Dante didn't have to get involved.
He could've walked past the dark alley, ignored the muffled screams, and left the hybrid to his fate. But that wasn't who he was.
The kid was cornered, barely standing, his arms wrapped around his bleeding stomach. Three bounty hunters loomed over him, their weapons drawn. One was a brute with a hammer the size of a horse's skull. Another, a thin woman with curved daggers, eyes sharp as glass. The last one held a branding iron, its tip glowing red-hot—the mark of death for hybrids.
Dante's hands clenched into fists. How many had died like this? How many more would?
He stepped forward. "That's enough."
The hunters turned. The brute frowned. "Walk away, stranger."
Dante's lips curled into a smirk. "Or what?"
The Trickster sighed in his head. You always gotta do things the hard way, huh?
They attacked.
Dante moved faster. The hammer swung—he ducked. A dagger flashed—he twisted away. The branding iron came for his throat—he caught the attacker's wrist and crushed it with a sickening snap.
It was over in seconds.
The hybrid collapsed to the ground, staring up at Dante in shock. "You… you're not human, are you?"
Dante didn't answer. He turned, wiping the blood off his hands. "Go. Don't get caught again."
The hybrid hesitated. "Why did you help me?"
Dante's jaw tightened. "Because someone should."
He walked away, but the thought stayed with him.
How long could he keep saving them one by one?
He needed something bigger. A way to change everything.
____
Dante stood at the gates of the Celestial Spire, the sacred realm of the gods. Few had ever stepped foot here. Even fewer had survived.
The gods hated him.
A hybrid. A mistake. A walking insult to their so-called perfect order.
But he didn't come to beg. He came to demand.
The golden skies above trembled as the council of gods gathered, their eyes like burning stars. Their voices echoed across the realm.
"You wish for a trial? Then so be it."
Dante braced himself.
The gods spoke as one. "Live past the age of 24."
Laughter erupted. A joke. A mockery. To them, the trial was already lost.
Dante smirked. "That's it? No lightning bolts? No impossible tasks?"
The Trickster stood beside him, arms crossed. "I'd be insulted if I were you."
But Dante wasn't. Because he saw fear behind their laughter.
They thought he would die like the rest. But he wouldn't.
He would break the curse. He would live.
And when he did, he would shatter their entire world.
Dante stormed out of the Celestial Spire, the mocking laughter of the gods echoing behind him. They didn't take him seriously. They thought his fate was sealed.
Live past 24? They acted like it was impossible, like he was already dead.
But he'd prove them wrong.
That was the plan—until a sharp, deafening crack split the air.
BANG.
Dante's body jerked as searing pain exploded in his shoulder. His breath hitched. He staggered, gripping the wound. His vision blurred, but through it, he saw the gun god standing atop a golden pillar, smoke trailing from the barrel of his revolver.
"Oops," the god sneered. "Slipped."
Dante clenched his teeth, barely holding back a scream. He could already feel the other gods moving in, their divine pressure pressing down on him like a mountain.
His knees buckled.
Then, a voice in his head.
The Trickster.
"You're dying, Dante."
"No shit," Dante growled internally, pain flaring through his nerves.
"I can save you. Switch with me. Exchange bodies."
Dante hesitated.
He still didn't fully trust the Trickster. The god had his own motives, his own secrets.
"We don't have time for this!" The Trickster's voice was sharper now, more urgent. "You exchange, or you die. Choose."
Another gunshot. Dante barely twisted in time, the bullet grazing his cheek.
The gods were closing in. He could feel their power pressing down, suffocating.
He had no choice.
"Fine. Do it."
The world blurred. His body felt weightless, like his soul had been ripped from it.
Then—
A surge of power.
A pulse of energy radiated from his core. The pain vanished. The pressure eased. And when his eyes opened again, they weren't his.
They belonged to the Trickster.
Golden cracks of divine energy pulsed through his skin, his presence shifting, twisting into something unnatural. The Sound God materialized beside him, grinning ear to ear.
The Trickster stretched, rolling his shoulders like he was waking from a long nap. Then he looked up at the gods, lips curling into a cocky smirk.
"Oh, you poor bastards."
The air shook.
Lightning crackled around him. The gods tensed. The gun god aimed again.
And the Trickster—he did the unexpected.
He ran.
Not just ran—disappeared. One moment standing still, the next a blur of motion, too fast for the gods to react.
A godly bullet fired. It hit nothing.
The Trickster laughed, his voice ringing through the heavens. "Gotta run faster than that, cowboy!"
Then, in a flash, he was gone.