Dante's declaration of independence hit like a bomb.

The silence shattered. Shock turned quickly into pure unfiltered rage.

The polite, civilized masks of the assembled leaders cracked. Revealing the iron-hard arrogance underneath.

Lord Rowan Thalric, the stoic king of the north, was the first to erupt.

CRACK!

He slammed a gauntleted fist onto the stone armrest of his seat. The sound was sharp and loud. Echoing through the amphitheater.

He rose to his feet. His face was a mask of furious disbelief. His eyes blazed like a winter storm.

"You mere fool!" he roared. His voice was harsh. Grinding. "What are you? You speak of threats and protection, but you know nothing of the world you now stand in!"

"You speak of consequences, but you cannot even begin to understand them!"

He took a step forward. His presence like a mountain. Raw physical power radiating from him.

"You may be a hero in the eyes of common folk. A little legend born from a month of hardship."

"But to us? To the powers that shape this world?" He sneered. "You're merely a tool. A weapon delivered to us by the gods. And we know how to dispose of a tool that refuses to serve its purpose."

He gave a slow, cruel smile. His gaze swept over Dante's battered team.

"And believe me, child. This wouldn't be the first time."

The threat wasn't hidden. It was a promise. Delivered with the absolute certainty of a king who'd crushed rebellions and executed traitors.

The air grew thick. Heavy. Violence was coming.

Dante forced himself to stay calm. He had to. Had to keep control.

A dark, exciting rage was rising inside him. Growing. An echo of the god-like power he'd consumed. All those wishes. All that stolen divinity. It was like a voice. A second self whispering in the back of his mind. Seductive. Tempting.

'I am your ego. Your true self. Release me. Let me loose and I'll carve my worth into their pride. Let me show this old man what it means to threaten a god. Let me summon our army. Let me show them what we really are.'

He held it back. Wrestled with the beautiful, tempting fury that wanted to be free.

To unleash his true power now? To summon his legion of the dead and wipe this amphitheater from existence? To show them Soul-Drinker's true form? His immortality? His divine blessings? It would be so easy. So satisfying.

But it would be a fatal mistake.

It would be such a strange, impossible event it would draw the one kind of attention he couldn't afford. Couldn't risk.

The gaze of the gods.

They would see the monster he'd become. The thief who'd plundered their heaven. Who'd manipulated Goddess Liora. Who'd stolen wish after wish after wish. A cage of eternity would be his only reward. Punishment that would never end.

He couldn't allow that. Wouldn't allow that. Not when he'd come so far.

King Adrian of Valmere, who'd been silent until now, leaned forward. His expression showed weary, fatherly disappointment.

"Kid, do you have any idea what you're doing?" he asked. His voice was low. Reasonable. Somehow more unnerving than Rowan's rage.

"You'll get yourself killed."

"The trial you faced, the monsters you fought... they're nothing. Children's nightmares compared to the powers we possess."

He looked at Dante seriously. Almost sadly.

"A single one of us could have cleared your entire trial in a day."

"He's right," Lucien von Dravien added. His voice was smooth. Predatory. He looked at Dante with amusement mixed with contempt.

"Making enemies of us means making an enemy of the entire world. There'll be no place for you to hide. No corner of this continent where our influence doesn't reach."

He smiled. Sharp as a knife.

"You'll be hunted like animals."

Elira the Sage sighed. Genuine frustrated concern in the sound.

"Boy, we don't wish for you to be in danger," she said. Her voice was pleading. "That's why this system exists. To give you a place. A purpose. A shield."

"Please, for the sake of your team, reconsider this foolish path."

But the Vampire King, Valtheris, had no patience for talking.

"Reconsider what?" he asked. His voice was cold. Cutting. Like a whisper that sucked warmth from the air.

"Their insult is a crime. Their defiance is a sin against the will of the gods who blessed them."

His crimson eyes gleamed.

"They don't need to be persuaded. They need to be punished."

"Punishment would be a small word for their crime," Rowan added. His voice was a low growl. "We should set an example."

"We should show the world what it means to oppose us. To oppose the divine order."

He looked around at the other leaders. Building agreement.

"We'll ensure that no future generation of heroes ever has the arrogance to forget their place."

Dante listened to them. His head bowed. His expression hidden.

He analyzed their words. Their threats. Their fears.

He let them build their cage of logic and power around him.

And then, when they were finished, he looked up.

The humble, apologetic boy was gone.

The cold, calculating tyrant was back.

And his ego—the beautiful, terrible beast he'd kept chained in his soul—was finally unleashed.

"Enough of you morons," he said.

His voice wasn't loud. But it cut through their powerful speeches like glass cutting silk.

The entire amphitheater fell into stunned, absolute silence.

Every leader. Every subordinate. Every guard. All stiffened.

A hundred pairs of eyes, now filled with murderous, disbelieving rage, fixed on him.

"You think we're tools?" he asked. His voice was low. Dangerous. "You think you can control us?"

He paused. Let it sink in.

"Then try it."

He let a slow, cold smile spread across his face.

"Try it until you fail. Try it until you fall. Try it until you're on your knees, begging for a mercy I will not grant you."

He turned his gaze to King Adrian. The reasonable king who thought he understood.

"You think the trial was easy? The brutality? The suffering?"

His voice became raw. Real emotion breaking through.

"Losing a comrade right in front of your eyes while you can do nothing? Watching them die? Holding them as they bleed out?"

"Friends turning on each other? Betraying each other just to survive one more day? You think that was nothing?"

He laughed. Short and harsh. Bitter.

"Then I guess beating all your asses will be even easier than I thought."

Next, he turned to Lucien. The smooth merchant lord with his predatory smile.

"I don't care if you become our foes or our allies. It doesn't really matter to me."

He met the merchant lord's eyes directly. Unflinching.

"Because in the end, none of you has a chance of laying a single finger on me. Not one."

"And as for making an enemy of the world..." He shrugged casually. Like it meant nothing. "I'll happily accept that. I was in need of new enemies anyway."

His smile turned colder. More dangerous.

"All my previous enemies are dead. Every single one."

His gaze shifted to Elira. The gentle Arch-Sage who thought she knew what was best. The gentle pity was gone from his eyes. Replaced by cold, hard contempt.

"I don't need your suggestions. Your advice. Your concern."

He stepped closer to the edge of the stage. Looking directly at her.

"It's not we who need your help. It's not we who are weak and vulnerable here."

"It's the opposite. You need us far more than we need you."

"And remember this. Remember it well."

His voice became ice. Cutting. Sharp.

"It's because of your world that we were summoned here in the first place. We were ripped from our families. Our futures. Our loves. Our homes. Our everything. Everything we'd ever known."

"To be pawns in your cosmic game. To be weapons you could use and discard."

His hands clenched into fists.

"So don't speak to me of what's best for us. Don't pretend you care about our wellbeing. You care about what we can do for you."

He then faced the Vampire King.

"Punish me?"

He laughed. Short. Sharp. Completely humorless.

"Try it. I dare you."

"I'll shatter that fragile little ego of yours and show you that you can't make a single scratch on me."

Finally, he turned to Lord Rowan. The old, angry king of the north.

"And now, the old man who's puffing out his chest. I don't know what makes you feel so proud. So powerful."

His eyes narrowed. Calculating. Cruel.

"But I can see that your left leg is already in the grave."

He leaned forward slightly. Threatening.

"Don't push me further, or I'll transform you into a corpse so foul that even your own grave will spit you out."

The silence that followed was profound. Deafening. Absolute.

He hadn't just defied them.

He'd declared war on them all. With a contemptuous arrogance that bordered on madness.

He could feel the fear radiating from his own team behind him. They were terrified. Caught in the crossfire of a war their leader had just single-handedly declared.

He let his gaze sweep over the leaders. Over their clenched fists. Their faces showing pure, murderous rage.

"If you all think you're so much more powerful than us," he said. His voice was low. Final. A challenge.

"Then come. Try me out."

He spread his arms slightly. Inviting.

"I'll show you what real power means."

Rowan's hand went to his sword. His face was purple with rage.

The other leaders rose from their seats. Power flaring around them. Auras blazing.

The world was about to erupt in a final, suicidal battle.

Just as Rowan was about to give the order to attack—

A new voice cut through the tension.

A woman's voice. Calm. Melodic. Full of serene, ancient amusement.

"That was a magnificent show, dear."

Every head turned.

The Elf Queen, Elyndra, who'd been silent and motionless since her arrival, had finally stood up. Finally moved.

She held an elegant fan in one delicate hand. Simple but beautiful. Made from some material that looked almost like moonlight woven into fabric. It hid the lower half of her face. Concealed her expression.

Only her eyes were visible. The color of a spring forest. Deep green. Ancient. Wise. Sparkling with light that wasn't anger or rage like the others.

But pure, unadulterated interest. Curiosity. Amusement.

She moved to the edge of her platform. Her movements were silent. Graceful. Impossibly smooth. Like she was floating rather than walking.

"May I know the name of the person who has just made a commotion worthy of a new epic?" she asked. Her voice was musical. Entertained. Like she was watching a fascinating play.

"My name is Dante," he said. His rage receded slightly. Replaced by cold, analytical curiosity. Wariness.

She was a new variable. An unknown element he hadn't accounted for.

"Dante," she repeated. The name sounded soft and musical on her lips. Like she was tasting it. "I have seen many men like you over the long centuries. Thousands of years of watching mortals."

She tilted her head slightly. Studying him like an interesting specimen.

"Arrogant. Powerful. Brilliant. And utterly convinced of their own invincibility. Certain they cannot be defeated."

"They burn so very brightly. Like stars."

Her voice became softer. Almost sad. Melancholy.

"The sad part is, they all have bad ends. They burn out. Fade. Fall. And you, my dear, are walking the exact same path they walked."

She paused. Her forest-green eyes seemed to pierce through his soul. To see things he'd hidden. The immortal god he'd become.

"But still," she continued. A smile in her voice. "I find you amusing."

"I wanted to take you for my own kingdom. But I know you won't come without your little team of broken soldiers."

She gestured vaguely to the other leaders.

"And I cannot take you all. That would be to defy the will of the gods. And these other proud peacocks would come after my kingdom for revenge."

"It would be a messy, tiresome affair."

She looked at him. A new, cunning light in her eyes.

"I don't want to lose you, Dante. You're far too interesting a toy to let them break."

She smiled behind her fan. He could see it in her eyes.

"So, how about we make a little bet?"

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