Chapter 85: Broken Wings
The cold hit first. Not the dry chill of winter, but the suffocating, marrow-deep freeze of the Pit’s deepest vaults, a cold that leached warmth from the soul itself. Dante’s eyes snapped open. No transition. One moment, the unexpected, terrifying sanctuary of Sukuna’s arms, the silk sheets. The next: cold, damp obsidian against his bare back, wrists and ankles bound in heavy, freezing manacles chained directly into the living rock. Sulfur choked the air, thick and acrid, mixed with the iron tang of fresh blood and the distant, discordant symphony of screams – the eternal soundtrack of his kingdom's basement.
He didn’t need to turn his head. He knew the oppressive weight of the air, the specific resonance of suffering that vibrated through the stone. His Dungeon. And standing before him, silhouetted against the flickering braziers casting dancing, monstrous shadows on the polished black walls, was him.
Balial. His brother.
The resemblance to Lucifer was sharper in Balial, crueler. The same impossible beauty, but honed to a razor's edge, twisted by millennia of malice. Platinum hair fell lank over high cheekbones, framing eyes like chips of glacier ice. He wore simple, dark leathers, but they couldn’t hide the coiled, predatory grace. In his hand, he casually twirled a blade – obsidian, serrated, its edge glinting with a sickly inner light. Dante recognized it: Soulshard. Forged from the concentrated despair of a thousand suicides. It didn’t just cut flesh; it flayed essence.
"Well, well," Balial’s voice was a silken whisper that somehow cut through the ambient screams. "Look who decided to grace us with his presence. Brother dearest. Or should I say... Majesty?" He spat the title like poison. "Caught you mid-cuddle with that resurrected mongrel, didn't I? Such touching vulnerability. Makes this almost too easy." He took a step closer, the tip of Soulshard scraping lightly against the stone floor with a sound like tearing silk.
Dante forced his breathing to steady, pushing down the visceral terror that clawed up his throat. The memory of Sukuna’s warmth was a cruel ghost against his skin. He met Balial’s glacial gaze, a slow, insolent smirk spreading across his own face despite the manacles biting into his flesh. "Balial," Dante drawled, his Detroit accent thick and deliberately casual. "Still playing with your fancy knives down here in the basement? Couldn't find a real job topside? Heard even McDonald's has standards." He strained slightly against the chains, the metal groaning. "Bit overkill with the chains, don'tcha think? Or you finally admit you can’t handle me without handicaps?"
Balial’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flash of cold fury. He moved faster than thought. Not a punch, not a kick. Soulshard licked out, a black blur. Dante barely registered the shink before searing agony exploded across his left pectoral muscle. The serrated edge didn't slice cleanly; it peeled. It ripped through skin and muscle fiber with horrifying precision, laying open a gaping wound from collarbone to sternum. Molten veins, pulsing with Dante’s infernal blood, were exposed, glowing like lava beneath the ruined meat. Sulfurous steam hissed from the wound, carrying the coppery stench of blood mixed with brimstone.
Dante arched off the obsidian slab, a guttural roar tearing from his throat, raw and primal. His teeth ground together, veins bulging in his neck, the chains rattling violently as he strained against the agony. Burning blood welled, spilling over the edges of the wound, sizzling where it hit the cold stone.
Balial leaned close, bringing his face inches from Dante’s. His breath smelled faintly of decayed roses. "Oh, don't pretend," he whispered, his voice dripping with false sympathy, his eyes alight with cruel fascination as he watched the molten blood flow. "Don't pretend you don't enjoy this. Remember the little ones? The way they squealed?" He traced the edge of the blade lightly along the edge of the wound, not cutting deeper, just scraping the raw nerve endings. "Or your precious first piece of ass? The look in his eyes when I gutted him? It’s all still there, isn't it? Festering. This?" He tapped the exposed, glowing vein with the flat of the blade, making Dante convulse again. "This is just... physical therapy for your rotten soul."
He straightened up, savoring Dante’s ragged breaths, the involuntary tremors wracking his powerful frame. "You built your little club," Balial continued, circling the slab like a vulture, Soulshard held low. "Your gilded cage. Played king. But this?" He gestured around the Dungeon with the blade. "This is your inheritance. This darkness. This pain. You run from it, but it always drags you back. Just like I did." He stopped at Dante’s side, his gaze drifting down Dante’s body, lingering on the wounds, the sweat-slicked skin, the powerful lines of muscle defined by agony. A different kind of hunger flickered in his glacial eyes.
Dante spat a glob of sulfurous blood onto the obsidian floor near Balial’s boot. He forced a laugh, harsh and ragged, though pain laced every syllable. "Inheritance?" He coughed, more blood bubbling at his lips. "This shithole? Nah, bro. This is your padded cell. Daddy didn't trust you with anything prettier." He locked eyes with Balial again, defiance burning through the pain. "And Sukuna? Oh, yeah, he was spectacular. Fucked my throat raw. Came so hard down my gullet I choked for an hour. You should've seen it. Bet you only get sloppy seconds down here, huh? Rat demons not doin' it for you anymore?"
Balial’s face contorted. Pure, unadulterated rage twisted his beautiful features into something monstrous. "You insolent worm!" The blade flashed again. Not a peel this time. A savage thrust.
THUNK.
Soulshard punched through Dante’s ribs just below the pectoral wound, sinking deep into his chest cavity with a sickening crunch of bone. Dante’s entire body went rigid, a silent scream locked in his throat, his eyes bulging. Balial leaned his weight into it, twisting the serrated blade viciously inside him. Agony, white-hot and absolute, obliterated thought. It wasn't just the physical damage – it was Soulshard’s nature. Dante felt the blade scraping his soul, raking across the raw, eternal wounds Balial had inflicted centuries ago. Memories exploded behind his eyes – tiny hands clutching his, a lover’s smile wiped away by a splash of crimson, Balial’s triumphant sneer.
Sulfurous blood, thick and hot, surged up Dante’s throat. He couldn't cough, couldn't breathe. It flooded his mouth, spilled over his lips, cascading down his chin and chest, mingling with the blood from the first wound. He gagged silently, drowning in his own vitae, the metallic, burning taste filling his senses. His vision swam, darkening at the edges, the distant screams merging into a single, high-pitched whine.
Balial watched, panting slightly, his rage momentarily sated by the visceral reaction. He twisted the blade once more for good measure before slowly, sadistically, pulling it free with a wet, sucking sound. Dante’s body slumped, chains rattling, as a torrent of blood followed the blade, pooling beneath him on the obsidian. He gasped, a wet, rattling inhalation, fighting to clear his lungs of the viscous fluid.
"Still got jokes, brother?" Balial purred, wiping Soulshard clean on Dante’s bare thigh, leaving a smear of steaming blood. His gaze raked over Dante’s broken form – the gaping chest wound, the exposed molten veins, the blood-drenched torso, the heaving chest. That predatory hunger returned, sharper now, mixed with a perverse triumph. "Let's see how funny you find this."
He tossed Soulshard aside; it clattered on the stone. Then his hands, strong and cold, gripped Dante’s hips. Dante was too weakened, lungs still burning, body wracked with torturous aftershocks, to offer more than a feeble, blood-soaked snarl. Balial yanked him roughly down the slab, the chains screeching, until Dante’s ass was positioned precariously on the edge. Balial’s own leathers were open in an instant, freeing a thick, already rigid cock – pale like marble, veined with dark energy, utterly inhuman.
"No..." Dante managed, the word a bloody whisper, a final, desperate spark of defiance. "Don't you fucking—"
Balial slammed forward. No preparation. No mercy. His cock, thick and unforgiving as stone, punched brutally into Dante’s unprepared hole. Dante’s back arched off the slab in a silent scream of fresh agony. The invasion was excruciating, a violent tearing, dry and deep. Balial didn't pause. He buried himself to the hilt in one savage thrust, grinding against Dante’s ass, ignoring the choked, gurgling cries. He leaned down, his mouth close to Dante’s ear, his voice a guttural rasp.
"Stupid whore," he hissed, grabbing a fistful of Dante’s dark hair, yanking his head back. "You think because you run a nightclub, you're better than me? Than this?" He pulled back slightly, then slammed in again, harder, deeper, the obscene sound of flesh violating flesh loud in the cavernous space. Dante felt split open, raw nerves screaming. Molten blood wept from his chest wounds, mixing with the sweat and the slick of forced entry now beginning to ease the brutal friction. "This is where you belong," Balial grunted, setting a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Under me. In the dirt. Drowning in your own blood and my cock."
Each deep thrust jarred Dante’s tortured chest, sending fresh waves of agony through him. He could feel Balial’s cockhead grinding against his violated core, the cold, unnatural energy radiating from it amplifying the violation. He tried to twist away, but the chains held him fast, and Balial’s grip on his hip was like iron. Bloody saliva dripped from Dante’s slack mouth onto the obsidian. The defiance was crushed beneath the weight of physical and psychic violation. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, his body forced to take the brutal invasion.
Balial fucked him with the same focused cruelty he’d used to wield Soulshard – deep, grinding strokes designed to cause maximum pain and humiliation. He watched Dante’s face, drinking in the agony, the helplessness, the utter degradation of the self-proclaimed King of Hell. "That mongrel Sukuna," Balial panted, increasing his pace, his hips snapping hard, "he thinks he can protect you? He thinks he owns you?" A harsh laugh escaped him. "I own you. Always have. Since the first drop of blood I spilled that was yours." He pistoned harder, faster, the slap of flesh echoing off the walls. Dante’s cock, trapped and ignored against his abdomen, remained utterly flaccid, a testament to the horror, not arousal.
Dante squeezed his eyes shut, trying to retreat into the void, to dissociate. But Balial’s grip tightened on his hair, forcing his head up. "Look at me!" he snarled. Dante’s eyes, hazed with pain and blood loss, flickered open, meeting Balial’s triumphant, icy gaze. "See who ruins you," Balial growled. "See who truly fucks the Morning Star." His thrusts became erratic, losing their brutal precision, driven now by a rising, dark climax. He buried himself deep, grinding, grinding, a low, animalistic groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside Dante with pulsing, icy spurts that felt like poison filling his guts.
He stayed buried for a moment, panting, his grip on Dante’s hip and hair unrelenting, savoring the utter submission. Then, with a grunt of disgust, he pulled out, his cock slick with blood and his own release. Dante collapsed back onto the slab, a broken puppet, chains clanking. He stared blankly at the vaulted obsidian ceiling, his chest a ruin, his insides violated, the icy seed of his brother leaking from him. Balial fastened his leathers, looking down at his handiwork with cold satisfaction.
He picked up Soulshard from the floor, the blade still faintly smoldering. He traced the tip lightly down Dante’s bloody sternum, making him flinch. "We’re just getting reacquainted, brother," he murmured, the silken threat back in his voice. "Plenty more... catching up... to do." He turned, walking towards the heavy iron door at the chamber's edge.
Just as his hand touched the cold metal, the air around the door shimmered violently. Not heat haze this time. A localized distortion, warping the light, accompanied by a low, subsonic thrum that vibrated the obsidian underfoot. The temperature plummeted further, a cold that burned. Balial froze, hand outstretched, his expression shifting from triumph to wary recognition, then to a flicker of something almost like... apprehension.
The distorted air solidified into a figure. Taller than Balial, broader, radiating an aura of absolute, glacial stillness that instantly silenced the ambient screams echoing from deeper corridors. Obsidian armor, seamless and ancient, absorbed the flickering brazier light. Where a face should be, only smooth, polished darkness existed beneath the helmet’s rim. No eyes, no mouth, just an impenetrable void. The entity didn't move. It simply was, a pillar of primordial cold radiating outward, making the very stone groan under its oppressive stillness. Balial’s hand dropped from the door handle as if scalded. He took an involuntary step back, his earlier triumph evaporating into wary tension. "Smiley," Balial acknowledged, his silken voice tight, forced. The name hung in the frigid air like an obscenity.
The entity remained motionless. No sound emanated from it, yet its presence screamed louder than any tortured soul. The cold intensified, biting deeper than the Dungeon’s ambient chill, frosting Dante’s blood-slicked skin. Balial straightened his spine, attempting to reclaim his shattered composure. "I was merely... reacquainting myself with our esteemed guest," he gestured dismissively towards Dante’s broken form on the slab. "Ensuring he remembers his place." The entity, Smiley, offered no reaction. Its featureless helm remained fixed on Balial. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, filled only by Dante’s wet, ragged breathing and the faint crackle of the distant braziers. Balial shifted his weight, a flicker of unease betraying his facade. "My business here is concluded," he stated, attempting authority. He moved towards the door again, deliberately avoiding looking directly at Smiley’s void-like faceplate.
Smiley shifted. Not a step, but a subtle realignment, a fraction of an inch that perfectly blocked Balial’s path to the door. The movement was silent, impossibly fluid. Balial froze mid-stride. A low growl rumbled in his throat, pure frustration warring with deep-seated caution. He turned fully to face the entity, his glacial eyes narrowed. "What?" he demanded, the silken tone fraying. "You want a turn? Be my guest." He gestured again towards Dante, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "He’s already warmed up. Practically begging for more." Dante managed a weak, bloody cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Balial’s glare snapped back to him.
"Fuck... you," Dante rasped, spitting more clotted blood onto the stone. He tried to lift his head, chains clanking weakly. His gaze, hazed with agony but still burning with defiance, flickered between Balial and the silent entity. "Looks like... playtime’s over, Balial." A ragged grin split Dante’s bruised lips. "What’s wrong, brother?" he taunted, his voice gaining a sliver of strength fueled by pure malice. "Smiley show you a bad time in the Inferno?" Dante’s grin widened into something feral, painful. "Didn’t like being his bitch in there? Couldn't handle the cold shoulder?" He chuckled, a wet, broken sound that ended in a gasp as his chest wounds protested. "Bet he fucked you harder than you just fucked me. Bet you screamed prettier too."
Something primal snapped behind Balial’s icy eyes. A feral rage, raw and untamed, obliterated caution. He whirled from Smiley, a snarl ripping from his throat. "SHUT YOUR FILTHY MOUTH!" Soulshard, forgotten on the floor, flew into his hand as if summoned. He lunged at the slab. Not a calculated torture this time. Pure, unleashed fury. The blade descended in a vicious arc, not peeling, but hacking. It bit deep into Dante’s already ravaged left shoulder, shearing through muscle and grating against bone. Dante roared, arching violently, chains screaming against their mounts. Balial wrenched the blade free in a spray of molten blood and fragmented bone, ignoring the spray hitting his face. He raised it again.
"WHAT ABOUT YOU, BROTHER?" Balial screamed, spittle flying, his beautiful face contorted into a mask of pure hatred. He slammed the blade down onto Dante’s thigh this time, embedding it deep into the thick muscle. Dante’s roar choked into a gurgle. Balial leaned over him, breathing heavily, eyes wild. "How you been," he hissed, venom dripping from every word, "since I ripped apart Azazel right in front of you?" He paused, letting the name, the memory, the visceral horror of that moment sink into Dante’s pain-fogged mind like poison. Dante’s eyes, wide with agony, flickered with a deeper, older pain. Balial saw it. Savored it.
He grabbed Dante’s hair again, yanking his head back brutally, exposing his throat. Balial’s face was inches away, his breath hot and sour. "Do you remember," he whispered, the silken cruelty returning, laced with unbearable intimacy, "the screams I got that lil angel fucker to make?" Dante’s breath hitched, a trapped sound. Balial’s grin was a rictus of triumph. "When I tore his wings out?" He mimed a slow, wrenching motion with his free hand. "Picked him apart piece by piece? Feather by fucking feather?" Dante squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched so tight his teeth threatened to crack. "Fuck... you," he choked out, the words thick with blood and despair.
Balial laughed, a short, sharp bark devoid of humor. He kept his grip tight on Dante’s hair. "What’s wrong, brother?" he mocked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that carried perfectly in the frozen silence. "Thinking about your boys?" Dante’s eyes snapped open, blazing with sudden, terrified fury. Balial saw it. The nerve struck true. Deep. "Sweet Zeph," Balial crooned, twisting the knife in Dante’s thigh subtly, eliciting another choked gasp. "Taking that blow meant for Sera. Such a brave little soldier." He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing Dante’s ear. "And Sera... trying to fly away." He chuckled darkly. "So desperate. So scared." He paused, letting the image form. "Me catching him mid-air..." Dante flinched violently, a full-body spasm. Balial tightened his grip, holding him still. "Him crying out to you..." Balial’s voice became a cruel mimicry of a child’s terrified wail, "'Daddy! Help me! Daddy!'" He laughed again, low and satisfied. "Begging you to help him. While you just... watched."
Dante stopped struggling. He went utterly still beneath Balial’s grip, beneath the blade embedded in his thigh. His eyes, fixed on the obsidian ceiling, were wide, unseeing pools of pure, unadulterated agony far deeper than any physical wound Soulshard could inflict. A single tear, clear and incongruous amidst the blood and grime, tracked a path down his temple. Balial watched it fall, a predator savoring the death throes of its prey. He slowly pulled Soulshard free from Dante’s thigh with a sickening slurp. Dante didn’t react. Balial straightened up, wiping the steaming blade clean on Dante’s hip, his expression one of cold, unhurried satisfaction. He glanced towards Smiley. The entity hadn’t moved, its void-like attention seemingly fixed on Dante’s broken stillness. Balial’s smirk returned, colder than ever. He turned his back on both of them and strode towards the heavy iron door. This time, Smiley didn't block him. The door groaned open, then slammed shut behind Balial with finality, leaving Dante alone in the crushing silence with the silent, freezing entity. Smiley’s featureless helm tilted slowly, fractionally, towards the ruined figure on the obsidian slab. The cold deepened. Dante didn't move. He didn't blink. He simply breathed, shallow and wet, drowning in a sea of memory far more torturous than any blade.