Chapter 98: Old Lieutenant
The stale air of the celestial outpost hung heavy, smelling faintly of ozone and sterile metal. It was a stark, angular space carved into the void between realms, its pearlescent walls humming with barely contained energy. Adam stood just inside the shimmering gateway he’d forced open, the residual stink of Hell – sulfur, sex, and Sukuna – clinging to him like a second skin, a jarring dissonance against the celestial purity. Every muscle screamed. His ass throbbed with a deep, brutal ache, a constant reminder of Sukuna’s recent, savage claiming. His throat felt raw, scraped from screaming. He’d barely scraped himself together after Sukuna finally finished, staggering out of the dungeon while the Curse King laughed, his gaze already calculating towards the bruised and twitching Dabi.
He needed to find Lute. Fast.
He spotted her near a pulsating control nexus, her back to him. Her white, uniform-like garb was pristine, her posture rigid with zealous purpose. She was adjusting complex dials, her movements sharp, efficient. Then she sensed him. Or smelled him. She stiffened, turning slowly, her halo flickering erratically. Her single visible eye widened, the pupil dilating in pure shock. She looked… younger than he remembered. More brittle. The righteous fire was still there, but banked by utter disbelief.
"Adam?" Her voice was a whisper, raw with shock, echoing slightly in the sterile chamber. She took an involuntary step back, her hand hovering near the ornate hilt of her energy blade. "You… you’re supposed to be dead. Obliterated. They said…" She trailed off, staring at him as if he were a particularly gruesome ghost. Her gaze raked over him – the disheveled clothes hastily thrown on, the exhaustion etched deep into his face, the faint, livid bruise Sukuna’s hand had left on his throat. "You reek of Hell. And… something else. Something vile."
Adam didn’t flinch. The judgment in her tone was nothing new. He stepped further into the outpost, ignoring the way the sterile light made his gritty eyes sting. "Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated, Lute," he rasped, his voice rough. He kept his distance, acutely aware of his own battered state, the deep ache radiating from his core. "Just like your plan to launch another extermination into Hell is a fucking suicide mission."
Her shock hardened into icy fury. "My mission is sanctioned! Necessary! The demonic filth breeds unchecked! We must—"
"Stop! Just fucking stop," Adam cut her off, sharper than he intended, a flare of the old frustration mixed with the bone-deep weariness Sukuna had left him with. He saw the familiar, dangerous fanaticism igniting in her eye. He took another step, holding up a hand, palm out. "Listen to me. I was there, Lute. Deeper than you’ve ever been. You think you know what you’re walking into? You don’t. It’s not just cannon fodder down there. Not anymore. They have… teeth. Serious fucking teeth." The image of Sukuna’s feral grin flashed in his mind, followed by Dante’s cold, calculating stare. "You go down there with your little squad, you won’t be exterminating shit. You’ll be slaughtered. Fed to things that make the average Imp look like a fucking puppy."
Lute’s hand tightened on her blade. Her halo pulsed erratically. "You expect me to believe you? The First Man who fell again? Who rolls in the muck with the very filth we cleanse?" Her voice dripped with contempt, but Adam didn’t miss the flicker of doubt beneath it. The fear. He’d seen it before, buried deep under her zeal.
"Yeah, you do," Adam stated flatly, meeting her gaze head-on. He channeled every ounce of weary authority he could muster, letting the raw truth resonate. "Because I’m the only one who’s been to the Pit and clawed his way back, Lute. I’ve seen the Prince of Hell laugh at exterminators. I’ve seen the Curse King tear angels apart for fun. You think your holy light will save you?" He gave a harsh, humorless laugh that scraped his abused throat. "It’ll just make you tastier." He saw her flinch, a tiny crack in the armor. "Stand down, Lute. Call it off. For your own sake. For the sake of everyone stupid enough to follow you into that meat grinder."
Silence. Thick. Tension crackled like static. Lute stared at him, her single eye searching his face, looking for lies, for weakness, for the Adam she remembered. He held her gaze, letting her see the exhaustion, the pain, but also the grim certainty. He saw the war rage within her – fervent belief battling dawning dread. Her knuckles were white on the blade hilt. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, her rigid posture slumped. The fire in her eye dimmed, replaced by a hollow weariness that mirrored his own. She looked away, down at the humming console. A long, shaky breath escaped her.
"You’re right," she murmured, the words barely audible over the hum of celestial machinery. She sounded… defeated. "It… it is reckless. Foolish pride." She looked back at him, her expression strangely blank, devoid of its usual fervor. "I just… wanted to finish what we started, Adam. To make it mean something. After you…" She trailed off, waving a hand vaguely at him. "After."
Adam felt a surge of cautious relief, mingled with a pang of something else – pity? Regret? He nodded slowly. "I know. But this isn't the way. Trust me. Stand down." He hesitated, then added, a gruff concession, "Thanks, Lute."
She gave a small, jerky nod, still not meeting his eyes fully. "Yeah. Okay. I’ll… I’ll stand down." She turned back to the console, her movements suddenly listless. "You should go. Before someone else senses you here."
Adam didn’t need telling twice. The sterile air was suffocating, the ache in his body intensifying. Every second here felt like borrowed time. He gave her one last look, the image of her slumped shoulders etching itself into his mind, then turned and vanished back through the shimmering portal, sealing it behind him with a pulse of fading celestial energy. The oppressive warmth and stink of Hell’s outer layers welcomed him back like a filthy embrace. He leaned against the rough-hewn tunnel wall, breathing deeply, the relief warring with the persistent throb Sukuna had left deep inside him. One less fucking problem, he thought, pushing himself off the wall to head back towards the Inferno Club. Towards Sukuna, Dante, and the mess he’d left behind. He almost believed her.
The relief Adam felt upon leaving the celestial outpost evaporated like cheap liquor in Hell's heat, replaced by the familiar, bone-deep ache Sukuna had carved into him and a gnawing suspicion he couldn't shake. Back in the sterile chamber, the hum of the nexus seemed suddenly oppressive. Lute stood frozen where Adam had left her, her knuckles white on the console’s edge. The defeated slump was gone, replaced by rigid stillness. Her halo pulsed erratically, casting sharp, shifting shadows across her face. A tremor ran through her clenched fist. Then, decisively, she slammed her palm onto a hidden panel. The pearlescent walls flickered, plunging the room into near-total darkness save for the console's sickly green glow.
She drew a jagged symbol in the air with her finger, lines of cold blue light trailing behind. It hung suspended, pulsing. "Abyzoth," she whispered, the name tasting like ash. "I require your presence. Now." The symbol flared, then vanished. Silence pressed in, thick and expectant. The sterile ozone stink was abruptly overwhelmed. A wave of decay hit her, sulfur and something profoundly rotten, like spoiled meat left in a tomb. The air grew thick, greasy. A cold draft snaked through the chamber, making the sparse strands of Lute's hair stir. Then came the sound – a slow, dragging scrape… clank… scrape… clank.
A figure coalesced from the deepest shadows near the sealed gateway, not stepping out, but unfolding. Abyzoth. He stood impossibly tall and unnervingly thin, his frame a collection of sharp angles under taut, pale gray skin stretched parchment-thin over jutting bones. Countless scars and livid burn marks crisscrossed his emaciated form like a grotesque map. Jagged, broken horns curled unevenly from his skull, one chipped near the base. His face was a nightmare mask: eyes like bottomless black pits holding faint, malevolent red embers deep within, and a wide, lipless slash of a mouth permanently exposing rows of jagged, yellowed teeth in a rictus grin of eternal madness. Long, spindly fingers ended in cracked, black claws that flexed and twitched erratically. The chains – heavy, rusted links – slithered behind him like metallic serpents, rattling with a life of their own, the sound echoing unnaturally in the confined space. The stench intensified, sulfur and rot clinging to him.
Beside him, stepping forward as if parting a curtain of shadow, materialized Nythera. She was a stark contrast to Abyzoth’s chaotic horror. Ancient power radiated from her stillness. Long, bone-white hair flowed down her back, stark against void-black robes that seemed to absorb the weak light. Her face, though lined with countless ages, was sharp and imperious, dominated by eyes like chips of obsidian that held no warmth, only fathomless cold calculation. The air around her crackled faintly with restrained energy.
Abyzoth’s head jerked to the side with a sickeningly sharp motion, his burning ember-eyes fixing on Lute. A low, wet clicking came from his too-wide mouth. "Lute," he rasped, his voice like gravel dragged over stone. The chains rattled louder for a second, agitated. "You called. What… breaks?" His gaze darted around the sterile chamber, a predator assessing unfamiliar territory.
Nythera merely tilted her head, her obsidian eyes sweeping dismissively over Lute’s pristine uniform. "This place reeks of futile order," she stated, her voice like dust settling on forgotten tombs. "Why summon us to such… emptiness?" Her gaze lingered on the pulsating nexus, unimpressed.
Lute swallowed, the bravado she’d shown Adam utterly gone, replaced by a cold, brittle tension. Her single eye didn't waver from the terrifying pair. "Nythera," she began, forcing her voice steady. "I need you to cast a spell. A powerful summoning."
Nythera arched one impossibly fine white eyebrow. "Summoning?" Her lips curled in a subtle sneer. "Child, such a task requires barely an apprentice's focus. Why trouble me for such mundane work?" She gestured with a pale hand, nails like polished obsidian. "A flick of the wrist. A whispered name. Hardly warrants dragging an entity of my stature from the deeper shadows."
"The creature I need to summon," Lute pressed, her knuckles whitening further, "is exceptionally strong. Unimaginably powerful. A basic summoning won't hold him. It might not even scratch the surface." She met Nythera’s cold gaze, trying to project confidence she didn’t feel. "It requires precision. Power. Your power."
Abyzoth let out a sharp, barking giggle, a sound like breaking bones. His head twitched violently again. "Strong?" he rasped, a dribble of blackish drool escaping his jagged teeth. He took a jerky step forward, chains scraping harshly. "Why am I here? To watch the witch wave her bony hands?" His spindly fingers flexed, claws clicking together. "Bored. Need to… unmake something."
Lute flinched at his proximity, the reek of decay almost choking her. "You," she said, looking directly at Abyzoth, "are here because summoning him is only the first step." She took a breath, steeling herself. "He needs to be… subdued. Weakened. Severely." She gestured towards Abyzoth's twitching hands, the glint of his claws. "I need your talents. Your… expertise. Break him down. Make him vulnerable."
Abyzoth’s permanent grin widened impossibly, showing more jagged teeth. The red embers in his void-eyes flared with sudden, intense interest. "Break?" he whispered, a tremor of pure, sick anticipation running through his emaciated frame. "Yes. Break."
Nythera’s obsidian eyes narrowed fractionally, a flicker of cold comprehension passing over her ancient face. "Ah," she breathed, the sound like dry leaves scraping stone. "You seek a binding. You wish to leash this… powerful creature... after my summoning and his… conditioning." She looked from Abyzoth’s eager twitching to Lute’s tense face. "To bring him under your control." It wasn’t a question. Her tone held a sliver of dark amusement. "An ambitious, if predictable, mortal failing. Control." She examined her obsidian nails. "Who is this paragon of power you wish to collar?"
Lute hesitated. This was the precipice. She knew the name alone could elicit disbelief, scorn, or outright refusal. She braced herself, her voice barely above a whisper yet slicing through the thick air. "Dante Morningstar."
Silence. Heavy. The hum of the nexus seemed to falter. The rattling chains went unnaturally still. Nythera’s head snapped up, her obsidian eyes fixing on Lute with intense, cold focus. The faint crackle of energy around her intensified, buzzing faintly. Abyzoth froze, his twitching ceasing momentarily. His void-eyes, fixed on Lute, blazed crimson for a heartbeat. Then, the jagged slash of his mouth stretched into its widest, most terrifying grin yet, exposing the full array of broken, stained teeth. A low, guttural chuckle escaped him, building into a wet, grating laugh that echoed horribly off the sterile walls.
"Ohhh," he rasped, the sound thick with malevolent delight. He took another jerky step towards Lute, the chains slithering forward. "Dante." He savored the name like a rancid delicacy. "Prince of the Pit. Break him?" His chuckle deepened, a sound of pure, unholy glee. His spindly fingers flexed, claws clicking eagerly. "Yes. Oh, yes. Twist him. Crack him open. Make him squeal." He looked at Nythera, the red embers in his eyes burning bright. "Worth the trip. Worth the wait."
Nythera regarded Abyzoth's frenzy with icy detachment, then turned her obsidian gaze back to Lute. A slow, predatory smile, devoid of any warmth, touched her ancient lips. It held calculation, the promise of immense power channeled for a singular, devastating purpose. "The Prince of Hell," she murmured, the words resonating with dark power. "A worthy vessel for a binding. Complex. Dangerous." She gave a single, slow nod. "It will require… significant resources. But the challenge… intrigues me. We agree." Her gaze swept over Abyzoth, then settled on the point where the gateway had been. "We start tonight. Prepare your focus point, child. The Pit will yield its prince."