The announcer's final words echoed in the silent amphitheater. Sealing their fate.

"You will, one by one, step forward. State your name. And describe your skills."

All eyes were on them. Hundreds of eyes. Thousands maybe.

The stares of the most powerful beings in this world felt like physical weight. A collection of sharp, analytical points pressing in from all sides. Measuring. Calculating. Pricing.

They weren't seeing people. They were seeing assets. Weapons. Tools to be cataloged and claimed.

The air was thick with the scent of power, wealth, and cold predatory ambition.

They stood on the central stage. A small isolated island surrounded by vultures. The luxury and peace of the camp now felt like a distant mocking dream.

This was their new reality. A gilded auction block.

Jin was the first to break the tense silence. He turned to Dante, his hand resting on his sword's hilt. His face showed grim uncertainty.

"What do we do?" he asked. His voice was low. Urgent. Whispered. "Should we just... tell them our skills?"

"No," Dante said. His voice was quiet but absolute. Final. "We're not doing that."

"Then what?" Jin pressed. His gaze flicked nervously toward the gallery of kings and lords watching them. "How do we handle this?"

"Let me handle it," Dante said.

Talia stood at Jin's side. Her hand resting on his arm. She let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh.

"Now I have a bad feeling about this," she murmured. Her eyes showed weary apprehension. She knew Dante's plans never went smoothly.

Dante ignored her comment and turned to face his team. His gaze swept over each of them. Meeting their eyes.

They were his soldiers. His weapons. His kingdom. And now he needed their absolute, unquestioning faith.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

A simple, direct question. But it held the weight of all their shared battles. All their shared losses. All the hell they'd survived together.

Erica's response was immediate. Her voice rang with fierce, unwavering devotion.

"I have full faith in you, Dante. Whatever you do, I'll support you."

"I agree with her," Lana purred. Her amethyst eyes sparkled with dangerous, excited light. She wasn't offering loyalty. She was anticipating chaos. Looking forward to it.

"Plus one," Masha stated. Her expression was unreadable. But her voice held cold, practical acceptance. She'd chosen her side.

Jin and Talia exchanged a look. A silent conversation passing between them.

They'd seen his cruelty. His tyranny. The terrible things he'd done. But they'd also seen his strength. His unwavering will to win. His refusal to ever give up.

In this new, terrifying world, he was the only certainty they had.

Jin finally gave a slow, deliberate nod. "We're with you," he said.

That was all Dante needed.

He turned from the small circle of his team and faced the assembled powers of Zerawell. The kings. The lords. The rulers who thought they owned the world.

He took a deep breath. The master of a grand deceptive performance about to take the stage.

"We are not disclosing our skills in front of you all," he began.

A low murmur went through the crowd. The professional smiles on the faces of aides and chamberlains tightened. Strained.

"And even if we were to disclose our skills," he continued, his voice rising, gaining a cold hard edge of arrogance, "we're not joining your kingdoms."

"We're not interested in your games. We're not fools to be bought and sold. We're the heroes who survived everything this trial could throw at us."

"We're the ones who stood before a god of death and tore it down."

He let that sink in. Then delivered the killing blow.

"We are far superior to any of you."

The reaction was instant.

The relaxed, almost bored postures of the leaders vanished. They sat up straight. Stiff. Attentive. Their eyes narrowed. Their auras of power flared to life like fires being stoked.

The air in the amphitheater grew heavy. Charged with collective, silent rage.

Lord Rowan Thalric, the stoic ruler of the north, was the first to stand. His face was a mask of furious disbelief.

CRACK!

He slammed a gauntleted fist onto the stone armrest of his seat. The sound echoed like thunder.

"You insolent whelp!" he roared. His voice was a thunderclap that shook the very stone beneath their feet. "You think yourself superior?"

"You're forgetting that you stand in a world with history far deeper and bloodier than your little trial!"

He pointed a thick gauntleted finger directly at Dante. Accusatory. Threatening.

"There are people in this world. Armies. Entire nations. Far more powerful than you can possibly imagine."

"You might not know this, child, but every hero who came before you was weak in their initial stages."

His voice was hard. Lecturing. Teaching a harsh lesson.

"What makes a hero is not the skill they're given. It's the blessing bestowed by the Goddess. Every skill they possess has no limit. It can grow indefinitely. With time. With training. With battle."

"And you..." He leaned forward. Eyes blazing. "You are newborns. You're in your initial stages. Even if you were given a hundred years to grow, you couldn't challenge my empire. Let alone all six of ours combined."

He took a step forward. Menacing.

"I could kill you all. Right here. Right now. And the only thing staying my hand is the will of the gods."

"But don't think for a second that I'll let this insult slide more than once."

His voice became absolute. Final.

"Now proceed with the auction as you were commanded."

His words were a hammer blow of cold hard reality. A dose of truth delivered with overwhelming fury.

And in the face of that overwhelming, righteous anger, a part of Dante—a dark, arrogant, utterly powerful part—wanted to laugh.

'Kill me?' a cold amused voice whispered in the back of his mind.

It was his ego. The tyrant he'd become. A beast forged in the fires of a hundred stolen wishes.

'Let me loose. Let me show this old man what real power is. Let me carve my worth into his pride. Let me summon my army of the dead and show him what a god-killer looks like.'

He felt the urge. Physical. Intoxicating. To unleash it all.

To summon his army. To show them the ghosts of gods and men he now commanded. To let his own near-infinite power blaze forth and burn their little kingdoms to ash.

But he held it back. Wrestled it down.

He calmed himself. A king wrestling with his own inner demon.

To reveal his true strength now would be a terrible mistake. It wouldn't just be defiance. It would be an anomaly. A paradox that would draw the one kind of attention he couldn't afford.

The gaze of the gods.

They would see him. A mortal who had plundered their heaven. And they wouldn't rest until they'd caged him for eternity.

And a cage, for a being like him, would be a fate far worse than death.

He looked over at his team.

Erica was already overflowing with fiery aura. Her body ready to erupt in a torrent of plasma. Ready to fight. Ready to die for his honor.

Crackle.

Lana held a new dark spear in her hand. An artifact he hadn't seen before. Its tip hummed with malevolent energy. She was smiling. Excited.

They were ready to die for him.

He caught Erica's eye and gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

No. Not yet.

She subsided. Her fire dimming. Though her glare at Rowan never wavered.

Masha, who'd been seething with cold silent rage, leaned toward him. Her voice was a low hiss. Barely audible.

"Whatever you're plotting, Dante," she whispered, "make sure it includes a plan to beat that old man's face in."

"Fine," he said. A slow cold smile touched his lips. "But we won't beat his face."

He looked at her. Eyes gleaming.

"We'll torment his ego."

He met her gaze and she saw the new cunning light in his eyes. The plan forming.

"You may have heard the saying," he said quietly, "'In a battle of ego, the loser always wins.'"

"And if that's true, then I'm about to lose so magnificently that they'll never dare stand against us again."

Masha's eyes widened slightly. Understanding dawning. A small smirk touched her lips.

Dante stepped forward again. His entire demeanor changed completely.

The arrogance was gone. Replaced by humble, weary, deeply apologetic sorrow.

"Dear nobles, kings, and sages," he began. His voice was full of profound tragic regret.

He bowed his head low. Respectful. Humble.

"Please, forgive my earlier outburst. I was... emotional."

"The trial..." His voice caught. Perfectly performed. "It has left its scars on all of us. Deep scars."

He looked up. His eyes showed desperate sincerity. Faked but convincing.

"We're sorry that we cannot accept your generous offers. But you must understand."

"We're not just a team. We're all that's left of each other's worlds. We're a family."

His voice became softer. More vulnerable.

"And we cannot bear the thought of being broken apart. Of being separated after everything we've been through together."

His performance was a masterpiece of emotional manipulation.

He'd taken their anger and deftly redirected it into pity. Sympathy. Understanding.

Elira, the Arch-Sage, was the first to soften. Her expression gentled.

"No one is asking you to break your bonds, child," she said. Her voice was gentle. Motherly. "It's true that you'll serve in different empires. And yes, the relationships between our nations aren't always... friendly."

"But there are still alliances. Connections."

"King Adrian's kingdom and the Merchant Republic have strong ties. You could still meet your friends. Visit them."

She smiled warmly.

"I would even welcome them in Kaelthorn. But..." A note of sad reality entered her voice. "I cannot promise it would be easy."

"I may rule the council, but there are other powerful nobles. Other factions. Who would oppose such reunions."

"Enough, Elira."

The Vampire King's voice cut through her gentle words. Cold. Silken. Sharp.

"You're selling them false hope. Don't give them invitations to your alliances. We won't accept that."

He looked at Dante. His crimson eyes held ancient, weary cynicism. The gaze of someone who'd seen every trick. Every lie. Every manipulation.

"Even the kingdoms you mentioned—Adrian's and the merchants'—they wouldn't simply allow their new priceless weapons to have 'happy reunions.'"

"You know that, Elira. They'd be watched. Controlled. Their interactions limited and monitored."

He leaned forward slightly.

"They'd be prisoners in gilded cages."

"Nobles," Dante said. His voice cut through their debate. Pulling focus back to him. "I think we're going off-topic."

All glares returned to him. Sharp. Angry. Impatient.

"The thing is... we've already decided."

Silence fell. Heavy. Waiting.

"We will not join any of your factions," he declared. His voice was quiet but firm. The voice of a humble man making a stand for his family. "We will not be drawn into your politics."

"We are heroes. And as heroes, our duty is not to a single kingdom."

He paused. Let the words hang.

"But to the world itself."

"We will be an independent power."

Gasps. Murmurs. Shock rippling through the crowd.

"We will protect this world from the threats that lie beyond its borders."

He let his gaze sweep over each of the powerful, arrogant leaders. Meeting their eyes one by one.

"And from the threats that lie within."

His voice became harder. Colder.

"Whether those threats be monsters... or kings."

The silence that followed was profound. Deafening. Absolute.

He hadn't just refused their offers.

He had declared war on their entire system.

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