"Year six? Yeah... this one rewrote the rules."
Evermont Peak was quieter now. Colder too. By now, Dante barely noticed the frost on his skin, or the way the wind howled like so forgotten god. His body had been broken, burned, and bent into impossible shapes. But nothing quite prepared him for the horror that was mimicry training.
The Trickster's voice slithered through his head like usual.
"You've mastered control. You've survived pain. Now... you'll learn to beco everyone else."
At first, Dante thought he ant studying techniques. Learning forms. But no. The Trickster didn't deal in "normal." This was Divine Mimicry—an ancient, outlawed ability. One that allowed the user to steal skills and powers just by seeing them in action.
No rituals. No chants. No understanding.
Just sight—and it was his.
The catch? He had to face god-forged opponents who were illusions pulled from mory and soul—versions so real, they scarred you just like the originals. The Sound God. Hunger-tier hybrids. A berserker who ripped his own bones out to use as weapons. Every ti Dante faced one, the Trickster would smirk and say,
"Copy it... or die."
Then ca Zerathis' Shadow.
It didn't speak. It didn't taunt. It knew him. Every flaw. Every hesitation. The shadow moved like Dante—but sharper, more refined, and unrelenting. It wasn't there to test his strength. It was there to break his rhythm, to drag out everything he hadn't yet learned about himself.
He survived by outsmarting it—setting a trap only he would fall for, then reversing the rhythm of his power. That day, he didn't just learn mimicry. He learned originality.
But the Trickster wasn't done.
"You've learned to fight," he said one morning. "Now learn not to. Blend in."
Dante blinked, then found himself thrown into a divine infiltration test—an illusion that mimicked the Divine Court itself. He had to move among gods who would kill him if they knew he was there, manipulating conversations, mirroring divine mannerisms, even altering his aura to pass undetected.
He didn't throw a single punch the entire trial. But by the end, he'd stolen a god's secret, rerouted a power conduit, and escaped unnoticed.
Later that night, after crawling back to the peak, bloodied from earlier mimicry trials, he sat on a jagged rock. The frost bit at his skin. He didn't care.
"I'm not a kid anymore," he muttered. "I'm twenty-two. Two years left."
The Trickster chuckled, low and amused. "You'll always be a kid to ."
Dante didn't answer. His silence was heavier now. Sharper.
By the end of year six, he stood at the peak again, the cold never touching him. His gaze steady. His presence unreadable.
He didn't just survive anymore.
He belonged.
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