Chapter 86: Broken
The silence after Balial left wasn't empty. It was a physical thing, thick and suffocating, saturated with the stench of Dante’s blood, Balial’s seed, and the oppressive, unnatural cold radiating from Smiley. The entity hadn’t moved. Its featureless obsidian helm remained tilted towards Dante, a silent, freezing sentinel. Dante lay utterly still on the obsidian slab. The chains hung slack from his wrists and ankles, their weight nothing compared to the crushing burden inside him. Balial’s words echoed, sharper than Soulshard’s bite: ‘Daddy! Help me! Daddy!’ The memory of Sera’s terrified scream, Balial’s cruel mimicry, was a fresh brand seared onto his soul, deeper than any wound Balial could inflict with steel. He stared at the vaulted ceiling, unseeing. The molten blood wept slowly from his shoulder, thigh, and the horrific chest wound, pooling beneath him, cooling into sticky, sulfurous tar. He didn’t feel the cold anymore. He felt… hollowed out. Scraped raw down to the bedrock of ancient, unhealed agony.
Time lost meaning. The distant screams became a monotonous drone. The flicker of the braziers was hypnotic. He drifted in a haze of pain and memory, the physical torment a dull counterpoint to the psychic evisceration Balial had achieved. He barely registered the groan of the iron door reopening hours later, or the familiar, hated scent of decayed roses cutting through the miasma of his own suffering.
Balial’s silhouette filled the doorway again. He surveyed Dante’s broken stillness, the fresh pools of cooling blood, the utter lack of defiance. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. "Comfortable, brother?" he purred, stepping fully inside. He kicked Soulshard, lying discarded near the slab, sending it skittering across the stone. He didn’t pick it up immediately. Instead, he circled Dante slowly, his boots clicking on the obsidian. "Miss me?" He stopped near Dante’s head, leaning down. His cold breath ghosted over Dante’s ear. "Thought you might need reminding who owns you." His hand, cold and strong, gripped Dante’s jaw, forcing his head to turn. Dante’s eyes, dull and bloodshot, met Balial’s glacial gaze. There was no spark, no defiance. Just… emptiness. Balial’s smile widened. "Perfect."
The week blurred into a relentless cycle of agony and violation. Balial returned daily, sometimes twice. He wielded Soulshard with chilling precision, reopening wounds, carving new ones – intricate patterns of suffering on Dante’s chest, thighs, arms. He favored the exposed molten veins, scraping the obsidian blade along them, relishing the choked screams Dante could no longer fully suppress. He used other tools: heated irons that sizzled against Dante’s skin, barbed hooks that tore chunks of flesh when pulled free, icy probes that burned with a different kind of fire. He spoke constantly, his voice a silken poison dripping into Dante’s ears, recounting every atrocity he’d committed against those Dante had loved, every moment of helplessness Dante had endured.
And he fucked him. Brutally. Relentlessly. Every visit culminated in Balial forcing himself inside Dante’s battered body. Sometimes he’d use Dante’s own blood as lubricant, grinding into him with savage thrusts that tore at already ravaged flesh. Sometimes he’d spit on him, call him filthy names – "Hell’s whore," "Lucifer’s broken toy," "Sukuna’s used cunt" – before slamming into him dry, taking pleasure in the choked cries of pain. He’d pin Dante down, ignoring the chains, his hands bruising Dante’s hips or throat, fucking him with the same focused cruelty he applied to torture. He’d come inside him with guttural groans, filling him with icy seed that felt like poison, then pull out and leave him leaking onto the cold stone. Dante stopped reacting beyond flinches and choked gasps. He retreated deeper into the hollow space inside himself, a place where Balial’s words and hands couldn’t quite reach, leaving only the raw, animal sensation of pain.
By the seventh day, Dante was a ruin. His skin was a tapestry of overlapping wounds – weeping cuts, angry burns, deep purple bruises. The gaping chest wound Balial had reopened daily festered slightly, edges raw and inflamed. His breathing was shallow, ragged, each inhalation a struggle against broken ribs and flooded lungs. He was skeletal, muscles wasted from pain and neglect, his skin clinging to bone. He drifted in and out of consciousness, the obsidian ceiling swimming in and out of focus. He barely registered Smiley’s constant, freezing presence anymore. He was clinging to existence by a thread frayed down to its final filament. Balial stood over him, wiping Soulshard clean on a scrap of leather. He looked down at Dante’s barely breathing form with cold appraisal. "Still hanging on?" he murmured, almost disappointed. He raised the blade, aiming for a fresh patch of skin on Dante’s abdomen. "Let’s see if we can’t finally—"
The iron door didn’t groan this time. It exploded inward in a shower of molten metal and shattered obsidian shrapnel. The concussion wave slammed Balial sideways, staggering him. Through the smoke and swirling debris, three figures charged into the Dungeon chamber.
Sukuna moved like a hurricane of pure, incandescent rage. His four eyes blazed crimson, his powerful frame radiating palpable fury that momentarily overpowered Smiley’s cold aura. Adam was a blur of righteous wrath beside him, crackling with divine energy that hissed against the Pit’s ambient corruption. Dabi brought up the rear, blue flames flickering dangerously in his palms, his scarred face twisted in cold fury.
Balial recovered swiftly, shock giving way to snarling fury. "You dare—?!" Soulshard flashed as he lunged towards the intruders. Sukuna met him head-on. No finesse. Pure, brutal collision. Balial’s blade scraped against Sukuna’s hardened forearm with a shower of sparks. Sukuna’s other fist, impossibly fast, slammed into Balial’s jaw with a sickening crack. Balial reeled, spitting teeth and blood. Adam was already moving, a golden spear of pure energy coalescing in his hand. He drove it forward, aiming for Balial’s heart. Balial twisted, the spear tearing through his shoulder instead, eliciting a genuine scream of pain. Dabi’s blue fire roared across the chamber, forcing Balial to leap back, singeing his leathers.
"Get Dante down!" Sukuna roared, his voice shaking the chamber as he pressed his attack on Balial, fists and feet a relentless barrage. Balial, bleeding from shoulder and mouth, fought with desperate, vicious skill, Soulshard a deadly blur, but he was outmatched by Sukuna’s berserk fury and Adam’s relentless holy assault.
Adam didn’t hesitate. He sprinted towards the obsidian slab. The sight of Dante – broken, bloodied, barely recognizable – hit him like a physical blow. "Fuck," he breathed, horror warring with fury. He grabbed the freezing chains binding Dante’s wrists. His hands glowed with intense golden light. The infernal metal screamed, heated white-hot instantly, then shattered like glass. He repeated the process at Dante’s ankles. Dante didn’t react, his eyes half-lidded, unfocused. Adam carefully slid his arms under Dante’s ruined body, lifting him with surprising gentleness. Dante whimpered, a thin, broken sound, as his wounds protested the movement. "Easy, Dante," Adam murmured, his voice tight. "Got you. Hold on."
Across the chamber, the fight reached its brutal crescendo. Sukuna had Balial pinned against the wall, raining down blows with terrifying force. Balial’s face was pulp, Soulshard lay discarded several feet away. Adam’s spear wound smoked in his shoulder. Sukuna grabbed Balial’s throat with one massive hand, lifting him off his feet. Balial choked, clawing uselessly at Sukuna’s arm, his icy eyes wide with genuine terror for the first time. Sukuna leaned in close, his voice a guttural snarl dripping with millennia of hatred. "You touched what’s mine." His other hand, fingers sharp as talons, plunged into Balial’s chest cavity with a wet, tearing sound. Balial’s choked gasp became a wet gurgle. Sukuna ripped his hand free, clutching a still-beating, blackened heart dripping with ichor. Balial’s body convulsed once, then went limp. Sukuna dropped the corpse like garbage, Balial’s lifeless eyes staring sightlessly at the vaulted ceiling.
Sukuna dropped the corpse like garbage, Balial’s lifeless eyes staring sightlessly at the vaulted ceiling. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by Dante’s shallow, wet breaths and the crackle of Dabi’s fading flames. Sukuna stood over the ruin of his ancient enemy, ichor dripping from his clenched fist, his chest heaving with exertion and residual fury. He kicked Balial’s head, a final, contemptuous dismissal, before turning his blazing gaze towards Adam and the broken figure cradled in his arms.
He crossed the chamber in three long strides, the obsidian floor slick with cooling demon blood and Balial’s spilled seed. Kneeling beside Adam, Sukuna’s usual predatory stillness was replaced by a palpable tension radiating from his powerful frame. His four crimson eyes scanned Dante’s ravaged body – the skeletal thinness, the weeping lattice of cuts, the horrific chest wound Balial had savored reopening, the deep gash splitting his face from eyebrow to jawline. A low growl rumbled in Sukuna’s chest, primal and furious. "Fuck," he breathed, the word thick with disbelief and rage. He looked at Adam, his voice stripped of its usual mocking edge, raw and urgent. "What the fuck are we supposed to do? He’s… fuck." Adam shook his head, his own divine glow flickering weakly as he held Dante tighter, his expression bleak. "I don’t know, Sukuna. I don’t fucking know. He’s barely clinging on."
The air shifted violently. The ambient heat of the Pit vanished, replaced by an unnatural, bone-deep cold that froze the blood on the floor and made breath plume visibly. Sukuna’s head snapped up, his gaze sweeping the shadowed corners of the Dungeon chamber like a hunting beast sensing an apex predator. Dabi hissed, blue fire flaring defensively in his palms. Then Sukuna saw him. Lucifer stood near the shattered doorway, untouched by the carnage, his presence a silent, crushing weight. His dark eyes, ancient and fathomless, fixed on Dante. "Move," the command was soft, absolute, slicing through the frigid air. Adam reacted instantly, shifting Dante gently but swiftly away from Lucifer’s path, his obedience ingrained. Sukuna hesitated, a flicker of defiance warring with primal caution in his eyes, his muscles coiled. He met Lucifer’s gaze for a heartbeat, the air crackling with unspoken challenge, before he finally snarled and shoved himself aside, yielding space beside his broken prince.
Lucifer knelt beside Dante, the obsidian seeming to bow beneath his effortless grace. Dante’s eyelids fluttered weakly, a sliver of awareness returning. His cracked lips parted, a faint whisper escaping, raw with agony. "Hurts…" Lucifer’s expression, usually a mask of detached amusement or cold authority, softened infinitesimally. A flicker of something ancient and sorrowful touched his eyes. "I know," he murmured, the sincerity startling, devoid of mockery. He placed his hand lightly, almost tenderly, on Dante’s ravaged chest, avoiding the worst of the gaping wound. A soft, golden-white light emanated from Lucifer’s palm, washing over Dante’s body. The effect was immediate and profound. Smaller cuts sealed shut, bruises faded from deep purple to sickly yellow, broken bones audibly knit beneath the skin. The horrific inflammation around the chest wound receded, the raw edges smoothing slightly, though the deep gouge itself remained, a canyon of exposed, faintly glowing tissue. The facial scar, a brutal testament to Balial’s final cruelty, remained stark and livid, running from eyebrow to jawline, a permanent brand on Dante’s handsome features. The unnatural cold receded as Lucifer withdrew his hand, leaving Dante breathing easier, unconscious but stable, the worst of the mortal danger lifted, though the profound damage remained etched deep.
The unnatural cold receded as Lucifer withdrew his hand, leaving Dante breathing easier, unconscious but stable, the worst of the mortal danger lifted, though the profound damage remained etched deep. Silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the faint crackle of Dabi’s residual flames and Dante’s shallow, rhythmic breaths. Adam stared at the spot where Lucifer had knelt, the King’s abrupt departure leaving a vacuum filled only by the stench of blood, ozone, and the lingering chill of the Pit. He wiped Dante’s cooling blood from his own hands onto his trousers, the gesture rough, agitated. "Why?" Adam’s voice cut through the oppressive quiet, raw and demanding. "Why did you help him?"
Lucifer, already several paces towards the shattered doorway, paused. He didn’t turn. His dark silhouette seemed to absorb the feeble light. He started walking again, his steps echoing with finality on the obsidian floor. "Dante knows why," his voice floated back, clear and devoid of inflection. Then he was simply gone, the space he occupied empty, the unnatural cold dissipating entirely, leaving only the familiar, oppressive heat of the Dungeon.
Sukuna let out a harsh breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, the tension in his massive frame easing only slightly. He looked at Dante’s broken form, the stark facial scar a brutal signature, the partially healed chest wound still a gaping maw revealing faintly luminous tissue beneath. Fury warred with something else, something unsettlingly tender, in his crimson eyes. Without a word, Sukuna moved. He knelt beside Adam, his movements uncharacteristically careful. He slid powerful arms under Dante’s back and knees, lifting the unconscious prince with surprising gentleness. Dante’s head lolled against Sukuna’s shoulder, a faint moan escaping his cracked lips. Sukuna adjusted his grip, cradling him closer. "Let's get the fuck out of this shithole," Sukuna growled, his voice tight.
Adam nodded, pushing himself up. He glanced at Dabi, who merely stared at the cooling corpse of Balial, his expression unreadable, blue fire still flickering faintly in his palms. "Dabs," Adam said, his tone brooking no argument. "We're leaving." Dabi finally tore his gaze away, gave a curt nod, and fell in step behind them as Sukuna carried Dante towards the ruined doorway, stepping over molten slag and shattered obsidian.
The journey back through Hell’s layers was a blur of sulfurous caverns and echoing screams, Dante a dead weight in Sukuna’s arms. Adam led them through safer, concealed paths known only to a few, bypassing the worst of the infernal crowds. Eventually, they emerged near the pulsating heart of Dis, finding the concealed entrance to Dante’s private residence – a sprawling, surprisingly modern penthouse perched high above the infernal cityscape, warded against intrusion. Adam triggered the wards, the air shimmering as they passed through into cool, quiet darkness. He flicked a switch. Soft, ambient light revealed minimalist furnishings of dark wood and chrome, a stark contrast to the gore-smeared prince Sukuna carried.
"His room," Adam directed, leading Sukuna down a wide hallway. They entered a spacious bedroom dominated by a large, low-slung platform bed draped in black silk. Sukuna laid Dante down with excruciating care on the cool sheets. Dante stirred, a low groan rumbling in his chest, eyelids fluttering but not opening. The stark overhead light highlighted the brutal scar carving down his face, the angry, partially healed wounds crisscrossing his chest and arms. He looked impossibly vulnerable, a fallen king laid low. Adam pulled a heavy blanket over Dante’s lower half, leaving his wounded torso exposed to the air. He straightened, turning to Sukuna, his expression uncharacteristically serious.
"You stay with him," Adam stated, his voice low but firm.
Sukuna blinked, taken aback. He planted his feet, crossing his tattooed arms over his broad chest, the ichor on his knuckles dried to a flaky black crust. "Why me?" he demanded, suspicion narrowing his four eyes. "He needs a fucking medic, not a babysitter."
Adam met his gaze squarely. "Because of that little... moment... you two had the other day," he said flatly.
Sukuna stiffened. His jaw clenched, muscles working beneath the skin. A flicker of something dangerous passed through his red gaze. "He told you?" The words were a low growl.
Adam shook his head, a humorless half-smile touching his lips. "No. Came to check on him after his little breakdown. Heard you going at it." He gestured vaguely towards the living area. "Sounded... intense."
Sukuna just stared, his expression hardening into a mask. He looked from Adam to the unconscious Dante, then back. "Why the fuck would you think he'd want me here," he spat, the words sharp, "instead of either of you? Just 'cause I fucked him?" The vulgarity hung in the air, stark and uncomfortable.
Adam didn't flinch. He took a step closer, lowering his voice further. "Because you know," he said, his eyes boring into Sukuna's, "as well as I fucking do... that man's love for you never went away." He paused, letting the stark truth resonate in the quiet room. Sukuna remained utterly still, a statue carved from fury and ancient pain. Adam sighed, the sound weary. "So," he repeated, the command final now. "You stay."
He turned, striding towards the door without another word. Dabi, who had been leaning silently against the doorframe, observing, gave Sukuna one last inscrutable look before pushing off and following Adam out. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving Sukuna alone with the unconscious King of Hell.
Silence crashed down, thicker than the Dungeon's gloom. Sukuna stood rigid for a long moment, staring at the closed door, Adam's words echoing in his skull like shrapnel. Love. The word felt alien, dangerous. He finally turned, his gaze sweeping over Dante’s broken form on the bed. The rise and fall of his chest was shallow but steady. The scars were stark reminders, the chest wound a raw testament to Balial’s savagery. A low snarl escaped Sukuna’s lips, directed at the empty room, at Balial’s corpse, at the universe itself. Then, the rigid tension bled out of him, replaced by a weary resignation. He moved towards the bed.
He didn't pull up a chair. He didn't pace. With slow, deliberate movements, Sukuna kicked off his heavy boots. He lowered himself onto the edge of the enormous bed, the silk sheets cool against his skin. He swung his legs up, shifting carefully to avoid jostling Dante. He settled onto his side, facing the injured prince. For a moment, he simply looked – at the harsh line of the facial scar, the vulnerable curve of Dante’s throat, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow despite the room's coolness. Then, with a gentleness that seemed alien to his nature, Sukuna slid one powerful arm beneath Dante’s shoulders. He pulled him closer, slowly, carefully, until Dante’s battered body was cradled against Sukuna’s own solid heat. Sukuna’s other arm came up, draping protectively over Dante’s torso, his huge hand resting lightly on Dante’s uninjured side, fingers splayed possessively over his hip bone. He adjusted slightly, pulling Dante’s head to rest more securely against the crook of his neck. Dante sighed in his sleep, a soft, almost contented sound, his body instinctively curling slightly towards Sukuna’s warmth. Sukuna tightened his arm, just a fraction. He rested his cheek against the top of Dante’s head, breathing in the lingering scent of blood, sulfur, and beneath it all, something uniquely Dante – burnt amber and defiance. His crimson eyes stayed open, fixed on the door, a silent sentinel in the dim light, holding the broken king against the encroaching dark.