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The Underworld had never known the difference between day and night. There was only red. The red of stone, of magma, of clouds suspended motionless in the distant sky. A red so endless that it made time itself feel meaningless.
Dante lay sprawled across a jagged outcrop of rock, one arm folded beneath his head. Every muscle in his body ached. Not because he was injured, just because Vergil had won. Again.
"Quit staring at me like that." Dante spoke without opening his eyes. "I know you're looking."
A few feet away, Vergil was wiping Yamato with a blue cloth. "You're imagining things."
"Oh, I don't think so."
"You always think so."
Dante laughed. Typical Vergil. After all these years, he still possessed the unique ability to turn the simplest conversation into an argument.
Vergil slid Yamato back into its sheath.
"Get up."
"Huh?"
"You've been lying there long enough."
"It's been five minutes."
"Too long."
Dante let out an exaggerated groan. "Have you ever considered resting?"
"No."
Vergil turned and walked away, just like always, no goodbye nor further comment. He simply left.
Dante watched his brother's retreating figure until it disappeared behind a wall of black stone. Then he lay back down, silence settled around him. Funny. For nearly half his life, Dante had imagined what it would be like to see Vergil again. He had imagined battles, bloodshed. One of them dying, maybe both. Not once had he imagined this. Not once had he pictured a reality where Vergil spent the morning reading books and the afternoon sparring with him as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Dante snorted softly. The sound faded quickly. Then came the familiar emptiness. And for some reason, a question drifted into his mind. How many years did I spend looking for him?
The memories were fragmented, like a damaged videotape. Most of it had blurred together over the decades, but one thing remained unnaturally clear.
Vergil.
He remembered calling his brother's name until his throat hurt. Remembered running through dark streets. Looking inside alleys, abandoned buildings. Anywhere he could think of. Just trying to find him. He had been eight years old. An eight-year-old child who had lost everything. And the first thing he thought about was finding his brother. Looking back, it seemed ridiculous. But children believed ridiculous things.
Dante had believed Vergil was alive. Not because he had proof, nor had he seen anything. Simply Vergil was stronger. That was the entire reason. If Dante had survived, then Vergil had to be alive too. Vergil was always stronger, always better, always the one who won. That was the rule. And children believed in rules.
The years afterward dissolved into a haze. Cheap apartments, abandoned warehouses... There were days he went hungry. Days he fought just to make it to the next morning. Days he slept with a knife beneath his pillow. But no matter where he went, he always listened. For rumors, names and stories. Anything. Anything at all. Something that might lead him to Vergil. When he was sixteen, someone told him about a young swordsman dressed in blue. Dante traveled hundreds of miles to find him. It wasn't Vergil. At eighteen, he heard stories about a half-demon carrying a strange katana, he left immediately. Not Vergil. Twenty, twenty-two, twenty-four. Every time. Not Vergil.
If Lady ever learned about those trips, she'd laugh herself sick. Dante could practically hear her. "Wait a second. You seriously crossed three states because somebody said they saw a guy wearing blue?"
Because blue is my world...
Though he kept doing it anyway. Again. For years, he never told anyone, because it sounded pathetic. A grown man chasing rumors across the country like a lost child searching for family. Dante would rather die than admit it out loud. Dante always told himself he was looking for Vergil so he could kill him. That sounded much better. Much more heroic.
"My brother has become a monster." "I'll stop him." Simple and reasonable...
and wasn't true.
Dante closed his eyes. Old memories rose to the surface. Temen-ni-gru. Rain. Blood. The clash of steel. Vergil standing across from him, exhausted but refusing to bend. "Leave me and go." And Dante had. That was the truth. He left him and go. He watched his brother fall into the darkness below, felt something tear inside his chest.
Nelo Angelo was worse. Dante had never forgotten that feeling. The first time they met. A black-armored knight, massive sword, a strange and familiar power. Something about him felt wrong. Not threatening but wrong because it's familiar, painfully familiar. At the time, Dante hadn't understood why. He hadn't recognized him. But some part of him had known. Maybe the body recognized what the mind could not. Maybe the heart understood before the eyes did. He didn't know. He only knew that every encounter with Nelo Angelo made that feeling stronger. Like looking at someone through fogged glass, unable to see clearly, yet somehow knowing. Then came the final battle, the amulet fell. Everything clicked into place. Too late. Always too late. Dante remembered that moment vividly. What came after the fight and victory. Standing alone, looking at the empty space where Nelo Angelo had vanished. And feeling... Hollow. instead of triumphant or relieved. As though he had lost someone. Again.
Dante opened his eyes. The red sky remained unchanged. Silent and endless. And suddenly, he realized something he had avoided for years. Every time he had faced Vergil, he had been the one offering another chance. Always him. At Temen-ni-gru, the top of the Qliphoth. Even when Vergil became Urizen, when thousands died and the world stood on the edge of ruin. Dante still reached for him. One more chance, one more attempt. An opportunity to come back. A man who truly wanted someone dead wouldn't do that, wouldn't keep forgiving, hoping, or waiting.
Footsteps echoed across the stone. Dante turned his head. Vergil had returned. "When exactly did you get back?"
"Recently."
"...Miss me already?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
Vergil frowned. For a moment, he genuinely looked as though he were considering stabbing Dante. Dante grinned. The same effortless smile. No one looking at him would have guessed he'd spent the last hour digging through old wounds. Vergil turned away. "Get up."
"What, again?"
"You object?"
"Not a chance." Dante rose to his feet. Sword resting comfortably in his hand. Everything hurt, but pain had become familiar a long time ago. The two brothers faced each other. Hot winds swept across the crimson wasteland. Everything felt familiar, almost frighteningly so. Before moving, Dante looked at Vergil just for a second. Long enough to realize something that had taken him decades to understand. Maybe he had never chased Vergil because of duty, or justice, or destiny. Maybe the reason was far simpler. Simple enough that Dante hated it. Because it made him sound like a child. A child standing in the ashes of a burned house, calling his brother's name until his voice broke. A child who never stopped searching, not after ten years, twenty or even death.
Dante tightened his grip on Devil Sword, smiled. "Hey, Vergil."
"What?"
"I just realized something." Vergil tilted his head slightly. A rare sign that he was actually listening. Dante looked at him for a moment. A little longer than necessary, "I think I hate you a lot less than I thought I did."
Silence.
Vergil blinked.
"I've changed my mind."
"Huh?"
"I'm going to beat you unconscious."
Dante burst out laughing. The sound echoed across the endless red landscape. Not his world anyway, so don't mind it.