Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

POV Dante:

  In an underworld unlike anything mortal eyes have ever seen—where even the ground defies logic. The terrain is harsh and stony, threaded with strange crimson roots that cling to the rock like living veins. Sometimes they split open, bleeding in short, volcanic bursts. Among them roam demonic creatures of endless variety—some mindless, driven by nothing but the scent of human flesh. The moment they catch that scent, they frenzy, seeking the taste of blood that sustains and strengthens them.

 One cannot speak of this hellish realm without mentioning its stifling scent—sharp, metallic, omnipresent. It isn’t exactly foul, but it isn’t pleasant either. Still, it’s not difficult to breathe here; the air, surprisingly, feels light… almost soothing.

  A land that would be a waking nightmare to any normal being—a place no one should ever find themselves in. No one… except the twin sons of Sparda, who have made this infernal pit their sparring ground, testing their endurance again and again.

 They move at such blinding speed that no eye could follow, only streaks of blue and red—sometimes merging into violet—cutting through the haze.

 The red twin leaps high, striking down with a fierce blow that sends the blue twin stumbling back. Yet he regains his balance instantly, straightening with cold precision.

“Time to die, Dante.”

“Heh. You’re an open book, brother… I can read every move you make.”

 Their blades collide again and again, sparks igniting between them. Dante has long since lost track of time—seconds, hours, days? It doesn’t matter. Not when he’s with the brother he lost more than twenty years ago.

 Twenty years—an easy number to say, but behind it lies a lifetime. In twenty years, a man could father a child and watch him grow into adulthood. So many hours, minutes, days—until one day you look around and realize you haven’t moved at all.

 That was Dante’s life. Since nineteen, he’s barely lived. Days crawled or vanished in blurs, but always ended the same way—with him at his desk, nursing cheap liquor and memories that refused to fade.

 That’s why he handed Devil May Cry to Nero without hesitation. He believed this duel with his twin would be his final battle. He didn’t expect to walk away alive—and honestly, he didn’t mind the idea. Dying by Vergil’s hand didn’t seem like such a bad ending.

 Was he too hasty? Not really. Even now, there seems to be no hope of escape. And if they do find a way out, Dante doubts he’ll return to hunting demons. He’s tired—tired of the chaos, the blood, the endless cycle. Maybe he’d rather just live out his days beside his brother.

 What a dream that is… as if the power-obsessed bastard in front of him would ever agree to such a life. Of course not. But Dante wouldn’t force him either—if Vergil wants to walk away, let him.

Though if he dares to stir up trouble again… Dante will be there to stop him.

 A savage strike from Yamato snapped him out of his thoughts, hurling him backward. “You’re unfocused, Dante. It’s insulting. Get up—we’re not done yet.”

 Dante laughed dryly, stretching his stiff shoulders. “Relax… relax… I was just thinking how considerate you’ve become. Since when did we start caring? Days? Weeks? You haven’t done anything interesting in all that time—come on, show me what you’ve got.”

 Vergil narrowed his eyes: “Trying to provoke me, are you? …Well then. You’ve succeeded.”

 No more words. Vergil advanced, Dante blocked, and once more they fell into rhythm—an endless dance of blades, blind to everything but each other.

 Just the two of them. The world belonged to no one else.

 Dante wasn’t fighting so much as watching—memorizing every detail of Vergil’s movements, every shift of weight, every silent step. He had forgotten his brother’s voice, his colors, the measured grace of his style.

 If Dante was a volcano—untamed, fiery—Vergil was pure frost, so cold it made the bones tremble. And before one could notice, the ice would creep into the veins, numbing the body, shattering it piece by piece.

 To Dante, Vergil wasn’t a man—he was a force of nature, bound by laws of his own making. Every motion—each tilt of his shoulders, every breath—was deliberate, like a slow melody that could kill. Vergil didn’t need to speak; his silence alone filled the space, commanding respect, pressing against the air.

 Even the stillness surrounding him felt heavy, magnetic—stronger than any roar or scream. The pale blue aura around him, that faint, freezing glow—it made him seem less like a person, more like a phenomenon to be studied, respected… or destroyed.

 Dante’s gaze softened. Watching Vergil stirred something in him—wonder, exhilaration, and a quiet fear he’d never admit to. Each time their eyes met, that fear rippled through him, deep and undeniable.

 Blue… a color that meant nothing in Vergil’s absence. It was as if the hue itself had been created for him, his mark upon the world, the tone that separated him from his brother.

 Just a color—ordinary, hollow. But when Vergil stood before him, it became life itself: calm amidst chaos, a sharp serenity that cut through Dante’s storming soul.

 The blue wrapped around him like glassy ice—cold, pristine, unwavering. Without it, the color lost meaning, turned into emptiness—a reminder of silence, of something unfinished, waiting for Vergil to return and make it whole again.

 Back to the present—out of nowhere, the quiet twin decided to speak first, for once.

“Already exhausted, Dante? We’ve barely begun.”

“Hah! Who said I was serious anyway?”

 Their swords clashed, grinding against each other as they struggled for dominance. Faces inches apart, Dante asked through clenched teeth:

“How long… have we been here, Vergil?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because losing track of time… feels like—”

 Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the sudden emergence of a swarm of frenzied, mindless demons bursting out from beneath the ground — mostly Empusa, Hell Caina, and Hell Antenora, with the most annoying of them all being the Pyrobat.

 Even Dante was caught off guard. Vergil shoved him aside with the hilt of his sword to clear the way, then drew Yamato with calm precision. Dante regained his footing, tightening his grip on his Demon Sword

"Heh. Looks like the fun’s just starting… whoever kills the most wins, Verge.”

 Without waiting for an answer, he lunged into the fray. Blood splattered across his face and coat, but he didn’t care—he was laughing, wild and unrestrained, spinning through bodies like a storm of steel.

 Every strike sent a rush of fire through his chest, every scream was music—a rhythm only he could hear. From somewhere behind, he caught the familiar hum of Yamato slicing the air, and for the first time in years, that sound filled him with something close to peace.

 For both of them—brothers bound by blood, fury, and fate—this was perfection. And Dante intended to savor every second of it.

                                    ............

POV Vergil:

“Verge?…”

Did he just call him Verge?

 Well… clearly, it had been an unintentional slip—Dante’s voice hadn’t sounded serious, nor mocking as usual—but that didn’t stop its effect on Vergil. It was as if an old echo had clawed its way up from the depths without permission.

 Despite his usual composure, Vergil’s heart gave a faint tremor. He hadn’t heard that nickname since they were children—back when innocence and brief squabbles were all that existed between them.

 He had believed those days buried beneath blood and bitter memories… and yet, here was that voice again, reopening a wound that had long lain silent.

 His face betrayed nothing, but inside, a strange heaviness pressed against his chest—a mixture of longing he would never admit and anger at himself for being moved by a single word.

 The blue twin cut through the horde of Empusa before him with his spectral blades. In mere seconds, half—if not more—were gone. Yet the swarm refused to end. Vergil glanced sideways toward his younger brother.

 As always, Dante moved with reckless grace, like a dancer on a stage drenched in blood—wild, tactless, cutting and tearing through anything before him, laughing with that arrogant grin that taunted ally and enemy alike.

 But what caught Vergil’s attention more than the chaos was the fluid precision in every move—the hidden strength behind each strike, the impossible speed of his reflexes. Dante wasn’t just a volcano of violence; he was a living masterpiece of motion, perfectly aware of how to strike every weak point, how to create chaos and relish it in the same breath.

 For all his mockery and lightheartedness, Vergil always sensed that uncanny truth—Dante read him as easily as he read any opponent. Yet he still left space for the thrill, the laughter, the challenge—blood and amusement intertwined upon the same stage.

 At first glance, his fighting style seemed unchanged since their last encounter. But a bit of focus revealed the difference: Dante had become more seasoned, more deliberate.

 No matter how Vergil tried to deny it, his twin was no longer the reckless young man he once was. Time had shaped him. Experience had tempered his blade—and his soul.

 He no longer swung his weapon at random, but wielded it like a musician guiding a symphony—knowing exactly when to raise the tempo and when to let it fade.

 A faint smile crossed Vergil’s lips. He wasn’t sure whether it was suppressed admiration… or silent acknowledgment that his brother had continued to grow—unlike him.

 He had always believed that strength alone was the path to perfection. That belief hadn’t changed. He remained the same—unyielding, obsessed—as though time itself had frozen around him while Dante had kept moving forward. For a fleeting second, he realized that all his so-called victories were little more than circles, spinning endlessly… while his brother, despite his recklessness, had learned how to turn chaos into power.

 Vergil’s eyes narrowed slightly, concealing the turmoil behind a mask of calm. Yet he couldn’t deny the truth: Dante was no longer that boy… and perhaps, he himself hadn’t changed enough.

 He lowered his gaze for the briefest moment—a blink no one would notice, but enough to betray the storm within. His hand tightened around his sword—not in preparation for battle, but as if to reassure himself that something solid still remained to hold onto.

 He said nothing. Only turned his head slightly toward Dante—a brief glance heavier than a thousand words.

 A look that carried both pride and rejection; respect he refused to admit, and anger that he felt it at all.

 Then he focused once more on the fight, as though nothing had happened. But inside, he knew that moment had left its mark—just as that single word, “Verg,” had before it.

 And despite the conflict burning in his chest, he couldn’t deny the faint sense of happiness he’d buried for so long. Amid the clash of blades and the cries of dying demons, Vergil felt something strange—something he hadn’t felt in ages.

 It wasn’t the strength that came from fighting beside Dante… but the rare, irreplaceable feeling of having someone at his side—shoulder to shoulder.

 His brother, who knew his rhythm like his own heartbeat, whose movements flowed seamlessly with his own without the need for a word.

 Despite all their differences, all the battles and years that had divided them, Vergil found himself missing this familiar harmony—the rhythm of facing the storm with Dante, not against him. As if a part of himself had been asleep all these years, and only now awoke—revived by his brother’s presence beside him in the heart of battle.

 He glanced toward Dante for a brief moment.

 He said nothing—but within, a truth whispered that he dared not voice: Maybe… this is where I was meant to be all along.

 For the first time, he remembered that fiery, untamed spirit—always jumping, running, pleading to play outside like a bird that refused to be caged—without hatred, without blame.

 As children, Dante had been all laughter and motion, forever chasing the next adventure, while Vergil sat quietly, reading and devouring any book he could get his hands on.

 And now, amidst blades and blood, Vergil could still see that spark—that same restless light that never died, even as the man grew and changed. That child still lived, buried deep behind iron walls.

Or perhaps Vergil just wanted to believe that.

 He suddenly realized how much he missed it—not only in Dante, but in himself as well.

 It was as though his brother’s presence had brought back a shadow of childhood he had tried to banish… but his heart refused to forget.

 A faint, nearly invisible smile crossed his face before he quickly buried it under his usual sternness. Still, deep down, he knew—he had missed that chaos. Missed being part of it, even for a fleeting moment.

 Sadly, this wasn’t the time for nostalgia. He resumed slaughtering the remaining demons, determined not to lose. In an unexpected motion, his back brushed against Dante’s, feeling his brother’s warmth—followed by that inevitable trace of mockery as Dante raised his ridiculous pistols.

 The instant their gazes met from the corners of their eyes, Vergil knew what he was about to do.

 He growled through clenched teeth, “Don’t you dare.”

 Dante shot him a sidelong look with that infuriating grin. “hah… Come on, Vergil—Jackpot!”

Gunfire burst in perfect sync with Vergil’s blade.

 The twins, moving as one machine, tore through the last of the demons until nothing remained but dust. With the echo of bullets and steel fading into silence, the battlefield finally stilled—peaceful, free of those vile, hungry creatures.

 Vergil sheathed his sword and turned toward his brother, only to be met with a look of irritation.

“What?”

“Why’d you leave me hanging? We always say it together.”

 Ah… so he was angry because Vergil hadn’t echoed their old catchphrase.

“I have no recollection.”

 Dante crossed his arms over his chest, far too serious for something so trivial. Vergil almost laughed—but stopped himself just in time.

 “Really?” Dante sneered, hurling a demon corpse at him. “Let me jog your memory. A little Vergil… crying in the corner ‘cause Mommy got mad!”

 Vergil drew his blade in a flash, slicing through whatever Dante had thrown.

“I seem to recall you crying every time Father raised his voice.”

 A laugh escaped Dante’s throat—strange, unfamiliar, or maybe simply forgotten after so many years. “How do you think they’d feel if they saw us now?”

 Vergil pondered the question carefully.

 If their father saw them, he might see proof of the strength of his demonic blood—perhaps proud of the younger, furious at the elder.

 If their mother saw them, she would probably weep for what her sons had become.

 But in truth, none of it mattered.

 Their parents’ time was long gone—leaving only the two of them, tangled in memories and rivalry, standing together in this tainted present.

 And deep down, Vergil knew Dante, in his foolish humor, had struck the heart of it.

 He didn’t smile. He didn’t reply. But inside, he understood—it no longer mattered what judgment their parents might pass.

 As long as he and Dante stood side by side, fighting together as they should have from the beginning, that was enough.

 Vergil turned his head slightly toward him. “It doesn’t matter… We’re still here, aren’t we?”

“Yeah… you’re damn right.”

 He couldn’t stand seeing his brother’s smile any longer. Turning away, he fixed his gaze on the dull terrain—an attempt to distract himself from that face that haunted his thoughts since awakening, stirring emotions he neither wished nor dared to confront… not now. Not ever.

 Fortunately, the world itself offered distraction.

 The underworld never stayed still—especially after the severing of the Qliphoth roots, which had thrown its structure and climate into violent disarray, unsettling the demons that dwelled within.

 Vergil looked skyward.

 The clouds had thickened into a suffocating mass—dark, bruised shades of black and violet, as if tainted by poison. They crawled slowly, but seethed with a fury beneath the surface, ready to erupt at any moment.

 Occasionally, a pale yellow lightning bolt tore through them—not like natural lightning, but like a spark of molten metal.

 The air had grown heavy, laced with a sharp sting that burned the throat with every breath. Even breathing felt like labor now. The wind brought no coolness—only a sticky, foul sensation, as though it had risen from a toxic swamp.

 One glance at the sky was enough to know—rain was coming. But this rain wouldn’t be water.

 It would burn. It would poison. And even for the strongest hybrids alive, it would be unbearable.

 He felt the shift in Dante’s energy—less stable than usual, erratic in a way that betrayed concern. Dante knew what was coming.

“Ugh… Great. Not the best time for this stupid rain,” Dante muttered.

“You know about it?”

"Of course. Not my first time stuck in this hellhole.”

 Vergil turned his head slightly, studying his brother’s face as he spoke :“So you knew, and still came without a plan…”

 Dante chuckled lightly, holstering his guns: “My plans usually write themselves at the last second—and you know what? They always work.”

 Vergil raised an eyebrow, half amused, half exasperated, before turning back to the darkening sky.

“We’ll see if your pathetic habit saves you this time… Come on, let’s find shelter before it starts.”

 Without another word, the blue twin started walking, confident that Dante would follow—as always.

“… Damn it, Vergil. Appointed yourself leader of our little camping trip, huh?”

 Vergil didn’t look back. His voice was steady, carrying that familiar air of superiority.

“Of course I’m the leader. I’m the eldest.”

 He quickened his pace, then tossed a final remark over his shoulder:

"If you don’t hurry, I’ll leave you to rot under the rain.”

 Dante laughed, trailing lazily behind. “Alright, alright… Lead the way, Your Majesty.”

 Then, with a grin stretching across his face: “But remember—without jesters, kings get really boring.”

 Vergil glanced at him as he caught up, walking shoulder to shoulder. “Good to know you understand your place, clown.”

 Dante only answered with a small smile—the same one Vergil had tried so long to escape, yet it still followed him, shadow-like.

 Maybe there was no need to run from it.

 At least… not this time.

Chapter Text

POV Vergil:

 Sometimes, Vergil finds it difficult to understand the nature of their behavior toward each other as brothers. Their way of dealing with one another—both in words and in actions—resembles nothing close to normal. He wants to believe that their demonic hybrid nature is the reason behind it. But a part of him is certain that even if they were fully human, things wouldn’t be much different from how they are now.

 They can turn any word, even one without the slightest trace of hostility, into a reason to start a war. And any conversation that begins with a light laugh and an innocent smile can instantly turn—without warning—into a fight to the death.

 So, if you were to ask him now how this particular fight started while they were just looking for shelter from the rain, he would answer that he doesn’t know. One word led to another until the argument between them flared up again. All this simply because they disagreed over who should take the first watch while the other slept.

After a long time searching, they finally found a place resembling a cave. Dante, as usual, stuck his head in first, squinting his eyes to examine it.

“The place looks spacious from the inside… I think it’s big enough for both of us.”

Vergil merely nodded slightly before saying coldly as he stepped forward, “Go inside and rest. I’ll keep watch.”

Dante furrowed his brows and pushed his jacket aside in a show of defiance.

“No, no, no. The first watch is mine. Go ahead, take a break, Your Majesty.”

Vergil turned his gaze toward him slowly, his voice harder than stone:

“I told you—I’ll keep watch first.”

Dante waved his hand dismissively with exaggerated disdain, sighing loudly.

"Pff… power freak.”

A faint, sarcastic smile curved Vergil’s lips as he muttered under his breath, “…emotional fool.”

 And so it ended, with both of them raising their swords for the thousandth time. It seemed Dante had taken things a bit too seriously this time. The rain fell on their skin, burning through their clothes and leaving behind a dreadful stench of scorched fabric, blending with the rumble of thunder and the clash of steel. The muddy ground beneath their feet made movement harder, yet neither of them backed down. Sparks flew with every clash of metal, the sound of battle merging with the thunder’s roar above.

 All the demons had retreated to their dens, fully aware of how bad the weather was—no matter how thick their hides or strong their armor—except for these two idiots. And, of course, all thanks to Dante, who could turn a grain of dust into a cosmic war.

 Not that Vergil was any different in that regard.

 The younger twin lunged forward with a barrage of fierce, rapid strikes from his new sword, the Demon Sword—a perfect fusion between Rebellion and Sparda.

 Vergil moved with fluid precision, deflecting the blows with lethal accuracy, letting Dante push harder and harder, wasting his energy. With every mistake, victory drew closer.

 Dante sidestepped and tried to trick him with a side slash, but Vergil had already predicted it. In the blink of an eye, he bent sideways, twisted his body, and countered with a sharp strike that sent Dante staggering back. Mud splashed around their boots as they moved.

"Stop this drama, Dante,” Vergil ordered, his voice laced with fake irritation.

"Look who’s talking about drama… should I remind you of Temen-ni-gru?”

 A vein pulsed in Vergil’s temple. This provocation would not end well. He knew perfectly well that Dante wasn’t at his best physically right now and desperately needed rest—unlike him. This fight would surely end in Vergil’s favor. With a sharp exhale, he summoned Doppelganger.

“That’s cheating, Verge… no need to get so serious.”

“You started it, dear brother.”

 Vergil darted forward, Yamato slicing through the air in a sharp arc toward Dante’s shoulder. Sparks flew when the Demon Sword met his blade. At the same moment, the Doppelganger appeared behind Dante with a synchronized strike, forcing him to block from both sides.

 Dante gritted his teeth, pouring every ounce of strength into parrying the dual assault. He spun his body in a full circle, his sword sweeping mud and rain in an arc that drove both opponents back. But before he could catch his breath, the Doppelganger lunged again—rapid thrusts forcing him to retreat step by step.

 Vergil gave him no reprieve. Seizing the moment, he leaped forward with a downward slash, Yamato descending like lightning. Dante ducked at the last instant; strands of his wet hair were sliced clean by the blade’s edge before he countered with a powerful upward swing that forced Vergil back a step.

“Hah… two against one? That’s not fair,” Dante panted, wiping the rain from his eyes.

“I never claimed to play fair,” Vergil replied coolly.

 They charged again. The clone struck first, a barrage of jabs like hammer blows, while Vergil leaped above him, bringing his sword down in a sweeping arc toward Dante’s head. Dante raised his blade diagonally, blocking the first hit, then twisted to kick the clone away—but it vanished like a shadow before reappearing behind him with another strike.

 With every second, Vergil’s attacks grew more precise, more deliberate, driving Dante toward the rocky wall at the cave’s entrance. Dante swung wide in a desperate counter, his sword carving a semicircle in the mud, but Vergil parried it almost effortlessly with one hand—while the Doppelganger lunged from behind, forcing Dante to crouch.

 His breathing turned ragged; the acidic rain weighed heavy on his muscles, the burns stinging with every move. Yet he didn’t stop. He fought on, smiling stubbornly.

 But the end came when Vergil seized a brief lapse in Dante’s rhythm—the clone feinted a side strike, and in the same instant, Vergil unleashed a swift Judgement Cut End. A violet flash tore through the air, hitting Dante with immense force, throwing him backward violently.

 He slammed into the cave wall and collapsed inside, his sword clattering against the stone beside him. The echo of that final strike merged with the sound of rain and thunder—a clear declaration of the victor.

 Vergil approached with steady steps, rain burning holes into his blue coat. His eyes never left his fallen brother. He raised his sword slowly, pressing it near Dante’s throat as his boot pinned him by the chest.

"Sleep now, Dante… I’ll take the watch.”

“That was fun,” Dante laughed loudly, clutching his stomach. “Yeah, yeah, I lost—do whatever you want… but I’m still ahead of you.”

 Vergil’s brow twitched, his face marked by dry sarcasm. “Where did you learn math, fool? We’re even.”

"Whatever, brother… whatever.”

 Suppressing the faint pride swelling in his chest, Vergil stepped away from him and moved toward the cave’s entrance. He looked down at his coat—tattered, scorched, filthy. He could easily restore it with his magic, but preferred to conserve his energy until he was fully recovered and could finally rest.

 Small demons scurried through the rain, fleeing in panic. Whenever one neared the cave and sensed the overwhelming power of the twins, it darted back instantly. Vergil watched them with disdain and superiority.

He turned slowly. “If it weren’t for your stubbornness, we could’ve avoided—”

 His words dissolved on his lips when his eyes fell on Dante. He was lying exactly where he had fallen, deep asleep, as if his body had finally surrendered after days of nonstop battles and wounds.

 Of course he would be exhausted. Unlike Vergil—who had recently regained his body as if reborn—Dante had been fighting ever since waking from a month-long coma, with no real rest. Their battle just now made it clear how badly he needed it. Even they had limits; they could push endlessly, but not forever. If they wanted to return to their full strength, rest was necessary. Thankfully, the rain had forced them into it.

 Vergil fell silent, watching his brother’s features—tired yet oddly peaceful. He muttered softly, almost to himself:

"You act like an idiot… then sleep like a child.”

 He stepped closer, then hesitated. For a fleeting moment, he considered dragging Dante away from the cold ground, or even covering him with his coat. But he quickly dismissed the thought, lifting his chin in pride and pretending indifference. He sat near the cave’s mouth, leaning against a sharp rock, eyes fixed on the curtain of gray rain outside.

 And yet, despite the silence and his mask of apathy, his gaze wandered from time to time toward Dante—as if part of him needed the reassurance that his brother was still breathing peacefully.

 Time passed slowly. The sound of rain against stone mingled with the distant growl of thunder, as if nature itself had decided to grant them a forced ceasefire.

 Vergil remained still, hands resting on his knees, face carved in stone. Yet his ears caught, with quiet awareness, Dante’s steady breathing—the rise and fall of his chest. A calming rhythm.

 He lifted his gaze toward the clouded sky; rain streamed down the edges of the rocks like flowing tears. For a moment, he felt this calm might deceive him—that the storm wasn’t truly over. So he tightened his grip on the sword beside him, ready for whatever came next—though he wouldn’t admit, even to himself, that he did it to protect this fragile, fleeting peace.

 The silent guardian stayed at the cave’s entrance, alert. And every now and then, his peripheral vision caught his sleeping brother—just to make sure his chest was still moving.

..

..

..

 Several long hours had passed—at least from his perception. It was always difficult to tell time in the Underworld. The rain still hadn’t stopped. He was growing increasingly irritated by the gloomy scene before him. What had seemed peaceful not long ago now ignited in him a strong desire to crush someone’s skull.

 His skin itched to go out and find some miserable victim upon whom he could unleash all the frustration that had been building up inside him. He was not used to remaining still for long. Sitting like this reminded him of his pitiful state back when he was V. Though the experience he gained then, as a complete human, had opened his eyes to matters Vergil had never cared for, that did not mean his demonic side would tolerate this stillness. Old habits don’t die easily.

 But he knew better—he knew he had to stay. Both to recover his strength, and to keep watch over the fool sleeping beside him.

 His brother was still sleeping deeply, showing no sign of waking up. Even his position hadn’t changed—lying there on his back as if he were at home, not in Hell, with his greatest enemy standing guard over him.

 Vergil couldn’t understand how Dante could so easily trust him after everything that had happened between them. If he merely gave him his back, that would be understandable—but this? Now he lay there, completely unaware of his surroundings, confident that his elder brother would watch over him, protect him from harm—something Vergil had never done before. So why was it so easy for Dante to forget everything? To throw all the horrors behind him in favor of a new beginning? And he knew—Vergil was certain he knew—that his twin was a traitor, had wanted, and still wanted, to kill him.

 Perhaps Dante hadn’t forgotten anything—what happened could never be forgotten. But perhaps he had simply decided to give him a chance.

 A chance Vergil wasn’t sure he would take… yet he would try.

 He lowered his head slightly, averting his gaze from his brother, fleeing from a heavy thought that began to press upon his mind. The rain continued to fall mercilessly, filling the ground with red mud seeping from the cracked veins of Hell itself—a scene that suited his past far more than it did his clumsy attempts to become something else.

 He clenched his hand around his sword for a moment, then let it relax beside him. The danger outside didn’t tire him—the danger within did. The thought of getting used to this peace, of allowing that unjustified trust from his brother to take root in his heart, was more terrifying than any enemy that might be lurking out there.

 He turned slowly toward Dante again. Same position. Same naive tranquility. His brother’s face looked calmer than ever before—his features hid the traces of fatigue but could not erase them completely. Studying his face, Vergil realized how much his younger twin had changed. He was no longer that cocky, arrogant youth. Of course, he wasn’t that old—especially if he’d just shave that stubborn beard—but looking at him now, Vergil couldn’t help but realize how many years had been wasted in vain while he was searching for…

 Honestly, Vergil didn’t even know what he’d been searching for all this time. He only wanted to become stronger—after losing his mother and his brother, whom he had believed dead after the fire. He lived in a world where the strong devoured the weak—not just among demons, but among humans too. He had wanted Dante to join him, to form the greatest power in history—stronger even than Sparda himself. But that emotional fool—so much like their mother, in love with all things human, good or evil—had rejected his offer.

 He had never met anyone who loved humanity as much as Dante did. And though Vergil was certain they didn’t deserve his brother’s enormous heart, he could now at least understand his principles—if not accept them.

 For a brief moment, a faint, sarcastic smile crept onto Vergil’s lips—a mixture of bitterness and suppressed admiration.

 He muttered inwardly, not daring to say the words aloud: “You’re such a fool… and yet, perhaps that’s why I can never ignore you.”

 And it was true. His twin had always been the center of his existence ever since he discovered he had survived that cursed fire. Even if he wanted to deny it, the simple fact that the first person he thought of upon his return was Dante shattered any attempt at denial.

 A sharp hum came from Yamato, warning him of the energy that had filled the space around them. He hadn’t even realized it, lost as he was in his thoughts. Even the fool stirred in his sleep, affected by Vergil’s demonic energy intertwining with his own in a strangely harmonious resonance.

 Not wanting to wake him, Vergil inhaled deeply, focusing his magic into his core. When the energy finally settled, he drew Yamato from its sheath and whispered: “Thank you… What would I do without you?”

 That sword—Yamato—his only inheritance from their father. A heavy keepsake tying him to roots he had never chosen. Since the day he obtained it, it had never left his side. It felt more like an extension of his soul than a mere blade of steel. How many times had he looked at it, not as a weapon, but as a symbol—of power, authority, and destiny. A destiny that could not be escaped.

 He had lived his life fighting alongside this sword, drawing dignity from it, defending with it the dream rooted deep within him.

 Since he had lost the warmth of a father’s embrace and the comfort of a family, Yamato had always been there—reminding him that the blood in his veins was no ordinary blood.

 He wanted to ask his brother how it had ended up in Nero’s hands.

 Ah, Nero… Vergil still couldn’t believe the mess he had gotten himself into. Out of nowhere, a son appears—not just any son, but a grown man—and, amusingly enough, Yamato had accepted him as its master during Vergil’s absence.

 He had been impressed by that young man’s strength and resolve. He would never say it aloud, but he was grateful. Grateful that Nero had stopped the brothers from doing something both would have regretted. Without him, one of them would be dead, and the other drowning in guilt and defeat.

 He wondered how Dante had lived, believing he had killed his brother for good.?

 How had Nero lived in Fortuna? How had humans treated him with that demonic arm? Where was his mother, and how was she?

 He wished he knew more about this son who had appeared from nowhere.

 He had no choice but to ask Dante.

 Until then, he would keep watching… And enjoy the silence of the moment.

                               .............

POV Dante:

Fire. Everywhere.

A blonde woman grasped his hand and shoved him into the closet.

“If I don’t come back… leave this place. Change your name. Live a new life. Be a man, Dante.”

Dante? What? I don’t want to change my name. What is my name?

Through the slits of the closet door, he saw her body torn apart. Blood blurred the scene, her screams—calling for Vergil—pierced his ears.

Nothing of her remained. He stepped out of the wooden cage, approached the woman’s mangled corpse, and sat down, placing her burnt head in his lap.

Why...? She was kind. She didn’t deserve this. Who even was she?

Suddenly, the body shifted into someone else… it was—it was—

Nell Goldstein?!

“If I’d never met you… I would’ve lived to see my granddaughter.”

I didn’t mean to… I—

“Oh, but you did.”

Another voice. A man’s.

He turned—Grue, his friend, stood there, with his daughter.

The burning house melted into darkness surrounding him on all sides. All the people he’d lost were there, encircling him.

“My daughter and I died because of you.”

I tried to save her… I’m sorry, Grue.

“Do you think giving money to my surviving daughters erases your guilt?”

I didn’t do it for redemption… I just wanted to help.

“I was robbed of seeing my granddaughter. Because everywhere you go… death follows.”

That’s true… everyone I’ve ever known is dead.

“Dante.”

A soft voice called to him—warm, familiar.

Gentle hands cupped his face. Mother?

“Dante… my son… if you’d been a good boy, your brother wouldn’t have left. And I wouldn’t have died searching for him.”

No… no, not you too.

Don’t do this to me. Not you too.

Then, all the voices merged into a single chant—like a cruel prayer: “You’re the reason… the reason for your loss.”

Stop.

“You’re the only one to blame.”

Enough.

The people of Redgrave appeared suddenly, throwing stones at him.

“Get out of here! Leave, you demon!” “There’s no hope for you!”

SILENCE.

 Dante jolted upright, gasping, as though something had expelled him from the depths of the nightmare. No scream escaped his throat—only a strangled sound, like a drowning man fighting to breathe. His hand shot to his neck, fingers pressing into the skin in a desperate attempt to calm himself, as if the pressure on his throat could restore his stolen breath.

 His chest rose and fell rapidly, breaths broken and uneven, tangled with the tremors running through him. He sat on the cold ground, legs bent before him, arms resting weakly on his knees. Leaning forward, shoulders heavy, he let his head rest in his left hand, pressing his fingers against his forehead with weary force as he tried to steady his breathing.

 The ground beneath him felt unnaturally harsh. He frowned, pressing his palm against the cold gravel. The floor of my office isn’t like this! He was certain he’d just woken up on the familiar wooden boards, under the dim light, surrounded by papers and empty bottles. But with every breath, the air grew heavier—tainted with rust and dampness clinging to his lungs.

 He slowly lifted his head. The darkness around him didn’t belong to his office—it echoed. Damp stone walls, faint dripping sounds from above.

 This isn’t my office…

 Bit by bit, his eyes adjusted: stone walls, dark wet patches, and that acrid smell left behind by acid rain.

 Then, the memories hit him—mercilessly. He was in the Underworld with his twin. They’d fought—argued—and he’d lost -Badly- Then passed out here like a fool.

 No wonder. Vergil’s final assault had drained him completely. He hadn’t even thought twice before dropping his guard in front of someone who could stab him at any moment.

 But… it’s fine. Vergil wouldn’t do that. Not now, at least.

 He looked up toward the cave’s opening. The rain had finally stopped. The air was no longer so suffocating—it felt almost natural again. Still dull, but less miserable.

 As his mind cleared, he realized Vergil wasn’t there. The place was empty, the only traces of him were footprints in the mud. Focusing a little, he could sense his brother’s energy—not far, but not close either.

 What’s that maniac up to now?

 What kind of schemes is he plotting again?

 He’d kick his ass if he was doing something stupid.

 Damn it—it’s hard having a brother like Vergil. Dante wanted to drag him by the ear back to the human world, but he knew better than to push him. Despite his calm exterior, Vergil was a ticking bomb—press the wrong button, and you’d have no one to blame when the avalanche hits.

 So, he decided to stay put. To wait for his return. Hoping he hadn’t done or said something before his nap—his long nap—that pissed him off.

 Trying to shake off those thoughts, Dante rubbed his growing stubble. Honestly, it was starting to get annoying—it had grown so much in just a few weeks, making him look older than he was. Not his fault, really—being born with white hair made him look ancient whenever he tried to grow a beard. Still, he had liked the more mature look… but maybe it was time to shave it off.

 If only he could find something sharp… his sword?

 He chuckled. “Yeah, right. Unless I want to slice off my jaw.”

 Maybe he could find something useful nearby—a sharp enough rock, perhaps. As he looked around, his eyes caught on something behind him.

 A neatly folded dark-blue coat, placed carefully on the ground. He reached out, touching the cold fabric—it was unmistakably Vergil’s. His heart skipped a beat, a strange feeling he couldn’t quite name.

 Why would Vergil leave his coat here?

 He stared at the folded fabric—and realization struck. It wasn’t just left there by chance. It had been placed exactly where Dante had been resting his head moments ago. Like a makeshift pillow—to keep his head from hurting against the hard stone floor.

 Warmth spread through his chest. What a surprisingly gentle gesture from the Ice Prince himself. To anyone else, it would seem trivial—but to Dante, who’d lived alone for so long, such small acts meant everything. His soul fed on these little fragments of care.

 Feeling oddly at peace, he lay back down again, resting his head on the “pillow” his brother had left him. The fabric smelled faintly of cold metal—like the air of a winter forest, or a crisp morning breeze. It carried a quiet refinement, like its owner—controlled even in scent.

 From where he lay, he could see the outside through the cave’s opening. The calm air and subtle fragrance drew his thoughts back to the nightmare that had just wrecked his sleep.

 He hadn’t dreamt like that in years. Sure, he’d had nightmares before—on and off, like passing storms—but none had shaken him this deeply.

 It had felt like a trial. One where everyone he’d ever lost stood before him, one by one—faces twisted by death, anger, and resentment. Voices filled the void with painful accusations, all too familiar. They were saying the same words he’d whispered to himself for decades—the cruel truth that never left him:

 You’re the reason.

 He didn’t need them to remind him. He’d been his own judge and executioner for years. But to hear their voices, to see their faces accusing him—it hit harder than ever before.

 He squeezed his eyes shut. Darkness behind his lids was kinder than the images burned into his mind. He tried convincing himself it was just a dream, a passing nightmare—but its taste lingered in his throat like ash that wouldn’t fade.

 He exhaled deeply, pressing his forehead harder against the folded coat. His fingers curled into the fabric, gripping it as if the unseen presence of his brother was the only thing holding him together.

If you’d been a good boy, your brother wouldn’t have left, and I wouldn’t have died searching for him.

Do you think giving money to my remaining daughters clears your guilt?

I was robbed of seeing my granddaughter, because everywhere you go, death follows.

You’re the reason… the only reason for your loss.

You’re the only one to blame.

 How many times had he heard those lines? How many times had he repeated them to himself until they became part of him?

 It’s not that they were wrong. On the contrary—deep down, Dante knew they were true. No matter how much he laughed, joked, or played the fool to make his life seem lighter, that humor was only a fragile mask. Behind it lay cracks—each truth, each glance from those who saw through him, widening them. He knew that if he tore away all the masks, he’d find only emptiness staring back at him—gnawing at what remained of his conscience until nothing was left but ghosts of memories and guilt.

 That void was never silent. It whispered—demanding confession, surrender, a return to something he could no longer even picture clearly.

 The more he laughed, the louder it became—his laughter echoing back at him like a stranger’s. Even now, at his age, he feared that if he ever stopped joking, truth would catch him—and coil around his throat like a serpent.

 So he’d keep joking. Hide behind his words like a man lighting a candle in a burning room—afraid the ending wouldn’t come with laughter, but with a scream.

 He closed his eyes again, images flashing anew: his mother blaming him for her death, Nell fading away, Grue and his daughter turning their backs. An endless circle, ghosts reviving what he’d tried so hard to bury.

 Heat stung his eyes—but he refused to let it fall. Dante wasn’t one to cry. Tears never changed anything. Instead, he released a quiet exhale, heavier than any sob, as if his chest were collapsing inward.

 He stayed lying on his side, staring into nothingness, until the cave’s mouth no longer looked like an exit—but a widening abyss within him.

 Maybe the recent events had stirred something raw inside him. The battle with Urizen, the long coma, the revelation that the terrible demon had been his brother all along—it had all left scars that wouldn’t fade. And then came Nero—trying his hardest to stop their madness. But Dante had handled it poorly, cruelly. Even now, he regretted the way he’d told Nero the truth, so harshly. The boy didn’t deserve that. All Dante had ever wanted was to protect him—to keep his pure heart untouched by the bloodstained feud of the Sparda family.

 God… it had been a long, painful journey. But somehow, it had ended… happily. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined standing beside his twin—not as enemies, but as allies. Walking together through Hell… without trying to kill each other.

 He exhaled slowly, pressing his brow against Vergil’s coat once more. Maybe it was time to stop punishing himself. To stop clinging to every loss, every haunting memory—and start cherishing what he still had.

 Life still had its quiet mercies. Like this one—a pillow made from Vergil’s coat, left just for him.

 A faint smile tugged at his lips as he muttered softly, half amused: “Vergil’s pillow, huh?... Nah, I’d still prefer pizza.”

 A short, raspy laugh escaped him—light, but genuine—fading into the cold cave air, leaving him a little lighter than before.

“Keep that up, brother… and I might actually start believing you have a heart.”

 Dante sat in silence, eyes half-lidded, thoughts swinging between longing and unease. Part of him ached to get up, to go find Vergil, to make sure he was safe—not lost again in the dark. But something held him back. Patience. He’d give his brother the space he always demanded. He wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of the past.

 Moments passed—heavy, yet peaceful—until his eyelids grew heavy once more. Comfort crept over him, rare and unfamiliar, and he was just about to drift off when the ground suddenly shook. The cave trembled, dust falling from between the rocks.

 Dante’s eyes snapped open. Instantly alert, he rose smoothly to his feet, turning to the coat behind him. He blew the dust off it, brushed away the small pebbles stuck to the fabric with unusual care, then folded it neatly—almost imitating its owner’s precision—and placed it gently on a nearby rock.

 Stepping out of the cave, the outside air filled his lungs—thick with a sharp, demonic scent. And there, before him—no mistake—a massive hellworm, twisting like a monstrous serpent. Its body was armored in triangular scales overlapping like shields. Beneath each plate, a crimson eye glared hungrily, shimmering with a strange lust. Its mouth—a circular pit of grinding teeth—rotated as it moved, eager for prey.

 Dante stood tall before it, scratching his chin lazily before grinning: “Ooooh… looks like I just found what I was looking for. Hold on, sweetheart…”

 He stretched his stiff muscles, cracking his joints and rolling his shoulders as though waking from a long nap. Then he bounced lightly from foot to foot, shaking off the stiffness, twirling the edge of his coat with a familiar flourish of challenge.

 He reached out his hand into the air—instantly, his favorite companion answered. The Demon Sword materialized in a flash of red energy, settling into his grip with a satisfied growl, eager for the taste of blood once more.

 A fierce grin spread across the devil hunter’s face—the same grin that always preceded chaos.

"Let’s Rock.”

Chapter Text

POV Vergil:

Vergil was fully aware that leaving his brother there alone had been a mistake — but he couldn’t stop himself from walking away once the rain had ceased. He had begun to feel suffocated, as if the walls of the cave that sheltered them were no longer protecting him but closing in, inch by inch. The silence that filled the place had grown louder than any battle he’d ever fought.

It wasn’t that he was annoyed by Dante, or by the idea of staying with him in this desolate underworld — quite the opposite, in fact. He was grateful. Grateful that his brother, despite all the years of conflict that had separated them, had chosen to stay by his side. Dante’s presence — even in his deep silence and long sleep — gave him a strange kind of comfort, tinged with the weight of memories he never wanted to recall.

But Vergil was not accustomed to this sort of peace. He wasn’t used to the two of them being together without a fight, without a challenge, without sharp words or drawn swords between them. It felt strange to see his brother’s face so calm — almost innocent — without that constant spark of mischief Dante carried everywhere. That quietness, which should have soothed him, began instead to wear him down.

The long hours he spent sitting nearby, waiting for Dante to open his eyes, did not pass lightly. They dragged on — slow, heavy — cornering his thoughts, forcing him to dive deep into himself. Those moments gave him space to think… to think about everything that should have been said but wasn’t, every step that led him here, every right or wrong choice that shaped his path. And though regret was not in his nature, though he had never been one to look back with sorrow, his mind betrayed him — replaying images he didn’t want to see, and possibilities too painful to imagine.

The word “if” had never existed in his vocabulary… and he would never allow anyone — not even his twin — to add it now. If I had done this. If I had chosen that. If I hadn’t left… Mere illusions spun by the weak, hollow excuses that changed nothing about what had already happened. To him, the path he walked was nothing but a reflection of his will — harsh or destructive, it was never something he’d consider reversible.

And if the past ever chose to chase him, he would never run. He would face it, even if it cast its shadow upon him, even if it reached out to drown him. It wouldn’t be the first time he drifted alone through an ocean of his own making.

So what would change now?

Caught between cautious optimism and the pessimism he tried to bury, he realized he could no longer stand being trapped inside that cave. It wasn’t about running from Dante — it was about running from himself. From that silence that cornered him with thoughts too pointless to confront.

So, quite simply, he stood and left — leaving his coat in his brother’s care. He decided to wander a little, to grant himself the illusion of freedom — the kind of freedom he felt slipping away each time he lingered too long, gazing at the peaceful face of his twin.

Speaking of Dante — Vergil suddenly felt a rise in his brother’s demonic energy. Apparently, someone had been unlucky enough to disturb one of Sparda’s sons during his nap. Yet even that wasn’t tempting enough to make him turn back. He wasn’t ready to cut short his brief walk, so he let his feet carry him deeper into the distorted labyrinth of this world.

Luckily, he found a small distraction — a pitiful group of wretches so weak he hesitated to even call them “demons.” It took only a few swift motions to end their existence. He didn’t let their corpses rot for nothing; he knew the flesh of such creatures, disgusting as it was, could serve as a good source of energy — a practical means to keep going without having to stop so often in this endless hellscape. He gathered enough of it with a calm detachment.

A faint smile tugged at his composed features as he imagined Dante’s reaction to seeing the bloody spoils in his hands. He could already picture the disgusted stare, followed by the inevitable line: “I’m not eating my own kind.” The tone — a mix of arrogance and repulsion.

Unfortunately, as much as he wanted to delay it, he had to return to the cave before Dante’s strange imagination started coming up with wild theories — or worse, before he caused trouble. His brother had a talent for attracting enemies. Wherever Dante went, trouble followed. He didn’t necessarily seek it — it just came to him, as if chaos itself were drawn to his presence. He could spark a full-scale disaster in an empty ruin untouched for centuries, like a magnet for misfortune.

Vergil liked to think of it as his brother’s terrible luck — not mere coincidence, nor simply recklessness, but a tiny curse that followed him everywhere. Even if Dante sat perfectly still, fate would still find a way to drop new enemies at his feet.

It seemed fate didn’t plan to leave him wondering for long. Or perhaps it simply wanted to prove him right. With his inhuman speed, the blue twin didn’t take long to reach his destination. As he approached the cave, just a few meters away, he saw his younger brother sitting atop the carcass of what looked like a giant serpent — or perhaps a massive worm.

The sight was not strange in the slightest. Vergil was sure it wasn’t the first time Dante had used a slain beast as a makeshift throne, lounging upon it in arrogant triumph — as though it were crafted solely for him.

What was strange, however…

Wait a second… was he using one of the. demon’s scales as a razor blade? And the creature’s massive eye as a mirror? Each movement was slow, calm, deliberate.

He was so engrossed in his task that he hadn’t noticed the eyes watching him from afar. In truth, Vergil didn’t mind — he was grateful. It gave him a rare moment to watch the scene unfold at leisure. A strange, amusing, and unexpectedly soothing sight.

How could his reckless brother make this wretched, frozen place feel almost… homely? While Vergil longed to subjugate hell itself, Dante seemed content to turn it into a place of rest and amusement — a place that wouldn’t stop him from keeping his morning routine.

Vergil continued to watch in silence. After a few moments, Dante finished his improvised shave, tilting his head left and right to assess his reflection in the giant eye. Vergil couldn’t help himself — he finally spoke, voice laced with dry mockery:

“You’re hopeless, dear brother.”

Dante turned immediately, a playful grin lighting his face. The expression made it clear he hadn’t expected Vergil to return so soon. He jumped lightly off the carcass and strode confidently toward his twin.

“Vergil… what do you think?” He brushed his chin proudly. “More handsome, right?”

Truth be told, his twin had always been handsome — there was no denying that. But now he looked a bit younger, sharper — almost like the Dante from when he was nineteen. Of course, Vergil didn’t say that aloud.

Dante wouldn’t stop pressing. “Come on, answer me! Wait — did I look better with the beard? Should I have kept it?”

Vergil cut him off coldly as he turned back toward the cave. “You always look terrible… but this is slightly better.”

Dante burst out laughing as he followed him. “Haha! Of course, Mr. Envy. You’ll never compliment me, will you?”

Vergil rolled his eyes in mock exhaustion, dropping the chunks of demon meat he’d gathered earlier onto the ground, then retrieving his coat from the rock where he’d left it.

“What’s this?” Dante asked, eyebrows raised.

“Demons meat,” Vergil replied flatly.

“I know what it is, Vergil — but what are you planning to do with it?”

Vergil looked from the meat to his brother. A faint smirk curved his lips, and a mischievous glint flickered in his eyes. He picked up a piece and held it out.

“Take it.”

Dante tilted his head, confused, but accepted it anyway. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it closely before looking back at his brother, eyes narrowing in suspicion. One brief pause was all it took before realization struck.

“Wait… brother… don’t tell me—”

Vergil, with a hint of mockery: “Mhm. Exactly. It’s food. It’ll help us recover our energy faster instead of stopping for breaks every few miles.”

The moment Vergil finished his sentence, Dante’s face changed instantly — his color drained, and he almost turned pale as he threw the chunk away as though it were poison.

“You’re insane! I can’t believe you’re trying to feed me demon flesh — that’s basically cannibalism!” he said, horrified, then added with exaggerated seriousness: “I refuse! I’m not eating my own kind!”

Vergil couldn’t hold back his laughter — just as he’d expected.

That only made Dante angrier. “Why are you laughing now?”

“Honestly, I’m disappointed, dear brother,” Vergil said, shaking his head in feigned dismay. “The great Dante, legendary demon hunter, refuses to eat demon meat simply because he finds it disgusting? I thought you were stronger than that.”

The red twin’s irritation flared so much that faint red scales began appearing on his skin — the first signs of his demonic form. Vergil, in turn, took a casual bite of the meat, deliberately provoking him.

That was enough to make Dante grit his teeth in revulsion before snatching a piece off the ground and taking a bite himself, grimacing all the while. Vergil watched with quiet amusement, savoring his brother’s visible suffering.

A sight not likely to happen twice.

Wiping his mouth angrily, Dante snapped, “Are you happy now, Vergil?”

“Mhm. Absolutely… Don’t hate me, brother — you’ll thank me later.”

“Pfft, over my dead body! Now, Mr. Cannibal Supreme, can you please take us home? I can’t handle another bite of this crap… I need pizza and alcohol.”

Vergil raised his sword slightly, running his fingers along the sheath. “Yes, any moment now. But the right spot must be chosen carefully. One mistake could open a gate for demons into the human world… so your pizza and booze will have to wait.”

Dante ruffled his hair in frustration. “Damn it… I bet Trish and Lady are having all the fun without me. So unfair.”

“You’ll get back to them once you stop whining and follow me,” Vergil said calmly.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Your Majesty.” Dante bowed dramatically. “Go ahead — older brothers first.”

“Good. You know your place.” But before leaving, Vergil suddenly stepped closer, reached out, and caught a lock of Dante’s hair. He examined it for a moment before remarking dryly, “You should cut it. It’s getting too long… doesn’t suit you.”

Then, with his usual arrogance, he turned away, leaving Dante standing there, running his fingers through his hair, trying to find the flaw his brother had meant.

“…What exactly is wrong with it?” he muttered, combing through it repeatedly before letting out a long sigh. “Damn you, Vergil…”

                                    …………

POV Dante:

Something is wrong with him—he feels it inside, ever since that nightmare, and it hasn’t left him since.

Even after fighting the demonic worm and shaving his beard, even after Vergil’s return and him throwing those slabs of meat in front of him… and their calm conversation that followed… there was even a kind of unusual humor in Vergil’s voice back then.

But despite all that, the feeling never left him.

Something gnaws at his depths slowly, like a shard lodged in his soul he can’t pull out. It wasn’t a physical illness nor mere exhaustion from battles—it was closer to a heavy, nameless weight sitting in his chest, suffocating every attempt to laugh or feign indifference.

Anxiety, tension, and a terrible fear possessed him, as if his very body were ringing an alarm only he could hear.

That awful feeling that makes his stomach ache for no clear reason, as though his insides are collapsing inward on a heavy emptiness that grows heavier by the moment.

There was no logic to it: the place was still, Vergil was close by, and the surrounding threats were no greater than what he was used to facing.

But… something deep inside was screaming. Not an echo from outside—an internal, vague warning. A sensation that could neither be explained nor silenced.

No clear curse.

No wound that left a mark.

No overwhelming demonic energy.

So why couldn’t he shake off that maddening feeling?

Damn it—it felt as though some vile imprint, a dark seed, had been planted in him during that nap and refused to stop growing.

That stupid dream must be the cause—it stirred up this fear, making him more of a coward.

Because he wants—no, he longs—to talk to his brother. There are so many things he wants to share with him, yet at the same time, he fears saying the wrong thing and ruining everything again. He couldn’t bear to lose him once more.

And more than anything, he doesn’t want his brother to hate him, nor to stop seeing him as an equal.

If only he knew how weak I’ve become…

So instead of confronting it, he stays silent, leaving the questions and answers tucked away in the back of his mind. He keeps following his brother wherever he goes—rather than walking beside him, he lags behind, content with staring at Vergil’s back.

And the longer he stares, the sharper that conflicting feeling grows inside him—a false comfort in being near him, and a suffocating anxiety whispering that these moments aren’t eternal… that they could be taken from him at any second.

Vergil’s footsteps were steady—unwavering, never hesitating or looking back, as if the entire world ahead was just a path meant to be walked, nothing more.

While he—Dante—every step behind his brother felt heavier, uncertain, in a way he had never experienced before.

He wished he could break the silence… say something—anything. A dumb question about the demonic meat Vergil brought, or a stupid comment about how long and thick his hair had gotten… anything to keep the conversation alive. Anything to stop his mind from drowning in this loud, empty solitude it created for itself.

But he didn’t.

He simply gripped the handle of his sword, as if the cold seeping from it could calm the trembling hidden within.

He feared Vergil would see him—that he’d suddenly turn those cold eyes his way and uncover what he’d been desperately trying to bury… that he was no longer the equal standing tall before him, but just a hesitant shadow trailing behind.

And because life never loved him—and if it had a favorite hobby, it would be beating the younger Son of Sparda senseless—the very thing he feared happened.

Vergil’s steps suddenly stopped, and he turned to face him. His gaze was cold as always—that would never change—but behind it was something else: a hint of puzzlement, maybe curiosity, as though he had just noticed something odd in Dante while looking at him. It showed clearly in the faint furrow of his brows.

He didn’t like it—it felt as if his twin were trying to read him like one of his boring poetry books, the kind he’d spend hours dissecting word by word while Dante laughed at the idea of how much patience a person must have to endure such boredom.

Even though Dante himself had read far duller things—books about demonic species, spellcraft, and grimoires beyond count.

He couldn’t stand there any longer, trapped between Vergil’s cold stare and the heaviness in his own chest that refused to fade.

He had to do something—anything—to break this unspoken tension.

So, with a faint smirk, he decided to be the first to speak.

He raised an eyebrow, forcing his lips into something that resembled amusement, and said in a tone he struggled to keep casual, even though inside he was anything but calm:“What's wrong, brother? Why’d you stop all of a sudden? Don’t tell me you’ve lost your way?”

Vergil stayed silent, unmoving, assessing him. He didn’t seem inclined to answer—or perhaps he simply didn’t see the need to.

That annoyed Dante enough for his smirk to vanish. He no longer had the strength to pretend.

He muttered, his hair falling over his eyes—a convenient way to hide the emotions showing through: “Vergil… if there’s something you want to say, then just say it… but stop looking at me like that.”

Of course, Vergil doesn’t take orders—ever.

He didn’t avert his eyes. Instead, he stepped closer. “How do you think I’m looking at you, Dante?”

Dante… his twin was the only one who pronounced his name with that peculiar stretch on the ‘e’, making it sound unique.

And now, the identical twins stood face-to-face in a silent staring match.

No matter how different their personalities or the paths they’d taken, one thing united them both—

A shared hatred of losing.

That’s why Dante had to keep his gaze locked with Vergil’s, no matter how much his insides screamed at him to look away.

He wasn’t about to give that arrogant bastard something to mock him for later.

But even the legendary devil hunter had his limits—and he was the first to break eye contact.

“Doesn’t matter… let’s just keep going.” He walked past his brother—but a hand suddenly grabbed his arm.

“Vergil!!…” He looked from the hand to its owner in surprise.

“I don’t want you walking behind me. I don’t like it… walk beside me, shoulder to shoulder.”

Don’t walk behind me.

Did that mean he didn’t want him at his back? As if…

As if he didn’t trust him to be there?

I never thought of stabbing him in the back… that’s not my style. How can he not see that?

If that’s really what he thinks of me, then why did he show that kindness in the cave back then?

Was it just pity?

He didn’t want to believe it—but it hurt, more than he expected. The fact that his only brother didn’t trust him that much—he hadn’t seen that coming.

He knew he wasn’t the best brother in the world, but he’d never once thought— It felt like a cold, poisoned dagger had been thrust into his chest.

He tried to pull his arm free from Vergil’s grip, but was startled by how firm it was—by the calm, steady way Vergil held him, as though he was determined to convey something through the pressure of his fingers before words.

Dante’s jaw tightened, and he turned his face aside. His voice came out low, heavy, the weight he tried to hide seeping through despite his efforts: “What’s your problem…? You afraid I’ll attack you from behind?”

His hand clenched tighter, nails digging into his palm until blood drew out, before he added sharply, his tone cracking: “You’re kidding, right? … I’ve always fought you face to face, Vergil. I never needed cheap tricks to beat you… so let me reassure you now, brother—don’t worry. I won’t betray you.”

For a brief second, Vergil’s usually unshakable expression faltered—his eyes widened slightly, brows tightening, as if Dante’s words had pierced something deep within.

He almost opened his mouth to say, “That’s not what—”

But the ground suddenly trembled beneath them. Rocks shifted, dust rained down.

“Damn it!” Dante staggered backward, cursing, while Vergil instinctively drew Yamato in one swift motion.

In the distance, a massive swarm of lesser demons appeared—Empusa with their red eyes and gaunt bodies—rushing forward in a tide of chaos. They charged toward the twins but… didn’t attack.

They rushed past them in blind panic, their rasping screeches filling the air, yet not one turned their head, as if the twins were invisible.

“That’s… weird,” Dante muttered, automatically raising his weapon.

Vergil, however, kept his eyes fixed on the horizon—on the direction the swarm was fleeing from. The sight alone was enough to tell him… they were running from something far greater.

Dante felt it then—two distinct energies, both vile and suffocating, heralding disaster.

The air dimmed, the already dark sky thickened with dust and shadow. The sounds around them shifted; the Empusa’s shrieking faded, replaced by a deep, guttural rumble rising from the earth itself.

The brothers exchanged a single glance—brief but enough.

No words were needed. In an instant, they turned back to back, swords drawn, muscles coiled, ready. The enemy was unseen—but its presence filled the world around them.

They didn’t have to wait long…

A massive fireball erupted from the darkness, its heat twisting the air as it hurtled straight toward Dante. At the same time, a torrent of black ice burst forth toward Vergil—jagged shards flying faster than sight.

Dante’s demonic wings unfurled in a flash, wrapping around him in a blazing arc. The flames struck and exploded against them, waves of fire rolling off but unable to penetrate.

Vergil’s eyes didn’t so much as blink. He flicked his fingers once, and a perfect circle of azure energy formed around him—a celestial shield.

The shards of ice shattered against it like glass, scattering into dust before reaching him.

The fire rebounded from Dante’s wings, erupting skyward in a column of searing flame that scorched half the ground around him, turning rock to molten lava that crept outward in rivers of glowing ember.

The air itself became suffocatingly hot, as if the world had turned into an open volcano.

Across from him, the remnants of the frozen barrage crystallized the ground around Vergil.

A thick layer of frost spread outward, cracking the stone under its weight. 

A chilling fog rolled between the fissures, and the temperature plunged—his very breath turning into shards of ice that shattered in the air.

It was a sight beyond belief.

Half the battlefield blazing in endless fire, the other half buried under killing frost.

A great fracture split the land between them—a line dividing a roaring inferno from a frozen abyss, as if the world itself had been cleaved into two eternal opposites in a single moment.

From the bright red tongues of flame, a massive shadow rose — its very steps enough to make the earth tremble.

And on the opposite side, from the depths of the frozen mist, another presence emerged.

For a moment, Dante understood why those lesser demons had fled earlier — its mere existence sent a chill of absolute frost through the air, so cold it cracked like fragile glass around it.

The fiery demon was enormous, its skin black and fractured, with molten fire seeping through every crevice, making it look like living magma flowing from a volcano’s heart.

Its lower half resembled that of a colossal lion with massive legs and claws sharp as a dragon’s — or perhaps a dinosaur’s — while its upper body was humanoid, with broad shoulders and arms, one of which held a weapon akin to a massive scythe.

Its face was impossible to read — was it a human visage or simply a burning skull? From the place where eyes should have been, vicious horns jutted outward.

From the earlier attack, it was clear to Dante that it could see — but how, and where?

Perhaps through energy sensing?

Its form reminded him of someone… someone he’d met in Fortuna… what was his name again?

Beryl?

Baril???

Berial???? Yeah, Berial, he thought.

But no — he was certain it wasn’t him. Perhaps they were just of the same breed.

On the opposite side, the other creature was no less imposing — in fact, perhaps even larger.

Or maybe it was the three wolf-like heads that made it seem so.

And upon closer inspection, it became clear that those heads were the source of the frigid mist — from each maw seeped a deadly frost, steaming like breath from an endless winter.

The rest of its body was covered in thick white fur, making it look like a monstrous polar bear, though its four legs were long and muscular.

What stood out most, however, was its enormous tail — long and serpent-like, ending in three snake heads that crackled with electricity every time their tongues flicked.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed — by both creatures, and by the strange contrast in their natures. The demon world never failed to amaze him.

“Vergil,” he called to his brother, who turned toward him with that ever-stoic face. “You take the icy one. I’ll handle the burnt steak.”

“Really? …Or are you just dodging the scarier one?”

“Heh… don’t overestimate yourself. Trust me, you wouldn’t last long against that fiery guy. Fire represents me.”

The elder twin paused for a brief moment, his cold eyes scanning the icy demon before him. “…Fine. Do as you wish.”

And so, each of them chose their opponent.

Dante strode forward confidently toward the fiery beast, calling out mockingly, “Hey, hot stuff! Tell me—any chance you’re related to Berial?”

No sooner had the name left his lips than the demon’s mouth opened in a violent explosion of flame—

a surge of crimson fire roared across the ground toward Dante. The hunter leapt high, soaring above the inferno, and with a single flick of his sword, he dispersed the fire as though brushing aside a curtain of smoke.

He landed lightly, laughing. “Easy, easy—didn’t mean to piss you off that much!”

But the creature’s voice erupted, harsh and cracking like shattering glass: “Never compare me to that weak fool again!”

It gripped its massive scythe and swung with brute force, shattering the rocks around it.

A violent gust burst forth, scattering dust and debris, making the tails of Dante’s coat whip through the air as his hair fell over his face.

Then, with a thunderous roar and fire blazing through every fissure in its charred body, it bellowed: “I am Pyrrath — Scorcher of the Abyss! Remember that name, ugly half-breed!”

Dante brushed his hair back with a smirk — Vergil was right, he really needed a haircut — then raised his sword defiantly. “Ugly? …Man, I’d love to know what your beauty standards are.”

Pyrrath slammed his scythe into the ground, splitting the terrain beneath him, sending blazing cracks racing toward Dante.

But Dante evaded effortlessly, teleporting behind the demon in a flash, launching a storm of strikes so rapid that Pyrrath had no chance to react.

He wasn’t in a hurry to end the fight — he wanted to have a little fun first. With a playful kick to the demon’s rear, he sent Pyrrath stumbling forward. The demon caught himself, snarling, and turned around—only to find Dante gone.

When he looked again, Dante was sitting comfortably on his tail. “Phew, pretty warm here.”

Pyrrath froze in disbelief.

“You know, you really do resemble your cousin… especially in the stupidity department.”

“You insolent—!” Pyrrath hurled a volley of fireballs at him, which Dante dodged with ease before landing casually on the demon’s back, patting its head.

“Wow, comfy spot up here… not bad.”

“GET OFF MY BACK!!” Suddenly, one of the glowing cracks split open and an arm burst out, almost grabbing Dante by the neck — he barely escaped in time.

“Almost got me there.”

Pyrrath was seething. Multiple fiery arms erupted from his body, each wielding a different weapon.

“Oof… looks like I made you really mad.”

“Alright, buddy, let’s talk first, shall we?”

Strangely, Pyrrath stopped. His glowing horns turned toward Dante — though how the creature could see was anyone’s guess.

“Speak your last words.”

“Kind-hearted,” Dante said while brushing small embers off his coat.

“Okay, listen—I’ve got a job offer for you, my friend. Something that’ll benefit us both.”

“A… job?”

“Yep! How about becoming my steed while I travel this world? Think about it—you’d be the official ride of the legendary Devil Hunter! Limited-time offer.” He finished with a wink.

Pyrrath’s expression froze. The fissures on his body flared violently, molten lava spilling out like blood. Gripping all his weapons, he drove them into the ground with a roar that shook the air.

Instantly, a storm of fire and molten energy erupted around him, forming towering pillars of flame that encircled Dante in a living infernal cage.

The demon’s voice thundered amid the blaze: “Flames of the Abyss!”

The pillars exploded outward, sending waves of searing fire in every direction—heat intense enough to melt stone and obliterate anything alive.

In the middle of it all, Dante sighed, shielding his face with his hand. “Seriously? A fire cage? Man, how original.”

He’d grown tired of playing around. Tilting his head, he muttered mockingly, “Time to get serious.”

In that instant, everything changed. The ground quaked, red light erupted around him, and power surged like an explosion. Black horns burst from his head, demonic spikes ran down his arms, and great crimson wings unfolded from his back. His eyes glowed like twin embers — and every trace of his aura screamed predator.

In a flash, he vanished—and reappeared right in front of Pyrrath.

The spikes along his arms extended into blazing claws, and in a single, ferocious rush, he unleashed a barrage of strikes that tore through Pyrrath’s molten flesh.

But he didn’t stop there.

His wings flared wide, propelling him into the air. Then, diving down with terrifying speed, his fist ignited with hellish energy as he struck Pyrrath’s chest—

driving him deep into the ground.

The entire battlefield shook. The fiery demon’s body split apart like an erupting volcano, molten blood flooding out as glowing lava.

Barely raising his head, Pyrrath rasped, “Dante… son of Sparda… an honor… to fall by your hand…”

For once, Dante’s smile wasn’t mocking. There was respect — quiet, fleeting respect.

Returning to his human form, he stepped closer to the fallen demon, drew Ebony, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Jackpot.”

The gunshot echoed, and silence followed. Smoke curled from the barrel as Dante stood still, exhaling a long breath — more out of boredom than fatigue.

Lowering his weapon, he glanced around, a small smile tugging at his lips. “All done here…” he murmured, before turning toward the other side.

There, the battle was far from over — and far more magnificent.

Across the frozen half of the arena stood Vergil, encased in a storm of ice and snow, his face calm and emotionless, his gaze fixed solely on his opponent.

Before him towered the colossal beast.

Dante crossed his arms, tilting his head as he watched the creature he found beautiful — far more elegant than Pyrrath, at least in his opinion.

“Triple-headed ice wolves and electric snakes for tails… damn, the demon world really knows design.”

At that moment, the creature lunged with astonishing speed for its size, its claws gouging through ice and sending sharp shards flying.

The three heads roared in unison, unleashing a gale of frost that birthed massive ice pillars aimed at Vergil.

Vergil didn’t flinch.

With a single graceful motion, he vanished into the blizzard and reappeared beyond it — Yamato gleaming with a radiant blue edge.

A single slash tore through the air; the resulting shockwave split an ice pillar clean in half.

Dante gave a low whistle, smiling faintly as he turned his head aside. “Not bad, Verge… not bad at all. I’ll let you have your fun before the show’s over.”

The monster roared ferociously, its three heads continuing to exhale a dense frost that froze the rocks around it, as if the very ground beneath it were part of its own body, painted in its color. Its serpentine tail spat blinding sparks, lightning tearing through the sky.

But Vergil did not hesitate for a single moment.

He dashed forward with a swift step, Yamato gleaming with a deadly blue light, his eyes locked on the heart of his foe.

A blue flash tore through the scene—Rapid Slash—cutting the distance between them in an instant, leaving behind a ghostly trace of spiritual energy before Vergil vanished from the line of the creature’s three heads, reappearing behind them.

A sharp cry erupted from the ice demon as it tried to turn, but Vergil had already begun.

With just a touch of his fingers on the sword’s hilt, he unleashed Judgement Cut—vicious whirlwinds of slashing energy erupted suddenly around the beast, slicing through air and ice alike. The three heads let out furious roars, massive chunks of ice shattering to the ground.

Even so, Vergil gave it no chance to breathe.

He rose lightly into the air, his demonic wings spreading open in an instant as he summoned Doppelgänger—a dark duplicate of himself materialized at his side, mirroring his movements with deadly precision. Their strikes followed one another in perfect harmony, blue sparks bursting like lethal fireworks, every slice through the air carving a wound into the monster’s flesh.

“Hmph…” murmured Dante from afar, his eyes tracking the rapid blue flashes. “As usual… too fast. At least talk to him or crack a joke, man.”

The poor creature screamed in agony, its serpentine tail whipping the ground in an effort to distract its opponent, releasing a surge of electric sparks mixed with frost. But Vergil spun with a spiraling step, unleashing Dimension Slash—a cross-shaped wave of energy that tore through cold and lightning alike, opening a straight path toward the creature’s heart.

Time itself seemed to freeze for a moment… before one of the heads fell to the side, split and covered in frost.

Dante smiled faintly and whispered, “Yeah… the show’s about to end.”

The monster howled violently, its remaining heads crying out together, the sound shifting between rage and mourning for the one it had lost. A deadly blizzard erupted, even greater than before—the ground froze solid, and the sparks from its serpentine tail made the very sky tremble.

Yet Vergil did not take a single step back.

With unwavering calm, he raised his sword before him. His eyes half-closed, his face devoid of expression, as though the chaos around him was beneath his concern.

Only one step.

A single step through the frost.

And suddenly… the storm fell silent.

Three sharp strikes were released at once, their only sound the tearing of air itself. For a moment, it seemed as if nothing had happened—then the frozen body of the beast split open from the center, glowing blue lines running from its head to its tail before light exploded from within.

The heads stopped roaring. The mist from their mouths vanished. The massive body slowly bowed before crashing into the ground, sending up a cloud of snow and dust.

Vergil lowered his sword, then turned away without a word, as if there was nothing more to say.

Dante approached with steady steps, stopping beside the lifeless corpse. “Honestly, this thing impressed me… it’s different from the other demonic beasts I’ve seen. Beautiful, even.”

The elder twin sheathed his sword with one hand, brushing his hair back with the other, every strand falling perfectly into place with a single motion.

“Cryonox, Sovereign of Frozen Pits.”

“What?” asked the younger brother.

“That’s its name,” Vergil said, pointing to the corpse. “You said it was beautiful, so I thought you’d want to know.”

“Ohhh… so you knew it before, then?”

“No… but these demons have a habit of declaring their names before a battle,” Vergil replied, his eyes glancing toward Pyrrath’s remains—now nothing but glowing stones, slowly fading into the air.

Dante laughed, remembering his own fight. “Hah… you’re right about that.”

Then he added, stepping closer, “That’s one point for me, you know. I finished mine before you.”

Vergil frowned. “You’re joking!!!… my opponent was stronger.”

Dante grinned sideways. “And how would you know that?”

Vergil sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if pushing away a headache. “Fine… it doesn’t matter.”

Dante wanted to keep teasing him, but he didn’t want to ruin the rare calm between them. He’d actually felt better after his fight with Pyrrath. So he simply moved ahead, saying: “Come on, Vergil… let’s find a proper place to open the portal. I want to get back home as soon as possible.”

But Vergil seemed to have another idea. He didn’t let Dante walk away—just as his brother stepped forward, Vergil caught him by the arm and pulled him back.

That same damned grip.

Still, Dante kept his composure. “Brother… let go of my arm. You know I really don’t like that.”

Vergil released him, but his eyes remained fixed on his twin—his gaze heavier than the frost that had just covered the arena. There was no visible anger in them… only something else. Something that made Dante wish he could laugh to break the tension—but he didn’t.

Vergil spoke in his usual cold, firm tone, every word an unyielding command: “We need to talk, Dante… earlier, I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” Dante cut him off again.

He tried to mask the weight in his chest with a short laugh, but it died in his throat. He looked down, rolling his shoulders lightly as if admitting a mistake he couldn’t name. “I know… I’m sorry, Verge”

But Vergil’s reply came sharper, heavier than expected: “No… you don’t know.”

He turned, his steps deliberate, drawn with purpose. “Follow me.”

Dante froze for a second, raising his brows in faint sarcasm. “Hah… what’s new? You’re always the leader, aren’t you?”

Still, he followed. In absolute silence—until the elder stopped again and turned.

“By my side, Dante… not behind me.”

Dante smiled faintly this time—without mockery, without defense—just a quiet bitterness he hadn’t felt in ages. He walked forward slowly until he was beside his brother, casting a brief sideways glance at his stoic face before fixing his gaze straight ahead once more.

And with all the doubts and fears storming inside him, he chose to do only what was asked of him… To walk, finally, beside Vergil— not behind him.

Burying his doubts in the back of his mind.

Chapter Text

POV Vergil:

Vergil is irritated.

Utterly irritated by everything — by the demons that ambush him every time, by this world he wishes he didn’t have to remain in, carrying with it the stench of years of torture and humiliation. Every place here, every trace, even the air itself, reeks of smoke and sulfur, reminding him that he was once a prisoner beneath its depths for far too long.

He’s irritated by Dante — by his sudden strange behavior and shifting moods. Vergil knows his brother isn’t happy; he realized that the first time he stepped into his office. Dante was quiet, still, and exhausted, wearing a forced smile that never reached his ears, simply waiting for his new client’s request without any real interest in life. From the scattered chaos inside Devil May Cry, it was clear that he was living through his days as dull routine, without the slightest appreciation for them.

But now, Vergil doesn’t know what’s wrong. There’s been a tense aura radiating from Dante ever since they left the shelter. His eyes refuse to meet Vergil’s gaze; he keeps avoiding every glance sent his way. This avoidance reached the point where Dante spent the entire search walking behind him like a follower—until Vergil told him to stop.

Vergil had always considered Dante his equal, his one and only rival, his brother and greatest adversary. Even when he asked him to join his side, it was to stand with him — to be the shoulder he could rest on, not a subordinate. Dante was far above that.

He tried to convey that in a single sentence — but never expected Dante to take it in the exact opposite way.

You afraid I’ll attack you from behind?

I’ve always fought you face to face, Vergil. I never needed cheap tricks to beat you

How did Dante’s twisted mind interpret his words like that?

All he wanted was to feel his twin closer — as they should have been from the beginning.

But Dante… Dante turned it into a wound. Into doubt. Into a scar Vergil never meant to cause.

Was it his tone that was wrong?

For a moment, Vergil felt something heavy — a sense of disappointment that weighed on his chest more than all the humiliation he endured under Mundus’ mercy.

Since when had speaking with his brother become harder than fighting demons from hell?

Since when had silence become easier than trying?

Damn it… Vergil hates this. He hates dealing with these bothersome emotions. He’s always been a straightforward man — says what he means in one sentence, without caring whether the words are “appropriate” or whether they reach the listener as intended. But things were different with his brother, especially since Dante was his complete opposite… that emotional fool.

He never imagined he’d find himself in such a pathetic situation — a stupid misunderstanding that could easily be solved with a normal conversation, for anyone other than the eldest son of Sparda.

Maybe heaven was punishing him for the massacres he’d committed against the innocent — by placing him in this kind of trial.

To be trapped in a hellish world with his twin — the same twin who shared his history of rivalry and bloodshed — forced to face all his mistakes and admit that no matter how much he pretended to understand his brother… the truth was far from it.

The man sitting far from him now wasn’t the same boy who once delighted in the smallest details. He had become a man in midlife, filled with bitterness — the kind that couldn’t be hidden no matter how much humor he feigned.

I missed so much over the years…we've both missed out.

His eyes never left Dante, who sat on a large rock, wiping blood from his sword and sharpening it, tending to it with meticulous care.

After walking for a long time in awkward silence, cutting down any demon hordes that crossed their path, they finally found this place.

It wasn’t a cave or any real shelter, but it was safe enough — a shallow valley of water, not entirely fresh despite its clarity. Still, it seemed the creatures here disliked it.

Who would’ve thought the underworld had water sources at all? Even if undrinkable, it was useful enough for washing and cleansing.

His brother hadn’t lifted his head once, still immersed in his work — running a cloth along the Demon Sword’s blade, then sharpening it again as if focusing on the cold metal could spare him from facing the real issue between them.

His body language said it all… Dante didn’t want to talk.

But for Vergil, that silence wasn’t peace — it was another form of torment.

He’d always preferred direct confrontation: clashing blades, sharp words — anything but this ever-widening void between them.

He wanted to say something, anything, even a sarcastic remark. But his tongue felt heavy — as if every possible word might only make things worse.

How can I slay a thousand demons and still fail to find a single sentence to reach my brother?

He breathed slowly, a desperate attempt to steady himself, but his heart betrayed him — its erratic beats screaming at him to reach out, to break the barrier.

But the ice won over fire… and for the first time, Vergil hated the cold.

He kept watching silently, as his twin avoided his eyes — dodging confrontation that now felt harder than facing the entire infernal realm itself.

And at that moment — when a small spark flashed from the grindstone against the blade, lighting Dante’s weary face — Vergil finally realized what he’d been avoiding all along:

The rift between them was wider than he’d ever imagined.

And it wouldn’t close with a playful duel, or a faint smile, or even another shared adventure.

Years of absence, pride, and divergent paths had built this wall between them.

How was he supposed to tear it down? How could he truly get close, when he hadn’t been a brother to him since they were eight years old?

Since that night — the chaos, the fire — when their childhood was stolen in a single moment, never to be returned.

Since then, all Vergil had known was the pursuit of power… while Dante lived for survival.

Two completely different paths, crossing only at the edge of bloodied swords.

Vergil clenched his fist until Yamato trembled slightly at his side, as if reminding him — the solution was never simple. Approaching Dante this time wouldn’t be through his blade, nor another battle.

And he… still hadn’t learned how to be anything other than a warrior.

So he stayed silent, watching the sparks fly with each motion of his brother’s hand, wondering quietly: “Is it too late…?”

No… not yet. They were alone now — without the urge to kill each other — a rare chance.

All he had to do was take the first step.

“Dante.” Vergil called, his voice calm yet cutting through the stillness like a blade’s edge.

No reply. Only the sound of stone gliding over metal, sending tiny sparks into the air.

“Dante,” he repeated, slower this time, heavier, pressing on each syllable.

The red twin didn’t lift his head — just muttered lazily, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Vergil frowned but held his temper. He stepped closer — measured steps — until only inches separated them.

He reached out, firm but gentle, lifting Dante’s chin by the edge of his jaw. Two pairs of stormy blue-gray eyes met.

“Dante…” he said steadily, “when I talk to you… look at me.”

Dante caught his brother’s hand and lowered it softly. “Alright… I’m looking. Say what you have to say.” His voice was low, emotionless — as if denying Vergil any chance of reading him.

Vergil moved and sat beside the red twin, leaning back slightly. “I can’t have a proper talk with you while you’re busy with that sword. Put it down, and let’s talk like men.”

Dante sighed quietly, then drove the blade into the ground and turned toward him. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

Vergil didn’t know where to start. He still didn’t understand the root of the problem, nor what was bothering his brother so much.

A thin line formed between his brows as he fell silent, sorting through thoughts and words. Words were never his strength — not with others, not even with himself.

He took a slow breath, held it, then released it as though emptying something heavier than air. Finally, he spoke in a steady voice: “My brother… it’s been decades since we last had an honest talk. Just as brothers. Hasn’t it?”

The younger one nodded, a faint laugh escaping him. “That’s true. Fighting’s always been our only language — even as kids. That’s why it’s… weird that you, of all people, want to talk.”

“I challenged myself to begin first, Dante. And I hope you’ll cooperate. Because, as you said, fighting has been our only language — and that’s why we—”

Vergil stopped. The next words caught in his throat — he didn’t want to say them aloud. They felt too much like an admission of failure. A failure in his ideals, his philosophy, his entire way of life.

His pride had always blinded him — stopped him from seeing things from Dante’s point of view. Both of them were guilty, clinging to their principles at the expense of each other, until everything collapsed without either noticing the red flags before the disaster.

“Vergil?” Dante’s voice pulled him back, an anchor in his fog. “We what?”

Now or never.

He moved closer, their shoulders brushing. Vergil wasn’t fond of physical closeness, but this time he allowed it. Only a few people had ever been exceptions to that rule — his twin being the first among them.

But what surprised him wasn’t his own action — it was Dante’s reaction. His brother’s body tensed for a second, as if that simple contact revealed something unexpected. Something new Vergil hadn’t known about him… until now.

That reaction strengthened his resolve. So he finally spoke, after a long, loaded silence.

“Dante… the truth is, many things have changed. The world has moved on — evolved — while I was trapped. And you’ve changed too, along with it.”

Dante broke eye contact, fidgeting with his coat buttons as a distraction. “Well… Vergil, I’ve aged. We both have.”

“Yes… but there are deeper reasons for that change. And I’m not here to discuss them because—”

He didn’t get to finish. Dante interrupted him again — for what felt like the thousandth time that day — and Vergil almost lost his composure, until his brother’s words froze him completely.

“Do you not like who I am now? Do you hate this version of me? Do you want back the twin you used to know?”

Despite the difficulty of the question, Vergil didn’t need to think. He shook his head instantly, as if brushing off a false accusation — because that’s exactly how it felt.

“No… Dante is Dante. That will never change — not because of new habits, nor because you smile less. I’m not upset that you’ve changed… I’m upset that I missed seeing it happen.”

Dante gave a soft smile, his voice faint: “We missed a lot, brother… especially you. Honestly, I hate this version of myself. There’s a fire inside me, begging to burn — but whenever it flares, I just… get tired. So damn tired, and I don’t even know why, Vergil.”

He placed a hand over his chest, rubbing the spot as if to prove it was the source of all his trouble. “Sometimes I think it’s just an illusion — that I’m a half-demon, nothing should affect me. But the truth is… something’s wrong inside me. Something feeding on me. Like a sickness.”

He paused, then looked back at his brother. “Maybe that’s why I misunderstood you… why I turned nothing into tension. I’m sorry, Vergil.”

What Vergil heard left him speechless. He hadn’t expected Dante to open up like this — so easily, as if there wasn’t a lifetime of rivalry between them. And though he was grateful for that trust, the confession wasn’t easy to bear. Vergil didn’t fully understand what his brother was going through, but one thing was certain: Dante wasn’t pretending.

The tone of his voice, the heaviness in his words, the way he pressed his hand to his chest — none of it matched his usual mask of sarcasm and reckless humor. This time, he was sincere, fragile, stripped of his armor.

Vergil lifted his eyes slowly, afraid that any sudden reaction might shatter the fragile honesty between them. His silence felt deliberate before he finally said:

“Dante… maybe I can’t understand what’s eating away at you. We each dealt with our traumas differently. I’m not even sure if we can ever be ‘normal’ brothers. But there’s one thing I am sure of, brother — I meant it when I said I wanted you beside me. And I know better than anyone that you never needed cheap tricks to win. I just… want to get to know the Dante in front of me — more and more. I want to learn about the world I left behind.”

Dante tilted his head slightly, as if doubting what he’d just heard — but that faint returning smile didn’t escape Vergil’s eyes. A pale smile, but genuine. Rare. Almost nostalgic.

“This is the first time you’ve spoken more than three sentences in one breath,” he murmured teasingly, though the warmth beneath the joke was clear.

Vergil replied calmly, firmly: “Then I hope you listened carefully. Because I won’t repeat myself.”

“I did listen — to every word,” Dante said quietly, then added, “And I’ll say this one last time… I’m sorry, Vergil. This place just brought back some bad memories and nightmares, that’s why I’ve been acting strange.”

“I didn’t ask for your apology,” Vergil said slowly, turning his gaze slightly aside. “I only wanted you to hear me.”

Dante didn’t reply. He just left his sword planted in the ground, leaning back on one hand with a long exhale — as if setting down a weight heavier than all their blades combined.

And Vergil stayed beside him, unmoving, not widening the small space that had finally closed between them.

Because he’d realized something: No matter how important words are — sometimes, silence is the truest companion.

..

..

..

“Vergil?”

Dante’s voice pierced through the quiet calm that accompanied the river’s flow. Though he wanted to enjoy the peaceful air, the questioning tone in his brother’s voice stirred his curiosity.

“Hmm?” The elder only hummed as a sign that he was listening, and the younger took it as permission to continue.

“Do you still desire power and authority… or has that part of you changed?”

Vergil contemplated the question for a moment. He almost let his tongue flick with the easy lie — a comfortable answer that would extinguish the conversation and return them to the monotony of the road — but something inside him stopped the deceit before it was spoken.

Not because he had suddenly become sentimental, but because silence and façades no longer worked; he had deceived himself for enough years to strip all comfort from it.

He knew well that lying to Dante wouldn’t be just a harmless social gesture; Dante knew him — knew the hidden rhythm in his voice, knew when to pull away and when to draw close. If the lie came out, it would be exposed quickly, and the distance between them would return colder than before.

So why lie? Why waste this rare moment fate had granted him?

He said quietly, without embellishment: “Power and authority were my ambition all my life… the only thing that kept me going, that forced me to rise every time I fell. It’s not easy to give that up.”

Dante looked at him for a moment, as if trying to read the layers beneath those simple words, then teased: “Can’t you be a little content with what you’ve achieved?”

A hard, side-smile formed on Vergil’s face — a mixture of mockery and resolve.

“Hmph… Impossible for us to agree on that. You’re content enough to stay in that filthy office forever, but I have bigger dreams — dreams that make me willing to destroy anything in my path.”

Even if I know it’s wrong, and that I’ve lost much because of this way of thinking, he said inwardly. Every result he’d reached had only confirmed one truth: the path he chose had come at a heavy price.

It had cost him years of his freedom lost to the loneliness of pursuit.

It had cost him his bond with Dante.

It had cost him the chance to watch his son grow before his eyes.

It had cost him opportunities that would never return. But he would never admit that aloud.

He remained as he’d always been — never admitting defeat to anyone, especially not to Dante. He had learned long ago that regret was a confession of weakness, and that voicing doubts tainted the image of strength he had spent his life constructing.

Even trying to get Dante to talk earlier had drained his energy; he didn’t have the courage for more — especially since Dante’s earlier confession had been painful enough.

“Ambition doesn’t stop you from being content sometimes.” Dante’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

“What?” That was all he could say, stunned by how absurd his twin’s words sounded. “Honestly, brother, I can’t tell if you’re stupid or just too clever for your own good.”

Dante burst into laughter until tears welled in his eyes. Wiping them with a finger, he said between breaths: “Really??? Was my line that hard to understand?… Seems like you wasted too much time reading poetry for nothing.”

Annoyed by the jab, Vergil grabbed a lock of Dante’s hair and tugged hard until he yelped in pain. “Aaah! Okay, okay, Vergil, I’m sorry!”

The blue twin released his grip, and Dante rubbed the sore spot, chuckling: “Heh… You didn’t have to do that, Vergil.”

Vergil smiled faintly at their childish exchange.

“On the contrary, you deserved it… You tried to provoke me — and besides, what was that nonsense about ambition and contentment?”

“I didn’t mean anything… I just wanted you to relax a little. Big dreams can be exhausting sometimes.”

“I see… and your great mind thinks I should be content? Ambition and contentment are parallel lines, brother — they never meet.”

Vergil waited for a rebuttal, but the red twin stayed silent, gaze lowered to the ground, back slightly bent, elbows resting lazily on his knees.

He didn’t know how long that silence lasted before Dante finally spoke.

“I think—” Dante cut himself off, as if uncertain of what he was about to say.

The elder decided to give him a little push: “Go on, Dante… I’m listening.”

Dante looked up at him, as if assessing his expression, then sighed deeply and said: “Honestly, it’s not impossible to be ambitious and content at the same time.”

Vergil chuckled softly — that rare short laugh of his, more like a sarcastic exhale from a man who knew he’d never change, even if he could see the mistakes from the start.

“I told you, that’s completely illogical, Dante… To be a dreamer and content at once is like riding raging waves — stop for just a second, and they’ll swallow you whole.”

Dante smiled at the corner of his mouth, shaking his head slightly as if savoring their familiar argument. 

“Then that’s where contentment comes in… It gives you balance. It’s fine to chase the waves, but sometimes you have to accept reaching the shore — even if just for a while. Running all the time is exhausting, even for a man like you.”

A short silence fell between them — not heavy, but strangely calm. Only the sound of the nearby river filled the air around them. Vergil turned his head toward the water — surprisingly clear for such a place — and said in an unusually candid tone: “Maybe… but I wasn’t born to stand still, Dante.”

The red twin gave a sly, crooked smile, more mischievous than pleased: “I know. Even stillness has its dangers… and no one knows that better than me.”

Vergil’s eyes wandered for a moment, studying his brother as though searching for an answer in a place that held only echoes.

How opposite they were — he and his brother. Twins, yet each standing on the opposite shore of existence.

Fire and ice, good and evil, contentment and ambition, stillness and motion, red and blue — Dante and Vergil.

He thought, as if the notion had slipped into his mind for the first time: Were they ever meant to be one person at first? A single being containing both sides, born whole — light and shadow in perfect balance? Maybe if they hadn’t split in their mother’s womb, life would’ve been more balanced… less conflicted.

But alas, the universe was never made to be perfect — or perhaps that’s the point. That flaw in them is what gives them purpose — a reason to keep going, to keep chasing, to keep fighting.

He kept watching Dante’s movements as he fiddled with his gloves.

Yes… perhaps this is better.

Perfection is dull — but we… our story could never be dull.

Suddenly his brother stood up abruptly, grabbing the sword that had been planted in the ground and slinging it behind his back before stretching his limbs. “Enough serious talk for now… I’m not used to it.”

Vergil shook his head, feigning disappointment.

“I almost forgot you’re Dante.”

Dante ruffled his hair to free it from tangles.

“Hahaha… And you were out of character too — maybe a little too much. Now come on, let’s find a place for you to make your damned portal. We’ve stayed here long enough.”

Vergil said as he stood: “I thought you liked it here.”

“Oh, I do enjoy the challenge this hell throws at me,” Dante put his hands on his hips. “But I miss home… and pizza… oh, and don’t even mention strawberry ice cream — that’s heaven itself.”

“You haven’t changed — still a sweet tooth.”

“Oh come on, Vergil, don’t pretend you don’t like them. I remember your little love affair with caramel candy.”

Vergil narrowed his eyes at his brother, giving him a threatening look, hoping he’d stop — but of course, he didn’t.

“Wait… I bet my whole head of hair you still hate olives just as much as I do.”

He wasn’t wrong, though Vergil wanted to say otherwise just to see Dante make good on that ridiculous bet — a sight that would’ve brought him rare amusement. Still, he wasn’t that cruel… not toward him.

Watching Dante regain his lively energy after a long period of gloom was like drinking cold water on a parched throat.

He observed him quietly — the light laughter, the exaggerated gestures, the way every word he said seemed like a scene from a play or a movie.

How had he gone from that haunted, doubtful soul to this loud, reckless man brimming with endless energy — a force even the underworld struggled to contain?

That was something only Dante Sparda could do — burn and live at the same time, fall and smile as he rose, joke over the ashes of his battles as if he’d lost nothing. It was what had once ignited Vergil’s envy — that raw life flowing through his brother’s veins, that ability to look pain in the face and smile at it like an old friend. He had envied how people were drawn to him.

But now… he cherished seeing him this way, as if the moment itself were rare, fragile, fleeting — as if the spark in Dante’s eyes was the only light that might one day pierce his darkness.

And he hoped, from the depths of his soul, that those sparks dancing in Dante’s eyes were real… not just another act — because Dante, after all, was a masterful liar.

Maybe, in time, he’d learn to read his brother better — to tell truth from pretense.

Suddenly, Dante snapped his fingers in front of his face, saying playfully: “Hey, where’d you go off to, man?”

Vergil didn’t reply. He only stared at him — calm eyes carrying something strange between curiosity and nostalgia. For a moment, it struck him: this might be the last time he’d ever see Dante like this — in peaceful light, without blood or screams.

Then a faint smile crossed his face as he realized something new — a small smile Dante didn’t see, burning quietly inside him.

The younger frowned slightly. “What’s with you, Vergil… I hate it when you go all silent like that.”

“Sorry, brother, I was just thinking about something…”

“And what’s that?” He crossed his arms over his chest, curious in the same childish way he used to be when trying to learn what his brother was reading.

Vergil took a slow step forward, lifted his hand, and placed it on his own head first — as if measuring — then slowly moved it toward Dante’s… stopping midway, just above him by a few centimeters.

Dante raised an eyebrow, confused by the hovering hand.

Vergil then said, in a tone of lofty satisfaction: “Hmph… I’m taller than you by a few inches, Dante. How unfortunate — so small.”

Dante’s short laugh dissolved into silence — then his eyes changed, the calm blue burning into a red glow like hell’s twilight before a storm.

He grabbed his sword lightly, then swung it in a flash of fury through the air toward his brother.

But Vergil didn’t move — he merely raised his hand and blocked the strike with his own sword as if brushing away a leaf in the wind, the smug smile never leaving his face.

“You bastard…” Dante hissed between his teeth, voice boiling with anger, unleashing a flurry of strikes that defied human limits. With every clash, sparks burst through the air, metal screaming, but Vergil’s defense held firm, unbroken.

Vergil smirked, his tone calm and mocking: “Is that all you’ve got, Dante?… I thought you’d surprise me this time.”

That was the spark that ignited their war.

In a blinding instant, a demonic aura exploded from their bodies, shaking the ground, shattering the rocks around them. Spectral wings, horns, and hellish flashes of red and blue engulfed everything. With a shared roar from something far beyond human, the brothers collided like twin meteors locked in one orbit.

The river erupted upward like a reverse rain, stones burst apart like bullets, and the air itself trembled under their blows. Fists and claws moved faster than sight, the sound of battle ringing through the void like an ancient symphony of pain and joy.

Then, as if fate itself had grown tired of their endless clash, they fell together into the raging river, tumbling in the current, trading blows and laughter and demonic growls that carried no hatred — only a kind of feral playfulness that only hybrid twins like them could understand.

The water’s murmur mixed with their faint laughter, until the scene resembled an ancient dance — one that would only end when both lost their breath.

And indeed, when they finally regained their human forms, they lay floating side by side on the cold surface, panting heavily, bodies exhausted — but their faces alive in a way neither had felt in years.

Vergil felt as though something inside him — something hardened, cold, fossilized for decades — had begun to crack at last. This fight hadn’t been just an outlet for strength or emotion; he hadn’t felt this way since he was… since he was—

He turned his head slowly to look at his brother lying beside him on the water’s surface, hair plastered to his face, a half-sarcastic smile on his lips.

Dante exhaled deeply and said, “Hah… now that’s relaxation, Vergil… Feels great, doesn’t it?”

Vergil remained silent for a moment, eyes fixed on his brother before lifting them to the strange sky — a mix of dusk and eternal smoke.

A calm, rare smile formed on his lips, stripped of pride this time, and he murmured hoarsely from exhaustion: “Not bad at all…”

And for a brief, fleeting moment, they both forgot the hell beneath them and the world above. There remained only the sound of the water — and their synchronized heartbeats.

Chapter Text

POV Dante:

Stagnation.

A parasite had slipped into his life with eerie subtlety, leaving no trace of its entrance until it settled deep within him—an unwelcome guest that refused to leave. At first, Dante paid it no mind, thinking it nothing more than passing fatigue or another dark cloud that would drift away as usual. He didn’t realize that the parasite had already begun to take root, coiling itself around his heart, seeping its quiet poison into his soul until the edges of it began to rot without him even noticing.

He no longer knew when the light within him had started to dim, nor when his inner voice had shifted from a blazing roar to a weary whisper. All he knew was that something—a spark, a drive, a hunger, perhaps his very self—had vanished, leaving behind an unbearable void. It was as if he were walking through an endless tunnel, where neither the darkness frightened him anymore, nor did the glimmer of hope seem real enough to believe in.

The fiery side of him that once defined who he was—reckless, alive, unstoppable—had disappeared, replaced by a heavy, joyless calm. Not the kind of silence that soothes, but the kind that drains the soul dry. Even the simplest tasks—opening his eyes in the morning, facing a new day, the mere thought of getting up—became silent battles he fought alone against himself.

And in those moments, Dante realized that the most dangerous thing one could suffer wasn’t pain or anger—it was monotony; that slow, creeping death that steals everything without making a sound.

So, he did what he always did best—pretend. He wore composure like armor, slipping it on each morning as though preparing for war, hiding behind a well-practiced smile everything that was crumbling within. He learned to answer casual questions with short, reassuring replies, to laugh at the right times, to look present while hearing nothing. He knew people didn’t want to see weakness—they preferred the version of him they were used to: the strong, witty, unbreakable Dante.

But inside, everything was fragile—achingly so. Every smile, every joke cost him more than he cared to admit. Over time, lying became habit, then skill, then part of who he was. Even he could no longer tell where his act ended and his truth began.

And to be honest, he was damn good at lying—to others, yes, but mostly to himself. He whispered that things were fine, that it was only exhaustion, that the light would return. But deep down, he knew he was only trying to convince himself that he could still live—that he wasn’t already fading away beneath a mask of indifference and control.

There were days when he couldn’t even pretend—days when every mask shattered and the truth bled through. In those moments, he’d sit at his desk, unmoving, face blank, body heavy with apathy. Even if a job worth millions came his way, he’d refuse. Money, battle, glory—all meaningless when a man’s only wish is to escape his own consciousness.

All he wanted was to throw a magazine over his face and sink into dreamless sleep. Even the sunlight filtering through the blinds felt crueler than the dark itself. And though those black days were hard, they carried a strange comfort… maybe because they were the only moments when he was honest with himself.

Aside from sleep, the only thing that made him feel alive was killing demons. The hunt, the clash, the blood—it gave his existence a flicker of purpose amid the chaos. When he stood face-to-face with a creature from hell, when he heard the hum of his blade cutting through the air, when the heat of demonic blood splattered across his skin, the fleeting thought that he could die right here brought him an odd peace—a blend of rage and relief. In the battlefield, he found himself again. There, the noise in his head went silent, the questions faded, and only the brutal rhythm of combat remained.

But with time, even that changed. Battles stopped thrilling him. Monsters no longer inspired fear or challenge. He had become too strong to feel danger, too fast to savor victory. Every fight felt the same—repetitive, predictable, empty. He wasn’t fighting to prove anything anymore, because there was nothing left to prove. Victory lost its taste. Death lost its meaning. And the blood that once fueled him became nothing but a dull, colorless routine.

That was when he realized—his strength, once his salvation, had become another curse dragging him deeper into the abyss of stagnation. When there’s no one left to stand against you, nothing left to fight for, power becomes meaningless.

In those days, his hatred for his demonic half grew stronger than ever.

It wasn’t new, but this time it was deeper, sharper, more agonizing. He saw that part of himself as the root of it all—the reason life was cruel to him, the reason for his loneliness, his losses, the reason so many turned away from him.

He despised the power that ran in his veins, for it had brought him nothing but ruin. That strength had become a chain, a reminder that no matter how hard he tried, he’d never be fully human, nor truly a demon—just something in between, belonging to neither world.

Every time he looked at his hands after a fight, he saw not the man he wanted to be, but the monster within. He could feel something slipping away with every use of that power—something unseen, irreplaceable. With every drop of demonic blood spilled, he lost a little more of his ability to feel anything.

It was no longer just hatred—it was disgust. As if that part of him was a plague devouring what little humanity he had left.

Many times, he’d thought of purging it, of tearing every trace of that darkness from himself, even if it meant destroying himself in the process. But he knew it was impossible. That part wasn’t separate anymore—it was him.

His friends tried to pull him out of his shell many times, but it was never easy.

Trish would visit about once a month under the excuse of checking on him, though she mostly came to scold him for the chaos—stacks of papers, empty cups, dust thick on the desk like it hadn’t been touched in ages. She’d stand there, hands on her hips, giving him that half-mocking, half-worried glare before launching into her usual lecture about order and self-care. Maybe it was because she resembled his mother that she acted like one unconsciously. Dante, as always, would meet her frustration with a faint smirk or sarcastic quip, letting her vent—because at least her anger brought a bit of life into the dead air around him.

Lady, on the other hand, showed up from time to time, and their meetings usually ended in long drinking sessions. They’d start by complaining about life, then slowly drift into a drinking contest—one Dante won every time. It had become a ritual of sorts between them. But even through her forced laughter, he could sense the grief she carried—grief not so different from his own. Those nights often coincided with the anniversaries of her father’s death… and his brother’s too.

Dante was certain that if she saw him now, in this state, she’d probably shoot him in the head without hesitation—not out of hatred, but because the sight would break her beyond repair.

And then there was Patty—the girl who used to fill his little office with laughter and noise, making the place feel alive. She’d grown up fast, but to Dante, she was still that stubborn, fearless kid. She’d visit him almost daily—practically lived in his shop—bringing sweets or stories from her day, cleaning up and chattering nonstop while he just listened, quietly amused at how she managed to stay so pure in such a cruel world. He eventually stopped her from coming, to keep her safe—but of course, that didn’t stop her from calling or showing up now and then… the stubborn brat. Though he never admitted it, she was like the daughter he never had.

And finally, Morrison—his loyal friend, one of the few constants in his life since the Tony Redgrave days.

A calm man with a natural charisma—maybe it was the way he spoke, his confident smile, or that trademark hat he never took off. Whatever it was, he had a presence that commanded respect wherever he went. Unlike others who’d jump at the first sign of money, Morrison was different—steady, wise.

Maybe that’s why Dante always found his company comforting, even on his worst days. Morrison understood him without words—a glance, a simple remark was enough to set things right. He didn’t meddle much, but the little things he did meant more than he knew. He was aware Dante often didn’t get paid for his jobs, that most of his income vanished before it reached him. So every now and then, he’d quietly cover one of Dante’s overdue bills—not often, but just enough to remind him of what genuine friendship felt like.

Especially that day—the day he handed him V’s request.

Or rather, Vergil’s.

Dante hadn’t been in any condition to do anything then—broken, exhausted, drowning in silence after a mission he refused to speak of. It was one of those times when everything he did felt meaningless. But he wasn’t alone—Morrison was there, standing beside him without questions, without judgment. He paid the bills, said nothing, offered no lecture—just presence. A quiet kind of understanding that said what words never could.

…Even if it meant sending him on the hardest mission of his life right after.

A lot changed after that. He knew it wasn’t just another job to add to his long record, but rather the beginning of a new stage — an entirely different chapter. 

From the moment he saw V, he felt uneasy, especially at how easily the man pronounced the name “Vergil,” as if naming a potential new rival. His appearance, his stance, his energy… everything about that man irritated and angered him. He couldn’t even stand being in the same place with him for five whole minutes… perhaps because, deep down, he felt somehow connected to him.

The difference between V and Urizen still raises many questions in Dante’s mind… if he thought deeply, he’d find they weren’t so different after all — both were killers for the sake of survival, nothing more. 

But one of them mingled with humans and came to understand the meaning of weakness, while the other cared only for domination and asserting his will. Maybe V was the reason Vergil was now taking the initiative to reconcile, even though it contradicted his usual nature.

Now, as he sat with his back resting against one of the cold rocks, he seemed calmer than ever before, enveloped by a strange sense of peace and tranquility after pouring out what lay inside him to his brother. That talk felt like a delayed liberation of a forsaken soul, long burdened by dust — despite the embarrassment and deep shyness that came with it.

And yet, that very confession gave him a rare moment of honesty, a moment of clarity that lightened something in his heart. Breathing had become so much easier, as if — despite its bitterness — it was the first step toward the peace he had always thought unreachable.

Dante… maybe I can’t understand what’s eating you from the inside… each of us had a different way of dealing with our traumas… I’m not even sure if we’ll ever succeed at being normal brothers… but there’s one thing I’m certain of, brother…

 I was completely honest when I said I wanted you to stand beside me, and I of all people know you don’t need any cheap tricks to win… I just want to get to know this new Dante before me more and more… I want to learn more about the world I once left behind.

Those words!! Words that were never said to him at the right time — but better late than never. A mix of warmth and ache overtook him. In that moment, he realized that his brother, despite all the distance between them, had been closer to him than he thought. Everything said — or left unsaid — carried a meaning deeper than any confrontation or battle. That brief conversation was like a fragile bridge between two hearts worn down by solitude, a hesitant attempt to mend something that had long been shattered.

And maybe, just maybe, Dante didn’t hate Vergil as much as he thought… he hated all those years they weren’t given to truly be brothers.

He loved that moment — the one where Vergil wanted to be by his side — not as a rival testing his strength, nor as an opponent seeking to prove himself, but simply as a brother. It was the first time he saw Vergil ask something of him without pride or challenge, but with a sincere desire for closeness. Though Dante had misunderstood him, he tried to justify himself. Vergil had changed a lot… the Qliphoth ordeal had affected him, after all.

I want to get to know this new Dante before me more and more…

A simple sentence — yet it pierced through every wall they had built between them. For the first time, his brother wasn’t looking down on him from above, but from the same level — as if they had finally met halfway after a lifetime of distance… playing in the water together like carefree children.

He rested his elbow on his knee and leaned his cheek against his palm lazily, his eyes silently watching his brother who was nearby, both of them spreading their coats on the ground to dry from the dampness of their last battle.

Dante’s gaze moved slowly over him, as if his mind was still trying to process the fact that he was truly there before him after everything that had happened between them. 

There was no anger or relief on his face — just quiet exhaustion, the kind that doesn’t come from the body but from the soul itself. The soft breeze stirred his wet hair, while he remained still, silent, watching his brother as though afraid he might disappear again if he looked away even for a moment.

There was a hint of awkwardness between them after their childish, spontaneous play. Dante hadn’t expected Vergil to have such a twisted sense of humor; he wouldn’t stop teasing him — first about his hair (which, out of spite, he refused to cut) and now about his height — which, unfortunately, Vergil was right about.

It was obvious even to the blind that his twin was doing everything he could to get closer to him, his eyes showing a deep thirst to know the Dante before him — how he’d matured, what he’d become, how his appearance and manner had changed.

As if he were a newborn discovering the world around him… and Dante, in turn, wouldn’t deny him that right, he would quench his brother’s thirst for as long as he wished.

But not before annoying him a little. So, in a loud voice, he said, “This time, you’re the reason for our delay, Virg… we might’ve found the perfect place for your little ritual if you hadn’t tried to push my buttons.”

Vergil stopped what he was working on and turned toward him: “Let’s be honest, brother… first, opening the gate is still out of reach — everything around us screams danger, that is, if you still care about your beloved humans. Second, you yourself were enjoying it — your purring back then confirms that.” Then he walked toward him and sat beside him. “Third, what I pointed out was the truth — you are shorter than me, Dante.”

“Hmm… it’s fine, a few centimeters don’t hurt… I still beat you every time.”

“Well, not exactly… it was just luck in Temen-ni-gru that your demonic side awakened.”

The red twin laughed mockingly, “Really??? Wasn’t that part of your brilliant plan?”

The other turned his face away in denial: “A little… anyway, I’m sure I would’ve beaten you this time if Nero hadn’t interfered.”

His smile faded at the mention of his nephew. “Nero…” he murmured the name softly.

Dante sighed and ran a hand through his wet hair as he stared into space. His mind began to drift far from where he was. He wondered how the boy was dealing with the truth of his family he’d only recently learned.

Nero wasn’t ready for that. None of them were, really. Knowing that Sparda’s blood ran through his veins, that his father was the man who nearly destroyed the world, that his uncle had harvested his father’s soul — and worst of all, that he met his true family in a battle of life or death — that’s not something easily accepted.

Suddenly he felt his brother’s shoulder bump against his, pulling him back to reality with his flat voice: “Welcome back to the world of the living, Dante… where did your mind go just now?”

Dante licked his dry lips — his throat felt parched, or maybe it was just the tension making him feel that way. He looked at his brother, who was clearly worried about his sudden dissociation, so he simply reassured him: “I’m here… I was just thinking when you’d finally ask me about your son.”

Damn it… he ruined the mood. Dante immediately regretted saying it, because Vergil’s expression shifted from calm to grim as he said in a deep voice, “I wanted to… but I haven’t found the right time yet.”

“Well, you can ask now… but first, let me tell you I didn’t even know he existed until five years ago.”

“How did you meet him? And what about his mother?? Does he live with her?”

Dante chuckled softly at his brother’s sudden urgency. “Easy there, dad… easy. I’ll tell you everything I know — at least what I do know.”

Vergil shook his head, closing his eyes as if trying to regain his composure. It seemed Nero puzzled him — and Dante liked that. It was nice seeing changes in someone as composed as his brother.

The red twin combed through his soft white hair with his fingers as he thought about where to begin.

“I met him for the first time during a mission in Fortuna,” he said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. “He kicked me in the face and stabbed me in the chest.”

Vergil’s mocking laugh came from the side. “Seems it’s become a family tradition.”

“It is, Verge… at first, when I noticed his demonic power and silver-white hair, I thought for a moment he might be from another hybrid lineage.”

He held a strand of his hair while looking at his brother. “But isn’t this color supposed to be unique to Sparda’s genes? Who knows… the boy didn’t leave me wondering for long, because the moment I saw him hold the sword, I realized your blood ran through his veins… even Yamato sensed it… if only you heard the sound it made then.”

The blue twin took his sword, resting it across his lap. “So what happened after that? How did you tell him you were his uncle and I was… well, you know what I mean.”

“I didn’t tell him anything.”

The look of shock on his brother’s face left him feeling a mix of shame and guilt. He knew exactly what was coming — he’d acted cowardly when it came to his nephew. But how could he have known this idiot was still alive and would one day return to confront him about his son? It was too much… far too much.

Dante fell silent for a long while, lowering his gaze to the ground, toying with a small stone with the tip of his boot, searching for an excuse… but found none.

But what good would an excuse do? Just say what happened — no more, no less. After all, even Vergil wasn’t innocent.

“Dante!!” His name came from the other’s mouth with a tone of confusion and disbelief.

He turned his face aside, avoiding those sharp, observant eyes, gathering the courage to use his voice: 

“I couldn’t, brother… he was about twenty, had a life and a family, and I’d only recently learned he existed… I didn’t want to ruin his life. You were dead — I thought you’d never come back; so I chose to keep the boy away from all this madness, away from this wretched family drama.”

Long seconds passed, filled only with the sound of the wind rustling their damp shirts, until Vergil finally spoke: “There’s something else, Dante.”

Both their gazes met — the older one’s expression carried a kind of realization that scared the younger, because he knew exactly what he was hinting at with that loaded question. Dante opened his mouth, but no words came out. He turned his face away, clenching his fist tightly as he bit his lip until it bled.

Then he finally spoke — soft, quiet, hoarse — but more venomous than he intended: “Were you expecting me to tell him…”

He paused for a second, then his voice rose gradually — sharper than anything that had ever left his throat before, not even his screams — something truer, something rawer.

“Hello, son… I’m your uncle — the one who killed YOUR FATHER!!!”

The last word echoed through the place — loud, cracked, as if it wasn’t just a shout, but a truth that tore the air itself between them. Then came a heavy silence — neither of them dared break it.

Dante’s voice lingered among the rocks, choking in the cold air before vanishing completely, leaving behind a dull echo — like an open wound.

Neither spoke for a while — Vergil just watched him with steady eyes, his face void of expression, yet deep in his gaze there was the faintest tremor — one unworthy of a man who’d spent his life hiding emotions behind a wall of ice.

Dante lowered his head, his shoulders trembling faintly — not from anger this time, but from something closer to exhaustion. He exhaled slowly, as though releasing the weight of the years from his lungs.

Vergil finally murmured, “When you killed Nelo Angelo… you didn’t know it was me.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

“Yes, it does — besides, I almost killed you in Temen-ni-gru without thinking twice… so don’t blame yourself for killing me. That was my fault from the start. I was the one who descended into the underworld knowing full well my endurance was already failing.”

But what Vergil said barely registered in Dante’s stubborn mind — nor could he grasp it: “You stood before me, kept sending me cryptic messages I never understood… I killed my own brother without knowing it was him… I didn’t even feel it… what kind of brother does that make me… what kind of bitter brotherhood is this… we nearly killed each other again this time if Nero hadn’t intervened… both of us were ready to kill the other without hesitation — and not just once; how did it come to this… whyyy?”

Dante lowered his head until his bangs covered half his face — his favorite way to hide whatever emotion crept onto his features — then said quietly, “If only you’d taken my hand then… you would’ve spared me two decades of living as a body without a soul.”

Everything stopped after those words. Dante quickly regretted saying them — they’d been talking about the boy, so why had he turned it back on himself again? He just wanted his twin to understand his actions — the reason he kept his distance from the new member of their family. 

It wasn’t that he wanted to justify himself — guilt had wrapped around him from the start like a bracelet around the wrist.

He waited to hear something — understanding, reproach, anything — just for his brother to say something. But Vergil stayed silent, neither daring to look directly at the other.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that until Vergil finally spoke: “Our relationship has always been — and still is — strained… battles and blood were all that ever connected us before… we fought, we wounded, we broke each other — and here we are now… and the bitter truth is that I’m the one who caused all this pain for both of us. 

"You’re right — I should’ve taken your hand that day. I would’ve spared us both so much… so stop blaming yourself like that, because I swear I’ll stab you in the chest if I ever hear you — or anyone else — say that again. Do you understand me, Dante?”

His words silenced any sound still rising inside Dante’s head. He ended his long speech in the same way he would sheathe his blade — to declare his victory without leaving any room for doubt.

At last, Dante lifted his gaze toward him, and of course, Vergil was angry. Between his brows appeared tight lines that spoke of tense nerves and boiling blood.

And Dante knew that this anger… this time… wasn’t directed at him.

So, like a younger brother who had just been scolded, he showed his remorse in his own way.

He ran a hand over his face, then let out that half-serious — half-mocking — smile that one couldn’t tell if it was an apology or a challenge.

He said nothing, simply left it there — a calm smile sliding across a war-torn face, yet carrying enough meaning to say: “Message received.”

Vergil didn’t move, but the tension that had been between his eyes eased, a sign of relief that his words had finally reached his foolish brother’s brain.

He didn’t wait long before changing the subject and throwing his next question: “So… he lived in Fortuna.”

Dante nodded. “Yeah… lived with a good family, and he’s now in a relationship with their daughter. He also worked as a soldier for that stupid cult that worships Sparda.”

“I hope you wiped them out.”

The blue twin’s voice was filled with disdain, and Dante couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Nero wiped them out in the end.”

“Not bad at all.”

“C’mon, Verge… show a little pride.”

“No… he’s still far from it.”

“Really??? You planning to train him? Pass down all your knowledge?”

“I have no such intention.”

“Oooh… then why’d you leave your precious book in his care?”

If looks could kill, Dante would’ve dropped dead on the spot, heart in hand, from the sheer force of his brother’s glare.

“Don’t look at me like that, Vergil… if that book were with you, your eyes wouldn’t leave it for a second. And you’re not careless enough to lose your belongings, so the only possibility left is that you gave it to Nero — maybe as a keepsake…Oooh, how I love Papa Vergil.”

A solid punch to his side knocked the breath out of him. “Ow… no need for such hostility, brother,” he said in an overly dramatic tone.

“You asked for it.” Vergil flicked his brother’s forehead. “You never use that brain except to annoy me.”

“Not true… I’m always smart! You should know how many cases I’ve solved on my own.”

“I’m bursting with pride,” the elder said sarcastically as he stood, picking up the crimson coat from the ground and tossing it onto his brother’s face.

“Get up.”

Dante narrowed his eyes in feigned irritation. “Arrogant power freak.”

“Emotional idiot… get up. I don’t want to hear you whining about the lack of pizza and ice cream here.”

Though his voice carried annoyance and impatience, he took a slow but steady step forward. He didn’t say anything this time — only stopped in front of him and extended his hand.

It was a simple gesture, yet it looked as though it was the heaviest thing he’d ever done…

because this time, he was the one reaching out.

Dante looked at the offered hand, half-smiling, half-hesitant, as if part of him still wanted to test if what he was seeing was real.

Then, without a word, he raised his hand and took it.

Vergil’s fingers gripped his wrist tighter than necessary, but Dante didn’t complain — it was exactly what they were used to: a mix of harshness and silent acknowledgment.

Dante rose, and when he stood face to face with him, he held that hand a moment longer than he should have — as if neither of them wanted to be the first to let go.

Then Vergil was the one to release it first, deliberately rough, masking what was left unsaid.

“Hurry up,” he muttered, turning away. “I won’t wait if you start dragging your feet.”

As Dante donned his coat, the grin never left his face. “Aye aye, captain… but you still haven’t told me about the lucky lady.”

Vergil, who had just finished straightening his clothes and hair in his usual meticulous way, turned to him. “Who are you talking about?”

“Obviously, the woman who trapped you in her web.”

The elder sighed, lifting his head toward the sky as if pleading to someone above. “I swear, Dante, if you say that again, I will—”

He couldn’t finish the threat.

A crimson flash cut through the air between them like an arrow — sudden, sharp, from nowhere — striking the rock they had been leaning on moments ago.

The light reflected off their faces, searing for an instant, before dying out, leaving behind a glowing mark like a coal that refused to cool.

The twins exchanged a brief look.

Dante raised his hand, summoning his sword as he stepped toward the spot where the flash had come from.

But before he could move farther, his brother’s voice rang out — sharp, commanding: “Dante. Wait.”

He froze, eyes tracking slowly what was forming on the rock — red letters taking shape in human language, glowing with an eerie pulse, not carved but bleeding out of the stone itself.

They approached together, in synchronized steps, as if their instincts suddenly remembered how to act as one body.

The phrase was short… simple… yet carried something deeply unsettling.

Enjoy your stay in our world, sons of Sparda.

The last letter burned for a few seconds longer before fading away, leaving behind a sharp metallic scent… like that of fresh blood.

Chapter Text

POV Vergil:

Vergil doesn’t mind staying here forever.

He isn’t sure if it’s because Dante is beside him, or if he’s simply grown so used to this place that it now feels more familiar than the human world. But he’s certain of one thing — he’s enjoying his existence in a way he never has before.

He and his brother have found a certain routine here in the Underworld — if it can even be called that — cutting down any demon daring enough to cross their path, even if it came in endless swarms. Then they would rest upon the black rocks near hardened magma, or in a cave if they were lucky enough to find one, all for the sake of recovery and conserving their energy as much as possible before resuming the search for a suitable point to open the gate.

During those rest periods, they would sometimes relax and share stories about the lives they were never meant to live together.

Stories about things that seemed trivial on the surface — about the best pizza place, about the shop where Vergil got his clothes (or rather, stole them), about that human girl his brother considered his daughter, about Nico’s grandmother and how she crafted his pistols, about Kyrie, his son’s beloved, and even about Nero’s mother… everything, anything that came to mind, they talked about it.

Those conversations often left Vergil astonished by how calm Dante had become — a calm he was not accustomed to.

True, it was Vergil who had asked to see his brother’s mature side before him, but it wasn’t easy to accept that the annoying child who never missed a chance to ruin a good moment for his twin had become a man sitting quietly, listening to every word Vergil said. There’s a feeling inside Vergil that tells him Dante is giving him space — perhaps trying to avoid conflict… and honestly, that’s not like him.

At least, not the version of him Vergil once knew.

But did that bother him? Not exactly. Still, for some reason, it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth… the realization that, directly or indirectly, he is the reason for it.

Sometimes I think it’s just an illusion — that I’m a half-demon, nothing should affect me. But the truth is… something’s wrong inside me. Something feeding on me. Like a sickness

There’s a fire inside me, begging to burn — but whenever it flares, I just… get tired. So damn tired, and I don’t even know why, Vergil.

The reason a raging volcano turned into a mere faint mountain.

And well, with Vergil’s personality — one that doesn’t excel in conversation — they would often remain silent for long stretches of time, while the blue twin waited for Dante to break that silence… which, inevitably, he would.

That’s when his younger brother would start provoking him in strange ways, completely unlike his earlier calm and quiet demeanor.

As if someone had accidentally pressed a hidden button.

And Vergil couldn’t help but wonder — which one was the real Dante? The melancholic one, or the fiery, reckless one?

The calm Dante who sat beside him like a shadow, or the Dante who lit the air around him with his laughter and burned everything in his path?

The answer wasn’t hard.

Both were real. Both were Dante. A volcano that had calmed… but never died.

Vergil knew that well — better than he cared to admit.

Dante was never truly that peaceful, easygoing man he seemed to be lately; that tranquility was nothing more than ash covering an ember that never went out. He knew that kind of quiet before — the kind that didn’t mean peace, but suppression.

A silence that hid beneath it all the anger never voiced, and all the pain never faced. A calm that shaped its bearer into something steady on the outside, yet trembling within — like a heart pretending to be still.

That volcano still existed, sleeping deep within his soul. It needed only a spark — a word, a memory, a name, even a face — to turn everything upside down.

And yet, there was a difference.

The volcano was no longer purely destructive.

Dante had learned to contain his fire rather than unleash it — to turn it into warmth instead of ruin, to use it to light the darkness rather than burn it away. And that alone was enough to make Vergil pause and reflect.

Perhaps that was why Dante seemed more mature, more balanced. And perhaps that was also why he seemed… strange.

As if he’d lost something that couldn’t be named.

Was it passion? Madness? That raw vitality that once gave them both a reason to fight every single time?

Vergil wasn’t sure. All he knew was that his brother hadn’t gone cold — he’d simply chosen not to explode anymore.

And somewhere inside his chest, Vergil felt something almost like envy. To be able to master his fire, his self, his chaos...

To find balance amid the ashes, while he — Vergil — still froze from within, trapped in the blue ice no one else could see.

Maybe his brother hadn’t really changed — maybe the world forced him to slow down.

Or maybe… he was just tired of fighting. Whatever the reason, he was still the same volcano — dormant, hiding beneath him a hell of light.

Vergil saw it in his eyes — in the way his pupils darted quickly, as if to stop anyone beside him from reading what his gaze betrayed.

They say the eyes are the mirror of the soul — and his brother’s eyes… were a cracked mirror, reflecting both light and darkness at once.

When Vergil looked into them, he saw a thousand hidden tales — pain unhealed, hope refusing to die, and sarcasm lingering behind it all as a final shield.

His eyes were like windows overlooking an endless battle — where the child he once was still fought against the man he’d become.

And maybe that’s why Vergil couldn’t look at them for long. Not because they frightened him, but because they reminded him of something within himself — that same abyss he tried to hide beneath his mask of severity and control.

While Dante hid his behind humor and mockery.

It was easy to call his brother “lighthearted,” but the truth was that this lightness was born from unbearable weight.

Anyone who knew him well could tell that his laughter was merely a way to breathe between battles — that every joke he made concealed what could never be spoken.

And among those unspoken things was fear — and sadly, his dear little brother wasn’t good at hiding that fear from him.

Not the kind that came from horror or near-death… no, not that at all.

It was closer to the fear of loss.

Vergil wasn’t sure if that was entirely true, but just seeing his brother think a hundred times before saying anything to him — the silence before his laugh, the quick glances he used to avoid confrontation, as if he were afraid of causing another fracture between them — it left Vergil stunned.

He wasn’t prepared for that kind of caution.

It shocked him to realize that his brother — brave and strong as he was — still saw him as something fragile enough to lose.

That in Dante’s eyes, his presence was still uncertain, still breakable, even after everything they’d done, even after finally standing together on the same ground after a lifetime apart.

He thought fear had no place between them — but the truth was, that fear was now what tied them together more than anything else.

Dante’s fear of losing him.

And his own fear of seeing that look in Dante’s eyes again.

All he had to do now was stay.

Just stay. Until that look disappeared from his twin’s eyes — that mix of terror and distrust, of waiting for departure and refusing it at the same time.

He wouldn’t say anything, wouldn’t promise, wouldn’t swear — words didn’t suit such things.

Dante didn’t need promises; he needed a constant, unwavering presence… until that sickly coldness Dante once infected him with — unknowingly — faded away from both their lives.

So for now, he had to push all those thoughts aside and enjoy this perfect routine he’d built with his brother.

Perfect? Well… perhaps another word would fit better, because living with Dante was never easy — even if it was enjoyable.

Their conversations could end in laughter echoing through the skies of hell — genuine, honest laughter, untouched by pretense or restraint.

Those moments made Vergil feel a strange chill in his throat, as if cool, clear water had poured down into his parched chest.

But sometimes, Dante pressed his nerves just enough to make him want to stab him — and they’d begin waving their swords in a dance that only the sons of Sparda could understand.

That’s what had happened just moments ago — a fierce, exhilarating duel with no victor and no loser.

But, as always, nothing stayed calm for long, because suddenly that flash appeared again — leaving behind yet another message, dripping with threat.

At first, Vergil didn’t care.

He thought it was sent by some bitter, weak spirit that found no other way to express its hatred than through such cowardly means.

But with every new message, the content grew more annoying, more provoking.

Dante, slayer of our King Mundus… as you have judged, so shall you be judged.

Beware, both of you — even the air you breathe.

We have not forgotten.

They were all empty threats, fading within seconds — neither twin took them seriously.

Sometimes, Dante even laughed at them.

But their frequency had become tiresome lately.

Vergil wanted to hunt down whoever was behind them, but it was clear that this demon wasn’t simple — it knew how to hide its energy well, and that was dangerous.

It could even be close to them, without their knowing.

And honestly, Vergil now had an overwhelming desire to find it and crush its skull, especially after the last message — one that insulted him and provoked his pride.

Vergil, how was your stay with Khar’zhul?

Just reading that name dragged him back to a time when he’d been bound like cattle — tortured in ways too vile to describe.

He hadn’t forgotten, not for a single second, the humiliation he endured in those years. But to see someone — a stranger — mocking him by mentioning his tormentor?

Unforgivable.

Rage coursed through his veins, a dormant wrath he hadn’t felt since devouring the fruit of Qliphoth. With it came an overwhelming need to destroy everything in sight.

His facial muscles tensed; his breath hitched as though even the air had grown too tight for his lungs. The anger wasn’t just an emotion — it was a living thing awakening within him, crawling from the depths in painful waves.

The skin around his cheeks cracked slightly, a dark blue glow pulsing beneath it, like scales forming in silence.

His expression shifted from moment to moment; the sharpness of his eyes turned inhuman, and the heat of his energy made the ground beneath his feet tremble — as though afraid of him.

He was on the verge of losing control entirely…

Then Dante’s voice rang out — hesitant at first, then closer, more worried than usual: “Vergil…? You okay?”

But instead of calming him, the question only fueled his fury.

His hand tightened around Yamato’s hilt as he moved toward whoever had dared awaken the sleeping fire in him. His strides were long, swift, steady — the ground itself seemed to yield before him.

Dante suddenly blocked his path, arm outstretched to stop him. “Where do you think you’re going, Verge?”

Vergil’s reply came sharp and cold: “Out of my way, Dante… I’ll find that fool sending these ridiculous messages.”

But Dante pressed a palm against his brother’s chest, barring his way.

“Hey, hey — slow down, man. We tried that before. He hides his energy too well. I’m telling you, he’s not here. Anyone who uses this trick knows the risk.”

Vergil’s lips pressed into a thin line; his tone cut through the air between them. “So what now? We just let him enjoy his little game?”

Dante chuckled lightly, raising an eyebrow and pointing at him with a confident smirk.

“Let him enjoy it. What’s the harm? I’m pretty sure if we don’t take the bait, he’ll get bored and come out on his own. I’ve dealt with plenty like him in my line of work… trust me.”

He ended his sentence with a quick wink, as if the whole situation wasn’t worth the tension.

Vergil didn’t move. His stare stayed fixed, cold — weighing Dante’s words like a swordsman weighing his opponent before the strike.

Inside, he knew his brother was trying to calm him down… but he also knew himself.

And he knew that once his rage began, words could not extinguish it.

He would lose control — sooner or later. It was only a matter of time.

He took a single step forward, enough to make Dante slowly lower his hand, as though trying to avoid setting off a storm.

Vergil’s voice came out low, almost a growl:

“This isn’t mere provocation, Dante. Whoever dares speak that name isn’t toying with us — he’s calling to me. Dragging me toward him.”

“And who exactly is this Khar’zhul that’s got you like this?”

Vergil looked at him — eyes glowing with a deep, icy blue that made Dante’s words catch in his throat.

The shock on Dante’s face said it all. He was seeing something he hadn’t seen in years — pure, unfiltered rage.

Not the usual mix of annoyance and challenge, but a fury born of a wound that had never healed.

Still, Dante took a slow step forward, his tone serious now: “Vergil, don’t let him pull you back. You got out of that hell — don’t walk back in.”

Vergil lowered his head slightly, voice quiet but firm: “I don’t want to go back there… I want to finish what wasn’t finished.”

“That’s your right. But be smarter about it.

Don’t run headfirst into the trap. Don’t repeat Temen-ni-gru.”

Vergil didn’t move, but his grip on Yamato tightened so much it looked like the handle might crack in his hand. His gaze was lethal — not that of a man facing an enemy, but of a wolf wounded in its pride.

“Enough, Dante… enough. Not now.”

Dante replied with a fake smile that didn’t reach his eyes: "Yeah, you’re right. That’s enough… not the right time.”

Then his eyes wandered around until they caught on something — they lit up.

“Oooh, Vergil, look over there… it’s the demons’ castle!”

Vergil blinked once and shook his head in exasperation. “Hopeless. That’s not a castle — it’s an Empusa nest.”

“Perfect! Then we’ve found you a place to relax, Verg.”

“I’m not planning to relax.”

“Doesn’t matter, brother… you need a nap. Maybe you’ll regain your ‘perfect form.’”

Honestly, his brother had a point — it had been a long time, long enough that his hair had grown a bit too much to style properly.

Not quite as long as Dante’s, which nearly brushed his shoulders — despite Vergil’s constant nagging for him to cut it.

Maybe a little rest wouldn’t hurt.

He looked at the Empusa nest ahead. Its structure reminded him of an anthill — a tiny, hidden world beneath the earth.

You might wonder — how would he even know what an anthill looks like underground?

The truth was, that image came from an old memory.

As a child, Vergil was fascinated by knowledge.

He spent most of his time in the library he loved more than anywhere else.

One day, he overheard a visitor describing a strange experiment — the man had poured molten metal into an ant colony’s tunnels, and once it cooled, he dug it up and found a breathtaking metallic sculpture of the intricate maze the ants had built.

Vergil was instantly obsessed.

Curiosity consumed him until he saw it only as a scientific challenge. The next day, he went down to the basement where his father used to forge weapons and repeated the experiment — without thinking much about the consequences.

He only realized too late that he had killed hundreds of tiny creatures just to satisfy his curiosity.

The result was stunning, no doubt — a perfect steel sculpture, feeding his endless hunger for knowledge.

But he never forgot what came after — Dante crying his eyes out because Vergil had killed his “friends,” the ants.

How could he have known that his brother had befriended the ants?

Dante wouldn’t stop crying for days — “You killed my ants… you killed my ants!”

Their mother had scolded him then, saying,

“Knowledge is a great thing, Vergil. But if it’s gained at the cost of another life — especially an entire colony — it’s ignorance wearing a beautiful mask.”

Vergil smiled faintly at the memory.

Dante noticed. “Verg… you liked that idea, huh? So whoever kills the most gets to stand guard.”

“Fine. Not bad.”

Both drew their weapons and charged toward the demons — and in a single flash, their battle began, a storm with no mercy, and no retreat.

                                    ...........

The pain was unbearable.

As if every nerve in his body was being pulled out by threads of fire.

His skin was no longer his own, but a charred shell fused to the iron that bound him.

The smell of burning flesh mingled with thick smoke invading his lungs, until breathing itself became a form of torture.

A deep voice, dripping with disgust and contempt, shattered the silence:

“Look at him… the son of the traitor Sparda. Half human… half shame.”

Mundus’s tone alone was enough to split what was left of his pride.

The heavy footsteps of his executioner, Khar’zhul, echoed as he approached—like a mountain in motion. Each step sent a tremor through the floor, making the chains sing around him.

The executioner didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. The hammer he raised spoke on his behalf.

One strike—then a scream.

A second strike—then silence.

A third—and smoke rose from the new wound, as though the fire rejoiced in what it devoured.

Mundus laughed shortly: “This is what the punishment of tainted blood should look like. Do you think you possess will? I will make your will beg for mercy through that human mouth of yours.”

But Vergil didn’t speak. He didn’t scream. The pain spoke in his stead.

Then, the air changed.

The iron dissolved, the smoke turned to gray mist.

He found himself standing in a white hall, empty except for the echo of familiar footsteps… Dante.

Standing afar, half his face veiled in shadow, reaching out his hand toward him—then vanishing. He reappeared, this time with blood flooding his chest.

Then again—turning his back and walking away.

Each time was different, but the ending was always the same—Vergil, alone.

Mundus’s voice whispered from all directions, calm and venomous as poison: “See? Even the one who shares your blood does not want you.

No one wants what is broken.”

His mother’s image appeared, kneeling, eyes wet, whispering his name.

Then, fire.

Her scream tore everything apart. His hand reached for her—but she vanished before he could touch her.

The call turned into an endless wail, mingled with the sound of iron, laughter, and grinding metal.

Now, he was no longer in the hall—nor the dungeon— but outside.

A small child stood before the burning mansion.

Everything burned: the walls, the curtains, even the memories.

Even the sky itself seemed to bleed fire.

His eyes were wide—no tears, only the reflection of the flames.

He reached out his small hand toward the inferno, as though he still hoped to pull something—anything—from it.

But ash was all that remained.

“Everything ends… every time.”

He opened his eyes abruptly. He steadied his breathing first, then his energy before it slipped from control.

Sweat covered his forehead, and the coldness in his limbs reminded him more of the dream than of the place itself. Yet he didn’t move.

He looked around and found himself leaning against the slanted rock wall of the Empusa nest they had claimed. The smell of blood and corpses still clung to the air.

A few meters away, Dante sat with his back turned, meticulously wiping Ebony and Ivory with a cloth—bored precision in every motion.

From where Vergil sat, he could see his brother’s face—half-lidded eyes, features set in focus that seemed almost out of place on him.

He hadn’t noticed Vergil was awake.

Vergil felt grateful for that.

He didn’t move or speak.

He simply reached slowly, drawing Yamato closer until his fingers touched the hilt. His breathing steadied—though his depths did not.

Khar’zhul.

The name hit him with full weight. He had forgotten it for so long… or perhaps forced himself to.

So why now?

Who had awakened that name from the ashes of his memory?

What vile game was this world playing?

What being dared to stir what he had left to rust inside him?

He remained silent. His eyes stared into the void while his mind replayed that distant metallic pounding that no one else could hear—

the old hammer still striking in his memory with a rhythm that refused to stop.

The years under Mundus’s mercy had been a chain of repeating hells, but it was that beast—that obedient executioner, Khar’zhul— who made pain transcend meaning.

His mere presence turned torment into an art form— precise, deliberate, and repeated—until no corner of his soul remained unbroken.

And now, just the thought that he might still be breathing— that the creature could once again raise his hammer somewhere in this inferno—

stirred something cold inside him.

Not fear— but pure, raw resentment, unrefined as iron before the strike.

Vergil’s grip on Yamato tightened until bones cracked faintly beneath his skin.

The fire he’d tried to calm moments ago began to flare again behind his eyes— not merely anger, but a desire for balance. To end what had begun there.

He knew hating Mundus was natural—even necessary. But hating Khar’zhul… was different.

It wasn’t hatred toward a tyrant— but toward the hand that enjoyed the pain it inflicted.

And if he was truly still alive— their next meeting would not be like the last.

He would reclaim the dignity stolen from him.

Vergil looked toward his brother, watching his every motion— the way his hand polished the weapon’s surface,

the lift of his brow when he spotted a stubborn mark— every small detail was enough to silence the storm of memories threatening to consume him again.

Dante had no idea how much his mere presence steadied him, how many times his unthinking silence had kept Vergil from sinking deeper.

And yet, Vergil knew perfectly well— the path he was walking could not be shared.

Not by Dante.

Not by that light that learned to survive every ruin with laughter.

His brother had suffered enough because of him.

He wouldn’t allow this darkness to touch him again.

Lowering his gaze to Yamato, his fingers brushed the sheath slowly— as if making a silent vow:

This battle is mine alone.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, eyes half closed, mind drifting between the remnants of the nightmare and the scrape of metal in his brother’s hands. He didn’t move until Dante suddenly turned— their eyes met.

“Oh, brother! You’re awake? Since when?”

His voice calm, Vergil replied, “Just now.”

The red twin smiled lightly. “Good. You didn’t sleep for long, though.”

Vergil raised his head slightly, asking without changing expression: “How much time do you think has passed, Dante?”

Dante tilted his head in thought. “Hmm… who knows? Maybe three, four hours?”

Vergil finally moved—stood up and sat beside him. His eyes scanned the shining pistols before reaching out to take one.

He had always despised firearms—their noise, their chaotic nature, everything they symbolized.

And yet, he still remembered the one time he’d used one—beside his twin—against Arkham.

An old memory, etched in clarity.

He asked softly, almost to himself: “Why do you love these guns, brother?”

Dante raised an eyebrow in mild surprise. “Huh? They’re my favorites, of course—how could I not?”

Vergil replied with cold thoughtfulness: “Indeed… but they’re not ordinary. If they were, they’d have shattered under your strength. Besides, I’ve used one once.”

Dante laughed—his usual laughter that filled any place with warmth, no matter how heavy the air.

“Oh right… against Arkham! You had Ebony that time. Yeah, they're special. They were made for me by Nell Goldstein—Nico’s grandmother. I met her when I was V.”

His eyes gleamed with excitement as he continued: “She designed them specifically for me. Their bullets draw directly from my demonic energy—so they’re infinite.”

But something in his expression changed.

The usual smile faded, replaced by a shadow of memory.

He spoke softly, his tone lined with quiet sorrow:

“They were the last thing she gave me… before she died.”

Vergil looked down at the pistol in his hand, then returned it gently— as if handing back more than just metal.

“She must have been important to you.” His voice was low but clear, careful, as though afraid to disturb something fragile.

Dante nodded slowly, a faint, nostalgic smile on his lips. “Yeah… you might think I’m exaggerating if I said she was like a mother to me… but she really was.”

Vergil pondered that, then murmured with rare warmth: “Hmm… if she could fill even part of the void our mother left… she must have been remarkable.”

Dante smiled sincerely this time—a smile of gratitude, timeless and honest. “She was extraordinary… but no one could ever replace our mother. Not even her.”

A brief silence fell—not tense, but heavy with memories stirred from the ashes. Vergil stared into the horizon, fingers idly tracing his sword.

Then, his voice broke the quiet—tinged with hesitation rarely heard from him:

“Dante… there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time.”

Dante turned toward him, curiosity overriding everything else. “What is it?”

Vergil paused— as if gathering courage to release something long buried.

“How did you survive the fire… that day?”

Dante said nothing at first.

He just stared—his expression frozen, as if the question came from another world.

He hadn’t expected his brother to dig into the past— that dark corner both had chosen to bury.

But what Dante didn’t know was that this question had haunted Vergil’s dreams for decades.

Finally, Dante spoke—his tone steady but hiding a faint tremor: “Mother… she pushed me into the closet. She was screaming your name while running through the mansion, she tried to find you—but the demons reached her first. I heard her scream… and then—she was torn apart.”

He paused, eyes glinting with pain before continuing in a weaker voice: “I saw everything through the cracks of the closet door. I didn’t dare come out, even as my body burned from the heat… For some reason, they didn’t find me—maybe because of the amulet.”

He reached into his pocket, pulling out the red amulet inherited from Sparda. It glowed faintly in the dim light, heavy with unspoken memories. He ran his fingers over it gently, as if touching a spirit that still guarded him.

“I stayed there until everything burned… until the mansion became ash.”

He swallowed hard, voice cracking slightly: “When I came out… I buried what was left of her.

I tried to find you, but the large pool of blood… made me think you’d met the same fate.”

Silence settled again.

Vergil looked down, something unreadable in his eyes—regret, guilt, and perhaps relief.

Dante kept his gaze on the amulet in his palm, as if it bore the weight of all that remained unforgiven.

“I should’ve gone back to look for you,” Vergil said quietly—unusually soft, as if the words had waited years to be spoken.

“But I didn’t hear you… didn’t feel anything from you. Only my Mother’s screams in the background… I thought you were dead too.”

Dante lowered his head, then lifted it with a faint, bittersweet smile: “It’s alright, Verge. We were kids. No one knows what to do in a moment like that.”

He leaned a little closer, his tone lightening with that usual humor he used to disguise pain: “But how did you realize I was alive? You’re the one who came to me first—with quite the warm welcome.”

No further explanation was needed.

Vergil knew exactly what Dante meant by “warm welcome.” That battle a year before the Temen-ni-gru events— when Vergil had tracked him down. Their reunion was not that of brothers, but of blades.

Vergil had won—but not without leaving wounds in both pride and memory.

He raised an eyebrow in that familiar, haughty way and said coolly: “Seems you still hold a grudge over that loss.”

Dante chuckled lightly while reloading one of his pistols: “Ha! Me? No way. I got even at Temen-ni-gru’s summit. I’m sure you remember that.”

“Then we’re even, Dante,” Vergil said with a rare, fleeting smile— gone as quickly as it came.

“Yup… we are.”

But the elder didn’t stop there..His gaze lingered on the empty air before him as he added: “I should make one thing clear… Back then, it wasn’t just a fight. I was… angered by your rejection of your demonic side— and your embrace of your humanity so fully.”

Dante replied honestly: “To be honest… I needed that. I denied my other half for too long, and I paid the price. I lost a lot.”

Vergil nodded slowly, the sharpness in his eyes softening. “Perhaps… but now, I can understand you.”

He paused, then asked in a near whisper:

“You were angry with our father too, weren’t you?”

Silence again, brief but heavy— until Dante answered, voice low with painful honesty:“Yeah… a lot. So much that I couldn’t even call him ‘father,’ even when I was alone. But now… I just wonder what happened to him.”

Vergil kept his eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

His voice was calm, measured—more to himself than to Dante: “Who knows… perhaps he’s sealed somewhere here.”

His words echoed through the vastness of the Underworld, as if Hell itself had listened. There was no sorrow in his voice, but something stronger — a dry contemplation, carrying within it a quiet confusion.

His brother did not hide his surprise at his theory:

"Do you think he’s still alive…? Fell into some trap, maybe, but that only makes it more confusing. Why did he go in the first place? And why can’t he break free? He’s Sparda, the legendary knight — for hell’s sake."

Vergil pondered his brother’s words, and, truthfully, a heavy regret began to seep slowly into his chest. He should never have opened that door, nor allowed the idea to crawl into Dante’s mind, for some hopes are poison wrapped in comfort. 

He knew too well that even the faintest possibility of their father’s survival would awaken in his brother an unrelenting desire to search, to dig through ashes and inferno alike, and perhaps to cling to what can never be restored.

For a moment, he felt his words had been a small sin — born of a longing he’d never admitted, a childish yearning he’d tried to bury long ago. But now, seeing the spark ignite in Dante’s eyes, he realized how a single passing remark could carve a fracture through his heart.

He lowered his gaze to the rocky ground around them, and when his voice returned, it was quieter — as if he were speaking more to himself than to his brother.

"Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything… Not all who are gone deserve to be sought after, Dante… and some doors, once closed… are better left unopened, even for those who forged their keys."

Vergil looked at Dante then, as though his last words had bounced back toward him, leaving a trace upon his brother’s face — one not easily missed. 

He saw in him that strange mix of stubbornness and sorrow — a contradiction that had never left him. Dante’s blue eyes now carried a dim glint, closer to suppressed grief, but his tilted smile still tried to conceal it, like a broken shield insisting on shining.

His jaw was tense, as if fighting the urge to reply, to argue, or perhaps to scream, yet something of deep exhaustion showed in his features. Maybe Vergil’s words had cut too sharply — but better pain now than a false hope that would one day swallow him whole, like a black hole devouring light.

Suddenly, Dante raised an eyebrow with a sidelong grin that shattered the heaviness of the moment. His voice came light, dripping with biting sarcasm: "Man, you make Hell sound like a philosopher’s club… You planning to write a book down here?"

Vergil shot him a cold glance, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly — as if that joke, despite everything, had managed to ease the tension between them for a fleeting second.

Dante let out a short laugh, then added as he lay back on the ground, arms folded behind his head:

"Seriously, if I listen to you any longer, I’ll start writing sad poetry and hang my sword on the wall."

Vergil moved closer and lay down as well, keeping a small space between them — true to his nature, which knew no spontaneity even in the simplest of moments.

"Sometimes, Dante," he said quietly, "I wonder how you can joke in the darkest of places."

"Old habits die hard, Verg," Dante replied without turning his head. "You know… as much as this place is fun — especially with your royal presence here — I really miss home."

He shifted lazily, rolling onto his right side and propping his head on his hand, his elbow pressed against the solid ground. His eyes gleamed with curiosity and mischief as he asked in a light tone: "Hey, Vergil… what’s the first thing you’ll do once we’re back?"

His face was bright with that endless energy, as if waiting for an answer he already knew he wouldn’t like.

The older twin feigned thought, placing his hand on his chin with composed poise: "Who knows… I have a plan in mind."

Dante’s face immediately paled, his brows knitting in exaggerated horror: "Oh, come on, spare me… I don’t like your plans!"

Vergil raised a brow lightly: "Which is precisely why I’ll continue with it. But first, perhaps I should teach you some discipline."

"What do you mean?"

Vergil replied with quiet mockery: "The chaos in your office is simply unacceptable."

Dante’s eyes widened in childlike surprise before he burst into laughter:"Wait—does that mean you’re…?"

He didn’t finish the sentence before laughing loudly, as though he’d already understood — and the blue twin couldn’t help but notice how genuine that joy was. 

"I can’t believe it! Right, I forgot — you love putting everything in order!"

Vergil responded with a half-serious tone that still carried a faint smile: "If you were more disciplined, I wouldn’t have to."

Dante laughed, waving his hand dismissively:

"Discipline’s boring. Someone has to make life interesting — and that someone sure isn’t you!"

Vergil turned his head toward him with mock disdain: "Are you implying I’m boring, Dante?"

"Mmm… a little… no, honestly, a lot!" Dante said with a sly grin, then added, eyes glinting with curiosity: "Still can’t believe how you ever managed to charm that woman."

Vergil exhaled a sound halfway between a sigh and a scoff, answering with lofty pride: "Hmph. I succeeded without effort… and that counts as a point for me."

Dante shot him a wide, teasing grin: "Hah! Looks like you’re finally learning the art of humor… You’ve made progress, dear brother!"

They kept bantering for a while, their laughter echoing among the rocky nests of the Empusa — a familiar resonance reminding them that they were still together. These were rare moments when Vergil loosened his armor a little, sitting without burdens and letting a trace of himself smile — even if his laughter never rang as loud as his crimson twin’s.

But Hell never grants anything freely; nor does it tolerate emptiness without trying to consume it.

And as they rested, childlike in their calm, a red gleam flared toward them — swift and powerful, forcing them to step back, watching as usual to see what would manifest. Yet this time, it was only a single long crimson line stretching across the ground, no end in sight, drawing a bleak path into the unknown.

"Looks like it wants to lead us somewhere… what a cheap trick," Dante said with mocking disdain, trying to downplay the sense of danger.

Vergil didn’t answer; he simply dashed forward, following the red line — drawn by something deeper than curiosity, as though his heart knew a road his eyes did not. Dante’s voice followed behind him: "Wait, Vergil!"

But he didn’t stop. He ran — at inhuman speed — until the line vanished beneath his feet.

Dante sighed behind him: "What’s with you? Running off like that without a word… oh, would you look at that."

They stood before a gaping crater in the rock — a silent mouth in the mountain’s side, breathing out cold air like the echo of another world. But what struck them most was the gate fixed within it — a glossy black vortex encircled by red runes that swirled like a wandering pole. Vergil raised his hand and stepped forward; the portal let him through without resistance or pain.

"It’s a gate," Vergil murmured, his voice filled with a quiet anxiety born of nostalgia.

Dante shook his head in a mix of awe and caution: "Yeah… whoever did this wanted us to come. Obvious trap… but where does it lead?"

Vergil’s voice came bitter, laced with contempt:

"To the depths of Hell. The place Mundus kept me for years."

It wasn’t just recollection — it was confession, from a chest still bleeding.

The twins stared into the portal, and Dante quickly grasped the weight of his brother’s words.

"Okay, Vergil… don’t tell me you’re planning to go in. Mundus has been dead for ages."

"But his executioner hasn’t." Vergil’s tone was cold as iron.

"Executioner? You mean that thing called Khar’zhul?" Dante’s voice faltered, eyes flickering with alarm.

Vergil didn’t turn. His attention was wholly fixed on the dark vortex. "Brother… you can’t go in there. It’s clearly a trap."

"Does it matter? I’m stronger than ever."

Dante intervened quickly: "We’re strong, no doubt, but if they went through all this trouble to bring us here, it’s strange — they’re hiding something. We should wait."

"Your years as a demon hunter have made you stingy with caution."

Dante fell silent for a moment, brushing his hair back from his face, then said quietly: "Fine, have it your way. Let’s go in."

Vergil turned his head slightly: "We? You misunderstand, Dante. I’m going alone."

Dante laughed at first at the idea he’d accept that — but the laughter faded when he saw the resolve in his brother’s eyes. His smile turned to genuine fear.

"No way. I’m not letting you go alone… Don’t mess with me like this."

"I’m not messing. I want to reclaim my honor — and humiliate the one who humiliated me." Vergil’s voice pierced the air like a needle.

"We can do it together..." Dante tried once more to stop him.

"No. This is my burden alone. You wouldn’t understand." Vergil cut him off.

"Then make me understand," Dante said, his voice heavy with sadness.

"You won’t, brother — even if I explain. You never—"

But the red twin didn’t let him finish. Their voices clashed, rising in heated waves until Dante shouted in anger: "I never lost anything? Go on, say it, Vergil!"

"That’s not what I meant." Vergil’s tone strained with restraint.

"What guarantees you won’t come back changed? That you won’t become that power-obsessed Vergil again?" Dante’s fear leaked through his words.

"It’s not like that— be silent, Dante!" the elder growled.

But he didn’t stop.

"You’ll force me to fight you again… maybe even kill you. I won’t live through that again, I won’t let you, Vergil!"

"Silence!" Vergil’s roar tore through the air as he seized Dante by the shoulders and shoved him hard against the rocky wall. Silence followed — heavy, trembling with their ragged breaths.

Then Vergil spoke again, softer, cracked by a thread of weakness: "I’ll come back. Just… trust me, Dante."

"You haven’t given me a reason to." Dante’s voice was raw, his face pleading for assurance.

"Consider it a test — for both of us," Vergil said, eyes fixed on the gate. "I need this. I lost everything there… and I’ll reclaim it alone."

Dante’s eyes glimmered with tears — ones that would never fall. He wanted to shout, to stop him, but Vergil had already moved. Sword in hand, he stood tall before the dark rift, then turned without stepping closer to his brother:

"Don’t follow me, Dante. I won’t forgive you if you do."

Dante’s reply came sharp as a blade: "If you stay too long, I’ll come after you — and I don’t care if you hate me for it."

Vergil didn’t respond — only swallowed hard. He took one step forward, his right foot entering first, then the rest of him followed into the black corridor. Each stride carried an unyielding determination to end his last nightmare.

As the blue twin’s body vanished entirely, leaving behind a deadly stillness, Dante remained at the edge — his heart fracturing between fear and hope, and one silent prayer echoing within him:

That his brother’s promise would be true.

Chapter Text

POV Dante:

Dante stood there, staring at the black vortex that had swallowed Vergil the way an abyss swallows the last trace of light.

He didn’t move at first, as if his mind was trying to convince his heart that what his brother had done was a mature decision… a decision that should be respected. But his body didn’t believe that lie.

He started pacing in short steps toward the crater, his hands moving from his waist to his hair, his breathing unsteady. The air here was cold, yet sweat traced its way from his forehead down to his neck.

“Damn you, Vergil…” he muttered, kicking a small rock that bounced off the stony wall.

“How am I supposed to trust you, when you don’t even trust anyone yourself?”

He stopped for a moment, staring at the gate — its runic symbols circling like a restless heart, emitting a dim red glow, fresh as bleeding flesh.

It looked like an open wound in the belly of the world, and with every passing second, he could almost hear his brother’s voice echoing from within — or maybe it was just a delusion born of his exhausted mind.

He sighed, then began pacing back and forth again.

“He promised me he’d come back…” he said in a nearly whispering tone, as if trying to convince himself. “He said it with a serious face… but what guarantee do I have that he’ll keep his word?”

A faint, sad laugh escaped him — the kind of laugh of someone who knows the answer brings no comfort.

He stepped closer to the gate until he felt the air around it pulling his breath inward. He raised his hand hesitantly, as if considering touching it.

His fingertips trembled, not from fear but from memories — memories of the child who lost everything in one fire, who thought his brother had burned with it, only to find him later in the same hell.

He stepped back once, then twice, turning in circles like a trapped wolf. “If I go in, he won’t forgive me… he made that clear.”

He fell silent for a moment, biting his lower lip.

“But if I don’t… and something happens to him… I’ll never forgive myself.”

He sat down on a nearby rock, arms resting on his knees, head bowed low. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his chest like war drums.

He tried to laugh again, but this time he couldn’t find the strength.

“I’m tired of chasing you, Verge… of fighting you… damn it, even when you’re trying to do the right thing, you make me feel like you’re disappearing all over again.”

He lifted his head toward the gate, his voice quieter now but heavy with ache. “Mother would’ve hated this, you know? She would’ve yelled at us both… told us to stop acting like fools.”

A faint, sorrowful smile curved his lips. “But she wouldn’t have stopped me from going after you… even if you were the reason for all of this.”

He stood again, approaching the gate until he felt the hot air spilling from it.

He stayed there, staring into the darkness that dwelled within, every muscle in his body leaning toward the leap.

“I trust you… no, I don’t… damn it, Dante, decide!” his voice rose, echoing through the walls of the crater.

Then he leaned his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes, breathing slowly. “I’ll give you your time, brother… you deserve that… but if you don’t come back—”

He opened his eyes again, his features hardening with resolve. “I’ll tear hell apart looking for you.”

After speaking his decision, he stepped back slowly until he sat on the same cold rock, the one that still held the imprint of his body from moments before.

He threw his sword beside him; it hit the ground with a muffled metallic sound. Then he rested his elbows on his knees and leaned slightly forward.

His right foot tapped the ground in a tense rhythm — fast at times, slow at others — as if mirroring the storm within him. Each beat reminded him that time was passing, and the gate before him still whispered in a faint call that only he could hear.

He tried to listen to his surroundings — nothing but the sound of wind weaving through the rocks, and the weak moan coming from the gate’s heart.

He lifted his head, staring at it again, his features half calm, half anxious — as if every part of him awaited a return he knew might never come.

“Damn it… he’s fighting alone in there, and I’m sitting here waiting like some servant… I hate you, brother … I hate you.”

He stomped the ground again, harder this time; the echo of the blow bounced around the narrow crater like a slap across the face of silence.

Then he ran a hand over his face, wiping the sweat despite the cold air, and muttered bitterly under his breath:

“If you come out of there alive… I’ll make you regret putting us through this.”

..

..

..

Over time, he managed to calm down and think more rationally. He concluded that his brother had every right to take his revenge — unlike himself, who had killed Mundus with his own hands and avenged both himself and his family. Vergil never had that chance, and perhaps never will. All he had left was to wipe away his shame by ending that executioner once and for all.

Perhaps that would heal his wounded soul.

And just as his brother had said, this was a test for both of them... but this test, unlike what he had thought, wasn’t meant to measure courage, or strength, or even willpower — but something far more complicated.

It made him discover something within himself he had never expected, something he was ashamed even to admit… yet it was the truth, no matter how much he tried to bury it: he didn’t trust Vergil.

Not in the usual sense of “I don’t trust him.” No, it wasn’t like that at all.

Dante knew his brother better than anyone. He knew that if Vergil decided to kill him, he would face him head-on. He knew he wouldn’t stab him in the back, nor betray him in some cowardly trick.

So his fear wasn’t of the blade — but of the shadows that lived inside Vergil himself.

He wasn’t afraid of being stabbed; he was afraid of losing his brother again, of having him return as someone else — a stranger with a familiar face and a voice he knew, but with a soul twisted forever by the depths of Hell.

That was what Dante didn’t trust — not Vergil the body, but Vergil who could be reborn from Hell anew.

He feared that if his twin came back from there... he wouldn’t be him anymore.

He feared losing him again, after they had come such a long and difficult way to mend their bond.

Dante wanted to return home with Vergil by his side, to live with him.

He’d give him his bed if he wanted — he preferred sleeping on his office chair anyway. He’d clean the place until it shined, he’d even learn to eat something other than pizza.

The only thing that mattered was that his twin would be happy — with him, beside him.

He just wanted his brother.

Even if all humanity rejected him, Dante would still welcome him... No one else mattered anymore.

Was that really so hard to achieve? Or was it that what Dante wanted was always just out of reach — mere dreams his mind shaped at night, only to shatter them violently by morning?

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pendant, gazed at it for a long moment, and whispered.

“Father... if you hadn’t left that day, none of this would’ve happened... and I wouldn’t be stuck here like an idiot, daydreaming.”

No one answered — only the echo of wind in the background, whispering in a language he couldn’t understand.

Dante lowered his head again, his expression returning to that fractured stillness between strength and sorrow.

He kept waiting, his fingers brushing over the crimson pendant, feeling its texture while staring lazily at the gate as though he’d exhausted all his energy in the mental battle he’d fought just moments ago.

Everything was quiet and still in that rocky crater, his thoughts colliding inside his skull.

Then — slowly, unnaturally — the air change. The aura surrounding him grew heavy... dark... a viscous presence of evil slipped into his breath, foretelling an inescapable omen.

Suddenly, he felt a chill crawl along his neck.

Thin, cold hands — deathly cold — wrapped gently around his throat from behind. They weren’t squeezing or hurting, merely touching, embracing, as though they’d known him for a very long time.

But his entire body froze.

A strange tightening feeling took root in his soul — a mix of shiver, disgust, and danger.

A female voice slid by his ear, smooth as silk but edged with venom: “Discomfort doesn’t suit your handsome face, son of Sparda...”

He turned his head slightly, trying to see her without moving. She was close enough that her breath brushed against his skin. Her cold hand rose, slowly trailing along his cheek, examining his features as if tasting them.

Then she spoke, her voice boiling with both desire and contempt: “Oh... not bad, for a half-breed.”

Dante gently pushed her hand away, a mocking smile tugging at his lips. “Sorry, lady... but I don’t deal with strangers.”

She laughed softly — a whisper-like, malicious, delighted laugh. “Oh? Then perhaps we should get to know each other better?”

He replied with a half-serious, half-ready smile: “I wouldn’t mind... if the meeting were in clearer light.”

He felt her sudden withdrawal — her form slipped away like smoke made of black ink.

He sensed her magic... a wicked energy moving slowly toward the mouth of the crater.

He immediately stood, gripping his sword, following her with careful steps — every muscle taut like a drawn string.

And when he emerged into the dim light of the underworld, he finally saw her.

She stood there, in the center of the scorched arena, her tall body poised like a statue sculpted from desire and torment.

Her pale, bluish skin was threaded with dark blue veins, like visible bloodlines. Her thick black hair flowed down to her waist, framing delicate features. And her eyes... completely devoid of white — glossy, liquid-black, merciless.

Her dress, a deep midnight blue, clung to her form like a second skin, hiding less than it revealed, leaving little to the imagination.

She was beautiful.

A deadly, inhuman beauty.

But Dante wasn’t entranced by her — he knew better than to fall for beauty’s snare. Just another mask of Hell.

Dante asked, his tone cautious but tinged with sarcasm: “So... who are you supposed to be?”

She placed a hand dramatically on her chest, tilting her head slightly, feigning innocence. “Forgive my rudeness, legendary demon hunter...”

A faint smile curved her dark lips with soft malice. “My name is Izrethia.”

Dante narrowed his eyes, the spark in his gaze sharpening into silence: “So... you’re the one sending those symbols and messages. Bringing us here was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

She let out a short laugh, dripping with confidence and mystery..“Not exactly...”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice as if confessing a secret. “But honestly? I did want to meet you... alone. We wouldn’t have had such a calm chat if your twin were here, now would we?”

Dante tightened his grip on his sword, then swung it lightly onto his shoulder in one smooth motion.

The movement alone released a gust of wind that spiraled around them, whipping Izrethia’s long hair violently until it looked like black fire.

He said coolly, mocking: “Hmph... you’d have to be stupid to think I’d go easy on you.”

Izrethia laughed — softly at first, silky, teasing... then rising higher and higher until it became a horrifying cackle, a sound torn between bliss and agony. She stopped abruptly, staring at him with her endless black eyes.

“I’m not expecting mercy... not at all.”

As she said that, her body began to transform before his eyes — a wet, cracking sound filled the air. Her bluish skin split apart, and her legs twisted backward, merging into a massive lower body like that of a giant spider, encased in a hardened shell. Her sharp limbs swayed slowly in the air, glistening with coagulated black venom under Hell’s glaring light.

Dante remained still, unblinking. His expression didn’t change — it only grew colder, harder.

As if the whole scene didn’t deserve more than a half-smile.

“You chose the worst time to face me.”

Izrethia chuckled quietly, her split tongue tracing her lips in a deliberate, taunting motion. “Oh, I don’t think so...” she hissed softly.

Then — in a blink — she was gone.

He didn’t even feel her move, only heard the faint screech of threads stretching through the air.

Transparent strands flickered around him — glinting like shards of glass — weaving a circle around him with precision.

He reached for his sword swiftly, but one thread beat him to it, slicing his leather coat and leaving a thin mark on his arm.

“Aha... spider threads?” he smirked. “Guess I’ve caught myself in the web.”

“Wrong,” her voice came from above, echoing among overlapping shadows. “You’re in my domain now. Every step you take... brings you closer to death.”

He looked up — saw nothing but hundreds of her reflections, hanging upside down, all smiling at him with the same wicked grin.

“Oh, great... a mirror show made of threads.”

He lifted his guns and fired a random shot — but the bullets bounced back, striking the threads as if hitting a wall of crystal mirrors.

All her reflections laughed at once, their voices blending into a deep, demonic murmur. “You’ll never touch my true body, hunter.”

Dante spun his sword lightly in his hand, raising it to his side in a tilted pose.

He smirked, eyes burning with reckless thrill.

“Let’s rock.”

In a flash, he dashed forward like a red streak — his signature Stinger move — tearing through the thick webbing as if it were nothing.

Threads burst around him, ignited by the friction and heat of his charge, leaving trails of red sparks cutting through the dark like a meteor’s tail.

Before Izrethia could recover, he swung his sword in a half-circle arc, followed by a flurry of rapid thrusts — Million Stab — each strike echoing with a metallic rhythm that filled the void.

A whirlwind of dust and flame rose around him, and when it settled, he stood amidst the smoke, head slightly bowed, sword angled before him.

He lifted his gaze to her and said with cold, deliberate mockery: “Your threads are fine... but not enough.”

The shredded strands dissolved into the air like molten ash, their shadows fading into silence.

Then suddenly, the tilted rock wall a few meters away shook — and from its shadows emerged Izrethia’s real body, her spider form gleaming like onyx, her breathing heavy with rage, her eyes burning with icy malice.

She lunged at him with demonic speed, her limbs whistling as they struck the ground.

Dante parried with ease — his sword clashed against her claws, releasing bursts of energy.

Every strike from her could shatter a boulder, and every counter from him thundered through the cavern.

She screamed, “You have no idea what awaits you!”

He smirked. “And I don’t want to — boredom would kill me faster than you.”

With the final exchange of blows, he caught an opening in her defense and lunged swiftly.

He plunged his sword deep into her chest.

Her spider body trembled, then stilled. She looked at him — her wide eyes glimmering with a mix of fury and fascination.

She raised a trembling hand, running a finger along the fading wound on his arm. “Your blood... so hot... I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

Dante didn’t like her tone.

He prepared to pull his sword free — but she clutched the blade of the Demon Sword with both hands, her gaze still manic, her lips trembling with a crooked smile.

“It’s not over yet...”

She paused — then added, her voice stuttering like a prophecy being forced out: “I’m sorry it has to be this way for someone as lovely as you... but the decision isn’t mine.”

Dante frowned sharply. “What do you mean?”

There was no answer.

The next moment, a sharp sting pierced the right side of his neck — like a cold needle reaching deep into his skin.

He jerked back and yanked his sword violently free, letting her body collapse to the ground.

He raised his hand to the pain; his fingers touched something small and solid. He tore it out quickly and looked — it was a black fang, its color fading gradually until it turned ashen grey, then cracked apart in his hand.

His eyes narrowed in eerie confusion.

He touched the wound again — his fingers came back stained with a dark, coagulated fluid. He looked between the strange remnant in his palm and Izrethia’s lifeless body.

Dante sighed, staring at the broken halves of the fang between his fingers. He didn’t fully understand what it was, but he didn’t feel like thinking too much about it.

He muttered weakly, in his usual sarcastic tone: “Great... another addition to the collection of weird stuff I find after every fight.”

He gathered the two pieces, looked at them for a moment, then slipped them into his coat pocket.

Turning his back to the fallen body, he noticed the air still smelled of iron and ash, shimmering between smoke and scattered embers — yet the place felt... too quiet after the battle.

He walked slowly over the remains of the burnt threads, his footsteps echoing faintly in the hollow space.

He cast one last glance backward — at the spider body that was already decomposing, fading into cold blue dust. Her final words echoed in his head.

He looked around, focusing, trying to sense any nearby energy — but nothing. And honestly, he was a bit tired, and all his attention was fixed on Vergil, still missing.

So he returned into the dark crater, sitting down once again to wait for his brother’s safe return...

forgetting the spider demoness’s warning,

and ignoring the faint headache beginning to form inside his skull.

                                     .........

POV Vergil:

The air here is suffocating — pressing against his chest like an iron fist that refuses to let go. He doesn’t know whether it’s because of the shifting heat or because the place itself rejects his existence, but it feels as though he’s walking underwater — every movement demanding twice the effort.

No matter how fast he runs, clutching Yamato as if it were the last vein of life connecting him to the world, reaching his destination seems nearly impossible.

And yet, that isn’t surprising in a place like the bottom of Hell — The Abyss of the Forge.

The name alone says much, yet still fails to capture even a fraction of the terror that seeps into one’s bones — even the bones of the mightiest warrior.

For this isn’t merely a layer of the Underworld — it is its beating heart.

They say it doesn’t exist in space, but in a hollow beneath time itself — a place that obeys neither gravity nor direction.

Ceiling and ground mean nothing here; everything swirls in a massive vortex of suspended rock and dark magma coiling around a dim axis of flame, as if the entire realm were trapped within an explosion that never finished.

The air is not truly air — it’s the vapor of molten metal, heavy and stinging, filling the lungs with the taste of rust and fire at once.

There are sounds, faint and distant — not screams, but metallic hammering, as if someone were still striking an anvil deep within an endless abyss.

And Vergil knows exactly who those strikes belong to — how could he not, when he has felt them himself, when he has tasted the pain they inflict upon both flesh and soul alike?

Yet what makes his task even harder is the ground itself — if it can be called “ground.”

It cannot be clearly seen nor firmly held; sometimes it is solid as stone, and at others, it turns into a liquid void that deceives the senses and swallows every step.

When directions lose meaning, walking becomes an act of will rather than motion.

The area is filled with traps, but avoiding them isn’t impossible. Every time the tone of the place changes, a new color appears — as though the realm reshapes itself with each passing moment.

So far, he has seen it shift between red, blue, and black.

When blackness reigns, heavy fog rises and the screams begin — not human screams, but the echo of souls being reforged.

That is when the true work begins.

Every cry multiplies, every stone melts, and everything near the executioner — the master of this tormented land — twists and contorts.

Flesh and bone distort, only to rise again as something new — beings resembling Nelo Angelo in their hardness and lifeless eyes, soldiers of pure agony who know only obedience.

That is the Hour of Torment — a time not measured in seconds, but in the number of screams.

When the hue turns blue, a suffocating stillness descends, the light grows cold as water, and the rocks seem frozen mid-motion. Then comes the moment of reflection — the mental torment.

The whole place contracts. The voices fade, the screams vanish, and only silence remains.

But silence here is no mercy — it’s the poisoned rest that comes before ruin.

In that stage, the suffering moves from flesh to soul, embedding itself within the mind, forcing the victim to relive everything lost, everything regretted — until the self decays from within, without leaving a trace of pain on the surface.

The eldest son of Sparda has lived through all of this before — an experience unlike any other torment.

Back then, there was no enemy to fight, no sword to defend himself with, not even a wall upon which to unleash his fury — only himself, and the echo of himself, facing a machine that knew only how to reshape.

He felt every second repeat a thousand times.

In each cycle, his body was erased and remade, yet his consciousness remained — a witness to everything. The pain wasn’t the worst part — it was the continuation.

To remain aware of every moment of your own destruction, to hear your heartbeat strangling itself, and to be forced to rise from your ashes only to be molded as they wish — not as you wish.

That is the Hell not forged by Mundus, but by Hell’s own inhabitants, who long ago lost all concept of mercy. They turned suffering into an art, and the Great Executioner — Khar’zhul — became their prophet and the smith of their will.

He doesn’t merely create flesh — he pours what remains of the old soul into it, hammers it with his infernal mallet until it loses its shape, its name, its memory — until it becomes an instrument of pure obedience.

Vergil knows him well… knows the sound that hammer makes when it strikes metallic flesh.

That sound is still carved into his ears from the first moment he was chained to the anvil.

He hasn’t forgotten the face of his torturer — sparks flying around him like inverted stars — nor the deep, metallic voice that said:

“The weak are not reforged until every trace of will within them has melted.”

Fortunately, the place now shimmered in a crimson hue — the color of blood and madness — where hands emerged from the walls and the void itself, reaching for him, trying to drag him deeper than Hell itself.

Vergil wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, forcing his mind to remain clear of memories that could distract him.

He made himself focus on the mission — on the burning path stretching endlessly ahead.

There was no place for emotion here, no point in recalling the past... or so he thought.

But Dante’s face refused to leave his memory — that look in his eyes, bright with tears he refused to shed, a mixture of worry and disappointment.

Vergil knew he had been harsh with him — perhaps too harsh — but it was necessary.

Better for Dante to hate him than to be hurt because of him.

He exhaled deeply, gazing into the void around him, where flames danced like whispers recounting his sins.

"He doesn’t need to share this with me… it was never his fault.”

His grip tightened around Yamato, and the blade trembled with a faint shimmer — as if in answer to its master’s resolve. He was the one who chose distance, who rejected his brother’s extended hand when he needed it most,

the one who preferred solitude over weakness — pride over forgiveness.

I never lost anything? Go on, say it, Vergil

You’ll force me to fight you again… maybe even kill you. I won’t live through that again, I won’t let you, Vergil

It wasn’t only an assault of words aimed at a past of battles — it was a warning of an inner possibility: that the Vergil Dante knew might return. Not the man who had fought beside his brother since their fall into the Underworld, but the one who once loved power so deeply that his heart was burned for it.

He realized how Dante’s words were both cruel and true at the same time. They weren’t shallow reproach, but a merciless mirror — a reflection showing him the possibility that his path to redemption might turn him into something despised by the one who loves him more than anyone.

The fact that Dante didn’t trust him was a slap — direct, but deserved. It wasn’t easy to trust someone like him. Yet something hurt even more than that: his fear that Dante might come to hate the man who would return.

It wasn’t fear of physical conflict — it was fear of losing his brother for real. Fear of coming back only to see that look of disappointment in Dante’s eyes — a look free of anger or hatred, but heavy with disillusionment, a look that said without words: I believed you had changed… and I was wrong.

That alone was enough to make his chest tighten more than the poisoned air around him ever could.

He had fought demon kings, endured agony and humiliation, yet he had never known what it meant to fear one man’s gaze more than death itself.

Dante… was not merely a brother. He was the mirror that reflected what remained of Vergil’s humanity — and if that mirror shattered, nothing would remain but the monster he was trying to bury.

That thought consumed him more than the flames that surrounded him ever could.

He had spent his entire life haunted by the ghost of strength, obsessed with the belief that weakness was an unforgivable sin.

But now, in the midst of this Hell — amidst voices screaming his name, reminding him of what he once was — he realized something terrifying:

He wasn’t afraid of failing…

He was afraid of succeeding and losing himself again.

He feared returning stronger, colder, more composed… but without a heart. Feared walking out of this place the same way he once emerged from Nelo Angelo’s shell — empty.

His free hand clenched until his knuckles turned white as ash. He muttered to himself in a low, hoarse voice, as if swearing an oath in the depths of the abyss: “I will not allow my return to be the beginning of my end… nor yours, Dante.”

And with that vow, it was as if the place itself listened. The noises faded, the screams fell silent, and the bloody red glow was replaced by a soothing — yet poisoned — blue, carrying within it a hidden malice that promised punishment far worse to come.

Only a few minutes passed before he reached the one he had been searching for.

Vergil stepped cautiously, his footsteps echoing in the void as though coming from somewhere far, far away. The sound of hammering metal was the only thing he could hear, growing louder with every step.

Just a few more steps, and he saw him — standing with his back turned, majestic even from afar.

Vergil could hear his heavy breaths between each swing of the massive hammer striking an enormous anvil. He didn’t turn when he spoke, his monstrous, metallic voice reverberating through the air: “Vergil… it’s been a long time since I last saw you. No matter how far you go, you always return to where you belong.”

Vergil didn’t respond. He simply observed the sight before him — the executioner, standing only a few meters away.

If one were to describe him, it would have to begin from below — the foundation of natural law itself in this realm.

There was no visible lower body — only a whirlpool of dense flame, a living mass of fire twisting upon itself, as though the ground could no longer bear his weight and had swallowed him into its molten heart.

He stood upon it as a king upon his throne — but his throne was no stone, rather pure energy shifting in color with every pulse, and with each change, the depths of Hell around him shifted as if breathing with him.

That was the reason the environment here was ever-changing.

His upper half resembled a body carved from raw rock and poured over with molten steel; his muscles were not flesh but hardened ridges veined with glowing cracks, radiating the fire that burned within him — its color shifting with the flames below.

Across his chest stretched a dark, reddish metal plate engraved with a strange ritualistic sigil spiraling endlessly upon itself.

The symbols pulsed faintly, like a living tattoo watching the world beneath it, and at their center flickered a fiery core — brightening and dimming with every shift in his lower flames.

That point was his heart… or perhaps the nucleus of his very being.

The son of Sparda couldn’t help but wonder —

was this place a part of him… or had he become the place itself?

Perhaps he was the seed from which this infinite land of torment had grown, or perhaps merely a prisoner whose soul had melted into its core until they became one — two entities so intertwined that neither could be destroyed without annihilating the other.

But that didn’t matter. Vergil hadn’t come to marvel at this being’s grandeur. He had come to reclaim what had been stolen from him.

Finally, Khar’zhul turned his monstrous face — devoid of features save for wrath, sometimes adorned with a twisted, sadistic grin that betrayed his purpose: this was a demon created solely to inflict suffering.

His voice erupted like molten metal spilling from a furnace: “Won’t you speak?!! Still so calm… it’s the most irritating thing about you.”

Vergil replied, his hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed blade: “Why, Khar’zhul? That’s not your style.”

The executioner paused for a moment, then approached slowly, close enough for Vergil to smell the burning air exhaled from his molten form.

 “And what do you mean by that, son of Sparda?”

Vergil lifted his gaze steadily: “The signs… the symbols… whatever you call them. It’s not like you to set traps this way. A pitiful tactic for a master such as yourself.”

The sadistic grin vanished.

The flames surrounding Khar’zhul flickered violently, as if preparing to explode.

He circled Vergil with heavy steps, and every place his molten feet touched became a ring of blue fire that flashed briefly, then faded.

“Is that what you think of me, Vergil?”

“Of course. In the end, even if you wished otherwise, you could never leave this place.”

Khar’zhul laughed — a deep, thunderous sound that made the entire realm tremble,

a laughter that seemed to shake the very air itself.

“You haven’t changed… still as arrogant as ever, Verge—”

The name left his mouth with disdain.

But Vergil had already unsheathed Yamato halfway, and pure blue light ignited in his eyes — a flash like lightning tearing through the dark.

He spoke in a tone of deadly calm, each word cutting the air like a blade:

“Do not ever speak that name with your filthy mouth again.”

The demon smiled slowly, as if testing his patience.

"Ah... that title is precious to you, isn’t it? It belongs to your brother, Dante... why didn’t you bring him along? It would’ve been so much more... entertaining. Just imagine — the sons of Sparda, both under my mercy."

Vergil gripped Yamato tightly until the veins in his hands bulged.

"Leave him out of this, Khar’zhul. What’s between us... stays here."

Silence lingered for a moment. The executioner’s stare grew so heavy it seemed to crush the air itself, then he turned away slowly. The flames around them began to shift colors rapidly — crimson melting into black, blue seeping through like the Underworld itself was preparing for a sacred ritual.

The executioner lifted his massive hammer, molten metal dripping from its edges, and said in a voice that split the very air: "Seems you’ve failed your previous lesson, Vergil... let’s start again from the beginning."

Then the hammer came down with a quake that shook all of Hell. From the blood-red light, the ground between them split open, and from its depths rose black fumes like groaning shadows. In an instant, bodies emerged — cracked armor, metallic skin, their faces bearing the erased features of Vergil himself.

Replicas of Nelo Angelo.

Their eyes hollow, their aura pure obedience to the Grand Smith.

Khar’zhul raised his head high, his voice echoing with every pulse: "Pain is not an end... it is a process of forging."

Vergil looked at the distorted copies — cursed echoes of his own past, standing behind the executioner like an army of shame and steel. He didn’t wait for the circle to close. Yamato flashed from its sheath, a blue streak cleaving through the darkness, and the first replica lunged toward him with a metallic shriek. A single strike split it cleanly in two, and in swift movements he ended the pitiful lives of the rest.

Khar’zhul lifted his hammer once more, crimson flames spiraling around him like living vortices. Each strike upon the scarlet anvil sent shockwaves that struck the soul before the ground.

The first wave of red resurgence began — the earth heaved, and shadowy hands reached from the rocks, grasping at Vergil’s legs, trying to drag him into the depths of the fire.

Vergil leapt back, Yamato flashing like blue lightning, slicing through the arms as if cutting through solid smoke. Each stroke tore the air itself, as if rending the layers of nothingness apart.

But Khar’zhul still hadn’t moved; he was recalibrating the rhythm—

It seemed he wouldn’t allow him to breathe, for in the next moment came the third transformation. The red flames sank into suffocating blackness, and Hell itself changed its tone — the Black Twist.

Wherever his hammer struck, new forms emerged: swords twisting into limbs that bore the heads of the army thought to be slain. Each one attacked in eerie harmony with their master’s blows. The air filled with fragmented cries of incomplete, tormented souls.

Vergil was not fighting an army of flesh — but an army of agony.

One lunged at him, blade fractured, and Vergil summoned his Doppelganger, letting it handle the swarm of hands and lesser threats, cutting down anything that dared approach its master.

Vergil unfurled his wings, soaring back, then formed a field of energy around himself, buying a breath of time. He gazed at his opponent — still hammering upon that anvil.

Damn it... this won’t work.

Khar’zhul, sadist though he was, did not fight with mindless violence; his battle was ritualistic, precise — every strike had timing and purpose. Worse yet, he was luring Vergil into his own domain to tighten his control.

That meant the place itself was his weapon.

Vergil had walked knowingly into the lion’s den.

But every beast has a weakness — his symbolic core, the glowing nucleus within his chest. If Vergil could strike there, it would end. The question was how, with those endless armies swarming.

His gaze shifted toward the hammer and the anvil. His eyes narrowed — then a faint smile tugged at his lips.

He inhaled sharply, and in a second, brilliant blue scales shimmered across his body, his wings snapping open violently as his full demonic form emerged.

He shot forward toward Khar’zhul, Yamato drawn before him, a thread of light piercing through the realm of shadows. His first strike wasn’t aimed at the executioner’s chest — but at his hammer; he intended to break the rhythm before breaking the bones.

Hammer and blade collided at once, the entire realm trembling. A storm of sparks and fiery winds erupted around them, obliterating the remaining twisted replicas.

Below them, the warped soldiers still screamed and lunged, but burned to ash the moment they entered the arena of two titans.

Khar’zhul pressed harder, his hammer forcing Vergil back.

"What do you intend to do, son of the traitor? You are in my kingdom — every atom here moves at my will!"

Vergil ignored his words; his eyes fixed on that fiery point in his opponent’s chest — the nucleus, the ritual heart binding him to the ground itself. He knew this was his chance, but he couldn’t reach it without first weakening him.

He kicked Khar’zhul square in the chest, forcing the giant back several meters, the flames beneath him flickering like a candle in a storm.

In the next instant, Vergil lunged again. Yamato carved through the air in relentless azure arcs, each strike aiming closer, closer — toward that burning core.

Every blow sought to shatter the ritual rhythm protecting it.

Khar’zhul swung his hammer in furious resolve, sparks bursting with every clash of metal; sword and hammer collided again and again — thunder and iron fused, blow after blow, blue and red fire raining around them.

Neither gained ground.

The very air began to tremble under the pressure of their strikes. Vergil attacked in silent determination; the executioner countered with roaring force. Each tried to impose his rhythm — until the battlefield itself became a celestial forge where eternity was hammered into shape.

"When I seize you this time..." Khar’zhul’s voice oozed venom between gritted teeth, "I won’t let you escape. I’ll destroy your soul, and reshape it into—"

He didn’t finish.

In a sudden turn, his lower flames dimmed, the smoke around him faltered, and his hammer fell heavy to the ground. The executioner staggered, groaning like cracking metal.

"What... what have you done to me?" he shouted, panic twisting his voice.

Vergil said nothing. He only raised one finger — a silent gesture, but enough.

Khar’zhul turned, and his eyes widened in horror.

The anvil — the core of his ritual — had fractured in two, and from its cracks rose a shining Doppelganger, pure azure, a mirrored reflection of him — a glaring echo of his crumbling dominion.

A deadly thrill surged through Vergil.

Fear took hold of the creature that once tormented him. He lifted Yamato horizontally — and struck. The blade pierced the engraved metal plate on the demon’s chest, drove deep into the burning core, and a white spark burst forth — like a heart breaking in half.

The pulsating sigil across Khar’zhul’s chest faded, and with it, his lower half — gone entirely.

The demon’s scream was a shrill symphony in Vergil’s ears — but it no longer held any power.

The pit of Hell cracked apart; the vortex lost its rhythm, collapsing into a frail heap of stones around its dying master.

"Impossible... I cannot be defeated!" the creature stammered, his voice trembling with broken authority.

Vergil returned to his human form, a disgusted smile curving across his lips like a blossom of triumph.

"You said you wanted to reshape me?" he said coldly.

"You ruined my life for years, tried to break my will — and failed. Do you know why? Because you’re a counterfeit smith, forged by Mundus to serve as his watchdog in this pit of his realm. You gave yourself far too much importance the moment you summoned me here."

The once-mighty executioner’s body darkened, his vibrant colors fading like paint scraped from an old canvas. Yet he laughed — a choking, arrogant laugh.

Sweat trickled down Vergil’s temple, a sign of rising fury. "What’s so funny?"

The sound slipped through broken laughter, turning into mocking words: "Ha... ha... You... you’re amusing. Did you really think this trap was built for you alone?"

Then his tone sharpened, revealing something sinister. "We... didn’t build this for you."

"We?" Vergil demanded, his stance tensing, Yamato ready. "Who are you talking about?"

The answer came like a curse whispered by many mouths:"It’s your brother..." the voices hissed, dripping with malice.

"All of this... was to isolate Izrethia with him. To avenge our fallen king."

Vergil froze. Time itself seemed to halt.

The words struck him like a curse of ice: “Your brother… all this, to isolate Izrethia with him.”Not a lie — but an indictment that rearranged every moment he had lived.

Images of Dante flashed through his mind — their last talk, the farewell at the gate — each memory dripping into his chest like poisoned arrows.

Had he, in trying to protect his brother, delivered him into a snare woven by unseen hands?

Had his coldness, his distance, made Dante an easy target for the lurking plot?

He wanted to trust his brother’s strength — yet the calm, confident smirk on Khar’zhul’s face even in defeat made it feel as though his victory had only advanced a larger scheme.

He shook his head in disbelief. "You won’t succeed... Dante is strong — stronger than you could ever know."

Khar’zhul’s tone softened, calm but venomous: "True... he is strong. Both of you are. That’s why we chose a vile method, beneath even us — but the only one guaranteed to work. To end the Sparda bloodline... by killing the legendary hunter, and leaving you as the last, weeping witness. Thank you... for your short-sightedness."

Vergil couldn’t bear to hear the rest. He raised his boot and crushed the demon’s head, shattering it into black ash that scattered into the suffocating air.

The pit of Hell trembled violently, the death of its master breaking the balance that sustained it.

Vergil grasped Yamato and slashed the air three times — the blade tore open a dark rift like a wound in reality.

Moments later, he stood once more upon the rocky ledge — the place he’d left Dante. Relief washed through him as he saw his brother sitting there, unharmed. He had been right... nothing was stronger than Dante.

But something wasn’t right.

Dante sat with his head bowed, face tense, as if fighting off unseen pain.

"Dante?" Vergil called, concern lacing his voice.

The red twin turned quickly, eyes widening in shock. "Verge?! You’re back?!"

He looked around — the rift that had been open moments ago was gone, replaced by plain stone.

"What? When did it close?!"

Vergil frowned. "You didn’t notice?"

Dante shook his head wearily. "No... someone distracted me," he said, gesturing outward.

Vergil stepped forward warily — and saw it: the corpse of a demoness, her lower half spider-like.

"Is that... Izrethia?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. You know her?"

Vergil placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders, examining him carefully, searching for any hidden wound.

"Did she do anything to you, Dante?"

"What’s with you?"

"Just answer me — did she?"

Dante chuckled softly, a hint of mockery in his tone. "Of course not. What could she possibly do?"

Vergil exhaled a long, tense breath, his hysteria easing at last. "Then... you’re fine."

"I’m great, brother. The question is you — did you handle it? Is it finally over?"

Vergil looked down at the corpse on the ground. "I don’t know... maybe."

But deep inside, something whispered that it wasn’t. That the worst was yet to come.

Before he could finish the thought, Dante suddenly pulled him into a crushing, warm embrace. 

"Thanks for coming back, Verge... thank you," he said, voice overflowing with gratitude.

Vergil froze for a moment, unsure how to react, then slowly raised his hand and rested it on his brother’s head.

"Yeah..." he murmured softly. "Everything’s fine."

Chapter Text

POV Dante:

Dante can’t believe it.

Hours or maybe minutes —he had long lost any sense of time—after that black hole swallowed his brother he sat on the cold rock, tapping the ground with the tip of his boot unconsciously, as if trying to strangle the anxiety multiplying inside him. It wasn’t the fear of death that weighed on his chest, but the very idea of waiting itself; waiting that devours everything alive within you until nothing remains but an echo.

He fought his negative thoughts with all the stubbornness and old habits he had. He kept repeating to himself that Vergil cannot be defeated, that the underworld cannot break him, that the fire he saw in his brother’s eyes was not made to fade. And yet, with every moment passing without a trace of him, his confidence slowly eroded.

As if that wasn’t enough, fate decided to worsen his dreadful waiting with a piercing pain in his head.

At first, it was only a flash of passing ache — then a flood of dull, sharp pain pulsing deep within his skull, like someone knocking on a locked door. He pressed his fingers against his temples, panting. He didn’t know where this sudden attack had come from, but it was strong enough to shatter his focus — so much that he didn’t even feel Vergil’s magical energy behind him until he heard his voice calling.

When he turned and saw him, the blood froze in his veins.

He had returned.

Just as he promised.

And… he looked normal — too normal. No madness in his eyes, no trace of that overwhelming force, no cryptic phrases muttered under his breath when he lost control. Just Vergil... his twin.

But something wasn’t right.

There was a faint tremor in his hand, a muted hysteria in his voice as he examined Dante anxiously, searching for wounds that didn’t exist.

Dante didn’t understand why — and he didn’t care to. All that mattered was that his brother was back.

He forgot the headache gnawing at his skull.

Forgot the black gate that was no longer behind him.

Forgot that something strange lingered at the edge of his awareness, hiding in the shadows of his mind. There was no room for anything but that rare, overwhelming relief — the feeling of escaping a postponed death.

So he embraced him — tightly, without hesitation, without words. He felt the warmth of his body, the solidness that proved he was real. Not a ghost, not a hallucination from another hell.

He felt Vergil’s hand pat his head, murmuring that everything was fine — and Dante believed it easily, because it came from Vergil’s mouth, and Vergil never lied.

With uncharacteristic gentleness, Vergil broke the embrace, pushing his twin slightly back with both hands, gripping his shoulders firmly while staring into his eyes, searching for something unseen.

Dante could feel the worry radiating from his brother — the kind of tension that doesn’t fade even after victory. It was strange to see fear in the face of someone who had just walked out of the heart of hell… victorious.

With a nervous smile meant to lighten the air, Dante said, "I’m fine, Vergil… I swear."

But the icy blue eyes didn’t calm. They flicked between him and the corpse lying nearby — as if it still held an invisible threat.

Dante asked in a low, uneasy tone, "What is it? Why are you so tense? What happened?"

The older twin closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. When he opened them again, his gaze was strange — not just protective, but deeper.

"Khar’zhul told me… they planned to eliminate you."

The words hit Dante’s ears like a stone dropped into a deep well. He suddenly remembered Izrethia’s final words — the way she whispered her threats, as though she hadn’t truly died.

I’m sorry it has to be this way for someone as beautiful as you… but the decision isn’t mine.

He asked hesitantly, "What exactly did that Khar’zhul tell you?"

Vergil bent slowly toward the corpse, turning it with his hand, staring at its charred features as if searching for truth in the remains of lies.

"He said they were planning something bigger… revenge for your killing of Mundus."

"They?"

"Yes… him, and this she-demon. Dante, tell me — what did she do to you?"

Dante held his breath for a moment. In that exact moment, he understood there was something that shouldn’t be said. He knew there had been three of them, not two, and that things hadn’t ended with their fall. And that… he hadn’t walked away from his meeting with Izrethia the same as he entered it.

His hand — without conscious thought — drifted to his neck, to the spot where that strange thing had pricked him. It still ached faintly, though it left no visible mark.

But Vergil noticed.

He saw that small gesture as clearly as a scream.

He lunged forward like a hawk, seizing Dante’s wrist and forcing his hand away roughly from his neck, his eyes scanning for any trace of what he feared.

Dante froze — not from the pain of the grip, but from the terror that Vergil might actually find something. Something that would change everything.

Every muscle in his body screamed: Don’t find anything… don’t find anything…

Then came the voice he didn’t know he’d been waiting for: "There’s nothing there…"

The words came softly, like a breeze after a storm. Relief washed over Vergil’s face first, then spread to Dante, extinguishing every flicker of fear in an instant.

"Really?" Dante asked, smiling faintly, hope returning to his voice.

The blue twin nodded quietly, his features finally relaxing, before saying in an unusually warm tone, "Dante… answer me honestly. Do you want us to be the brothers we were never allowed to be?"

Dante looked at him for a moment, then smiled — a pure, unguarded smile. "Of course, brother."

"Then don’t hide anything from me… don’t keep things inside. You don’t have to anymore."

The pleading tone in Vergil’s voice tore down all the walls Dante had built over the years. He hadn’t spoken like this — not even on that day when they sat together by the river.

Vergil was still tense, even after finding nothing on his brother’s neck. Dante could feel it easily; it had always been easy for them — as hybrid twins — to sense each other’s energy, hear each other’s heartbeats, even feel each other’s emotions, both light and dark.

And now, Dante realized that Vergil didn’t deserve that from him… didn’t deserve to have things hidden from him in such a selfish way.

So, in a slow motion — as if his mind resisted what his heart had decided to do — he reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled something out. Small, rusted, yet strange in its structure — it looked like a fang split in half, devoid of the energy that once pulsed through it.

He stepped closer, his voice calmer than he expected: "During my fight with the demoness… someone shot this at me. Hit me right in the neck."

Vergil’s eyes widened. He took the fang from his brother’s hand and examined it with deadly precision, turning it between his fingers, flipping it over — but the surface was empty. No energy, no magic. As if whatever was inside it had been completely drained.

He asked in a cautious tone, "Did you see who fired it at you?"

"No…" Dante shook his head. "And it wasn’t Izrethia, I’m sure of it. But don’t worry, nothing happened to me. A failed assassination attempt, nothing more. Believe me, I’ve been through worse since I was a teenager. It’s nothing new."

"Did you…" Vergil paused for a moment, as if a question lingered on his tongue but he hesitated to voice it. Then he finally asked,

"Do you feel… anything strange? Any symptoms, perhaps?"

Dante scowled, brushing his hair aside then letting it fall messily back into place as he muttered.

"I told you I’m fine. Believe me, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m the son of Sparda, man — the legendary Dante! I won’t go down from some rusty dart. Remember, we’ve got the strongest metabolism in all of Hell. No poison, no curse, no weapon can take us out."

Vergil didn’t answer right away. He only stared again at the strange fang between his fingers, then closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"…Alright. You’re right. But if you feel anything — anything at all — you tell me immediately, understood?"

Dante smiled faintly. "Okay, mom. I will."

A short laugh escaped Vergil — genuine this time, quiet, like a breath after battle. "Idiot."

Dante laughed back. "Really? Idiot? Who would’ve thought the great King of Darkness, Vergil himself, could be so overprotective of his little brother?"

Vergil replied with a tone that carried the ghost of a smirk: "Keep testing my patience, and you’ll be the only one who loses…"

Dante chuckled — light, but sincere — and felt as though a mountain of lead had finally lifted off his shoulders. For a fleeting moment, he thought that maybe, just maybe, everything had returned to how it was always meant to be.

Until he saw Vergil start to move away, his steps steady, silent, as always.

"Where to, Verge?" Dante asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and ease.

Vergil answered without turning around, "We have to return to the human world as soon as possible… this place has become a nest of traps, and time isn’t on our side. Who knows what they’re planning next?"

Dante had nothing to say. He simply followed quietly, his steps calm, resigned — his eyes lingering on Izrethia’s body as it began to disintegrate, turning into blue ash that scattered slowly in the stream of hot wind, as if she had never existed at all. Each particle that vanished carried away the last traces of the comfort he had tried to convince himself of.

He lifted a hand to his forehead, feeling the headache grow stronger — slower this time, but deeper, as though something inside him was painfully rearranging itself. He didn’t want to worry Vergil — not now, not after everything.

He only glanced at his brother’s cold, composed face beside him — that strange calm that somehow brought peace despite the old tension buried underneath it.

Maybe he could endure this for a while… for Vergil’s sake, for both of them.

And with every step they took away from that rocky crater, Dante hoped this would be the last dark memory he ever left behind.

                                   ..........

Dante didn’t feel fine at all.

Since their last adventure, he and Vergil had returned to their usual routine — wandering through the barren lands in search of the right place to open the gate, cutting down any demon that crossed their path — or toying with them a little before finishing them off, as Dante used to joke — and then resting somewhere quiet, where the evening would end either with one of them falling asleep or with a friendly spar between the twins.

Everything seemed just as it always had been. Even those mysterious red messages that had worried Vergil had vanished completely, as if their sender had suddenly decided to stop. That was a rare relief for both of them.

Everything was normal… except for one thing: Dante’s body itself.

The pain was no longer a passing visitor — it had become a constant companion, whispering through every nerve and muscle that something was wrong. Don’t misunderstand — Dante knew pain well; he had lived with it through countless battles and fed on it until it became a part of who he was.

But this was different.

The headache this time was unlike anything he had ever felt. It hadn’t stopped for days, only growing sharper, as if something were trying to carve its way out from inside his skull. His head felt heavy as stone, so much that it seemed about to fall from his shoulders. Dizziness accompanied every step, and nausea struck his stomach without mercy.

He wasn’t sure anymore whether this was just fatigue from fighting… or the beginning of something else, something strange forming inside him — slowly and silently — since the moment that fang pierced his neck.

To make things worse, it seemed as though the underworld itself had decided to double his suffering. At any moment, without warning, the weather would turn against him — sometimes so hot that his clothes scraped his skin with every movement and he wished he could tear them off completely, and other times so cold that he had to button his coat up to his neck to stop shivering.

There was no logic to this strange fluctuation. Within mere minutes he would go from cold sweat dripping down his brow to a biting chill numbing his fingers, as though the blood had stopped flowing through them. His body existed between extremes — never enough warmth to rest, nor enough coolness to stay steady.

The strangest part was that Vergil didn’t seem to feel the same — as if Dante were the only one suffering through it… or perhaps Vergil simply wasn’t complaining. So Dante turned to silence, pretending everything was fine. And it seemed Vergil believed him easily enough, despite his ever-watchful gaze.

Dante knew it was wrong — he had promised his brother he would tell him if he felt anything strange — but he couldn’t bring himself to admit that something was wrong, that whatever had been injected into him had started to take effect.

Maybe he just needed to wait until his body purged the toxins.

He just needed some time. He would resist — as he always did — until his body took over and expelled whatever poison had found its way inside.

That was what he tried to convince himself of.

Until the day that illusion finally collapsed.

During a fierce battle against a massive horde of demons, Dante was at his best — at least on the surface. He moved with deadly grace among his enemies, tearing through them one by one without mercy. His battle-hungry spirit reveled in the challenge, especially when it seemed the demons’ numbers would never end.

But something suddenly changed — a sharp wave of dizziness struck his head, and his vision blurred, as though fog had filled his eyes from the inside. For a moment, he lost his balance — and that moment was all it took for one of the Hell Antenora to lunge at him with its scythe.

Instinct alone saved him. At the last second, he regained his footing and countered with a side strike that split his attacker in two — but the scythe had already left a long mark across his forearm, a shallow wound on the surface… yet it felt different.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. The wound was still open. No regeneration. No healing. No demonic glow stitching the flesh back together.

Damn it… impossible.

Dante quickly pulled down his coat sleeve, hiding the ugly mark before Vergil could notice anything. The last thing he needed now was that worried look from his brother — or his endless questions.

After a brief silence and a few ragged breaths following the battle, they agreed to stop for a while. Vergil sat polishing his gleaming blade and wiping the black blood from his clothes, his eyes occasionally flicking toward Dante — calm on the surface, yet filled with suspicion, as if waiting for a single moment of weakness to expose whatever his brother was hiding.

As for Dante, he chose to distance himself a little.

He leaned against a jagged outcrop of rock, staring at the wound that had finally begun to heal — but at a pace that was painfully unlike him. The bleeding had stopped, yes, but the long scar that remained was proof that something inside him wasn’t working as it should.

His mind began piecing things together — recalling what he’d heard before, connecting every detail, every symptom, every sign.

I’m sorry it has to be this way for someone as lovely as you... but the decision isn’t mine

Red veins suddenly appeared around the new scar and began to turn into dark, faintly glowing threads, as if pulsing with a hidden heat.

Khar’zhul told me… they planned to eliminate you.

He feels a searing heat beneath his skin, as if the flames within him are awakening on their own.

He said they were planning something bigger… revenge for your killing of Mundus.

His breathing grew heavier, each exhale escaping like hot steam. His vision trembled slightly, and he could hear a faint “ringing” in his ears.

"Dante!!"

Do you want us to be the brothers we were never allowed to be?

The sweating stopped suddenly, a chill spreading through all his limbs. He felt a heaviness in his chest, as if his heart were slowing its beats. The dark lines around the wound vanished, and his once-healed wound reopened and began to bleed.

"Dante???"

Don’t hide anything from me… don’t keep things inside. You don’t have to anymore

Dante feels trapped within his own body: a moment of burning, a moment of freezing. His heartbeat quickens, then suddenly slows — causing intense dizziness and vertigo, and the sound of his own heartbeats becomes audible in his ears.

"DANTE!!!?"

Vergil’s voice — sharp and sudden — pierced through Dante’s daze like a blade to the chest.

He lifted his head quickly, tugging down his sleeve in haste, as if caught doing something that was never meant to be seen. Vergil’s footsteps approached with steady precision — the kind that made the air itself feel heavier around him.

Dante exhaled with forced nonchalance and turned toward him, smiling faintly: “Yes, brother… I hear you. Why are you yelling like that?”

Vergil stopped in front of him, arms crossed, his tone calm but steeped in suspicion: “I called you several times, Dante… You seemed like you were somewhere else.”

The lie slipped from Dante’s lips more easily than he expected, though his voice was frail.

“I heard you… I just didn’t answer.”

He thought a little provocation would make his brother leave him alone — but he forgot who he was dealing with. Vergil doesn’t forget, and he never lets things pass without an explanation.

Vergil raised an eyebrow slightly, his icy blue eyes gleaming with quiet doubt: “Brother… you know I can hear your heartbeat, don’t you? It was fluctuating — fast, then slow. What’s going on?”

Dante said nothing, trying to steady the trembling in his fingers from the sudden chill sweeping through his body. “Why were you staring at your arm all this time?”

He didn’t answer. He stayed silent, staring at the ground like he was searching for an escape.

“Dante?”

The second call came softer, closer to a plea than a reprimand. But Dante didn’t lift his head. He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to swallow everything he felt — fear, pity, anger, disgust at himself and at his weakness.

Finally, his voice came out low, tired, as if each word was dragged from a chest suffocating with secrets. “Please, Vergil… just let it go.”

“I can’t.”

Vergil’s voice was firm, cutting, brooking no argument. He grabbed Dante’s arm and pulled the fabric up despite a weak resistance — one that didn’t last long. The younger twin finally yielded in heavy silence.

Vergil examined the arm with meticulous care, but found nothing. The scar was gone, as if it had never existed — no mark, no color, no trace. Dante exhaled in feigned relief, while Vergil continued to stare at his brother’s arm, as though the answer was hidden beneath the skin.

“You’re acting strange, Dante… I hope you’re not hiding something.”

Dante smirked lazily, raising an eyebrow. “Relax, Verge. Tone down the overprotective drama… save it for your son, Nero.”

A quiet, rare chuckle escaped Vergil, laced with his usual sarcasm. “… I may not know Nero well, but I’m certain you’re far more irritating and childish than he is.”

Dante laughed in turn, a short, uneven sound, before shoving his hands into his pockets for warmth.

Damn it… if he’d known it’d be this cold, he’d have worn something thicker.

“It’s not cold at all, dear brother.”

He turned to him with mild surprise. “Did I say that out loud?”

Vergil didn’t answer. He stepped closer and placed a hand on Dante’s forehead, gauging his temperature with a doctor’s detachment and a brother’s roughness. Then he pulled Dante’s hand from his pocket, feeling the skin — cold as ice.

“You really are freezing… I felt it when I checked your arm, but I convinced myself otherwise.”

Dante smiled weakly, brushing off the concern. “That’s normal… I’m always sensitive to the cold.” He gently pulled his hand back, wrapping his arms around himself.

“But there is no cold, Dante… the air is perfectly mild.”

“So what?” he shot back defensively. “You’re wearing thicker clothes, and I’m stuck with these rags that can’t even block a breeze.” He said it with a mocking grin, tugging at his worn black shirt.

“We don’t feel cold or heat, Dante.”

“No… I do.”

“Dan—”

“ENOUGH!” he suddenly shouted, cutting him off with a burst of anger even he hadn’t expected. He stepped back a few paces, guilt etched on his face. “I’m fine, Vergil! Stop making excuses just to—”

The words froze in his throat.

A sharp constriction seized his chest, as if someone was crushing it from the inside. The air turned heavy, his breathing ragged, and his vision began to blur. The world around him quivered like an image rippling in disturbed water, and a deafening ringing filled his head until it drowned out everything.

A muffled scream — a hand caught him, stopping his fall _Vergil’s hand_

He saw his brother’s lips move, shouting his name, but no sound reached him.

The light faded, and the darkness embraced him — as though it had been waiting for him all along.

                                     ...........   

POV Vergil:

“DANTE!!!”

Vergil shouted at the top of his lungs — a cry that shook the echo of the mountains around them, a sound laced with both rage and pure fear — as he reached out to catch his brother’s body before it hit the hard ground. The weight of his twin in his arms was a painful shock — he had never seen him this weak before.

He knelt slowly, holding Dante as if he were something fragile, setting him down on the ground with an unfamiliar gentleness, trying in vain to keep his head from touching the dirt.

“Dante?!” His voice dropped from a scream to a whisper, but it still carried that trembling undertone of suppressed panic.

He watched his brother’s face as his eyes closed further and further, his breathing slowing, his body gradually going limp in his arms — until control left him completely, like a puppet whose last string had been cut.

Vergil held his brother’s face between his hands, his fingers trembling against his will, desperately trying to keep him present, calling out to him from beyond that strange unconsciousness that had swallowed him whole.

“Answer me, Dante…” he muttered hoarsely, his voice closer to pleading than command. “Open your damned eyes… hear me!”

But it was useless.

Dante’s face was pale in a way that could terrify even demons. His lips had lost all color, and his body — once a vessel of energy and warmth — was now impossibly cold.

Vergil brushed his trembling hand lightly across his chest, searching for any reassuring rhythm, any heartbeat that could ease his mind.

A weak pulse… broken… irregular.

Damn it.

Vergil exhaled harshly, as though even the act of breathing pained him, lowering his head for a moment, trying to hide the shaking of his hand from himself before anyone else.

“Damn you…” Vergil whispered in a cracked tone, barely resembling his usual voice, as he stared at his brother’s pale features. “Why didn’t you tell me you were suffering like this, you fool?”

He quickly tore off his heavy coat and wrapped it around Dante’s trembling body. That body had always been warm, alive even in the heart of Hell — but now it felt like a strange block of ice.

“Were you planning to collapse here? In a world like this?” His voice came out as a mix of anger and worry — a failed attempt to mask the raw terror gnawing inside him. But Dante didn’t hear him… he was too far gone.

Vergil tightened his grip on the coat around his younger brother, as if he could force warmth back into him by will alone. For a few seconds, he didn’t move — only stared in heavy silence, his mind torn between shock and denial. Then he raised his head, and the blue gleam in his eyes began to expand, little by little.

“There’s no time to stay here.”

He unleashed his immense power, blue energy bursting from his body like lightning tearing through Hell’s darkness, his form gradually shifting into Sin Devil Trigger — his full demonic state. Blue wings unfurled from his back with a sound like a muffled explosion, and fragments of energy fell around him like glowing ash.

With careful strength, he reached out and lifted his twin from the ground as though lifting something sacred. For a moment, he hesitated — he wasn’t used to holding Dante like this, frail, without his usual smirk or sharp wit. He looked almost like a stranger.

Then Vergil tightened his grip and rose into the air. The gray winds swept through Dante’s white hair as Vergil’s wings sliced through the underworld’s skies with terrifying force — searching for shelter.

..

..

..

The air in the underworld was heavy, suffocating, saturated with the scent of ash and iron. Vergil’s wings beat fiercely against the sky. He flew with such speed it nearly burned the air around him, holding his twin’s body close while gripping his coat tightly to keep the cold from seeping in.

But cold was no longer the problem — it was the suffocating silence that surrounded Dante. No movement, no sound, no familiar childish complaint. He had never felt a weight like this before; it was as though the body in his arms had lost both its weight and its meaning.

His eyes wandered over the devastation below — valleys of blood, pillars of smoke, souls screaming in silence. There was no safe place here. Yet after a long, desperate search, he spotted a gap between mountains of black stone.

He descended slowly, his wings stirring spirals of red dust, until his feet touched the ground at last. Carefully, he extended his hand and laid Dante on the rocky, solid earth, as if placing one of his oldest treasures back where it belonged.

He took a deep breath. Then he closed his eyes. With deliberate will, he allowed his Sin Devil Trigger form to fade — the wings dissolving like smoke, the blue light dimming little by little, the demonic roar within his chest dying until only a faint echo remained. He returned to his humanity.

He sat beside his brother, watching his face. The color that had been deathly pale began to change... but not as he expected.

Within moments, he felt an odd warmth radiating from the body. He reached out, placing his hand on Dante’s forehead — only to be startled by a burning heat beneath the skin. The temperature was rising uncontrollably, as if fire were igniting inside him. The body that had been frozen minutes ago was now boiling from within.

“What the hell…” Vergil muttered, stepping back half a pace before leaning in again cautiously, pressing his fingers to his brother’s neck. The pulse… fast. Far too fast.

He pulled back Dante’s sleeve to see what was hidden there — and froze.

Black veins began to surface along his arm, branching under the skin like a web of toxic ink, creeping slowly toward his shoulder, his chest, then his neck. Each heartbeat fed them further, as if something inside his body were trying to expand, to spread, to take control.

Then came a sudden gasp from Dante — as if he had swallowed the breath of Hell itself. His hand shot to his chest, fingers clutching over his heart as though something within him was trying to claw its way out. A faint groan tore from his throat, his voice twisting between pain and suffocation, his face drawn tight in a terrifying grimace — his brow covered in sweat, and his facial muscles trembling as though fire ran through his veins instead of blood.

And suddenly — light.

A crimson flash burst from his body, flooding the entire place, blinding Vergil for a moment and casting flickering shadows across the surrounding stone walls. Vergil took a half-step back, shielding his eyes with his hand — but what he saw next made him freeze where he stood.

Dante… had transformed into his full demonic form. His body lifted slightly from the ground, bright red wings unfurled from his back — but before Vergil could even comprehend what was happening, the light vanished as suddenly as it appeared. The demon disappeared, and the human body fell back in its place — frail, weak, as though everything that happened was a fleeting nightmare.

The shock left Vergil staring wide-eyed, his breath caught in his throat. He moved quickly, supporting Dante with a steady hand and pressing lightly against his shoulder, searching for any further sign. But the black veins… were gone. As if they had never existed.

He didn’t understand. Was what he witnessed a surge of poison, or an eruption of opposing demonic energy? Whatever it was, it defied every law he knew, twisting Dante’s energy from within.

And suddenly, a voice — deep, resonant, heavy with sickly confidence and threat — rose from the depths of his mind, words he had wished to forget…

we chose a vile method, beneath even us — but the only one guaranteed to work. To end the Sparda bloodline... by killing the legendary hunter, and leaving you as the last, weeping witness. Thank you... for your short-sightedness

Khar’zhul’s words slipped into his memory like a cold stab. He remembered the Grand Blacksmith’s gaze, that twisted smile that never left his face even as he crumbled to ash. And now, the meaning was clear... the target wasn’t Dante alone — it was him too, as a helpless witness to his brother’s fall.

He sat beside him quietly, as if the very earth did not deserve to make a sound near his brother’s exhausted body. He reached out gently and touched Dante’s cheek with the tips of his fingers with a caution and tenderness he had never dared show in his life. Dante’s breaths began to return slowly to a more stable rhythm. The fever vanished, and his heat dropped alarmingly, replaced by that dreadful cold... but at least he was breathing.

Vergil whispered in a weary voice, barely audible even to Hell itself: “What did they do to you, my brother...? How did I allow myself to leave you vulnerable prey to those bastards?”

His words trembled between anger and guilt. He felt as if everything he had tried to repair between them was collapsing again — not because of their past, but because of his failure. He, who thought he had learned from the past, had fallen into the same pit again.

He lowered his head slightly, his gaze fixed on Dante’s sleeping face, then murmured in a voice closer to confession: “He was right... my short-sightedness has always been the cause of everything... from the beginning... since I let jealousy blind me... and since I believed our mother chose you over me.”

He paused for a moment, fighting the quiver in his voice, then reached out to re-cover his brother’s body with the coat, doing so with a carefulness that revealed a deep, paternal worry. He moved slowly and sat pressed against him, then gently lifted Dante’s head and rested it on his lap. His fingers brushed his sweaty hair, then stroked gently behind his ear as their mother used to do. He breathed deeply, tense, trying to calm an unrest within him that would not quiet.

In a voice so soft it almost choked with the intensity of sincerity, he said: “Open your eyes, Dante...”

Then he added in a whisper, as if promises were being made to the dead before the living: “I swear to you... I will find a way, no matter the cost. I will tear this poison from your veins, even if I must burn the Underworld with my own hands.”

Chapter Text

POV Dante:

The first thing Dante became aware of was pain.

A dense, crushing pain unlike anything he had ever known, burrowing deep into his skull as if two iron plates were pressing against his head with deliberate cruelty. It wasn’t the pain of battle, nor even of a deep wound — it was something else… something deeper, as though fire itself had ignited within his brain. He tried to lift his head, but all that escaped him was a faint groan, breaking midway and swallowed by sheer weakness.

Then came the cold.

An unnatural cold, so severe he felt as though his very bones were trembling. In his dazed mind he wondered — had he forgotten to close the window? But he soon mocked himself. What window? Even if one were open, it would never make him feel this way. The weather was never a problem for him… even in the fiercest storms, he had never felt such frost. His body had never known cold — until now.

Something heavy lay atop him. Soft fabric pressed against his skin… a blanket? He tried moving his hand, but his limbs didn’t respond — as if they weren’t part of him anymore. After a few desperate attempts, he finally managed to lift his hand, trembling violently enough to make him grit his teeth, then pulled the edge of the cover closer in search of some lost warmth.

Then he heard it.

A voice — distant, distorted, as if rising from underwater: “Dante…”

He didn’t care. All he wanted was to sleep… just a few more minutes. The fatigue was suffocating, and the darkness beckoned him softly, seductively.

But the voice returned — closer now, firmer, more insistent: “Brother… you need to wake up.”

The word "brother" pierced through the haze of his consciousness like a bright arrow.

A voice he knew.

He knew it completely.

He wasn’t just hearing words — he was hearing an entire past carried in its tone: caution, fear, and restrained anger.

Vergil?

Was he delirious? The last thing he remembered was… pain, the fall, then nothing. Was he still in Hell? When did he fall asleep? And why did his body feel like it no longer belonged to him?

Slowly — dragging mountains behind his eyelids — he opened his eyes.

At first, all he saw was gray mist drifting before him, colors blurring into shapeless circles, until the world began to take form. 

Shadows… eroded rocks… a dim ceiling veined with cracks of faint red light.

“Dante?”

He lifted his gaze with effort. This time, his brother’s voice was clear, cutting through the remnants of unconsciousness.

Vergil’s face hovered above him — too close — wearing an expression Dante hadn’t seen in a long time: a mix of worry, guilt, and fear.

Only then did he realize his head rested on Vergil’s lap, and that the blue coat covering him wasn’t his own — it was Vergil’s.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper: “What… happened?”

Vergil didn’t answer immediately. He simply stared at him for a moment, then lifted a hand to wipe the cold sweat from Dante’s forehead, in silence heavier than any words.

Finally, he murmured softly, the relief in his voice palpable: “At last… I thought you’d left me this time.”

Dante blinked slowly, gathering the scattered fragments of memory. His head still ached, but the only clear thought in his mind was that Vergil was here — watching over him.

He looked at the coat draped over him, then at his brother’s exhausted face, and felt a pang in his chest — he wasn’t sure if it came from pain… or gratitude.

He muttered faintly, “Damn it… how long was I out?”

Vergil replied with a faint, uncharacteristic smile: “Long enough to make me rethink my entire life.”

Despite the fatigue gnawing at him, Dante chuckled weakly: “Guess I worried you again, huh?”

He tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey. Every muscle screamed in protest; even the smallest movement demanded impossible strength. Vergil immediately reached out, helping him rise slowly until he was sitting upright, then carefully tucked the coat around him, his hands pressing gently on Dante’s shoulders.

Dante exhaled in ragged breaths, as if the simple act of sitting had drained the last of his energy. He clutched the coat tighter around his trembling frame, trying to steady the shiver he couldn’t control. The past few days had worn him down — body and soul alike.

Vergil’s voice came quiet but sharp, carrying a note of rebuke: “Why didn’t you tell me? You promised you would if you felt anything. Why did you let it get this far?”

Dante didn’t answer right away. He closed his eyes, tilting his head back to draw a breath — only for pain to lance through his ribs like an invisible spear, forcing him to stop mid-inhale.

Damn it… even breathing hurts now.

He looked toward his brother. “I’m sorry, Verge…” His voice was faint, weary. “I didn’t want to worry you. I thought it was just temporary… it would pass.”

Vergil’s tone rose, trembling with barely contained anger: “But you did worry me, Dante! You terrified me, damn it!”

He shot to his feet, pacing sharply as if trying to leash his rage through movement. He ran a hand through his hair — no longer perfectly slicked back, now falling over his face in a rare, disheveled mess for a man who usually controlled everything.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” he demanded, voice tight with suspicion.

Dante stayed silent. He said nothing — but his eyes told it all. Vergil, the ever-composed one, suddenly looked shaken… afraid.

And in that moment, Dante felt a stab of guilt so fierce he wished he didn’t exist — wished he wasn’t the cause of that pain etched on his brother’s face.

“Answer me, Dante.” Vergil’s tone was commanding, sharp as a blade.

Dante flinched, turning away, unable to meet his gaze. Then, with a sudden motion, he struck his hand against a sharp rock beside him. Blood welled instantly — warm, thick, dripping onto the stone floor.

Vergil rushed toward him. “Why would you hurt yourself?!”

Dante whispered in an odd calm, eyes fixed on the spilling blood: “Just watch.”

Vergil knelt beside him, gently taking his bleeding hand, his fingers already stained crimson as he studied the wound — both of them waiting for it to close, as it always did. But time passed… and nothing happened.

“Why isn’t it healing?” Vergil asked, confusion edging his voice.

The blood kept flowing slowly, pooling into a small dark puddle before finally beginning to clot. Only after what felt like an eternity did the wound start to seal — sluggishly.

“What is this?”

Dante pulled his hand free, lowering his gaze. He couldn’t bear to meet his brother’s eyes as he confessed the truth he feared most.

“For some reason… my wounds don’t heal like they used to. It’s as if something tampered with my regeneration.”

He paused, voice dropping to a whisper. “My power — the one that used to bring me back from death itself — it’s slowing down, weakening… like it’s dying with me.”

“When did you notice this?” Vergil asked, voice trembling on the edge of breaking.

“Just today…” Dante admitted tiredly. “It started with headaches, dizziness… then fever, chills. I thought it was just the climate of this damned place. But when a demon wounded my arm and it took too long to heal… I realized something was wrong.”

Silence. Then the sound of a fist slamming into the stone wall — cracks spreading under the impact. The echo rang out like a muffled scream of fury and despair, followed by the rough, uneven sound of Vergil’s breathing.

Dante watched him quietly, something inside him tearing more painfully than any unhealed wound.

Vergil moved away with measured, heavy steps, his eyes avoiding Dante’s. His voice came low, unnaturally composed: “I’m going to get some air… I won’t go far.”

Dante didn’t respond — only watched as his brother walked a few paces toward the entrance of the den. He hadn’t gone far, true… but Dante could see how broken he really was, despite the calm façade. The serenity that once surrounded him now looked like a mask — one hiding the chaos within.

A crooked, weary smile crept across Dante’s pale face, more like an open wound than amusement — pure anguish, silent surrender to helplessness.

He didn’t know what awaited him, or what was lurking in his blood now — but the thought of the unknown alone was enough to plant fear in a heart long used to facing death without flinching.

It wasn’t easy, realizing your body had become foreign to you.

Knowing something was crawling through your veins — something you couldn’t name, couldn’t remove, couldn’t control.

Becoming a witness to your own slow collapse, trapped within your own skin, powerless to do anything but wait — wait for the end or a miracle, whichever came first.

Dante had always wished for one thing in life: to be fully human, to erase every trace of the demonic heritage he inherited from his father.

But the bitter irony, realized too late, was that humanity wasn’t the gift he thought it was.

To be human is to feel — to suffer, to break and rise again, to experience weakness in all its forms. And perhaps this was his punishment, or lesson, or test — long overdue.

He drew a deep, weary breath, closing his eyes for a moment as a bitter thought crossed his mind: Maybe this is the lesson I deserve — to learn not to despise what I was, nor reject the strength that once defined me.

But the way this lesson was delivered was cruel beyond measure. Cruel enough that even Hell itself seemed to take pleasure in watching him decay — as if it had finally found a fitting punishment for one who once mocked it.

A sharp metallic scent reached his nose, pulling him from his thoughts.

He traced it with his eyes until he found a small pool of blood — his own — still there, unmoving, not yet absorbed by the rocky ground.

For a moment, he stared at it as if seeing it for the first time.

All his life he had seen blood spilled — demon blood, human blood, even his own — and yet he had never wondered: Why doesn’t the earth drink ours? Does it reject it? Or is it simply not in its nature to accept it?

Perhaps there was a simple, scientific explanation someone could give… but Dante’s mind was never a scientific one.

He had always seen the world in his own way — through a lens where logic bled into instinct.

He extended a trembling finger, gently touching the edge of the puddle, as if brushing against a secret.

The blood was still warm, thick, a deep crimson gleaming faintly under the dim red light — like ruby tainted with ash.

He watched Vergil’s back from afar, frozen in place, the distance between them deeper than mere steps.

Then he looked down at his hand — at the dark red staining his fingers. That liquid once symbolized life… then became a witness to pain… and now, a bond unbreakable.

Blood.

The sacred thread binding all beings, no matter their shapes or destinies.

It was the same bond that tied him to Vergil — not just love or hate, but something deeper, something time could never erase.

So many people had crossed Dante’s path — friends, comrades, wanderers through war and loss… yet Vergil remained the one exception.

The old wound that never healed.

The shadow that never left. Even when he tried to hate him, he never could. Even when he loved him, he didn’t know how to show it — except through battle.

But now… that same blood had become his slow poison. It had been tainted by something foreign — something nameless, origin unknown.

Dante slowly lifted his hand, pressing it against his neck — right where the cursed fang had pierced his skin.

Even now, he couldn’t explain how he hadn’t felt it. How it slipped past his guard so easily, how he had been fooled.

A wave of disgust washed over him as he remembered that moment — a faint sting, barely noticeable, yet carrying within it his possible end.

With every pulse, he felt the poison move through him like a living thing — mocking him, testing his patience, reminding him that his body was no longer entirely his.

And worst of all… the one who had done this was still out there.

Nameless.

Untraceable.

Power cloaked in shadow — no aura, no trace.

Dante exhaled heavily, as though thinking itself had become painful. His thoughts tangled between fear and curiosity, anger and helplessness.

But he had little time to drown in them — Vergil had returned, his steps steady, his eyes burning with new resolve.

“I think I found a solution,” he said — more vow than statement.

Dante looked up, a mix of hope and doubt in his gaze. “Really? What is it?”

Vergil didn’t hesitate, as if he had already gone through the decision a thousand times before speaking: “My blood.”

Dante blinked, the words striking him like a blow. “What?!”

Vergil’s voice remained steady, cold determination lacing every word: “I’ve eaten from the Qliphoth fruit before. Its power still flows through me — its energy doesn’t die easily. If you drink from it, maybe it can help purge the poison.”

Dante stared, then raised an eyebrow with a faint, dry smirk: “So what, you want me to be a vampire now? Bite your neck or something? Gross. At least let my first time be with a woman.”

Vergil sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “I can’t believe you’re joking at a time like this… and no, you’re not biting my neck, idiot.”

He drew Yamato with precise grace, slicing across his palm — dark crimson blood beading and falling.

He stepped closer, hand steady in the way only a killer’s could be. “Open your mouth.”

Dante hesitated, glancing between the blood and his brother’s face, then exhaled in weary surrender.

He didn’t have the strength to argue. He opened his mouth slowly as Vergil pressed his wound, letting the heavy drops fall onto Dante’s tongue.

The taste was vile — bitter, metallic, thick, like swallowing hot ash.

He gagged lightly, closing his mouth at once. “Sorry, Verge… but that’s enough.”

Vergil only nodded. “Alright… how do you feel?”

At first, nothing — only the same dull numbness in his limbs.

Then something shifted.

A faint warmth spread through him, slowly melting the frost that had seized his bones. The headache eased, and his heartbeat began to steady.

He opened his eyes, pure surprise flickering within them — as though his body was remembering how to live again.

Vergil noticed instantly, stepping closer. “You’re feeling better? Did it work?”

Dante smiled faintly — tired, but genuine. “I think so… I’m not freezing anymore, and the pain’s fading.”

Relief washed over Vergil’s face, the tension in his posture melting away. “Good… but I doubt this alone will be enough.”

He raised his right hand and made a subtle motion.

A pale blue shimmer rippled through the air — and then, Doppelganger appeared, a dark, glass-like reflection of Vergil, silent and still.

“This will stay with you. Guard you until I return. I’m going to hunt some demon flesh — it might help restore your strength faster.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away — fading slowly into the crimson mist that blanketed the underworld sky.

Dante watched the shadowy duplicate standing before him — motionless, eyes blank, like a cold mirror reflecting only his existence.

He smiled faintly, muttering dryly: “So… do you talk?”

No answer. Only a still, silent stare.

“Great… this’ll be fun.”

He leaned back, closing his eyes. Warmth was returning, pulse steady once more.

Maybe — just maybe — healing wasn’t impossible after all.

For every curse, there must exist a cure… even if it comes from the strangest of sources.

............

POV Vergil:

Dante had gotten better with the passing days—painfully slowly, like melting ice. Those days were among the hardest Vergil had ever lived through—not physically, but mentally, to the bone.

To watch your twin, your other half, fade away in your hands little by little… that was a torment beyond words, a torment unworthy even of a demon.

At first, his condition worsened. His fever rose to the point that his forehead literally boiled, as if fire had ignited inside him. He would open his eyes for only a few minutes, barely whispering incoherent words before slipping back into a long, consuming coma that gnawed at him like a starving wolf.

The black veins appeared and vanished as though toying with his nerves—at times subsiding, at others flaring again to light up his body with threads of pulsing darkness. His energy was no longer stable; one moment he was strong as ever, the next he could barely breathe.

But Vergil never gave up... he never would.

He fed him his own blood every day, without hesitation or fear of losing strength.

He forced him to eat demon flesh despite the nausea it caused, and sat beside him—silent at times, exhausted at others—but never once did he leave.

And with time—slowly, almost miraculously—Dante’s body began to respond.

His temperature returned to normal, his face no longer as pale as before,

and that faint heartbeat that had nearly vanished… once again filled the space with a warmth Vergil had long missed. He could now stay awake for entire hours without collapsing, and his voice regained a hint of its old tone—cocky, confident, teasing.

Then one day, after a long sleepless night, Vergil drifted off without meaning to.

He couldn’t recall when he fell asleep—or how. But he remembered vividly the moment he awoke—when he opened his eyes to find Dante standing before him, tall and straight, his wide grin lighting up the place as if it had split the darkness of Hell in two.

Vergil didn’t say a word for a moment. He just stared, unable to believe that this figure before him was the same frail body from before.

He had healed. Completely.

Something warm welled up in Vergil’s chest—not blood, not power, but something closer to… pure relief, rare and unfamiliar.

Yet he wouldn’t let himself fall for the same trap again.

He watched him closely, asked about every heartbeat, every headache, every unexplained tremor. He gave Dante no room to lie or evade, until Dante began grumbling that his brother had turned into an “annoying nurse.”

Vergil didn’t care. Nor did he apologize.

He wouldn’t let him collapse again. He wouldn’t let Dante’s recklessness or stubborn pride kill him in front of his eyes one more time.

If he had to watch him constantly, suffocate him with caution,

become a sword hanging over his head for the rest of their lives—so be it.

Dante’s health, this time, mattered more than his pride... more than anything else.

Soon, the twin sons of Sparda returned to their usual routine, as if nothing had ever happened. Night and day in the Underworld weren’t so different; the red sky, the ground pulsing beneath their feet like a living being, the wind’s howl mixed with the wailing of lost souls—everything was as it had always been, or so they wanted to believe.

Dante, despite his former weakness, regained his strength with astonishing speed.

He returned to his sarcastic remarks, to that smile that mixed indifference and mockery of everything. He would fix his sword, sharpening it on black rock as if preparing for another battle, humming a tune whose origin no one knew.

Vergil, meanwhile, resumed his solemn silence, standing on high cliffs, staring into the burning horizon as if waiting for something—something yet to come, but which he knew, deep down, was inevitable.

They talked sometimes—usually ending in a fierce fight—and at other times, comfortable silence stretched between them. Despite everything, they understood each other in their own way; a glance, a curt word, even a sigh—each was enough to convey everything.

With time, the traces of what had happened slowly faded, like old scars. All that pain, anxiety, and nightmares turned into nothing but a bad memory, buried deep within, forgotten amid their endless battles and the ringing of steel ever in their hands.

They were busy seeking a way out of this cursed realm, searching for a place safe enough for Vergil to open a portal without endangering the human world.

Days passed... or perhaps weeks—the Underworld didn’t measure time as the surface did. All they knew was that they were still there, beneath a sky of blood, upon ground bleeding fire, among creatures that knew nothing but hunting and killing.

Everything seemed normal... until that moment.

As if the Underworld itself had awakened from a long slumber.

The flood began. From every chasm and pit, from the dark caverns and crimson fissures, hordes of demons poured forth.

Creatures they had never seen before—misshapen, as though fire had melted their bodies and left them behind for revenge.

They surged from every direction, endless, like waves of flesh, agony, and blood.

Among them was Nelo Angelo—or what remained of him after Khar’zhul’s death.

Vergil raised Yamato, standing firm before the tide, his eyes burning with resolve and icy calm.

Dante, meanwhile, smiled—that reckless grin that always came before every great battle.

“Here we go again, Verge!” he shouted with weary confidence.

“Don’t waste my time with chatter, Dante,” the other replied, slashing the first wave apart with one clean cut that split the ground beneath them.

The battle was a dance of death.

The sons of Sparda struck, leapt, spun amid the black tide of demons—the explosions, the clash of blades, the screams of the torn creatures filled the crimson air.

Every move was lethal, every blow left a circle of corpses around them.

The advantage—as always—was theirs.

Everything went as it always did—chaos, blood, screams, and metal slicing through air.

Vergil moved with deadly precision, every strike calculated, every twist fatal—his body like a machine forged by Hell itself.

But amid that perfect battle, within all the noise, something strange happened—just one glance.

Vergil looked toward his brother for a fleeting second. Just a second... but he saw it.

Dante, who moments ago had been laughing as he cleaved through demons, suddenly froze. His hand rose to his head as if something had pierced it from within. His face contorted in pain, his voice choking in his throat.

“Dante?” Vergil spoke instinctively, worry creeping into his tone despite himself.

But he had no time.

From the dust, a Cavaliere Angelo lunged with inhuman speed,

its gleaming sword cutting through shadow and air alike.

Vergil couldn’t even scream—he couldn’t move—

all he saw was the silver flash piercing Dante’s chest, blood spraying in a deadly half-circle.

Vergil froze where he stood.

He heard nothing but the dull sound of Dante hitting the ground,

a muted thud followed by a suffocating silence… then the shallow gasps melting into the air.

In that moment, Vergil saw nothing else. Not the demons surrounding them, not the endless Hell around them—only his brother’s body lying still, and the red spreading beneath him like an infernal flower blooming slowly.

Then, in one instant, rage exploded. A muffled scream tore from deep within his chest—not human, but feral, sharp, ablaze.

A circle of blue flames erupted beneath his feet, expanding wildly, burning everything in its path.

The demons screamed—but none survived.

In a heartbeat, the battlefield turned to blue ash, and the scent of burning metal filled the air.

Vergil wasn’t done—

In a blur faster than sight, he vanished, reappearing before the Cavaliere Angelo that had impaled Dante.

He said nothing, merely raised Yamato and split it in half with a single clean, merciless strike—as if the blade itself sought vengeance.

He stood silent for a moment, staring at the charred corpse, then turned toward his brother, his eyes glowing deep blue, a demonic flare threatening another eruption—but he restrained himself.

His form shifted; wings of luminous energy unfolded from his back.

He grasped Dante’s body in his arms and flew away—

away from the inferno he himself had unleashed.

He landed on a distant rocky plain, ash still raining from the sky.

He gradually reverted to his human form, the aura fading slowly—but his face remained frozen—a mix of fear, fury, and denial.

He laid Dante down gently, immediately leaning over him, his hand pressing without hesitation against the wound that bled endlessly.

The blood was warm, sticky, pulsing with life slipping away with each second.

Vergil pressed harder, but it kept seeping through his fingers like sand through an open hand.

“Dante!” His voice was hoarse, roughened by panic. “Stay with me, do you hear me?”

Dante opened his eyes with difficulty, the light in them fading little by little.

“I-I… just felt dizzy all of a s-sudden…” His voice came broken, each word dragged out like a burden on his chest.

Vergil wiped his face, smearing away the mix of sweat and blood.

“Don’t talk, Dante. Save your strength. I’m here… just shut up… damn it, why won’t the wound heal—it’s supposed to be healed!”

Dante didn’t answer. Vergil drew in a harsh breath and began a desperate attempt to channel his energy into his brother’s body. His hands trembled as he focused his demonic power, but the wound stayed open, defying every effort.

Blood kept pooling beneath the fallen brother.

“V–Vergil…” Dante finally spoke, his voice barely audible.

Vergil leaned closer, his eyes trembling with worry.

“Shhh… I’m here, don’t talk, just hold on to me, brother…”

But Dante didn’t obey. He smiled—that infuriating smile he only showed before doing something reckless. A broken smile, yet peaceful.

“V–Verge… ever wonder… why the earth doesn’t… absorb b-blood?”

Vergil froze. “What? Dante, this isn’t the time for—”

But Dante was staring at the gray sky, his half-open eyes fading with the last flickers of awareness. His smile widened a little, and his voice came out as a faint whisper:

“D-Don’t… forget… Nero…”

One last gasp—and then silence.

His body went limp, his chest still.

His fingers, which had been clutching his brother’s coat, slipped slowly away.

His eyes, once bright with life, turned to stone—staring into nothing.

Vergil just stared at him, paralyzed, unable to accept what he saw.

Then, for the first time in his life, he whispered in a broken voice: “Dante…?”

No answer came.

The wind passed between them, stirring Dante’s hair to cover the empty eyes that saw nothing but the sky above.

Vergil lowered his head slowly, his hand still pressing against Dante’s chest, though he knew it was useless.

For the first time in centuries, his gaze faltered, his voice trembled, and a single tear fell onto Dante’s face.

He had lost his twin… forever. And there was no punishment in Hell crueler than that.

His trembling hand reached out, gently closing his brother’s eyes, as if afraid to hurt him even after death.

Then he raised his head toward the dark sky, his eyes glinting with a desperate light—filled with every ounce of rage and sorrow he had ever carried.

“You’re lucky, Mother…” he said in a hoarse voice, each word torn from his chest. “Dante has finally joined you…”

Silence fell after his words, heavy as a curtain.

He could hear only the wind, thick with the scent of iron, and the sound of blood dripping from his fingers onto the stone.

He remained sitting beside his brother, staring at his features frozen in strange stillness, as though expecting him to open his eyes and laugh mockingly.

Maybe… maybe it was all a dream.

Maybe he was still under Khar’zhul’s torture, and all this was another illusion meant to break him.

But the pain burning in his chest was far too real—more real than any sword, flame, or nightmare.

He lifted Dante’s head, drew it against his chest, and closed his eyes for a moment before placing a quiet kiss on his forehead—a final farewell, a belated forgiveness neither of them ever received in life.

“I’ll bring you home, dear brother…” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“I won’t let your body rot in a place like this… you’ve fought enough.”

He rose slowly, as if the weight of the world pressed on his shoulders. He lifted Yamato, ready to open a portal back to the human world—

but before he could draw the line, he felt something pierce the horizon.

A magical vibration… vile, dripping with hatred.

He froze.

The air around him rippled with red lines forming in the void—the same cursed patterns from which it had all begun.

They shaped themselves into glowing words upon the ground before him, as if written in fire:

“It hurts, doesn’t it? Losing the last of your family…”

The voice wasn’t heard, yet carved itself into his mind like a blade—mocking, cold, deliberate, cruel.

But this time, Vergil didn’t care. He didn’t rage, didn’t shout, didn’t respond. He merely closed his eyes briefly and felt the world around him.

The energy… it was there. Weak, once hidden, now pulsing clear in the depths of Hell.

The demon who had poisoned Dante no longer bothered to hide.

Perhaps it thought grief would break Vergil’s will—but what it had truly done… was release the monster within him.

He slowly took off his blue coat, draping it over Dante’s body with care, as though covering a precious treasure. He secured it around him.

Then he knelt, took Dante’s cold, lifeless hand in his own,

and whispered with a sad, broken smile—half longing, half unhealed wound:

“How many times have you made me take off my coat for you, Dante…”

He waited… as if somewhere inside he still hoped for a sarcastic reply, something like: “Oh, Verge, you’re just as dramatic as ever.”

But silence answered once more—absolute, lifeless silence.

He brushed a stray lock of hair from his brother’s face, gazed at him for a long moment—

the gaze of a man who had lost his last mirror in this world.

Then he covered his face completely with the coat.

At last, he stood. With eyes burning in quiet fury, he spoke in a low voice, heavy as a vow:

“I’ll be back, Dante… and I’ll make him beg for death… and he won’t find it.”

The ground trembled beneath his steps as he walked away.

The air grew heavier. Even Hell itself seemed to shrink around him.

Dante was dead—

but something else was born within Vergil that moment.

Something no one—not man, not demon, not Hell itself—could ever stop.