The city had never felt smaller.
Dante had spent years slipping through its alleys, weaving through crowds, making himself insignificant. But now? Every shadow felt like an eye. Every footstep, a hunter's drumbeat.
And then he saw him.
The Harvester Captain.
A tall, gaunt man with a coat dusted in dried blood, moving with the slow confidence of a predator. But it wasn't his build that sent chills through Dante's spine—it was the way the Captain paused, sniffed the air, and turned his head.
He was hunting.
Dante didn't hesitate. He focused—his face twisted, his bones shifted, even his scent changed. He became someone else entirely, an unremarkable worker in tattered clothes, slipping into the bustling streets unnoticed.
It should've worked. It almost did.
Then—a shove. Someone bumped into him near the town square, cursing as they passed.
Dante staggered. His illusion flickered.
The Captain stopped. His nostrils flared. His head snapped in Dante's direction.
Dante ran.
---
The streets blurred as he bolted forward, knocking over barrels, shoving past vendors, weaving through thick crowds.
The Captain was right on his tail.
Dante's breath burned. He barely had time to think. He could've changed again in the midst of the people, but his mind was occupied—too much panic, not enough focus.
"Move!" he shouted, barreling through a fruit stall. People screamed. The Captain leapt over them like it was nothing.
A flick of his fingers—a minor trick—sent a crate tumbling into the Captain's path, giving Dante just enough space to slip down a back alley.
His hut was close. He just needed to—
A dagger whizzed past his ear.
Dante's heart nearly stopped. He reached the hut, threw the door shut, and bolted it. His chest rose and fell in sharp, frantic breaths.
Outside, heavy boots crunched against the dirt.
Then, a voice—low, cold, certain.
"Come out, boy. You ain't running now."
Dante's hands trembled as he grabbed a bottle of godblood, staring at the swirling black liquid inside. He knew what it did. He'd felt its power before.
But if he drank it, if he took too much…
Would he even be human when he woke up?
Bang.
The door shuddered.
Dante swallowed his fear. He had no time to think.
He drank.
---
Pain. Pure, agonizing, skull-splitting pain.
It ripped through his mind like wildfire, burning away every thought except suffering. His body twisted, his veins seared, his bones felt like they were coming undone.
Through the torment, a voice whispered.
"A bet, little fox."
The Trickster God. Laughing. Amused.
"Use teleportation, but with a consequence. Play, and the game begins."
Dante barely heard the Captain's boot slam against the door.
His head pounded. His vision blurred.
The Captain was coming.
He had no choice.
"Fine!" he rasped. "I accept!"
His power surged.
The bottles of godblood—every last one of them—vanished in a blink, pulled into the unknown.
The door exploded open, And Dante was gone.
---
Dante hit the ground hard.
His body convulsed, twitching like a puppet with half-cut strings. His head throbbed, his veins burned, and his stomach twisted like he'd just been thrown through a storm.
Because he had.
He hadn't just teleported—he had jumped through space itself, ripping past reality with no sense of direction. His mind struggled to keep up, his body barely understanding where it even was.
The dirt beneath him was damp. Trees loomed over him, their branches twisting like skeletal fingers against the moonlit sky. A forest. Somewhere far from the city. Maybe even farther than that.
Then, a voice.
Smooth. Amused. Wrong.
"So, this is the little fox who stole a sip of my blood."
Dante froze. His breath hitched as an eerie cold swept through the air.
That voice. He knew it.
The Trickster God.
Dante pushed himself to his feet, legs unsteady but holding. His vision still swam, but he forced himself to focus. He had to be ready.
His mind raced. The tiers.
If he could hear the Trickster's voice now, that meant he had passed Hunger I. He was at Hunger II.
Dante swallowed hard, straightened his back, and forced his usual cocky grin onto his face. "Alright, fine. You got me. Let's make this formal. Name's Dante."
Silence.
Then, laughter.
Dark, twisting laughter that slithered through the trees, bouncing off the bark, curling into his ears. It was the kind of laugh that had teeth.
And then—
"I know who you are."
The cold deepened. The wind stilled. The forest felt wrong.
Dante's smirk faltered. "H-how?"
The Trickster's voice dropped lower, almost whispering. "Because, dear boy…"
A pause.
"Just kidding. I have no idea who the heck you are. Just yanking your leg."
Dante exhaled sharply. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
The Trickster only cackled harder, his voice practically dripping with amusement.
"Ah, the jealous cries of a boy who doesn't know how to take a joke. I can taste your frustration. Delicious."
Dante clenched his fists, muttering curses under his breath. This god—his god—was a menace.
Dante's stomach was still flipping from the jump, but the Trickster God had no plans to let him catch his breath.
The air shifted, buzzing with an unnatural energy. Then, with a sudden boom, a phantom audience erupted into cheers.
Dante flinched. "What the hell?"
A bright spotlight beamed down from nowhere, illuminating him like he was standing on a stage. The forest around him flickered—no, warped—as banners and flashing signs materialized in the darkness.
And then, the voice returned.
"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Make. A. Bet!"
Dante turned slowly, disbelief creeping up his spine. "Oh, you've gotta be kidding me."
A drumroll. A cheer. Confetti—where the hell was confetti coming from?
"Today, our lucky contestant is—Dante!" The Trickster's voice boomed, filled with theatrical glee. "An up-and-coming little thief who just couldn't resist a taste of divinity! Tell me, Dante, how does it feel to steal from a god?"
Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're actually insane."
"Flattery will get you everywhere," the Trickster chuckled. "Now! It's time to play my favorite game—Lose the Bet!"
Dante frowned. "What kind of stupid game is that?"
"Oh, it's simple," the god said, and Dante could hear the wicked grin in his voice. "I make a bet. You lose. And when you do, I get to control your body for a whole 46 hours."
Dante's blood ran cold. "Excuse me, what?"
The audience gasped dramatically. A few fake boos rang out.
"Forty-six hours, Dante! Almost two whole days where your body is mine to do with as I please. And don't worry, I won't get you killed. Probably."
Dante's fingers twitched. "This is a joke, right? Just another one of your dumb tricks?"
The Trickster hummed. "Wouldn't that be funny? But no, this one's real. You used Jump—a power far beyond your little Hunger Tier II self. That kind of shortcut? Oh, it always comes with a price."
Dante swallowed hard. He didn't like where this was going.
"So here's the deal," the god continued, his voice practically purring with amusement. "At some random moment in the future, I'll throw you a bet. No warning. No hints. Just a sudden, unavoidable game where the odds are entirely against you."
The fake audience laughed.
Dante's hands curled into fists. "And if I win?"
The Trickster cackled. "Oh, Dante. You won't."
His grin faded.
This was bad.
This was really, really bad.