Dante was still drowning in his own mind when the Trickster took over completely.
His body—their body—rolled its shoulders, stretching out fingers like a puppeteer testing his strings.
Then he turned to Malrik.
The instructor was still stiff, his hand twitching, breath uneven. He had noticed something. Felt something. But he didn't have time to react.
Because the Trickster—wearing Dante's skin—moved.
A blur of motion. A raised fist. A strike aimed straight for Malrik's head—
Malrik raised an arm to block—
But the hit never landed.
Instead, Dante's arm melted.
Not in the grotesque way of blood and flesh, but in something far worse.
His forearm wobbled—like jelly, like liquid, like reality had suddenly decided that bones were optional.
Malrik's eyes widened in horror, his mouth opening to say something—
And then Dante's hand flopped uselessly against his face.
A wet splat.
Nothing violent. Nothing brutal. Just a ridiculous, unimpressive slap of gooey fingers against Malrik's forehead.
There was a pause.
Then—
The Trickster laughed.
Hard.
The kind of laughter that curled through the air like a cruel wind, rich with amusement and something else.
Something dangerous.
Malrik blinked. Confused.
Then his pupils dilated.
His posture slumped.
His breath hitched—just once—before his entire body seemed to relax.
Like a doll with its strings cut.
Like a slate wiped clean.
Malrik swayed on his feet, eyes clouding over. His lips parted, as if searching for words, but none came.
The flicker of recognition that had been there just moments ago?
Gone.
The sharp suspicion?
Gone.
The years of knowledge, the carefully honed instincts, the magic lurking in his fingertips?
All gone.
The Trickster tilted Dante's head, still chuckling.
"Oh, Malrik, you were so close."
Malrik blinked slowly. His brows knit together as if something was missing, something important. But no matter how hard he tried to grasp it, it simply wasn't there.
Dante—still trapped in his own body—felt a deep, unsettling chill crawl up his spine.
This wasn't like breaking someone's bones.
This wasn't like stealing knowledge or warping memories.
This was erasure.
A complete reset.
A man who had spent years sharpening his mind, building his strength, crafting his power—was now standing there like a child, blinking at the world with empty eyes.
Dante wanted to feel satisfaction.
Instead, he felt terror.
The Trickster?
He just grinned.
"You're an infant now, Malrik. A blank page. How fascinating." He reached forward, tapping Malrik's forehead playfully. "You should thank me. Most people spend their lives trying to forget things. I've just done the hard part for you."
Malrik didn't respond.
Didn't even react.
Just stood there, breathing, lost in his own emptiness.
The Trickster sighed, almost disappointed.
"Ah, well. Can't be helped. You were such a fun opponent, too."
Then, just as suddenly as he had taken over—
The Trickster let go.
Dante should have felt relief.
His body was his again. His mind was his own.
Except—
It wasn't.
Because when he tried to move, he couldn't.
His arms weren't his. His legs weren't his. Even his own breath felt like it belonged to someone else.
And worst of all?
The Trickster was still smiling.
"Oh, my dear Dante," the Trickster purred, flexing his fingers. "Did you really think I'd let go so easily? We still have unfinished business."
Dante tried to speak. To protest.
Nothing came out.
He was locked inside his own head.
A passenger.
The Trickster rolled Dante's shoulders, still humming with amusement. "And you just reminded me of something." His grin widened. "We have a bet to settle."
Dante's mind froze.
The game show.
The Trickster's stupid, ridiculous game show—where Dante had unknowingly bet his body for a handful of hours.
That had been before. Before the library. Before the slap. Before Malrik.
Had the Trickster planned this?
No—he hadn't even needed to.
Because Dante had already lost the second he stopped being in control.
The Trickster laughed.
"And since you can't play, dear boy… you're disqualified."
A bell rang.
Not a real one. Not in the library.
But inside Dante's mind.
A sharp, metallic DING! that rattled through his skull like a hammer striking iron.
The sound of defeat.
Dante's body jerked.
Then his vision collapsed into darkness.
Nothing.
Not even the comfort of sleep.
Just a void.
He wasn't unconscious. Wasn't dreaming. Wasn't even aware in the way a person should be.
It was deeper than that.
Like he had been unplugged from reality itself.
No sound. No sensation. No thoughts.
Just absence.
---
Meanwhile…
The Trickster stretched.
He had Dante's body now. Properly.
Not just borrowed. Not just nudged into the right direction.
No, this was full control.
And oh, how he had missed this.
He flexed Dante's fingers, cracked his neck, and took a deep, satisfying breath.
"Ahhhh… fresh air. A functional spine. A body that actually moves instead of slithering through the cracks of reality."
He rolled his shoulders, adjusting.
"A bit stiff, but manageable."
Then, he turned back to Malrik.
The man still stood there, empty-eyed, lost.
The Trickster tilted his head, observing his own handiwork.
"You poor thing." He reached out, tapping Malrik's nose like one would a misbehaving puppy. "I could put you out of your misery. But where's the fun in that?"
Malrik didn't even flinch.
Didn't even seem to process what was happening.
The Trickster sighed.
"Boring."
With that, he turned on his heel and walked out of the library.
Dante would wake up soon enough.
But by then, it would already be too late.