The tunnels of Neria finally fell quiet.
What remained were markings—scratches burned into stone, shattered sigils, half-dissolved runes—evidence of traps sprung and survived. Dante stood at the mouth of the last passage, one hand resting against the wall as the Sound God's presence rippled through him like a low hum.
They all converged around the invisible map now etched into Dante's mind.
The routes didn't just pass beneath Neria.
They ran straight under the Divine Hall.
The Sound God clarified it gently, vibrations folding into certainty. The tunnels intersected below the gods' own foundations, ancient paths forgotten even by the immortals above. Time didn't flow there. It simply… waited.
"So," the Trickster said lazily from Dante's mind, "we've been walking under the feet of divinity while you've been accidentally triggering enough traps to wipe out a small pantheon."
Dante snorted. "Accidentally?"
"You stepped on a glyph that erased causality for three seconds."
"That one looked decorative."
Lyra let out a quiet laugh, the tension finally easing from her shoulders. The fire that always lingered around her palms dimmed, settling into embers instead of flames. For the first time since entering Neria, she breathed without flinching.
"Hey," Dante said, glancing at her. "You good?"
She nodded. "Yeah. Better."
The Trickster clicked his tongue. "See? Near-death bonding experiences. Highly recommended. Five stars."
They started moving, leaving the tunnels behind. The weight of what lay ahead didn't vanish—but it felt… organized now. Measured. Planned.
War liked structure.
—
Far to the south, the halls of the Southern Supply Channel glowed with eternal flame.
Zerathis walked beside Heaphaestus through corridors carved from obsidian and gold, his bare feet silent against stone that radiated heat. He was shirtless, white eyes pulsing faintly, every step carrying the echo of someone who had already died once and decided it was optional.
Heaphaestus glanced at him with amusement. "You still smell like paradox."
"Give it time," Zerathis replied. "I'll shower in reality later."
They stopped beneath a vaulted ceiling where fire flowed like banners.
"We need your army by sunset," Zerathis said. "One day."
Heaphaestus's grin widened, sharp and warm. "Bold. Reckless. Familiar." He clapped Zerathis on the back, the impact ringing like steel. "You'll have them."
Zerathis's white hair shifted as he turned away. "Good. Because if we're late, Dante will complain."
"About?"
"Everything."
Zerathis vanished into the air, space folding inward like it had been embarrassed to exist.
—
The hybrid hideout buzzed with controlled chaos.
Weapons were being checked. Maps rewritten. Orders whispered and re-whispered. And at the center of it all stood Dante.
Linda was there too.
The same general who had once walked in unannounced—who had seen Dante shirtless, unguarded, and bleeding—now stood with arms crossed, posture sharp, eyes steady. She was command made flesh. A woman who didn't raise her voice because she never needed to.
Lyra lingered near Dante's side.
Then space warped.
Zerathis appeared mid-room like he'd always been there.
"Miss me?" he said.
Several heads turned. A few jaws dropped.
"You're alive," Dante said.
"Technically I died," Zerathis replied. "Briefly. You owe me."
Dante nodded once. "Thank you."
Zerathis smirked. "Also, could you ask your troops to stop staring? I'm trying to maintain mystique."
"Put a shirt on," Dante said flatly.
The Trickster chimed in. "Yes, please. The ladies are losing focus."
A few nearby hybrids very deliberately looked away.
"Show-off," the Trickster added.
Dante stepped forward, the room quieting around him without him asking. He laid out the plan calmly, methodically.
The frontline assault would draw the gods out. A storm of hybrids striking the grounds around the Divine Hall. Noise. Fire. Blood.
A distraction.
While the gods responded, Dante would move beneath them—through Neria's tunnels—straight to the table. To Solem. To Igris. To the ones who wrote laws like they were bored children with knives.
"If we remove the rigid pillars," Dante said, "the rest will listen. Or they'll fall. Either way, the killing stops."
Linda stepped closer, adding logistics, deployments, fallback routes. Her hand brushed near Dante's as she spoke. For half a second, their eyes met.
Not long.
But long enough.
The Trickster leaned back mentally. "Oh this is painful. I can feel the unresolved tension fermenting."
Dante coughed and shifted his stance. "We move tonight. March to Neria under cover of darkness."
He paused, looking at all of them.
"We end this."
As the room broke into motion, the Trickster murmured softly in his mind, almost philosophical for once.
"You know," he said, "gods don't fear death. They fear irrelevance."
Dante smiled faintly.
"Then let's make history forget them."
The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the arena city beyond the thick walls. Dante sat alone in his dressing room, the leather of his chair creaking under him. The chaos of the day — the fights, the strategy, the deaths, the victories — all weighed on him. He stared at his hands, blue veins like lightning under his skin, trying to steady the storm in his mind.
A soft knock came at the door. Dante's hand twitched near his blade, instinctual.
"Come in," he said, voice low.
The door opened, and there she was — Linda. Blonde hair falling perfectly, blue combat suit hugging her like armor, brown eyes steady and sincere. She stepped forward.
"Thanks," she said simply.
"For what?" Dante asked, wary but curious.
"For helping the hybrids," she replied, her gaze holding his. "You're a king to them. They needed hope. You standing out… it's motivation. For all of us." She stepped closer, and the heat of her presence caught Dante off guard.
The Trickster whispered in his mind, voice dripping with mockery, "Someone's getting goosebumps, huh?"
Dante scowled, but didn't speak. His hands instinctively clenched, and his chest felt tighter than it had during any fight.
Linda reached him, holding his hands firmly. "We will do this together."
Time froze for Dante. His heart thudded in ways that were utterly unfair. The Trickster didn't let him off easy. "Hey, idiot, this is where you speak!"
Dante's voice came out awkward, stammered, the words catching in his throat. "Y-You're… you're… beautiful."
Linda's lips curved into a small, approving smile. "Thank you." She released his hands and walked toward the door, the gentle sway of her hair catching the last light of the sun.
The door closed. Dante exhaled sharply.
The Trickster chuckled in his mind. "Ha! The mighty Dante, tongue-tied. Priceless."
Dante muttered something, too low for anyone to hear, his hands still trembling. The sound god hummed approvingly — subtle praise for Dante's heart finally showing itself in small, human ways.
---
Hours later, the night sky over Neria was a churning storm of dark clouds, pierced by streaks of moonlight. The hybrid army gathered at the outer edges of the Divine Hall grounds. Thousands of soldiers, shadows of the night, ready to move at Lyra's command.
Lyra stood at the front, spear in hand, flames licking her fingers, eyes alight with a fierce determination only a hybrid could carry. The air around her seemed to bend — shadows lengthened and contorted as if the night itself obeyed her call.
"For death," she shouted. "Or to give it!"
The shadows surged, twisting into shape, flowing over the ground like liquid midnight. At the gates, two guards stepped forward, massive forms carved from stone and divine steel, blocking the way.
They realized immediately they were outnumbered. With a motion, they summoned reinforcements.
The ground trembled under the footfalls of divine soldiers materializing from thin air. The battle had begun.
---
Below the tunnels, Dante and Zerathis moved like ghosts. The walls of the passage were etched with faint markings from previous travelers, but neither noticed. Dante's hair had turned black, his eyes blazing blue, his presence exuding raw unquantifiable justice.
"This is it," Dante whispered, his hand brushing the wall as if to steady himself. "Today… we claim it all."
The Trickster snorted. "Claim what? Your heart hasn't even fully recovered from Linda's little speech. Priorities, kid!"
"I've got time for a beating heart later." Dante muttered, his voice calm but carrying a storm underneath.
Zerathis's white hair flowed like wind caught in a storm, his expression unreadable. "Lead the way, Dante. I'll handle the rest when we arrive."
The tunnels of Neria stretched before them, a labyrinth unbound by time, silent but for the distant echoes of the battle above. Each step they took brought them closer to the heart of the Divine Hall, closer to the war that could decide the fate of all hybrids.
And somewhere, above the chaos, the gods would soon realize — the shadows were coming for them.
"Today the god's do not fall just because we kill them. They fall because we mortals have decided they are no longer untouchable."
Above the gods gathered.
Below, the world moved without asking permission.
And for the first time in eternity – the divine felt afraid.
Not of death.
Not of rebellion.
But of being answered.
The Divine hall trembled not from impact, but from recognition.
From the quiet realization that the age of silence was over.
Above, spears clashed and fire rose like a second dawn.
Hybrids fell. Hybrids stood.
Names would be lost. Stories would be rewritten.
But the charge would not be forgotten.
This was not the end of the gods.
It was the end of their certainty.
History would argue about what happened next.
The faithful would deny it.
The divine would bury it beneath law and flame.
But somewhere between the first step forward
and the last chance to turn back,
the world learned something it would never forget:
Gods could be reached.
And once that truth existed—
it could not be unmade.
—End of Godstealer.