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The battle had ended just minutes ago. The enemy was an ancient creature, not particularly formidable in physical strength, but possessing a bizarre toxin that spread in the form of purplish-black mist, reeking of decayed moss. A lingering competitive streak and a childish pride, never truly quenched in his veins, had driven Vergil to surge forward. He took the decisive blow to finish off the entity before Dante could score a point. He won that race, but the price to pay was the toxic gas managed to penetrate deep into his demonic circulatory system. This poison would not kill a half-demon instantly, but the sluggish effect and burning sensation it left in his channels lingered in a bothersome manner.
Vergil sat on a rocky outcrop protruding from the cliffside. With his hands forming seals and his eyes closed tightly, he channeled all his mental energy to purify his body. He required absolute silence to mobilize his demon blood against the poison gnawing at his cells.
In the opening seconds of his meditation, Vergil had already erected a defensive wall within his mind. He fully expected, or rather, had braced himself to endure, the familiar mockery from his younger brother. In his dust-laden memories, Dante was always an entity who could not tolerate silence. Ever since they were eight-year-old children at the Sparda estate, whenever Vergil tried to focus on reading a book or researching an ancient text, Dante would always find any way possible to shatter that atmosphere. The young Dante of the past would jump around, throw toys, poke at him with wooden swords, or ramble about nonsensical stories. All because he could not stand his older brother giving attention to anything else that wasn't him. Even into adulthood, that red-coated devil hunter retained his brash, flippant attitude, constantly using cheap jokes to fill the void of silence.
Vergil waited for a whistle, a grumble along the lines of "Look who got himself hurt because he's stubborn," or at least the heavy stomp of boots on the rocky ground intentionally seeking attention. He was ready to hurl a cold reprimand to tell him to shut his mouth.
But the silence stretched for one minute. Then five minutes. Then ten.
Not a single sound echoed, save for the distant howling of the wind through rock fissures and the faint crackling of lava rivers deep in the valley below. An abnormal stillness enveloped the space. Dante was keeping his distance. He stood or sat at a position far enough not to disrupt Vergil's sensitively fluctuating energy, yet close enough to turn himself into a living shield, blocking any threat that might approach his brother during this state of depletion.
Ironically, it was precisely this quietude that bothered Vergil.
It was not the annoyance of being disturbed, but rather an invisible turbulence in his consciousness when reality completely veered off the course he had anticipated. The fact that Dante was not acting like a reckless child made Vergil realize that he could no longer easily "read" or empathize with his brother through the outdated lens of the past. Dante’s silence was like a mirror reflecting the passage of time, forcing Vergil to admit that the brother who once loved playing the fool now carried a vastly different demeanor. A quiet sorrow kindled in Vergil’s chest, smoldering and more uncomfortable than the poison coursing down his spine, because he realized he was facing a mature Dante, a man he had never truly learned to understand.
Unable to fully focus on the purification while his mind was besieged by that strange silence, Vergil slightly opened one eye. Through the faint purple haze of lingering toxic mist, Dante’s silhouette appeared with his back turned to him, sitting on a broken boulder scarred with scorch marks. His signature deep-red leather coat was now frayed and torn in multiple places, coated with the ash of hardships and dried demon blood from countless nameless battles in this realm. Beneath that coat, Vergil saw shoulders that were broad and steadfast, like a stone fortress wall. Dante’s middle-aged chest had grown thick, rugged, and much larger compared to the lean, toned physique of the nineteen-year-old youth back at the Temen-ni-gru tower. It was not mere muscle, it was a form forged from thirty years of carrying trauma, carrying the fate of the human world on his shoulders without being allowed to fall even once.
Vergil quietly observed his brother's actions. Dante moved with extreme restraint and subtlety, something that seemingly never existed in the devil hunter's dictionary. He silently stood up, stepping lightly over the demonic soil to gather purifying crystal shards and a few herbal sprigs growing in the rocky niches, items capable of neutralizing Underworld toxins. Dante did not approach to hand them over directly, nor did he call out loudly. He merely placed them down gently at a convenient spot right within Vergil's reach for when he opened his eyes, then stepped back to his original spot.
Shortly after, a few low-level demons caught the scent of blood and a weakened hunter, slinking out from the shadows of the cliffside. Had it been before, Dante would have surely dove in with a boisterous laugh, activating his loudest weapons to flaunt his power. But this time was different. Dante drew his blade slowly, dispatching the monsters with strokes that were as clean, cold, and ruthless as possible. He actively suppressed every redundant noise, ensuring not a single demon's roar would disrupt his older brother's recovery space. He was like a silent guardian shadow, casting an inviolable boundary around Vergil.
However, Vergil’s observation did not stop there. With the sharp perception of a swordmaster, he noticed a detail that made him feel even worse: it appeared Dante had also been poisoned.
Though the amount of toxin Dante absorbed was milder since he hadn't taken the fatal blow directly, it was still present. Under the flickering light of the Underworld, Dante’s already weathered skin looked somewhat pale, and the breathing of that thick chest occasionally caught in heavy, unconscious pauses.
Yet, Dante did absolutely nothing for himself. He took no medicine, did not sit down to regulate his breath, and did not utter a single word of complaint. Alone, he relied on his half-demon physiology to silently endure and repel the poison, while all his remaining attention and strength were poured into protecting and supporting Vergil.
This "restraint" and subtlety from Dante now surfaced in Vergil’s mind as a bitter truth. It was not a sign of distance or indifference, on the contrary, it was the highest form of respect Dante held for him. Dante understood Vergil better than anyone, he knew his older brother possessed a pride higher than the heavens, knew Vergil hated showing weakness and always wanted to handle everything himself in his own isolated space. Therefore, Dante chose the most silent way to protect him, willingly standing in the back and hiding his own wounds so as not to damage his brother's self-esteem.
Looking at that broad, steadfast, yet exhausted back, Vergil suddenly realized the foolish younger brother of the past had grown to the point of knowing how to accommodate even his stubbornness and selfishness. Dante had become an absolutely reliable man, a solid anchor that required no grand, sweeping declarations. That innocent, reckless nature had entirely vanished beneath the ash and wind of the Underworld, leaving behind only a stoic hunter bearing the weight of a great protector.
That back, that solidity, made one want to lean on it…
…Just like another of his family.
The pain from the toxin began to flare along his nerves, carrying a burning sensation like a fire consuming him from within. The toxic smoke seemed to not only corrode his flesh but also blur the boundaries of reality, drifting Vergil’s mind back to the fragmented memories he always kept locked away in the darkest corner of his soul.
The time when he was split apart. The time when he was merely V.
In the delirium of the Underworld's darkness, Vergil seemed to see his gaunt, decaying self from back then, a miserably weak creature whose flesh rotted day by day, leaning on a cane just to walk. And then, a rough, warm hand reached out from the brink of destruction. That boy, with his defiant white hair and the Sparda blood flowing in his veins, which Vergil had not yet acknowledged at the time, had repeatedly thrown himself into danger just to protect his weak incarnation. Nero had shielded V, offering him help he had never received before, without demanding any conditions in return. As V, facing imminent death, Vergil understood for the first time in his life what it truly felt like to "be helped."
Because of that… I wanted to depend on him like a child
Nero, the son he had once abandoned, yet he was the one who unlocked the gates of Vergil's heart, which had been secured by so many chains of pride. The boy taught him that accepting the kindness of others was not a sign of weakness, but the sole salvation for a exhausted soul.
Thank you, Nero.
A whole Vergil had uttered his gratitude to Nero as soon as he could. A belated thank-you from a man who had known nothing but betrayal and solitude his entire life.
But what about Dante? Who had ever thanked him, or even…
apologized?
That thought was like a splash of cold water shocking Vergil’s chaotic consciousness back to clarity. He opened his eyes, looking through the pale purple mist. Dante’s back still stood there, motionless and unwavering like a lighthouse amidst this desolate eternity.
The past for the two brothers was a long sequence of confrontations, of blood, tears, and pent-up hatred. Vergil had spent half his life rejecting Dante, turning away every effort from his brother to pull him toward the light, viewing Dante’s concern as an insult to the self-respect of a man seeking absolute power. But now, looking at the weathered man before him, Vergil no longer saw an enemy, no longer saw a lifelong rival. He only saw his younger brother, the only person in this world who shared the same blood, the same pain.
Yet unlike him, Dante had committed no sins to deserve all this. And yet now, he was the only one who willingly abandoned the beautiful world above to step down into hell with him.
The world where Dante had a shop, a job, decent fame, plenty of friends, a nephew to share the work with, and a promising extended family from said nephew. His world had strawberry sundaes, rock music, pizza, good food, and every pleasure humanity could devise. His world had so many people who owed him their lives from countless rescues.
And now, he shared the exact same fate as the malicious villain who had plotted to destroy that world twice.
A half-century of pride suddenly fractured. What is this ridiculous, equalizing outcome? Just like when we were kids, isn't it? When one caused trouble, the neighbors would come out and scold the other, just because… they misidentified us. Because we are twins, right?
Dante is defaulted to suffer the same punishment as his, simply because he was his twin. Being Vergil's brother has resulted in Dante ended up in exile. There is no other reason than that.
Vergil realized he no longer wanted to force himself to play the role of an invincible, solitary figure. He was tired of weathering every storm entirely on his own.
The last of the toxic gas was finally forced out by the magic of the Sparda blood, turning into wisps of pale purple smoke before dissolving into the air. The poison was gone, but the price to pay was an utter exhaustion of the physical body. Every muscle in Vergil’s body was spent, his joints felt disconnected, and even lifting Yamato at this moment became a grueling challenge.
Vergil knew full well how powerful his healing factor was. If he kept sitting here, struggling just a bit longer, his body would eventually mend itself. He was entirely capable of standing up on his own, walking steadily without needing anyone, just as he had always done throughout his lonely years in the realm of the dead. He could choose silence, stand up, and continue walking like a proud phantom.
He didn't NEED to rely on anyone.
It was just that, this time, after decades, after dying and returning three or four times, just this once, he WANTED to rely on Dante.
"Dante..."
Vergil's call rang out, raspy and faint, breaking the prolonged, heavy silence. That call carried none of his usual authority, it was incredibly ordinary and raw.
The guarding back stiffened slightly. Dante turned his head instantly. There was no mocking grin, no senseless joke appearing on the devil hunter's weathered face. Dante’s eyes, usually tired beneath the creases at their corners, now flashed with absolute attention. He did not rush forward hastily to bruise his older brother's pride, but took slow, measured steps, stopping two paces away from Vergil.
At close proximity, Vergil could truly see the toll of time on his brother's face. The scruffy, dark stubble he hadn't bothered to shave, the tiny scars interwoven across his weathered cheeks, and even the silver strands beginning to crowd his temples. Dante, who was once the arrogant young man challenging the gods, was now a man who had tasted all the bitterness of the mortal realm, profound, aged, and carrying a rugged, steadfast beauty.
"What's up old man? Done with your business?" Dante spoke, his voice deep and raspy from the Underworld's ash, trying to maintain a fraction of his usual lighthearted tone.
Vergil looked straight into Dante’s aged yet warm eyes. He relaxed both hands, letting his sword rest peacefully on the ground, an act of completely disarming himself and relinquishing all defense in front of another, something Vergil had never done in his entire life.
"Help me up." Vergil said, brief but clear.
Dante froze for the span of a breath. His eyes widened slightly, filled with utter astonishment at the unprecedented request from his dictatorial and arrogant older brother. But that stunned silence quickly dissolved, giving way to a rare tenderness. Without a word of teasing, without a single line of mockery, Dante stepped forward and dropped to one knee beside Vergil. He extended his large, rough arm, firmly wrapping it around Vergil's shoulder to support him up.
As his body was lifted, exhaustion caused Vergil’s knees to buckle. But he did not fall. Dante’s hand gripped his waist firmly, and with a steady upward pull, Dante drew Vergil close against his chest.
Vergil let himself give in, resting his forehead and then the side of his head against his brother's broad, thick chest.
The sensation of touching Dante’s chest sent an invisible psychological jolt through Vergil. The frayed, coarse leather coat covered in ash and gunpowder could not conceal the absolute solidity within. Dante’s chest was as massive and fortified as a rampart wall, carrying the rich warmth of a life overflowing with demonic power. As he leaned his head there, Vergil felt Dante’s steady, powerful heartbeat, a rhythm that had resiliently endured countless storms to protect the human world.
It was an absolutely safe haven. An anchor that Vergil realized, no matter how many dimensions he traversed or how much ultimate power he possessed, he could never find anywhere else.
The psychological release washed over him like a sudden downpour, sweeping away the heavy shackles of the past. He no longer had to tense up, no longer had to remain on guard. Against this weathered coat of Dante's, he was permitted to be weak, permitted to be an older brother receiving care from his younger sibling.
Dante stood still, holding Vergil’s relaxed frame, one large hand gently patting his back in a wordless consolation. The warmth from Dante enveloped Vergil, dispelling the eternal chill of the Underworld.
Yet right within that very peace, a sense of regret and bitterness welled up, silently squeezing Vergil’s chest. He closed his eyes tightly, burying his face deeper into Dante’s worn leather coat.
“...Sorry, Dante.”
The Underworld remained as it was, desolate and fraught with danger. But in that moment, enveloped by Dante’s steadfast and weathered chest, Vergil knew that this journey of self-exile was no longer a punishment.
It was salvation, it was where they truly belonged together, the sons of Sparda, leaning on one another to walk through eternity.