The pit stank of blood, metal, and death. A single flickering torch barely lit the cavern walls, casting shadows that danced like hungry ghosts. Chains clinked against stone as Dante stirred, wrists raw, body bruised, and his chest still scorched from his last battle.
From the darkness, a voice echoed—smooth, smug, cruel.
"Twenty minutes till your next match… but don't worry, you won't make it."
Dante looked up, squinting through the haze. A hooded figure leaned against the jagged wall, a syringe in one hand, and a cruel grin on his face.
"Who sent you?" Dante growled, dragging the heavy chains, the metal biting into his ankles.
The man chuckled. "Well, since you're already going to die, I might as well tell you... A god. Sitting at the Watch Table right now."
Dante's voice cracked with rage. "What's his name?"
The man shook his head, mock pity in his tone. "Oh, I can't say that. But I can tell you what he looks like—green eyes. And a face that acts like it should be ruling the Realm of Eternity."
Dante snarled, tugging at his chains, fury boiling under his skin.
The man stepped closer. "See, your little Trickster friend... he's illegal. And your body? It's just a container. A flawed one. If I extract his godly essence from you—"
"You'll kill me," Dante finished bitterly.
The man smiled wide. "Exactly."
He brought the extractor close to Dante's chest, its wicked needle gleaming—
And then, a sharp voice echoed, not from the pit, but from the heavens above.
"A god. Green eyes. Ruling the Realm of Eternity…"
The man froze.
Above them, through some hidden arcane magic, the voice of the Sound God boomed across the entire arena. Crowds hushed. Officers jolted to their feet. Gods stiffened in their thrones.
"You forgot one thing," Dante said slowly, eyes glinting.
"What?" the man hissed.
"You forgot about the Sound God. And you forgot who trained me—the most cunning bastard in the multiverse."
The man's face contorted in rage. "They'll never find you in time!"
"They don't need to," Dante smirked.
He closed his eyes, breathing in. Sand. Everywhere. The Trickster's training whispered in his mind—imagination made real. His breath steadied. The sand near his wrist began to swirl, twitching, writhing—
Click.
A key.
He caught it mid-air, jammed it into the lock, and the shackles clattered to the ground.
"How—how did you—?"
Dante walked forward slowly, cracked lips curling into a smile. "A magician never reveals his secrets."
One strike. The man didn't even scream.
Dante left the pit like a ghost, passing guards and officers storming the tunnels. He didn't need their rescue.
The arena roared as he emerged, covered in grime, blood, and grit. The gods whispered. The crowd leaned in. He made it.
He barely touched the bench in the dressing room when a horn blared.
"Fighter Four! Dante of the Wild Blood! Enter the ring!"
No time to rest.
He clenched his fists, heart pounding—not just from exhaustion, but from anticipation.
Got it! Here's the revised version of the chapter with the unnecessary bold removed, while keeping the cinematic and detailed style intact:
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Dante stood in the arena again—blood barely dry, pain barely healed. Another fight. Another monster. Across from him, a mythical beast stalked forward, scales rippling with tension, voice deep and amused.
"Congratulations on your win against Carnyxx," the beast growled.
Dante wasn't even listening.
His gaze was tilted up—past the roars, past the chaos—locking eyes with the Watch Table above. The gods. He saw two green-eyed figures sitting there. Either one could've sent that crazy doctor. But the words echoed in his skull:
"Wants to rule the Realm of Eternity."
He needed more than eyes. He needed answers.
"You dare ignore me?" the beast snapped, insulted.
It lunged.
Dante's fingers flexed.
Claws.
In one swift movement—eyes still focused above—he flicked his hand. The beast fell apart mid-air. Sliced. Bloody ribbons scattered across the floor.
The crowd gasped.
Dante moved.
He leapt—barefoot, shirtless, six-pack glistening with sweat—and landed effortlessly on the gods' observation rim. One foot on the edge, hands in his pockets, chin tilted up. The crowd lost its mind. Cheers from the women, gasps from the elders, fury from the guards.
"You crazy bastard," someone whispered.
Dante leaned forward, unbothered, chin resting on one fist.
"Which of you is it?" he asked calmly. His voice echoed like a threat wrapped in curiosity.
The gods stirred.
Then—behind him—a voice rose, warped and still alive.
"Don't count me out just yet."
The beast began re-forming, sinew twisting, bones snapping into place, now twice the size. It howled and launched a sharpened claw straight at Dante.
Dante caught it. Without even looking.
His head tilted slightly, eyes glowing cold blue. The arena fell deathly still.
"Try again."