Dante walked.
For how long, he couldn't tell. The days blurred together, marked only by the slow agony in his limbs and the gnawing void in his stomach. His body had long since stopped shivering from the cold—either because it had accepted the misery or because he was close to breaking. The forest stretched endlessly around him, dark and unyielding, but still, he walked. His clothes were torn, his feet raw, and the only thing keeping him going was sheer spite. Spite at the gods, at the guild, at the Trickster, at himself.
But mostly, spite at the world that wouldn't let him rest.
Eventually, his legs gave out. He collapsed onto the damp earth, his breath ragged and uneven. He didn't even feel the cold anymore. Maybe this was it. Maybe he'd finally lost the bet. Maybe he—
Voices.
At first, he thought it was another one of the Trickster's games, another taunt in his half-conscious delirium. But no—these voices were real.
"Gods, look at him. The boy's barely alive."
A hand pressed against his forehead. Warm. Too warm. He tried to move, but the darkness was swallowing him whole.
"He needs food and rest. We'll take him back."
And then, for the first time in what felt like years, Dante let himself close his eyes.
He woke up in a bed.
Not a cold floor, not a prison cell, not the dirt of the forest. An actual bed, with blankets wrapped around him, warmth soaking into his skin. He flinched, instincts kicking in, but the moment he tried to move, his body reminded him that he was still barely functional. His limbs ached, his throat dry as sandpaper.
"He's awake."
Dante turned his head slightly. A girl stood by the door, no older than twelve, clutching a wooden spoon like it was a weapon. Behind her, a woman entered, middle-aged, kind eyes, the type of face Dante had never associated with people who cared about him.
"You must be starving," the woman said, offering him a bowl of steaming soup. The smell alone nearly broke him.
Dante stared at the bowl. He could feel the weight of their gazes, waiting for him to take it, but something inside him hesitated. This… this was kindness. A foreign thing. A dangerous thing.
He took the bowl anyway. His hands shook as he raised it to his lips, the warmth spreading through his body, filling the void that had felt endless.
Days passed, and for the first time in his life, Dante felt something resembling peace. The family wasn't rich, nor were they powerful, but they were… kind. They let him help around the farm, gave him food, a place to sleep. It was a quiet existence, one that felt so out of place with the life he knew.
And that's what made it terrifying.
Because peace never lasted.
The first sign was the dog barking.
Dante sat up, his instincts sharp, honed from years of surviving things much worse than hunger. He slipped out of bed, moving towards the window.
Torches.
His stomach dropped.
Then came the shouting. Heavy boots crunching against dirt.
The Guild had found him.
The door crashed open, and the first scream pierced the night. Dante moved before he could think, his body reacting on pure instinct. He grabbed the nearest blade—a kitchen knife—and sprinted. The moment he stepped out, he saw them. Soldiers. Five, no—seven of them. Blood already pooled on the ground, staining the earth. The father of the house lay motionless, his throat slit. The mother. The girl.
Gone.
A cold, dead feeling settled inside Dante. He had known this would happen. He had known peace was a lie.
And yet, it still hurt.
The first soldier lunged, but Dante was faster. He ducked under the swing, driving the knife up into the man's side. The soldier screamed, staggering back, and Dante grabbed his sword before he even hit the ground.
They came at him all at once. He dodged, twisted, moved like smoke through the chaos, his blade flashing under the moonlight. The Trickster's power burned in his veins, his movements sharper, faster. He turned their attacks against them, illusions flickering at the edges of his vision, making them stumble, second-guess.
Three went down fast. The fourth lasted longer. The fifth tried to run.
Dante saw him bolt, saw him turn towards the fields, saw his lips move—ready to shout for reinforcements.
No. No one was leaving.
Dante moved before he could think, his hand snapping up. Trickery. A whisper in his mind. The man's legs locked up, his body betraying him. He collapsed, panting, trying to crawl, but Dante was already there, looming over him.
The soldier looked up, eyes wide, terrified. "Please—"
Dante didn't even let him finish. The blade plunged deep, the life draining from the man's body in seconds.
Silence.
The corpses littered the farm, blood seeping into the soil. Dante stood in the middle of it all, his breath steady, controlled. Something inside him had cracked. Not broken—no, not yet. But cracked.
He turned towards the last remaining soldier, the one barely clinging to life, trying to crawl away. Dante grabbed him by the collar, lifting him just enough so he could see the fire burning in his eyes.
"Tell your masters," he whispered, voice calm, too calm. "Send everyone."
He let the soldier drop, watching as he scrambled up and ran, disappearing into the night.
Dante exhaled, running a hand through his bloodstained hair. The Trickster's laughter echoed in the back of his mind, low and amused.
They wanted a monster?
Fine.
He would give them one.
Dante wiped the blood off his blade, his breathing heavy. The last of the guild soldiers lay dead around him, their bodies strewn across the dirt in twisted heaps. The Trickster god's laughter echoed in his head, smug and satisfied.
"You've done well, little fox," the god mused. "Now, let's make use of the spoils."
Dante scoffed, crouching down to search the bodies. "And what spoils would those be?"
"That one," the Trickster hummed, directing Dante's gaze toward a corpse draped in fine, undamaged armor. A royal crest gleamed on his shoulder plate. He was young, his hands still soft from privilege rather than battle. A noble. A student. And clutched in his dead fingers—a guild pass.
"Reaper's Sanctum," Dante muttered, reading the inscription on the pass. His brows furrowed. "The harvesting school?"
"Bingo." The Trickster's voice was filled with mischief. "And this brat here? He's your way in."
Dante's grip on the pass tightened. "Why the hell would I infiltrate a guild school?"
The Trickster chuckled darkly. "Because, dear boy, I know what happened to your family."
Dante's blood turned cold. The Trickster had never spoken of his family before. He'd barely given hints, and now he was dangling the truth right in front of him like a worm on a hook.
"Tell me," Dante growled.
"Oh, I will," the god cooed, "but first… let's see if you can play the part of a spoiled little noble."
Dante clenched his jaw. He looked down at the soldier again. The resemblance wasn't perfect, but with his ability to shift his appearance, he could make it work. He focused, his reflection in the polished breastplate shifting, morphing—his features softening, his stance changing, his expression curling into the smug sneer of someone who had never known struggle.
He wasn't Dante anymore. He was Lirian Valcrest, son of a minor noble house, and a proud student of Reaper's Sanctum.
The gates of Reaper's Sanctum loomed ahead, towering black iron, etched with carvings of hooded figures wielding scythes. Dante walked with purpose, forcing himself to adopt the air of arrogance the real Lirian likely carried. The guards barely gave him a glance as he flashed the pass, and just like that, he was inside.
The courtyard was massive, filled with students in sleek black uniforms adorned with silver accents. Some sparred with weapons, others practiced channeling their essence into various abilities. Dante kept his pace steady, his mind racing. He had expected a school, but this was a war camp disguised as an academy.
A voice rang out. "Lirian!"
Dante barely had time to react before a group of students approached, grinning. He forced himself to smirk, hoping the expression fit the brat he was impersonating.
"Back from another trip already?" one of them scoffed. "Did daddy send you to 'supervise' the guild again?"
Dante let out a lazy chuckle, leaning into the persona. "You know me. Someone has to keep the lower ranks in line."
The others laughed, one even clapping him on the back. Dante resisted the urge to recoil. He had just walked into the heart of the guild, and they thought he belonged.
As he exchanged meaningless banter, his mind repeated the Trickster's words over and over.
I know what happened to your family.
For now, he would play the game. But the Trickster would talk. One way or another.