Chapter Thirty

Dante Stormborn was hungry. Scratch that, he wasn't. He was confused, as most people are wont to be. The pocket world, that's how he'd come to know it. But did it have a name? Was it sentient? There was a lot he didn't know and a lot more he needed to learn. But who'd teach him? Cincinnati had warmed up to him a little, Darkus still refused to care about his existence, and Gilgamesh was a bastard as always.

He was basking in the sunlight, unable to believe such a beautiful day could turn into an unforgiving nightmare in a flash. He needed to understand the world, but he didn't even understand his body. It was pathetic.

"You look like someone threw up in your coffee," Crystal observed, taking a sip of what seemed to be poorly made tea.

"That looks like it'd kill you before this world does," Dante shrugged and returned to his watch.

"I don't mind; it tastes like depression, though," she made a face, one that Dante had never associated with her at all.

"What are you doing here, anyway?
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