Chapter 92: The King is Back
The cold space beside him registered first. Sukuna’s eyes snapped open, the remnants of sleep clinging stubbornly. His hand stretched automatically across the vast, silk expanse of the bed, fingers searching for the familiar warmth of Dante’s skin. Empty. Just cool, rumpled sheets. He frowned, the line between his brows deepening. Dante was an early riser lately, restless. Probably just getting water. Or maybe he’d slipped out to the balcony again, chasing the pre-dawn stillness. Sukuna shrugged it off, the concern a low hum easily drowned by the need for caffeine. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cool marble floor shocking his bare feet.
The mansion was unnervingly quiet as he padded towards the kitchen. The only sounds were the distant hum of the city waking up beyond the thick walls and the soft tread of his own footsteps. He filled the sleek espresso machine, the gurgle and hiss of the steaming water a welcome intrusion on the silence. The rich, dark scent began to permeate the air just as the kitchen door swung open.
Adam shuffled in first, looking like he’d been dragged backwards through a hedge, his usual sharp edges softened by sleep-mussed hair and a faded band t-shirt. Dabi followed, quieter, his movements precise even this early, his staples catching the under-cabinet lighting. He leaned against the counter, watching Sukuna with hooded eyes.
"Coffee. Thank fuck," Adam rasped, reaching past Sukuna for a mug before the espresso had even finished dripping. "The fuck you look so grim for this early? Dante kick you outta bed?" He smirked, taking a scalding sip.
Sukuna poured his own shot, the dark liquid swirling in the tiny cup. "Mornin', sunshine," he grunted, ignoring the jibe. "He’s… managing. Few rough patches. Panic attack last night, quiet one. But he rode it out." He took a slow sip, the bitterness grounding him. "Slept through after. Mostly." The ‘mostly’ hung in the air, a testament to the fragile peace Dante navigated.
Dabi’s gaze sharpened. "No nightmares?"
"Not last night," Sukuna confirmed, leaning back against the countertop, muscles tensing slightly. His eyes scanned the empty kitchen doorway again, an unconscious habit. The quiet felt heavier now. He took another deliberate sip. "He’s pulling through. Slow, but… he’s pulling."
Adam snorted, setting his mug down with a clatter. "Told you, didn’t I? Right the fuck after… well, after. Said he’d need you out of all of us. Stubborn bastard, but not stupid about that shit." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the shared understanding of Dante’s profound grief, the chasm Sukuna’s supposed death had left.
Sukuna just nodded, a curt dip of his chin. He stared into the dregs of his espresso. "Dante still cares," he murmured, the words low and rough, carrying the weight of rediscovered connection, of fragile trust rebuilt. It was a simple statement, yet it anchored him. Then, like a cold draft slipping under a door, the thought crystallized. Where was Dante right now? He raised his head, eyes sweeping the kitchen again – past Adam, past Dabi, finding only polished surfaces and empty space. The low hum of concern spiked into something sharper.
"He’s not with you?" Sukuna asked, his voice losing its morning gravel, turning flat. "Either of you?"
Adam blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "Uh… no? Haven't seen his broody ass since dinner last night. Why?"
Dabi straightened, instantly alert, his gaze locking onto Sukuna’s face. "He's not here?"
The espresso cup hit the marble countertop with a sharp crack. Sukuna didn’t look at it. "Fuck." The word was a low, guttural expulsion of breath, carrying a sudden, icy dread. He pushed off the counter, muscles coiled tight.
"Whoa, what's wrong?" Adam asked, the teasing tone gone, replaced by genuine alarm. "Suku?"
"He wasn't in bed when I woke up," Sukuna said, already moving towards the doorway, his strides eating up the polished floor. "Figured he was with one of you. Maybe both. Didn't think…" He trailed off, the unspoken fear thickening the air. "He's not here."
He didn't wait for a response. He was already moving, a force of nature unleashed on the quiet mansion. Adam and Dabi exchanged a single, grim look before falling into step behind him, the easy camaraderie of moments before shattered.
"Library!" Sukuna barked, already veering down the east corridor. They burst in. Empty. The grand piano sat silent, untouched. "His study!" They doubled back, the heavy oak door swinging open to reveal an orderly desk, no sign of recent occupation. The dread coiled tighter in Sukuna’s gut, cold and slick.
"Balconies!" Adam suggested, heading for the glass doors leading to the sprawling terrace overlooking the city. Sukuna was ahead of him, scanning the empty chairs, the pristine pool reflecting the pale dawn sky. Nothing.
"Game room?" Dabi offered, voice tight. They checked. Pristine pool table, dark screens. Silence.
The panic, a familiar, unwelcome specter, began to claw its way up Sukuna’s throat. His search became frantic, less methodical. Guest rooms were flung open, bathrooms checked, the cavernous gym scanned in seconds. He even checked the damn walk-in wine cellar, the cool, dusty air offering no comfort. His bare feet slapped against the cold floors, his breathing turning ragged.
Adam jogged to keep up. "Basement? Garage?" He was met with a curt shake of Sukuna’s head, the cursed king’s expression thunderous, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumped. Every empty room felt like a blow.
Finally, they reconvened in the grand foyer, the sweeping staircase looming above them. Sukuna stood in the center, breathing hard, his fists clenched at his sides. The vast emptiness of the silent mansion pressed in, mocking him. Adam ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched on his face. Dabi leaned against the newel post, his expression unreadable but his posture radiating tension.
"Nothing," Adam stated, the word hanging heavy in the still air. "He's not here."
The polished marble of the foyer held Sukuna’s reflection, distorted and grim. Every empty corner of the vast mansion echoed Dante’s absence, a silent accusation. Sukuna’s fist slammed against the newel post, the impact vibrating up his arm. "Fuck!"
Adam flinched. "Where the hell else could he be? The fuckin' roof?" Dabi just stared, his scarred face a mask of cold calculation, scanning the exits.
"He wouldn't... not after..." Sukuna trailed off, the image of Dante’s haunted eyes flashing behind his own. The thought of him vanishing, like smoke, again, choked him. He pushed past them, back towards the east wing, driven by a rising tide of panic he hadn’t felt since the days after his own impossible return. The search resumed, more desperate.
The air here didn’t smell of expensive coffee or city smog. It reeked of burning hair, charred meat, and the thick, coppery tang of blood, undercut by the ever-present, sulfurous stench of the Pit. Dante inhaled deeply, the foul miasma filling his lungs, stoking the furnace roaring in his chest. He’d woken coiled tight, not with the leaden weight of grief, but with a crackling, vicious energy. The memories of betrayal, the phantom ache of Sukuna’s loss, the lingering humiliation of his own capture – they weren’t anchors anymore. They were fucking rocket fuel.
He’d descended without a word, stepping into the perpetual twilight of his domain. The screams were a familiar symphony, the wet thuds of violence a comforting rhythm. All day, he’d moved through the writhing landscape, a dark god dispensing agony. He’d shattered bones with casual backhands, carved intricate patterns into shrieking flesh, watched souls dissolve in acid only to reform, weeping, moments later. It wasn’t catharsis; it was maintenance. Pruning. Stoking his own dark flame.
Then, wiping a spray of arterial crimson from his cheek with a detached flick, it hit him. A particular flavor of venom, sharp and familial, curdled in his gut. Damien. He’d sent the treacherous bastard here himself, hadn’t he? After the failed coup, after trying to hand Dante over to their father. Sent him screaming into the endless rot. A slow, predatory smile stretched Dante’s lips. Perfect.
Finding him was simplicity itself. Dante’s will shaped the shifting hellscape, parting the screaming crowds, the ground itself groaning as it cleared a path. Damien knelt in a slurry of mud and viscera, trying to staunch a gut wound leaking sluggish, dark fluid onto the scorched earth. His fine clothes were rags, his handsome face a ruin of bruises and burns. He looked up as Dante’s shadow fell over him, and pure, animal terror flooded his eyes.
"Brother...?" Damien rasped, voice shredded. "Mercy... please... I beg you..."
Dante didn’t speak. He never spoke here. Words were wasted on the damned. He simply stepped forward, the heavy, black boot connecting with Damien’s jaw with a sickening crack. Damien’s head snapped back, blood and teeth spraying. Dante grabbed a fistful of his matted hair, hauling him upright. A cold, serrated dagger materialized in his other hand, its edge whispering against the sulfurous air.
He started slow. A shallow cut along Damien’s collarbone, deep enough to draw a bright line of red but not enough to kill. Damien shrieked. Another cut, parallel, lower. Then another. Dante worked methodically, carving crude, intersecting lines across his brother’s chest, ignoring the gurgling pleas, the desperate promises, the sobs that dissolved into wet coughs. Blood sheeted down Damien’s torso, soaking his filthy trousers, pooling at his bare, blistered feet.
"Stop... Dante... please... I was wrong... so wrong..." Damien wept, slumping against Dante’s grip.
Dante released his hair, letting him crumple. He watched him writhe for a moment, then crouched. He picked up a jagged shard of obsidian, still radiating heat from some nearby lava flow. He pressed the glowing tip against the raw meat of Damien’s flayed chest. The sizzle was obscene, the smell of burning flesh thick and cloying. Damien’s scream tore the air, high-pitched and endless, his body arching off the ground in agony. Dante held the shard steady, applying pressure, watching the skin blacken and curl. Only when the screaming hitched, turning into choked gasps, did he remove it.
He moved to Damien’s arm next. Not cutting. Grabbing. Dante’s fingers, strengthened by the ambient fury of the Inferno, dug into the joint of Damien’s shoulder. He gripped, tendons standing out on his own forearm, and pulled. Slowly. Deliberately. Muscle tore. Ligaments snapped like overstretched rubber bands. Bone grated against bone with a sound that set Dante’s teeth on edge. Damien’s shrieks reached a new register, inhuman and raw, before cutting off abruptly as he passed out.
It didn't matter. Dante finished the job. He planted a boot on Damien’s chest for leverage and wrenched. The arm came free at the shoulder joint with a final, wet rip. He tossed the twitching limb aside like garbage. Blood fountained, painting the scorched earth black. Damien’s body seized, then went terrifyingly still. The Inferno pulsed, its dark energy already knitting the ruined stump, rebuilding the shoulder, preparing for the next cycle. Damien would be whole again soon enough. Ready for more. Dante watched the ragged flesh begin to bubble and re-form with cold satisfaction. He’d barely started.
Hours bled together, marked only by Damien’s screams and the slow, meticulous reduction of his body. Dante flayed strips of skin from his back. He broke fingers one by one, snapping them like dry twigs. He used fire, ice conjured from the depths, concentrated blasts of pure pain that bypassed flesh to sear the soul directly. Damien begged, cursed, promised kingdoms, offered secrets, wept for their dead mother. Dante remained silent, a statue of obsidian rage, his eyes burning like coals in the gloom. His movements were economical, precise, each act of violence feeding the cold fire in his veins. The helplessness he’d felt, the vulnerability – he purged it by inflicting magnitudes worse upon its architect.
Eventually, Damien lay in a twitching heap, a ruined doll held together by the Inferno’s cruel magic, gasping wetly through shattered ribs. Dante stood over him, breathing hard, sweat mingling with the blood spatter on his skin. The raw, screaming fury had banked slightly, leaving a chilling clarity. He nudged the mangled form with his boot. Damien flinched, a low moan escaping his broken mouth. Dante felt nothing but a vast, hollow contempt. He turned, leaving his brother to the mercy of the reforming flames and the scavenging imps already skittering closer. The air tasted like ash and victory. He needed to wash this filth off.
The stench of the Pit clung to his skin like a second layer, a rancid cocktail of sulfur, scorched meat, and the coppery tang of his brother’s blood. Dante materialized in the pristine silence of his master suite, the sudden shift from screaming chaos to opulent stillness jarring. He stripped off the ruined, gore-soaked clothes right there on the antique rug, leaving them in a damp, stinking pile. He needed scalding water, soap that smelled of sandalwood and nothing else, to scour the visceral residue of Damien’s torment from his pores, from his mind.
The shower stall hissed, steam billowing like a localized fog bank. He stepped under the near-scalding spray, wincing only slightly as it hit the raw skin of his knuckles. He scrubbed methodically, lathered shampoo through hair matted with sweat and blood, watched the water at his feet swirl pink, then murky brown, before finally running clear. The heat burned away the lingering chill of the Inferno, the steam clouding the glass walls, creating a temporary cocoon. He stayed until his skin felt tight and the water began to cool, the frantic energy of torture finally leached away, leaving a hollow, weary ache.
He stepped out onto the plush bathmat, water sluicing off him, and grabbed a thick, black towel. He rubbed himself briskly, the rough texture grounding him back in the physical reality of marble and glass, not brimstone and screams. Drying his hair roughly, he walked naked into the bedroom’s dim light, the air blessedly free of sulfur. He pulled on loose, dark sweatpants, low on his hips, ignoring the still-damp sheen on his skin. The quiet felt fragile, temporary.
The door slammed open. Sukuna stood framed in the doorway, breathing hard, his chest heaving under the black tank top he must have thrown on haphazardly during the frantic search. His usually sharp, predatory eyes were wide, shadowed by exhaustion etched deep into the lines around them, a bone-deep weariness Dante hadn’t seen him show since… well, since before. His knuckles were white where he gripped the doorframe.
“What the fuck,” Sukuna rasped, the words raw, stripped of all pretense.
Dante, startled, dropped the towel he’d been holding onto the bed. “What?” His own voice sounded flat, detached, still partially anchored in the cold satisfaction of the Pit.
Sukuna pushed off the doorframe, striding into the room. His tone was pure, unfiltered irritation. “What the fuck do you mean, what? You just up and go? Don’t say a fucking word to anybody? Especially after the last time you fucking disappeared? You almost fucking died, Dante!” The volume climbed with each word, echoing slightly in the large room.
Dante watched him, the adrenaline from Sukuna’s sudden appearance prickling along his nerves. He stayed silent for a beat, processing the outburst. “I just needed to handle some things,” he stated, voice low, dismissive. He moved to walk past Sukuna, towards the door, needing space, needing to escape the sudden intensity. His eyes, reacting instinctively to the perceived threat, flickered molten gold for an instant.
Sukuna’s hand shot out, fingers like steel bands locking around Dante’s bicep, stopping him dead. “Don’t fucking walk away.” Dante turned his head slowly, deliberately, his gaze locking onto Sukuna’s. The molten gold flared, hot and dangerous, holding Sukuna’s furious stare without flinching.
“Do you have any fucking idea how worried everyone was?” Sukuna demanded, his grip tightening.
Dante’s lips curled into a bitter, humorless smile. “Who the fuck is ‘everyone’?” The molten gold pulsed. “I know you weren’t one of them.” The words were a cold blade, sharp and precise.
Sukuna almost flinched, a minute tightening around his eyes the only betrayal before the fury slammed back down. “What the hell does that mean?” His voice dropped to a dangerous growl.
Dante leaned in slightly, the proximity charged, his golden eyes boring into Sukuna’s. “You can’t fucking sit here and tell me you were genuinely concerned about where I went. Really? You gonna stand there with a straight face and tell me what we have going on isn’t just sex for you?” He spat the last word. “Truly?”
Heat radiated off Sukuna now, palpable, like standing too close to a forge. His jaw clenched, the muscles standing out in sharp relief. He looked utterly pissed, a storm barely contained. “Are you fucking serious?” The question was a low, incredulous rumble. He yanked Dante closer by the arm still in his grasp. “If this was just sex for me, Dante, I wouldn’t have fucking stayed. For weeks. After Balial damn near ripped you apart. After he almost fucking killed you!” The words crashed out, raw and jagged. “I wouldn’t have spoon-fed you broth when you couldn’t hold a spoon. Wouldn’t have fucking bathed you when you were too weak to stand. Wouldn’t have stayed awake all fucking night, holding you down, whispering bullshit I don’t even remember just to pull you back from those goddamn panic attacks that felt like they’d fucking tear you apart!” He was breathing hard now, inches from Dante’s face, his eyes blazing with a fury that felt ancient, personal. “I wouldn’t have fucking held you while you screamed from nightmares about me dying! None of it! Not one fucking second of that was about getting my dick wet!”
Dante froze. The molten gold in his eyes flickered, dimmed, then extinguished completely, snapping back to their normal shade of startling, icy blue. His expression shifted from defensive rage to utter shock, his lips parting slightly. He looked flabbergasted, stripped bare by Sukuna’s torrent of brutal, undeniable truth. The anger that had fueled him since his return from the Pit evaporated, leaving him hollow, exposed.
Sukuna stepped even closer, eliminating the last sliver of space between them, his grip on Dante’s arm unrelenting, grounding. His voice dropped lower, rougher, scraping over the raw edges of the admission. “You don’t have to believe a goddamn word I say. That’s your fucking choice.” He locked eyes with Dante, the fury still there but now underscored by something desperate, something terrifyingly vulnerable. “But don’t you dare sit here and tell me I wasn’t worried about you. Don’t you fucking dare, just because you think every piece of me that existed back when you… when we…” He faltered for a heartbeat, the word ‘loved’ hanging unspoken but deafening in the charged silence. “…back then… is gone. It’s not. Not all of it.” He swallowed, the sound harsh in the sudden quiet. “Some’s still there. Buried deep, fucked up… but there. And I still fucking care about you.”