horns had ripped through. But it was the eyes that froze Dabi – wide, dark pools reflecting pure, unadulterated terror. A primal fear Dabi had never imagined Dante capable of feeling. It was the look of something ancient and powerful confronted with its own annihilation, and the annihilation of everything it cherished. The vulnerability was terrifying, raw, and utterly disarming.
Dabi didn’t think. Instinct screamed louder than caution. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around Dante’s trembling frame, pulling him close with surprising strength. He buried his face against Dante’s sweat-damp neck, one hand splayed wide against the tense muscles of his back, the other cradling the base of his skull. "I've got you," Dabi rasped, his voice thick. "Just breathe. Fucking breathe, Dante."
Dante stiffened for a fraction of a second, a final instinctive recoil. Then, with a shuddering gasp that sounded like something breaking, he collapsed into Dabi’s embrace. His entire body went limp, heavy against Dabi’s chest. The rigid tension dissolved into violent trembling. A low, wounded sound escaped him, muffled against Dabi’s shoulder. Then another. The dam shattered. Deep, gut-wrenching sobs tore from Dante’s throat, raw and ugly, shaking them both. Hot tears soaked through Dabi’s shirt, mingling with sweat and the faint metallic scent of blood. Dante clung to him, fingers digging into Dabi’s back like claws, his face pressed hard into the hollow of Dabi’s neck, as if trying to disappear.
Dabi held on tighter, anchoring him. He murmured nonsense, low, soothing sounds lost beneath Dante’s ragged weeping. His hand moved slowly, firmly, rubbing circles between Dante’s shoulder blades, feeling the knotted tension beneath the silk shirt. His other hand slid up, fingers threading gently into Dante’s dark, sweat-matted hair. He massaged Dante’s scalp with careful pressure, his thumb tracing soothing circles at the tense junction where neck met skull, avoiding the sore, bloodied patches on his temples. He felt the shuddering breaths begin to deepen, fractionally, the desperate gasps easing into something marginally less panicked beneath the tears. Dante’s grip on his back loosened slightly, his body slowly unwinding from its terrified coil, melting fully into Dabi’s solid presence.
The storm of weeping gradually subsided, leaving Dante limp and utterly spent in Dabi’s arms. His breathing was still uneven, hitching occasionally, but the frantic edge was gone, replaced by profound exhaustion. He lifted his head slowly from Dabi’s shoulder. His face was ravaged – tear tracks cutting through sweat and dried blood, eyes red-rimmed and swollen, lashes clumped together. He looked shattered. Vulnerable in a way Dabi had never witnessed. Dante searched Dabi’s face, his dark eyes holding a depth of emotion stripped bare – fear, gratitude, a desperate, aching need. His voice, when it finally came, was a wrecked whisper, scraped raw and thick with tears. "Dabi... I... fuck..." He swallowed hard, struggling. "I love you." The words hung in the charged air, simple, devastatingly sincere, stripped of all pretense or swagger.
Dabi’s breath caught. He saw the raw truth in Dante’s eyes, felt the tremble still running through the body pressed against his. He cupped Dante’s tear-streaked face in his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the wetness beneath Dante’s haunted eyes. He didn't hesitate. Didn't smirk. Didn't deflect. He held Dante’s gaze, his own eyes fierce with a protective intensity that surprised even him. "Yeah," Dabi breathed, his voice rough but unwavering. "I fucking love you too, Dante." He leaned in, pressing a firm, grounding kiss to Dante’s forehead, right between the sore spots where the horns had been. "I know," Dante whispered hoarsely against Dabi’s skin, his eyes fluttering shut, leaning into the touch, the simple affirmation a lifeline in the wreckage.