The rain poured sideways in the Crimson District of Ascenth—a neutral realm hidden between divine law and hybrid rebellion. Somewhere between time and myth sat a crooked tavern lit by fireflies and false promises. Its name: The Lawless Tavern. The name wasn't just flair—it was law. No violence. No gods throwing suns at each other. No hybrids turning the furniture into snakes. A peace pact older than most pantheons.
Dante stepped inside, his coat dripping, Lyra beside him looking wary. The Trickster appeared beside him, leaned on the bar like a regular, and smirked. "Smells like regret and overcooked eternity. I love this place."
The barkeep glanced at them, drying a glass with a filthy rag. "You're late, hallucination."
Dante blinked. He stepped closer. "Wait… you can see him?"
The barkeep raised a brow. "Boy, I poured this one drinks before you were born."
Dante looked to the Trickster, startled. "But—you're in my head. How can he see you?"
Trickster smiled, smug as sin. "Oh, right. Forgot to mention. High-level hybrids, god-forged beings, or people from my... colorful past, i can also break the law which says they can't see me even if they don't know me—they can see me when I manifest through your mind. I can even touch some."
To prove it, he reached out and flicked a peanut off the bar. It hit a dwarf in the eye.
"HEY!"
"See?" Trickster said, pleased. "Fully interactive experience. You're welcome."
Dante muttered, "I hate this."
Behind them, Zerathis hovered slightly off the floor, not because he had to, but because he liked making mortals nervous. His white hair swayed as he surveyed the place.
"This feels… quaint," he muttered.
Trickster raised a brow. "You mean like that time you wore velvet robes and called yourself the 'Shadow Priest of Moonwater' just to get free wine?"
Zerathis ignored him and sat.
They came here for intel—rumors of an ancient god-weapon buried beneath the divine planes. But first, the Trickster had demanded "character bonding." He ordered drinks with names like Chrono Collapse and Kiss of Ragnarok.
As they sat, a hush fell over the room. A tall woman approached their table. Long, maroon-black hair. Armor made of what looked like dragonbone and voidsteel. Grey eyes that burned like frostfire.
Zerathis straightened in his seat. "...Aresha?"
The woman smirked. "Still alive, gravity boy?"
"Barely," Trickster muttered, sipping something that smelled like regret.
Lyra narrowed her eyes.
Aresha leaned forward. "Didn't expect to find you crawling through neutral zones. Still chasing ghosts?"
Zerathis didn't answer. But Trickster leaned over, grinning.
"Oh, they dated. It was... poetic. Until he ghosted her after the Pantheon Gala. Literally vanished mid-dance."
Aresha's smile didn't fade. "And I still remember that gravity well breakup gift. Took me three months to climb out of the spatial vortex."
"I was emotionally unstable," Zerathis said flatly.
"Still are," Trickster muttered.
Dante coughed. "So… the weapon?"
"Right," Aresha said, stepping back. "I'll fetch the contact. Don't blow up the tavern."
Flashback: 12 Centuries ago:
Back in the Age of Minor Wars, the Trickster was not yet chaotic royalty—he was worse. A con artist in divine silk, manipulating newly formed pantheons, pit gods against one another just to see how it would look.
Zerathis, at that time, was a strict, no-nonsense enforcer of gravity law, wearing robes that sparkled like collapsing stars. They met during a conflict over a shared moon. Trickster had tricked both factions into claiming it was theirs.
"You're the cause of this?" Zerathis growled.
"Allegedly," Trickster replied with a grin. "Want to help me un-cause it?"
Instead, they stole the moon.
They really stole it. Turned it into a pocket artifact called The Widowmaker, and sold it to a thunder god who never knew it wasn't real.
And they didn't stop.
They tricked a chaos god into marrying a mirror.
Swapped a time god's hourglass with one that looped only bad jokes.
And danced on the edge of divine execution for a century.
They were friends. Rivals. Outlaws.
Then Trickster vanished. No word. No joke. Just gone.
Zerathis had been alone since.
Back to Present:
Aresha returned. "Your contact's dead. Poisoned this morning."
Trickster spat out his drink. "Now that's rude. I just tipped the guy."
"Rumors say someone's trying to wipe clean anyone who knows about the god-weapon," Aresha added. "You're next."
At that moment, the lights flickered. A low growl echoed from the basement.
Everyone in the tavern froze.
"That's not thunder," Lyra said.
The door exploded inward.
A mass of divine shadowbeasts, summoned from corrupted realms, flooded into the tavern. The "no violence" pact shattered—someone broke the truce.
"Welp," said Trickster, finishing his drink and tossing the glass aside. "Therapy session over."
Zerathis stood, cloak swirling around him. "Dante—get everyone out."
"You sure?"
"Trickster and I used to rob gods. Let's see if we still got it."
The two launched forward.
Trickster summoned spectral illusions of himself, arguing about morality, confusing the shadowbeasts.
Zerathis turned the floor into a gravity sink, pulling enemies inward as tables floated into the air.
Aresha cleaved through two creatures, shouting, "This is why I broke up with you!"
"Still hot, though," Trickster said as he vaulted over a chandelier.
Dante teleported stunned hybrids outside, while Lyra tore through enemies with a fiery blade and a glare that made even monsters hesitate.
Finally, Zerathis collapsed the beasts into a singularity and snapped it shut.
The room went still.
Aresha brushed void-ichor off her blade. "Still got it."
Zerathis smirked. "Always did."
As the group stepped out into the moonlit rain, soaked and bleeding but alive, Trickster wiped his hands and said:
"So. Therapy, fighting, ex-girlfriend drama, tavern disaster. Just another Tuesday."
Lyra looked at Zerathis. "You really dated her?"
"I make questionable decisions."
Dante sighed. "Let's get back. We've got a war coming."
Zerathis looked up at the moon and whispered, "Wouldn't miss it."