The world tilted. The metal walls of the ship groaned, screeching as gravity twisted against them. Bodies slammed against the walls, weightless for fractured seconds before being flung downward. The alarms had long since died out—either broken or silenced.
Dante barely flinched.
He hung in place, secured by the metal restraints biting into his wrists. The others screamed. They clung to whatever they could, howling prayers or curses into the void. Some fought, like cornered rats, as if gnashing teeth would somehow change their fates.
It wouldn't.
Dante had known from the start—this was a one-way trip.
The Council never imprisoned men like him unless they had a use for them. He had read the reports. He had seen the preparations. This was orchestrated.
He exhaled, slow and steady, as the ship split apart.
Through the cracked visor of the hull, he caught a glimpse of another pod detaching, a single escape vessel breaking free. He saw a silhouette through the fogged glass—a lone figure hurtling toward the planet's surface.
Kach.
The name barely held weight in Dante's mind. A ghost of a person. A puzzle with missing pieces. But Reinheart—
For the first time in the entire voyage, the man smiled.
Not a smirk. Not a grimace of battle-ready anticipation. A true, genuine smile.
Dante memorized the expression, storing it away for later.
And then the ship came apart.
His restraints snapped. His body lifted, weightless, before plummeting. He twisted mid-air, arms snapping out to grab hold of jagged debris. He wasn't afraid. Fear was a waste of time. He had long accepted that fate was a rigged game—one he could play, if he paid attention to the cards.
The heat of re-entry licked at his skin. The metal around him blistered, fractured. He rolled through the air, the wind howling past his ears, and let gravity take him.
Impact.
His vision burst into white.
Then, darkness.
Dante awoke to chaos.
The scent of burning metal and charred bodies clogged his lungs. The air rippled with residual energy, remnants of the ship's destruction still crackling in the sky. The ground beneath him was uneven—rocky, scorched.
Around him, others stirred. Some groaned, others didn't move at all. The lucky ones were pulling themselves free from the wreckage, coughing up dust and blood.
Dante sat up slowly, rolling his shoulders. No broken bones. No severe injuries. Just bruises and a headache.
He tilted his head, scanning the survivors.
All criminals. The lowest of Cavea's filth. Thieves, smugglers, killers. Some he recognized from old reports, others were just another set of hungry eyes and clenched fists. None of them mattered.
Then, a voice.
Calm. Amused. Like a man greeting old friends.
"You lot look ambitious."
Dante turned.
A man stood atop a chunk of broken steel, backlit by the flickering fires of the wreckage. He was tall, lean, dressed in dark fatigues with an air of effortless authority. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, calculating, entertained.
He called himself Julius.
Dante knew that kind of presence. Not a leader, not a soldier—something else entirely.
Julius spread his arms, a slow, deliberate gesture.
"Tell me," he said, voice rich with intrigue. "Do you want to become gods?"
Dante smirked.
Interesting.