Godstealer-Chapter 35: Scrolls, Scars, and shenanigans

"What?" he asked.

"You've got a lot of scars," she murmured.

"Every one earned."

"Any of them... from before all this?"

Dante's eyes dimmed a little. "Yeah. One or two."

"Tell me one?"

He hesitated. "You don't want to hear that story."

"I asked, didn't I?"

He met her gaze. She looked different now—still messy pink hair, still tattered clothes, still fierce green eyes—but there was something in them. Not pity. Understanding.

"Alright," he said. "When I was seven, I protected a village from what i called, 'birds of terror' they still hated me. They dragged me through the street. I healed, but..." He tapped a scar below his collarbone.

"The birds? or the people?"

"Both."

Lyra looked down. Her hand hovered near his, then pulled back.

"You still saved them?" she asked.

Dante nodded. "Because I could."

This 𝓬ontent is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

And then, just when the silence started to settle—

A voice exploded in Dante's head, loud enough to break mountains.

"Welcome to Dante's Love Intervention!"

Dante visibly winced. "No. Not this again—"

In his mind's eye, a blinding golden heart flared to life, pulsing with sparkles and absurdly dramatic flair. The Trickster stood dead center, white hair flared back, yellow scarf flapping like a cape. He wore a glittery grey-and-yellow suit and grinned like the bastard he was.

Beside him, the Sound God hovered in his natural form: a floating orb of sound energy, pulsing with vibration and mock applause.

"Tonight's episode," the Trickster said, "Will Dante confess his repressed hero-syndrome feelings to the chaos goblin with green eyes, or will he stay a lonely brooding idiot until the war kills him?"

"I swear to every god, get out of my head."

Lyra blinked. "...Are you okay?"

"Internally combusting. It's fine. Just ignore it."

In the mental landscape, Dante's projection was shoved onto a floating couch as the Trickster clicked his fingers, summoning a makeshift studio audience made of crows in wedding veils.

"Look at this tragic, lonely man," the Trickster said. "This is your champion, folks! Too busy bleeding and brooding to realize the pink-haired gremlin next to him likes him."

"I'm at a war council," Dante growled mentally. "This is a war base."

"Exactly!" said the Trickster, pacing. "Which is peak emotional tension. Shakespearean, even."

The Sound God let out a dramatic violin string and dropped an entire fake orchestra from the sky.

Dante shut his eyes, trying to shut them both out.

In reality, Lyra had scooted closer. She was watching him carefully.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"You're going to anyway."

"Do you ever let yourself be happy?"

That one landed.

"No," Dante replied. "Not anymore."

"Why not?"

He smiled faintly, no humor behind it. "Because feelings don't survive in warzones."

Lyra didn't argue. She just leaned in, resting her head against his shoulder.

He didn't move.

And in his head, the Trickster whispered, mockingly reverent.

"My boy's finally letting it happen."

Confetti exploded. The Sound God launched a slow jazz remix of Dante's heartbeat.

"I hate both of you," Dante muttered.

But even he couldn't keep the tiny smile off his lips.

A few seconds passed.

The room still smelled faintly of antiseptic and burned leather. Lyra hadn't moved, still resting lightly on Dante's shoulder as if she'd dozed off there by accident. Dante, for his part, hadn't shifted either—not because he was especially comfortable, but because he didn't quite know what to do with the warm pressure of her against him.

Then—

Click.

The door creaked open.

Boots stomped in, authoritative and clipped. A commanding voice rang out:

"Dante, we have a situa—"

Silence.

Lyra blinked, lifting her head in a lazy motion, just in time to lock eyes with the newcomer.

She was tall, sharp, and undeniably striking—brown hair tied back in a high tail, grey eyes that burned like moonlight through smoke, and dressed in sleek black combat gear that made it clear she didn't come here to talk feelings. Until she very clearly walked in on them doing just that.

The woman froze mid-sentence.

Lyra froze, too.

Dante, ever so casually, turned toward her. Still shirtless. Still slightly bruised. Still completely unaware of the trainwreck of implications happening in front of him.

"What's the problem?" he asked coolly.

The woman didn't answer at first. Her gaze lingered on Lyra. Then it slid—unwillingly, traitorously—to Dante's torso. Her mouth opened slightly. A red flush started creeping up her neck like wildfire.

"No worries," she said too quickly, stepping back half a beat. "Seems... you're busy."

Lyra immediately stood up, arms crossed, face flushed for an entirely different reason.

The woman cleared her throat like she wanted to punch herself. "I'm—General Linda. Just here to drop off your scroll."

She extended the sealed parchment toward him.

Dante stepped forward—still shirtless, still oblivious—and took it. Linda's eyes flicked once more to his chest. Her breath caught in her throat.

A voice boomed in Dante's skull like thunder muffled by glitter.

"Busted," the Trickster cackled.

Dante raised an eyebrow at Linda. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said in a voice several octaves too high. "This scroll details your daily training for the next week. It also contains a classified operation briefing—we're planning to... to capture Zephiron."

At that, Dante's eyes sharpened.

Zephiron—otherwise known as Zerathis, his friend in disguise.

He opened his mouth to explain—only for the Trickster to snap his fingers inside Dante's mind.

"No, no. Let's see how this plays out. I love the smell of chaos in the morning."

Dante hesitated.

Linda interpreted his silence as suspicion. She stepped back again, trying (and failing) to act unaffected, cheeks still burning.

"If you have questions about the training regimen," she said, straightening her spine, "I'll be available at the command post."

Her boots squeaked against the polished floor as she turned—quickly—toward the door.

"See you around, Dante."

She definitely didn't mean it like that. But it sounded like she did.

She walked out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear—and walking straight into a wall by accident. She quickly redirected herself, pretending it never happened.

The door clicked shut.

"Hoo-boy," the Trickster howled. "You got women crashing into walls. That's either deadly charm or a gravitational pull from your abs."

Lyra was staring at the door, unblinking.

"...She likes you."

Dante turned. "What?"

"She looked like she wanted to rip my head off and then kiss you right after."

"...She brought a scroll."

Lyra's nostrils flared. "Yeah. A very flustered scroll."

Dante blinked and looked down at himself. "...Should I put a shirt on?"

"YES," Lyra snapped.

"Okay, geez."

He moved toward the side locker, picked up a loose shirt, then paused when he noticed Lyra was still standing there.

"...You're not gonna leave?"

Lyra smirked faintly. "Embarrassed now?"

Dante turned, shirt still dangling from his hand. "It's not about embarrassment. I just feel like I'm being watched."

"You are."

He squinted.

In his mind, the Trickster manifested a pair of opera glasses and a bowl of popcorn.

"Please don't stop on my account," he said. "This is officially better than the soap operas the Fire God plays in his volcano."

Dante sighed deeply and yanked the shirt on in one motion.

Lyra rolled her eyes. But she was smiling again—barely. Her arms still crossed, but now more like she was holding something in.

"I'm gonna go train," she said. "Don't get shirtless for any other generals while I'm gone."

"Noted."

She walked out without waiting for a reply.

The door shut again.

Silence.

Dante exhaled.

In his mind, the Trickster leaned over like a gossiping aunt.

"So when exactly did you become a hybrid heartthrob? Because I remember when you couldn't even hold eye contact without muttering like a haunted poet."

"I will murder you," Dante muttered aloud.

The Sound God floated past with a dreamy hum. "He's growing... emotionally. I love this arc."

Dante stared at the scroll, brain fried.

Operation: Kidnap Zephiron.

Scroll Training: Five hours of endurance, four hours of combat, two hours of pretending like everything's fine when it clearly isn't.

He flopped into the nearby chair, covering his face.

"I need another curse," he muttered. "At least that made more sense than this."

The Trickster only grinned.