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15.38% Dante the immortal / Chapter 2: 2: Death, death and death

章 2: 2: Death, death and death

I found myself trapped in a never-ending nightmare, where each day reset only when I couldn't endure the pain any longer - when death came for me.

First death

On the first day of my trial, in the beginning of this cycle, my torment led to my death. A hooded cultist approached and used a sharp tool to cut open my stomach. Slowly, he pulled out my insides - first my intestines, then one of my lungs, and finally, he ripped my heart out. The pain was excruciating, and I was grateful when death finally came to end my suffering.

Second death

When I woke up I noticed something strange. This cycle it was another cultist who tortured me, the one who was standing on the right from the one who tortured me the last time.

This one was the worst. This son of a dog pulled my eyes out with a knife before forcing me to eat them, while they were still connected to my brain by nerves, so I felt the pain.

Of course, I died long before it ended from the hellish pain.

Third cycle

This time, they didn't kill me; they only beat me mercilessly and left my left arm skinned, the pain searing from elbow to wrist. Dust already on the wound, making the pain only worse.

I lay sprawled on the bed, its pristine white sheets now a gruesome tapestry of crimson, my own blood marking my torment.

Cursing silently, I recalled Gale's urgent advice, his words echoing in my mind like a lifeline in the abyss, "When the trial begins, don't forget to check your runes!"

Seeking distraction from the agony radiating from my left arm, I focused my mind on summoning the runes. Suddenly, as if conjured by my very thoughts, they materialized before me, ethereal and untouchable, their presence known only to me.

Name: Dante

True Name: ----

Rank: Aspirant

Core: Dormant

Shards: 1/1000

Memories: ----

Echoes: ----

Attributes: [The lucky one], [The child of gods]

Aspect: [Doppelgänger]

Aspect Description: [You were not born as yourself but as someone else. You had no face, nor did you have a story. Mimicry is but a fraction of your formidable abilities. Having lived your entire life as everyone but yourself, you've mastered the art of mirroring the movements and behaviors of those around you.]

Attribute: [The Lucky One]

Attribute Description: [Luck trails you, gracing your every step, turning the tide when you need it most.]

Attribute: [The Child of Gods]

"Gods? Not a singular entity, but many?" I mused aloud, my voice barely a whisper.

Attribute Description: [At the time when the Gods themselves walked the world, there were signs of your creation—hints of what you would become. The remnants of the divine seem to favor your existence.]

My thoughts raced, and questions swirled within my beaten mind. "If the Gods favor me, why am I trapped here, facing death repeatedly?" I voiced my bewilderment, the words lingering in the air like an unanswered riddle.

With a hoarse sigh, I closed the runes, directing my gaze at the marble white ceiling above. "Mimicking movements and behaviors...but how can I copy anything while bound to this wretched bed?"

'No, the Spell is fair. I just need to be patient, for even these dogs are not perfect. One mistake is all it takes, and I'll seize it.'

As I think of a solution, I suddenly think about 'her'. That perfect little girl who followed me everywhere. Just a servant for my parents, but a friend for me.

I remember her beautiful golden eyes, her long pitch-black hair and her white marble skin. Her soft touch and her silent laugh. Her laughter, though often silent, resonated in the depths of my heart.

I remember all the fun we had together, all the times we sneaked out of the mansion without Gale knowing, just to watch stars on the top of the skyscraper my parents own.

'Did she complete her Trial, or did she die? Maybe she has a worse fate than myself' I think depressively.

'Think, Dante, think. You must get the hell out of here and meet with Gale and Andromeda. You little dog. THINK' I urge myself like a madman.

As I wait in my chamber for the cultists to return, I can't help but go over the details of my escape plan one more time. Timing is everything, and I had rehearsed every movement and every word precisely in my mind. The anticipation was unbearable, and I silently wished the cultists to enter.

"Come, you dirty bastards, come," I rage inwardly, my frustration and anger boiling.

Finally, the moment arrived as the heavy wooden door swung open, and the five wretched, masked figures walked into the room. The sight of their horrifying masks sent shivers down my spine.

The cultists arrange themselves in a sinister semi-circle around the bed I am chained to. The one at the forefront drew the heavy curtains shut, enveloping the room in a suffocating darkness. Only light being the little rays of sunlight bleeding through the curtains. It was the moment I had been waiting for—the moment to put my plan into action.

This time, it was the one on the far right who took that slow, deliberate step forward. He moves like death itself towards me.

"Come closer, sweetheart," I whisper, my voice laced with boldness, hidden beneath the weight of my fear.

The cultist's masked expression itself reveals nothing, but there was something in the way he moved, a twisted satisfaction that couldn't be concealed. From within his robes, he produces a long, menacing red knife, its gleaming blade shimmers ominously in the dim light. I can almost sense the malevolent smile lurking behind that grotesque mask.

As he draws nearer, he begins to utter inaudible words—a prayer or an incantation that eludes my ears. This is my cue to provoke him.

"Pray to your devil. I will send all of you to Him," I taunt, my voice tinged with steely resolve.

The cultist's reaction is instantaneous. He stops abruptly and swings the red knife toward my throat, his intention clear—to silence me forever. The gleaming blade draws closer, the cold metal threatening to end my defiance with a single, fatal stroke.

But I have prepared for this moment with utmost precision. As the blade inches closer to my throat, I flex my right hand and summon the memory of a move I observed during the first cycle—an act of grotesque violence, a heart ripped out with irresistible force. I need only the sheer strength and speed of that motion.

With a surge of determination, I execute the mimicry flawlessly. The chains that bind my wrists shatter, fragments flying like shrapnel. My right hand shoots forth like a viper, closing around the throat of the cultist who freezes in bewildered astonishment.

"Time is up, you shithead," I declare with a mix of anger and pride, a sly smile tugging at my lips.


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