Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Nero’s life had been one fight after another. It was almost as if the world had forced him into this cycle of survival, and he had, perhaps, grown to love it. Born with a name that meant nothing but everything to him, he had grown up with little more than the bitter taste of loneliness. Orphaned and unwanted, he had always felt like an outsider, like something that didn’t quite fit. His parents, whoever they were, had left him to fend for himself in a cold and indifferent world. He had learned the hard way to fight for everything—the barest scraps of food, the fleeting moments of safety, the need to protect himself in a world that gave him nothing.

But things had changed when he was adopted by Kyrie and Credo’s parents. In that moment, Nero had tasted something rare—love. The family had taken him in when he had no place to go, treated him like their own, even when he could barely believe it himself. Kyrie, sweet and kind, had always seen him. And Credo was the older brother who always took time to make sure he was okay.

The mission was supposed to be simple, or so he thought. It was a routine cleanup—nothing more than a small task for someone with his skills. Some of the escaped lab experiments from the demon-summoning facility had wandered into the forests, mindless and uncontrollable without their master. Nero had dealt with these kinds of creatures before. He’d faced worse. It was supposed to be just another job. But as he ventured deeper into the woods, a sense of unease began to settle over him. The forest was thick with mist, the air heavy with the scent of decay. The sounds of distant creatures echoed in the trees, but they weren’t the usual predators. These were different. They moved with a sickly sort of intelligence. As if they knew he was coming. Nero’s grip tightened on the handle of Red Queen, his demonic arm coiled with latent power. His pulse quickened, not out of fear, but anticipation. The fight was coming.

At first, the creatures were nothing more than a nuisance—beasts without purpose, too mindless to pose any real threat - His brain supplied. Nero cut through them with ease, each slash of his blade sending them scattering in a spray of blood and flesh. But as the deeper he ventured, the stronger the creatures became. They were more coordinated now, more aggressive. And then, one of them struck. Out of nowhere, a sharp, searing pain shot through Nero’s left shoulder. He gritted his teeth as the creature’s clawed hand pierced his skin, dragging him to the ground. Blood soaked his clothes, but it wasn’t the pain that took him by surprise. It was the intensity of the feeling—the rush that surged through his veins. He had been injured before, but this time, something was different. The pain was sharp, raw, and real, but part of him... part of him loved it.

For the first time in a long while, Nero felt something that wasn’t just a hunger for violence, but an almost primal satisfaction in the challenge that something hit him, it was unreal. His pulse raced, his mind clouded with adrenaline. The pain wasn’t a weakness; it was a fire that stoked the flames of his craving for more. He blanked out for a little while.

As the battle continued—with him on autopilot, every move instinctual, primal—Nero’s actions grew more frenzied. His strikes became wilder, fueled by something deep within him that he couldn’t name, couldn’t control. The rush, the feeling of power surging through him, eclipsed all else. The world around him faded into a blur of motion and blood as he fought with relentless abandon. The demon within him, the blood of Sparda that coursed through his veins, was awakening, stretching its claws. It reveled in the violence, in the destruction. It was a hunger that was never satisfied, always demanding more, always wanting to consume. And Nero, caught in the grip of that power, couldn't resist. He didn’t know if he even wanted to resist anymore. He felt the hollow figure behind him appear, and his eyes looked red-through the reflection of the blood on the floor.

The pain in his shoulder was a distant sensation now. He could feel the blood leaking down his arm, dripping onto the forest floor, but it didn’t matter. His body felt numb, as though his very essence was being consumed by the fight. His clothes were torn, his skin bruised and battered, but none of that registered in his mind. The only thing that mattered was the fight. The cold air of the forest, the thick scent of demon blood, the crunch of bones breaking under his blows—all of it blended together, creating a single, overwhelming sensation. There was no clarity, no sense of time. He was lost in the chaos, the violence, the thrill of it all. And it was intoxicating. When the last of the creatures finally fell, Nero stood among their broken bodies, panting heavily. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his body trembling with exhaustion, but there was a part of him that didn’t care. His hands were slick with blood, his arm—the cursed arm—twitching as if it, too, wanted more. He could feel the energy coursing through him, an undeniable force, like fire running through his veins. His body was worn and battered, yet the power inside him refused to die down. Nero knew he should feel disgust, guilt, or at least some semblance of remorse for the violence. But all he could feel was the rush, the high that came with destruction. In the midst of this twisted bliss, a face flashed in his mind. Kyrie. Her soft, gentle smile. The way she always saw the good in him, the way she believed in him, no matter how much darkness he carried.

The weight of the battle, the blood, and the thrill of violence had clouded Nero’s mind, but there was a part of him that still clung to the faintest trace of who he used to be. The memories of Kyrie, of her unconditional love, were like a flickering light in the distance, something warm and pure in a world that was quickly becoming consumed by darkness. But as much as he tried to hold on to that light, the harder it was to keep it in focus. The more he fed the demon’s hunger, the farther he drifted from the man she had seen in him—the man he used to be. His mind became a battleground once again, one where the whispers of his demonic heritage fought with his humanity. It was a losing fight. The demon’s presence inside him grew stronger, feeding on the destruction and chaos around him. But amidst the haze, something unexpected surfaced—a memory of Credo’s face.

At first, it was a fleeting image, a shadow in his thoughts, like a distant echo. But then, the memory became sharper, clearer. It wasn’t the face of the brother he had once known—his ally, his guide, the one who had pushed him to be better, the one who had always been there by his side, even when they disagreed. No, this was the face of the man he had fought against, the one who had challenged him to a brutal, unforgiving battle. The face of the man who had stood before him, unwavering, even when the truth had torn their world apart. Credo had been more than just a brother. He had been a symbol of everything Nero had rejected—discipline, duty, restraint. Credo’s resolve had never wavered, even in the face of Nero’s own violent rebellion. And that day, the day they had fought each other to the brink, it had been the clearest sign of how different they truly were. They were no longer brothers, no longer allies. They had become enemies, separated by ideals and blood.

But now, standing in the midst of the aftermath of his brutal combat, Nero’s thoughts twisted in a darker direction. What if I could fight him again? What if he could feel the heat of that battle once more, the rush of adrenaline, the pure, unfiltered violence of it? The thought lodged itself in his mind, growing, becoming an obsession.

He wanted to fight him to the death again.

The idea took root in his chest, a gnawing hunger that he couldn’t ignore. There was a part of him that craved it—the closure, the finality. He could almost hear Credo’s voice in his mind, challenging him, daring him to push further, to be better. What if that was the only way to prove something—to prove that he was truly in control, that he was unstoppable?

But then, a soft inner voice broke through the fog of rage and desire. What do you mean, do I want to hurt my brother?

It was a simple thought, a question that cut through the madness like a blade. The voice wasn’t just Kyrie’s, though he could hear her pleading tone in his mind. It wasn’t just the face of Credo, either. It was the question that had always been at the core of their conflict. Do you want to hurt the ones you love? For a brief, terrifying moment, Nero had believed he did. He had wanted to prove something to himself, to the demon inside him. He had wanted to go back to that place, to relive that battle, to let the blood spill once more. But as the thought lingered in his mind, the truth began to settle in—No. He didn’t want that. He didn’t want to hurt Credo. He didn’t want to kill him. He wanted him back to hug again. For a single moment, he wanted his older brother to come back and yell at him.

Nero closed his eyes, fighting back the bile rising in his throat. He wanted to scream, to lash out at the world for the hell it had made him endure, for the curse that was his life. He dropped to his knees, the weight of his shoulder wound finally catching up to him. His breath came in ragged gasps, the rush of adrenaline slowly fading into an aching exhaustion. The forest around him seemed quieter now, the air heavy with the remnants of the battle. He could feel the presence of the demon blood still swirling within him, still whispering to him, urging him to embrace the violence after awhile it completely went quiet again.

He sat there and threw up everything he had for breakfast that morning and then slept at hotel. He didn't want to go home for everyone across town to see he was a mess.

Chapter Text

"Good work, Nero. Thanks for helping rebuild the pier. The food station's still down, but there's a nice spot to take lunch. Hope you brought something to eat," one of the neighbors called out with a tired smile. A few others nodded, wiping sweat from their brows as they headed for a patch of shade nearby.

Nero gave a noncommittal nod, letting the hammer drop with a hollow thunk onto the planks. The job had taken hours—longer than it should’ve—because he’d done it the hard way. No Devil Bringer. No shortcuts. Not with people watching.

He didn’t like the way they looked at him when the blue flame crawled up his arm. Didn’t like the whispered words: abomination, devil, curse. Not that anyone ever said it to his face. Sparda frowns on those who judge others without first being holy themselves.

What a joke. They didn’t see him as human.

Am I a demon or a man? What am I, really?

"Let’s see what I’ve got," he muttered, crouching to open his canvas bag.

No sandwich. No container. Just spare tools and a torn-up copy of The Order’s Tenets he’d meant to throw out weeks ago. Wait—this wasn’t even his stuff.

Kyrie’s.

“Damn it.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “This sucks.”

He sat down near a post, rummaging again just to be sure. Nothing. His stomach ached—at first just a dull throb, then sharper. But it wasn’t normal hunger. It felt wrong, like something inside him had stirred and started to stretch.

He pressed his hand—his real one—to his stomach.

A low growl rumbled deep in his gut. Too loud. Too... angry.

He glanced around. People were laughing, unwrapping salted fish, stale bread, apples. A kid bit into one, juice running down their chin. His mouth watered.

Get a grip.

Nero snatched an apple off a nearby crate—someone’s forgotten snack. Charity or theft, he didn’t care. He’d pay them back. Later.

The apple was bruised, dry, but he forced himself to chew. Focused on the crunch so he didn’t have to think about the heat crawling up his throat.

And then it started.

Not the hunger. That had been there.

This was different.

It started in his veins—slow, burning, like embers catching fire. His arm twitched. The Devil Bringer hummed beneath his sleeve.

He hadn’t noticed he’d stopped chewing.

He was looking at people differently.

Their faces. Their throats. The pulse in their wrists. The way their muscles flexed when they moved or laughed or leaned into the sun.

Meat.

Maybe you should—

No.

He stood fast enough to knock over the crate beside him.

No. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t my thought.

But the ache didn’t stop. The heat kept building, twisting in his gut. His skin trembled. His mouth went dry. His teeth ached.

And for one horrible second, he’d looked at a man eating fish and wondered if raw would’ve tasted better.

The apple slipped from his fingers, landing with a soft thud on the dock.

Nero squeezed his eyes shut. Counted his breaths.

In. Out.

In. Out.

“You’re not a monster,” he whispered.

But the part of him that heard it didn’t believe him.

And the worst part?

It was hungry.

It coiled inside him like smoke—thick and burning—wrapping around his ribs, whispering things he didn’t want to hear. He’d felt it before. Right before the Devil Bringer fully woke up. Right before he realized it wasn’t a curse. It was a door.

And something behind that door had always been knocking.

And he’d left the damn key under the mat.

He pulled his coat tighter around the arm. No one was looking—not directly. They never did. Not unless they thought he wasn’t watching.

The glances were always the same: suspicion. Fear. Sometimes pity.

That one stung the most.

It used to be respect. Back when Credo was alive. When Kyrie still sang in the cathedral and people lit candles for more than just selfish reasons.

Back before Nero tore the heart out of their god.

The pier creaked beneath him as a cold wind rolled in off the sea, carrying the stink of fish and wet wood. Maybe that’s what set him off. Or maybe it was the fact that he could’ve rebuilt the pier in half the time if he’d just stopped pretending to be normal.

“Better to just keep your head down,” he muttered, forcing another bite of the apple. “Blend in.”

He snorted. Like that’s ever worked.

"Nero!" a voice called out. Closer this time.

He turned, saw Kyrie walking down the pier, holding something wrapped in cloth. Her smile was the only thing that felt real today—warm, honest, stubborn.

“I figured you’d forget your lunch,” she said, handing him the bundle. “You always rush out without checking your bag.”

He blinked, thrown off. “…Wait, you came all the way down here just to—?”

“You’d forget your head if it wasn’t attached,” she teased.

He took the bundle awkwardly, only using his left hand. The other stayed tucked away. Always.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “You’re a lifesaver.”

She gave him that look—the one that always saw more than he wanted her to.

“You haven’t been sleeping again.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’re always busy.” Her voice softened. “You don’t have to carry this alone, you know.”

He looked away. “Who else is going to?”

She didn’t answer right away. The wind tugged at her dress. Nero stared at the bundle in his hands. Warm bread. Cured meat. His stomach twisted again—but this time, not from hunger.

Because he didn’t deserve this.

Not the food. Not her kindness. Not after everything.

“You’re not him, Nero,” she said softly.

He froze.

“You’re not Credo. You don’t have to be.”

His hand clenched. The cloth crinkled. Something pulsed in his arm—quick, electric.

“…Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

But he didn’t believe it.

Someone had to hold things together.

And with Credo gone, that meant him.

He watched her head back toward the main path. The sun caught her hair just right, and for a moment, the fire in his chest dulled. The voice quieted.

Then someone screamed.

Short. Sharp. Cut off too fast.

Nero was already moving.

The wrapped lunch hit the dock, forgotten. He pushed past the workers, running toward the end of the pier.

And saw it.

A rift—small, jagged, like broken glass tearing through the air. A Lesser Scarecrow was already through, twitching violently, claws raised.

“Move!” Nero shouted.

The dockhand dropped just in time. The creature’s swipe tore through a crate instead.

Nero unbuckled his coat.

Screw hiding it.

The Devil Bringer flared to life in a flash of blue fire.

As the Scarecrow turned toward him, Nero cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulder, and smiled—tight, joyless.

“…Finally,” he muttered. “Something I can ACTUALLY hit.”

Then he lunged.

He should’ve waited.

A week. That was the plan. Finish repairs. Let Kyrie know. Let things settle.

But after that? After what almost happened?

No. He couldn’t stay. Not when something inside him had looked at a neighbor and seen prey.

Was it the arm? Was it getting worse? Was it even his?

He didn’t know.

But someone might.

(Could he be my father? Are we even related? We look the same... and he said Yamato had to stay in the family, right? Or did he just know something—anything—about what the hell’s happening to me?)

Nero didn’t wait for the answers to come.

He left that night.

No goodbyes. No note. Just packed his gear, strapped Red Queen to his back, made sure Blue Rose was loaded, and slipped out before sunrise.

Kyrie would worry. He hated that part.

But if he tried to explain it now, he might break.

Or worse—he might stay.

And that wasn’t an option anymore.

He needed to know.

What was this thing growing inside him?

Why did it feel so familiar and wrong at the same time?

Why did he crave blood when angry?

Why did his arm hum like it was waiting?

Dante had answers.

And if he didn’t?

Nero would drag the old man out of his half-broken office by the coat collar and make damn sure they found some.