Chapter 99: Break the King
The sterile air of the celestial outpost was gone, replaced by the familiar, oppressive heat and the thumping bassline of the Inferno Club bleeding through the reinforced door. Dante Morningstar, Prince of Hell, leaned against the plush velvet of the VIP booth, swirling a glass of impossibly old bourbon. Sukuna lounged opposite him, shirtless, the intricate tattoos swirling across his chest seeming to writhe in the low light. Dabi was slumped nearby, eyes glazed, a faint tremor still running through him from Sukuna’s earlier… attentions.
"…so the little birdie actually listened?" Sukuna drawled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in Dante’s bones. He took a lazy drag from a cigarette, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye. "Color me fucking surprised. Figured she’d send her shiny brigade straight into the woodchipper."
Dante took a slow sip, the burn of the liquor a welcome counterpoint to the sticky heat. "Adam can be… persuasive," he mused, his crimson eyes fixed on the writhing dance floor below. "Or desperate. Either way, it buys us breathing room. The extermination’s off." He felt a flicker of satisfaction. One less immediate headache.
Sukuna chuckled, a dark, grating sound. "Breathing room? Or just time for the real predators to circle?" His gaze slid towards Dabi, a predatory gleam flashing. "Speaking of which, I think this one’s ready for round two. Barely got started peeling back the layers of his fucking sanity…" He stubbed out the cigarette on the polished obsidian table.
Before Dante could respond, the air around him ripped.
It wasn't sound. It was a sudden, violent tearing sensation deep within his core, like reality itself was being unstitched around him. One moment he was in the humid, noisy VIP lounge, smelling of smoke, expensive booze, and Dabi’s lingering terror. The next—
Silence. Sterile, humming silence. Cold, metallic light seared his eyes. The scent hit him like a physical blow – ozone, sterile cleaning fluid… and something ancient, rotten, and utterly alien. Sulfur layered with decay. He staggered, the glass falling from his hand, shattering on the suddenly unfamiliar, pearlescent floor.
Summoning.
The realization slammed into him with the force of a freight train. But who? How? Bindings woven into his very being, ancient wards etched in his blood and bone, screamed their violation. He instinctively tried to flare his power, to shred the spell, to teleport back to the comforting chaos of the Inferno. His demonic energy surged, a crackling corona of crimson and black lightning erupting around him—
—and sputtered, dying against intricate, glowing golden lines inscribed on the floor beneath his boots. A Devil’s Trap. Not just any – this one pulsed with cold, celestial power intertwined with something older, darker. It sucked at his energy, draining it before it could fully manifest. He was caught. Caged.
"Fuck!" The curse tore from his throat, raw and furious. He whirled, searching the sterile, angular chamber. His crimson eyes locked onto Lute, standing rigid near a humming console, her face pale, single eye wide with a mixture of terror and grim determination. Beside her, two figures radiated pure menace. The skeletal horror, chains rattling, scars like a map of suffering – Abyzoth. And the ancient woman radiating cold, implacable power – Nythera. His lip curled in a snarl. "Lute? You treacherous bitch! What is this?!"
Lute flinched but didn’t speak, her knuckles white on the console.
Nythera merely tilted her head, obsidian eyes devoid of warmth. Her lips moved silently, weaving intricate patterns in the air with impossible speed. Dante felt the pressure shift, the celestial trap tightening, constricting not just his power but his very awareness. A heavy, unnatural drowsiness crashed over him, thick as tar. His vision blurred at the edges. He fought it, rage lending him a fleeting burst of clarity. "You think… you can hold me… witch?" he ground out, his legs buckling.
"Sleep," Nythera commanded, her voice resonating with finality.
The command wasn't a suggestion. It was a hammer blow to his consciousness. The sterile light dimmed. The hum of the nexus faded into a distant drone. The sight of Lute’s terrified face, Abyzoth’s twitching, eager grin, Nythera’s cold satisfaction – all smeared into darkness. Dante Morningstar, Prince of Hell, slumped bonelessly onto the cold, inscribed floor, unconscious before he hit it.
He awoke to agony.
Not the sharp, clean pain of a blade, but a deep, grinding ache that seemed to emanate from every joint. His wrists and ankles screamed. He blinked, vision swimming. He was upright. Suspended. Heavy, ice-cold manacles bit savagely into his wrists, the chains attached to them pulled taut, anchoring him to the ceiling, forcing his arms high above his head. Similar chains clamped his ankles, spread wide and bolted to heavy rings sunk into the pearlescent floor. He was stretched out, vulnerable, naked except for the tattered remnants of his fine silk shirt hanging open. The cold metal sapped the warmth from his skin. The sterile air stung his nostrils, laced now with the coppery tang of blood and something fouler.
Movement. Slow, jerky. The scrape… clank… scrape… clank… of heavy chains. Abyzoth emerged from the gloom near the sealed gateway. He moved with a predator’s unnatural grace, his emaciated form gliding rather than walking. His void-like eyes, those burning red embers deep within, were fixed on Dante with terrifying intensity. The jagged slash of his mouth stretched into that obscene, toothy grin. He held a long, slender object – a rod of polished obsidian, about the length of Dante’s forearm, ending in a slightly bulbous, intricately carved tip.
"Awake, Prince?" Abyzoth rasped, the voice like stones grinding together. He stopped barely a foot away, the stench of decay rolling off him in waves. "Good. Sleep is… too kind." He tilted his head, a sharp, avian motion. "Nythera did well. Strong trap. Strong sleep." His burning gaze roamed over Dante’s exposed torso, the defined muscle, the pale skin. "Strong body." He reached out a spindly finger, the cracked black claw tracing a feather-light path down Dante’s sternum. The touch was cold, alien, repulsive. Dante flinched, a growl rumbling in his chest.
"Get… your fucking claws… off me, abomination," Dante snarled, yanking against the chains. They held, immovable, the manacles biting deeper. His demonic fire was a guttering ember, suppressed by the trap and Nythera’s lingering spellwork. He felt horrifyingly mortal.
Abyzoth giggled, a wet, rattling sound. The claw pressed down, not hard, but with a terrifying promise. It scraped downwards, leaving a thin, red line that welled with tiny beads of blood. "Skin breaks easy," he observed, almost conversationally. He lifted the obsidian rod, turning it in his spindly fingers. The bulbous tip caught the sterile light. "This… will break more."
Before Dante could react, before he could even formulate another curse, Abyzoth moved. Fast. Brutal. There was no preamble, no theatrical threat. One moment the rod was in his hand, the next it was driven upwards with savage force, not towards Dante’s chest or stomach, but lower.
THUNK.
The sound was wet, obscene. A grunt was punched from Dante’s lungs. The obsidian tip, cold and unyielding, slammed deep into his asshole. It wasn't penetration; it was violation. A brutal, tearing invasion. Dante arched violently against his chains, a raw, animal scream ripping from his throat. The pain was blinding, a white-hot spear of agony lancing up his spine, exploding in his skull. It tore through muscle, violated sphincter, plunged deep into tender, unprepared flesh. He felt the rough carving on the tip scrape brutally against his inner walls. The stretch was unbearable, searing. He felt split open, impaled.
"FUCK! AHHHH! GODS! YOU FUCKING—!" Dante’s voice cracked, his body convulsing. His cock, flaccid in shock and pain, jerked against his thigh. Stars burst behind his eyes.
Abyzoth watched, his grin widening impossibly. He twisted the rod. Slowly. Deliberately. Dante felt the carved edges grate against his ravaged insides, tearing, scraping. A fresh wave of agony made his vision grey at the edges. He choked on his own scream, spit flying from his lips. Abyzoth leaned closer, his rotten breath hot on Dante’s ear. "Tight," he rasped, his voice thick with perverse enjoyment. He twisted the rod harder. "But… loosen soon." He pulled the rod back slightly, just enough to allow a ragged breath, then slammed it forward again, deeper this time.
Hnnng! Dante’s body jackknifed, every muscle straining against the chains. Tears of pure, unadulterated pain streamed down his face. He felt the cold stone stretching him wider, forcing its way into depths never meant to be breached. A trickle of blood, warm and slick, ran down his inner thigh. The humiliation was as fierce as the pain – the Prince of Hell, reduced to this, violated by this grinning monstrosity with a fucking stone dildo.
"Mmm, music!" Abyzoth giggled again, the sound echoing horribly. He began a rhythm. Not fast, but relentless. Withdrawing the rod almost completely, leaving Dante gasping, shuddering, then ramming it back in with that same brutal, tearing force. THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. Each thrust was a separate explosion of agony. Dante’s screams became ragged sobs, interspersed with guttural curses. "Fucking… monster! I’ll… flay you… alive! Rip your fucking… eyes out! AHHH!"
Abyzoth ignored the threats. He focused on the rhythm. The destruction. The wet, tearing sounds accompanying each thrust. The way Dante’s powerful body writhed, muscles standing out in cords, sweat sheening his skin. The way his hole stretched obscenely around the thick obsidian, now slick with blood and the body’s terrified lubrication. He angled the rod, exploring, seeking new angles to cause fresh, blinding pain. He found one, grinding the carved tip against Dante’s prostate.
Dante’s scream hit a new, shattered octave. It wasn't pleasure. It was nerve-shredding overload, a violation so profound it bypassed pain and became existential horror. His cock, traitorously, twitched again. His body’s helpless response only fueled his rage and shame. He thrashed wildly, the chains clanking violently, manacles biting into flesh until his wrists and ankles bled.
"Please…" The word escaped Dante’s lips, a broken whisper lost in his own ragged breathing, instantly swallowed by the next brutal thrust and his renewed scream. Pride shattered under the relentless assault. He was being unmade, not just physically, but fundamentally. Piece by piece. Thrust by agonizing thrust.
Abyzoth watched the torment, his ember-eyes burning with unholy satisfaction. He increased the pace slightly, the THUNK THUNK THUNK becoming a rapid, dreadful percussion against Dante’s screams and the rattling chains. The Prince’s body was a canvas of suffering, slick with sweat and blood, trembling uncontrollably. The obsidian rod plunged in and out of his ruined hole, a piston of pure agony. Abyzoth leaned close again, his lipless mouth almost touching Dante’s ear. "Prince?" he rasped, his voice thick. "Now… you squeal."
The chamber door hissed open. Lute stood frozen on the threshold, summoned perhaps by the escalating screams. Her single eye took in the scene: the Prince of Hell, strung up like butchered meat, convulsing as the skeletal horror violated him with obscene brutality. The air reeked of blood, sweat, ozone, and a new, sickeningly metallic tang. The rhythmic, wet thuds of the obsidian rod driving deep, coupled with Dante’s broken, animalistic sounds of agony, filled the sterile space. Her face, already pale, went utterly bloodless. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a gasp that turned into a choked retch. Horror, raw and absolute, flooded her features. This wasn't strategy. This wasn't righteous punishment. This was monstrous. Unspeakable.
She had unleashed this.
Abyzoth froze mid-thrust, the obsidian rod slick and glistening with Dante's blood. He didn’t turn his head, but the burning coals of his eyes flickered towards the door where Lute stood paralyzed. "Little puppet," he rasped, the word dripping with contempt. "Nythera didn’t say… watch." He didn’t stop, didn’t even slow. He pulled the rod back slowly, agonizingly, the carved edges scraping Dante’s torn flesh, drawing a fresh, guttural sob from the Prince’s throat. Then he slammed it home again. Hard. THUNK. Dante’s head snapped back, a silent scream tearing his throat raw.
"Get… out," Abyzoth commanded, his focus returning entirely to the broken figure chained before him. He began a faster, more brutal rhythm, the rod a piston of pain. THUNK. THUNK. THUNK. The wet, tearing sounds were obscene, echoing off the sterile walls, mingling with the Prince’s ragged, animalistic sounds. Blood dripped steadily now, pooling slightly beneath Dante’s spread legs. His muscles trembled uncontrollably, the chains rattling a constant, grim percussion.
Lute couldn’t move. Her hand remained clamped over her mouth, bile rising hot and acidic. This wasn't containment. This was desecration. She felt the cold weight of Nythera’s command to observe, but it warred violently with the primal horror clawing up her spine. She’d seen Hell’s torments, inflicted them herself, but this… this cold, methodical violation by something so utterly alien… it felt wrong. Profane. Dante’s head lolled forward, sweat-soaked hair obscuring his face. For a fractured second, his crimson eyes, dulled with agony, met hers through the curtain of blood-matted strands. Not pleading. Not rage. Just a shattered, profound awareness. He saw her. Saw her shock. Saw the flicker of sickened regret she couldn't hide. Then his eyes rolled back, consciousness slipping. His body went terrifyingly slack, held up only by the cruel chains.
"Pathetic," Abyzoth hissed, withdrawing the slick rod with a final, wet schlick. Dante’s hole gaped obscenely, raw and bleeding, clenching spasmodically around nothing. Abyzoth tossed the bloodied obsidian aside. It clattered across the pearlescent floor like a discarded bone. "Sleep is weakness." He turned, his skeletal form gliding towards a tray laid out with gleaming, wicked instruments under the sterile light. His spindly fingers hovered over cruel hooks, jagged blades, and vials of bubbling, unknown liquids.
Lute remained frozen. Her mind raced, a frantic buzz drowning out the hum of the nexus. He saw. He knows I didn't want this. The thought was a shard of ice in her gut. Nythera’s cold command warred with the visceral memory of that look. Get him out. How? The trap pulsed with celestial power. Abyzoth was a force of nightmare. Panic tightened her chest. Move. Do something. But her feet felt bolted to the floor.
Abyzoth selected a hooked blade, thin and viciously sharp. He tested the edge against his thumb-claw, a grating sound that made Lute flinch. He glided back to Dante’s limp form. Without ceremony, he pressed the cold point just below Dante’s collarbone. Dante stirred, a low groan escaping his cracked lips. "Awake now," Abyzoth crooned. He dragged the blade downward, slow and deliberate, slicing through skin and muscle like parchment. A deep, crimson line opened from collar to sternum, welling with thick blood. Dante gasped, a strangled sound, his body jerking weakly against the chains. His eyes flew open, wide with fresh, raw agony, instantly locking onto Lute again, standing useless in the doorway.
"F-fuck… you," Dante managed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. His voice was shredded wreckage. "Do… your… worst… freak."
Abyzoth giggled, a wet, rattling chuckle. "Worst?" He pressed the hooked tip deeper into the bleeding furrow he’d just made. Dante arched, a scream ripping free. "Not worst. Just… start." He dug the hook under a flap of skin and peeled it back slowly, meticulously. The sound was wet, tearing paper. Muscle glistened beneath. Dante’s scream dissolved into choked, wet gurgles. His back arched like a drawn bow, tendons standing out in his neck. His eyes, unfocused with pain, still found Lute. The accusation in them was a physical blow. You did this. You let this in.
Lute’s paralysis shattered. Not into action, but into violent trembling. Her stomach heaved. She turned, stumbling back, and vomited violently onto the pristine floor outside the chamber door. The acidic stench mingled horribly with the blood and decay drifting from the room. Gasping, spitting bile, she leaned against the cold wall, the sounds of tearing flesh and Dante's torturous cries chasing her. Horror curdled into something else – a desperate, clawing resolve beneath the terror. End this. Stop him. Somehow. She had to get past Nythera. Had to break the trap. Had to move. But the Prince’s agonized, accusing stare burned behind her eyelids, a brand of her complicity.
Abyzoth worked with precise, unhurried cruelty. He used the hook to lift a thin strip of pectoral muscle, stretching it taut. "Resilient meat," he rasped, almost admiringly. With a flick of the blade, he severed it. Dante convulsed, a sound escaping him beyond scream or sob – a raw scrape of agony from his very core. Blood flowed freely down his chest, soaking the tattered silk, dripping onto the floor to mingle with the other fluids. The hooked blade moved again, seeking the next point of exquisite torment near the sensitive nerves of the armpit. Dante’s breath came in frantic, shallow hitches, his vision swimming. He fought to stay conscious, fought to lock onto Lute’s retreating form near the door, imprinting her frozen horror onto his pain-riddled mind. She’s the key. The crack. His body was a landscape of ruin, but a spark of infernal will, feral and desperate, clung to that single, fractured sight: Lute, seeing the monster she’d unleashed. Seeing her regret. His only lifeline in the abyss of agony. He clung to it as the hook bit deep again, tearing, and the darkness swallowed him whole.