Godstealer-Chapter 37: Why You Hitting Yourself?

Zerathis, chained on the divine floor, coughed blood. "Took your sweet time."

Behind Dante, a ripple in space tore open—Lyra stepped through, hair no longer silver, but black as the void, rising unnaturally, her eyes hollow with barely contained rage. Horns curled from her temples like she'd been born with them.

She looked at Solem. "Let's finish this."

Solem's eyes narrowed. "I make it a law—no outsider shall harm me." The decree boomed like a divine gong. A red seal pulsed across the room.

Lyra's spear ignited, and she hurled it—it bounced off a barrier midair.

Zerathis tried a gravity crush—nullified.

Solem smirked. "You can't touch me now."

Zerathis exhaled. "Bet."

He focused, and Solem's right hand jerked violently.

It flew toward his own face.

Smack.

Another. Smack.

Zerathis stood up slowly, eyes glowing.

"Why you hitting yourself? Why you hitting yourself?"

He cackled. "Since we can't hit you... then you hit you."

Even Lyra snorted.

Solem staggered, furious. "This is a divine court, not a playground!"

"Wrong," Dante said, snapping two fingers. "Now it's a circus."

Every inch of the hall rippled as his illusions took over. Guards were suddenly lost in looping hallways, one running face-first into a floating copy of himself.

And then—Lyra screamed.

But not out of fear.

She changed again—her spear reformed, larger, her body flaring with infernal magic.

She hurled it at Solem once more—and this time it struck, embedding deep in his shoulder.

Blood sprayed. The divine law shattered.

Solem stared at the wound, stunned.

"No one should be able to—"

"There's only two ways to bypass divine law," Zerathis said, eyes deadly calm. "You know that."

Solem's voice shook. "Infinite will... or a mind beyond death..."

Dante turned to Lyra. "Which one are you?"

Her eyes—cold, empty, divine—looked past him. "Both."

Then, Dante finally exhaled.

"Too many guards. Not at full power. I'm limiting casualties. Time to leave."

"Oh, come on," the Trickster moaned. "We just got started! I had a bit planned!"

Lyra's horns faded. Her hair dropped back into place. She called her spear back, and it turned into flickering flame before vanishing.

Zerathis walked beside them, limping slightly. "I'll owe you one for that puppet stunt."

"Two," Dante corrected, forming a teleport sigil under their feet. "One for saving your life, and one for making me talk to the Trickster this much."

Then—

A sharp whistle echoed through the room.

The air went still.

Dante froze.

A figure strolled from the far corner, where the divine light couldn't touch. He was dressed in a long black coat, silver hair glinting under the flicker of fire and magic. His smirk was surgical.

Igris.

"Dante Fox Hollow," Igris said, voice smooth as oil. "You're always in the middle of things. Cute."

Dante's eyes darkened, fury swelling. "Igris."

Igris winked. "Until we meet again... Hybrid."

The teleport activated.

And they were gone.

Only the whisper of burning illusions, scorched marble, and the sound of Solem breathing heavily remained in the shattered hall.

___

The war room of the Hybrid Association wasn't built for awkward silences—but one was currently smothering the air like fog.

Zerathis stood proudly at the front of the curved obsidian table. His long black coat flared behind him, his silver hair caught a faint halo of light, and his violet eyes scanned the room with quiet arrogance.

He looked immaculate. Powerful. Eternal.

The problem was...

No one knew who the hell he was.

He threw his arms wide, a bit theatrical.

"I am Zerathis. The last god unshackled by mortal flesh."

Silence.

Jax, the tall cat-eared blacksmith hybrid, scratched his chin. "...Cool?"

Zerathis cleared his throat. "The Bringer of Widows?"

Blank stares.

"The Enigmatic Moon Thief?"

A cricket chirped in the corner.

"The— World Sucker?"

Someone coughed. Loudly. Still silence.

Trickster's voice echoed in Dante's mind like a devil on a shoulder.

"Try 'Zerathis the Irrelevant.' They might remember that one."

Zerathis's eye twitched.

"I once served beside the Trickster," he said, desperately.

Suddenly, half the room reacted.

"Ohhhhhh—"

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"Wait, you worked with that guy?"

"Trickster still owes me a goat!"

"Dude made me think my hands were made of jelly for a week."

Zerathis slumped. "I am losing faith in this generation."

Dante finally stepped forward, arms crossed, his cloak flicking behind him like a banner of finality.

"Enough."

The room quieted. Even the smirking Trickster, sitting on the rafters like a bored gargoyle, leaned forward.

Dante's voice was firm, sharp as a blade.

"This isn't about theatrics or legacy. The gods want us dead. They've sent bounty hunters. They've planted spies. They've declared war."

He pointed at Zerathis.

"This man's the reason we're not already ashes on a divine platter. So unless someone else has cracked the spine of a god today, show some damn respect."

A few hybrids nodded. The mood shifted—still unsure, but more respectful. Zerathis straightened his back.

The meeting dispersed after a few logistics, leaving Dante standing alone at the head of the table. Only one person lingered behind.

Lyra.

She hadn't said a word the entire time. Her eyes were locked on the floor, hands shaking faintly at her sides.

He noticed.

Later that night

A soft wind blew through the open arch of the Hybrid Association's rooftop, brushing gently over Dante's back as he sat against the cold stone wall.

That's when he heard the footsteps.

Lyra.

Her silver hair was pulled back in a loose tie, her armor half-removed, straps dangling as if she hadn't had the energy to finish undressing. She wasn't just tired. She looked haunted.

He stood up. "Couldn't sleep either?"

She didn't respond. Just walked over and leaned on the stone railing beside him, staring out into the moonlit sky.

"Back in the Divine Hall," she finally whispered, "when I... changed..."

Dante didn't speak. He let her.

"I felt... dead. Not like I was dying, but like I'd already died. Like someone else was in my skin. And worse—I didn't hate it."

A pause. She turned to him, eyes glazed, voice cracking.

"What if that's what I really am? I know i'm the daughter of death but what if i lose control?"

Dante's answer was immediate. Quiet, but strong.

"Then I'll stand by that version of you too."

She blinked. "Even if I turn into some kind of demon?"

"Then I'll be the devil who walks beside you."

A beat of silence.

Then Trickster's voice intruded telepathically, ruining the moment like clockwork.

"Ooooh, smooth. Say she's hot when she's possessed—girls love that."

Dante twitched, suppressing a groan.

Lyra looked away quickly, trying to hide the faint red in her cheeks.

"You didn't have to come find me," she said.

"I didn't." He smirked. "You found me."

The wind blew again. She turned back toward the edge. He reached out instinctively, placing a hand on hers. She didn't pull away.

Instead, she whispered, voice barely audible:

"Don't leave me behind."

He didn't promise. He just held her hand tighter.

Down below, in the bunk halls, Zerathis paced silently.

"Bringer of Widows," he muttered under his breath again.

Then he stopped, staring into the reflection of the window.

The Trickster's faint laugh echoed from the walls.

"Still got it, huh?"