Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Yamato pierced his abdomen, splitting open his guts and barely missing the spine, exiting from the back, nailing Nero to the pavement. Hurts. But it was a thousand times worse realizing — if Mundus is the one wielding Yamato, then Vergil must already be dead.

"I see you've already realized, little worm, that no one is coming," Mundus's maw opened wide, but behind his teeth there was nothing but all-consuming darkness. "But you… you won't get off so easily. Oh no-no-no," Mundus smirked malevolently, "I have something far more... interesting planned for you. Far less mundane and far more painful than death."

And Nero believed him.

This bastard had already killed Vergil and Dante. He had already brought Hell to Fortuna. His family had already been eaten alive right in front of him while he lay powerless in a pile of his own entrails, futilely trying to regenerate faster.

Now Mundus loomed over him - defeated, doomed, drenched in tears and blood - baring his needle-like teeth and licking them, promising nothing but endless terror.

"It can all be different," whispered a quiet, barely discernible voice in his head. Nero flinched at the recognition. He'd heard this voice before. Once, long ago, it had asked him: "What does your soul scream for?"

"How?" Nero mentally asked through the pain.

"Just surrender to me. And you will die."

"What? No!" Nero mentally roared. "Just give me the strength to kill this bastard!"

"It won't work. You have nothing left to love or protect here. This battle is lost."

"No!" Nero exclaimed incredulously.

Mundus laughed, but Nero paid him no mind. All his attention was on the blade. On Yamato buried in his gut, calling for death.

"Yet there is still a chance," Yamato continued. "My master gave me the power before his death to send you to a place where there is still a chance. Surrender now to win another time."

Mundus began pulling the blade towards himself, extracting it from Nero's insides.

"Decide quickly, descendant. There may not be another opportunity."

Nero didn't want to admit that it was over. He refused to believe everyone was dead, that there was nothing left. He refused to believe the strength of two sons and one grandson of Sparda wasn't enough to defeat even one — albeit an extremely powerful — demon.

Nero didn't know how to surrender. And Vergil had only once reproached him for it.

Months after they returned from Hell, after dozens of joint missions, when Nero finally gathered the courage to invite them over under the pretext of help with demons. That rainy gray evening, staying for dinner at his and Kyrie's home — very reluctantly judging by his sour expression — Vergil said something that still pissed Nero off to this day:

"You are remarkably persistent in your desire to put together what has been shattered beyond repair."

Nero clenched his teeth, barely holding back from spitting out, "Well, go to hell then!"

"And... perhaps this time it might work, I... beg you not to lose vigilance due to arrogance. This stupid trait almost killed me once. Don't let it pull the same trick on you."

Damn Nero if Vergil wasn't talking about this exact moment. So, before the blade fully left his gut, cursing everything: his father, his grandfather, Mundus, and this cursed legacy, Nero surrendered to the will of the blade.

The first breath was more painful than anything he had ever experienced in his life. He screamed at the top of his lungs. Someone immediately caught him, started patting him, pulling, pushing, wiping him down. In the background, other annoying cries could be heard: a woman's and a child's, and some other voices. Many different ones, all unfamiliar.

Then they finally laid him down. On something warm, soft, beating evenly and soothingly. Like a strong heart.
Nero opened his eyes. Through the blurry haze in front of him, he couldn’t make out a face, but he distinctly caught the scent. It was familiar, homely. Like Vergil would smell if Nero allowed himself to think about it for a moment—but softer, more delicate.

"Enough, Maria," a female voice said nearby. "It's time."

"Just one more minute," another woman—Maria—whispered tiredly. "Please."

"I’m sorry, but we can't. We need to get rid of him as soon as possible."

"Get rid of him?!" Maria shrieked.

"Calm down. I'll take him to the orphanage as planned. On my way back, I’ll stop by the brothel to deliver the rest of the payment. You understand, Maria, no one must know that all this time you've been carrying a child from a stranger."

"But Vergil isn’t a stranger!"

"Did he leave you pregnant after just a month, then?" came the reply, laced with disdain.

"He didn’t know. If I had told him..."

"He would have killed you. He would have cut the baby out of your womb and devoured it."

"You don’t know what you’re talking about, Christina," Maria sobbed weakly.

"I’ve seen the eyes of that young man. He’s not human, Maria. And this pregnancy… this child. It’s a miracle you survived. It’s time."

"My sweet little baby," Maria whispered into his ear. "I love you so much, endlessly. Forgive me, my foolish heart."

Nero was lifted again, torn away from the warmth and the steady beat. And suddenly, through his pain-addled consciousness, it dawned on him exactly when Yamato had sent him.

"No! NO! MOTHER!" he screamed, reaching out with his tiny arms toward the warmth and the scent fading in his blurred infant vision. To him, it was nothing but an irritating, helpless cry.

"Calm down, baby. This is how it has to be. To protect your mom," Christina whispered.

"Take his scarf," Maria said wearily.

"Huh?"

"Vergil's handkerchief," she mumbled barely audibly. "The smell will soothe him."

"How do you know?" Christina scoffed as Nero struggled to move his weak, uncoordinated body.

"He told me," Maria replied softly.

And then the scent of Vergil enveloped him. Under the protection of the warm, dark cocoon of that black fabric, exhausted from the shock, Nero let himself drift off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Sister Tamara loved taking care of infants. She cherished their sweet smiles, their genuine awe at simple things, enjoyed listening to their first words and watching their first steps.

However, very young children came to them rarely. Thanks be to the Order of the Sword and Sparda for protecting them. But sometimes it happened that the parents were killed, leaving the children without close relatives willing to take custody. In such cases, the monastery opened its doors to them.

With Nero, it was... different.

Sister Francesca found him one early morning on the threshold of the monastery, wrapped in a black silk scarf, after which he was named. A few months prior, there had been rumors that one of the prostitutes in the port district had fallen ill, which could mean either syphilis or pregnancy. And though Sister Tamara did not approve of her life choices, she was glad that this "illness" resulted in Nero.

Still, the baby was strange not just because of his origins. His behavior was very unusual. He watched everyone who approached him as if his eyes were already capable of discerning and distinguishing people. Constantly and monotonously, he moved his fingers in various... unusual sequences for an infant. He didn’t cry when he soiled himself. He grunted loudly a couple of times when someone entered the room to check on him, then calmly endured all baths and diaper changes.

He ate like clockwork. He didn’t cry at night. Although… Sister Tamara had seen tears on his swollen little eyes. Noticing them, she would simply pick him up and rock him, as she did with the other children. Nero would cling to her with his tiny hands until he fell asleep.

Not only Sister Tamara found him strange; after hearing Sister Camilla’s words:

"...and those eyes are so wise, as if he's no mere infant at all..."
everything clicked into place for her.

Sister Tamara doubted many things, including some of Sparda’s deeds. The abbess often reprimanded her for her blasphemous thoughts spoken aloud in the wrong company. But there were things about which Sister Tamara never doubted.

For example, she firmly believed that the souls of the dead return to earth to live new lives. And that sometimes they don’t forget their past right away.

"You’re older than you appear, aren’t you, Nero?" she smiled at him.

While Nero had been sequentially moving his fingers all this time, he froze, looked at her, blinked, and then slowly, demonstratively, raised his right leg, stuck it into his mouth, and started chewing on it.

Sister Tamara merely smirked:
"Don't worry, little one. I won’t tell anyone," she placed a finger to her lips. "This will be our secret."

Shit, how could he have been so careless? He’d been exposed within the first six months of his life! What the hell? And anyway, how was he supposed to know how babies were supposed to behave beyond the fact that they constantly screamed and dirtied themselves? Although, of course, some urges were harder to control, and any stimuli around him triggered reactions thousands of times stronger than he remembered from his past life. Still, out of habit, Nero acted reservedly—just as he'd been taught in this very orphanage and later reinforced by his adoptive parents.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have controlled himself so rigorously? If he felt like screaming, maybe he should’ve just screamed? After all, he cried a lot. Tamara, whom he barely remembered from his previous life, had noticed that too. Her embraces helped him endure the most painful memories, but it still couldn’t compare to the sense of security he felt even just from Vergil’s scarf.

It was so frustrating that the scent had already faded. How he longed to wrap himself in that item again and feel the strength of his father. Damn uncontrollable urges! Argh!

Unfortunately, that was an impossible dream—at least for the next ten years. If Nero had calculated the timeline correctly, Vergil must be building Temen-ni-Gru right about now, while Dante was probably cleaning up after him. They both spoke sparingly about that event—it turned out his father wasn’t just an amateur gardener but also an architect who loved tall towers and climbing them.

"And this is the guy calling me a kid who needs attention," Dante laughed at him. Vergil wasn’t amused.

Right after Temen-ni-Gru, his father would go straight into Mundus's clutches and remain his plaything for the next decade. And if Nero didn’t want to end up being eaten, it was better for him to forget about the idea of going to Hell alone to try and rescue his emotionally distant idiot father.

Nero sighed and rolled onto his stomach. Even that took a whole lot of effort. His body was weak, sensitive, perpetually hungry, and helplessly fragile to the point of tears. Nero could barely control it. Such disappointment. But at least there was something to occupy every free minute when he wasn’t sleeping or going insane from hunger, the smell of excrement, or fear. Being a baby was damn disgusting. Nero fully understood why no one remembered this period of their lives—you could easily go crazy!

Still, left hand, thumb, index finger, middle finger…

By the age of two, things hadn’t gotten easier.

As it turned out, Nero hated walking. And he also disliked talking. He hated walking because it was so slow and clumsy, even though he spent entire days trying, failing, and trying again. He disliked talking because during his first year, he hadn’t screamed or babbled much, and thus never gained proper control over his throat and tongue to produce the right sounds in the correct order.

Well, now even Sister Tamara began to doubt his sanity. Because all Nero did by the age of two was run from one end of the monastery to the other and spout gibberish, trying to mimic anything remotely resembling speech. They seemed to tolerate him only because he shut up during meals, went to bed on time, and used the potty without being reminded.
Once, he got distracted and collided with some knight—or rather, with the sword hanging from the knight's hip. That’s how he realized it was a knight. Falling on his bottom, Nero first didn’t understand what had happened, then looked up at the knight.

Nero flinched when he recognized that cold, disdainful gaze—the kind a ruthless bastard gives to an insignificant bug. Sanctus sneered and stepped aside. And since Nero no longer saw any reason to hide his feelings, he screamed at him with all the power of his lungs. The sisters immediately rushed to him from both ends of the corridor, lifting him into their arms and carrying him away from the influential official (if Nero remembered correctly, he was currently the Supreme General), while Nero kept screaming until Sanctus disappeared from sight.

From that day on, it became a habit for Nero to scream every time he spotted the old man. Sanctus already hated him. Good. Nero would make sure to cause him trouble in every possible way.

At three, Nero finally grew big enough to reach the large books on his own. Yes, they were still children's books. No, he still couldn’t read them properly. His brain refused to recognize the letters, turning the pages into colorful blots. So, as a responsible little boy, Nero took a primer and started copying it word for word. At the same time, he worked on developing the fine motor skills he lacked. His tiny hands struggled to hold the pencil in the correct position, so he held it however he could, filling the designated drawing pages with uneven rows and columns of identical letters. In different colors, just to keep from going insane. It turned out that his young mind desperately needed every possible stimulating input; otherwise, Nero felt terrible—tears, snot, and literal chest pain.

After studying the primer inside and out, Nero finally stopped confusing the letters and began assembling these symbols into words that made sense to him.

He cried over The Journey of the Little Knight—a silly fairy tale printed only in Fortuna due to its religious content. He didn’t care about the plot; he vaguely remembered it. He was simply happy that he could finally connect with something beyond himself.

This marked the beginning of his binge consumption of the children’s library. And when he had read everything there, he asked Sister Tamara to bring him more. He blushed when she broke down in tears, hugging him tightly and cooing: "Of course, sweetheart. As many as you want."

Trying to figure out why she reacted this way, Nero suddenly realized that unlike other children, he had never asked for anything. Why bother? Food and clothes were provided anyway. Toys didn’t interest him. He went outside with everyone else, entertaining himself with monotonous exercises or muttering tongue twisters under his breath. Running outside was more pleasant, and falling onto the grass hurt less. True, bugs were slower than the mice in the monastery, which at least gave him some challenge for his agility.

Now, he was allowed into the main monastery library. And Nero began reading—everything. It didn’t matter if it was legends and fairy tales, instructions, recipes, technical manuals, or textbooks; he devoured it all. Sometimes, he would write down or sketch especially complex diagrams or formulas, alternating between training his hands, memory, and reasoning. Once he immersed himself in the books, he realized he remembered almost everything he’d learned in school. Refreshing those memories meant he could dig deeper into the details that had been painfully missing in his adult life.

Basic financial literacy—already a failure in two generations, Dante-style. Electricity, ballistics physics, strength of materials, as well as psychology and medicine. Occasionally, he entertained himself with legends, which this time he read thoroughly to the last letter, and poetry—a love for which, strangely enough, had carried over into second generations, thanks to Vergil.

The sisters laughed at him when he earnestly copied formulas from books, then rewrote them again and again, substituting different numbers with his clumsy handwriting, but they didn’t interfere. What stopped him was the banality of it all—the books ran out.

Though the monastery’s library seemed large, it had a rather meager selection of truly useful books or reference guides. This prompted Nero to approach Sister Tamara for the second time.

Solemnes rarely visited the abbess at the monastery. Mostly, it was quarterly reports, exchanges of requests and opinions. He would have been happy to spend more time in her company, but his surroundings would definitely have noticed—and interpreted it correctly. As a high-ranking official, Solemnes had no room for such freedoms as free time or personal life. Every hour of the vicar's schedule was planned weeks in advance, down to the moments he was allowed to retreat to the restroom. And this wasn’t a joke; after an unsuccessful assassination attempt several years ago, at least one trusted person was always by his side.

Today, that person was the abbess. Outside the gates, a detachment of knights awaited, personally selected by Sanctus—those most loyal to the spirit of the Order, just as Sparda had decreed.

Because of his position, Solemnes rarely encountered unplanned visitors. So, he was surprised when there was a knock on the door, followed by the appearance of a young nun's face.

"Abbess, we… with Nero," she stammered, awkwardly averting her eyes from the abbess's desk and catching sight of Solemnes. She immediately paled. "I'm sorry, I didn't know you were busy. We'll come back later."

"Nonsense," Solemnes quickly interjected. "We were almost finished anyway. You won’t disturb us." He longed to see someone new, even one unfamiliar face for longer than a fleeting moment.

The sister looked at the abbess, who nodded. The sister cautiously opened the door wider and squeezed through sideways. Behind her, holding her hand, came a tiny child. Merciful Sparda, he was adorable! Solemnes adored children. Before becoming a knight, he had constantly helped at the orphanage, tending to every child within reach of his eager hands. Few remembered this about him since Solemnes was old, and many in their line of work didn’t live to see gray hair. Thus, Solemnes never let his nature tarnish his image. But simply watching this little boy confidently trot behind the sister filled him with so much energy that he felt ready to move mountains! He would do anything for the happiness of these little ones. That was why he became a knight in the first place.

"So, what did you need with Nero, Sister Tamara?" the abbess asked, nodding at them—one of the few who knew Solemnes' small secret.

Tamara leaned down to Nero and smiled encouragingly, nodding. Nero, the rosy-cheeked and charming toddler, solemnly nodded back and took a step forward.

"Abbess, I would like to ask you for some new books."

"Hmm," the abbess thoughtfully rubbed her chin. "It’s true, we haven’t updated the children’s library in a while. Your Holiness, could you ask the parishioners if they might share something with the orphanage, if possible?"

"Of course, Abbess," Solemnes replied seriously, inwardly squealing with joy. "I will convey your request to the congregation."

"Is that all, Nero?" the abbess clarified.

"Well, actually, I’m not interested in the children’s library."

Solemnes blinked. What?

"Yes, how to put it…" the sister nervously adjusted her hood. "Nero finished with the children’s library half a year ago. My sisters and I allowed him to go to the adult section, and well…" she spread her hands.

"Do you mean to say that you’ve read every single book in the monastery's library?" the abbess frowned.

"Of course not," the little boy snorted, rolling his eyes—a gesture far too adult for such a young face. "I only read the ones that interested me the most."

"And which books would those be?"

Nero charmingly blushed and reeled off several titles that seemed wildly inappropriate for someone so young.

"An… extremely interesting selection for such a young reader," the abbess remarked with considerable surprise. "So, what kind of books would you like to see in the library?"

Nero immediately straightened up. "More books on general physics or natural science. Maybe something about surviving in the wilderness and inventions. Any kind of craft—from electronics to pottery—would be great. It would be wonderful to read more history… the history of the continent, I mean. I know everything about Sparda, but I don’t know when humans first invented swords! And I’d love to read about the history of swords and other weapons. Perhaps books about military leaders, strategies, and tactics. Even tales and poems about the continent’s battles would be useful." The boy listed them off eagerly, counting on his tiny fingers. "Actually, I’d even enjoy reading a primer—if it were in another language."

When Nero finally paused, an awkward silence fell over the room. Sister Tamara, red as a tomato, stood steadfastly behind Nero while the abbess stared at him in astonishment.

Solemnes was the first to laugh aloud, drawing everyone’s attention as he wiped a tear from his eye. "What an extraordinary young man we have here. Nero, is it? A ward of this monastery?"

The boy turned fully toward him and nodded.

"Solemnes," he introduced himself with a slight nod. "Vicar of Sparda and the Order of the Sword. Do you know what that means?"

"That in this city, there’s no one higher in rank than you."

"A few still exist," Solemnes smirked, "but they haven’t been seen on this island for over a hundred years."

"Sparda," the boy scoffed.

"You don’t believe in him?" Solemnes raised an eyebrow.

"I prefer to know," came the reply—far too mature for a three-year-old.

Solemnes smiled approvingly. He barely restrained himself from pinching those incredibly serious cheeks. However, the intellect of this child demanded closer attention. A three-year-old couldn’t possibly read such advanced literature and truly understand it. Or could he? Although, wait—did he really understand it? His words were sophisticated and carried a kernel of logic, but children were known for their candor and uncanny ability to speak truths without fully grasping them.

A small test was in order before taking any action.

Pulling out a magical amulet from under his collar, Solemnes showed it to the boy. "Do you see this piece of jewelry?" A small teardrop encased between two half-spirals. Unremarkable at first glance, it looked more like a woman’s trinket. Yet, it hung close to his heart. "What can you tell me about it just by looking?"

Nero froze, mouth agape. The problem was, he damn well knew exactly what it was. How it ended up on the vicar’s neck was unclear, since Nero wasn’t supposed to encounter it until much later. Kyrie had given it to him on his twentieth birthday, saying she’d found it on the doorstep with a note: "For Nero." He tested it every way possible and found nothing but mild passive protection and a faint active regeneration spell.
In his time, this trinket wouldn’t have sold even on the Devil’s Market due to its low energy. But now… it looked different. Fuller.

The issue was, he couldn’t blurt this out to the vicar. Clearly, he was testing Nero, so he needed to present his reasoning in a way that made sense for a boy who wanted to read books on strategy and physics.

"It looks like a feminine piece of jewelry," Nero began, "but since you’re wearing it, it must have something unusual about it. I read that Sparda created many artifacts. Maybe this is one of them. Something that makes a person stronger… or smarter," he added mischievously.

Judging by the beatific smile lighting up the vicar’s face, Nero’s answer seemed almost insulting. Unfortunately.

"Well, you’ve passed my little test with flying colors," the vicar tucked the amulet back under his collar. "I suppose you’ve earned a reward."

Nero perked up.

"But your extraordinary mind has intrigued me," Nero tensed. "So, I offer you a choice." Nero swallowed. "You can accept all the books the parishioners donate to the library. Or you can agree to visit my personal library once a week for a couple of hours—just you, me, and all my books."

Nero furrowed his brow. "Can I find out what books you have?"

"No," the vicar shook his head. "It’s an Order secret."

Nero scowled deeper. He tried to recall the Order’s library—stacks of books about weapons, demons, and how to dismember the latter using the former. But for some reason, Nero doubted the vicar was talking about that library.
On the other hand, what did he have to lose? A few volumes like The Early Years of Sparda or 101 Sea Knots ? At least conversations with the vicar would be interesting. Besides, he hadn’t encountered Solemnes in his original timeline.
Nero froze. Solemnes died before he was born. What the hell?

"Hmm?" the vicar asked, surprised. "Is something wrong?"

Then Nero glanced again at the vicar’s chest, where the amulet was hidden under his uniform. Perhaps this thing accidentally ended up on him that one crucial time and truly saved his life.

But if that were true…

"Would it be dangerous for me?" Nero asked bluntly, because a three-year-old meeting privately with a vicar was suspicious as hell.

Solemnes frowned, then raised his eyebrows in surprise. In the next second, a storm of emotions crossed his face, leaving Nero momentarily disoriented.

"No, Nero," Solemnes said, struggling to sound friendly, "you’ll be safer with me than anywhere else. I promise you this. I swear on my life and everything I believe in that no harm will come to you while you’re with me."

Such solemn promises to a three-year-old certainly inspired trust. So, Nero nodded. "Alright. I agree."

Chapter Text

Solemnes, surrounded by three knights, approached the monastery with a subtle sense of guilt. He truly had intended to come yesterday—he had promised, after all. But Sanctus once again found urgent matters that demanded attention. The reports on demonic activity at the city’s outskirts, which Solemnes had planned to review immediately after meeting Nero, were suddenly needed for an emergency meeting with the Order’s captains, where Solemnes's presence was also required.

Solemnes barely suppressed an irritated sigh. He respected Sanctus, but sometimes the man acted as if the entire world revolved around his Holy Knights. That was one of the reasons why he didn’t want to pass the title of vicar to him.

Now, standing before the gates of the monastery, Solemnes hoped Nero hadn’t been too upset about his absence. In truth, he relied on Nero’s young age. Perhaps, for once, luck would be on his side, and Nero simply wouldn’t remember their agreement?

Solemnes consoled himself with this thought, but deep down, he knew it was a weak excuse. He had promised. And he should have kept his word.

Finding Nero took longer than expected. When Sister Tamara finally appeared in the common children’s room, there was a mild reproach in her eyes.

"He waited for you all day," she said without hiding her disappointment. "Оnly left the entrance door to eat."

Solemnes’s heart sank into his stomach. He hadn’t felt this guilty in a long time—not since he himself had been a squire.

"Where is he now?" Solemnes asked, trying to sound calm.

"In the library," Sister Tamara replied, gesturing toward the corridor. "But, Your Holiness, he… is upset."

Solemnes nodded and headed toward the library. He didn’t know what to expect. Nero was an unusual child—too intelligent for his age, too serious. Solemnes couldn’t understand how such a small boy could be so… grown-up. But that only made him more intriguing. It was as if all Solemnes's favorite qualities had merged in this child: the charm of youth, adult seriousness, and a clear understanding of his own desires. It could get better in only one way—if Nero turned out to be related to him.

Solemnes sighed dreamily. One day, Maria would give him a sweet little baby, and then he’d retire immediately to spoil his grandchild.

When he entered the library, Nero sat at a table, buried in a book. The boy didn’t even look up when Solemnes approached.

"Nero," he said softly. "I’m here."

Nero slowly raised his eyes. His gaze was indifferent and cold.

"You promised to come yesterday," he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Solemnes sighed, instantly dismissing any hope of an easy resolution.

"I said I’d come next week," he tried to explain, though he knew it sounded like an excuse.

"You said 'at the end of the week,'" Nero countered sharply. "Yesterday was the end of the week."

Solemnes felt his cheeks flush slightly. He hadn’t experienced this burning shame in years, especially not from a child.

"But I’m here now. Are you going to sulk, or will you come with me? We don’t have much time," he said, attempting to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.

Nero didn’t answer right away. He stared at the vicar for a long moment, weighing every word. Finally, he said:
"No. I won’t go with you."

Solemnes blinked in surprise.
"Why?" he asked, not bothering to hide his confusion.

"Because a teacher who cannot admit his mistakes is doomed to teach the same to his student. I… don’t want that," Nero replied, shaking his head.

The vicar froze, then burst into loud laughter. His laughter echoed through the quiet library, making Nero frown.

"Did I say something funny?"

"No," Solemnes wiped the tear that formed in his eye, "not at all. On the contrary, you said something very true," he admitted, folding his hands behind his back and nodding. "And I was wrong, I apologize for it. For my defense, I really did intend to come yesterday. However, circumstances detained me. Sanctus... occupied all my time."

Nero grimaced at the mention of Sanctus. Solemnes noticed it.

"Already crossed paths with him?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah, that rude guy who looks at everyone like dirt on his boots," Nero said plainly.

Solemnes paused for a moment, then smirked.
"You certainly don’t shy away from speaking your mind. I haven’t heard such… healthy criticism about him in a long time."

Nero raised an eyebrow in surprise.
"And getting back to our conversation, I didn’t actually intend to become anyone’s teacher," Solemnes continued, his voice growing more serious. "But now I’m genuinely interested. I’d be a fool to pass up on such a gem who might even help polish myself. Besides, I’ve missed having someone speak truth to me directly. So, are you still interested in my personal library?"

Nero looked at him thoughtfully. Solemnes could see the gears turning in the boy’s eyes, followed by what seemed like acceptance.

"Alright," Nero finally said. "But only if you promise not to be late again."

Solemnes smiled with paternal warmth.
"I promise," he said, extending his hand. "Shall we go?"

Solemnes's office was exactly as Nero had imagined the office of the vicar of the Order of the Sword would look: austere, majestic, and slightly intimidating. High ceilings adorned with intricate panels, massive bookshelves filled with ancient tomes, and a grand oak desk piled high with papers and maps. Portraits of previous vicars hung on the walls, and in one corner stood a small altar featuring an image of Sparda, surrounded by magical candles. Already was smaller than usual, Nero felt downright tiny here.

Solemnes seated him on his lap as though Nero were just an ordinary child and he were a kind grandfather rather than the vicar of the city’s dominant sect. In front of them lay a book with a plain cover, unremarkable except for a strange pattern along the edges.

"I thought a primer would be best for a little one like you," Solemnes said with a condescending smirk that was already starting to irritate Nero. "Can you guess which language it’s written in?"

Nero frowned as he examined the cover. It offered no clues. He began considering possibilities. Italian? Maybe. Ships under that flag docked in Fortuna almost as often as American ones, so it was even offered as a second language in school. For the same reason, Portuguese could also be a possibility, though it was less popular in Fortuna. And Nero doubted Solemnes would teach him a language with almost nothing to read in it. Latin? That would make sense—the language of science and magic. But something told Nero it wasn’t that simple.

He voiced his guesses aloud.

Solemnes smirked, as if expecting exactly that response.
"Close. But if you consider who founded the Order…"

Nero froze. His mind raced. Sparda. Of course, Sparda. The Order of the Sword was his creation, his legacy. And if it wasn’t a human language…

"Demon runes," he whispered, feeling a shiver run down his spine.

Solemnes grinned widely, clearly pleased with his deduction.
"Exactly," he said, opening the book. "And today, we’ll start with the first three runes."

Nero stared at the page, where strange, sinuous symbols were depicted. They seemed alive, as if moving before his eyes. He felt a slight dizziness but quickly regained control. This was what he wanted. What could give him power.

Dante, the old fart, had promised to teach him, but kept delaying so long that Nero risked asking Vergil for help. Nero’s heart had never beaten so fast as in that moment when Vergil looked at him with an unexpectedly vivid mix of surprise and regret.

"Today, your task is to memorize their forms and meanings," Solemnes said, pointing to the first rune. "Trast me, three runes will be enough for the first lesson. You’ll have a week to practice."

Nero nodded, already fully immersed in the intricate twists of the complex squiggles.

Later, he spent the entire week tormenting himself with attempts to replicate the difficult symbols, repeatedly reciting the meaning of each rune aloud so as not to forget any crucial details. By the end of the week, he knew them by heart.

At their next meeting, Solemnes gave him six runes. This was harder. Nero had to memorize new symbols while not forgetting the old ones. He spent hours repeating them until his eyes watered from strain and his hands trembled with exhaustion. But he managed even this.

Then came nine runes. This truly became a challenge. Nero felt his brain overheating from the effort. He began seeing runes in his dreams, swirling before his eyes even when he closed them. But he didn’t give up. He couldn’t.

And now there were twelve runes before him. Nero stared at them, feeling tears welling up in his eyes. It was too much. Too many. He could barely remember the previous eighteen, stumbling and making mistakes at every turn.

Why was this so difficult? With an ordinary primer, he hadn’t had any problems. So why did these squiggles cause near-panic in his mind?

"Father?" A young woman entered the office, dressed in a modest dark-burgundy dress, typical for Fortuna. "Sparda Almighty, is that a child? Did you steal another baby from the orphanage?"

"Slander!" Solemnes protested. "I’ve never stolen children from the orphanage. The sisters know I borrowed Nero for the next couple of hours."

"Then why does he look like he’s about to cry?"

Nero sniffled and quickly wiped away his tears. His blurred vision cleared. The woman approached closer. Her worried face, looking at him with concern, suddenly froze, turning into a pale mask.

And Nero, damn it, knew why.

Back then, everything had been blurry; his newborn brain refused to paint the world clearly. But the scent. Her scent—he would never forget it. Mother. It was his mother.

"Nero?" Solemnes asked. "Is everything alright?"

Nero lowered his eyes to the runes. Twelve of them. Until next week. Too many? Ha. Nothing compared to the chance to protect her. He had little time—less with every second. Less than half a year until he turned four. And just three years before "synaptic pruning"—one of those smart words he’d learned from Kyrie in his past life—would start erasing unused neural connections in his brain. The more he could learn and assimilate, the better. Against Mundus, he needed every weapon he could get. Especially these damn runes!

"Yeah," Nero sniffled.

"Great," Solemnes smiled fatherly. "See, Maria! Everything is fine between me and Nero."

"Yeah," she cautiously stepped back, carefully hiding her shock. "I see. Nero, is it?" Maria asked hesitantly.

"Yep," Solemnes immediately chimed in proudly. "An amazing kid. He’s read the entire monastery library."

"Wow," Maria smirked, offering a friendly smile.

"Not the entire thing," Nero mumbled, averting his gaze, embarrassed.

"Doesn’t mean only the children’s section, by the way," Solemnes added unnecessarily, sounding disturbingly pleased.

Nero glared at him, then looked at Maria, who had paled again. The openness of her emotions made him think about where his own emotional nature might have come from. Certainly not from Vergil...

"I see," she replied uncertainly. "Well, I won’t bother you then…"

"I’ll try to be back for dinner," he called after her.

"I’ll tell Christina to save something for you," she smirked, closing the office door behind her.

"Beautiful girl, isn’t she?" Solemnes chuckled to himself.

"Huh?" Nero looked up at him in surprise.

"Maria. My daughter," Solemnes said proudly. "I can’t wait for some worthy man to win her heart, make her happy, and turn me into a grandfather."

Nero lowered his gaze back to the runes. Solemnes had no idea that he was currently holding his own grandson in his arms. Given his love for children, why had Maria kept quiet? What danger did it pose?

Nero sighed heavily.

"It’s rather presumptuous of you to say such things when you already have a child sitting on your lap," Nero remarked snidely. "Am I not enough yet?" he added, adopting his most pitiful tone.

Solemnes immediately flustered, which made Nero laugh genuinely.

It was sweet, Nero thought as he glanced back at the book. He didn’t know if he could manage, but he knew for sure that he’d give it his all—for everyone.

Solemnes patiently watched as Nero painstakingly traced the final squiggle. During the exam, the boy stumbled, nervously tapped his fingers on the desk, mumbled thoughtfully, and stared at the ceiling, but in the end, he correctly identified the meanings of all thirty runes. Solemnes smiled as he saw Nero finish, exhale deeply, and look at him with weary eyes.

"Well," Nero asked, barely suppressing a yawn, "is it fifteen next?"

Solemnes chuckled encouragingly.

"No, Nero," he replied, shaking his head. "There are only thirty runes total. And now you know them all."

Nero blinked, not immediately grasping what this meant. Then his eyes widened, and he nearly jumped in relief.

"So, this is the end?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh, no," Solemnes smirked. "This is just the beginning. Now we move on to combinations. Starting with two-rune pairs."

Nero frowned, all traces of joy vanishing from his face.

"Combinations?" he echoed, trying to sound calm. "Like... words?"

"Not exactly," Solemnes responded, opening a new page in the book before him. "Demon runes don’t work like human languages. Two runes in one order can mean one thing, while in another order, they mean something entirely different. For example," he pointed to a pair, "these, if read left to right, mean 'ignition.' But if you switch their places, it becomes 'ash.'"

Nero stared at the runes, feeling his brain begin to overheat from the strain. He tried to imagine how many such combinations there could be. Thirty runes... if each could combine with every other...

"Nine hundred," he whispered, his heart beginning to race. "Nine hundred combinations."

Solemnes nodded approvingly, clearly pleased with his quick calculation.

"Exactly. But don’t panic. We’ll proceed gradually. By now, you should know how many runes you’re comfortable learning in a week. With time and practice, that number may increase, but for now… how many combinations do you think you can learn in a week?"

Nero thought it over. He began calculating in his mind. Seven combinations per week would take almost two and a half years of weekly lessons. Nine would take slightly more than a year and a half. Twelve would take even less. But even that seemed too long.

"Twelve," he finally said, striving to sound confident. "I can handle it."

Solemnes smiled, but his eyes betrayed understanding.

"Good," he nodded. "But remember, this is only the beginning. After two-rune combinations come three-rune ones."

Nero felt a chill run through him. He swallowed hard.

"Three-rune ones?" he repeated, barely suppressing his panic. "How many are there?"

"Twenty-seven thousand," Solemnes replied, his voice almost teasing.

Nero felt his arms go limp with futility. Twenty-seven thousand. It was impossible. He’d never manage it in time…

"But don’t worry. Two-rune combinations are already a tremendous help. Three-rune combinations—the limit of human comprehension—are rarely used in combat and require preparation," Solemnes tried to reassure him. "And understanding four-rune combinations or more requires being a demon… or having a demonic translator."

Nero stared at him, feeling tears of frustration welling up in his eyes. This damn child's body reacted so vividly to every failure!

"How do they understand them?" Nero asked, trying to find any loophole. "They don’t spend years studying these squiggles, do they?"

Solemnes laughed.

"You’re right. Demons don’t study runes. For them, it’s instinctive knowledge."

Nero froze. For the first time, he thought not only about how to learn the runes but also about what they truly meant—not for humans, but for demons.

Dante used runes for everything: talismans, enhancements, traps, spells. Nero had seen countless times how Dante would draw some squiggle on the ground during a fight, and then something would flare up—some explosion or another, even more destructive one. Dante had also drawn two runes on the wall of Nero’s van—with his own damn blood.

Flipping through the book to find the relevant combination, Nero pointed at it.

"What does this mean?"

"Hmm? This?" Solemnes leaned closer. "Possession or ownership."

That son of a bitch marked Nero’s van as his property?! If Dante hadn’t already been dead, Nero would’ve kicked his ass.

"And how… can humans use runes?"

"Good question, Nero," Solemnes smirked. "By using demon blood."

Nero nodded. That made sense.

"What’s the limitation?"

Solemnes smiled, clearly pleased with Nero’s depth of thought.

"For demons, runes are a way to channel their natural magic. But if the demon is weak, the magic is weak too. The more runes in a sequence, the more power required. A weak demon can use single runes almost endlessly. Doubles will drain all its strength, if not kill it outright. A strong demon, on the other hand, can handle triples with ease, but quads would still be off-limits. Every demon instinctively knows its limits, and since their own lives matter most to them, they won’t risk fatal combinations."

"What about Sparda?" Nero asked.

"Sparda?" Solemnes chuckled. "He could easily use five-rune sequences. According to legend, he used a seven-rune sequence to seal the Temen-ni-Gru tower, which served as a portal to the demon world."

Nero sucked in a breath with awe.

"And the strongest demon?"

"Let me think," Solemnes mused, stroking his chin. "In the legends, it’s said that the Demon God who split the world into two used a spear covered with ten runes."

To split the world in two required ten runes.

Nero swallowed hard.

"And what would happen," he whispered, "if someone used all thirty?"

"I don’t know," Solemnes shrugged. "I suppose a new world would be born. What kind of world would you create if you could, Nero?"

The sudden question pulled Nero from his melancholic thoughts.

"A world? I don’t know. I like the one we have now, so I probably wouldn’t change much."

"And you’re truly satisfied with everything?" Solemnes asked, surprised.

"Well," Nero shrugged, "all my loved ones are alive and well. The rest doesn’t bother me much."

"Hmm," Solemnes drawled, "what about hunger, disease, and death?"

Nero grimaced.

"Can we go back to talking about runes?"

Solemnes laughed.

"Did I hit a soft spot there, little genius?"

Nero sighed wearily.

"Not really. I just don’t see the point in discussing it. The world is the way it is because of hunger, disease, and death. I am who I am because of hunger, disease, and death. And if I were to create a new world, it would still be based on hunger, disease, and death. Such big ideas blur the goals. It’s easier when there’s something specific to focus on."

Strangely enough, he had come to this realization during verbal sparring matches with his father. After committing genocide twice, Vergil had become an incredibly philosophical guy. Yet, he hadn’t succumbed to apathy because he always had a focus—kicking his smug younger brother’s ass. Nero, in his attempts not to lose his mind under the weight of the legacy thrust upon him, simply followed that example. His focus became family—all of it, no matter how dysfunctional.

Solemnes fell silent for a couple of minutes, grunted thoughtfully, and then returned to the runes.

Chapter Text

Nero was four when Solemnes first handed him a sword.

It was wooden, child-sized, light—exactly what it should have been for someone his age. But Nero looked at it with obvious disappointment.

"Can I have an adult one?" he asked, trying to sound as confident as possible.

Solemnes raised an eyebrow but, after a brief hesitation, nodded. He handed over a full-sized wooden training sword that long as Nero’s height. Nero took it without hesitation—his hand instinctively wrapped around the hilt, his fingers finding their place as if by second nature.

They stood in the training hall of Fortuna Castle. High stone walls, dim torchlight, and the smell of wood, metal, and sweat—all so familiar yet strangely new. The last time, it had been him and Credo training together. A pang of nostalgia hit him.

Nero could feel his heart pounding faster. He was holding a sword again—not Red Queen, of course, but this would do.

"Attack," Solemnes said, taking a fighting stance.

Nero didn’t wait. He moved forward, the sword becoming an extension of himself. He felt his body recalling movements he’d performed thousands of times in his past life. Strike, block, step aside—it all came automatically, as though his muscles remembered what his mind was starting to forget. Solemnes—taller and larger, the kind of opponent Nero was accustomed to facing—barely managed to parry each blow. Nero wasn’t fast—his small body couldn’t allow for that—but he was precise. Every strike was calculated, every step measured by countless battles before.

Within minutes, Solemnes was on the ground, his training sword disarmed. He stared up at Nero with a mix of shock and awe.

Nero stepped back, lowering the sword. He watched Solemnes, feeling fear tightening its grip around his chest. He’d overdone it. Caught up in the thrill of his favorite activity, he’d revealed too much.

"You..." Solemnes began, but Nero cut him off.

"Can you be trusted?" he asked, his voice trembling despite his steady breathing.

Solemnes slowly rose, still staring at him intently.

"I won’t take responsibility for your decision," he said, "but if this concerns you, I won’t ask or speak about this incident."

Nero clenched his fists. He knew it was risky. But he also knew Solemnes deserved the truth—at least part of it.

"I... am Sparda’s grandson," he blurted out, feeling the words burn on his tongue.

Solemnes froze. His eyes widened, then narrowed as if trying to determine whether Nero was joking. The boy’s expression told its own story.

"Sparda’s... grandson," Solemnes repeated slowly, as if testing the words on his tongue.

Nero nodded, overwhelmed by the rush of emotions.

Solemnes closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and reopened them. Determination shone through, barely masking his concern.

"Alright," he said. "Follow me."

He turned and strode away. Nero’s short legs struggled to keep up. They navigated a labyrinth of corridors until they reached one of the most cluttered storage rooms Nero had ever seen. Dust covered everything—old boxes, broken furniture, shelves—and beyond them, tucked far from the entrance, was an unremarkable alcove inscribed with five runes.

Nero looked at it, his heart skipping a beat.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice barely audible.

Solemnes stood beside him, his face tense. He pulled out the pendant from under his collar—the teardrop encased between two half-spirals. Nero had seen it before, but only now did he realize how functional it might truly be.

"Every vicar has a secret," Solemnes began, his voice soft but clear, "passed down from the current head to the heir. This pendant is the key. Behind that wall," he gestured toward the alcove, "is a hiding place where Sparda stores items too dangerous for human hands... but which can save lives in dire need."

Nero examined the wall, seeing nothing special. Just stone masonry, covered in dust, nothing more.

"The alcove," Solemnes continued, "is not just a wall. It’s a magical door. Only someone with Sparda’s blood," he tapped the pendant, "and knowledge of the runes above it, can pass through."

Nero stared at Solemnes in shock and swallowed hard.

"If you truly are his... grandson," Solemnes smirked, though there was no humor in his voice, "you shouldn’t find it difficult to enter."

Nero didn’t respond. He focused on the runes, unaware that he stood almost in total darkness. The faint glow of the torch outside barely illuminated them. He didn’t notice Solemnes watching him, noting how Nero seemed to see the runes clearly when even Solemnes himself could barely recall their exact placement.

Nero’s gaze swept over the runes, but they seemed... wrong. He tried reading them one by one, which naturally revealed no hidden meaning; then in pairs, which he already knew. Nothing worked. The runes remained mere squiggles, refusing to form any coherent sense.

"Instinct, huh?" Nero thought with a sigh, frustration rising within him. He imagined Sparda from the legends—a great warrior, a demon who sacrificed everything for humanity. No, this clearly wasn’t right.

He stepped closer and placed his hand on the damp, dusty stone.

Then he thought of Dante and Vergil. If even a fraction of their recklessness came from Sparda, then Sparda must have been the craziest bastard Nero could imagine. That meant this inscription had to be something no other demon could understand or replicate—something that defied their logic, their instincts.

And then it clicked in his mind. The phrase came unbidden, not logically as Solemnes had warned, but deeper—as though it had always been there, damn it.

"Give everything for what is dearer than life," he whispered, realizing too late the cost. The magic of the five runes would drain his tiny quarter-demon body dry.

"No," he pushed back the panic with sheer willpower. "This matters. It’s more important than me—or anything else."

As if passing some unseen test, Nero felt an unprecedented surge of strength and exhilaration, and he sank straight through the damp, dusty stone into an ethereal pocket dimension.

They found themselves in a familiar astral space. Dante had taught Nero how to use such spaces. Dante himself stored his Devil Arms in a similar one. Incredibly convenient, though utterly useless for Nero—who had only ever possessed one Devil Arm... which was torn off by his father.

Solemnes followed, looking around like a man who hadn’t been home in years.

"Haven’t been here in many years," he confirmed. His voice echoed, as if the space itself repeated every word.

"Nothing’s changed," he added.

Nero glanced around. Silence reigned, interrupted only by a faint hum that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Strange objects floated nearby—weapons, armor, artifacts he couldn’t identify—all hovering slightly above what Nero could call the "floor."

"What is this place?" Nero asked politely, unable to tear his eyes from a peculiar sword floating several meters away. Its blade writhed like it was made of pure black worms, only freezing when Nero fixed it with a direct stare.

"A magical pocket realm," Solemnes replied. "Sparda separated it from his own astral space. Used it as an armory and storage for useful artifacts. There are many Devil Arms here that could aid in your development."

Nero glanced around, then looked at the wooden practice sword still clutched in his hand. It felt completely out of place here, but Nero had already passed this stage. Nothing was more reliable than human persistence, and Dante could choke on all his Devil Arms. Nero wasn’t envious. Nope. Not at all. Never.

"I think it will do for now," he said, gripping the hilt tighter.

Solemnes smirked, but there was something resembling approval in his eyes.

"Sure it is." He said with a touch of irony.

Nero frowned. He didn’t believe Solemnes had brought him here merely to show off or test his bloodline or greed. There was something else at play.

"Then why are we here?" he asked, keeping his gaze locked on the vicar.

Solemnes looked around, took a deep breath, and turned to Nero.

"Among other things, there are guardians here," he said, pointing toward the bright star-like figures in the distance. "Five demons whose power grows exponentially. Sparda came here to train with them—or so my mentor told me. I’m not sure if he witnessed it himself."

Demons. Strong ones. Strong enough that Nero could train with them instead of weaker humans. It sounded like a sensible proposition.

Never had Nero been more wrong.

Bruised, maimed, bones broken, he was drenched in demon ichor from head to toe.

...His wooden sword had shattered. Nero had to use a rune to reinforce one of the shards, turning it into something resembling a short dagger. But even that wasn’t helping.

The demon he fought was monstrously large. Towering, with six limbs, its body covered in scale-like skin that reflected light like a mirror. Its eyes burned with yellow fire, and venomous saliva dripped from rows of razor-sharp teeth. It wielded an enormous two-handed axe heavier than the damn Solemnes himself! Every swing shook the space around, forcing Nero to retreat as he narrowly dodged.

The battle was hell. Nero tried using runes to empower his strikes, but the demon was too fast, too strong. A misdirected swing broke Nero’s arm; a well-aimed one nearly decapitated him. He fell, rose, fell again. His body screamed in pain, but he couldn’t stop. He knew if he stopped, he’d die.

And then, at the last possible moment, as the demon grabbed him and brought him close to its maw, Nero twisted and drove his makeshift "dagger" into the creature's unprotected throat. The beast roared, its blood—demonic ichor—sprayed everywhere before its body began to disintegrate, turning into black smoke that reformed into the smallest of the five stars. Nero collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, sobbing from pain and shock...

A moment later, he found himself in Solemnes’ arms.

"Shh, my boy, shh. You’re alright. That was incredible," Solemnes murmured softly.

Nero wanted to respond, but all that came out was a groan. Solemnes pulled out a vial of green essence and poured it into Nero’s mouth. Almost instantly, the pain subsided, bones knitted back together, and wounds healed, leaving behind only a sniffling, demon-blood-streaked child.

"Incredible? Are you joking?!" Nero rasped, regaining some awareness. "I almost fucking died!" he screeched hysterically.

"You survived and won," Solemnes replied as though this were the only thing that mattered.

"Pure luck! Never again!" Nero shouted, wriggling free from the older man’s protective grip. His whole body trembled with adrenaline and rage.

"Perhaps we should hold off on this for now," Solemnes conceded, rising to his feet. "But you can’t deny that at four years old, you’ve experienced a fight no human I know could have handled."

Nero froze. On one hand, he had indeed succeeded. On the other... doubts crept into his mind.

"Sparda defeated and imprisoned them here. He’s their master. But… what happens if I lose?"

Solemnes nodded, as if expecting the question.

"You’re right about Sparda defeating and imprisoning them here. However, the spell is set so that whoever enters becomes their master."

Nero swallowed hard.

"They’re compelled to obey because the spell is stronger than any of them. If necessary, they can leave and fight alongside humans. But if their master challenges them and loses, they’ll kill him, escape, and gain their freedom. Naturally, stealing every artifact they can to boost their power. In such a case, the citizens of Fortuna would likely perish."

Nero felt like tearing his hair out.

"Why didn’t you warn me?!" he yelled.

"Perhaps I acted somewhat rashly," Solemnes admitted without a trace of regret. "But there are two reasons."

"Two reasons?" Nero growled bitterly.

"One: I thought you needed a little push."

"A push?"

"I don’t know what happened to you, but I sense something bad has occurred. This battle was meant to restore some confidence in your abilities."

Nero blinked stupidly. How could Solemnes be so spot-on without knowing anything about him? Now he was the one who should be wary of this man’s insight.

"And the second?" he asked hesitantly.

"The second..." Solemnes shrugged with a smile. "I just believed in you."

Nero wanted to rip this man apart. Instead, he let out a heavy sigh, feeling his anger slowly ebb away, replaced by sheer exhaustion.

"You…" he started but couldn’t muster enough resentment.

"You did well," Solemnes nodded. "And you're right—it’s too early for you to face such danger unsupervised." He chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Besides, no one will let you wander alone in the forest, and I’m not ready to reveal your abilities to anyone else yet. So, what to do?"

Nero frowned, unsure where Solemnes was going with this.

"Then again, what wouldn’t I do for my own grandson?" Solemnes spread his hands with a sly smirk.

Nero’s heart skipped a beat. He stared wide-eyed, panicking internally, trying to figure out where he slipped up and exposed both himself and Maria.

"Well, that’s what Sparda would say," Solemnes added with a wistful chuckle, allowing Nero to exhale. The old bastard.

"What are you even talking about?"

"You need practice. Demons. Weaker ones, until you come into your full strength. Something where you can hone your techniques without me needing to supervise. Somewhere you can freely use the runes you’ve learned. Clearly, singles and doubles pose no problem for you."

"A five-rune sequence didn’t," Nero said in disbelief.

"No, lad, these marks are special. They don’t drain your strength; they replenish it."

Nero raised a skeptical eyebrow before sighing. Well, only Sparda could come up with something this insane. Still, it was intriguing. He liked one of his grandfathers; perhaps the other wasn’t so bad either. He’d like to get to know him better.

"Didn’t you break some kind of vow by telling me about this place?" Nero suddenly asked.

Solemnes arched his eyebrows, then paused in thought.

"Other than the fact that I couldn’t have stopped you from entering anyway?" he drawled. "No, I don’t think so."

"But aren’t you only supposed to tell the heir? Sanctus, I assume."

Solemnes shook his head immediately.

"As good a general as he may be, Sanctus will never become vicar while I can help it—and partly because of this room."

"Isn’t it strange to say that about your closest subordinate?"

"Sanctus isn’t a bad person. But there’s something he lacks."

"Brains?" Nero snorted.

"Heart," Solemnes replied simply. "He lost his parents early and lived through leaner times for Fortuna. He knew much deprivation, so I understand his desire to protect others from such experiences. But no one has tempered his fanaticism."

Nero froze, staring at Solemnes in surprise.

"What?" Solemnes ask.

"I… I’ve never thought about…"

"Adout what?"

"Why bad people become bad. He isn’t all that different from me."

"Perhaps," Solemnes mused thoughtfully, "the difference between you is just one loving person."

If Nero hadn’t had Kyrie. If her parents hadn’t adopted him back then. If he’d been alone all this time… would he have become as fanatical as Sanctus?

As Vergil?

Something told him he might have been even worse.

"Enough of the gloomy thoughts," Solemnes interrupted, snapping him out of it. "And besides, let’s go. We need to figure out how to catch you a sparring partner suitable for your level."

It took several months for Solemnes to organize their joint patrol excursion. The main obstacle wasn’t Sanctus but the abbess, who silently glared disapprovingly at Solemnes. Women…

Still, they finally managed to venture into the forest. The knights shot sideways glances at the child who seemed completely out of place among them. But Solemnes assured them everything was fine, and though reluctantly, they kept quiet. Nero felt their stares on his back but tried to ignore them. He had a mission.

They had stumbled upon the Assaults' lair. Demons that look like a hybrid of wolves and lizards, with razor-sharp fangs and claws capable of tearing steel. From one story that Virgil told him, after drinking unusually much for himself, Nero learned that Mundus himself had created these demons in ancient times to hunt people.

Their agility and behavior made it clear they didn’t take humans seriously. But the knights weren’t amateurs either. They charged into battle, dealing with the bulk of the demons while Solemnes covered Nero, allowing him to do his part.

Nero gripped the artifact-trap in his hand—a small crystal designed to imprison a demon in its own "star." He knew every step of this plan outside the actual fight was risky, but there was no other way. The demon he targeted was young, dangerous, and fast enough to match Nero’s current skill level. It took considerable effort before the demon was weakened enough to be captured by the trap.

He barely beat the other knights to it and still looked horribly battered and dirty. Suspiciously, the knights continued to tolerate what they considered foolish favoritism in silence.

Solemnes clearly expected Nero to train in the magical pocket realm he had shown him. Nero didn’t bother correcting him but decided to keep to himself the fact that he was already using his own astral space. It was exactly as he remembered from his past life. Here, Nero could train without limits, without fear of being seen or accidentally harming anyone.

Moreover, Nero decided not to replace the wooden sword shard with a new one. He tried repairing it, using runes to reinforce the plain piece of wood. At first, it was just a game—would Nero succeed, or would the sword finally break and leave him unarmed against an angry and hungry Assault demon? Nero even jokingly nicknamed it "Pawn." But, to his surprise, gradually the sword became stronger, almost matching real weapons in durability. Due to dozens of battles, the wood had soaked up demon ichor and Nero’s own blood, turning dark red, almost black, and incredibly sturdy, with cracks healing between fights as if it were a living organism.

He continued learning new rune sequences and experimenting with their application in battle or daily life whenever it was safe. As Solemnes had promised, Nero began memorizing more combinations each week, especially since he could practice them almost endlessly.

Though, there were complications. The sisters at the monastery started asking questions about where he disappeared to for most of the day and why he returned with torn and dirty clothes. Nero solved this problem by switching to night-time training. He completely stripped to avoid soiling his garments and returned to bed after barely resting a couple of hours.

During this time, Solemnes moved a few lessons to his home. He introduced Nero more closely to his family: his daughter Maria, his niece Christina (who, incidentally, recognized Nero at first glance but hid it better than the pale-faced Maria) and a few other people, all eager to pinch Nero's cheeks.

When Nero turned five, Solemnes grew tired of the arrangement and simply handed him a book to study sequences, extracting a promise to guard it like the apple of his eye. Meanwhile, the vicar took on teaching him other subjects: etiquette, tactics, politics, and strategy.

Maria once joked that she saw Nero sitting on Solemnes’ knees so often that it was high time for him to adopt the boy.

Solemnes seriously considered this then and even asked Nero directly:

"What do you think about that?"

Nero was shocked by the question. He froze, feeling his heart beat faster. Then he thought. He’d only recently met Kyrie. From afar, unobtrusively, reverently. He didn't want to scare her, because he was different. She was in his memories, too. Even if her parents didn’t adopt him this time around, he wanted to get to know her current one now-better. He wanted her to know him.

"I think it’s too early," he finally said, sounding rather flustered.

Solemnes nodded as if there was nothing unusual about the response.

"And when would be the right time?" he asked, his voice calm, but there was something akin to hope in his eyes.

Nero didn’t want to rush things, so he blurted out:

"Maybe around nine."

Because that was when Kyrie's parents adopted him last time.

Solemnes nodded and resumed the lesson. Maria, unusually cheerful, left the office again.

Around five and a half years old, Nero realized that memorizing rune sequences was a waste of time. Whether it was his age, his growing power, or the demonic magic flowing through his veins, Nero could simply glance at a sequence and "understand" what it meant. Yes, it took him damn long to figure out why exactly Solemnes had given him a book filled with pages of combinations without any explanations. Usually, Solemnes explained the meaning of each combination. But the more they studied, the less Nero needed hints.

Now, Nero simply flipped through the book like another reference manual, highlighting and sketching out the combinations he found most interesting—those that might come in handy in battle or daily life.

After Pawn broke during yet another fight, Nero used a triple-rune sequence for the first time to bring it back to life. It didn’t kill him, though it left his knees trembling. From then on, Pawn remained unbreakable, and Nero cautiously experimented with other intriguing sequences.

Around this same time, Solemnes asked Nero to do something for him personally.

"Do you want me to train with Sanctus?"

Solemnes had been unusually somber for weeks, which worried Nero. If this cheerful old man was in a bad mood, something was seriously wrong.

"Don’t misunderstand me. I don’t think Sanctus is your equal. In fact, I’m sure that if you gave it your all, you could teach him a thing or two. However, I ask because another reason."

Nero nodded attentively.

"Something’s happening. Something not good. And I need someone I can trust to keep an eye on Sanctus."

Nero tensed.

"Keep an eye on him to protect him, or…"

"Both," Solemnes sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, I’m unsure who in the Order remains loyal. There are very few people I truly trust, but Sanctus… you know."

Nero sighed. Yes, he knew.

"But will he agree to train with me?"

"I’ll order him to."

Nero nodded. This was a manageable task, though it required playing a delicate and cunning role. He needed to intrigue Sanctus with his skills, showing off his "raw talent" while hiding his true abilities and experience. Damn hard, considering the reflexes he’d drilled into himself training with a demon created to hunt and kill humans.

"I’ll do what needs to be done," Nero nodded again.

Solemnes smiled warmly at him, fatherly affection shining in his eyes, and ruffled his hair.

"You’re such a good boy, Nero. I’m sorry I’m stealing your childhood with all these adult matters."

"That’s fine, as long as I can protect my family," Nero replied simply, his cheeks reddening before he quickly added, "and the people who matter to me."

"Aww, how sweet, little one," Solemnes teased, "do I matter to you?"

"Don’t make me regret saying that, old man," Nero grumbled in response.

Chapter Text

Unfortunately, due to this reshuffle, their lessons had to be postponed indefinitely. It would have been nice if everything worked out. But the following week, instead of the expected Sanctus, it was Credo who showed up in the monastery’s backyard.

"I understand you’re disappointed," the boy said, barely containing his shame and disappointment behind a mask of discipline, "but the general doesn’t have time to train with you."

"Even if it’s the vicar’s order?" Nero clarified.

"Sorry," Credo flushed red and clenched his teeth, trying to hide it. And just then, Nero realized that Credo was only eleven! He’d only become a squire a couple of years ago, still very young and impulsive. If anything, Nero was now psychologically older than him by… Sparda Almighty, their age difference was over twenty years!

"I know I’m not who you expected to see."

"You don’t need to apologize. It’s Sanctus who should be apologizing, if anything." Credo shot him a surprised look. "But since we’re here, let’s make the best of it. Shall I attack you?"

Credo immediately got into position, assumed a stance, and nodded seriously.

What followed was mostly… boring. But also kind of fun. Boring because Credo was terrible. He had barely mastered the basics; his muscles lacked the strength and endurance for prolonged sparring even against an opponent half his age. Fun because Nero had to adapt on the fly to Credo’s skills, identify his weaknesses, and work on them while still pretending to be an unskilled five-year-old.

And beating up his younger-older brother for all the beatings he endured as a child seemed like sweet, harmless revenge. After all, part of Nero’s fighting style was shaped by Credo and his lessons. He could already see the framework of that style in the boy before him—but there was still so much work to do.

Both of them left the first session covered in scrapes and bruises. Credo did his best not to cry, while Nero grinned through a knocked-out tooth.

"Until next week, Credo! I’ll be waiting for you!"

This seemed to cheer him up a little, prompting a serious nod in response.

The following week, along with her brother, Kyrie came too. She was a year older than Nero but seemed infinitely kinder than both of them. Midway through the training, when Credo misstepped and fell, Kyrie suggested taking a break and brought them water. Credo wanted to refuse, but Nero could see he needed it.

"Yeah, that would be great!" Nero whined playfully. "I'm tired as hell! You’ve got such long arms! You keep making me run around," a hint for Credo to use his reach advantage instead of letting Nero close in like a complete idiot. Damn, Nero hated dealing with kids.

"You shouldn't use foul language," Kyrie handed him a bottle of water. They were already acquainted. Her parents had volunteered at the orphanage, and since Credo was constantly busy with the Order, they had no one to leave their daughter with. So she played with the children at the orphanage. Sometimes, she cleverly manipulated everyone around her little finger and made the kids help the adults. Not exactly an angel if Nero had noticed her feminine charms earlier. But back then, he was smitten. Now? Well, he hadn’t developed immunity, but he’d learned to see deeper, into the true motives of this incredibly kind little girl.

"Hell isn’t swearing. Sparda comes from hell, so I’m just pointing out how devilishly strong your brother is," Nero muttered before taking a sip and handing the bottle back. "Thanks."

Kyrie looked at him with confusion and amazement. Meanwhile, Nero internally smirked with satisfaction. It seemed he had something to teach this little angel too.

Nero was six years old and understood that he was failing Solemnes’ mission. Something needed to be done about it. Nero had no ideas. He barely knew Sanctus. Reconnaissance was needed, but for that, he had to somehow divert the nuns’ already intense scrutiny.

That summer, the orphanage organized a small walk along a cleared section of the forest. The summer festival, oddly enough dedicated to Sparda, was approaching, so the adults decided to combine business with pleasure. The children were tasked with gathering flowers, while some adults were supposed to cut down a few trees for their preparations.

Nero, leaving the herb-gathering to the more meticulous children, strolled along the edge of the forest, keeping an eye on the darkness. Cleared area or not, Mitis was a living forest. There were always a few packs that would consider defenseless children an easy snack, regardless of protective spells.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nero noticed Kyrie slipping between the trees and heading deeper into the woods. He saw her, noticed Credo watching her with a weary expression, and smirked. Sneaking up on him from the side, he quietly asked:

"And what are we doing here?"

Credo nearly yelped, almost dropping his sword.

"Nero," he hissed, "don’t scare me like that!"

Nero grinned mischievously.

"Kyrie said all the flowers on this meadow were trampled. She wants to check beyond the trees." Credo explained. "She promised not to go far, but I still want to keep an eye on her."

"That’s the right thing to do," Nero nodded, folding his hands behind his head. "Family should always be kept in sight."

They fell silent, both watching as Kyrie darted from tree to tree, picking small white daisies. Credo held onto the hilt of his wooden practice sword in its scabbard, while Nero kept his hands behind his head.

"I wanted to ask you something," Credo suddenly said.

"Hmm?"

"I mean," he hesitated, scratching the back of his neck.

"Spit it out, Credo. We’re not strangers."

Credo looked at Nero with such surprise that Nero winced.

"I just…" he sighed and shifted his gaze to his calloused palm. "For all the time that I’ve been training with you, I’ve noticed I’ve gotten stronger."

"That happens when you train consistently," Nero shrugged.

"No," Credo disagreed. "That happens when someone teaches you. I trained for several years before this but didn’t achieve anything. Adults rarely shared their knowledge. Occasionally, one of the older knights sparred with me once or twice, after which I went back to practicing on a dummy. But with you…" he looked at Nero. "I was assigned to teach you the scraps of knowledge I found myself, yet after every session, I feel like I’ve received a full breakdown of all my mistakes from a real master. Is there even any point to these sessions?"

Nero took a deep breath and smiled, though there was no humor in it.

"Of course there is. You’ve learned something."

"Yes, but what about you?"

Nero thought long and hard about how to respond, but suddenly noticed glowing runes on the ground, right beneath where Kyrie had knelt to pick a flower. He bolted, leaping toward her in one bound, but they were both sucked into the magical pocket of the Fault before he could escape its jaws.

The first thing Nero did was check on Kyrie.

"Are you okay? Are you hurt? Does anything hurt?"

"N-Nero? W-where are we?" Kyrie asked, frightened.

Nero cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look into his eyes.

"Don’t be afraid. I’ll get us out of here! Just stay close to me at all times. Okay?"

Kyrie nodded, but her terrified gaze quickly darted past Nero’s shoulder. She screamed, but Nero already sensed the Blade. Ha! He’d practiced on an upgraded version of it for over a year. He could take on a pack of them barehanded now, which was convenient since he didn’t have time to retrieve Pawn from his ethereal space.

"I need to come up with a way to easily retrieve weapons," he mused as he tore the creature’s lower jaw from its upper. When the skull ripped through the flesh and the demon died, Nero yanked out one of its teeth, inscribed several rune sequences on it, applied them to himself and Kyrie, and then proceeded to slice through every demon in sight with genuine delight and wild laughter.

When the enemies were gone, Nero rushed to Kyrie and shielded her with his body to ensure they wouldn’t be separated upon exiting the pocket dimension.

Credo raised the alarm. He summoned all the knights nearby to comb the area around the meadow and help find another entrance to the Fault. People scrambled, and the children were led back to the orphanage. Credo hated himself for not reacting in time.

Kyrie. His precious sister. A little angel who deserved the whole world. He hadn’t been able to save her, to protect her. Instead, a boy even younger than her had reacted to the danger.

Credo wasn’t an idiot. He knew the statistics. A lone knight who fell into the jaws of a Fault rarely made it out alive. In the entire Order, only a handful of lucky individuals could boast such a feat, among them Sanctus and the vicar himself.

Two kids didn’t stand a chance.

And though Nero was strong—much stronger than Credo himself—he couldn’t possibly stand against a horde of hungry demons. Still, Credo was grateful to him for ensuring his sister wouldn’t die alone.

Credo swore to himself that he would work harder than ever before in honor of Nero. He would read more, observe other knights more closely, volunteer for patrols—anything to repay this small, selfless boy for not leaving his sister alone. For trying to save her.

From the other side of the clearing, he was alone. So no one but Credo saw the dying Fault emerge from the ground, convulsing in its death throes as it vomited out two children: a frightened little Kyrie and Nero, drenched head to toe in blood, with a wild grin and a dagger raised over the girl.

Credo rushed toward them and instinctively drew his sword, knocking the dagger out of Nero’s hand—which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a demon’s fang. In his haste, he didn’t notice that his careless movement had scratched the boy’s arm. Nero hissed and pulled his wrist back, clutching it to his chest.

"Savior, you’re bleeding!" Kyrie exclaimed immediately, and instead of running away from Nero, she ran to him. She took off the scarf she’d used to tie her hair and quickly wiped the wound on Nero’s hand—the only wound on his body. The only wound, inflicted by Credo in gratitude for obviously saving his sister.

Credo tossed the sword aside and hurried to help, pulling bandages and ointment from his pouch.

"A stupid mistake," Nero muttered as Credo began treating his wound.

"I know, I’m sorry! I panicked. You were covered in blood, and that fang—" Credo babbled incoherently.

"Not about that," Nero shook his head. "You did well to knock my weapon away. You thought I posed a threat. That was the right call. I meant that you let go of your own."

Credo silently stared at Nero. And the seriousness in the eyes of this little boy frightened him more than the prospect of losing his sister. It was as if a predator were staring straight into his soul—and instead of biting his head off, gave him friendly advice.

After finishing the bandaging, Credo picked them up and hurried to bring them back to the clearing, picking up his sword along the way and sheathing it.

"What happened there?" he asked before the others who had seen them could approach.

"The demons fought over Kyrie and me. We just got lucky that those monsters killed each other."

Kyrie simply squeezed Credo’s hand in silence.

At their next sparring session, there was no trace left of the wound on Nero’s arm. He tried picking at the scratch, but such minor cuts healed faster on him than they appeared. The nuns had stopped noticing this peculiarity, but with Credo, it could become a problem.

"I owe you for saving my sister’s life," Credo said simply, immediately signaling that they wouldn’t talk about that incident unless Nero wanted to share what happened. Good. Credo was a smart boy before meeting Nero, which was useful considering how much of an idiot Nero could sometimes be.

"Then what do you know about Sanctus?"

Credo was surprised by the question but told Nero everything he knew.

It was strange how one saved life could change someone’s perception of you. After the Rift incident, Credo began looking at Nero differently—not as a strange little boy who somehow fought better than many adults, but as someone trustworthy.

Credo shared everything he knew about Sanctus, which turned out to be unexpectedly detailed.

"For a while, I was his assigned squire, so I remember some details."

Some details, indeed. It seemed Credo knew everything: about Sanctus’ fanaticism, his obsession with power, his hatred for anything related to demons, and simultaneously—his secret interest in them. Sanctus was a man of contradictions, and that made him dangerous. But it also made him predictable.

"Why don’t you just ask the vicar to deal with this problem?" Credo asked as they discussed the plan.

Nero smirked, trying to look confident.

"Then what kind of helper would I be if someone else had to do everything for me?"

Credo nodded, though doubt lingered in his eyes. But he agreed to help, and that was the main thing.

The plan was simple: Nero had to hit Credo hard enough to injure his arm so that he couldn’t fight on his own. Throughout the following week, Credo would actively tell everyone around how strong Nero had become, especially after the Fault incident. Sanctus loved peculiar things related to demons. He would either take an interest in Nero or try to isolate, study, or kill him. Either way, attention would be drawn.

But if Nero wanted to intrigue Sanctus, he needed to strike the perfect balance between strength and rawness. Sanctus had to see potential in him that could be “finished” according to his own vision. This sounded like an impossibly difficult challenge—for the old Nero. But this Nero knew and understood more tricks. He was older, better understood himself and his opponent. He could handle it.

But he only had one chance.

The rumors spread quickly. And, as expected, Sanctus became interested.

On the appointed day, Nero saw Sanctus in the monastery’s backyard. The general stood in his gleaming white uniform, arms crossed, watching Nero approach with cold curiosity.

"So, you're the little brat who nearly broke my squire’s arm?" he asked, his voice as sharp as steel.

Nero pretended to be scared and lowered his eyes.

"I... I didn’t mean to," he mumbled.

Sanctus smirked.

"Not crying anymore, huh?"

Nero frowned and hesitantly raised his gaze.

"Excuse me?"

"You probably don’t remember, but every time you saw me, you used to cry."

Nero inwardly grimaced. He could have kept it up, especially now that he had confirmation it bothered Sanctus. But he had a mission to complete. He had to see it through.

"Show me what you can do," Sanctus nodded, taking a ready stance.

Nero nodded and picked up his wooden sword—not Pawn, but another one he used for training with Credo. He knew this was his chance. He had to show enough strength to interest Sanctus but not so much as to raise suspicion.

"Attack."

The fight was intense. Sanctus was an experienced fighter, a general for a reason, and Nero had to be careful to control his efforts. He showed his "mistakes," his "weaknesses," for which he immediately received painful blows, but at the same time demonstrated incredible strength and speed for his age, rising again and ferociously charging back into the fight.

Eventually, Sanctus stopped the bout.

"You... are interesting," he said thoughtfully. "And since it’s the vicar’s order anyway, I think I’ll take you under my personal tutelage."

Nero nodded, trying to hide his smile.

The plan had worked.

From that moment on, Nero became a pawn of Sanctus. The general didn’t care about Nero’s schedule.

"Lunch? I don’t care. I have half an hour free and a technique I want to teach you."

"Class-wide lessons? Nonsense. You’ll come with me to the captain’s meeting because afterward, I’ll only have twenty minutes for warm-ups, which I’d otherwise waste traveling to the monastery."

"Do you know how to read? Wonderful! Write down the main points from this treatise and practice them in your free time, then show me what you’ve learned."

"Broke your sword? Are there no branches left outside?"

It was hell on earth. An endless stream of reproaches that would drive an adult to the grave, let alone a child. But Nero endured, playing the part of the perfect little squire, though he held neither the title nor the responsibilities. Soon, he was moved from the monastery closer to Sanctus’ private quarters so the boy would always be in sight, learning directly by observing the general’s work.

There were some upsides. For example, demons during forest patrols. During the first few rounds, the knights gave him sideways glances, just like that first time with Solemnes. But after Sanctus officially “allowed” Nero to use his “full” strength, Nero finally let loose, tearing those creatures apart almost barehanded, avenging the sins of his ill-fated mentor. There were no swords made for children in the forge, and regular wooden swords kept breaking.

At some point, Nero simply gave up and started openly using Pawn.

Since then, the knights stopped giving him sideways glances and began openly staring at the strange six-year-old who slaughtered demons with ease, always returning to the barracks covered in gore.

After nearly a half-year of this relentless pace, there wasn’t a single Holy Knight in the Order who didn’t know about the strange child.

Solemnes occasionally saw Nero at general meetings and encounters with Sanctus, but never paid attention, always focusing on his general. And though Nero knew the reason—it still hurt.

But all that pain, sweat, and tears finally paid off when one winter evening, during dinner, Sanctus decided to have a heart-to-heart with Nero.

That evening, Nero could barely stay on his feet. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the exhaustion accumulated over a year of nonstop training, or the fullness from a dinner he was allowed to eat without rushing for the first time in ages. Or perhaps it was because, for the first time in this unbearable chain of days, Sanctus personally invited them to dine together in his private quarters.

A small step forward, but this heart-to-heart could become the starting point for building "trust," which Nero desperately needed. If Sanctus trusted him more, he might let slip small pieces of information—insignificant to him but vital to Solemnes.

The general sat at the table, carefully cutting a piece of meat and lazily picking at the side dish. He didn’t look tired, despite spending the entire day in endless meetings and later in the training hall, personally testing the skills of his best knights. Nero still felt the bruises from their morning training—Sanctus hadn’t held back at all. But even after beating Nero, Sanctus didn’t look displeased. More contemplative.

"You’re doing better than I expected," he finally said, setting the knife aside. Nero, who had been silently chewing a piece of bread, flinched slightly in surprise.

"Thank you," he cautiously replied, unsure what else to say.

"But it’s not enough," Sanctus continued, and Nero internally rolled his eyes. Of course. It was never enough. "You understand a lot, learn quickly, and even show interest. That’s good. But you still don’t see the bigger picture. Without that, you’ll forever remain at the level of a subordinate."

Nero glanced at him from under his brows but said nothing. He already knew this conversation wasn’t over. Sanctus loved to lead up to the point slowly, savoring the moment.

"What do you think makes a warrior great?"

The boy didn’t answer right away. He knew Sanctus wouldn’t be satisfied with a typical response from a seven-year-old. He’d heard too much about “spirit,” “will,” and “destiny” to give something so simple. But he also knew Sanctus didn’t like convoluted philosophical musings.

"The ability to use everything he has," he said, frowning slightly.

Sanctus chuckled, seemingly pleased but didn’t show it.

"And what if he has something greater?" he leaned forward, staring intently at the boy’s face. "If he possesses a potentially dangerous power but one he can control? Should he hide it? Or, on the contrary, make it his banner?"

Nero instinctively tensed, clenching his fists around the utensils. He already knew where this conversation was heading.

"Are you hinting that I’m not using everything I have?" he asked cautiously.

"I’m hinting that you’re afraid to," Sanctus replied bluntly, leaning back and folding his hands. "There’s something greater in you than in any of my knights. But you cling to their methods, their views. That’s foolish. A demon doesn’t fight by human rules. So why do you let those rules limit you?"

Nero gritted his teeth. He didn’t like where Sanctus was going. He had no intention of revealing his true nature to him. But… on the other hand, wasn’t that the bait? Sanctus wouldn’t bite on an empty lure.

"I’m not a demon," Nero said quietly.

"No?" Sanctus smiled, but there was no warmth in his eyes.

Nero didn’t respond. He just stared at his food, petulantly considering showing disrespect by starting to eat. But the lump in his throat wouldn’t budge.

"Tell me, Nero," Sanctus spoke again, "who is the greatest opponent of any warrior?"

Nero frowned thoughtfully. What kind of riddle was this?

"Weakness?" he offered uncertainly.

Sanctus laughed—a deep, unfamiliar laugh.

"There’s truth in that, but weakness can be eradicated."

"Then… death?" Nero tried again.

"Undoubtedly, death is a formidable opponent. Almost… unbeatable." Sanctus smirked, seeing the shocked look on Nero’s face. "What? Sparda, even cut off from demonic power, lived for over two thousand years. Who knows how long he lived in the underworld before that. If such phenomena exist, there must be ways to replicate them."

Nero swallowed. Eternal life didn’t appeal to him. But he’d never thought about death… until Mundus had ripped his guts out.

If not for death, how long would he have lived? And the twins? With half the blood of the greatest warrior of the underworld, it was unlikely they’d aged and died by the statistical sixty.

"Fear, Nero," Sanctus interrupted his train of thought. "The greatest opponent of any warrior is fear. It paralyzes, prevents action, leads to cowardly decisions, defeat, and inevitable death. Or, worse, endless horror." Sanctus picked up his glass of water and took a sip.

Something in his words, posture, and expression sent icy tendrils crawling into Nero’s gut, freezing him like a rabbit before a wolf’s open jaws.

What if… what if he hadn’t escaped Mundus? What if this was his prison? What if he tried his hardest, but in the end, Mundus came back and killed them all? But this time, it wouldn’t just be the twins and Kyrie—it would be his mother, grandfather, Credo, and dozens of others Nero had grown attached to.

"I see you understand what I mean," Sanctus nodded approvingly. "This fear—your greatest enemy. All you can do is grow stronger, face it, and conquer it." He set the glass down, leaned closer, and whispered maliciously, "So why are you still holding back all your strength, Nero? Has fear already won?"

Silence fell over the room. Sanctus didn’t add anything more, simply straightened up, picked up his knife, and resumed eating as if nothing had happened.

Nero froze, unable to swallow another bite.

The night was restless. Nero tossed and turned, replaying the conversation with Sanctus in his head. Every attempt by his exhausted mind to sleep was interrupted by another nightmare where he woke up impaled on the blade of Yamato, right in front of Mundus’ gaping maw.

But reality wasn’t much better. Was it reality? What if he was delirious? What if everything around him was an illusion created by Mundus’ magic? There was no way to check, no way to prove otherwise, so all Nero could do was bite down on his pillow and breathe. Deep, steady breaths, until the fear receded into the dark corners of the room.

Chapter Text

The morning training began on schedule.

Sanctus arrived at the start to ensure his subordinates didn’t slack off. As usual, a couple of latecomers would be punished with extra lessons. However, there were also those who had come earlier than usual—either from the night shift or suffering from insomnia. Nero was among the latter. Judging by his appearance, the night had been… more productive than Sanctus had anticipated. His gloomy expression, tense shoulders, sharp gaze, jerky gait, and reaction to every sound amused Sanctus.

Like a Blade pup let loose in a chicken coop.

The knight paired with him clearly didn’t take the training seriously. Shameful. Each of them had, in one way or another, witnessed the colorful killings Nero initiated during patrols. But it seemed his subordinates had grown complacent, assuming this monster would always be on their side. Mistake. It was his duty as general to point out their errors. This time, by example.

The knight was polite, smiling, and even tried to give Nero advice, as almost all of them did—except Sanctus—when paired with him. But the boy simply clenched his jaw and silently took his stance with his bloody club, which he mistakenly called a sword.

Sanctus had long realized that Solemnes had sent the boy to him. The vicar didn’t trust him, so he decided to hedge his bets by placing his own man, even if just a child. But the general hadn’t reached his position by accident. Nero wasn’t a threat but an opportunity.

The boy—a child. Talented, possibly even a genius. With an otherworldly surprise and far too much awareness for his age. But like any human, he had weaknesses.

Nero had plenty of weaknesses, ripe for exploitation. Fear of himself, the underlying terror of losing loved ones, of losing their trust. And, as the cherry on top, his heart boiled with a desperate desire for recognition. This was where Sanctus decided to focus.

First, he would nudge Nero toward accepting his gift. And when Nero took the first step, stumbled, and inevitably killed a person, Sanctus would methodically and patiently use guilt to distance him from those close to him. And when everyone who knew and loved him turned away, Sanctus would be there to pick him up and guide him.

Because this abomination needed to be controlled. He couldn’t be allowed to wander freely around Fortuna. Because instincts could awaken at any moment, and then disaster would strike.

Sanctus unconsciously nodded.

The training began. Pairs and groups of people rushed into attacks, practicing their techniques. But only one pair was far from the concept of a “training fight.”

It was a beating. Nero moved differently than usual: sharply, brokenly, using techniques you’d expect from a master, not a six-year-old boy. None of the knight’s strikes could reach him, glancing off or missing entirely. But Nero’s blows were precise and, in some ways, deadly.

A jab to the liver—if his club had been a real sword, the knight would have lost the organ. A strike to the elbow and a sharp cry—the knight’s arm was broken. Not his dominant one, unfortunately. The fool had used it as a shield. A trip—the knight fell on his back but managed to twist and rise before the club reached his neck. Alas, too late. If the knight had taken this fight seriously from the start, he might have had a chance. Now, he had too many injuries to continue.

The others began to get distracted, noticing Nero’s agile moves. An alarmed shout echoed through the hall again—the boy had knocked the fool’s jaw out, sending teeth and blood flying. Another blow—the knight’s sword flew to the side. Another blow…

The knight crashed into the wall lined with training swords, breaking through a rack and collapsing unconscious to the ground. The training stopped. A muted noise spread through the hall—someone sharply inhaled, someone muttered a curse. No one expected this from a child. They should have.

Nero straightened, his breathing steady. He approached the unconscious body, sniffed, and raised his club.

"Stop!" someone shouted from among the knights. Nero’s club froze an inch above the man’s head. Ah, what a pity. Nero glanced back at the crowd. His empty gaze swept blindly over the astonished faces, ignoring both the surprised looks and the aggressive postures.

Unlike the others, Sanctus was satisfied.

“Well, this is enough for now,” he thought, watching the boy. “The little monster has shown his fangs. All that remains is to convince him there’s no other path.”

"Nero, may I have a word?" Solemnes caught him in the corridor with a large stack of papers that Nero was supposed to deliver to the general’s office immediately.

"Excuse me, Vicar," Nero didn’t raise his eyes to him, trying to hide his inner tension, "I’m very busy right now. If it’s not urgent, could we reschedule?"

Solemnes froze in shock at such formality, but Nero didn’t allow shame to show on his face. He had to endure.

For Sparda’s sake, he had killed people in his past life; he could handle judgment.

"Yes, of course," Solemnes said tonelessly. "Then, another time?"

"As you command, Your Holiness. Have a good day." And Nero left.

But he couldn’t leave the conversation behind. The fear that had momentarily quieted was replaced by gnawing guilt. He wanted to explain, wanted Solemnes not to think poorly of him.

It was true that Nero had no excuse for his actions, but he hoped excuses like “it’s all part of the plan” would be enough to take away at least his disapproving gaze.

Nero wrote a note and planned to leave it on the table in Sollemnis' office so that he could read it in the morning, but it turned out that the vicar stayed late that night.

Nero approached the door and froze upon hearing a voice.

"He nearly killed a man," Solemnes said, his voice strained as if holding back emotions.

Nero’s cheeks flushed.

"He was such a sweet boy, Maria. I hoped he’d soften Sanctus, that he wouldn’t take…"

Nero didn’t eavesdrop further, quietly stepping away from the door, feeling guilt swallow him whole. He couldn’t face Solemnes now. Not after what happened.

But there was still something he could do.

Turning around, Nero walked away.

“…the situation to the extreme. My poor decisions led him to this. I made him act like a bad person, though he isn’t, Maria! It’s Sanctus,” Solemnes continued, his voice growing louder, almost angry. “He always does this. He twists everything he touches.”

“Father,” Maria interrupted sharply, “why are you telling me all this when you should be talking to him?”

“He…” Solemnes whimpered, “refused to speak to me.”

Maria sighed heavily.

“A seven-year-old boy refused you, and you ran off to cry to your daughter?”

Solemnes whimpered again.

“He was busy…”

“Father, you’re the vicar! The entire Order works under your command! Or wait… did you approach him in the middle of the corridor where everyone could see you together?”

“Well, I…”

Maria groaned.

“Father, sometimes you’re such an idiot! Of course Nero refused you! You’re the one who sent him to spy on Sanctus, and now you want to expose his flawless game? So who’s acting like a child here?”

“A child who nearly killed a man,” Solemnes muttered, his voice trembling. “because of me!”

“A child who, as you yourself said, is unusual and smart,” Maria countered. “He didn’t kill him, Father! That’s what matters. Nero will do the right thing. I’m ashamed you lost faith in him so easily.”

Solemnes whimpered again.

“What else?”

“Now I feel even worse.”

“Oh, Savior, have mercy!”

Nero didn’t go to sleep. Instead, he sneaked into Sparda’s magical pocket dimension, took a healing potion from there (vowing to return a similar one later), and headed to the infirmary. He knew the knight he had beaten would be there.

When he entered the room, the knight, who had been tossing in bed, flinched in fear. His already pale face turned even whiter, and sweat broke out on his forehead.

"You..." the knight began, but Nero quickly approached him and covered his mouth with his hand.

"Be quiet," Nero whispered, extending the potion with his other hand. "Drink this."

The knight froze in fear but, after a moment's hesitation, took the potion. Nero removed his hand and allowed the knight to drink it. He watched as color returned to the knight’s face and his breathing steadied. The knight tentatively moved the fingers of his casted arm.

"What is th—"

"I wasn’t here," Nero interrupted, taking the vial back and retreating toward the door. "And you’re still sick."

He was about to leave when the knight called out to him in a whisper.

"Why did you do that?"

Nero froze, feeling his heart leap into his throat.

"Do what?"

"Beat me up."

Nero pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to answer that question, didn’t even want to think about that incident. It was still too close to…

"Because I was scared."

"Scared of what?"

Nero didn’t know how to respond, so he simply bolted out of the room and hurried back to his quarters.

The knight lay in bed, reflecting on what had just happened. He knew the boy—Nero. He’d gone on patrols with him a few times and seen the inhuman horrors he inflicted on demons. He remembered his eyes after a good hunt—glowing yellow like a demon’s, filled with the same greed and malice. But there was something else there too. Feelings like satisfaction from victory or pride in his skills. And then there was the smile he gave the squad every time everyone returned alive and intact. Once, a rookie got in the way, nearly losing a leg. That time, Nero had genuinely been upset, though he hid his frustration behind anger. Such emotions demons couldn’t feel.

During that training session, Nero had been different. His eyes—piercingly yellow—looked hunted. Not like a hunter, but like prey. That explained his words. Nero had been terrified of something. The knight had simply been unlucky enough to become the boy’s partner at such a vulnerable moment. Though, he had seen all the signs, known what it meant. But he had brushed it off, thinking the boy couldn’t have such “bad memories.” He had tried to joke, to cheer him up.

If he had noticed a similar look in the eyes of any other comrade, he would have immediately taken them to a safe place, called their family or friends. Talked to them, at the very least, to pull them out of “it.” In such a state, it was dangerous to sparring them with anyone. They could harm themselves or others. Which was exactly what Nero had done because no one had taken him seriously.

The knight sighed and leaned his head back on the pillow.

They had messed up. They had almost lost a child. For all his strength, Nero was just as human as they were. Just as fragile and vulnerable. And if the rumors in the Order started making people look at him askance, if they avoided him out of fear of his aggression, they would lose him for good.

That couldn’t be allowed to happen.

The knight smirked.

"I need to get out of here as soon as possible."

The gray routine of serving under Sanctus blurred into background monotony. Training, reports, patrols, inspections, meetings, meals, sleep. Wake up in the morning and repeat. It seemed Sanctus intentionally overloaded Nero so he wouldn’t have a single minute to think for himself, but guilt gnawed relentlessly at him from within. Add to that the cautious glances from the other knights. Nero noticed them, though he silently endured. He knew he deserved it.

To keep from going insane, he desperately needed something new. Something challenging that would allow him to completely shut out the outside world. Preferably somewhere without accusing eyes. And one suitable task came to mind.

Nero approached Sanctus as they walked from the barracks to the office.

"General," he began, trying to sound confident, "may I request permission to study alchemy?"

Sanctus shot him a sidelong glance with his cold eyes.

"Alchemy?" he repeated, his tone foreboding nothing good. "Am I not loading you up enough?"

Nero clenched his teeth but didn’t lower his gaze.

"No, General. I just think it could be useful for the Order."

Sanctus snorted, thought for a moment, then smirked.

"Fine. But don’t think this will free you from your other duties."

So, Nero received yet another task to add to his already overloaded schedule. And although Sanctus only allotted him a couple of hours a day to work in the laboratories, it was better than nothing.

Agnus’s laboratory had been an otherworldly place even in his past life. A little unsettling, too. It felt as though time stood still among all the vials and books. Strange mechanisms buzzed everywhere, artifacts sparkled, humming and sparking—all of it so far removed from Nero’s familiar world. And yet, it reminded him so much of Nico.

The enormous creature had simply stepped on the van, crushing the girl inside who hadn’t managed to steer clear. Her insides, mixed with hair and clothes, had squeezed out of the tiny gaps left by the windows like paste from a tube.

At least she had died quickly.

Nero shuddered and curled up, trying to breathe deeply. It’s okay, he was safe here. There was no Mundus here; this was real.

Agnus, that tall, over-muscled man hunched over his notes with that grotesque monocle and perpetually dissatisfied expression, predictably disliked Nero at first.

Nero knew how to handle this—he had years of practice. Despite their differences, the daughter was strikingly similar to the father.

"Who’s this?" Agnus grumbled when Nero first entered the lab.

"Nero," the boy introduced himself, trying to ignore the cold reception.

"Y-yes, Sanctus mentioned you’d c-come." Agnus snorted. "Alright, I have w-work to do, so I can’t be d-distracted. Sit somewhere over there. And d-don’t touch anything!"

Nero nodded and took a seat in the corner, observing Agnus’s work. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions or meddle where he wasn’t invited. Instead, he listened carefully and memorized. Nero wasn’t a patient type—not in his past life. Boredom drove him mad, almost causing physical pain.
Once, because of this restlessness, Nero almost started a fight with Vergil when Dante stopped reacting to his taunts.

Now, Nero found a soothing comfort in observing another person’s work—a professional’s. Agnus knew exactly what he was doing. Every mechanism, every vial had its place in his grand design. This bustling activity soothed the itch of his frayed nerves, allowing him to focus. However… just like Nico, Agnus was messy in his work. He often ran off chasing a thought while his hands left tools or notes wherever they landed. Nero noticed this, and when Agnus inevitably began searching for a forgotten tool, Nero would simply point and remind him where he’d left it.

This seemed to melt the scientist's heart and allowed him to see Nero’s presence in his lab in a new light.

"How do you think it will af-af-affect the mixture if I add a few drops of blood?" Agnus muttered one day, not looking up from his work.

Nero was surprised, then genuinely thoughtful. He knew it was a trick question since he'd already seen Agnus unsuccessfully repeat this experiment several times. But he wasn’t some six-year-old to fall into the trap so easily.

"Well, first of all, it depends on whose blood exactly..."

The boy was no simpleton. At first, Agnus reluctantly agreed to take him on as an apprentice—thanks to Sanctus’ demands. Unfortunately, Agnus himself had a little daughter who seemed possessed by a demon. He had abandoned her and her mother because he couldn’t bear to be near such destructive energy—not after what he had seen and experienced in Urboros. Mark his words, Urboros would regret what they had started…

So no, thank you very much, but he wasn’t about to entertain the boy. He was ready to let this Nero break a few sacrificial samples and then report to Sanctus that the brat was severely slowing down his work. But the boy surprised him. First, he silently and intently observed, then pointed out where Agnus had left the reductant for an upcoming reaction. Agnus jumped in embarrassment, having completely forgotten the boy was even there.

Week after week, the boy simply came, sat down, and seemed to actually learn something, as confirmed by an offhand question thrown into the air. Nero was attentive—to Agnus’s work and to the details required for it. Not everyone could show such care, which made Agnus clench his teeth at the fact that the boy couldn’t stay longer.

The couple of hours Nero spent with him in the lab helped Agnus advance miles further because everything Agnus lost in his absent-mindedness was immediately placed back within reach. And then there were Nero’s unconventional suggestions. The boy didn’t know a thing about chemistry or alchemy—he didn’t know the names of solutions or basic reactions. So he spouted ideas like “mix that thing with this other thing” as if from a cornucopia. He didn’t care that those two "things" couldn’t react because they were both powders and the catalysts available in the lab wouldn’t work. But if one of them underwent delubilization—a process Agnus in his right mind would never attempt—the resulting solution could be used to try... something.

In short, after only a month, Agnus didn’t just get used to it. He began to look forward to Nero’s visits. He eagerly shared his knowledge with the grateful student. To some extent, he even craved the admiration Nero showed him—something he rarely received from others in the Order, unlike resources. But sacrifices had to be made.

Perhaps that’s why, while working on another experiment, Agnus casually muttered:

"If only we could stabilize d-d-demonic ichor..."

Agnus continued working, fully focused. Nero froze, gently placing the flask in the stand before sighing and hesitantly looking at Agnus.

"What do you mean?" he asked cautiously.

Agnus nodded to himself. The boy was surprised but not panicking. A good sign.

"Nothing," Agnus mumbled. "Just thinking aloud."

But Nero, emboldened by months of collaboration, wasn’t about to let it go so easily.

"Are you working on subjugating demonic energy?"

Agnus frowned but, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded.

"Yes. Did you figure that out from j-j-just one phrase?" Agnus was genuinely surprised. Then again, what did he expect from a child who had figured out chemical equipment just by watching him over a month?

Nero shrugged.

"General mentioned you’re working on an important project. Something that could give the Order an unlimited advantage over demons in the future. And if it’s not human strength or divine intervention, the conclusion is obvious."

"And do you find this acce-ce-ceptable?" Ethical questions rarely interested Agnus himself, but he preferred working with people who were on the same page.

Nero grimaced.

"Don’t get me wrong, I don’t harbor any sympathy for those bastards, despite my origins. It’s just... I’m familiar with how the best intentions can consume someone to the point where they stop being human and become more like them."

Agnus was so surprised by the first part that he missed the second.

"Sorry, origg-g-gins?" he stammered.

"Yeah," Nero replied awkwardly. "Haven’t you heard? Just over a month ago. In the training hall."

Agnus shook his head.

"I practically live here. I ra-ra-rarely go outside, and I don’t have time for rumors."

Nero gave a crooked smile.

"I kind of envy you. If I had the chance, I’d hide in such a cozy place too and not let anyone stare at my back. Though, a walk in the forest still refreshes nicely. Especially if there are demons."

"And what can a young p-p-person like you do when encountering demons in the forest?"

"Kill them," Nero shrugged. "To be fair, some of the samples for your experiments were obtained by me personally."

"Is this a joke?" Agnus asked sincerely.

"Do I look like a joker?" Nero replied with a humorless gaze.

No, Nero was quite a serious boy.

"So you mean you…"

"Got infected," Nero shrugged. "Probably. Somehow. Or whoever left me at the monastery door did this to me. I don’t know. It’s just…" he faltered, flustered, fidgeting in a manner uncharacteristic of him, "you know, you’re one of the few who didn’t care about the color of my hair when we first met."

Hair color? Agnus literally just now realized that Nero was completely white-haired. And that for a six-year-old, this wasn’t exactly normal.

"For the sake of protecting people like you, I’m still trying… you know, to stay human…" Nero trailed off, making Agnus feel incredibly uncomfortable. He had never been a good father, always afraid of responsibility for another being, but for some reason, for this smart and promising boy, Agnus wanted to pull himself together.

"You’re not a d-d-d-demon." He blurted before thinking. Seeing the surprised look, he quickly elaborated. "I mean, I’ve seen demons. Real demons. Those who tear p-p-people to shreds. And I’ve seen people who are worse than d-d-demons. You… you’re not like any of them. Honestly, you’re even bet-t-t-ter than some people I know."

"Really?" Nero asked hopefully.

"Really," Agnus nodded confidently, unable to bear the gaze, and returned to work. "I… I wish demons didn’t ex-ex-exist. But this is the world we live in. It can’t be fixed. So I want to do something. All I can do is…" he gestured around the lab, "this. Even if people think I’m c-c-crazy, I still want to make their lives a little safer. So they don’t have to face the same horrors. Sanctus thinks the same way. He’s one of the few who understands the importance of my work…"

"He made me beat that man…" Nero said quietly.

Agnus didn’t immediately understand the meaning of his words, then turned to Nero in confusion.

"I’m still young, and no matter how smart I am, I don’t understand everything adults say or do. But… I want to believe he did it… made me do it to protect them in the future. You know… sacrificed one to save hundreds," Nero smiled uncertainly. "Is that… right?" Nero looked at Agnus questioningly. But Agnus simply didn’t know how to answer. He rarely thought about ethics, but...

Damn.

"I… I d-d-don’t kn-kn-know," he finally admitted. "Sanctus believes in this. And I believe in him."

Nero nodded, but doubt lingered in his eyes.

"And if he’s wrong?"

Agnus didn’t respond. He turned back to the table and stared at the notes in front of him, as if questioning for the first time what he was doing.

Chapter Text

Nero left because the allotted time had run out. He unsuccessfully tried not to gnaw on his lips, but he also felt like a pathetic liar. Yes, he had managed to make Agnus think. If luck was on his side, this time Nico wouldn’t lose her father to an avoidable mistake. But at what cost?

And what if his lie was uncovered?

What if Agnus spoke with Sanctus, started asking about that incident?

Nero froze mid-step and grabbed his hair. Damn it! Not only had he beaten an innocent person for no reason, but he’d also botched the mission Solemnes had entrusted to him! He’d become worse than useless—he’d ruin everything!

His first thought was to rush back to Agnus and explain himself. He had almost turned around when he heard a shout.

"Nero? Why aren’t you in the office yet?" Sanctus reprimanded him coldly. "We have a report to the vicar in twenty minutes. All documents should be ready by then."

Nero was forced to obey the order.

He followed the general to the office to sort through some accumulated reports, but at the next turn, both of them were stopped by the vicar himself.

"Sanctus," Solemnes nodded alternately, "Nero."

"Your Holiness," Sanctus froze, not hurrying to turn around. But noticing that Solemnes had stopped too, he turned his whole body toward him. Nero stood frozen behind his right shoulder and bowed his head.

"Good thing I found you before the meeting," Solemnes said. "I just happened to have something to discuss."

"I’m all ears, Your Holiness."

"Not with you, Sanctus. With Nero."

Nero flinched.

"Nero, raise your head."

Reluctantly, Nero obeyed. He still feared looking into those condemning eyes, so he didn’t lift his gaze above Solemnes’ uniform. Surprisingly, he wasn’t wearing his cassock, as he usually did before an evening sermon after such reports.

"Alright, it seems I haven’t earned more than this," Solemnes sighed, painfully wounding Nero deep in his heart.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Nero lamented inside his head.

"I want to say that from this moment forward, you are released from under Sanctus’ jurisdiction."

Nero sharply inhaled and looked at Solemnes eyes in shock.

Had he failed? Was this the end?

"My apologies, Vicar, but—" Sanctus began.

"I’m not speaking to you," Solemnes cut him off coldly, returning his pitying gaze to Nero. "I fear I’ve placed an unbearable burden on you, young man."

"No. NO!"

Nero, horrified, shifted his gaze to Sanctus. The latter raised an eyebrow, waiting for Nero’s response.

"I…" Nero began stammering but, catching the cold condemnation from Sanctus, pulled himself together. He had a mission. And if Solemnes believed Nero couldn’t handle it, now was the time to prove otherwise. He was so close!

"My apologies, Your Holiness, but I cannot abandon my duties now. I have a duty to the general and Fortuna that I must fulfill."

Sanctus smiled smugly.

"Nero," Solemnes insisted, "this is an order."

Something inside Nero froze and shattered. Solemnes no longer believed in him. Fine. Alright. He could continue playing the role of the bad guy. He’d done it in his past life. He was used to condemnation.

"My apologies, Your Holiness, but I hold no titles and am not officially a knight or squire of the Order of the Sword. Everything I do is voluntary. You cannot command me."

Solemnes’ eyebrows shot up. Sanctus grinned, unable to hide his smugness.

"Well… that was… quite the move, Nero. But, I’m afraid, you’ve trapped yourself," Solemnes smirked amiably. In the next moment, his lips stretched into a nasty grin. "And since you are not a member of the Order of the Sword, you are forbidden from being on the castle grounds or its surroundings without my direct permission. And, as of this moment, I revoke my permission."

Nero’s heart skipped a beat.

Solemnes addressed one of the crowd of knights who had gathered to watch this confrontation—it had taken place near the dining hall.

"Escort Nero to the monastery orphanage. Hand him over to the sisters and inform the abbess that, from this moment, Nero is returned to their care. Have them prepare a room and suitable clothing."

"Yes, Your Holiness," the knight nodded and cautiously approached Nero.

Nero, so shocked by what had transpired that he lost his ability to speak, simply didn’t notice as he was taken by the hand and led away from the castle.

He found himself sitting on the grass in the courtyard of the monastery. His fingers dug into the icy earth, clutching dead roots as if they were the only things keeping Nero grounded. His tear-swollen eyes stared blankly into space, and he quietly sobbed with every breath.

He didn’t remember the last few hours. He didn’t know how he had gotten here. But the cold earth, barely freed from snow, calmed him, giving him some semblance of control.

"Nero?" Sister Tamara called softly. "What happened, dear?" She approached him, gracefully lifting her skirt, and crouched beside him.

Looking into her simple, kind face, Nero decided to confess honestly.

"I messed up. Badly. Very badly. And now… I don’t know what to do."

Sister Tamara, true to her nature, smiled warmly, then said something unusual for her.

"I'm sorry, Nero, but trust me—you’re not old enough to truly mess up so seriously."

Nero glared at her angrily.

"Yes, yes, you’re almost seven," she chuckled. "But believe me, that’s really young for truly serious mistakes."

Nero grimaced, immediately finding a biting retort.

"And what about our little secret?" he hissed venomously, trying to pierce her with his gaze.

Sister Tamara frowned, then gasped in shock, her eyes widening.

"You… remember?" she breathed tremulously.

"To the last second," he spat, turning away. "I’m older than you. And believe me, I know what it means to mess up in a way that’s far from childish."

Sister Tamara fell silent for a moment, then stood and smoothed her skirt.

"Stay here and don’t go anywhere," she pointed her finger.

"Where would I go?" Nero snorted. "I’m no longer needed by anyone."

Sister Tamara frowned but hurried away, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

However, his solitude didn’t last long. A soft, relaxing scent of home drifted into the courtyard. Nero inhaled sharply and slumped.

Maria had arrived. At the worst possible time. Right now, he had no emotional strength left to act like a well-behaved little boy.

"Nero?"

Sister Tamara hurried through the monastery corridors, trying to reach the abbess’s office as quickly as possible. She didn’t notice anything in her path and left behind startled exclamations from the sisters she brushed past.

The abbess wasn’t in her office. Sister Tamara then rushed to the library. After walking halfway around the monastery, she found the abbess in a secluded prayer room. Sitting down on her knees behind an arch, she waited for the abbess to finish her prayers.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the abbess sighed, rose from the soft kneeler, and turned around, startled.

"And how long have you been sitting there?"

"It doesn’t matter," Sister Tamara shook her head, rising from her stiff knees. "Abbess, I have a very important request."

"Of course, Sister Tamara, I’m listening," the abbess immediately switched into business mode.

"A boy recently returned to us."

"Nero," the abbess nodded. "I received a message from His Holiness. He will be living with us again. We need to take care of his needs."

"I’m afraid he returned to us wounded."

"What?" the abbess exclaimed in surprise. "I wasn’t informed of this. Did you take him to the infirmary?"

"Not physical wounds," Sister Tamara shook her head. "These are wounds of the soul."

The abbess, seemingly reassured, exhaled.

"In that case, it's worth taking him to the other kids. Play and interaction help children leave their sorrows behind."

"I’m afraid that won’t help, Abbess," Sister Tamara shook her head again. "Nero grew out of children's games."

"Spare me, Sister Tamara, but even in a year, surrounded by our valiant knights; even under the supervision of the general or the vicar himself; even a gifted six-year-old boy cannot possibly grew up so much."

"I understand how it sounds. But something happened to him there. Something that wounded his soul. Like what happens to knights who return from failed patrols. His eyes… He is suffering." Sister Tamara sighed. "I’ve always worked only with young children and can easily calm them and make them smile again. But Nero… Whether it’s the curse of his genius or something else, childlike methods don’t work on him. You may not believe me, Abbess, but I’m not asking for belief—I’m asking for advice. What would you do if a knight with a wounded soul came to you?"

The abbess sighed. The concern in her gaze gave way to resignation and approval. She nodded.

"There are several ways to heal the soul. But, excluding magical artifacts and secret knowledge, they all require patience and persistence from the healer."

"I’m ready, Abbess," Sister Tamara nodded. "I’ll do everything for Nero."

The abbess smiled.

"Well, in that case, the best remedy I know of is physical labor."

Yes, Sister Tamara had told him not to move from the spot, but Maria could be persistent when she wanted to. And Nero didn’t have the strength to resist as she pulled him along.

According to her, Solemnes had sent her to check on how Nero was feeling, but Nero didn’t believe her.

Nero had failed the simplest mission. Solemnes was disappointed in him and would likely no longer want to see Nero.

Of course, who would want to deal with a near-murderer? After all, he was a killer. Not in this life, true, but one time was enough to haunt his memory forever. And he had killed dozens.

They arrived at a small pond hidden in the shadow of budding trees. Children were usually not allowed here because they would immediately start catching tadpoles swimming near the shore. Older kids kept an eye on the depth, but toddlers could accidentally step off the sharply dropping bank and drown.

Nero wasn’t a toddler, he didn't even like playing in the water. Therefore, he would not have entered the pond, but if he had been a little braver, he probably would have just drowned himself.

Instead, he settled onto a carved stone bench and stared at the water’s surface, which had recently been freed from its icy grip.

Maria sat down beside him.

"How are you feeling?"

Nero shrugged. What could he say? That he was burning with shame and guilt? That he cursed himself for failing? That he was exhausted because he hadn’t slept properly for over a month since that fateful conversation with Sanctus? No, Maria wouldn’t understand the depth of the problem. Nero was, after all, just a little boy. He couldn’t possibly have adult problems.

And it wasn’t her burden to bear. Nero would deal with it himself. Somehow.

"Do you like poetry?" Maria suddenly changed the subject.

Nero turned to her in surprise, then shrugged again.

"Papa told me you were interested in poems about continental conquerors."

Nero shrugged again.

"Are you interested in stories of heroic deeds?"

"Not exactly," Nero grimaced.

"No? Then what interests you?"

"I’m interested in the strategies and tactics they used in their conquests."

"You like war games?" Maria smiled warmly. "Playing with toy soldiers?"

Nero snorted.

"No? Then what is it?"

Nero sighed. How could he explain it to her?

"You can tell me directly, Nero," she said, as if reading his thoughts. "Even if I don’t understand, I promise not to laugh."

"Why do you care?"

"I just want to get to know you better," she shrugged and suddenly removed her hood, exposing her face to the warm spring sun. Her chestnut hair, braided into a bun, was almost the same color as Kyrie’s. Her closed blue eyes were framed by the longest lashes Nero had ever seen. Freckles were already appearing on her nose—the same ones that bloomed on Nero’s cheeks every spring.

His mother was beautiful.

Nero awkwardly snorted and looked away.

"Nobody wants to get to know a six-year-old boy better."

"What about those who plan to adopt him?" Maria teased playfully.

Nero took a sharp breath.

"He no longer wants me," Nero whispered, barely audible. Maria didn’t hear it—or pretended not to.

"So, what about war games?"

"I just want to know how others command their troops."

"Do you want to lead the Holy Knights when you grow up?"

Nero sighed.

"Maybe."

"To protect everyone?"

"Yap."

"From Mundus?"

Nero’s heart skipped a beat. He turned to Maria. He saw her hood transform into a white mask, and where her face should have been, a gaping black void filled with needle-like teeth stretched toward him…

A moment passed, and the vision faded. Maria was still basking in the sunlight, unaware that the boy beside her had gone pale and broken out in a cold sweat.

Taking a deeper breath, Nero folded his hands on his knees and dug his fingers into the thick fabric until they pressed against his skin, trying to distract himself with the pain.

"Mhm," he murmured softly.

"Hmm?"

"I want to protect all of you… from Mundus."

Maria opened her eyes and looked at Nero seriously. But a moment later, her gaze softened. She smiled.

"Such a serious goal at such a young age. You’d give your father a run for his money." She immediately realized what she had said and paled, quickly turning away.

Nero snorted. This charade amused him. But if Maria wanted to keep her secrets, so be it. He had lived without parents for almost thirty years. He could manage somehow.

Noticing that Nero didn’t pursue the topic, Maria turned back even more surprised.

"And… aren’t you curious at all?"

"Curious about what?"

"Your father…"

Nero sighed. Of course, he was insanely curious. What kind of life did he live? What was he like? Did he even want Nero? But… The Vergil Maria knew wasn’t his Vergil. His Vergil was older, wiser, hardened by one fall and two genocides. He had come to terms with himself, if not with his life.

The Vergil Maria knew was an impulsive teenager who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

At that moment, Nero felt an overwhelming sense of loneliness.

Everyone he loved was dead. Everyone who knew the real him. Everyone he could rely on. There was no one left in his life who could support him. No one to protect him during the storm.

To keep from crying, Nero bit down hard on his lip.

"Nero?"

"I don’t have a father," he whispered, eliciting a startled gasp from Maria. "He died many years ago." He looked at her. "I’m all alone."

And the only person who, by some strange twist of fate, could truly understand him and help him was Sanctus. A necessary evil for the triumph of good.

Maria looked at him with sorrow. Pressing her lips together, she tried to offer an encouraging smile.

"When people despair, they turn to God…"

"Sparda is dead," Nero cut her off. "There’s no one in this world who can help me."

Maria turned back to the pond.

"It must weigh heavily on you."

Nero sighed and also turned to the pond.

"You must feel very lonely."

"It doesn’t matter."

"It must be," she continued, "very frightening for you."

A lump lodged in his throat, making it impossible to speak.

"But you know what, Nero?" she smiled at him warmly and sincerely. "Fear is the greatest power a person has. It stops you, makes you do stupid things, and forces you to retreat. Sometimes it saves your life. Other times, poisons it. But if you face it head-on—if you have the strength to accept it and even love it—then a miracle will happen. I promise you."

The words, meant to instill hope, passed through him like a light, encouraging spring breeze and dissolved into the darkness of his doubts.

Nero took another shaky breath. In the end, both Maria and Sanctus, despite their differing perceptions of fear, spoke of it the same way. It paralyzes and prevents you from moving forward. Only by facing it head-on could anything be done.

Until then, Nero needed to become stronger.

Sister Tamara intercepted them just outside the courtyard. She was out of breath, as if she had been running, and upon spotting Nero, immediately rushed to him.

Grabbing him by the arm, she nodded farewell to the surprised Maria and pulled Nero deeper into the monastery.

"Did something happen?"

"Something did," Sister Tamara nodded seriously. "And I urgently need your help."

Nero frowned and quickened his pace to keep up with Sister Tamara’s strides. She led him to a utility room and pointed to crates filled with soil.

"It’s already spring, and we have no one to take care of the seedlings."

Nero skeptically raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, I know how it sounds," Sister Tamara nodded earnestly, "but aside from bread and fish, the monastery is self-sufficient. If we don’t hurry now, we won’t make it in time for summer, and autumn will bring a poor harvest, meaning the sisters and children will have to tighten their belts."

Nero blinked, then looked at her incredulously.

"What about the parishioners? I thought… the volunteers brought enough food to feed all of us."

"The monastery serves as a comfort and guiding light for lost souls; we can’t afford to become burdensome. It…" Sister Tamara hesitated, searching for the right words, "ruins our image."

Nero snorted but caught the kernel of truth. Sighing—he doesn't have anything else to do anyway—he turned to the crates and grimaced.

"I have no idea what to do."

Sister Tamara squeezed his shoulder and smiled.

"I’ll teach you."

Chapter Text

Alright, he had to admit, this unexpectedly thrilling and engrossing activity had sucked him in deeper than he’d anticipated.

Gardening, which seemed boring at first glance, required as much knowledge and focus as rocket science. Okay, maybe not that much, but if you didn’t have a “green thumb”—an artifact that somehow turned you into a plant whisperer—you had to wade through piles of reference books. You needed to know what to plant, when, under what temperature, lighting, and humidity conditions, what kind of light and fertilizer each plant needed at every stage, and also try not to chew your nails off while waiting to see if the seeds would mold or sprout.

Nero caught himself several times frozen in front of the crate of soil. He just stared at the damp dirt for hours on end, waiting for a tiny miracle. It looked strange from the outside, but Sister Tamara didn’t say anything. At some point, Nero realized it calmed him down. He even managed to doze off for a couple of hours without nightmares. Eventually, he ended up sleeping the entire night in the utility room, waking up on the floor covered by an old blanket.

When the first seedlings grew stronger, a bad idea struck Nero. And to avoid ruining the future harvest, he snuck into the kitchen and grabbed some seeds that had been cut out of vegetables and fruits from the peels bucket.

He recognized some immediately, guessing others only after lunch or dinner. However, once all the seeds were sorted and disinfected, Nero cracked his knuckles and reached for a pencil.

After drawing a rune on each small container, Nero reached for a knife, then froze.

Dante didn’t always use blood. Or did Nero simply not always notice its use? Could it be done differently?

In battle, there was no shortage of blood—it was everywhere. Wiping the corner of his mouth and quickly sketching something explosive on the back of the next fiend wasn’t a problem. Just don’t try it with Frosts, or you risk freezing yourself solid.

In everyday life, though, Nero was used to biting his finger or using a knife.

He also knew that other knights sometimes carried vials of concentrated demon blood. The whole process of obtaining it was complicated: first, you had to catch a demon; then, use specially forged artifacts that preserved the power of its blood even after death; then, extract the blood without killing the demon before finally disposing of it. Thankfully, the artifacts were reusable—otherwise, it would’ve been pointless—and could be refilled. Some could even last for three or four runes, though usually, it was one or two. Nero once saw knights filling such vials while the crucified beast writhed in its bonds, overcome with rage and helplessness.

Still, was blood absolutely necessary? Why blood? How could he explain it biologically? Could he replace blood with saliva, calloused skin, or some mystical mental impulse? Ugh, he wished Vergil were here now. He would’ve sorted everything out neatly.

Sighing, Nero set the knife aside and tried to activate the power of the runes with his saliva.

It worked with blood—draw the rune with whatever was handy, then add a drop to activate it.

To his immense surprise, saliva worked too. Though not quite how he expected.

As soon as the saliva touched the rune, the seed he’d been trying to “revitalize” swelled, burst, and immediately became covered in mold. The same thing happened with the blood-soaked seed. He didn’t feel like crying to test tears, and he decided against experimenting with urine. But something told him that would work too.

Nero smirked nastily, imagining spitting in Dante’s face during their first meeting, paralyzing him on the spot with the power of demonic runes. Still, he needed to figure out how to use runes in open space. So far, he’d been drawing them on surfaces—paper, the floor, wood, himself, or demons. It required skill, precision, and speed. Of course, no demon would wait around while Nero sketched a lethal sequence on them. He barely had time to draw one rune before having to dodge. It made sense to create talismans or templates to throw at enemies like grenades. Toss a piece of paper, spit accurately, and…

The explosion Nero imagined coincided with a stunning realization.

“I need the Blue Rose.”

“Huh?” came a familiar childish voice nearby. “A blue rose? Do those exist?”

Nero spun around and saw Kyrie hesitantly lingering at the doorway.

“Kyrie? Um, hi!” he stammered awkwardly. “What are you doing here?”

“I was told you came back, and…” Her cheeks flushed adorably as her eyes nervously darted around the room. “…we haven’t seen each other in almost a year. I just… I decided to visit you.”

Ah, right. Because of his work with Sanctus, Nero hadn’t been in town. Most of his time was spent in the castle or the forest. He only saw Credo during training.

“How are you?”

“Demoted,” Nero smirked, gesturing to the crates of soil. “From the general’s personal assistant to a regular monastery gardener.”

“Wow,” Kyrie marveled, ignoring Nero’s complaint and walking further into the room. “Did you grow all of this yourself?”

Nero found her selectiveness amusing. He stepped back and showed Kyrie his progress.

“Well, Sister Tamara helped me a lot because I’m a terrible gardener.”

“A terrible gardener wouldn’t be able to grow so much greenery,” Kyrie smiled.

“Well, I tried something on my own, and so far…” He pointed to the burst, moldy seeds. “…this is all that came of it.”

Kyrie leaned closer and frowned.

“How strange that these got so moldy while others seem not to have sprouted at all. Did you soak them at the same time?”

Nero hesitated but quickly picked up the topic.

“I… yeah! I soaked them all today, but with these, I decided to try some magic.”

“Magic?” the girl asked, surprised.

“Runes. They’re…”

“Oh, demonic runes,” Kyrie nodded. “I see it now.” She picked up one of the containers with a fresh seed. “You drew them, and now you’re activating them one by one?”

“You know about demonic runes?” Nero was stunned.

“My brother’s a squire, Nero,” Kyrie smiled at him. “And quite the chatterbox.”

“Credo? A chatterbox?” Nero was horrified.

“Doesn’t seem like it?”

“I’d never have guessed.” He had always been collected and quiet, becoming even more withdrawn after their parents’ deaths. He almost stopped smiling altogether, no matter how hard they and Kyrie tried to cheer him up. What responsibility—and Sanctus’ leadership—had done to him…

Damn.

Nero closed his eyes. But Kyrie didn’t notice his inner turmoil.

“He doesn’t tell us everything, but he did mention runes and what they can do. What does this rune do?”

“Uh… it’s hard to explain in words.” Nero hesitated. “If I had to summarize, it ‘stimulates.’ Makes cells work at their limit.”

Kyrie turned to him.

“Cells?”

“Yes, like muscle cells or plant cells. Kind of like a tonic.”

“I’ve never heard of cells,” Kyrie frowned. “What are they?”

Nero took a deep breath.

“It’s… hard to explain simply. I’m a bad storyteller and would only confuse you. You’ll learn more about it in school.”

Kyrie tilted her head.

“And how do you know about them?”

“I read about them,” Nero shrugged.

Kyrie frowned, then brightened, picking up the container with the seed again.

“When my brother trains really hard, pushing his limits, his whole body aches in the morning. He says it’s because he overworked himself. Maybe if the seeds work too hard, they just can’t handle it?” she suggested.

“Well… actually…” Nero froze, thoughtfully frowning. “…that’s a damn smart observation. Only… if you provide timely nutrients and all the necessary conditions, the seed should be able to grow.”

The rest was a matter of technique.

Nero spent many days searching for balance. Kyrie came and went. She helped take care of the rest of the seedlings, handed him fertilizers, and made sure Nero didn’t forget to eat. She also suggested using compost from the smelly pit in the far corner of the yard. It hadn’t fully decomposed yet, but Nero, with the help of runes, quickly brought the nutrients to the right condition.

In the end, by controlling the water, light, nutrients, and most importantly, demonic energy, Nero and Kyrie managed to grow a huge tomato bush in an old rusty bucket.

Kyrie, as the chief taster of all their experiments, lit up with excitement.

“This is devilish delicious!”

Nero was surprised, then burst out laughing. He plucked a ripe tomato and took a bite. It really was very tasty.

“Nero,” Kyrie whispered almost inaudibly as he finished eating the vegetable, “can you teach me runes?”

Nero froze.

When Kyrie heard that Nero had returned to the orphanage, she could hardly contain her excitement, eagerly awaiting volunteer weekends. Her parents took it as a good sign, but Credo warned her to be careful.

Kyrie didn’t understand why she needed to be cautious at the orphanage, especially around Nero, so she spent an entire day with him without a second thought. She had fun fussing over the plants, and the day flew by unnoticed.

When Credo found out, he was furious. He rarely raised his voice, let alone at his sister, but lately, he’d become nervous and angry. Her completely genuine tears calmed him down, and he finally explained.

Apparently, while working for the general, Nero had done something very bad. He had caused a lot of pain to one of the knights, nearly killing him. The poor man was now in the city with his family, discharged from duty due to his injuries.

Credo said that Nero had broken his arm and bruised his back so badly that the grown man could barely move on his own.

Kyrie believed her brother. Nero was strong enough to do something like that. But she didn’t believe the knight. He must have done something to provoke Nero to react so violently. After all, Nero didn’t lose control like that around crying children or rude adults. He only acted that way around demons.

So, for the first time in her life, Kyrie decided to do something wrong.

She already attended school, but after classes, she was supposed to go straight home and do her homework. She was only allowed to play with other kids in the evening when her parents were back from work and knew exactly where she was going and for how long.

She could do her homework later, especially since there wasn’t much assigned. But the road to the house of that knight (whom she learned about through school gossip) was far. She’d have to run to talk to him and return before her parents got home.

The knight, just as Kyrie suspected, was only pretending to be sick. She’d seen plenty of kids who poorly faked being beaten up, so spotting a strong adult calmly mowing his lawn with a scythe despite a bandaged waist, a cast on his left arm, and even a neck brace wasn’t difficult.

“You look wonderful!” she called to him from the other side of the low fence.

The knight stopped, looked at her, and grinned crookedly.

“Thank you!”

“For someone wrapped up so tightly,” she added in the same friendly tone, noticing how the knight turned pale.

The knight quickly glanced around, then approached her and started whispering.

“Hey, kid, let’s make a deal? I’ll give you a chocolate bar, and you won’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

“You’re not very smart, are you, mister?” Kyrie replied, watching the knight grow even more nervous. “I’m too old to fall for that. And if I were younger, I’d blab to my parents after the first question about where I got the chocolate.”

The knight froze, sighed awkwardly, and scratched the back of his messy head.

“Listen, I’m not great with kids.”

“I noticed,” Kyrie nodded.

“Maybe… you could help me?” the knight offered. "What do you need?"

Kyrie smiled at him.

"The truth."

The knight flinched, looked around again, then opened the gate slightly, inviting her in.

"Will you come in?"

"Is it that big of a secret?" Kyrie frowned.

"No, it’s just…" he sighed. "I didn’t want to get him in trouble."

Kyrie beamed and nodded.

"Thank you," she said as she followed the knight into the house.

"My sister's at work, my mother’s looking after my father, and I’m here alone, bored out of my mind, with nothing to do," he blurted out, gesturing toward the table. "Would you like some tea?"

"With pleasure," Kyrie nodded. "Do you need help?"

"Huh? No. As you correctly pointed out, I’m just pretending to be sick."

"Why?"

The knight brewed her some tea and placed a dish of cookies beside it. Kyrie suddenly realized she was hungry and reached for the treats.

"It’s all because of one guy." He smirked. "Well, actually, a boy."

"Nero," Kyrie nodded.

"You know him?"

"Yes, he trained my brother, then went to work at the castle. Recently, he got demoted and returned to the orphanage."

"That’s good," the knight nodded seriously.

"But he didn’t like it much."

"The castle… it had a bad influence on him. Do you… do you know what happened?"

"My brother told me that Nero beat you up, and now you’re sick and can’t fight. I immediately knew that wasn’t true."

"Because Nero is just a little boy?" the knight chuckled.

"Because Nero only hits demons hard," Kyrie replied seriously. "Even when he supposedly hurt my brother Credo’s arm during training, he barely caused any harm. Nero wouldn’t hurt a human."

The knight drew in a sharp breath, and Kyrie took another cookie.

"So, what did you do to end up like this? Or… is this another act?"

The knight smirked crookedly, then let out a heavy sigh.

"You know, it’s really my fault. I…" He exhaled, then tried again. "Sometimes adults—especially knights like me—find themselves in situations… really bad situations."

"I’m not three years old; you can speak plainly," Kyrie grimaced, reaching for another cookie.

The knight sighed.

"Situations close to death."

Kyrie nodded, understanding.

"But sometimes people make it through them. Rarely, very rarely, even without a scratch. But the wounds still remain. The sisters at the monastery call them soul wounds. And they don’t hurt like physical wounds. They wake you up with nightmares at night. They haunt you in random words or actions. Sometimes they jump out at you from around the corner, grab your heart, and you just suffocate, drowning in one single thought."

"I’m going to die," flashed through Kyrie’s mind.

Everything this knight described—down to the last word—she knew from personal experience. After the Rift, she was no longer the same. She felt something inside her had broken. Apparently, that was what a soul wound was.

"And… can children get such a wound?" Kyrie asked hesitantly.

The knight sighed again.

"That’s the whole issue. I used to think not. But I saw all those signs in him! I knew it, but I didn’t believe that a little boy could suffer from something so adult and serious."

Kyrie nodded:

"He was just scared. He wasn’t hitting you—he was trying to kill his own demons."

That’s who Nero was: trying to fight even when fear had gripped his entire being. Unlike her, who had chosen to freeze in place and simply wait for the end.

"Exactly right," the knight snorted.

"And if… if it were an adult, what would you have done?"

"Oh, we have an unwritten set of rules for that," the knight smirked. "Breathe, talk, secure. It’s good if there’s some task to keep the person busy. Physical labor clears the mind wonderfully. It’s great if there are family or close friends the person can talk to. It’s absolutely wonderful if there’s some new, exciting activity, though that might be a problem in the castle," he chuckled. "But the most important thing is to never fight. Not at all. Not with fists, not with words, and certainly not with swords. I took the worst possible route, and that’s why I got what I deserved."

"So why are you healthy now?" Kyrie asked, remembering every word.

"Because he felt ashamed and shared some kind of potion with me. All my bones healed instantly, and the bruises and bumps just disappeared. I could’ve gotten up and continued serving right away. But… he asked me not to tell anyone."

Kyrie looked at him seriously.

"So why did you tell me?"

The knight grimaced and scratched his eyebrow.

"Listen, girl, you…" he began.

"Kyrie," she interrupted.

"Huh?"

"My name is Kyrie."

"Alberto," he snorted. "You’re persistent, but… you seem like a smart kid to me. Besides, you’re his friend. You believed him right away, not all those rumors. So, I just want you to stay his friend, okay? He already has it hard enough."

Kyrie nodded.

"Thank you, Alberto. I won’t let Nero suffer alone."

Alberto nodded back seriously.

Kyrie returned home, and from that day on, she knew for sure that she would do everything necessary to heal Nero’s soul. And if she worked hard enough, this new, fascinating endeavor would also help heal her own soul. Especially since, with Nero by her side, she truly had nothing to fear.

Credo didn’t like it, though he silently endured it. After all, he had plenty of his own worries.

Meanwhile, Nero had finished his tomato experiments. And to keep him even busier, Kyrie asked him to teach her demonic runes. At first, Nero hesitated, but Kyrie suggested they stick to something simple, runes for gardening or cooking.

After all, their plant experiments had yielded a lot of food that needed to be cooked or preserved before it spoiled. And it was only the beginning of summer.

Kyrie didn’t notice how she herself started laughing more, enjoying weekends spent in Nero’s company, and eagerly waiting for the next opportunity to just be near him. When summer vacation began, Kyrie stopped leaving the orphanage altogether, sometimes even staying there overnight. Still, somehow, she managed to miss Nero’s birthday.

“I didn’t know,” she blinked in confusion when Nero invited her to have some cake that he had made himself just the other day.

“It’s alright; I never told you,” Nero smiled.

“But I don’t have a present!”

“Being my guest is your gift.”

Kyrie agreed but couldn’t leave it at that.

Rummaging through all her memories of Nero, she stumbled upon an interesting clue.

A blue rose.

At first, she tried to grow a real blue rose. But for that, she needed blue rose seeds. Who would have thought that blue roses didn’t exist? However, Kyrie didn’t give up. She searched for any possible options, and an old florist who had a shop opposite her mother's bakery told her how to dye a white rose any color.

Kyrie went through a dozen white roses before she got one with evenly dyed blue petals. At the summer festival dedicated to Sparda, she gave Nero a small blue rose.

He burst into tears. Then he hugged her so tightly that her bones nearly cracked.

They left the city celebration early. Nero took her to an old shed where he found a piece of wood.

“This will do,” he muttered and, with his finger—his finger!—made a hole in it to insert the rose stem. After checking that the flower fit, he flipped the wood over and handed it to Kyrie.

“Will you help me?”

Kyrie frowned.

“Write two runes in a row. The one that looks like a leech and the one about sleep.”

“Aren’t those two runes contradictory?”

“Nope. Double sequences have their own unique meaning.”

“Hmm,” Kyrie said in surprise, taking the piece of wood and a pencil lying nearby. “Will you teach me them?”

“There are many.”

“I’m not in a hurry.”

Nero smirked and nodded. Kyrie smiled back.

“And what does this sequence mean?” She carefully wrote out the runes and then handed them to Nero for inspection. He nodded and immediately licked the pad of his thumb to awaken the runes. She knew he could activate dormant runes with his blood, but for some reason, he preferred not using blood in front of her—as if it made any difference to her.

“Something like eternal sleep. As long as I’m alive and the rose stands on this stand, it will be protected from time. Though…” Nero picked up the stand and looked uncertainly at the rose. “…it can still be broken… we need to find something stronger, so…”

Kyrie intercepted his hands and simply guided the stem into the hole. When the stem clicked into place, it glowed faintly with a bluish light.

“Wow,” Nero drawled, looking at the stand in their joined hands. “Honestly, I didn’t expect such an effect.”

“It’s beautiful,” Kyrie quietly confirmed. “We’ll protect it.”

“What?”

“And if it doesn’t work, we’ll make a new one.” She nodded. “Or even better! With the help of runes, I’ll grow real blue roses! Right under your bedroom window!”

Nero first frowned, then laughed—a genuine, childlike laugh.

“Deal,” he patted her on the head and then went to his room to place the gift.

“You know…” Nero’s voice echoed off the stone walls. The residential part of the monastery was empty at this time. All the adults and children were at the festival. But they didn’t have much time. Soon her parents would start to worry, and the little ones would get tired, prompting the kind-hearted sisters to tuck them into bed. Even Kyrie had yawned a couple of times. Only Nero could stay up all night and still look energetic.

“What?”

“In reality, the Blue Rose isn’t a flower.”

“No?” Kyrie was surprised.

“Have you ever heard of guns?”

Kyrie frowned, trying to remember. But then she gave up and shook her head.

Nero tried to explain what a gun was. In fact, the “Blue Rose” was the name of a revolver. The one Nero had accidentally found—it was obvious that Nero was a bad liar—and modified on his own. But… something happened, and Nero lost it.

“When I grow up, I’ll get a new one.”

“What’s stopping you now?” Kyrie wondered.

“Well, no one sells firearms to kids,” Nero smirked, spreading his hands.

Kyrie had only learned about guns today. The very concept of such a weapon surprised her. But she knew one knight who might understand it. And who definitely owed her a favor.

Chapter Text

Alberto skeptically snorted when he saw her the second time. He was forced to recoil in surprise when he heard this little girl trying to extort information about revolvers from him. He resisted for a long time, complained that it wasn’t knightly to talk about pistols, but she convinced him with just one simple phrase.

“It’s going to be a gift for Nero.”

Alberto sighed but didn’t argue anymore. Giving a pistol to a small child, especially one suffering from soul wounds, was an incredibly irresponsible idea. But this was Nero. A seven-year-old boy who could tear him to shreds with his bare hands but didn’t. He stopped at the last moment. A revolver could become for him what a sword is to every Holy Knight. An anchor, protector, friend, companion, last hope, dream, goal, and all other meanings. And Kyrie knew something about Nero if she came to a barely familiar person with such a request.

Alberto honestly admitted that such a purchase wouldn’t come cheap. About five hundred dollars would go toward the revolver itself, and then there were bullets and the smuggler's fee.

When Alberto told Kyrie the final cost, the girl thought for a moment, then nodded seriously.

“I’ll be back. With the money. Be ready.”

Alberto watched in amazement as this little schoolgirl hurried away from his house and admired the woman she would grow up to be.

“I even envy you a little, kid,” he snorted toward the street.

A lot had changed over the past year.

First, after losing his first assistant, the general turned his attention back to the squires. He set up a schedule, and for several weeks they rotated, taking turns fulfilling the duties of his personal assistant. Eventually, Sanctus settled on Credo.

Sanctus immediately praised Credo’s restraint and sharp mind, then gave him several additional tasks, which Credo barely managed to handle. Many of them were complex and unclear, but Sanctus forbade him from asking for help, so Credo had to figure things out on his own, sometimes even bringing work home.

Sanctus praised him for his achievements and even began personal training sessions. They were more exhausting and painful than those with Nero. On the other hand, Nero was just a brat. How could he know how to turn a squire into a real knight? He fought like a beast and behaved like one. That’s why Credo was against his meetings with Kyrie, but he couldn’t do anything about it. He simply didn’t have the time.

Being so close to the general, Credo began to notice the tense atmosphere among the upper ranks of the Order. Sanctus always tried to catch Solemnis in a moment of weakness or lies. They even sparred a couple of times, and Credo realized they weren’t fighting as partners but as mortal enemies.

Sanctus didn’t answer direct questions, citing that Credo was too young to understand. But at some point, he changed his approach, started talking more often about the Order, his vision of the world within Fortuna and beyond. He also increasingly engaged in strange conversations about demon power and subjugating it.

But then everything changed abruptly again. Credo didn’t know what that conversation was about; he was left outside the vicar’s office. But when the doors opened, the entire Order learned that Sanctus had been sent into retirement.

Suddenly, there was more time. The knights became friendlier. Kyrie’s smile became brighter. And the clouds that had been gathering over him for almost a year suddenly dissipated.

One day, Credo was even allowed to leave work early. He planned to spend the evening playing or reading with his beloved sister. He knew she should have been doing her homework in her room at this time, so he went upstairs and knocked. When there was no answer, he knocked again, then called her name.

When no one responded again, he entered the room and found something that absolutely shouldn’t have been on the bed of an eight-year-old girl.

Credo thought he was mistaken, that his eyes were deceiving him, so he walked into the room, approached the bed, and reached out to…

“Credo?”

He turned around and looked at his sister. Small, frightened, she held a box and some colorful cloths in her hands. Credo looked again at the revolver and the box of bullets, then back at Kyrie.

Apparently, his sister wanted to wrap this abominable firearm to… to what? Hide it? No, she would have done that already. Then why? The wide blue ribbon in the trembling hand of the girl hinted—it was supposed to be a gift. But for whom? Whose birthday was coming up soon? To whom, spare us Sparda, did she plan to give a revolver?

The answer, unfortunately, was obvious.

“So you’ve been working at Mom’s bakery for a whole year to put this in his hands?”

Kyrie swallowed, almost crying.

“Do you even realize how dangerous this is?” Credo hissed, trying not to raise his voice too much. He still saw the hurt expression on his sister’s face when he lost his temper and yelled at her. Kyrie didn’t deserve tears. But sometimes she was so foolish.

Kyrie sniffled, entered the room, and closed the door behind her.

“What exactly do you call dangerous, big brother?”

Did she really not understand?

“For example, everything?”

Kyrie approached her desk and placed the box with the cloths on it. She wasn’t looking at Credo, for which he was grateful. One tear from her would be enough to make him melt.

“A weapon in the hands of a little boy who, by the way, can’t control himself. Do you really not get it?” he said, almost patiently.

“Not get what?” She finally looked at him. To his surprise, her eyes held not only tears but also anger. It hurt more than he could imagine.

“Kyrie, he…”

“What about him?!”

“He’s dangerous!” Credo raised his voice impatiently.

“Is that so?” Kyrie sniffled. “And how exactly?”

“That knight he…”

“Alberto,” she interrupted him.

“What?”

“You don’t even know his name,” Kyrie wiped away angry tears and turned back to the box. “So how could you possibly know what really happened?”

“I was there.”

“What?!” Kyrie gasped, turning back to Credo.

“Not during the training itself. I was ordered to clean up afterward. And, Kyrie… it was bad.”

She clenched her teeth.

“He was hurting,” she murmured almost inaudibly.

“What?”

“He was hurting!” she repeated louder. “And not a single living soul tried to help him! Do you even understand how scared he was? How much he feared and how desperately he fought his fears?”
"Kyrie, what are you talking about?" Credo was starting to lose the thread of the conversation.

"How can you possibly know that? You’ve never been on the brink of death, Credo."

It was like he had been doused with icy water.

"You don’t know what it’s like to fight for your soul," Kyrie sobbed, driving another icy needle straight into his heart.

"You know what? I don’t care," she brushed it off. "You can take it. Hide it or throw it away, do whatever you want. Just know that I’ll save up again and buy it again. And I’ll still give it to Nero." She headed toward the door.

"Kyrie, wait."

She froze, her hand on the doorknob.

"Why?"

"Because it's something that might please him."

"No, that's not what I'm talking about. Why are you doing this for him?"

Kyrie turned around with genuine confusion and blinked.

"Because he saved my life."

She left, leaving him in deafening silence.

When? When had he forgotten about that? When had he decided that Nero was evil incarnate? When had the promise to emulate his courage and strength turned into fear of the storm?

But most importantly, when had his sister grown up so much?

"Nero."

He froze in surprise and turned around.

"Credo? What brings you here? I didn’t expect you to come… ever, really."

It seemed those words struck a chord within Credo, making his face a miniature version of his disgustingly sour adult expression.

"Can I ask why?" Credo ventured hesitantly.

"Well, at least because of the rumors," Nero shrugged, returning to his weeding.

"More than a year has passed."

"We’re a small town. The Order is even smaller. One little misstep will ruin a reputation—no matter how impeccable it was—for the rest of your days."

"You don’t want to know how he is?"

"I’ve seen him a couple of times," Nero shrugged. "Pity about the teeth, but otherwise, he looks healthy."

"He told me what really happened."

Nero froze.

"And you know, it turns out I’m not the first one who asked for details."

Nero gripped the tool almost to the point of cracking it.

"There were a few good-hearted people in the Order who didn’t believe the rumors. My younger sister even blackmailed him to find out the truth."

Nero's eyes widened, and he turned to Credo.

"I’m shocked too," Credo shrugged. "I’m sure it’s all your bad influence."

"Of course," Nero muttered and suddenly noticed a box tied with a blue ribbon tucked under Credo’s arm. "So… did you come to ask me to stop seeing her?" He looked back at Credo’s face. "Let me tell you right now, I won’t be gentle, so you’ll have to endure a flood at home for about a couple of months." He went back to weeding. "But lemon cookies should smooth things over."

"And you…" Credo began uncertainly, "you’d just agree like that?"

"Yes," Nero shrugged.

"But why? Isn’t she your friend?"

"Yes. That’s exactly why. You know as well as I do, I’m not the kind of person with whom friendship will be easy. And it won’t get easier with age."

"Shouldn’t a true friend fight for their friendship?"

"You’re her brother and know what’s best for her. And I…" He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand; this summer was especially hot. "I’ll find other ways to protect her. Her hatred for me won’t stop me."

"You know," Credo sighed, "if I had known this before, I would have immediately asked you to do just that."

"Well, then we have a deal."

"But it’s good that I only found out now."

Nero moved to the next bed.

"Why’s that?"

"I didn’t make one of the biggest mistakes of my life."

"What are your years, Credo," Nero muttered under his breath, barely audible.

"What?"

"What changed?" Nero asked instead.

"Oh… General was sent into retirement. You know, I’m only fourteen, but even I can feel how much easier it is to breathe in the castle now."

"It’s bad."

Nero was reflecting on this. On how Sanctus became the Vicar in his past life. Not everything could have changed in this story. Most likely, it was a minor detail, perhaps just a few days after Nero's birth. And since the next Vicar is chosen by the current one, and Solemnis had made his stance clear, Sanctus could only become Vicar in the event of death followed by a vote.

This meant that Sanctus was the one who had tried to kill Solemnis. And by some stroke of luck, he had failed this time.

It was even possible that because of this attempt, Maria had hidden her pregnancy from Solemnis and indeed from all of Fortuna. Apart from earning a reputation as a promiscuous woman—having given birth to a son out of wedlock—she might have feared for Nero’s life. Or perhaps there was another reason; Nero didn’t care much. What mattered was something else.

"What? Why?"

"Before, he was busy. Yes, he got his hands into every process, but he didn’t have much time for action. Plus, he was always in the public eye. Now, he not only has a goal, knowledge, and means, but also a lot of free time to achieve it."

"And what is the goal?"

Nero stopped weeding and looked seriously into Credo’s eyes.

"He wants to become the Vicar."

"Nonsense," Credo dismissed. "Only the named heir can become Vicar, or—" Credo caught himself.

"Or, in the event of the first one’s death and the absence of the second, the person chosen by popular vote."

"You’re not suggesting that Sanctus… That’s slander! You could get locked up for that!"

Nero sighed and returned to his row.

"Who would listen to me anyway? I’m just a babbling child."

Credo fell silent, allowing Nero to immerse himself again in the meditative process of pulling weeds and dried leaves. In reality, none of this was necessary, as with the help of runes, Nero could drown the monastery in fresh vegetables in just a few hours. Weeding simply allowed him to think. Right now, he was pondering how he could transfer part of his power to Kyrie on a permanent basis without needing to constantly renew the small vial in her fountain pen.

He was also thinking about the poetry collection Maria had given him. The fourth one since the beginning of the year. Sometimes she came to discuss what Nero thought about what he had read. And although Nero knew why she was doing it, he enjoyed their calm gatherings by the pond. He could admit to himself that sometimes he looked forward to their meetings.

"I… will convey your concerns to Solemnis."

Nero didn’t immediately understand what Credo had said, and when he did, he looked at him in shock.

"Come on, a babbling child," Credo smirked.

"Where?"

"I have business with you. And I need you to come with me."

"Now?"

"Don’t worry, I’ve already asked permission from the sisters."

Nero stood up and stretched his back, loosening his body.

"Can I at least put away my tools and wash my hands?"

Credo led him into the forest. Quite far from the beaten paths. No one would look for them here. People, at any rate.

"Aren’t we going too far?" Nero casually asked.

"Are you scared?" Credo snorted.

"Not me, but…"

"Then I have nothing to fear either."

Nero frowned, snorted, but still couldn’t stay quiet.

"Isn’t it strange how quickly we went from concern to silent trust?"

"I’d say we descended too quickly to concern. Especially after you saved my sister." Credo sighed heavily. "I feel like Sparda would be disappointed in me."

"That’s not true," Nero waved off.

"How would you know?"

"Let’s just say his spirit descended upon me."

"What, do you think that just because you’re the strongest, you can get cocky?"

"Wait, isn’t that how the Order works?" Nero teased, making Credo grimace and mutter a curse under his breath.

"I’m actually trying to apologize here."

"Really? I somehow missed that," Nero teased.

"You little brat," Credo smirked. "Can’t you see how ashamed I am?"

"Well, you still haven’t knelt and properly apologized like someone who is truly repentant."

"If I hadn’t been explicitly forbidden, I’d have tried to kick your arrogant ass."

"Forbidden?" Nero was surprised.

"A direct order from His Holiness," Credo sighed. "Half the knights groaned when they found out you wouldn’t be watching their backs during patrols anymore."

"Wait, what?"

"Solemnis forbade involving you in the Order’s affairs. From simple training to complex sample-gathering missions. Even just talking to you about this, I’m committing an offense."

"So you’re a repeat offender!" Nero smirked, teasing Credo again.

"I’ll hit you right now…"

"But it's actually quite hypocritical from Solemnis."

"Why?"

"He was the first one to sit me on his old creaky knees!"

Credo looked at Nero incredulously.

"You’re joking…"

And so, exchanging jokes and simply chatting—as Nero hadn’t done in what felt like an eternity—they reached the clearing that Credo deemed acceptable.

"First of all, this is a surprise. You’re not supposed to know about it, so use all your acting skills if my sister comes to you with it."

Nero frowned.

"If?"

"If," confirmed Credo. "And if everything works out, then it will be our little secret." He untied the box and lifted the lid, allowing Nero to peek inside.

What he saw made him freeze in shock.

"This," he looked at Credo distrustfully, "where did you get this?"

"Kyrie saved her pocket money for a whole year, and then somehow found a smuggler willing to deliver a revolver to a little girl." He sighed. "You know, I’m still in shock over what my sister is willing to do for you. I’m afraid to imagine what she’ll grow up to be. And if you ever break her heart…"

"I’d rather die."

"No, she’s more likely to kill you." Credo chuckled nervously. "And I’m not entirely sure that’s a joke."

Nero had no response to that. He reached out for the revolver, then froze and looked at Credo.

"What are you looking at? Take it already."

Nero pulled out the revolver and examined it. Old, worn, weathered, and nothing like the Blue Rose. But alive. And judging by the smell of oil and gunpowder—fully functional. Nero opened the box of bullets and loaded the revolver faster than he even thought about it.

Amazingly, his body remembered movements he had never made before. Yet repeated hundreds and thousands of times in another life. As if something else came here with him, something that remembered.

For a moment, Nero listened to himself, as he now did instinctively. There was nothing there, no word resonated, no urge, not even a spark of power. He still had half a lifetime until his first awakening, and for now, he would have to make do with runes. And his new revolver.

"How did you do that so quickly?" Credo asked, surprised.

"Oh, this? I used to have a similar one."

"What… when?"

Nero sighed.

"Don’t bother your head, you wouldn’t understand anyway," he waved it off and aimed at a pinecone hanging on a pine tree several meters away.

An earsplitting shot rang out across the clearing. Nero barely held onto the grip due to the recoil. The pinecone remained unharmed.

"Are you alright?" Credo set the box aside and hurried to Nero. But Nero just looked at the barrel.

"The sights are off," he clicked his tongue. "And the recoil is stronger than I remember."

"Will you be able to handle it?"

Nero aimed again, this time at the tree trunk. The shot barely grazed the trunk, ricocheting into a neighboring tree. But this time his hand didn’t waver.

"Dangerous," Credo commented.

"Well, I don’t have a screwdriver to fix it right now, so for now I’ll have to work by eye. On the other hand," he fired from the hip and this time knocked the poor pinecone somewhere deep into the forest, "if someone tries to take it from me, I’ll always know where to dodge," Nero grinned radiantly.

"And who could possibly take it from you?" Credo raised an eyebrow.

"Some idiot tired of living," Nero smirked back. "So, you wanted to check something, right?"

"Yes, I…" but he sighed, "overall, I’ve seen enough. You… really know how to handle such a weapon."

Nero shrugged.

"And, even though it sounds very irresponsible, I’ll let Kyrie give it to you."

On Nero’s eighth birthday, Kyrie gave him that very box, tied with a blue ribbon. He didn’t manage to fool Kyrie with his impatient behavior by even a jot, but she wasn’t offended. On the contrary, she was happy to feel Nero’s strong and warm embrace on her fragile shoulders again. If it were up to her, she would stay there forever, safe in the circle of his arms. But then he wouldn’t be able to grow stronger. So she had to step back.

"Have you thought about how you’ll train?" she asked when the main celebration ended and the birthday boy was finally left alone.

"A place to train isn’t a problem," Nero shook his head, arranging a couple of wooden toy knights he had been given on the windowsill. "But I have another issue."

"M? What is it?"

Nero picked up a hefty volume of poetry and sat on the bed.

"Bullets."

Kyrie grew sad.

"Sorry, I didn’t have time to earn more."

"Huh? What? No-no-no-no-no!" Nero panicked, immediately starting to calm her down. "That’s not what I meant! It’s definitely not your fault! The fact that you even thought about them is incredible! Thanks to you, I can calmly experiment and think about where to get more bullets."

"Experiment?" Kyrie sat on the bed next to him.

"Yeah, with runes."

"Oh, that sounds interesting. Will you add them to the barrel?"

Nero looked at her, astonished.

"Honestly, I don’t know why that idea didn’t occur to me. No, I thought about rune bullets, but I can… do so much!" He grabbed his head, causing the huge tome to almost slide off his lap onto the floor, but caught it at the last second. "Though, I think this time, I won’t modify the barrel itself. Armor-piercing capability should be enough from runic bullets or enhancements on the barrel itself. Almighty Sparda, so many questions and not a single answer!"

"Well, you definitely have something to occupy yourself with," Kyrie chuckled.

"Joking? By the time I meet Dante, I’ll invent a whole new science and make him eat his boots out of envy!" Nero clenched the tome and shook it in front of him.

"Sounds fun! But… who’s Dante?"

Nero froze, then smiled awkwardly.

"Let’s pretend I didn’t say that name, okay?" He scratched the back of his neck, setting the tome on the pillow.

"Okay," Kyrie agreed without a second thought. "And what will you name it?"

Nero smirked, opened his mouth, and froze.

It wouldn’t be fair. The Blue Rose was unique. It was huge—even for his teenage hands—a monstrous thing that, in the absence of bullets, could knock out a demon with a strong swing of the buttstock.

This revolver was smaller, more elegant. If Nero did everything right, he’d have half the consumption with the same, if not higher, range and armor-piercing capability. This revolver would never become the Blue Rose, though it was meant to replace it.

Still, Nero didn’t want to give up such a dear and familiar name. Especially since the story of the Blue Rose brought them together. Like something impossible yet happened anyway. Like…

He looked at the small blue rose playing the role of a nightlight on his bedside table. He glanced at Kyrie. Remembered her promise to grow a bush of blue roses under his window and her absolutely zero results in that endeavor. And smirked.

This whole life, as impossible as a bush of blue roses. And yet, it exists. He exists. Thanks to Kyrie. Thanks to Credo, thanks to Solemnis, Maria, and even damn Sanctus.

He sadly lowered his gaze to the book on the pillow. Even thanks to Vergil and Dante, who aren’t here. Thanks to the last gift of Yamato.

And taking upon himself all their experience, all their hopes and sorrows, all the un-lived old age they earned but couldn’t enjoy because they allowed Nero to try again, Nero would grow the strongest, most impossible, most beautiful world in which they would all live long and happily. However, he was only holding an undertaking in his hands right now. Just the seed.

"Blue Rose Seed."

Kyrie seemed inspired too and nodded very enthusiastically.

"Great name! I really like it!"

Nero smiled in response.

Chapter Text

"Where did you get the bullets last time?" They were strolling along the beach.

"Where I got them, there are none left," Nero sighed.

In his past life, he had his own workshop where he cast bullets and measured out gunpowder. Finding a place, equipping it, sourcing supplies now—all of this seemed like an overwhelming burden for an eight-year-old boy. Especially one banished from the Order due to his service to the Vicar.

A lot of time had passed, but no, Solemnes still hadn’t lifted his ban. And during all this time, he himself hadn’t visited Nero once, always sending Maria instead. Nero enjoyed spending time with Maria, but he still felt deep shame and regret for not fulfilling Solemnes’s task. He wanted to justify himself, though there were no excuses. So all Nero got were calm Sunday sermons, so boring to his past self and yet so soothing now.

"What if we try searching near that place again?" Kyrie suggested, kicking the pebbles.

Nero sighed and looked at the gloomy sky. A harbinger of warm autumn monsoons and the start of the school year in Fortuna. Fortunately, Nero had managed to avoid the drudgery of public school. Actually, during the mandatory entrance interview (just for show), he had stunned all the teachers and made Sister Tamara blush again. But they still allowed him to take the tests, where he proved himself as a top student who had completed elementary school. They left him alone, at least for a few years. Requesting tests for middle and high school would be too suspicious. And unnecessary, if Solemnes finally allows him to become a squire. They have their own educational program.

"I’ll have to ask Maria..." Nero muttered.

"Huh? That nice lady who talks to you about poetry?" Kyrie interrupted his thoughts, squatting down in front of the water.

"Yeah. She’s Solemnes’s daughter. I can ask her to arrange a meeting with the Vicar for me."

"Do you want to return to the Order?" Kyrie asked sadly, picking up a colorful pebble.

"Sanctus is no longer the General of the Holy Knights. No one will abuse the squires the way he did."

"Abuse?" Kyrie was horrified.

"Figuratively!" Nero quickly reassured her. "Besides, the Order really does have workshops and people who can still teach me something."

Kyrie sighed. "You’ve read all the books in the monastery; you’ve mastered demonic runes better than any initiate in the Order, and yet you still want to learn more?"

Nero shrugged. "What are you striving for? I mean, you’re already stronger than anyone in Fortuna. I’m sure you could defeat any adult, even any demon around here." She looked him in the face. "So who are you still fighting, Nero?"

Nero sharply inhaled and shifted his gaze to the blurred horizon line. "With someone even Sparda couldn’t defeat."

Kyrie's expression turned into a white mask. She lowered her eyes to the pebbles, dropped her stone, stood up, and brushed off her hands. "If it doesn’t work out with Solemnes, what other options are there?" she asked emotionlessly.

"We could try to interest Agnus. I have some ideas for his project, but it’s all just theory, and without his resources, I can’t test anything."

"Who’s Agnus?" Another emotionless question.

"A scientist. He works in the Order, but I’m not sure how to contact him."

"We can ask Credo," Kyrie nodded. "He recently passed his exams and is now considered a knight."

"You think he’ll agree?" Nero smirked.

"He’ll agree if I ask." Her voice was so cold that shivers ran down Nero’s spine. "What other options are there?"

Nero frowned. He didn’t like how Kyrie reacted. Her help was valuable, but not at the cost of her sanity.

"I don’t think you need to worry about this. After all..."

"Nero, are we friends?" she asked very directly and insistently.

"Of course," Nero nodded. "You’re my closest friend."

"Then can you answer one question for me? Honestly?"

Nero sighed heavily and nodded seriously.

"If Mundus attacks Fortuna right now, can you defeat him?"

Nero inhaled sharply, pursed his lips, and seemed to deflate, shaking his head in defeat. Even if at this very moment Dante were to knock all the crap out of Mundus on Mallet Island, even if Nero were to meet a pitiful, beaten version of him, Nero still wasn’t sure he’d win. He was too small, too weak, too... afraid.

"And what if you become stronger?"

Nero shrugged.
"I don’t know. Even Dante couldn’t do it. What can I say about myself?"

"Then you need to become stronger than this Dante?"

The childlike confidence with which Kyrie said this made Nero smile and nod.

"Do you know how to do that?"

Nero sighed.
"I have no other options but to learn what I don’t yet know."

"What if you make others stronger?"

For a moment, Nero imagined it. Fortuna as a bastion, a place not just capable of protecting against demons, but resisting them. Suppressing them.
"It’s difficult and... painful."

"But is it possible?"

Nero reluctantly nodded.

"How?"

Nero gave a sad smirk. Sanctus with his Savior and living armor would come in very handy. Hundreds of warriors whose deaths wouldn’t affect the people at all. Ascension, too. It would allow volunteers to become more resilient. Knights who would have been killed by a single missed blow could hold back entire hordes of demons on their own.

But all of this required a step Nero was unable to take.
"For that, Sanctus must become the Vicar," Nero whispered.

Kyrie blinked and seemed to thaw.
"Are you sure there’s no other way to achieve this?"

Nero shrugged.
"Something tells me Solemnes won’t approve all the necessary innovations." He muttered under his breath. "And without resources and the Vicar’s approval, there’s little we can do."

"Why? What can Sanctus do that His Holiness doesn’t want to?"

Nero pursed his lips and, looking down, kicked the pebbles.
"You’re not going to let this go, are you?"

"Just tell me straight, Nero. I’m not a child, I can understand."

Nero raised his gaze to her. He wasn’t looking at a girl anymore, but at a woman, serious and frowning. The woman Kyrie was yet to become. Or... perhaps she had always been like that, and Nero had simply refused to notice?

What if, being around him, she felt the same way he did among others — a child that no one pays attention to because he is too helpless and foolish? But then why did she keep staying by his side?
The answer pierced his heart like a painful needle. She simply had no other choice.
Ever since Nero had entered Kyrie's life, everything had begun to fall apart. And it wasn’t just this life— it had started the last time around too. She was teased for associating with the son of a whore. Her parents were killed because Nero was in their home and needed saving too. Credo died because Nero couldn’t tame his ego and just talk. And as a result of it all, she ended up alone in Fortuna, with a younger stepbrother who harbored romantic feelings for her...

But did she love him in that way? Or had Nero simply never given her a choice?

"Nero!" she raised her voice, pressing her hands to her chest.

"Yeah, sorry, I... got lost in thought," he tried to breathe deeper, but it wasn’t going well.

All things considered, Nero was not a well person. And Kyrie certainly didn’t deserve to endure someone like him throughout her entire life.

But they weren’t there yet. There was still a chance to change everything. He had to give her a choice. And for that, she needed to know everything.

"There’s a process where humans are enhanced using demonic energy. It hasn’t been fully developed yet, but I can tell you for sure that it exists and it works."

Kyrie sharply inhaled and nodded.

"To perfect it, we’d need not only scientists like Agnus, but also volunteers. People willing to sacrifice themselves for experiments. Because not all experiments end successfully."

Kyrie bit her lip.

"Will this process make a person as strong as you?"

Nero shook his head.

"No, but they’ll become strong enough to... escape the Fault on their own," he offered as an example.

Kyrie looked down at her feet and sighed.

"There are other ways to strengthen Fortuna. For instance, living armor or sentient weapons. But all of these are very dangerous for untrained people. They require a lot of time, experimentation, and demons. And without the Vicar’s permission, no one will be able to do anything."

Kyrie clenched her fists, took a shaky breath, and then nodded.

"Let’s head back," she suggested. "It’s going to rain soon."

Nero nodded and started walking back along the beach. Dark clouds were gathering over the sea.

"Kyrie said you were asking for me?"

"And hello to you too, Credo!" he chuckled, not lifting his head from some notes. "How’s it going? How’s life? Already been on patrol? Killed your first demon?"

"I, uh..." Credo stammered, unused to being questioned about his life. His friends served alongside him and already knew what he was up to. "Hi," Credo tried again. "Everything's fine. No, they haven’t sent me on patrols in the forest yet, but I’m on duty near the castle. And I killed my first demon when I was twelve."

"Really? They let squires kill demons that early?"

"Says the guy who probably started even younger," Credo muttered. "No, actually, I just got lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it."

"An accident in the old tunnels?" Nero guessed with surprising accuracy.

"Yeah, I..." Credo frowned. "A friend of Mom’s complained about noise in the basement. I went to check it out. Hell Mold had grown in some old clothes and brought them to life. But I dealt with that Scarecrow pretty quickly. Thanks to your training, by the way."

"Didn’t Sanctus also train you?"

"How do you know all this?" Credo scowled.

"I'm just really smart," Nero shrugged. "Anyway, could you help me out a bit?"

"If it’s within the law..."

"Oh, come on, I’ve never asked you to break the law!"

"I've been lying to the whole Order for a week."

"Yeah, right," Nero snorted. "It’s not murder, or even theft. Just... embellishing the truth a little. If anything, your sister has surpassed me in that department."

"Let’s not go there," Credo quickly cut him off. "So, what did you want to ask me?"

"Do you know Agnus?"

Credo paused for a moment, trying to recall the familiar name.

"Tall, grotesquely muscular, shaggy hair, wears a monocle."

"Mmm..."

"Stutters."

"Ah! Agnus, the head researcher. Yeah, I know him."

"Great! Could you pass a message to him for me?"

"Am I your messenger now?"

"What, is it too hard for you?"

Credo grimaced. Not only was it genuinely difficult to reach Agnus — though Credo would never admit he was a little afraid of his laboratory — but it was utterly impossible to have a conversation with him.

"Even if I manage to reach him and deliver your message personally, he’ll just toss it aside like something trivial."

"Well, you’re right about that," Nero clicked his tongue, throwing Credo off balance with his unexpected agreement. "I could probably interest him, but I’d need at least the tiniest sample to test my theory."

Credo sighed deeply. Nero was as subtle as a wooden stick. Even his nine-year-old sister had more finesse in her cunning schemes.

"And what do you need?" Credo asked with a sigh, noticing the radiant smile spreading across Nero’s face.

"Just a trifle. A container for demonic blood."

"WHAT?!"

"Quiet!" Nero hissed at him. "We are in the public library, after all."

Credo cleared his throat and composed himself.
"How did you even find out about their existence?" he hissed, trying to keep his voice calm.

"I did work for the Order, you know."

"And I’ve been part of it longer than you. And they only recently told me about these artifacts."

"Well, Solemnes was the first to tell me about demonic runes. And then it was just a chain of questions: how do demons use them? How do humans use them? Where do humans store live blood for using runes?"

"You know about demonic runes?" Credo asked, genuinely surprised, which elicited an equally sincere look of astonishment from Nero. Nero held out his hand to the side and pulled — straight out of thin air — a long red stick, which Credo recognized with amazement as a training wooden sword. In the middle of the strange artifact — right across the blade — gaped a black scar. And just above it was a runic inscription of three symbols each of which Sredo learned separately back when he was still a squire.

But three in a row? Credo swallowed.

"Who gave that to you?"

"I made it myself. Are you telling me you’ve never actually seen the Pawn?"

"The Pawn?"

"Yeah, that’s what I call it. Damn, how did you miss that?"

"I didn’t go on patrols with you." Credo guessed.

"What about training sessions?"

"You were always with the regular one."

"Ah, yes. Ordinary training swords could break."

"Break?" Credo imagined it. Then he remembered the cracked rack with broken swords he’d been ordered to clean up after the incident with Alberto.

"Well, basically, yeah," Nero smirked. "So yeah, I know what demonic runes are."

"Wait," Credo suddenly thought. "If you made this artifact, then whose blood did you use?"

"Hmm?" Nero froze. His cheerful expression turned into a forced mask. "My own," he smirked and quickly made the sword disappear—into thin air again.

Credo swallowed. He had thought a lot about this boy, but that obvious thought had never crossed his mind. Sparda have mercy, Nero had practically said it to Credo’s face when they were devising a plan for Sanctus.

Everything, starting from their first meeting, took on a new depth for Credo.
"I promised not to ask," he ventured, "but..."

"Ask," Nero nodded. There was no guarantee he’d answer truthfully, but the fact that he didn’t kill Credo on the spot was already a good sign.

On the other hand, how could Credo be the only one to notice this?
"Are you like Sparda?"

The mask, thank Sparda, finally shifted into a more human emotion of surprise, then softened into something warm and melancholic.
"Mmm, roughly one-quarter," Nero smirked.

That could mean anything. From him being a demon in a child's body who only partially shared Sparda’s values, to him being… a hybrid? A quarter-demon? The grandchild of some demon who decided to lie with a human?
No, that was unlikely. The statues of Sparda erected all over the city clearly showed that a human woman would have died before she could even embrace such a body. The abundance of spikes and plates suggested battle gear, not something for a marital bed.

"Are you seriously thinking about how humans and demons mate?"

Credo flushed bright red.
"How do you—?!" Credo almost squeaked, immediately realizing his mistake as Nero’s smug grin spread across his face.

"Besides the fact that you're a fourteen-year-old teenager whose physiology is wired to get excited by every little thing?" Nero smirked, driving another nail into the coffin of Credo’s self-esteem. "Let’s just say I have an excellent sense of smell."

Credo tried to bury his face in his hands and slowly exhaled, attempting to think of the least sexual things in his life. But all he could picture was Sparda’s armor. To his horror, that only made things worse.

"Ah, sweet revenge," Nero smirked, seemingly out of context, but then added, "Relax. It’s normal. I won’t tease you… too often…"

"How would you even know what that’s like?" Credo snorted, blushing like a tomato but still stoically trying to appear strong and pious.

"Let’s just say I’ve read a lot. And don’t worry, this is only the beginning. It’ll get much worse from here."

Credo barely suppressed the urge to lunge at the little brat, but then he pulled himself together and retrieved an artifact from his pouch. Luckily, he was currently training with it, so he wouldn’t have to steal it—though it was still technically a breach of duty. If it came to it, he could always lie and say Nero hadn’t given him a choice. And knowing Nero’s strength, the Order would probably believe him.

He held out his open palm to Nero, whose smug grin immediately turned into surprise. Nero reached out to take the artifact, but Credo pulled his hand back.

"I’ll let you look at it under one condition."

"Spit it out," Nero said, climbing onto the table where he had been writing earlier.

"You will never tease me again. For the rest of your life."

"Seriously?" Nero raised an eyebrow. "You could’ve asked for something truly valuable, but this?"

"Never in your life, for any reason," Credo clarified.

"You’re boring," Nero grimaced.

"But I can still tease you."

Nero raised an eyebrow.
"Isn’t that too high a price?"

"Or you could try to get the artifact yourself, and then somehow interest Agnus with your findings. I’d be happy to watch... from the sidelines."

Nero squinted.
"Fine, you little extortionist. I’ll remember this. Just know, it won’t be easy for you."

"Do we have a deal?" Credo pressed.

"Yes, fine! I agree! Now give it here already!"

Credo smirked at his small victory and handed the artifact to Nero. The boy snatched it out of Credo’s hand and sat cross-legged on the table.

As Nero had suspected, it turned out to be a Devil Arm. But one made from an extremely weak demon—almost something like Hell Mold. In his hands, its essence shrank and trembled, genuinely afraid for its pitiful existence. If Nero hadn’t known what this filth could do to an ordinary person if he were to release it, he might have even felt sorry for the poor thing.
Inside, there was enough power for two runes.
If someone had shown Nero how to convince a weak demon to shrink into a Devil Arm instead of dying in agony while trying to devour him, he would have made a whole bunch of these. There would have been two or three for every knight, with some left over as spares.

“Did this help you?” Credo suddenly asked.

“Yes, actually, quite a lot,” Nero replied, handing the artifact back to Credo. “Thank you, Credo. Can you tell Agnus that I can make these things in bulk?”

Credo nodded.
“And you…”

“I can,” Nero nodded. “I don’t know how yet, but you’re unlikely to reach him today, so I’ve got all night and an entire forest full of bloodthirsty idiots to practice on.”

Credo frowned, opened his mouth, but froze mid-thought.
“Will you be okay?” he finally asked.

“Don’t worry, Credo. As your sister correctly pointed out: there’s no one in this city or the surrounding forest who’s stronger than me. For now.”

“For now?” Credo clarified.

And then Nero suddenly remembered that Sparda’s hidden stash still contained creatures capable of killing him.
“I need to meet with Solemnes,” he thought to himself.

Chapter Text

Maria wasn't surprised by Nero's request. What surprised her more was that Nero had hesitated for so long. Though, considering who his grandfather was, Maria could understand. They were both stubborn in their sense of guilt. And no matter how much forgiveness was offered to them, until they found a way to change something, they would drown in doubts until the second coming.

Maria sighed and headed toward the exit of the monastery. Another evening of pleasant conversations had come to an end, and she needed to stop by a couple of places before she could share with her father.

"Excuse me, Maria?" called out a familiar voice.

"Sister Tamara," Maria turned with a smile. "How are you?"

"Everything is fine, thank you," Sister Tamara nodded without a trace of a smile. "Could you spare me a few minutes?"

Maria was surprised.
"Yes, of course," errands could wait. Even if the grocery stores closed, she could visit them tomorrow morning. Or make Christina go.

Sister Tamara led her into an empty classroom, which judging by the abundance of scattered items, had recently been used by children playing.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Maria asked directly, concerned by Sister Tamara’s seriousness.

"It's about Nero. I’ve noticed that you often speak with the boy."

Maria nodded. She didn’t hide it.

"Is this because of His Holiness?"

Maria frowned.
"I believe our family affairs shouldn’t concern anyone." Maria didn’t like being rude to people, but she’d been forced to get used to it from an early age. People too often tried to take advantage of her and her closeness to her father for personal gain. Maria had endured much before learning to nip such behavior in the bud. She still felt ashamed of some childish mistakes she'd made in front of her father, but that wasn’t important now.

"Forgive me, I misspoke," Sister Tamara bowed her head, but then raised an even sterner gaze at Maria. "I wanted to ask if this was His order?"

Maria didn’t show it, but inside, she froze. If this woman saw the situation this way, did Nero see it the same way? Did he think that Maria’s sincere care for his well-being was just an order from the vicar?
"No, Sister Tamara. Let it remain none of your concern, my worries for Nero is genuine. I want to take care of this boy."

"That’s what I feared," Sister Tamara frowned, surprising Maria. "Please, tell me you aren’t planning to adopt him."

Well, that was unexpected, but…

"Actually, I am," Maria nodded grimly.

"Almighty Sparda," Sister Tamara sighed wearily, "why must I endure all these trials? Maria, I never thought I’d say this to anyone, but please, forget about it."

"And why should I?" Maria genuinely protested.

"I know how it sounds, but believe me, I know Nero as well. He’s… an unusual… person."

"Believe me too," Maria coldly retorted, "I’ve spent enough time with him to understand that."

"Maria, hear me!" Tamara pleaded. "Neither you nor your father have the resources to help him feel… safe."

Maria paused.

"You can’t give him what he truly needs. You can’t take care of him."

"And so, you believe you can?"

"Savior, no!" Sister Tamara gave a sad smile. "Of course not. But here, at least, he can be who he truly is. Here, his soul can find refuge and healing."

"And you think that a real, loving family couldn’t give him far more?"

"I’m afraid," Sister Tamara wilted completely, "his real, loving family is dead."

Maria couldn’t endure such audacity. Apparently, she hadn’t suffered enough in her childhood to avoid making the same foolish mistake again.
"How dare you say that to his mother’s face?"

Sister Tamara froze, looked at Maria, and turned pale with shock. Covering her mouth with her hand, she nearly burst into tears.

"It’s not my secret to tell, but…" Sister Tamara sighed almost inaudibly. "You may be the mother of his body, but… not of his soul."

Maria seemed to have completely lost the thread of the conversation. Right now, she didn’t feel composed enough to continue thinking or speaking.
"I’ll step back for now," she said sternly, as her father had taught her. "But don’t think I’m admitting defeat. And if anyone finds out about this conversation…"

"Do you really think I’m capable of causing him such pain?"

Maria sighed. After all, she and Sister Tamara were on the same side; they just had different methods. No matter. Maria would retreat, regroup, gather intelligence, and return to fight another day.

She offered a curt farewell and left the monastery. The shopping could wait until tomorrow—right now, she urgently needed to speak with her father.

"Do you know what your grandson has done?" asked Sanctus, moving his pawn—the first move of the match.

"Could you possibly announce it any louder?" Solemnes replied sarcastically, responding with his own pawn.

"As if anyone in this house doesn’t already know," Sanctus snorted, advancing his knight.

Indeed, he had learned about it embarrassingly late, and only with a nudge from his bitterest rival. Unforgivable stupidity! Was it really time to retire?

Solemnes picked up his teacup, grimaced, and set it back down.

That conversation had been brewing for a long time. Sanctus hadn’t just provoked him with his antics—he had grown outright brazen, practically forcing a private meeting.

Believe or not, this time it was Solemnes who thought to strike with a knight and catch his opponent off guard with battlefield knowledge.
"You’re the one who tried to poison me."

Sanctus didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Clever play, but Solemnes had long known his adversary.

"You planned everything: poisoning Maria at the right moment so I’d give her the amulet. But you didn’t account for the fact that my girl turned out stronger than your poison. She refused my help, so the amulet stayed with me, and I survived your frankly pathetic assassination attempt."

Sanctus finally frowned—barely noticeable to a subordinate, but Solemnes had known him for many years.

"Of course, it washed over me quite severely. I genuinely thought I was going to die. But what interests me is this," Solemnes asked sincerely, "how would you have gotten out of it?"

Sanctus, who had been silent until now, drummed his fingers on the armrest and made his move. Yes, they had been playing chess that time as well. What could one do? Old men had their indulgences.

"That amulet," said Sanctus, pointing to the droplet encased in two hemispheres, "didn’t you yourself tell me that it had practically lost its power?"

That was true. However, just before the poisoning attempt, something else had happened.

"Well, let’s say I got a chance to recharge it," Solemnes made his move.

"You were in the vault?" Sanctus frowned.

"You know about the vault?" Solemnes was surprised, to which Sanctus simply rolled his eyes. Solemnes read the answer on his face.

"Of course, I know about the vault. I’ve served the Order my entire life. For years, I’ve been trying to get inside!"

"Wait," Sanctus suddenly frowned, "was that the evening when the entire Order was running around the castle chasing a ghost?"

"Oh," Solemnes smirked, "that delightful young man? We had a wonderful time together."

"You let an outsider into the vault?!" Sanctus was horrified.

"No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t have stopped him," Solemnes shrugged with a hint of superiority.

Sanctus frowned, clearly pondering why. Understanding dawned on his face with reverence that Solemnes hadn’t seen on this gloomy man in many years.

"A descendant of Sparda," he whispered and made his move. Then, suddenly added, "He saved your life."

Solemnes wanted to ask why. The game was nearing its end, and the outcome was obvious to both of them.
But then... he decided to expand on that thought.

That young man—Vergil—had said something strange at the time. "You reek of decay."
And the fact that the illness had started slightly earlier than when he drank the fateful cup of tea given to him by Sanctus. In reality, it began as soon as he and Vergil entered the vault. As soon as the amulet recharged.
This meant one thing—it wasn’t a one-time incident; Sanctus had been poisoning him for years. And the amulet had kept him alive. When it renewed its charge, its power became enough to burn the poison out of Solemnes's blood. That’s why he had been so ill. The poison that had accumulated over the years left his body in just a few days. If he thought about it, after that time, he felt better than he had many years before it.
But this meant that Sanctus hadn’t poisoned Maria. He had calculated that Solemnes would simply reach a critical mass of poison. It would have been considered a death from natural causes! Sanctus would have taken the position of vicar by popular vote.

Solemnes had to take back his words. It was a brilliant plan. Sanctus had just been slightly unlucky. Maria hadn’t taken the amulet. That allowed Solemnes to hang on until the fateful meeting.

But… if it wasn’t poison, what made Maria feel so horribly sick?
She was nauseated even by the smell of food. She ran to the bathroom so often that it would have been easier to make her a bed there. There was her acute reaction to any smells. And those strange requests from Christina for pineapples, jalapeños, or spicy sauces that they never ate in their house. He had to write requests to his ex-wife on the mainland to gather a package.

"Are you sure Christina isn’t pregnant?" Saxoniya had asked him then. He was sure about Christina. He hadn’t even thought to look at Maria, who had recently taken a liking to wearing flowing dresses and fluffy skirt.

"I’m a grandson of Sparda," Solemnes recalled the words of the little boy who had effortlessly surpassed all his years spent wielding a sword.

And that upturned nose. And those freckles. And that cold, determined gaze of someone who knows their fate in advance.
Solemnes did the calculations in his head—all the dates matched up.

Solemnes pinched the bridge of his nose.

"My life for your thoughts," Sanctus chuckled, humbly, though Solemnes wasn't fooled.

"Nero is my grandson."

Sanctus's eyes widened in astonishment. Well, this sight was worth it.

"Almighty Sparda," he whispered reverently, clearly grasping the full extent of Solemnes’s thought process. "Maria and that ghost?.."

Solemnes nodded and then let out a heavy sigh.

A stalemate. Each of them had compromising information on the other. But Solemnes hadn’t shared such delicate information lightly. Not without reason.

"What do you want?" Sanctus immediately got to the point.

Solemnes shook his head.
"No, what do you want?"

Sanctus froze.

"Why do you want to become vicar?" Solemnes asked again.

Sanctus exhaled and, for perhaps the first time in his life, was completely honest.

And so they ended up here. To the entire Order, Sanctus was a retired general. He had handed over his duties to a captain suitable in both experience and status, then stepped away into retirement. But in reality, Solemnes had freed up all of Sanctus’s time for work of a different kind.

Both of them—Sanctus and Solemnes—had many disagreements about their views on peaceful life. But both knew that any semblance of peace would end the moment demons decided to take them seriously. And Solemnes was aware of the problems. The Order was dying without real threats. Even now, fully staffed and trained knights still managed to make the most foolish mistakes and lose their lives. They wouldn’t last long against serious danger. And danger was ever-present as long as demons existed.

Thus, Solemnes took charge of maintaining peace. Meanwhile, Sanctus was granted permission to form a secret unit of half-breeds.

Nero—being partially demon—had shown them both the possibilities. If they could find a way to strengthen human hearts with demonic ichor, if they could find volunteers with pure motives and turn them not into the possessed but into warriors who controlled demonic powers…

It was a sacrifice, yes, but a voluntary one. Just like the one Sparda had made: giving everything for something he considered more important than his own life.

That was Solemnes’s only condition. Any experiments could only be conducted on fully informed volunteers, fully aware of the consequences of failure.

Sanctus put up a token resistance, but both of them knew that Solemnes had bought him, lock, stock, and barrel. Neither of them was a fool—they’d butt heads hundreds more times. These meetings were meant for that. But the foundation had been laid.

"You’re right, of course," Solemnes snorted, "but that doesn’t mean we should mention it unnecessarily."

"Still worried about your reputation?"

"I’m old, Sanctus. I stopped caring about my reputation a long time ago. But Maria and Nero don’t deserve condemnation."

"Unlike that ghost who ran off after looting the vault and getting your sweet little daughter pregnant."

Solemnes sighed.
"So, what do he want?"

"Ah, yes. Your… Nero," Sanctus sneered, "recently dragged my lead researcher out of the castle catacombs and practically forced him to relocate to the monastery catacombs."

Solemnes frowned. He had never understood scholars' love for dark, enclosed spaces, but this Agnus was the worst he’d ever encountered.

"In addition to setting up a new lab, Nero demanded a workshop for himself, and from what my data tells me, he’s planning to set up a small factory to produce bullets."

Solemnes stared at Sanctus in shock.
"Why does he need bullets?"

"I thought you might know," Sanctus smirked.

"Baxter mentioned that a few months ago, one of the knights ordered a revolver with a box of bullets from him," Solemnes admitted honestly. He was on good terms with the local smuggler, often forgiving his sins in exchange for reasonable donations to the Order. "I have no idea how it ended up with Nero."

Sanctus just snorted.
"Alright, that’s a puzzle for Maria," Solemnes sighed. "What interests me more is how Agnus agreed to this?"

"Oh, Nero simply promised to flood him with artifacts for sealing demon blood."

Solemnes frowned, then brightened.
"That makes sense. Nero is part-demon, which means he can create Devil Arms. In fact, this partnership could be beneficial."

"I thought the same," Sanctus nodded, "so I didn’t interfere. But… I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it."

Solemnes sighed deeply.
"You know why I removed him from the Order’s affairs."

Sanctus nodded. The boy was too young for their games and got caught up in something far beyond him. Solemnes, having crammed an unreasonably large amount of knowledge into Nero, figured it was time for the young mind to put those lessons into practice. He hadn’t expected Nero to last so long. He thought Nero would hang around Sanctus for a bit, pick up some tricks, get tired, and ask to come back to finish his studies. But Nero, damn him, was his mother's son, charging headfirst against a starving Behemoth, saber in hand. He took Solemnes’s assignment far too seriously, digging too deep. And Sanctus deliberately exploited that.

Solemnes had been foolish, and he knew it. He felt guilty toward the boy—so guilty that he still couldn’t look him in the eye and apologize.

Sanctus, on the other hand, felt no guilt whatsoever. He took the brash boy under his wing, intending to mold him into a second version of himself. Especially since Nero’s potential practically radiated off him, something even a blind man would notice. So, Sanctus deliberately triggered a panic attack, planning to refine it into a steady state of anxiety later. He intended to keep Nero close, turning him into his own loyal demon. He even started spreading rumors about Nero, isolating him so that Sanctus would be all he had left.

He backed off when he and Solemnes reached their agreement. Although they were still snapping at each other about it.

Sanctus wasn’t about to give up on Nero. He made that clear to Solemnes.

"— Whether he’s your grandson or not, that boy is prime material. And if he decides to become a volunteer, you won’t dare stand in his way."
"He’s seven!"
"And he’s already beaten a man to near death, handles runes at our level, and understands advanced mathematics."

So now, regarding Nero, they were also at a stalemate. And then Nero made his move—a move in favor of Sanctus.

"But Maria says that lately, he’s been looking more lively. I’ll… allow Agnus to stay. At least as long as Nero feels good."

Sanctus nodded. He’d have a chance to win the boy over. Nero wasn’t stupid—he knew where the power lay.
"Do you plan to make him your successor?"

"For Sparda sake, Sanctus, he’s too young!"

"You think you won’t live that long?"

Solemnes picked up the amulet and absently rubbed it. Solemnes was indeed old. The fact that he had lived this long was either a miracle or due to the amulet. It was unlikely he’d live to see Nero reach adulthood. And only a youth no younger than twenty could become vicar. Even if Solemnes named him his heir, someone—Maria, Sanctus, or both—would have to carry out his duties until Nero came of age.

"Would you… look after him?"

Sanctus sneered, making Solemnes roll his eyes.
"Not for yourself," Solemnes muttered.

"For you?" Sanctus stretched into a grin.

"For him," Solemnes said unexpectedly vulnerably. "I know you never had someone like that, but… I think you could be… I don’t know… an example for him?"

"A pillar of support," Sanctus suggested the fitting words. He understood what Solemnes was saying. Brilliant people were doomed to loneliness. They had to shoulder everything themselves, and for a child, that was an unbearable burden. Hell, even for a seasoned adult.

Sanctus had broken once when he was a child. That’s why he allowed himself to attempt to kill Solemnes—for the sake of a bright future, of course. But he knew exactly that if left alone with all that power, he’d set a countdown to his own madness. He simply hoped Fortuna would grow stronger before he managed to destroy it.

Sanctus sighed.
"Don’t bury yourself before your time. The boy… might still surprise us."

"I’m afraid another couple of surprises like that will send me to my grave."

"Father, I…" Maria burst into the study. Already agitated, seeing Sanctus almost made her shriek.

"What is he doing here? He was kicked out of the Order!"

"We’re playing," Solemnes gestured toward the chessboard, completely unfazed by his daughter’s confrontational behavior. "In my office, in my house. Working hours are over, so I entertain myself as best I can."

"With him? With this… murderer?" Maria couldn’t hold back.

Solemnes exhaled.
"What can I do if, in all of Fortuna, only Sanctus can give me a challenge?" he shrugged.

"Father, you’ve completely—"

"It seems I’m not welcome here," Sanctus interrupted her, rising from his chair. "Anyway, this match is up to me."

"It appears so," Solemnes nodded sagely. "I promise, I’ll get you next time."

"Next time?!" Maria shrieked.

"Good evening. Solemnes, Maria," he gave each of them a light nod and hurried away, closing the door behind him.

"I must admit, I didn’t expect you so early," Solemnes began setting up the chess pieces, inviting Maria to take a seat. But she practically hissed at the spot where Sanctus had just been sitting and began pacing the study.

"Father, how can you?"

"Maria, my dear, allow me to act according to Stratagem Sixteen."

"Are you sure he won’t trap you with the Third?" she hissed back.

"Oh no, darling," Solemnes waved dismissively, "Sanctus would never be so obvious. In any case, was there something you wanted?"

Maria grunted in dissatisfaction but obediently changed the subject.
"I was at the orphanage."

Solemnes nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"I was already leaving when Sister Tamara stopped me."

"Is that what made you so angry?"

"Angry?" Maria flared up again. "I’m furious! How dare that nun say such things?!"

"What did she say?"

"That our family, with all our resources, can’t give Nero what he truly needs! I…," she paused, exhaling some of her tension, "I’ll admit, I made a mistake by revealing something I shouldn’t have, but… Sister Tamara said something very strange that unsettled me."

Solemnes silently nodded, watching his daughter intently.

"She said that his entire real family is dead and… that we can’t ensure his safety… that he won’t be able to be who he truly is while with us."

"And do you think she’s wrong?" Solemnes asked calmly.

Maria clenched her fists and sniffled.
"I spoke with him once. About his father. I… I know that Nero… isn’t entirely human."

Solemnes hid a smile behind his steepled hands.

"But he told me the same thing. His father died many years ago."

Solemnes froze.

"And if… if somehow, because of his blood or instincts, he really could feel his death… Papa," Maria looked at Solemnes, on the verge of tears. "What should I do, papa? What if Sister Tamara is right?" she whispered almost inaudibly.

Solemnes closed his eyes and exhaled the sorrow of loss from his chest. Vergil. The young man who had stolen his daughter’s heart had died many years ago, never knowing that he had a son. Solemnes had no reason to doubt Nero’s instincts.
Such a grief. A deep, profound pity that the boy had been forced to endure such a loss without anyone to share it with.

He opened his arms, and Maria immediately collapsed into his embrace, dropping to her knees and burying her face in his chest. He held his daughter close, stroking her disheveled braid and whispering words of comfort.

When her sobs subsided, Solemnes allowed himself to reflect on the situation.

If Nero knew who his grandfather and father were, there was no chance he didn’t also know who his mother and other grandfather were. The little rascal had been leading them on this whole time. Solemnes chuckled.

"What’s so funny?" Maria muttered into his chest.

"I just thought about what Nero himself would say about all this."

"Mm?" Maria lifted her tear-filled eyes.

"Have you tried talking to him about adoption?"

Maria grimaced, her silence speaking volumes.
"He once said that you doesn’t need him anymore," she replied instead.

This once again filled Solemnes's heart with a heavy burden of guilt.

"And by the way," Maria sniffled.

"Mm?"

"He asked for an audience with you."

Solemnes froze for a moment, then smirked.
"And what happened to the rule about not mixing work with family?"

Maria rolled her eyes.
"Don’t you think you owe that boy something?"

"More than you can imagine..."

Chapter Text

It was not difficult to convince Agnus to secretly move from the castle catacombs to the monastery catacombs. It was much more difficult to fulfill his promise — to overwhelm Agnus with a bunch of Devil Arms, which the Order used to stabilize the demonic blood.

The problem was that Nero had no idea how to force a defeated demon to submit to his will and take the form of an arm. It sounded like something deeply instinctual. But Nero was only a quarter demon—and a very young one—and felt no inner urges whatsoever.

On the other hand, at his age, Virgil had already summoned Yamato. Although he was a half-demon, and the first years of his life were spent under the strict supervision of a creature that devoured more than one Hellhound in this field. And probably not in such a metaphorical sense.

Alright, Nero was old enough to admit to himself: he hadn’t replaced the Red Queen not just because he believed in human potential. Honestly, he loathed handouts from Dante. He wanted a Devil Arm for himself. Wanted it so desperately he could gnaw on his own elbows. But his own, honestly earned in battle! Unfortunately, every significant victory made his opponents give their souls to the demonic god instead of serving Nero. Because they couldn’t fucking believe that a human had defeated them! Cowardly bastards.

After the Clipot and up to Mundus, there was not a single large-scale battle in which Nero could seriously test his awakened powers. There were a couple of Rhages who were acting weird. When they saw the death of their relatives, they stopped attacking, began to grovel, humbly lowering their heads. Nero was a little out of his mind at the time and came to his senses only after he had eaten these creatures. He tried not to recall that incident.

In his foolishness, he hadn’t asked for details from Dante or Vergil, so now he had to stumble along blindly.

Well, his "blind fumbling" looked like a forest clearing littered with the corpses of demons he’d tried to subjugate. Unfortunately, they died as soon as he sneezed.

Weaklings…

Nero sighed and sat down on a rock for a breather.
“Maybe it’d be easier to make them out of myself? Somehow...” he mused aloud, looking at his hands. Sparda had made his strongest swords from his own power…

“No,” Nero shook his head as if coming out of a trance. He’d need all his strength.

With a heavy sigh, Nero leaned back on the rock and tilted his face toward the gloomy night sky. He heard another demon approach the clearing, but for some reason, it didn’t rush to attack. Though, Nero guessed why. Even though the bodies of the previous demons had already melted away, their demonic ichor and the pheromones of deathly fear practically screamed to the weaklings: “Danger!”

Nero smirked and opened his eyes.

In the shadow of the trees, he noticed a faint reddish glint. It seemed one of the Mephistos had come to visit. Wonderful…

Nero was too lazy to chase it. It would be much simpler to catch the bastard if it used its stinger. But the Mephisto wasn’t in a hurry. It circled the clearing and stopped somewhere behind Nero. Smart, sure, but dumb.

Nero heard a faint whistle and dodged at the last second, letting the stinger pass by. His hand grabbed the appendage, and without gauging his strength, simply snapped the claw of the unlucky demon. A pained cry came from behind. The Mephisto hurried to flee.

Nero smirked, then got to his feet. It was time to wrap things up. The sky was lightening, and the sisters would scold him again if he was late for breakfast or came back covered in dirt. He’d try again tomorrow night. After all, he had time while Agnus set up the lab.

The next night, everything repeated itself. Except the beaten Mephisto returned, dragging a couple of friends, among whom was their leader Faust, who floated lazily through the middle of the clearing—Nero’s hunting ground—without a care.

Without realizing it, Nero growled. But he quickly composed himself and shifted on the rock for a deadly leap. As soon as Faust extended his sharp claws, Nero leaped toward him and, with a lightning-fast motion, decapitated him.

The body dissolved before it hit the ground. Nero spat in frustration and went back to his rock. The pair of Mephistos that had come with Faust froze at the edge of the clearing. Nero didn’t know what their hideous faces expressed, but with nothing else to do, he simply stared at them, imagining how these two “trembled in awe of his power.”

But those bastards weren’t trembling. Instead, they decided to ruin his hunt. As soon as another Blade fell into the trap of enticing human blood and finally reached Nero’s clearing, the Mephistos treacherously pierced it with their stingers.

"What the hell are you bastards doing?!" Nero shrieked, leaping to his feet.

The Mephistos, hearing his outrage, immediately recoiled from their victim and—guiltily?—retreated to the side, allowing Nero to claim his prey. Dead, by the way.

"Idiots! Do you know how long I had to wait for him to come here?! And another attempt down the drain! I’ll kill you myself!"

The Mephistos didn’t react to his words. They just hovered off to the side, emitting pheromones of fear and... uh... submission? What the hell?

Nero glared at them, then poked one experimentally.
"You, heel," he commanded, pointing to the ground in front of his feet.

The demon obediently floated closer, though trembling like an aspen leaf in the wind. Nero reached out, grabbed the creature by its cloak, and exposed its disgusting scorpion-like body.

It squealed, collapsed to the ground, but didn’t dare run or move. It just trembled, waiting for something.

Nero extended his hand toward its face and touched the warm, rough surface of its chitin. And then something clicked in his mind. Something that felt like it had always been there. The thought that this creature now belonged to him. Nero was free to do with it whatever he wanted. He could kill it for fun, devour it to sate his hunger, make it hunt for him, or turn its soul into pure power to forge a weapon. A weak, useless weapon hardly worth noticing.

"I don’t need a weapon. I need you to become a vessel that will hold the power of others," Nero muttered under his breath. "I need a lot of them. A whole mountain."

The Mephisto trembled violently, its body beginning to decay until it vanished, leaving a faint glowing spark in Nero’s hand. The spark immediately took the form of a familiar artifact—a cylinder for storing demonic blood.

Nero blinked, snapping out of the trance, then looked at the other demon. Sensing his master's attention, it fled into the forest in terror.

"Coward," Nero snorted.

That night, Nero had no more luck: no new demons, no new followers, no new artifacts.

Nero opened his eyes, yawned, and stretched sweetly, when suddenly the head of a Mephisto emerged from his stomach. At first, Nero thought he wasn’t fully awake yet, but time passed, and the situation didn’t change.

"If you ever do that again, I’ll snap your neck and use your blood as fertilizer for plants," he growled.

The Mephisto hastily retreated to the far corner of the room and disappeared into the shadows.

Nero got up and began his morning routine, completely forgetting about the incident until he heard a scream from the hallway.

Rushing out, he saw a nun collapsed on the floor, with the Mephisto towering over her, aiming its stinger at her. But upon seeing Nero pulling Pawn out of his ethereal pocket, it quickly disappeared into the wall.

The situation was getting out of control. Yesterday's Mephisto didn't just run away, he clearly followed Nero back to the monastery. Now every living soul in the monastery was in danger until Nero found and destroyed the pest.

He had to run a lot. Mephisto hid in the most inaccessible places: in ceiling beams, behind centuries-old shelves, between columns and behind statues. It seemed impossible to get to him without breaking anything. It turned out that knowledge of the area and a sense of demons were completely useless in walls that could not be breached. In that moment, Nero understood Dante's contempt for meticulous work. He would have already blown up a wall or two if he could get away with it.

The Mephisto slipped through his fingers again, seeping into a wall that couldn’t be reached from this wing. Nero would have gone through the window, but it was the second floor: even if he didn’t break his neck, his strength wasn’t enough yet to leap to the right window.

Sometimes, Nero missed his wings so damn much. It wasn’t just the advantage of having an extra pair of limbs or the ability to fly—it was also the convenience of hurling spectral feathers at particularly annoying bastards.

“Look, Vergil! Your son stole your signature move.”
"You stole it, Dante. Nero inherited it.” The words were uttered with such pride that Nero almost burst.

As much as he missed his wings, these two idiots were the only things he missed more.

“Found time to get nostalgic, huh?” Nero muttered under his breath as he slid around a corner. A few more seconds, and he’d catch up to the demon. Ahead lay a wide corridor—windows on one side, children’s rooms on the other—but no people should be around right now. Maybe he could use the Seed?

Two… One… Nero burst through the massive doors and saw…

Mephisto's dark silhouette hovered in the middle of the corridor, and in front of him, sitting motionless on the floor with her back to Nero, was Kyrie.

Nero roared. The sound reverberated off the walls, amplifying into a deafening crescendo that shattered the windows. Glass shards sprayed in all directions, rippling like water against the Mephisto’s cloak. The demon turned its attention toward Nero, and before Nero could reach them, it spun on its axis and melted into the shadows at the corners of the room.

Nero immediately rushed to Kyrie.
"Are you hurt?"

There was no smell of blood in the air, and Nero did not notice a single scratch on Kairi's body. But she was clearly in shock, clutching the pen Nero had given her so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“I…” Kyrie whispered softly, “I’m fine. It… it didn’t touch me.”

Nero helped her to her feet and then surveyed the chaos around them.

With a heavy sigh, he picked up the trembling girl in his arms like a newlywed and carried her out of the hallway. By the time they reached the end, two sisters had already gathered there, attracted by the commotion.

“What happened?”

“A rat," Nero grumbled. “A very big rat. I need to find her before she causes more trouble. Can you take care of Kyrie? He gently lowered her to the floor. “I'll clean up the hallway myself later.”

The nuns, accustomed to Nero’s eccentric behavior, didn’t even bother asking further questions. Nero had been chasing rats since he was a child. Windows got broken too, mostly by accident, though never on this scale. But it didn’t matter—during the winter, the sisters always complained about drafts anyway. This would give them a reason to replace them.

Leaving Kyrie in the care of the nuns, Nero ran after the scent of the Mephisto, refusing to let himself dwell on the narrowly avoided catastrophe. Credo could have defended himself in such a situation. But Kyrie…

A torn stomach; intestines wrapped around her neck…
Her scream as Mundus gouged out her eye…
“Please… kill me…”

Nero gasped sharply and bit his tongue, using the pain to yank himself back to the present. He needed to do something. Think of something—anything—to protect her, to keep her safe. But what?

When the thin shell between him and the world was broken, it became aware of itself.

This place, the place of its awakening, was full of others like it. Some were still in the stasis of their eggs, while others had already hatched and… were feeding. There was nothing to feed on except each other.

One of them opened its jaws and bit its. That was how it learned that being eaten was painful. It twisted, biting back. The other shrieked. It kept biting, over and over, until the other fell silent. Then it began to devour the dead. That was how it learned what food was.

Later, it came to understand more. Food gave strength, and strength protected from others and the pain they brought. But most importantly, life was only about food and pain.

It lived and fed, observing others, learning from them how to feed more efficiently, how to feed on them. It learned the territory where it lived and ate, becoming more economical with its consumption. It didn’t strive for power because, honestly, it didn’t care much about living. But not living was painful, so it ate just enough to survive.

One day, something different entered its territory, something like itself. Wounded, reeking of pain. Eating such a thing would have been easy, but it wasn’t hungry, so instead of consuming it, it decided to leave the wounded one alone. The wounded one was afraid because it hurt and couldn’t do anything. This was annoying it, so it brought the wounded one food—small and light. The wounded one immediately took the food, attempting to bite it in return. It didn’t allow it but also didn’t respond with pain. It understood what the wounded one felt. It would have done the same.

The small and light food wasn’t enough. The wounded one was severely injured. So it began sharing its leftover food. With food, the wounded one healed. Once healed, the healed one could have its. And so it went.

They lived and ate together. It liked it. It enjoyed hunting together. It enjoyed eating together. It enjoyed being together. The healed one, it seemed, also liked It. Together with the healed one, it discovered what reproduction was. That he was a male, and the healed one was a female. That was how she, hunting, reproduction, and a strange feeling entered his life. He didn’t know what this odd sensation was, but he liked it.

With a smirk, he remembered when reproduction bore its first fruit. He was so worried that she had fallen ill and would die. He fed her so much, wanting her to live with him. And then he was so surprised and overjoyed when she laid eggs for him—the very eggs from which he himself had emerged.

It was a strange feeling, but he didn’t want the new ones to know pain. So he immediately brought them food. So they could eat and live. He would take care of the rest.

The little ones grew, grew stronger, and grew smarter. He and she showed them how to live, how to hunt, how to survive pain and illness. They could teach the little ones so many things! They wanted…

But then the Strong One came. The Strong One ate the little ones. The Strong One wanted to eat her too, but he found other food for the Strong One. Again and again. He fed the Strong One so that it wouldn’t eat her. And the Strong One was also the Clever One, so it never let her go.

So he tried his hardest. Sometimes he managed to find very nutritious others. Sometimes they were like him and her. But most of the time, they were just others. And there were so many of them. Too many. He lost count…

That time, a hunter appeared in their territory. The hunter lured others into a trap with the smell of nutritious food and then killed them, growing increasingly irritated by their weakness. Apparently, they weren’t nutritious enough. Bad food, unworthy of being eaten. He felt regret—after all, this food could have gone to the Strong One to protect her.

And at that moment, a plan was born in his mind. He decided to test just how strong the hunter was, but the hunter didn’t even move, instead inflicting pain on him. He left, concluding that this was an opportunity to kill the Strong One…

The Strong One melted before hitting the ground. He was surprised but accepted as fact that the hunter apparently fed differently.

The hunter returned to his place. And they were free again, though… she froze. He could understand her desire. Being near someone strong was safer. The hunter was stronger than the Strong One, and he hadn’t tried to kill them. Perhaps if they offered him their service, he might take care of them. So they could make little ones again.

Their attempt to pledge allegiance to the hunter came soon enough. Another arrived, drawn by the delicious scent, walking straight into the trap. He and she killed it for the hunter.

He growled at them, and they recoiled, realizing their foolishness. They were lucky the hunter didn’t harm them, but what made them think he’d accept the service of such weak, worthless creatures?

For the first time in his life, he thought that maybe he should have eaten more. Then, perhaps, he would have been strong enough now. Strong enough to offer his strength to the hunter. Or maybe even strong enough to give her time to escape…

But the hunter only growled at them, seething with anger, and then… he pointed at her.

She didn’t dare resist. Who would dare resist such overwhelming power? The hunter could have killed them with a single roar if he wished.

With an indescribable feeling of all-consuming emptiness, he watched as the hunter stripped her of her covering. She fell prostrate before him, weak and defenseless. He was prepared to see her devoured. He was ready to follow her, but…

Instead, the hunter’s hand did… something… with her.

He had never seen anything like it. Her body melted, but he could still feel her trembling in his grasp—small, shaking with fear, yet alive.

At that moment, for the first time, he began to ponder what life truly was. He didn’t have time to dwell on the thought, as another, fully conscious command came from the hunter—his new master.

It turned out that all this time, master hadn’t been searching for food. Master needed those who were strong enough but willing to submit. Because his master wanted to transform them all—to make them new, reborn, suitable for his plan.

Thus, he—Mephisto—was tasked with finding them for him. Immediately…

Mephisto found another one—Fault—with whom he had signed hunting and storage agreements. He used his ethereal space to store victims for a small fee. Together with Fault, he hunted all night and part of the morning, until the shadows became very weak. Then he went to his master to show him his work.

The master was clearly not in the mood. Mephisto, who realized his stupidity too late — he entered the master's territory without his permission — could no longer leave. The shadows were too small, his cover would melt, and there were others in the city that his master would definitely not protect him from. Nobody here to help but himself. And if Mephisto died, it would only be his mistake.

But judging by the fact that the master didn’t order him to die, Mephisto must have been doing something right. Perhaps the master enjoyed playing chase. If Mephisto entertained him, so be it. Better than being killed…

Killed… it was a new word, a new sensation.

Before, Mephisto thought there was only life, and nothing else existed. But after what the master had done to her—transforming her soul into something else—she no longer had a body, couldn’t eat, yet she was still alive. How did she feel? Was she happy? Did she still remember him?

Mephisto was confused by all these thoughts. The connection with his new master had clearly enriched his... um... stock of images… but it was disorienting. He wasn’t used to feeling so much and reflecting on his emotions simultaneously.

On the other hand, he hadn’t felt so alive or thirsty for life in a very long time. For lack of a better word, he was having fun.

This place was new, unfamiliar. There were so many unusual objects, so many enticing scents. The master clearly loved surrounding himself with pleasant things. Mephisto wouldn’t dare touch them, but he couldn’t resist lingering to sniff around.

Then he sensed another master. This one looked different and strangely reeked of fear, though he still smelled like a master. But the true, powerful master caught up and activated a trap of sharp, transparent shards.

The one standing directly in front of him didn’t defend himself. The shards could have injured him. Could have caused pain.

Mephisto reacted faster than he thought. Her image, wounded, flashed before his eyes, and he simply couldn’t let her be hurt. His cover absorbed the shards, and Mephisto, wrapping himself tightly, bled into the nearest shadow…

Mephisto decided to wait for his master at the previous hunting ground. But he didn’t come. Apparently, he was still angry. Well, Mephisto deserved it.

On the other hand, even his strength had limits. And Fault would devour all his prey if they didn’t hurry. It would be a shame, though it was entirely his fault. What an irony... whatever that means.

Perhaps he should find her… um… the master’s mate. She had seemed frightened. Maybe she was ill. Or perhaps she had set an elaborate trap for Mephisto so the master could catch him. In any case, she hadn’t attacked and lived in her own, separate territory under the protection of powerful wards. Perhaps she would be more inclined to talk…

Mephisto turned out to be right. The protective wards let him through, not perceiving him as a threat. Of course—they saw him as a loyal servant of his master; he wouldn’t dare touch her, not even with the edge of his cover, without permission. And the master’s mate didn’t attack either. She smelled of fear, though. Mephisto couldn’t understand why. Everyone in the master’s lair feared Mephisto, but they all smelled like nourishing food. Maybe…

Mephisto suddenly realized. His… she had behaved the same way when carrying their offspring. That must be why the master’s mate smelled like the master.

But… would the master really choose a weak mate? Why? Their offspring would be eaten, and she’d be taken hostage to torment him for the rest of his days. Or, worse still, devoured right before his eyes.

No, there must be something… something special about this mate. Something that made her unique, something that added to the master’s strength. And when her fear subsided, when she finally stopped growling at him, realizing he wasn’t going to harm her, Mephisto finally understood why she had become the master’s mate.

The signs. He knew them. Everyone knew them. They had been seared into their veins from birth along with the accursed, molten blood that flowed through them. And she, the master’s mate, was the first in his life to use those cursed signs to… talk… with him… with Mephisto, a speck of dust beneath her master’s feet.

“Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“What is your intention?”
“We need to move. I have a prey for the king.”

"Victim and ruler? Hmm, I’m not sure I read that pair correctly," growled the master's mate again. "Wait, who is your ruler?"

"King?" the mate asked.

Did she really think him cunning enough to serve two masters? On the other hand, she was clearly Very Smart, so not answering would have been disrespectful and foolish. Thus, Mephisto pulled a shard from his cover and placed it at her feet. She picked it up.

"This is… from the window at the orphanage!" she growled again, this time with surprise, as Mephisto perceived it. "You… protected me?"

"Little king," he pointed to her; "king," he gestured toward where the master’s lair was located.

"I… seem like a small ruler to you? Oh, I think I understand…" she growled again. "It’s all because of the pen. There’s his blood in it. Credo said demons can recognize it by scent. Then…"

"Trap for the king?"
"King's trap," he corrected her.

"Then can we move toward the king?"
"The king will bring death. The little king listens. The little king will tell the king."

"Savior, I don’t understand such long sequences… Nero would be very helpful here," she sighed. "But it seems you’re afraid of him? What did you do wrong?"

"Burden before the king?"
"Parasite."

The mate frowned, staring at the sign for a long while, as if searching for a trick. Or perhaps she disapproved of his choice of such a self-deprecating description.

"I don’t think Nero truly thinks of you that way. Maybe you should talk to him?" she bared her teeth. Oddly, there was no anger in that snarl. Instead, there were other pleasant scents. The master had chosen a very strange mate indeed.

"Alright, leech, let’s go see what you wanted to show Nero."

When the mate covered herself in her own covering, Mephisto led her to the place.

They moved slowly, unhurriedly. Mephisto didn’t dare rush the master’s mate.

"And how far is it?" she made sounds again. Mephisto hadn’t heard anyone make so many sounds before. He thought it was growling, but the tone, manner, and vibrations varied each time and didn’t feel threatening at all. Perhaps the master and his mate could distinguish these sounds. But why would they need to? What purpose could they serve? Though…

Come to think of it, just recently, he had used signs understandable to both of them for the first time to convey knowledge. Perhaps… perhaps these sounds served the same function? To transmit information without needing to draw signs.

Maybe… maybe the mistress could teach him too? How could he ask her for this? And what could he offer in return? She was already helping him—it would be audacious to ask for lessons.

And yet…

There wasn’t a sign among them that described sounds. Although… there was unpleasant one…

Mephisto stopped and pointed to the small notebook in the mistress’s hands. She held it out to him, a clean page facing up. He drew "listen to the scream."

The mistress froze for a moment.
"You want to understand the chorus?.. I mean… oh, I think I get it! You want to learn words? As in, talk?"

Mephisto heard the sounds but could only guess what the mistress was chirping about.

And then she pointed her finger at the sign for "listen."
"Understand," she pronounced slowly.

Mephisto was amazed by her intelligence. And to prove his aptitude for learning, he immediately tried to repeat it. Judging by the grimace on the mistress’s face, the result didn’t please her.

"Un-der-stand," she stretched the word to make it easier to pronounce.

The creaky sounds he produced didn’t even remotely resemble the smooth, chirping speech of the mistress, even to his own ears. Still, practice makes perfect.

"Alright, maybe this isn’t the best place or time for language lessons. Let’s first figure out where we—" she flipped through a few pages of the notebook and pointed at "move"— "are going."

"Going," he rasped a simpler sequence.

The mistress bared her teeth again, but the wave of joy and pleasure emanating from her nearly knocked him on his feet. Almost as powerfully as when the master roared in anger.

Indeed, the mistress was special. The master truly had excellent instincts…

They were approaching the hunting grounds. If earlier they had been practicing, in this area, it was dangerous to make noise. Strong creatures still roamed here, capable of killing even Mephisto. He had lived in these woods for many years, knew them like himself. He had long grown accustomed to hunting alone, forgotten how to rely on a partner, learned survival skills, which paths to take, which scents to avoid. The mistress, however, proved utterly incompetent.

She made noise, couldn’t mask her scents. Mephisto might have thought she simply feared nothing, but she constantly stumbled, as if blinded by the darkness. Perhaps it hadn’t been wise to pull her out of her den in her condition? Hadn’t Mephisto made things worse by luring a pregnant, helpless mistress into a trap full of hunters?

But she was smart! She wouldn’t have went with him if she couldn’t take care of herself, right?

A hunter leapt out at them from the shadows. Mephisto reacted instantly, but… the mistress? She didn’t even realize what had happened before she was pinned to the ground, moments away from having fangs sink into her neck!

Mephisto didn’t hesitate for a second. Piercing the hunter with his stinger, he diverted the hunter’s attention to himself. They circled each other, growling, lunging, scratching, testing each other's endurance, but…

Unfortunately, the hunter wasn’t alone.

Mephisto was distracted, and a second hunter burst out of the darkness. He tore off Mephisto’s cover, exposing his vulnerable chitinous body. But Mephisto was nimble; he had survived in worse conditions.

Twisting between the hunters’ legs, biting and stinging them, he prevented them from reaching his weak spots. But then one of the hunters turned their attention back to the mistress. No. No!

Mephisto jumped in front of her, taking the fangs into his soft underbelly.

It hurt. But he was still alive, and the hunter’s neck was so close.

Mephisto clamped his mandibles onto it, squeezing them tighter than he ever had in his life. The fangs embedded in his belly stopped pressing. Mephisto flung the body aside, distracting the second hunter, scooped up the mistress, and raced toward Fault.

He drew the sign instinctively, and Fault opened a safe passage, letting Mephisto and his mistress through.

They were safe, for now…

The wound was worse than he thought, and his hasty retreat only worsened it. If he didn’t eat something soon, he would bleed out his strength and… die. His thoughts raced feverishly. Fault held many victims, all alive, all nutritious—but too strong for him in his current state. He needed something small and weak, or else…

His gaze fell on the mistress, who… she no longer smelled of the master. This whole situation had caused her to lose her brood. Perhaps now the master wouldn’t be so angry if Mephisto ate her to regain his strength? Maybe…

“Almighty Sparda, you’re bleeding,” the mistress whimpered, pressing her warm limbs to his wound, trying to stop the outflow of his power. “This is all because of me. I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have…” Her eyes watered, warm drops falling directly onto his wound, the scent of overwhelming regret and sorrow clouding his senses. “I’m so useless. I just thought I should stop being afraid…” She sobbed. “I’m weak. You’ll be more useful to Nero than I am.” Her face suddenly changed. The scent of sorrow was replaced by unwavering resolve. “Credo said demons feed on human blood. If you drink mine, you’ll heal, right?” She suddenly looked around as if searching for something, then stared into his face and extended her limb to him. “Bite.”

The command was so clear and precise that Mephisto didn’t need a translation. The mistress wanted him to eat her.

It made sense. If he died, the prey trapped by his power would be released and would tear her apart anyway. Her body would be devoured by others, and her scent would remain forever trapped within Fault. The master would never know what had happened.

But if he touched her… if even a drop of her blood touched Mephisto’s body, the master would kill him without hesitation.

There was no way to survive this situation.

“Bite!” the mistress commanded again, insistently extending her limb.

Mephisto had never imagined someone could look so fierce while doing something so… what was the word? Selfless?

And he had never thought it could be so easy to refuse such a strong order from his master.

When the option to "keep living" is gone, strange thoughts come to mind. Thoughts like: “What’s the point of all this?”

Was there even a purpose to any of it?

Would anything remain after me?

Is there anything more precious than my own life?

She… she was more precious to him than his own life. And she was in the strong hands of his master. The master would care for her, love her, and make her stronger. Instead of him. But… for that to happen. For the master not to kill her out of revenge, Mephisto had to do everything in his power to save his… not mate, but beloved.

He was dying anyway, so why not try? He had always wanted to try. Wondered what it would feel like. Could he even do it?

Carefully taking the soft, warm limb of his mistress, he turned toward him her weak, fragile claws. And choosing the one she used most often, he carefully inscribed signs on its surface. His final signs, three in a row. And he infused them with his power.

Kyrie opened her tear-swollen eyes. She didn’t care that she was lying in the middle of Fault, surrounded by demons. They were poisoned and asleep anyway. Unlike her. She had just awakened from a dream. Not her own dream. From the last dream of Mephisto.

Chapter Text

Nero hadn’t slept all night. Despite the weakness that washed over him in waves and an inexplicable sadness that had come out of nowhere, he stayed awake. He sniffed for the faintest traces of Mephisto’s presence. But deep down, he was terrified. So terrified that he wouldn’t have been able to close his eyes even if Mephisto were already dead.

He personally escorted Kyrie home. Personally checked the ink in her pen. Personally set up several protective runes. Personally asked Credo to keep an eye on her, especially today. He tried not to look too unhinged, but Credo had to understand how wound up Nero was after yet another failure. Credo wouldn’t take such a request lightly, right?

Credo could protect Kyrie while Nero was forced to protect everyone else, couldn’t he?

His heart sank when he saw Credo running toward him from the top of the monastery.

She was gone. In the morning, she wasn’t in her bed. Her clothes and shoes were missing, which meant she had left on her own…

Nero wasn’t listening or thinking about what Credo was telling him. He was sniffing.

In his past life, Nero hadn’t been very good at picking up scents. Before all the nonsense with his arm, his sensitivity barely surpassed that of the average human female. Meaning he could definitely tell when he stank. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t particularly enjoy being in locker rooms with other boys, especially after intense games.

When the Devil Bringer incident happened, something in him changed, though not drastically compared to everything else. The arm somehow took over all his attention, and he couldn't fully realize that he was now feeling the stink a little ahead of the bright glow. He assumed people just smelled bad. That’s why he often unconsciously wrinkled his nose in crowds.

Much later—after his arm had been ripped off, after he’d reattached it, after the asshole who tore it off spent a vacation in hell and came back—he was finally forced (thanks to a kick from his uncle) to sit through a short lecture on the topic of scents.

Demons have a smell. And they secrete pheromones. It’s another form of their communication.

They use scents to mark territory and ownership. Scents calm them and influence reactions faster than emotions ever could. Part of the reason Nero always had strong intuition was because of this.

Plus, demons can distinguish their own from outsiders right from birth. Offspring are especially skilled at detecting the scents of their creators. In hell, this ability determines their survival since even a human parent might snap one time out of a thousand and… cause harm. Demons, devoid of emotional attachment, would devour without batting an eye.

Because of his grandfather’s peculiarities, Nero was constantly under scrutiny. After his first transformation, demons started whispering absurd things to him, like “traitor’s blood” or “Sparda.”

So as part of his training, Vergil sometimes made Nero hunt him and Dante across Fortuna. With his eyes closed, to keep things fair.

One of those times, Nero found Kyrie.

And a couple of months later, Mundus found Fortuna.

From his second birth onward, before he regained his sight, Nero navigated by scent. He knew how Vergil smelled. Both Vergil's and Dante’s scents had calmed Nero in his past life, gave him strength, and sometimes filled him with an inexplicable playfulness that translated into a desire to kick their asses. Now he finally knew what his mother smelled like.

So how hard could it be for him to focus and find in this city the scent of his own blood mixed with a smell very similar to Credo’s?

Two people — probably her parents — unimportant. Where? Where was she?

He should’ve listened to his instincts. He should’ve spent the night on the roof of her house. He shouldn’t have trusted Credo. He should’ve covered her body with protective runes. He should’ve…

'Stop! Stop it right now. You can’t do this,' whispered the tiny voice of his conscience, but Nero finally caught a whiff of something.

Without waiting to hear Credo out, he bolted in the direction of the trail he’d picked up.

She was lying on the grass. Ironically, in the same spot where the Fault had spat them out a couple of years ago. Her hair was messy, her jacket torn, one boot missing. Runes were written all over her body here and there. Double ones? How? When? Why hadn’t he sensed it? Or... is that what he sensed at night?

No, everything could wait. He rushed to her, checking her pulse, pupils, and limbs. Kyrie was alive but completely drained. She had run, trying to escape someone. The pen he had given her was empty, but it carried the scent of other demons’ blood, as if she had tried to stab someone with it.

Picking her up, Nero hurried to the monastery infirmary.

“She’ll be fine. She just needs to rest,” the sister concluded.

Nero nodded and stepped out of the infirmary. He didn’t hear Credo’s questions; all he could see was the broken body with shattered limbs being chewed alive by demons. They bit off piece by piece until she stopped screaming.

Mundus had said she could still feel. He didn’t let her heart stop until nothing was left but a blind head and an eviscerated chest cavity. Then he ripped out her heart and squeezed it directly onto Nero’s lips.
“You always wanted to taste her, didn’t you?”

Nero didn’t realize when he had reached the vicar’s house. It didn’t matter now whether Maria had warned him or not. Nero knew Solemnes was here. And Nero needed his escort to get into the castle. Nero couldn’t control himself right now. If the knights tried to stop him — because of the vicar’s prohibition — he would most likely unleash his power.

Christina opened the door.
“Nero?” she raised an eyebrow. But noticing his state, her expression changed immediately. “Uncle Arde! You’re urgently needed here!” she shouted into the house.

“What Arde?” Nero muttered under his breath. “I need…”

But Solemnes appeared on the stairs and, spotting Nero, tensed.
“Nero?”

“I need to get to the castle. Now!”

“What happened?”

“They hurt Kyrie.”

Solemnes tensed.
“Stay there, I’ll be right down.” He disappeared for a few minutes and then returned. As he descended the stairs, he asked, “Where is she?”

"In the infirmary," Nero replied.

"Chris, I..."

"Yeah, I got it, I'll pass on the message to everyone! Go!"

Solemnes nodded at her and dashed out of the house, heading inexplicably toward the monastery.

"The castle’s in the other direction," Nero called after him.

"I’ve got a spare vial at my place." Solemnes opened his pouch slightly as he ran, revealing a vial of healing essence.

Nero nodded—though Solemnes couldn’t see it—and followed him into the monastery infirmary. They were let in without question, clearing the room where the small sleeping girl lay. Without asking unnecessary questions, Solemnes uncorked the vial and poured its entire contents into Kyrie’s slightly open mouth.

Nothing changed. Kyrie continued to sleep.

Nero clenched his fists.
"Why isn’t it working?"

"It always works, Nero. There isn’t a single injury left in her body."

"Then why won’t she wake up?"

"Maybe because she needs to rest?"

"This is no time for jokes!" he growled.

"I’m not joking. You could use some rest too. You look worse than after spending a day alone with Sanctus."

The old wound overshadowed the new pain, and Nero finally turned his attention away from Kyrie and looked into Solemnes’ eyes.

The old man was looking at him with a resigned, understanding smile.

It was the same way Dante used to look at Vergil when the older brother would pull some panicked stunt.

Yeah, that kind of crap happened with his father and uncle too. Nero didn’t know what it was like. Dante tried to explain it once, though clumsily.
"Well, it’s when you see things that aren’t really there. Or, on the flip side, you don’t see things that are. And it just completely fucks with your head. And you have no idea how to deal with it. So, uh…"

Vergil would disappear for weeks or wreck everything around him.

Dante would get drunk or inflict pointless self-harm.

Cleaning up after them was pure hell, especially if it happened in Fortuna. Explaining to frightened neighbors why their roof had blown off or why the tap water was red was quite the headache. And these guys were used to demons…

Finding that gaze on him was… irritating.
"Don’t look at me like that!"

"Like what, Nero?"

"Like I just blew up the guest bedroom in your house."

Solemnes blinked and indeed switched from a resigned expression to a smirk.
"Can I ask what happened?" He shifted his gaze to Kyrie, settling into a chair in the corner of the room.

Nero also looked at her. She looked healthy. The runes had been washed off her body and she had been changed into a hospital gown. Someone had tucked her in and even placed a bouquet of fallen leaves on the bedside table. Kyrie would have liked that.

'Everything’s fine, she’s not dead. She’s just sleeping.'

Then Nero began to think about Solem’s question.
"I… don’t know." He sat down at the foot of the bed. "This morning, Credo came running to me. Kyrie left on her own, judging by her clothes. And in the morning, I found her on the meadow outside the city. Her clothes were torn, and she was covered in runes. She had clearly been running."

Solemnes inhaled sharply.
"Someone carved runes onto her body?"

"No," Nero quickly corrected him. "They were drawn on."

"With ink or…"

"Blood."

"Do you know whose?"

"Mine," he pulled out a pen from the ethereal space and sniffed it. "And, apparently, a couple of demons too."

"Do you think she could’ve done it herself?"

Nero sighed and looked at Kyrie.

He could imagine it. How a weak human girl might empower herself with runes and then use them in battle against demons. Defeat them. And while they writhed in their death throes, she’d slit their bodies with an ordinary pen, using their ichor to temporarily become even stronger, giving her enough time to escape the hordes thirsting for her blood.

But Nero knew Kyrie. Ever since that memorable incident in the Fault, she froze every time she saw a demon. That hadn’t changed, even after all these years, as yesterday’s incident at the monastery confirmed. Perhaps it never would.

The most she would’ve been capable of was writing runes on her body and running, relying on luck.

"Using my blood—yes."

"And the other demons’?"

Nero shook his head. He couldn’t figure out where the scents of other demons on the pen came from or what Kyrie had gone through.

"May I?"

Solemnes extended his hand and took the pen, inspecting it.
"Did you manage to teach her double sequences yet?"

"Yes, but we only went over a little…" Nero suddenly froze and turned to Solemnes. "How do you know about that?"

Solemnes shifted his gaze from the pen to Nero and gave a mysterious smirk.
"You were keeping tabs on me?" Nero frowned.

"Of course," Solemnes nodded confidently. "You’re my ward; I need to know what you’re up to."

"I thought you…"

"What?"

So many fitting words came to mind.
Despise, fear, accuse, hate…
"Lost interest in me," Nero chose a softer phrase.

"Why would I do that?"

"Well… I didn’t fulfill your order."

"Regarding my request, Nero," he exhaled heavily, "you handled it more than adequately. But as for your enthusiasm…"

"Excuse me?" Nero protested.

"Yes, I know you're a smart boy, not used to simple tasks. I understand that I should have expressed myself more clearly. And I apologize for everything that happened due to my shortsightedness."

"What the hell are you talking about?!"

"Watch your language, young man."

"And why don't you go fuck yourself?!" Nero exploded, immediately covering his mouth with his hand and glancing back at the sleeping Kyrie.

Solemnes sighed.
"Sparda, give me the strength to deal with your legacy. Nero, what exactly was my request?"

Nero looked at Solemnes again, opened his mouth, ready to state the obvious, but froze.

Solemnes’ request had been to keep an eye on Sanctus.

Nero's eyes widened in horror.
"But I..."

"...should have told me right away when he refused to train with you."

"...almost killed a man!" they both concluded almost simultaneously.

"What?"

"What?"

"Hey, but I managed to handle it myself!" Nero retorted.

"And you did an excellent job, I must say," Solemnes nodded approvingly. "Sanctus still doesn’t know that Alberto was your hidden agent spreading counter-rumors about your behavior."

Nero blinked.
"What? What Alberto?"

Solemnes smiled mysteriously.
"An amazing acting talent. I can't imagine what you'll be capable of when you grow up."

Nero gritted his teeth, preparing to spit out some biting remark.
"But very well. I’ll allow you to keep this secret if," Solemnes smirked, "you tell me why a little one like you needs a revolver."

No, Nero wouldn’t tolerate this anymore. Not only had Solemnes ignored him all this time, but now he was also acting as if it had been planned that way: pretending to be a caring mentor who — in reality — had never taken his eyes off him. Like some obsessed stalker! Enough! He was tired of feeling neglected!

"I’m not a little one!" he growled, barely keeping his voice down.

"But you are, Nero," Solemnes insisted gently.

"You should know…"

"No matter what demonic instincts drive you, whatever mythical ancestral knowledge has been passed down to you, whatever genius has taken hold of you, you are still a human child, Nero," Solemnes interrupted him.

Nero stood frozen with his mouth agape.

"Your body is the body of an eight-year-old boy. Not an eight-year-old demon, who knows how to kill from birth. An eight-year-old human who needs love, care, and safety just as much as food and sunlight for proper growth and development."

Nero lowered his eyes to his hands, looking at them for the first time as his own, rather than as temporary tools he was forced to use by the whims of fate.

Solemnes was right. Nero had forgotten that his body—his past, adult, fully formed body—no longer belonged to him. And as for this body of his, he had completely neglected it, leaving its care to others. Food and sleep were all that mattered; the rest of his time was devoted to training and reading. No warmth of sunlight, no soft touch of ocean waves, no ticklish grass, no fluffy blanket on a Sunday morning. He had read in Kyrie’s wise books in his past life about how important all of this was for children, for the development of their nervous system. How without these things, they lose cognitive abilities and stall in the development of empathy. How could there be any talk of compassion when you barely feel yourself?

"I’m sorry you lost your father at such a young age," Nero raised an astonished gaze to Solemnes. "I’m sorry you don’t feel safe in Fortuna, sorry I’m not strong enough to convince you otherwise. But even if that’s the case, to become truly strong, Nero, you need to take care of yourself. To become not just strong, but healthy."

"Did Maria tell you?" Nero asked aloud. She was the only one he’d told that Vergil had died.

"About Vergil? Yes, she did."

Nero sharply sucked in air. How…?
"How do you know his name?"

Solemnes smiled.
"We met once. He was passing through the castle, looking for information about his father. I showed him the hiding place. A nice young man, indeed. We had an interesting conversation."

Nero skeptically grimaced. A nice young man? Were they really talking about the same Vergil?

"But the fact that you know who your grandfather and father were led me to think that you should also know who your mother is…"

Nero bit his lip and hurriedly turned back to Kyrie.

"Sister Tamara," Solemnes continued relentlessly, "shared with Maria that your entire family is dead. She also advised not to mention your adoption, as we wouldn’t be able to give you... the opportunity to be yourself."

Nero turned back to Solemnes again. Maria had stopped mentioning adoption after that first conversation.

"I thought you gave up on that idea," Nero admitted honestly.

"And would you want it?" Solemnes asked directly.

The question unpleasantly stirred Nero’s insides.

Of course, he wanted a family! Who in their right mind would refuse to be cared for and loved? The problem was that Maria and Solemnes didn’t deserve such ordeal like Nero. He knew his own character—he was far from sugar-sweet. Seeing each other once a week was one thing, but living under the same roof was something entirely different!

And then there was Sanctus, who would get a new lever for pressure.

"For the Savior sake! Nero, dear, stop thinking so much or your head will explode," Solemnes distracted him. "If you don’t want it, just say so. I won't be offended, honestly."

"I am not don’t want it!" Nero blurted out immediately, then caught himself, covering his mouth with his hand.

Solemnes gasped in astonishment, smiled contentedly, and gripped the armrests.

"Well," he leapt out of the chair, unable to contain his emotions, "then… I need to organize everything!"

"Hey!" Nero slowed him down. "I didn’t say ‘yes’."

"Nero," Solemnes looked at him with the caring smile of a parent, "you clearly expressed your wish. Please let the adults handle the rest."

"But I…"

"Just be a child a little longer," Solemnes insisted, interrupting. "Please, Nero. Trust me, at least in matters like this. I failed as your mentor. Give me another chance."

Nero lowered his eyes and wilted completely.
"You didn’t fail in anything."

"But I did, Nero. Completely and totally messed up. And no apology of mine will ever be enough, though I sincerely ask for your forgiveness."

"It’s me who should be asking for forgiveness," Nero muttered under his breath.

"You turned the situation around and even used it to your advantage."

"I stole a potion from the storage," he admitted.

"You can’t steal something that already belongs to you," Solemnes mused, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.

Nero frowned, then looked at Solemnes in confusion, but the latter only smiled contentedly at him.

"So... what about the revolver?" Solemnes smoothly changed the subject, completely imperceptibly.

Nero rolled his eyes but sighed and gave in.

"I needed a rune carrier. Usually, I inscribe runes on my body before a battle. If the opponent is slow enough, I can use one or two combat runes to assist myself. But the complexity of drawing them completely rules out using truly powerful sequences. I don’t have time to inscribe a rune onto a demon's body."

Solemnes nodded.
"That’s why knights have talismans."

"Well, yes, but they’re fragile. Plus, they can only be used in close combat. But if I inscribe a rune on a bullet, I can deliver an explosion right into the demon’s head!"

Solemnes nodded again.
"It sounds logical, but I can already see a few problems."

Nero sighed deeply. Yes, he had identified those problems even before he started experimenting.

"I have no idea how to delay the activation of the rune. If I modify the trigger to supply blood directly to the ignition cap, at best, I’ll achieve a higher initial velocity. And even for that, I’d need to reinforce the revolver body because otherwise..."

"It would blow up right in your hand," Solemnes nodded knowingly. "What if you arrange the blood supply at the muzzle exit?"

"Then I’d have the possibility to enhance armor penetration and add several delayed effects, like poison or freezing."

"Well, that’s quite an extensive arsenal of effects."

"I want to blow their heads off," Nero confessed honestly. "With huge fireballs. So their hellish brains splatter everywhere, like..." He remembered who he was talking to and cleared his throat. "The hides of many demons are quite tough, so the bullet needs to be armor-piercing right away. But it has to explode inside. And I have absolutely no idea how to create a delayed effect."

"Fire a second activating bullet afterward?" Solemnes suggested.

Nero sighed.
"I wanted to avoid adding a second muzzle."

Solemnes blinked.
"I assumed a second bullet in the cylinder, but overall, your idea sounds reasonable…" he hummed thoughtfully. "What if you split the bullet core into two parts? Write the rune on one, apply a thin layer of blood on the other? And separate them with some kind of barrier to prevent accidental activation."

"That way, the activation could be delayed until it reaches the demon’s face," Nero nodded, "but it won’t ensure the rune hits their insides. Still, it’s the best idea so far." Nero glanced at Solemnes. "You seem to know quite a bit about firearms for someone leading the Order of the Sword." He said this sarcastically. Everyone knew how the Order felt about firearms.

"In my youth, there was a craftsman in our workshops who knew a bit about the subject. He shared his knowledge with me. Though, I admit, I ignored all his lessons on ballistics. Perhaps a certain initial velocity could help the bullet penetrate without deformation. Or maybe the material of the gasket will help achieve the desired effect. We should also think about the core itself. Different compositions and shapes can produce different effects. And you’ll still need to learn how to shoot all this…"

Nero slyly squinted.
"Then… perhaps you, as the head of the Order of the Sword, could help an orphan like me?"

Solemnes raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by Nero's act. Then, with a smirk, he said:
"I’ve already turned a blind eye to what you did in the monastery catacombs."

Nero’s eyes widened as he stared at Solemnes.
"The abbess was displeased, but since you helped the monastery so much with food supplies, I had to promise her that you wouldn’t do anything dangerous."

Nero blushed.
"Now I understand why Agnus agreed so easily," he stammered, then uncertainly looked at Solemnes. "You really were watching me this whole time?"

"More like keeping an eye on you. I was ashamed that I didn’t notice the problems and stop your interactions with Sanctus earlier. Honestly, I thought you hated me." Solemnes lowered his head. The tips of his ears turned pink.

"And why would I hate you?" Nero tilted his head in surprise.

"Exactly my logic," Solemnes snorted, waving his hand vaguely. "But emotions are a terribly illogical thing."

Nero chuckled, genuinely for once.
"Oh, yes."

Then his gaze fell back on Kyrie. His smile faded, but it was replaced with determination.
"Actually, I still wanted to ask your permission to visit the castle."

"Let’s go," Solemnes shrugged.

"Right now?" Nero asked in surprise.

"Do you have other plans?"

Nero frowned. The incident with Mephisto was still fresh, but…

"Can you order the knights to search the monastery?" Mephisto is wandering around somewhere nearby."

"You…" Solemnes immediately became serious. "Were you hurt?"

Nero rolled his eyes skeptically.
"I couldn’t catch him. He kept running and hiding. But I drove him away from others. No one was harmed."

Solemnes sighed deeply and nodded in resignation.
"Then let’s go."

"So… may I ask what you need in the castle?"

"I want to try defeating the next guardian."

"Hmm. Then why do you need my permission? You could have just sneaked in; no one would have known you were there."

Nero grimaced.
"You’re no idiot. You wouldn’t rely on a four-year-old boy to handle a demon. Most likely, you had some leverage over the guardian if things went really wrong."

"It seems I’m becoming predictable," Solemnes chuckled.

"So I’m right?"

"Of course you’re right, Nero. Everyone who enters the vault has the rights of the master. If the demon had reached you, I would have immediately ordered him to retreat."

Nero frowned and looked at Solemnes.
"And how often during our fight did you stop him?"

"To be honest, I wanted to. Many times. But in the end, you handled it completely on your own."

Nero narrowed his eyes distrustfully.

"Don’t look at me so accusingly. Many would condemn me just for letting you face him one-on-one."

Nero sighed. Unfortunately, Solemnes was right. Adults unfamiliar with Nero simply wouldn’t understand how such a small boy could handle something like this. With sweat and blood—demons’ blood—he had to convince the other knights of his strength.

And suddenly Nero remembered.
"I need a new sword."

"I think any wooden stick we have wouldn’t even come close to matching the Pawn."

Nero grimaced.
"I’m not talking about a wooden sword. I’m talking about a real one, with an ignition system."

Solemnes paused for a moment.
"Swords with ignition systems haven’t passed all the necessary tests yet for me to allow equipping the Order with them. And besides, the forge doesn’t make children's swords."

Nero froze in mid-sentence. Damn, he'd somehow forgotten that Agnus hadn't created Caliburn and officer's Durandal yet. By the way, the Red Queen, although it was heavily modified to suit Nero's needs and strength, was also Agnus' project.

'I should thank him. Still.'

"You know I mean adult-sized. Even without the ignition system, though I’d be happy to help with testing."

"I don’t doubt it," Solemnes muttered under his breath. "Nero, what do you think your current height is?"

"About 130 centimeters, why?"

"The current prototypes are exactly 130 centimeters. That sword is literally as tall as you."

"We’ve been over this," Nero rolled his eyes. "I’m used to fighting with big swords."

"Not that big."

"Vicar, I…"

"Solemnes, Nero." He interrupted him. "Uncle, Grandpa, Arde, or at worst, old man. But no ‘Your Holiness’ or ‘Vicar’, please. And allow me, from the height of my years, to warn you. Your style has already developed based on a sword that’s bigger than you. You’ll grow, and to use your skills effectively, you’ll have to wield increasingly larger swords. At some point, you’ll lose a lot of mobility and speed. And that’s your only advantage against really large targets or crowds of smaller ones."

Nero sighed. He didn’t like that Solemnes was right. Right now, the Pawn felt about the same proportion in his hands as the Red Queen had back in the day. While he was still small, becouse of it he could still pull off all those acrobatics and navigate tight spaces. As he grew older, he’d lose that ability.

But he’d already outgrown the Pawn! The Seed was burning his hand. It just wasn’t fair to the Red Queen! Why the hell did he have to waste precious time waiting instead of training and tempering his weapon?

"Can I ask what’s wrong with the Pawn?"

"It’s soft," Nero admitted with frustration. "Bends too much, cracks often, too light, afraid of fire, changes its properties from fight to fight."

"How so?" Solemnes asked, surprised.

"Demon blood gets absorbed by the wood and softens it. If at the start of the battle the Pawn feels as sturdy as a real sword, by the end, it feels like a soggy noodle."

"That bad?"

"Well, maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, but the problem’s still there. Every time, I have to get used to a new balance, plan the timing of the fight, or adjust to the changes."

"What about runes?"

"I’ve already revived it with a triple sequence. I’m still wary of using quadruples."

Solemnes thought for a moment.
"I suppose the easiest way would be to approach Agnus with this request. He might be able to help solve the issue of stabilizing the blade."

"I don’t want to distract him from his work…" Nero said, embarrassed.

"Since when?"

Nero sighed and gave in.
"Besides developing new weapons for the Order? I asked him to mix me some incendiary mixture for bullets. In bulk."

"Mmm." Solemnes smirked knowingly.

"Also, I’d rather not remind him of me until I deal with one problem."

"What problem?"

Nero sighed heavily.
"I promised him artifacts for sealing blood. A lot. I’ve run into some difficulties fulfilling that promise."

"Can I help with that?"

"I doubt it," Nero shook his head. "It’s something instinctual. I managed to pull it off once; I just need to figure out how."

"I could involve the knights…"

"No need. They’ll just get in the way."

"Rudely."

Nero smirked. Lost in this conversation, he hadn’t even noticed how he and Solemnes had reached the vault.

Chapter Text

"Well..." Solemnes sighed, "you were right. You really do need a new sword."

Nero grimaced.

The second guardian, resembling an oversized crab covered in some very slimy and clearly toxic goo, had rattled Nero's nerves quite a bit and demanded an immense amount of time and agility. The Pawn frequently clashed with demons claws and shell, protecting Nero from direct attacks and trying to penetrate the joints. But after each such collision, it melted away until only a stub remained, holding its form solely due to Nero’s runic magic.

The Seed, which hadn’t yet received enough modifications, didn’t work even as a distraction. Its armor-piercing ability wasn’t enough to pierce the skin at the joints, let alone the armor itself.

The problem with using runes became painfully clear. The slime covering the crab’s shell prevented Nero from leaving a mark, let alone activating one. So all he could do was enhance himself, his attacks, and occasionally lure the creature into hastily drawn traps.

And when Nero got utterly fed up with this, he shoved both the Seed and the stub of the Pawn into his belt—because his ethereal pocket wouldn’t open while inside another—and go onto the crab with his bare hands. He couldn’t rip off a claw; in fact, he nearly lost his head. But tearing off legs was fun! Even more entertaining was listening to the creature’s shrill screams as Nero impaled one of its eyes with its own leg like a spear.

How he missed Yamato! Oh, how he would’ve loved to unleash hell on this thing, leaving no living spot! But nothing within him responded to his call. The only interaction he could have with his inner power was reviving runes. And that was based on quantitative rather than intuitive characteristics: the wetter the spit, the brighter it burned. He knew the proportions but didn’t feel an internal connection. It infuriated him.

So much so that he accidentally turned the crab into ready-made material for crab sticks. After receiving damage incompatible with life, it shrank to the size of the second-largest star.

"On the other hand..." Solemnes thoughtfully drawled, "do you even need a sword?"

"Are you suggesting I go in with my bare hands?" Nero scowled.

"Your bare hands are already weapons of mass destruction. Not to mention your knowledge of combat magic and battle experience far beyond what’s appropriate for an eight-year-old boy."

Nero grimaced again.

"But," Solemnes continued, "maybe you’ll find something suitable in this vault? At least for the time being."

Nero’s expression soured even more. He didn’t want another weapon. His core arsenal had always been a revolver and a sword. Yes, Nico’s idea of interchangeable arms worked, but only because in his past life, he had the Devil Bringer. Those arms were a substitute for his own strength.

"Why are you silent?" he asked himself in frustration. Vergil had already awakened his devil by this age. So why couldn’t Nero? What was he missing?

The answer came to him instantly, shimmering in the gleam of a shining blade.

"Yamato," he whispered softly.

The only sword—the Devil Arm—that he truly wanted, the one he genuinely trusted. The one that answered his call. The one that gave him enough strength to protect everyone. Almost everyone.

"Where did you—" Solemnes interrupted his thoughts but then caught himself. "Ah, yes... sorry, inappropriate question. After all, its creator was your grandfather, and its last owner—your father."

Nero turned to Solemnes with mixed feelings.

"Do you have it?" Nero asked hesitantly.

"I’m sorry," Solemnes shook his head. "Only fragments. Knights occasionally found them in the vicinity. The Order only started actively searching for and collecting them all over the world in the last few months, once we realized what they were."

"Can I see them?"

Solemnes chewed his lip uncertainly, uncharacteristically.

"For what purpose?"

In his early years, Nero had doubted. As he grew older, gained his trigger, and beat up two old men, he became almost certain. Almost, because Vergil never parted with Yamato, and Nero simply hadn’t had the chance to test it.

His arm changed not because of damage, but after encountering a fragment.

Even if it wouldn’t be a full awakening. Even if he ended up with just the arm, or even a single finger, he’d become much stronger! He’d already be able to...

"Nero?" Solemnes interrupted his thoughts.

But no, he was still too small and weak. However, he could do a favor for someone else. Someone stronger than him. Because if it worked, if Nero managed in time, Dante could gain another advantage against Mundus.

"I can try to summon it," Nero offered Solemnes. "Gather all the missing fragments at once and get a whole sword."

"Are you capable of such a thing?" Solemnes asked, surprised.

"I’ve done it once before," Nero shrugged, then caught himself. "Well..."

"I understand," Solemnes nodded. "Ancestral memory."

"Something like that," Nero quickly accepted the excuse. To hell with it—they’d somehow explained his strength and intelligence. But if Nero started telling everyone that he knows the future—their future—he’d definitely be burned at the stake.

Besides... everything had already changed. Nero no longer knew what would happen. Not with those who lived in Fortuna.

"So...?"

Solemnes sighed. A little resignedly, it seemed to Nero.

"Alright. Let’s go."

The road back to the city was filled with some vague, unsettling tension, so Nero decided to start the conversation himself.
"So... Arde?"

"Hm? Oh! Ardante. The name I was given at birth."

Nero stumbled half a step and stared at Solemnes in surprise.

"You didn’t think I was called Solemnes from childhood, did you?" he smiled contentedly.

"Actually, that’s exactly what I thought."

"Well, I was named Solemnes when my mentor — the previous vicar, Sophilius — decided it was time for him to retire." He shrugged.

"Are all of you named with an 'S'?" Nero frowned.

"Can you guess why?" Solemnes smirked.

"Is it because of Sparda?" Nero raised an eyebrow.

"What a smart boy." Solemnes clapped mockingly. "When you become a vicar, you too will be expected to change your name. But considering your lineage, you’ll likely be named Sparda the Second."

"Oh, I see."

Wait a minute...

"What the fuck?!"

"Too soon?" Solemnes feigned surprise. "My apologies. We’ll talk about this when you’re older and express your desire aloud."

"I’m not…" He cut himself off and exhaled with a roar. "I’m not the Second."

"Well, considering your father, it would make more sense to call you Sparda the Third. But since he didn’t claim that title and… can no longer do so…" Solemnes paused. "I believe no one would object."

There was another one. But Dante would rather pour gasoline on himself and set himself on fire than agree to such a thing. Although... There was a whole monastery full of nuns. Did he have any interest in them?

Nero pushed these strange thoughts aside and suddenly realized something.

"So why does Sanctus..." Nero stopped himself. He knew that Sanctus had also gone by that name when he was vicar.

"So you noticed after all," Solemnes smiled. "Well, actually, Sanctus isn’t his real name either. He simply didn’t like the name he was given at the orphanage. So I suggested another. At the time, I was sure if he’d become my successor."

"And what is his real name?"

"That’s not my secret to share."

Nero snorted.

"You shouldn’t have sent him into retirement."

"Yes, one of your secret agents conveyed your concerns to me," Solemnes smirked, making Nero grimace and clench his teeth. "But I would have been glad to hear your thoughts directly. Do you think it was a mistake to let him go?"

"Considering his attitude towards you and the abundance of free time he now has? Yes, I think it was a bad move."

"By the way, we never did discuss this, but since you carried out my request for so long and so meticulously, what did you manage to find out?"

Nero grimaced at the irony in the other’s voice but decided to answer seriously and as straightforwardly as possible.

"He wanted you dead. I assume he still does. I don’t know how he plans to achieve it, but the fact that he wants to become vicar is undeniable."

"Hmm," Solemnes rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Do you know why?"

Nero knew why, but unfortunately, he was also painfully aware of where Sanctus’ lofty motives would lead him and all of Fortuna.

"No matter what he’s trying to achieve, it won’t end well."

"Are you so sure of that?"

"I know Sanctus."

"Bold words for an eight-year-old boy."

Nero sighed in irritation.

"You were the one who sent me to keep an eye on him."

"An indisputable fact. And yet, do you think I’d really send a child to be torn apart by a monster?"

Nero hesitated. It seemed Solemnes had indeed done just that.

"I see I’ve managed to corner you in the same impasse I found myself in, Nero. And strangely enough, the way out was suggested to me by none other than you."

"I’m completely lost. Can you just say it?"

"It’s best to start with that, Nero. Whenever possible, just speak plainly." Solemnes nodded. "Once, at the beginning, you told me that a teacher incapable of acknowledging their mistakes is doomed to teach them to their student. And I want to admit my mistake. I underestimated you."

Nero looked at Solemnes in surprise.

"The amount you take on yourself and how deeply you immerse yourself in others’ problems. I assumed Sanctus wouldn’t train with you. I didn’t think you’d try to tackle this problem on your own."

Nero grimaced and repeated the same words Credo had said back then. "What kind of assistant would I be if everything had to be done for me?"

"This selflessness made me reflect," Solemnes continued. "Could I be underestimating Sanctus just as much? I’ve known you since you were three. Sanctus… since he was seven, but we both live longer than you, so… following your example, Nero, I spoke to him plainly."

Nero turned to Solemnes in surprise. But instead of answering, Solemnes stopped. Right in the middle of the street.

"Solemnes?" an arrogant voice rang out. "I thought our game wasn’t until tomorrow evening."

Nero froze, looking back in surprise at Sanctus standing in the doorway of his house, just across the lawn and a low fence from them.

"Nero and I have come on business. He asked me to accompany him to the fragments of Yamato."

Sanctus raised his eyebrows in surprise, then snorted and allowed himself a barely noticeable smile.
"I suppose it’s inherent in all sons of the Sparda line to follow in their father’s footsteps."

Nero was unprepared for such a flood of unexpected surprises.
"What the fuck?!" he blurted out, quite understandably.

Sanctus grimaced and looked at Solemnes.

"Don’t look at me like that," Solemnes held up his hands. "I have no idea where he picked up such language."

"Maybe you two can already tell me what the fuck is going on here?"

"Watch your language, young man. We don’t swear in this house."

"I don’t give a damn about the rules in your house! Why the hell do you have Yamato?"

"Because I’m the only person in all of Fortuna with enough skill, time, and resources to contain any dangers associated with the instability of these fragments."

"Portals?" Nero immediately sobered.

"Three gateways. Just this week. Nothing special, just a couple of Cainas and one Hell Mold that took over my old sideboard." Sanctus flicked an invisible speck of dust off his shoulder with a careless and very arrogant gesture. "Though it’s a shame about the china set. I never even used it once."

Those words settled in Nero's mind. He looked at the situation with new eyes, recalling the words Solemnes had told him.

They had talked. Solemnes and Sanctus had spoken plainly! Almighty Sparda, could it be… No way they found common ground! Because if they did, Fortuna couldn’t have a more powerful alliance!

The Savior could truly become their salvation when Mundus arrives. And who cares if the core of the Savior required Sparda’s power and the blood of a human woman with a pure soul? They’ll find a way around it because now cold calculations have a loving human heart behind them!

"So, are you coming in, or are you just going to stand in the middle of the street?"

Nero hesitantly glanced at Solemnes, then at Sanctus. There was still a question. Screw it, there were many questions, but they could talk about them inside. So Nero sighed and nodded.

Sanctus immediately led them down to the basement. Well-lit, filled with amulets made of complex sequences, three weapon racks in different corners, and one loaded ballista against the wall. Sanctus really knew his craft.

"How did you find out?" Nero asked Sanctus as they descended. "I mean, about my... lineage."

"I guessed," Sanctus smirked slyly.

"Actually, I told you," Solemnes corrected him.

"You told me he’s your grandson. And you know, it took some effort on my part to deduce his lineage from that."

"What the…"

"I gave you all the clues. Only an idiot wouldn’t have figured it out. And despite your disgusting personality, you’re no idiot, Sanctus."

"Wait a dogg..."

"You had all the clues for seven years."

"I had no idea about Maria’s involvement until our conversation."

"Because sometimes it’s useful to talk to a smart person."

"How damn did you know that?!" Nero barked, interrupting their bickering. Honestly, they were acting like kids!

This briefly reminded him of other overgrown kids who were constantly arguing.

"Oh, so you didn’t tell him?" Sanctus sneered, approaching the seal on the floor. Inside it, encased in a glass box, soaring the fragments of Yamato.

"A secret de Polichinelle, I suppose," Solemnes shrugged, showing no remorse. "Probably only my household doesn’t know that I know."

"Christina definitely knows. She’s just sparing Maria’s nerves," Sanctus commented.

"Most likely," Solemnes sighed heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

All of this embarrassed Nero so much that his ears and cheeks were burning. He didn’t know how to behave when two of the most influential people in all of Fortuna knew his little dirty secret.

On the other hand…

"Since when?"

"Since my retirement," Sanctus shrugged.

And nothing happened. The sky didn’t fall. Solemnes wasn’t dead. Maria hadn’t been exiled from Fortuna branded a whore. Nero… people still talked to him. He was allowed to approach one of the most precious and dangerous artifacts in all of Fortuna.

A trick? Perhaps. Sanctus could be lying low, waiting, showing everyone what a diligent ally he was. Nero shouldn’t let his guard down; he should watch Solemnes’ back.

And yet, even this time, even this flimsy alliance and Sanctus’ silence were far more humane gestures than Nero could have ever expected from this old man. Maybe he really wasn’t so bad?

Okay, he'd think about that later.

Nero looked at the fragments.

The last time he’d been in a similar situation, Nero had been dying. He was alone, helpless. His heart had stopped. And only then had Yamato responded to his call.

Now? Nero had just defeated a powerful demon with barely a scratch. He was surrounded by people—one of whom even cared about his well-being. He was young, smart, full of strength. His heart would keep beating for a very long time. And there was absolutely no threat to him here. Not a single chance that Yamato would respond now. And yet, he had to try.

Placing his hands on the glass, Nero leaned forward and gazed at the shards floating in the air.

If not for him...

"Please," he silently called out to Yamato, "if not for me, not for what is more precious than my life. There’s still someone you can help."

Silence.

"For Dante. For Vergil."

Silence.

"Please, Yamato."

"I’m glad we succeeded, descendant," a faint voice whispered back. "But it’s still too early."

Nero clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and touched his forehead to the glass. From the force of his emotions, a single tear rolled down his cheek.

Not alone.

In this godforsaken new world, he wasn’t alone. There was still one being left who remembered the past life—and the past Nero.

Yamato had responded to his call once again. And though its warm hilt didn’t sing in his hand this time, it had still saved him. This time, it had saved his soul.

Dreams were an amazing thing.

Kyrie had never given them much thought before. But now, with all of Mephisto's memories weighing on her, she found herself noticing things she’d always taken for granted—and seeing them from a new perspective.

Dreaming was terrifying, even though sleep allowed the body to rest. In this world, there were places where she could lie down and drift off without fearing for her life. Moreover, there were so many safe places in this world that she could afford to be weak. She didn’t have to know how to hunt to eat, she didn’t have to endure pain to survive. She had the opportunity to learn—to absorb the knowledge of others, to grow smarter, craftier, and stronger, so she could later use that knowledge to create even more safe havens.

His life wasn’t just about food and pain anymore. Her life was filled with an overwhelming abundance of everything! How had she, being so much younger than Mephisto, not gone mad from all this variety? Maybe all humans were actually just insane?

She still struggled to find her bearings. Just moments ago, she hadn’t even been able to tell humans apart from demons—it was all just nourishment or others who brought pain.

Mephisto’s memories were overwhelming. There were more of them than her own. She’d heard of demonic possession. Was she possessed now? If so, she needed to act normal so they wouldn’t discover her, because the Order killed any demons, whether they were in human bodies or not.

Or maybe she should tell them? What if she lost control of herself? What if she caused harm without realizing it? Nero would be upset. She didn’t want to complicate his life more than she already had.

Nero was trying to protect all of them. Mephisto had been foolish to think the monastery was the only refuge of his lord. The entire city belonged to Nero. Every demon in the Mitis Forest lived only by his will. And Kyrie belonged to Nero too. If Mephisto had done something wrong to her, Nero needed to know.

Snapping out of her thoughts, Kyrie opened her eyes.

Pretending to be asleep was simple. Sleeping was hard. Nightmares woke her, though sleep still gave her body rest.

Right now, she wished she were Mephisto. Food was enough to make him stop feeling tired.

"Kyrie?" Credo entered the room. He was her older brother. He loved and cared for her. But he was also a knight of the Order of the Sword. She needed to smile and act friendly.

"Hello, Credo."

"You’re awake! Praise Sparda! How are you feeling?"

"A little tired." He always took care of her when she felt unwell—but not too much, so as not to raise suspicions.

Credo frowned. Had she said something wrong? She needed to fix this quickly!

"It’s nothing! I just can’t sleep because of nightmares."

Credo’s face went pale.

Devil! She’d messed up!

"If you’d like, I can ask the sisters for some sleeping pills. They’ll help you sleep dreamlessly."

Kyrie was genuinely surprised.
"Such a thing exists?"

"Yes," Credo nodded sympathetically. "Wait a minute, I’ll be right back."

It seemed she’d salvaged the situation.

Devil, why was this so difficult? It had never been this hard in the past. All the emotions, all the words—she’d always known exactly what to do to make someone smile and feel better. But now, all that knowledge felt like scattered puzzle pieces that wouldn’t fit together.

True to his word, Credo returned a minute later with pills and a glass of water. Kyrie swallowed them and washed them down with water.

"The sister said it should take effect in fifteen minutes."

Kyrie nodded.

"Can I sit with you until then?"

Kyrie looked at Credo. She wanted to hug him. She was afraid he’d sense how she’d changed.

She told herself to stop being afraid.

That fear had killed Mephisto.

But it had made her strong.

And now she was different. She needed to be careful.

Kyrie reached out her hand to Credo. Her left one. Close enough, but still safe.

Credo smiled at her, sat on the bed, and took her hand. His palm was warm, rough with calluses, strong, firm, and yet so gentle. How could Kyrie ever doubt her brother’s love?

All these feelings were driving her mad.

"You… can you tell me what happened?" Credo asked cautiously.

The answer has already been thought out in advance.
"I don't remember anything," she shook her head, pursing her lips.

"I see," sighed Credo. "It's okey. The sisters say you're fine. There's not a scratch, you're just tired."

Kyrie nodded. And so it was. She couldn't afford to spill her blood. Mephisto couldn't let her spill her blood. He was strong enough and experienced enough to help her. He just hadn't calculated the weakness of a child's human body.
"How are mom and dad?"

Mephisto and his mate were mom and dad once, too. But their children were dead. Eaten by the monster that Nero killed. And Mephisto's beloved was turned into... a vessel. Neither Kyrie nor Mephisto knew what kind of vessel it was or what it was for. But Kyrie knew for sure that Mephisto cared about his beloved. Therefore, Kyrie needs to try her best to persuade Nero to take care of this vessel. Make it stronger.

"They've been sitting with you all morning. When it became clear that you were just resting, dad left to finish work. Mom left quite recently. She said she would be in the kitchen, helping the sisters prepare food for the sick.

Kyrie nodded.

"Should I call her?"

Kyrie shook her head.
"Cooking calms her down."

Credo chuckled.
"Here she is, my little sister. Take care of others even when she is in the hospital."

Kyrie smiled and suddenly yawned very violently.
"Looks like the sleeping pills are working. Lie down and sleep, I’ll keep watch."

"Alright," agreed Kyrie, settling more comfortably on the bed. Yes, she suddenly noticed the difference. Here, on the edge of sleep, Mephisto's memories receded, and Credo’s smile once again became the slightly melancholic joy of her older brother. They would remember this to use in the future.

"In short, you didn’t like it," Maria stated.

Nero grimaced.
"Well, it’s not that I outright disliked it," Nero tried to justify himself.

"Hey, it’s fine! You don’t have to like everything I bring you."

"But it was a gift," Nero mumbled under his breath.

"Yeah, but gifts don’t always have to be liked."

Nero pressed his lips together and sighed.

"Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?" Maria gently suggested, as always. She never insisted, always avoided sharp edges, yet with inhuman dexterity managed to coax out increasingly intimate fragments of Nero’s fears.

Unlike Kyrie, but just as effective.

Alright, it was a small thing, rather childish, so it wouldn’t hurt him to share.
"I… like that you give me books."

"Mm-hmm," Maria encouraged him.

"But I… don’t really enjoy reading about fancy dresses and grand interiors."

"Mm-hmm," Maria’s face remained unchanged. On the contrary, she looked genuinely interested, which pushed Nero to continue.

"Honestly, I’d rather reread 'The Plague' than read another line about the color of vases on the mantelpiece in some mansion’s living room."

Maria laughed. Her laughter, like everything about her, was restrained, carefully hidden behind her fist, but no less sincere for it.
"Well…" she smiled, "I’ll keep that in mind when choosing the next book."

Nero’s heart skipped a beat. He lowered his head to his knees.
"You… still want to give me books?"

"Of course," she nodded seriously. "What do you think should stop me?"

"Well…" Nero sighed. In his past life, he rarely received gifts. They were always someone else’s toys or clothes, and they often smelled unpleasant. Even if the sisters washed them carefully, the smell could linger for almost a year before it started to smell like the orphanage or like Nero. Because of this, he often fussed and refused gifts. Then they were given to others, and nothing was left for Nero. Over time, he simply got used to enduring what he didn’t like, hoping the next gift would be better.

They were never better: not when he was adopted; not when he was orphaned again; not when Credo died and he and Kyrie took the children under their care. There was always the smell of something foreign.

The first foreign scent Nero truly liked came from Yamato. That was one of the reasons he was willing to forgive Dante any crap. Because Dante gave him Yamato.

"Because you might not have other books to give," Nero suggested. The books Maria gave him weren’t always new, but their scent was pleasant. Familiar. So Nero was even happy about it.

"That’s not a problem," Maria chuckled. "I can always ask my mom to send more."

Nero froze, then turned to Maria in surprise.

"What?"

"You have a mom?"

This time Maria laughed, completely inelegantly. But the fit of laughter ended as quickly as it began.
"What surprises you so much?"

Nero grimaced. Honestly, he hadn’t thought about it at all—he had no real reason to be surprised. Everyone has a mom.
"Why doesn’t she live with you?"

"Well, that’s an interesting question," Maria smirked. "She used to live in Fortuna, but when I grew up, she decided she couldn’t stand 'this absurdity' anymore, so she divorced dad and moved to the mainland. Now she works in… what’s it called… brokering. She buys and sells information, arranges jobs for people, and according to her, is living her best life."

"Did you ever want to leave with her?"

"Honestly? A few times when I was younger. I even visited her one weekend. Since then, I haven’t left Fortuna. The big world… scares me more than demons."

Nero smirked crookedly. Yeah, there was that… his first trip to the outside world was a complete disaster. And he wasn’t talking about Red Grave City.

"Dad and I sometimes order different things from her in exchange for… other strange things. Turns out, some parts of demons are highly valued in the outside world."

Nero’s eyes widened at Maria. He’d never imagined his own grandmother could be a trader on the devilish market! Though, while one grandmother dissected demons, the other married one of the strongest of the same breed. What kind of linage?!

"I was just as shocked when I first found out," Maria smirked. "People from the outside world are strange."

"Wrong word," Nero grimaced. Just Nico alone was enough to prove that point. "And you... don’t you miss her?"

"Sometimes," Maria shrugged. "But she was never a very tactile person. I could only beg for hugs a couple times a year—on my birthday and during the Sparda Festival. But she always loved to talk. We often call each other and can chat for hours before dad pulls the plug and sends me to bed."

Nero smirked, imagining the scene.

"Speaking of dad."

Nero looked at Maria.

"He invited you to dinner this Saturday. What do you think, will you be able to come?"

Nero sighed heavily.
"I’d like to, but..."

"But?"

"Kyrie hasn’t been discharged yet. I don’t want to leave her alone."

"Hmm, then how about inviting her too? Do you think she’d agree?"

Nero raised a surprised look.

"She’s your friend."

Nero nodded vigorously.

"I think I can arrange things with her parents so that the two of you won’t feel too bored at the table with the adults."

Still surprised, Nero lowered his gaze to his hands.

"Is there anything else holding you back?"

"Mephisto still hasn’t been caught."

"Hmm, that’s a problem," Maria tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Where was he last seen?"

Nero shook his head. After that explosion on the second floor, Mephisto hadn’t shown up again. Maybe he died, maybe he was just hiding and waiting. Nero couldn’t say for sure. But he also didn’t see the point in waiting forever. So he decided that if Mephisto didn’t get hungry enough to come out of hiding by the time Kyrie was discharged, Nero would consider the problem solved. Though an alarming little bell still rang incessantly somewhere at the back of his mind.

Those protective runes Nero had placed everywhere in the monastery and orphanage hadn’t stopped Mephisto. Why? And what if he just waited for Nero to leave and then attacked?

"Do you think the knights could keep watch for one evening?"

Nero grimaced. Sometimes Maria’s condescending attitude irritated him, though he himself was to blame for it. Lately, he had been overthinking a lot for someone who usually charged ahead without hesitation.

Apparently, old age…

Nero smirked at the absurdity born of the situation, then nodded with a smile to Maria.
"I think it might work."

"Great!" she clapped her hands. "Dad will be so happy!"

Nero gave a crooked smile.

Chapter Text

Nero sighed and hung up the phone.

The subscriber was unavailable. Again. Dante, that slob, had forgotten to pay the electricity bill again. Or the phone bill. Or both. Nero couldn’t imagine how Dante had even survived with such a level of financial literacy.

Still, Nero was a little relieved that Dante hadn’t picked up. He had no idea how to approach such a delicate topic. Dante definitely wouldn’t believe him if Nero just said he was his nephew and it’d be nice to meet because Nero had some useful information about one of their mutual negligent acquaintances.

Though, he could always leave out the part about being related.

"Vergil is alive, and I know where to find him. If you’re interested in the details, come to Fortuna and look for Nero."

It sounded concise and even cool... if it weren’t for his childish voice.

Nero sighed again when Kyrie suddenly called out to him.

She was afraid to walk around the big house by herself, so Nero accompanied her to the bathroom, using the waiting time to make another attempt to reach Dante. Using someone else’s phone without permission was at the very least impolite, but Dante wasn’t answering anyway. If he did answer, then Nero would tell everything. Well, he’d try. Especially the part where he knew his uncle’s phone number.

Kyrie walked straight from the door toward Nero as if nothing stood in her way, only to bump into the dresser again. She nearly knocked over a vase with flowers but deftly caught it and returned it to its place.

"Are you hurt?"

"Sorry, a bit distracted," she smiled, shrugging. "I’m fine."

After incident, such things happened to her frequently. She constantly ran into doorframes and furniture as if she didn’t see them, and sometimes she froze mid-step, staring thoughtfully into the distance. Though everyone had initially been worried, over time the sisters concluded that these were consequences of what had happened to her. Kyrie couldn’t remember what had occurred, so the sisters couldn’t help her. Only time and daily routine could.

Thus, on that occasion, right after her discharge, they were allowed to go to Solemnes’ for dinner together—Nero, knowing how strict Kyrie’s parents were, couldn’t figure out how Maria had convinced them. Women and their magic…

In any case, their first joint dinner went wonderfully despite all concerns! They ate delicious food, discussed some city gossip, and even laughed. Christina, who turned out to be Solemnes' non-biological niece, chattered non-stop, sharing all the latest rumors of Fortuna while skillfully avoiding sensitive topics. Kyrie, who had been silent for half the evening, eventually couldn’t hold back and corrected her because she knew a story firsthand. Then Maria drew her into the conversation, and Solemnes complimented her diplomatic skills because "few people can shut Christina up."

Since then, they had dinner every Saturday. And on Sundays, Kyrie came to the orphanage with her parents. Although she was no longer as cheerful and energetic, the children still fell under her charm, offering whatever help they could to the adults.

Besides this, her parents didn’t allow Kyrie to leave the house. They escorted her to school and back, forbidding her to play outside. Imagine that! Just this past summer, they were allowed to go to the shore together! Such restrictions would have driven Nero mad, but Kyrie didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, it seemed quite the opposite.

When he asked her about it, Kyrie replied that she didn’t mind. She now had more time for reading.

She became more interested in demons, no longer nervously averting her eyes or smoothing her skirt when the topic came up.

And today, when dessert time arrived and the conversation turned to Solemnes’ combat feats during his time as an ordinary knight, Kyrie asked a strange question.
"Have you ever seen possessed people?" (Yes.)

Then another.
"How do you distinguish the possessed from humans?" (A demon will stop at nothing to become more powerful.)

Then yet another.
"How does a demon become more powerful?" (Human blood.)

"And what is it about human blood that makes them want it instead of the blood of their own kind?"

This question made not only Solemnes but also Nero pause to think.

In general, demons really did eat their own kind. But for some reason, human blood attracted them the most. Remembering the tiresome Qliphoth, it required the blood of thousands of humans, not demons. Why was that?

"Honestly, you’ve stumped me," Solemnes shrugged. "I’ve never been interested in that question. Do you have any ideas?"

Kyrie thought for a moment and then suggested:
"I think it’s because it’s easier to obtain."

Solemnes nodded; there was logic to it. Any demon, even a newborn one, still needed to be defeated. But a human, no matter how strong, agile, or experienced, could easily be overcome by chance. Humans were incredibly fragile.

Kyrie took Nero’s arm, and they returned to the dining room together. Christina had gone to see off her friends, and the nanny, cook, and steward were just bowing out. Now only Maria, Solemnes, Nero, and Kyrie remained. But the children wouldn’t stay much longer. Another fifteen minutes before Kyrie's father would come to pick her up.

But they still had those fifteen minutes, warm aromatic tea, and a strawberry dessert.

"Vicar," Kyrie said, "may I ask one more question?"

"Of course, Kyrie," Solemnes had resigned himself to the fact that Kyrie insisted on addressing him formally. He confided in Nero that this was his personal challenge: to win over Nero’s friend. Old people and their quirks. "You can ask me any questions, and I’ll do my best to answer each of them."

"Sparda was also a demon. Before standing up to protect humans, he led hellish legions. And that’s one of the reasons why he was so good at protecting people."

Solemnes nodded, while Nero froze, mouth agape.

"Does that mean that any demon who no longer harms humans is good?"

Solemnes hummed thoughtfully.
"That’s not as simple a question as it seems, Kyrie. But I think my answer is yes. If a demon isn’t interested in human suffering, if it doesn’t consume human blood without voluntary consent, it’s free to do as it pleases."

"Even if the demon is still interested in gaining power?"

"It depends on the motives."

"For example, protecting loved ones," Nero noticed her gaze quickly darting to him and then returning to Solemnes.

"Yes, absolutely. Personally, I consider that motive noble, and such a demon worthy of existence. As long as its protection doesn’t turn into chains or oppression for those it guards," Solemnes swiftly glanced at Nero and then back at Kyrie, "I would gladly welcome it into the same world as myself."

Nero rolled his eyes.

"What do you think, Nero?" Kyrie asked him, which surprised him because he expected that question to come from Solemnes.

"As long as the people dear to me aren’t suffering, I’m fine with it." He shrugged. "The problem is that our dear people might fight among themselves," Nero noticed how Solemnes shot a pointed glare at Maria after those words. Hmm, interesting. "In that case, I don’t know what I would do."

"That’s what diplomacy is for," Maria responded to Solemnes’ intense gaze.

"Really?" Solemnes feigned surprise. "I didn’t think you were a fan of diplomacy."

"Every diplomacy has its limits."

"Well, if that were true, Sparda certainly wouldn’t have fallen under them, and where would humanity be then?"

Maria opened her mouth.

"And there would be no legacy of his," Solumnes delivered the final blow, checkmate according to Nero's taste. Maria, confirming Nero’s suspicions, snapped her mouth shut and blushed.

"So diplomacy can solve everything?" Kyrie chimed in.

"Much of it," Solumnes nodded. "Especially if both sides are willing to negotiate. Mark my words, young ones, just speaking the truth can prevent the worst horrors!"

"And what if it’s a bitter truth?" Nero asked.

"It might hurt now," Solumnes nodded, "but you won’t allow lies to multiply, and you’ll prevent years of suffering."

Nero thoughtfully looked into his cup.

"The thing is, everyone has their own truth," Solumnes concluded pensively.

At that moment, the nanny entered the dining room, announcing Kyrie’s father.

"Well, thank you for another wonderful evening," Solumnes smiled and stood up. "Nero, may I escort you to the orphanage?"

"Actually, I wanted to go hunting tonight," Nero admitted honestly. Among those present in the dining room, there was no one who didn’t know about his abilities and secret activities. "Agnus will bites me out if I make him wait even another week."

"I thought he was busy with gunpowder?" Solumnes was surprised.

"Unfortunately, he’s already finished," Nero grimaced.

"Well, in that case, I’ll send someone to the orphanage to let them know you’re staying here tonight."

Nero, Kyrie, and Maria stared at Solumnes in surprise.

"What? That way you’ll have time until morning, and none of the poor sisters will worry about you more than necessary."

It sounded incredibly convenient.

"Thank you."

"But in case you decide to return from the hunt earlier, I’ll ask to have the guest room prepared."

"I’ll take care of it," Maria quickly offered.

Nero blushed and thanked them again. It felt pleasantly strange to have people who understood him and his needs. Damn, he could get used to this.

Kyrie was ready to jump out the window when Credo suddenly decided to check on her before bed. Bless Sparda for his intuition, but how inconveniently it had kicked in…

"Kyrie!" he barked, rushing to the window and grabbing her by the arm. He pulled her back into the room and latched the window shut. "What are you doing?" he hissed.

Instead of answering, Kyrie took stock of the situation. Today’s conversation at the vicar’s house had opened her eyes to many things, including lies. And even though Nero might resolve everything against Mephisto tonight, Kyrie still decided not to hide anything. After all, Credo was her older brother. Unlike their parents, he would understand her—or at least listen.

So, freeing herself from his grip, Kyrie walked to the wide-open door and closed it, creating an illusion of privacy.

"Kyrie," Credo whispered worriedly, "is everything alright?"

"I remember everything," she confessed, looking him in the face.

"What?"

"How I left home, what happened to me in the forest, and how I got out of there."

"You remembered?" Credo brightened.

"I never forgot."

Credo frowned.

"All this time I stayed silent because I was trying to figure out… the changes. It’s complicated, and I’m not sure I’ve fully figured it out. That’s why I wanted to go to Nero and ask for his help."

"You can ask me for help."

Kyrie shook her head.

"It’s demon stuff."

Credo’s eyes widened. He stared at Kyrie in horror.

"I’m not possessed, by the way. The demon didn’t kill me to take over this body. I checked—I’m still human. And even if you don’t believe me, Nero can confirm it for sure."

"How?"

"Smell. You yourself said demons have an excellent sense of smell. For example, Nero can pick up a familiar scent from across half the city. That’s how he found me that morning."

Credo gasped.

"And he would’ve killed me long ago if I were pretending or if I’d stopped being human."

Credo sank onto Kyrie’s bed, trying to process what he’d heard.

"But despite the fact that I’m still human, my behavior has changed. I’ve… become stronger. And I need him to decide how normal or harmful this is for those around me."

"And I can’t make that decision?" Credo asked skeptically. "You know, I am a knight. I do have an understanding of what’s normal and what’s harmful."

"Even if you can make a decision, you can’t fix this." Kyrie approached the bed and held out her right hand to Credo.

Credo looked at her hand, but in the nighttime darkness, with only the moon partially hidden behind clouds providing light, he couldn’t see the issue.

Then Kyrie turned on the nightlight and pointed to her right index finger.

"Runes?" Credo gasped. "Where did they come from?!"

"A parting gift from Mephisto."

Credo’s eyes widened in horror. Taking another breath, he squeezed them shut and slowly exhaled.

"How do we fix this?" he asked much more calmly, opening his eyes again and stroking her nail.

"We need to write a sequence with the opposite meaning and activate it."

"Activate?"

"With demon blood."

Credo nodded.

"I can do that. I have some." He pulled a small vial from his pouch.

"What is that?" It looked familiar to Kyrie.

"An artifact created by Sparda himself. It contains demon blood."

Kyrie nodded.

"Will it be enough to awaken a sequence of three runes?"

Credo froze, lowered his gaze, and with pursed lips shook his head.

"There, you see," she lifted his chin and made him look her in the face. "And besides, you don’t even know the sequence."

"And Nero does, I suppose?" Credo scoffed.

"It’s in his blood."

Credo clenched his teeth and balled his fists. His helplessness clearly irritated him. And Kyrie understood him so well.

"I understand how you feel, Credo. I wanted to become stronger too. To help him. So he wouldn’t have to worry about me. But here I am, strong, capable of defending myself, yet still helpless to do anything on my own. No matter how hard we try, all we can do is wait for him to save us over and over again."

Kyrie cupped his face with her hands and pressed their foreheads together.

"Credo, let’s become stronger. If not to help him, then at least so he doesn’t have to keep saving us."

"Kyrie, why are you doing this?" Credo asked in a strained whisper.

"I already told you. Because he saved my life."

"He saved you so you could live your own life, not dedicate it to him!" He grabbed her hands and pulled back to look into her eyes. His seriousness frightened the little girl inside her. But the glistening moisture in the corners of his eyes spoke of how much he loved her and cared for her.

"Credo. I live in a city that worships Sparda," Kyrie smirked. "I was literally born to honor and glorify his legacy."

"But he’s not…"

"He is, Credo." She breathed out almost inaudibly. "It’s a secret, but he is. And if you don’t believe in Sparda, then believe in Nero. Please."

Stunned, he didn’t resist anymore. He released her hands and completely deflated.

"Please, be careful," he asked, his voice drained of color.

"Of course, Credo. Too many people care about my well-being. I can’t afford to let all you down."

Credo only gave her a resigned smile. Then he left her room. And when Kyrie was alone, she turned off the nightlight, opened the window again, and jumped into the cold autumn night.

Today Nero decided to check one of the first trap clearings. The smell of fear had already dissipated, but the sweet scent of a tasty human still lingered in the air, attracting predators. Or, at least, it should have.

When Nero arrived at the spot, all he found was a half-dead brood of some kind of toads devouring each other. A disgusting sight. Nero killed them to end their suffering and, feeling deflated, plopped down onto his favorite rock.

He sank into his thoughts until suddenly he caught a whiff of a scent that shouldn’t have been there.

"Kyrie?" he whispered, rising from the rock and looking around. Her slender figure was hiding on a branch of one of the trees. "Hey, how did you end up there?"

"Caught," she said with a smile and jumped down.

Nero reacted faster than he thought. In the blink of an eye, he was next to her, leaping up to catch her mid-fall. Only once they were on the ground, with Kyrie in his arms, did he realize something was off.

Kyrie was very light. Much lighter than a nine-year-old girl should be.

Apparently, something showed on his face because Kyrie suddenly lifted her skirt to her knee, revealing her bare feet.

Nero blushed and turned away. But out of the corner of his eye, he managed to notice. Runes.

"And how many are there?"

"Eleven," Kyrie smoothed her skirt back down and adjusted her grip around Nero’s neck, "just enough to not be afraid of falling but not get carried away by every gust of wind. Though my arms are still too weak for really tall trees. But I’ve started doing the exercises Credo showed me."

Nero blinked and stared at Kyrie in surprise.

"Are you not cold?" was all he could think to ask. Besides her nightgown, she was only wearing one warm sweater. When she had left Solemnes’ house, she’d been wearing at least two more layers of clothing.

She smiled at him and shook her head.

"It’s a special sweater. I embroidered runes on the inside and activated them with your power. Until the first wash, it will keep me warmer than usual."

That was insanely clever! Nero himself had only figured this out last year. Though he hadn’t applied the runes to clothing but directly onto his body under his clothes. The idea of reinforcing and giving special properties to his clothes opened up crazy possibilities.

And then it hit him—this was how Dante, that old fart, kept his insanely expensive and ostentatious coat intact through all those hellish battles. Nero, on the other hand, preferred to wear truly beat-up clothes to work so he wouldn’t feel bad about ruining them, though he did patch them up as much as possible.

Yet another reason to kick that bastard’s ass the next time they met. He could have saved Nero so many stained t-shirts and torn pants! Imbecile! Greedy, lazy bastard!

"So, what are you doing here?" he awkwardly asked.

With one springy motion, Kyrie leapt out of his arms and landed barefoot on the ground, now covered with the season's first snow. Nero frowned.

"You should’ve at least worn socks."

"It’s easier to wash my feet than explain to my parents why my socks are dirty," she shrugged and jumped again, hovering between the ground and the sky. Her loose hair, shimmering silver under the light of the moon that had emerged from behind the clouds, seemed longer than usual and faintly reminded him of something.

Her entire silhouette felt hauntingly familiar, but Nero couldn’t figure out where he’d seen it before.

"Did you catch anything?" she asked, still leaving Nero’s question unanswered.

Nero shook his head, mesmerized by her smooth hovering above the ground. Enchanting, like bait, yet still smelling unmistakably human—his Kyrie. What the fuck was going on?

"No. It seems like there’s no one else around here."

Kyrie smirked.

"Not surprising. These are the hunting grounds of the Lord of the Forest. Only young ones wander here, and even then, only out of foolishness."

Nero frowned.

"What Lord of the Forest?"

"You. Who else?" Kyrie smiled and shrugged.

Nero’s mind raced to make sense of it.

"How do you know that?"

"Mephisto told me," Kyrie shrugged again.

Nero froze.

"Where is he?" he growled, almost gutturally.

"Dead," she stated coldly. "Died saving me from my own stupidity."

"How did it happen?"

And Kyrie told him everything...

"...He left me three gifts. His memory," she touched her head, "his cover," with the same hand, she ran her fingers through her hair, "and his stinger," she extended the same hand toward Nero and pointed her index finger. Three runes were skillfully etched directly onto her nail, creating an indestructible artifact, almost like a Devil’s Arm.

"Using them, I managed to escape the forest alive and unharmed. I just didn’t account for the fact that my body isn’t as resilient as Mephisto’s, so I completely exhausted myself."

"Are you saying he possessed you?" Nero whispered, clenching his fists.

"At first, I thought so too, but I don’t smell like a demon, right?" Kyrie smiled. "And I doubt he had enough consciousness for this. He was so stunned by the game of tag, I doubt he could even think about taking my place."

"A game of tag?"

"That day in the monastery. That’s how he perceived it. He didn’t plan to kill anyone. He understood that he had angered you by trespassing into your territory without permission, but he couldn’t understand why you were chasing him instead of simply commanding him to die."

"Command… to die?"

"He was your subordinate. One order, and he wouldn’t have dared to disobey."

"But he passed through the protective runes!"

"The runes are yours, and he was yours too. The runes only protect against outsiders."

Nero froze, struggling to process it all.

"And you know all this because of his memories?"

Kyrie nodded.

"And you’re not having any trouble with…" Nero hesitated. Of course, she was! Just today, she had bumped into the dresser because she thought she was Mephisto and could walk right through it. All those little oddities that had followed her since waking up suddenly made sense.

Kyrie was no longer herself.

"I have," she admitted honestly.

"I think if we erase these signs, you’ll become yourself again."

"That’s true," Kyrie nodded again.

Nero took a step toward her and reached out his hand to examine the sequence more closely and think of a way to neutralize it.

"And though I wouldn’t dare oppose your decision, I still want to ask you to leave them be."

Nero froze in an awkward position.

"What? Why?!" he exploded.

"Because I don’t want to be that useless, weak mate who gets you blackmailed. I don’t want to be eaten alive, but even less do I want you to witness it."

What the fuck?

How?

How did she know about that?

"Because that’s the fate awaiting any human close to a powerful demon like you, Nero."

He opened his mouth.

"And as your best friend, I can’t afford to be weak."

"Then maybe you should stop…"

"If you finish that sentence, I’ll hit you," Kyrie said seriously. "Anyway, it’s already too late. I already owe you one life, and you won’t get rid of me that easily. And even if you decide now that you don’t want me to have this—" she extended her index finger "I’ll just find another way to become stronger."

"Kyrie, you don’t have to—" Nero tried.

"I’m tired of being afraid," she sniffled. "Tired of everyone always saving me. I don’t want to cry anymore because someone very strong and very kind died because I was stupid and weak," Kyrie sobbed. She landed on the ground and began wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I don’t want to keep having nightmares where you or Credo are torn apart. I want to be strong. And if I can’t help, then at least I can run away," she wept.

Nero had always been weak against her tears.

He stepped closer, hugged her, and made her stand on the tips of his boots to shield her from the cold, at least a little. She hugged him back, continuing to cry on his shoulder.

"Do you have nightmares too?" he whispered.

"Of course, silly!" she sniffled.

"Are they scary?"

"Very."

"Do you want to talk about them?"

Kyrie sniffled again, then took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

"Nothing special. Just a lot of fights, a lot of blood and screams. And someone always dies."

"And do you die yourself?"

"No, I just watch," Kyrie shook her head. "And you?"

"Yes," Nero admitted easily. "Honestly, it’s the best part of the nightmare. I wake up right after."

"And what do you dream about?" She tightened her arms around him. "If it’s not a secret, of course."

"Just a lot of fighting," Nero smirked. "Blood and screams. And someone’s death."

"Do nightmares really have no imagination?" Kyrie mock-snorted.

"Well, I’ve met a couple of nightmares, and they’d argue with you."

Kyrie pulled back in surprise and stared at Nero.

"What?"

"I’m trying to figure out how one can meet nightmares."

"Don’t try," Nero smirked. "If Sparda allows, you’ll never meet them."

Kyrie frowned even more deeply.

"Alright, I suppose," he took her hands and stroked her wrists with his thumbs, "this is an unexpected solution to a long-overdue problem. And though it’s not perfect, I think nothing bad will happen if Mephisto stays to protect you."

Kyrie stared into Nero’s eyes, then beamed.

"But if you have any problems or feel something’s wrong, come to me immediately! We’ll solve it together."

Kyrie nodded vigorously.

"And if we’re done here, then…"

"Let’s go," she tugged at him.

"Huh? Where? Kyrie, home is the other way."

"Before we return, I want to show you something."

This "something" turned out to be a Fault stuffed with the victims of Mephisto’s late subordinate. According to Kyrie, this was the prize that caused all the trouble.

"These were caught by him," she pointed to the neat rows of demons of various kinds and sizes impaled by magical stingers. "These I brought from the traps he left behind," a few more off to the side. "And these I caught myself," another pair, far off to the all oters.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!" Nero exclaimed angrily.

Kyrie winced.
"Yeah, I know, but I was really, really careful. I didn’t fight them personally. My traps caught them, and I checked several times before approaching them."

"Kyrie, do you even realize how dangerous this is?"

"Yes, Nero," she nodded seriously. "Despite everything, I truly understand that this is all very dangerous. But if I don’t train, I won’t get stronger."

"You can’t do this alone! Mephisto had instincts, a sense of smell, an awareness of magic."

"I have the runes and your power. They make up for my lack of strength."

"Runes aren’t a cure-all!"

"But they..."

"And besides, the ink in the pen isn’t infinite."

Kyrie froze with her mouth open but then closed it.

"Sorry," she apologized, looking down. "I won’t do this alone anymore. In truth, I wasn’t even planning on hunting again. I just wanted to show you this place." She spread her arms. "You’re right, I don’t have Mephisto’s demonic instincts. I can’t tell a strong demon from a weak one just by looking at it, so you’ll have to figure it out yourself."

"Kyrie," Nero muttered regretfully, but she ignored him and continued:

"These," she pointed to the largest pile, "are definitely suitable for what you did to his beloved. These—probably. Mine—most likely not. Also, based on his memories, I can suggest where and how he would hunt next. But he has a special method for navigating the forest, so you’ll have to figure it out yourself, and also..."

"Kyrie."

"Let me finish, Nero."

Nero recoiled at her angry tone. She was truly terrifying when she was mad.

But suddenly, all her anger dissipated. She sighed and slumped.

"I’ll make many more mistakes because Kyrie doesn’t have enough knowledge about danger and the limitations of her body, and Mephisto lacks human notions of life and ‘normalcy.’ Everything comes naturally to you, but I can’t do that. Let me help you in whatever way I can, and then you can tell me where I went wrong. I promise I’ll learn how to do it right."

Nero sighed heavily and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"You’re wrong about things coming naturally to me."

"Well, you handle things better than I do."

"When I was six, I pulled both of us out of the Fault," he reminded her.

"And came up with a wonderful explanation for what happened."

"At six and a half, I almost killed a man."

"And then immediately healed him and turned him into your most devoted fan."

"What?"

"What?"

Nero narrowed his eyes.

"When I was seven, I flooded the monastery with food."

"The sisters pray to you," Kyrie shrugged.

"When I was eight, a revolver appeared in my hands."

"And despite being ‘just a kid,’ you still haven’t killed or even injured anyone."

Nero squinted even more.

"For comparison: I, who left in the middle of the night, returned at dawn covered in demons' blood, with no memory and very suspicious behavior."

"You were just in shock."

"Today, I jumped out of my bedroom window in just a nightgown and sweater so my parents wouldn’t catch me."

"No one will ever know."

"And Credo caught me."

Nero frowned.

"I managed to convince him, but I’m still not sure I did the right thing. I feel like I hurt him." Kyrie sighed sadly. "I’m afraid of hurting you too, but I think you’re capable of understanding everything I say. And not just understanding whether it’s right, but also correcting me if I’m wrong. And yes, I know this is another burden, but I promise I’ll learn, and you won’t have to deal with my mistakes anymore! I’ll really, really try to be useful. Just... let me. Please."

Nero sighed and nodded, then turned to the demons.

"Alright, which ones should I start with?"

Nero spent quite a lot of time preparing, but when he finished, they ended up with a small pile of assorted vessels. Only the demons that Kyrie had caught in her traps remained.

"As I thought," she nodded, going over in her mind what she might have missed. But the answer was obvious even to her.

Nero could only use the demons that were capable of reproducing a couple of runes without losing their lives. And catching them required equally complex traps. Kyrie didn’t dare ask Nero for permission to use pairs, but Nero himself brought up the topic.

"By the way, I didn’t mention it, but instead of drawing eleven runes for weight reduction, you can draw one pair for levitation."

"I know," Kyrie nodded.

"You know?"

"I have a translator in my head," she smirked, tapping her temple, "give me a sequence of any length, and I’ll translate it into human language with devilish precision."

"So why didn’t you use this pair?"

"I wouldn’t dare use such power without your permission."

"Such power?"

"One pair is really a lot of power. Especially for something as prolonged as levitation. And you’re already expending your strength on maintaining protective runes and the blue rose."

"Kyrie," Nero suddenly smiled for some reason, "did Mephisto ever see a triple sequence in his life?"

Kyrie was about to shake her head when she suddenly remembered. Yes, Mephisto had seen a triple sequence. The master had used his power on an external object to extend his already limitless might into the outside world.

"Your sword," Kyrie said uncertainly.

Nero nodded and pulled the very artifact from the ethereal space, which carried the scent of his strength and authority. A weapon worthy of a mighty warrior.

"It’s no trouble for me to use triples, so a dozen more pairs won’t even register," he smirked, swinging the sword. "So consider this your official permission."

Kyrie gazed at the Pawn in awe. She had only glimpsed it once or twice before. Now she could examine its flawless body, the color of red wine, in all its details.

"In fact, even triples are a bit insufficient for me. I’ve thought about trying a quadruple on it, but I’m afraid that if I undo the triple, the Pawn will just melt in my hands."

Kyrie laughed.

"It won’t melt."

Nero raised an eyebrow.

"Is that Mephisto talking?"

"No," Kyrie snorted, "that’s me." She took out the feather from a special holster she had sewn herself on her left wrist. The very one Nero had given her. "I’ve used this feather many times to write and activate runes. And although it doesn’t bear your marks, constant contact with your power has tempered it so much that it can pierce a demon’s weak spot and remain intact."

Kyrie smiled when she noticed Nero’s astonished look. It turned out to be unexpectedly pleasant to surprise such a strong warrior.

"So you actually used it!"

Kyrie nodded.

"As you said, the ink in the pen isn’t infinite. To get out of the forest, I had to use several of the demons that Mephisto had caught for you. Sorry."

"Don’t worry about it. Your life is worth more than those who would have eaten you without a second thought. But... the problem with supplies still needs solving. Sigh, if only Nico were here..."

Another unfamiliar name. Kyrie had stopped paying attention to them. She gave a faint smile.

"Sorry for causing so many problems."

Nero just shook his head.

"Don’t worry about it. I even have a solution, but we’ll have to wait a little."

"A solution?" Kyrie was surprised.

"Sparda was able to separate part of his ethereal space to create a public vault. I think I know how he did it, but first, I need to wait for Yamato."

"The sword that cuts through worlds?"

"You know about it?"

Kyrie smiled.

"Nero, have you seen that huge monument that’s one of the most noticeable landmarks in the city?" Kyrie asked with a touch of irony.

Nero grimaced.

"If you had gone to school, you’d know that we’ve been told about that monument and how exactly it was created since the first grade."

"Sorry, my fault."

Kyrie shook her head.

"So, what about it?"

"Well... Yamato needs time to, uh, recover. Right after that, I can try to cut off part of my own ethereal space and give it to you so you can store all the necessary things in it."

"Can you really do that? For me?"

"I’ve never done anything like that, but Sparda somehow managed. Besides, there’s a chance someone might help me."

"Really?" Could there really be someone who could help Nero?

"Let’s just say, if I ask very nicely, Yamato might give a hint. But maybe not." Nero frowned. "It’s a pretty willful sword. It never talks to me unless it has to. I’d be surprised if it actually deigned to help. Its personality is even worse than Vergil’s. On the other hand, if I spent as much time together as they did, I’d probably go crazy too."

"With which one?" Kyrie frowned, confused.

"Both," Nero chuckled at his own joke. "Still, it’s interesting how Sparda managed to create something so unique. It’s a real Devil’s Arm!"

"What surprises you about it?"

"What surprises me?" Nero genuinely exclaimed. "Every Devil Arm I’ve ever seen was created from the soul of a defeated demon. And rarely do any of them have the ability to speak in this form. But Yamato was his own creation. It didn’t require Sparda’s death; it doesn’t contain his soul—though… perhaps just a fragment. And yet, Yamato, despite being created, can speak! It possesses its own consciousness and can make independent decisions! And Sparda created three of them!"

Meanwhile, Kyrie watched Nero and couldn’t understand.

There had always been many oddities in his behavior. Before, Kyrie could attribute everything to his demonic heritage. But now she realized that Nero was strange even for a demon. His combat experience far surpassed that of Mephisto, while in some basic, instinctual things for demons, he feigned complete ignorance.

Take, for example, the creation of vessels. He spent more than an hour preparing when all he needed to do was give an order.

Also, Nero had known since childhood who his grandfather and father were, while Mephisto had no idea who his parents were. The vicar spoke of some mythical demonic legacy, but as far as Kyrie could tell, such a thing didn’t exist among demons. They had to learn everything from scratch, just like humans.

But there was always this superiority in Nero, even a kind of super-knowledge. He spoke of the wonders of the mainland as if he had been there himself, rather than merely reading or hearing about them. He lied about having things that he couldn’t possibly possess because there was no way for a boy so young to obtain them. And yet, he knew how to use that revolver. He knew about plans and consequences plotted by others. Nero also constantly mentioned unfamiliar names of people who never lived or even appeared in Fortuna.

But worst of all was his emotional trauma. When did Nero manage to get injured it if no demon could even touch him? Why is Nero afraid of Mundus? How does he even know how strong Mundus is? And how is the mythical Dante connected to all of this?

"I suppose Yamato was made just like any other weapon."

Nero frowned.

"Did Mephisto do something similar?"

"Did you think Mephisto was born with his experience, cover, and stinger?"

"Uh, wasn’t he?"

Kyrie shook her head.

"He came into this world empty. All he had was his body." She delved into someone else's memories. "He observed others and learned from them. He tempered his stinger, inscribed runes on it. And when the effect took hold, he erased them and wrote new ones. As he grew stronger, he began inscribing pairs, each time seeking the perfect effect, balancing flexibility and strength. He fed it with his power and the blood of his enemies." She smirked. "He had to start all over again when he awakened."

"When he awakened?"

"Yes, it’s…" she tried to recall. "He almost died that time. But he didn’t want to die so badly that he awakened his hidden potential. The new power tore his cover, but that didn’t stop him. He drove his stinger so deep into his opponent that it went clean through and got stuck in the ground. Mephisto won, but it was easier to break the stinger than to pull it out. So he had to start the tempering process anew."

During her story, Nero froze with his mouth open.

"But with his newfound strength, the process went faster. He even considered making a spare stinger at some point, but he didn’t have the chance."

"What happened?"

"A Strong One came. Um… The one in the hat. You killed him in the clearing."

"Faust?"

Kyrie nodded.

"He ate their children."

"Whose children?" Nero was horrified.

"Mephisto’s and the one you turned into your first vessel."

Nero pulled the very vessel from his ethereal space, which Kyrie recognized as his beloved.

"Nero," she said in a cracking voice, "can I ask you for something?"

Nero shifted his gaze from the vessel to Kyrie and nodded seriously.

"It… his last wish was for you to take care of her. Mephisto believed this form could make her stronger, and being close to you would ensure her safety."

Nero examined the vessel more closely.

"Does he… mean something to you?" Nero extended the vessel to Kyrie.

Kyrie reached out her hand but quickly pulled it back.

"Not to me, but to him. But their story moved me deeply, and I’d be very grateful if you could take care of this vessel. If it’s not too much trouble for you, of course. But if it burdens you, then I’d take it with your permission." And why was everything around her suddenly so blurry? She didn’t want to cry, so why were her eyes burning and wet trails on her cheeks?

Nero took a sharp breath.

"Don’t worry, Kyrie. I’ll take care of her."

"Thank you," she smiled, feeling immense—not her own—relief. Quickly wiping away her tears, she slapped her cheeks and hastily changed the subject. "So no, the Pawn won’t melt if you erase your marks from it. But you can try a different sequence, one more suited to your current needs. A quadruple, though I can’t imagine where you’d use such immense power. Or you could really start from scratch."

"Don’t I need to awaken for that?" Nero smirked.

"I’d prefer it if you didn’t run into mortal danger," Kyrie grimaced. "But Mephisto is surprised that you carry a weapon that, according to you, makes you weaker."

"Hey, I’m not to blame for having no alternatives!" Nero protested.

"What, absolutely none?"

"Kyrie, I’m eight years old. I’m not omnipotent!" Nero grimaced.

"Says the grandson of Sparda and future grandson of the vicar."

"Hey, I’m not… how do you…?"

"Sorry for eavesdropping on your secrets with the vicar, but nightmares kept me awake. I promise I won’t tell anyone… anymore."

"Anymore?!"

"I had to convince Credo somehow," Kyrie lowered her gaze awkwardly, shuffling her bare foot in the dirt.

Nero rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Your brother must hate me."

"Why would he?" Kyrie asked, surprised.

"I only saved you once, and not only did you blackmail a knight of the Order for me, somehow find and gift me a revolver, but now you’ve even ascended before him. If I were in his shoes, I’d be absolutely terrified—lock you up and never let you near me, not even within cannon-shot range."

"Ascended?" Kyrie asked, surprised.

"Don’t mind it," he waved it off. "It’s the technical term for a ritual that allows a human to harness the power of a demon."

Kyrie glanced at her fingernail, adjusting her hair.

"Doesn’t anything scare you?" she muttered under her breath.

"Honestly? I’m a little panicked."

"Then..."

"But I’m not planning on doing anything about it. You’re right when you say it’s dangerous to be around me. And Mephisto seems like a reliable guy to trust with your protection. After all, he died but didn’t let you die. Even I couldn’t have handled it that well."

Kyrie frowned at his phrasing.

"So... you still trust me?"

"Of course, Kyrie!" Nero smiled sincerely. "You’re the only person in the entire world who would pity the mate of a dead demon. I don’t know anyone as compassionate as you. And... you’re still my best friend," he added, blushing slightly.

Kyrie smiled and blushed too. Such trust warmed her heart immensely. So, she wanted to reciprocate.

"Then, I won’t ask—but… if you ever want to tell me something—anything at all, no matter how strange it might seem—I’ll be ready to listen."

The shy smile slipped from Nero’s face. He lowered his gaze and scratched the back of his head.

"To be honest, I hope you never have to learn any of this," Nero said in a completely flat voice.

Kyrie nodded. She understood the desire to shield weaker parents or a weaker brother from one's own struggles. But she had another option.

"Alright. Let’s gather these vessels and head back. I’d like to get a little sleep before my parents go to the monastery."

Nero nodded and began tossing the vessels into his ethereal space. Kyrie cast a glance over the Fault. The demons she had caught would remain here as payment until she returned with new ones, more suitable for her master—now that she had permission to use the power of two runes. Just think, less than a month ago, this place haunted her nightmares. Now, she was leaving it with a light heart. Mephisto’s soul could rest in peace; Kyrie would take care of everything else.

Drawing a rune on the ground, Kyrie summoned a transfer circle. She and Nero were returned to predawn Mitis. Mesmerizing white flakes drifted gently onto pine branches, occasionally slipping all the way to the ground.

Just think, she might have never seen such beauty in her life.

"Let’s leave Fortuna someday?"

Nero turned to her in surprise.

"I want to see other beautiful places," she admitted honestly, exhaling a puff of vapor.

Nero looked down and blushed intensely.

"Okay," he whispered so softly it was barely audible.

"It’ll be dawn soon, so let’s race?"

The whirlwind of emotions ended with the most charming devilish smile Kyrie had ever seen on a human face.

That evening, he let her win.

Chapter Text

Nero was exhausted from the whirlwind of emotions and shocks he'd experienced that night. After escorting Kyrie to the window of her room, he almost turned back toward the monastery but remembered at the last moment that according to the plan, he was supposed to spend the night at the vicar's house.

As he turned toward Solemnis’s house, Nero only noticed halfway there that he’d been grinning like a fool the entire way. He wasn’t sure why.

He liked the idea of leaving Fortuna with Kyrie. But he also cherished the thought that in Fortuna, he had a real family and a home where he could return in the middle of the night without explaining anything to anyone.

No way in hell would he let anyone destroy that.

Nero had planned to enter through the front door, but as he approached the house, he spotted a slightly open window on the first floor with a candle lit behind it. Well, who was he to ignore such an obvious invitation?

Leaping inside, he closed the window and extinguished the candle. He didn’t need it, so at least the wax would be saved.

On the bedside table, there was a plate with a sandwich and a cup of compote covered by a note.

"If you’re hungry, don’t hesitate to help yourself. On the bed, there’s a fresh towel and pajamas. If you're too tired to shower or change, it's okay. Make yourself at home. Goodnight, Nero. Maria."

The note smelled like a mother’s love. Nero had no emotional strength left. He simply broke down in tears.

Credo hadn’t slept all night. The feeling of helplessness infuriated him. He hadn’t been able to protect her back then, nor keep watch when Nero asked him to, and now he couldn’t even help when Kyrie found herself in such a difficult situation. It never even crossed her mind to ask for his help. And this dismissal stung far more than the helplessness itself. Credo hadn’t become a knight just to be ignored. He wanted to help. He’d trained his entire childhood for this—long before he became a squire.

But first, it was the knights, then the general, then that punk Nero, and now even his own sister. He couldn’t let this continue.

And that’s how he found himself walking toward the house of the retired general.

This man was the only one Nero feared. And Credo was insignificant enough as a knight that his absence this morning wouldn’t be noticed. So, he decided to take it upon himself to distract Sanctus. Foolish? Perhaps. Did he have any other options? Absolutely not.

So, opening the gate, Credo walked along the neat, well-kept path straight to the door. He raised his hand to knock and froze.

What was he going to say? How exactly could he make the general listen to him? What if he simply didn’t open the door?

But then he was distracted by a loud crash coming from inside. Credo tensed and listened closely. In the next second, he heard a demonic screech.

Without another moment of hesitation, Credo kicked the door open and rushed inside, immediately running toward the sound. Bursting into the living room, he saw a figure cloaked in black tatters raising its scythe.

Credo leapt forward, drawing his sword mid-air. Aiming for the neck, he crashed into the figure and pressed down with all his weight. There was a sickening crunch of tearing fabric, flesh, and bone.

The figure let out an inhuman scream. Its bony hand reached behind to grab Credo, but he dodged, leaving the stuck sword embedded in the creature’s back.

Stumbling, Credo fell onto the half-sliced sofa. The hulking mass in the cloak turned and glared at him with glowing blue voids for eyes.

"What the hell is a Hell Vanguard doing here?!" Credo thought in horror. He’d only read about them, hoping never to encounter one in his life. Well, most likely, this would be the last thing he ever encountered.

"Like hell I’m dying here!" he thought and narrowly avoided the scythe slicing into the sofa. He wasn’t dead yet! There had to be a way to deal with this monstrosity.

Backing toward the exit, Credo failed to notice when the massive creature lunged at him, knocking him off his feet and slamming him into a commode.

For a moment, Credo lost his bearings: pain blinded him, and everything went dark. The next second, he saw a skull wrapped in gray skin and a gaping maw reeking of decay.

But he wasn’t afraid. Death was death, but he’d sell himself dearly. It was foolish, of course, but no one could say he hadn’t tried.

Fumbling for an old brass candlestick behind his back, Credo swung it at the cursed face, causing the Hell Vanguard to stagger back. At that very moment, a crossbow bolt shot out from the creature’s eye socket, glowing white and temporarily blinding Credo. In the next instant, the creature’s head fell off, rolling across the floor, leaving behind only dust and a nasty, spreading oily ichor stain on the carpet.

When the cloaked body collapsed to the floor, Credo saw Sanctus. He was breathing heavily, barely standing, leaning on Credo’s sword, which was stabbed into the ground. A gruesome wound bled on his left shoulder.

"You’re bleeding!" Credo blurted out before he could think. Rushing over, he pulled bandages and ointment from his pouch. Sanctus didn’t resist as he was seated on the miraculously intact chair, the remnants of his shirt torn away, and his wound tended to.

"Not that I’m ungrateful, but what are you doing here?" Sanctus asked, still breathing heavily.

"Just heard some noise," Credo muttered, tightening the bandage.

Sanctus smirked.

"From the other side of the city?"

Credo flushed.

"I was on duty."

"Don’t lie to me, boy. Thomas’s group patrols the city at night. Even if you were put in as a replacement—which they don’t do with knights your age—you would’ve passed my house about an hour ago and heard nothing."

Credo turned beet red.

"Are you here because of Nero?"

A little more, and Credo would’ve glowed brightly because of shame. The general was too sharp to hide anything from.

"He didn’t ask me to come," Credo muttered, standing up to inspect his work.

"Of course not," Sanctus chuckled. "He’s a born leader. People like him don’t need to ask—others just do it for them."

After finishing inspecting the wound, Credo turned to the chaos in the living room. Broken furniture, the crossbow from which Sanctus had shot the disintegrating creature in the back of the head. He walked over to his sword, left a short distance away, examined it, wiped it clean with a rag, and sheathed it.

"Where did the Hell Vanguard come from?"

"Just another gateway, I suppose," Sanctus shrugged and winced.

"Another one?" Credo gasped in horror. "We need to report this to the castle!"

"No need. We handled it."

"But what if there are more?!" Credo spun around.

"There are always more," Sanctus cut him off.

Credo froze, frowning. He surveyed the ruined room again. Only now did he notice the swords hanging on the walls. Rune amulets were scattered here and there. Practically every surface held a dagger, a familiar vial of demon-weakening poison, or some other piece of combat gear.

The retired general’s living room looked like a miniature armory.

Credo looked at Sanctus again. A tired, battered old man who had been exiled, left alone, but who, despite his wounds, weakness, and solitude, was still ready to keep going.

"Teach me."

Sanctus raised a surprised gaze but then smirked.

"Bring me the phone."

Credo rummaged around the house and brought a brand-new shiny rotary phone to the living room. The latest in technological progress! The cord was even long enough so that Sanctus wouldn’t need to go into another room.

Sanctus picked up the receiver, quickly dialed a number, and waited through a few rings. Upon hearing the voice on the other end, he grimaced.

"Good morning, Maria… The vicar? Already gone? I see… No, nothing urgent… Sound strange?..." He chuckled. "Daughter of you father," he shook his head. "There was a little skirmish here… No, one young knight has already helped… Yes, he’s already bandaged my wound… Credo," said Sanctus, looking at Credo as he spoke.

Credo was surprised. Did Sanctus really remember his name?

"Yes, that’s her older brother. Actually, I wanted to ask the vicar for an order to transfer him…" He rolled his eyes at the response. "No, Maria, I won’t be running any experiments on him. I just want your future son to have a worthy rival. Or maybe a sworn enemy, depending on how it goes." He looked at Credo and winked, making Credo freeze in shock.

What was even happening? What had he gotten himself into?

"Yes, thank you, I’ll be very grateful. Have a good day." Sanctus hung up the phone and set it aside. "Well, you have until dinner tonight before Maria passes on my request to Solemnes, and you officially come under my command."

Credo swallowed.

"Time for what?"

"To decide that all this isn’t worth it, run away, and personally tell the vicar you made a mistake."

As soon as Credo heard the words "run away," he frowned and confidently stepped forward.

"I won’t run!"

Sanctus only smiled with satisfaction.

"We’ll see about that."

Credo frowned even more deeply.

"Help me get up."

Credo approached and helped Sanctus to his feet. Feeling the firm, uncompromising grip of Sanctus on his arm, he was surprised. How could there still be so much strength left in such a weakened body?

"Nero truly has great potential, but he also has a few flaws," muttered Sanctus as they moved to the study.

Credo looked at Sanctus in surprise.

"What kind, for example?"

Sanctus slyly glanced at Credo.

"Why do you care?"

Credo pursed his lips. Kyrie had asked him to become stronger so that Nero wouldn’t have to save him. But as the older brother, Credo couldn’t accept that! He didn’t just want to stay out of the way. He wanted to help! He wanted to protect: his sister, his parents, all of Fortuna! Even that brat, if necessary.

"He pisses me off," grumbled Credo. "Always acting like 'nothing tops me except the mountains.'"

"You want to put him in his place?" Sanctus smirked.

No, Credo didn’t want that. Nero wasn’t boastful without reason—he truly was that good. It was just...

"I want to stand beside him."

Sanctus stretched into a satisfied smile and nodded.

"Young man, do you play chess?"

"A little," Credo replied, surprised by the sudden change of topic.

"Will you keep me company?"

A couple of years later...

Nero reloaded the Seed and lowered his hand to his thigh.

"Ready?" Alberto asked him.

Funny, but in Nero’s mind, the knight he’d wounded, the knight Kyrie had blackmailed, and Alberto were three completely different people.

About a year ago, when Ardante — Nero still couldn’t bring himself to call him grandpa Arde, but he had agreed to a compromise — invited Alberto over for some business, Nero hadn’t recognized him at first. But that gap-toothed smile immediately reignited a forgotten guilt in his heart, and Nero hurried to hide in his — his own! — room.

But Alberto found him there too. He apologized to Nero. Apologized to a nine-year-old child for what had happened when Nero was six.

"It’s me who should apologize."

"You’re not to blame for the fact that no one took you seriously."

They talked. Nero hadn’t wanted to talk, but Alberto did a decent job carrying the conversation for both of them.

"I know what it’s like to be the last one standing. You think that if you were just a little stronger, you could fix everything."

"I could’ve fixed it."

"That’s a misconception."

"But what if I could’ve gone back to that day?"

"Even if, for some mysterious reason, you were transported back to your past right now while keeping all your memories, you wouldn’t be able to change the past in your mind. Those memories are with you forever."

Nero felt a wave of nausea hit him at how accurately Alberto had hit the mark.

"And all I want to say is, it’s pointless to blame yourself. You can only accept the existence of these memories and act accordingly. Guilt gets in the way."

From that point on, Alberto began visiting their home. He became Nero's human sparring partner, but more importantly, he became something of a buddy. Not exactly a friend, but someone Nero could talk to as an equal. About weapons, techniques, demons, and even girls. Sparda be his witness, Nero had missed having that kind of connection.

Nero nodded. In the next moment, a pebble shot out toward the sea. A well-trained eye immediately raised Seed, and a finger pressed the trigger. The bullet struck the pebble perfectly, but before the shards could scatter, they contracted into a tiny point, pulling some seawater along with them.

The next instant, under high pressure, the crushed stone exploded with a loud pop, spraying fine droplets of water and creating a wave.

This idea was suggested by Agnus.

After scolding Nero thoroughly and receiving all the promised vessels in the next moment—plus some ignition system modifications that Nero made from memory—Agnus felt a bit guilty. It wasn’t visibly obvious, but Sister Tamara strongly urged Nero not to hold a grudge against Agnus because the man was beside himself with guilt.

Yes, sister Tamara was one of those brave sisters who dared to venture into the monastery catacombs to bring food to Agnus. There was no real danger, but the sisters loved to blow things out of proportion and would shriek at every little sound.

So, Agnus and sister Tamara became friends. Nero silently approved of their friendship, especially since it positively impacted Agnus's mental health. He even started coming out of his lab occasionally just to get some fresh air. Coincidentally, sister Tamara happened to be relaxing there at the same time each time he did.

Anyway, out of guilt, Agnus became more interested in Nero’s progress.

First, he helped attach a fuel delivery system to the Pawn. Well, sort of…

From the very beginning, Nero had started experimenting with tempering, as Kyrie had advised him. Since the Pawn was so soft and saturated with demonic ichor that it practically consisted of it, these experiments yielded completely unexpected results. The Pawn was malleable like clay. As soon as a new triple sequence was applied, it acquired the described properties within minutes. And the more frequently Nero changed sequences, the faster the Pawn adapted. It got to the point where during battle, if the opponent was slow enough, Nero could change everything—from size to the secondary damage inflicted by the blade.

Size was no longer an issue. The problem became the sluggish speed of switching sequences.

That’s when Agnus suggested adding a rune-switching system. Three rune rings instead of a guard. Twist, activate, fight.

The next problem was boundlessness. Nero couldn’t decide what he wanted, and memorizing sequences—let alone experimenting mid-battle—turned out to be a terrible idea.

Practice showed that for simple battles, he used the switcher only once—at the very beginning. During a tough fight—with the third guardian in vault—Nero got tangled up in sequences and didn’t notice the venomous thorn strike from behind, piercing clean through the back of his skull.

Nero grimaced and sat down right on the rocks. An unpleasant chill ran through his body, making his hand reflexively scratch the back of his head. His hair was shortest there. He should ask mom or Christina to trim the rest to match. Plus, he was getting shaggy.

"Hey, you okay?" Alberto asked, approaching and sitting down beside him.

Nero grimaced and shrugged.

"What are you thinking about?"

"Hell Vine."

"Does it hurt now?"

"No."

"You sure?"

Nero sighed.

"Just numbness. I think I’ll feel it for a while. After all, a piece of my spine was ripped out. Body needs time to restore all the nerve endings. Even mine." He gave a bitter chuckle.

Alberto looked at him with understanding and resignation.

"It’s good that you survived."

Nero grimaced.

That time, he woke up in the infirmary. He didn’t immediately understand what was dream and what was reality. But when he noticed Maria asleep in the chair with red, swollen eyes, he realized he’d screwed up.

Most likely, Solemnes had stopped the fight immediately.

Most likely, he’d given Nero the potion right away.

But judging by his current state and the condition of his room, Nero had still been in a coma for at least several days.

His room was cluttered with wilting flowers and greeting cards. A large basket of fruit had started to overripen. His head spun, he was sleepy, hungry, and his body barely obeyed him. But the worst part of it all was that he was scared. He hadn’t felt such raw fear in a long time, as though Mundus himself had stared into his eyes again.

That was the first time—in all his lives—he called for his mother.

Maria woke instantly and, at his request, lay down next to him on the hospital bed, hugging him and shielding him from the outside world with her warmth and scent. Nero allowed himself to cry safely in the shelter of her arms.

After that, Nero saw no reason to keep his distance anymore, even though he was still under nine years old. Solemnes requested the paperwork to be prepared, and upon his discharge, Nero moved into his new home. For the first few days, he clung to Maria, and she didn’t mind, involving him in her daily routine. They talked. Mostly about what felt unfamiliar in the new house, what Nero lacked, or, conversely, what there was too much of.

But eventually, their conversations naturally drifted to Vergil.

"How did you two meet?"

"I met him in a bookstore. He was standing by the children’s section, engrossed in reading The Journey of the Little Knight. What caught my attention was his strange outfit."

"Outfit?"

"He wore a bright blue coat embroidered with golden dragon. Though he tried to cover it with some coarse fabric."

Nero was genuinely surprised at the time. Had Vergil really managed to keep the same coat for twenty years? Now there was someone who truly knew how to take care of his gear.

"But that’s not what drew me in. It were his hands. Though they belonged to a skilled warrior—and believe me, I’ve seen plenty of knightly hands, so I know what hands accustomed to a sword look like—they handled the pages of a simple children’s book so gently, as if it were the most precious treasure."

"So, books?"

"Books," Maria nodded with a smile.

She recounted how she had offered to give him a tour of the city, how attentively Vergil listened, how tactfully he asked difficult questions, and how engagingly he kept the conversation flowing. That time, they parted ways late at night but met again in the same bookstore the next morning.

"He always seemed cold, detached. I could see how much he enjoyed talking with me, how time and again we 'accidentally' bumped into each other in the city crowd. But every time, it was as if he was afraid to admit it to himself. I understood why a little later."

"Demons," Nero already knew the answer.

Maria merely confirmed his suspicions.

"He was absolutely terrified of becoming attached to anyone. I only managed to ease his fears a bit when I proved that I could defend myself."

Nero was surprised.

"What surprises you, young man? I am, after all, the vicar’s daughter! I have basic knight training. And though I’m not great with a sword, I still know runes and many other tricks against demons."

There was logic to it. Nero had never thought about it before.

"Still, our acquaintance didn’t last long. I already knew he would leave, no matter how much I begged him to stay. First, he needed to find himself, then, if he didn’t find someone better, we might have tried something."

Nero slumped.

"It’s such a shame he never got the chance."

Nero became so upset that he didn’t even catch that slip—Maria still believed Vergil was dead. But Maria, unlike Nero, was very observant.

"What upset you so much?"

"He… didn’t want me…" Nero had always suspected. Somehow facing the truth hurt a thousand times worse.

But Maria surprised him. She cupped his cheeks and forced him to look her in the eye:

"It’s much worse than that, Nero."

He froze, listening intently.

"He wanted you so badly that he considered himself—the most handsome, the strongest, and the smartest man on earth—unworthy of you. He believed that because he was a hybrid, he was infertile. He thanked Sparda for ensuring you’d never have to be born and face life's injustices. If he had ever known you existed, he would’ve immediately attempt a thousand times harder."

And as soon as Nero pictured that scenario, he burst into hysterical laughter.

"What’s so funny?"

"I just thought about what my father would say."

"M?"

"Where’s your motivation?" Nero attempted to mimic Vergil’s voice.

Alberto looked at him as if he were insane and shook his head.

"One more?" he suggested.

"Yeah, let’s go," Nero shrugged and got to his feet, briefly checking the bullet in the revolver’s chamber.

The second upgrade to the Pawn was suggested by Kyrie.

The Devil’s Arm from the Mephisto mate was supposed to become the fuel delivery system—blood fuel—to the rune rings on the guard, and also act as a switch that would activate one of several predetermined sequences on the Pawn with a single press. These sequences had already been tested and refined.

Mate could also suggest new interesting sequences that might intrigue Nero. Kyrie said that over time, this vessel would merge so seamlessly with the Pawn and Nero himself that it would literally read his thoughts and translate them into actions instantly.

A sword that could think, analyze the battlefield, and be more than a blind tool—a loyal comrade—was everything Nero had ever dreamed of. It deserved a new name. Though it would take a while to reach such synchronicity, the Blood Widow already had the goddamn potential of the Pandora. Except it couldn’t shoot. But for that, Nero had the Seed.

And following sister Tamara’s advice, Nero gave Agnus a chance to help him—as if the bastard hadn’t done enough already.

"…so I need to figure out how to delay the activation of the runes."

"T-t-too many unneces-s-sary complications."

"Got better ideas?"

"Use a shrink-k-king sequence."

Nero didn’t understand, so Agnus painstakingly explained that the massive fireball Nero wanted was horribly impractical. First, it would be a problem in tight spaces. Second, after the explosion, it wouldn’t be clear whether the demon was dead or not. Third, the same spectacular effect could be achieved with simple physics. A pair of runes, upon hitting a demon’s face, would shrink the skull, increasing intracranial pressure, which in turn would cause the demon’s brains to boil and burst out with a loud, spectacular bloody pop.

And all that was required was to engrave the runes on the bullet and bathe it in Nero’s blood as it exited the barrel. Though, even that turned out to be not so simple…

The bullet opened its eye and squinted back in annoyance. Blinking like a lazy cat, it closed eye again and went still. Nero grimaced then closed the revolver's chamber.

"Ready?"

Nero nodded and fired. This time Alberto released a bunch of pebbles, but Nero found the central one. Unfortunately, its mass was too small to create a large gravitational field, so only about five were pulled in before the rune's effect ended and the stones scattered with force.

The power of an awakened sequence still depended on the volume of the offering Nero provided. Therefore, the shrinking sequence, activated with just a drop of blood, could hardly significantly affect the outcome of a battle.

Kyrie confirmed that before awakening, Mephisto had been the same way. After awakening, he no longer needed to sacrifice his ichor in such quantities. A drop became a mere formality, like a signature or seal, while the Trigger became the primary measure of transmitted power.

"Why didn’t he use it to save himself?"

"Maybe he did, but it wasn’t enough."

"Don’t you know?"

"I have memories of the awakening, but after that, it became like breathing for him."

They were never able to figure out how long this Mephisto had lived. Even after enlisting Agnus’s help, all they could determine from some indirect clues was that Mephisto might have been born during Sparda's time in Fortuna, but it was impossible to confirm for certain.

However, Agnus and Kyrie hit it off. Nero had never seen such an odd pair of geeky enthusiasts obsessed with research. Though, Kyrie had always shown genuine interest in Nico’s work. It was the first time he thought about it without regret.

In any case, the problem with the bullets turned out to be so complicated that Nero shelved it indefinitely and focused on assisting in Agnus’s research. Unlike Nero himself, Agnus actually made progress.

And one day, when Nero brought him another batch of vessels, he accidentally dropped a long-forgotten Assault Star from his astral space. Everything that followed resembled a circus.

First, Agnus didn’t notice the star, brushed it into a corner, which activated it, summoning Assault. Sister Tamara, who came to check on Agnus, discovered the demon standing motionless in a dark, inconspicuous corner. Terrified by the nun's screams, Agnus destroyed half the lab with his prototypes while trying to drive Assault into the monastery. The screaming moved to the monastery, knights from patrol rushed in, and they chased Assault all over the building until—unexpectedly—Kyrie showed up, as she often did during her volunteer weekends with her parents.

She was the only one who noticed that Assault wasn’t killing anyone; he was just running away. They tried to keep her away from the demon, but for the first time in public, she demonstrated her powers. While the knights stared dumbfounded at the strange duo, Kyrie somehow managed to negotiate with Assault and asked others to call Nero.

By the time Nero arrived, the situation had completely lost all sense.

Children, the most fearless and curious creatures on earth, somehow bypassed the knightly blockade, and with Kyrie’s permission, asked to pet the lizard.

When Nero saw what was happening, one child was feeding Assault a tomatos straight from their hand, while another had mounted him like a riding horse, swinging their legs back and forth.

Assault returned safely to Nero’s ethereal space, though just a week later, Agnus requested him again for his experiments. And throughout that week, Nero couldn’t figure out what bothered him most about the whole affair—well, more than everything else—until it finally dawned on him.

"Why, the fuck, was he eating vegetables?!"

Kyrie provided the answer.

"They were grown with your power. For a subordinate, there’s no better nourishment than the strength of their master."

And if an ordinary human vegetable could hold Nero’s power for so long without losing or dissipating it, what if…

That’s how Nero roped Kyrie and Agnus into agricultural research.

The idea was simple—to grow bullets. Bullets that would contain enough power to reproduce a specific sequence.

"It's a little weak this time. Not eating enough?" Alberto smirked.

"Haha, very funny," Nero grimaced and lowered the revolver.

Though, he was to blame. Who would’ve thought that such unrestrained use of his own power would deplete him faster than he could recover. Of course, it wasn’t obvious at all that his power had finite resources!

Sighing, Nero pulled a couple of sandwiches made by his mom from his astral space and offered one to Alberto. A snack wouldn’t hurt.

Nothing worked with human plants. They were too weak, their shells bursting before the bullet even left the revolver barrel. Then, gritting his teeth, Nero tucked Kyrie in his arms—as she was the most familiar with the forest—and went looking for demonic alternatives.

In the forest, they stumbled upon a portal. Small and crackling, it barely allowed a demon to squeeze through. Meanwhile, spores from some Hell Mushrooms had comfortably settled on a tiny clearing.

"This wasn’t here before," Kyrie noted.

"So you weren’t leading me here?"

"No. The swamp with stingteeth leeches is further ahead."

That’s how Nero found his first Yamato shard.

He and Kyrie collected spores, leeches, and using the shard, closed the portal. And while Agnus examined the materials they brought back, Nero decided to take the shard to Sanctus.

That’s how Nero learned that Credo was now training under Sanctus. Credo, who immediately challenged Nero to a sparring match and promptly kicked his ass. Though the same trick wouldn’t work twice, Nero appreciated the lesson and promised to get even next time.

A week later, Nero had two prototypes of future demonically-infused bullets. But he couldn’t test them because he collapsed into another coma—this time from exhaustion.

Mom strictly forbade him from going near the monastery and made him eat sweets for the entire following week. Nero had never felt so awkwardly happy.

"So, what do you say?" Alberto asked after finishing the gunfight.

"Well, aside from limited range, excessive spread, and the annoying feeling when reloading, my verdict is—fucking awesome!"

Alberto snorted.

"All that’s left is to come up with a magazine," he nodded toward the revolver.

"Not needed," Nero shook his head. "My reflexes are fast enough, and a magazine would limit the variability of the rounds."

"What variability?!" Alberto exclaimed. "You only have two kinds of bullets!"

"For now," Nero smirked. "I didn’t want to waste options until I knew this would work." He stored the Seed in his ethereal space. "A bunch of tricks is useless if you don’t know how to use them."

Alberto snorted.

"It’s your call. Shall we head home then?"

Nero looked at the horizon. The clear summer sky reflected on the calm water's surface. The end of summer marked his tenth year; soon the monsoons would begin again. Around this time last cycle, the catastrophe that claimed hundreds—if not thousands—of townspeople occurred. His adoptive parents perished then.

This time, Nero wouldn’t let that happen. And even if he couldn’t handle protecting an entire city, the other knights were already equipped with new swords and had trained with them for at least half a year. Now every knight had at least one vessel of demonic ichor in reserve. The monastery had its own protector—Assault left behind by Nero.

Both Credo and Kyrie had grown stronger and could take care of themselves and their parents.

Ardante—Solemnes—was alive. He’d summon the guardians from vault if needed.

Nero took a deep breath and, for the first time, felt safe. He could handle it.

They could handle it.

"Yeah, probably," he smirked. When he got back, he’d try calling Dante again. It’d be interesting to see if he’d already been to Mallet—or if he still had to go there. Either way, someone was waiting for him here.

Yes, once Maria caught Nero trying to call Dante. The line rang, but no one picked up.

"Not that I’m against it, but may I ask who you’re calling?"

Nero took a deep breath and put on the most innocent face he could muster.

"Vergil has a brother."

Maria blinked, her sly smile beginning to fade.

"A twin."

Maria swallowed. Along with her smile, the color began to drain from her face.

"And somehow, I happen to know his phone number."

Maria gasped sharply.

"But he hasn’t picked up yet, so I didn’t tell you about it. It sounds pretty strange, and I didn’t want you to think I was lying."

Maria took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and brought back her smile.

"Nero, dear, you’ll invite him over for dinner, won’t you?"

"I’ll do everything I can," he answered honestly.

Maria nodded. They never returned to that conversation. Only Ardante, passing by casually at some point, remarked:

"So, it’s the Third after all."

At first, Nero didn’t understand. And then it hit him.

Late that evening, he burst into Ardante’s office and, pointing a finger at him, said:

"He’ll never agree to that!"

"Alright," Ardante shrugged. "So, it’s still the Second."

Nero flushed and stormed out.

The thought of becoming the Vicar of the Order and Fortuna still made him uneasy, but it no longer seemed impossible. In his past life, the transition from a strict, closed sect to a broken, aimless community had been too abrupt. People lost their purpose and couldn’t find a new one. It had been easier for Nero; he’d never been part of it and had experience seeking his own goals.

And if, in this life, the Order continued to exist, Nero could help people see something beyond worshiping Sparda. Well, right after they defeated Mundus.

If they defeated Mundus…

It was pointless to think about it now. The past couldn’t be changed, and the future hadn’t arrived yet. All they could do was try their best until the time came.

"Come to me, descendant," whispered a weak but painfully familiar voice in his head. "The time has come."

Nero froze like a statue.

"What?"

"M?" Alberto turned to him.

"To help them, you must go. Now."

Nero frantically tried to think. Right now meant he could miss the invasion of the island. With his luck, he wouldn’t just possibly miss it—he definitely would.

"I… I can’t…"

"Huh? What can’t you do?" Alberto frowned. "What’s wrong, Nero?"

"Think, descendant. There won’t be another chance."

"But the attack!"

"What attack?"

"Think!" Yamato roared in his head before falling silent, taking with it the sensation of connection.

"Nero, what’s going on? What attack?" Alberto buzzed around him as Nero desperately tried to piece things together.

Think. Yamato had told him to think. About what? Obviously, about the attack! Or more precisely, about the connection between the attack and the chance to help those two idiots.

And if there was a link between these two events… оr... how would Yamato know about this?..

Nero covered his mouth with his hand. The realization struck him like a hammer.

The attack in his past life had happened because of the Yamato! It opened the way for demons.

But why?

To protect his master, sending him to safety!

But in doing so, it brought disaster to Fortuna.

But the worst part wasn’t even that. The worst part was that all these years, Vergil had been somewhere nearby, lying there and decaying while his own son was close enough to help him.

That’s how he, completely drained of strength, found the Yamato. That’s how he reached the god-forsaken Fortuna. He had already been here. All these years!

But how hadn’t Nero felt it? How hadn’t he realized? Where had Vergil been hiding all this time?

Not now. This wasn’t the time to think about it. One shock at a time.

"Alberto, find a patrolman, then send word to the castle. A large-scale gate-opening is planned soon across the city." Nero knew they had only found a third of the whole sword. There would be many shards, and if some were in the human world, others would come from the underworld. "They’ll be small, but there will be a lot of them. Really a lot! I’ll head to Sanctus and try to buy you as much time as I can. But you need to warn everyone. Have the people take shelter in the monastery and the castle. It’ll be easier to protect them there."

Alberto immediately shifted from buddy to knight mode. He nodded and asked:

"Any other orders?"

"No, though—" he cut himself off. "I’ll be gone for a while. Make sure they don’t lose track of me. I’ll return as soon as I can."

Alberto nodded.

"Do you need help?"

"No, I’ll have backup on the other side," he smiled, already anticipating his reunion with Dante.

"Good luck to you, Nero."

"And to you, Alberto. Please protect Fortuna until I return."

"Definitely."

They split up and ran in opposite directions.

Nero ran with excitement and anticipation coursing through him. He had no idea what awaited him on the other side or how he would manage it. But Yamato was giving him a chance to save those two fools, to prevent unnecessary deaths and suffering in the future. Or…

Or should he stay here to protect all the townspeople?

Dante and Vergil would definitely survive Mallet. Yes, they’d lose each other, but they’d make it through. The people of Fortuna weren’t as resilient. And Nero could find both Dante and Vergil afterward, heal their wounds, and set things right.

"Mundus," came another unexpected realization.

On the island, weakened by its poor connection to the human world, the King of the underworld himself would emerge. And if the three of them were strong enough, they could end him once and for all.

Nero froze mid-step.

Was he truly ready? What if he couldn’t handle it? What if he just got in the way?

"Face your fear," whispered a voice inside him. Not Yamato’s. Another one. Forgotten. Lost.

Right. Nero couldn’t do anything unless he faced Mundus head-on. Whether it ended in a fierce battle or, Spara forbid, some twisted understanding and forgiveness, it didn’t matter. First, Nero had to get there.

Nodding to himself, he resumed running.

Bursting into Sanctus’s house, he rushed past the startled old man and Credo, turned the corner, carelessly ripped the basement door off its hinges, and descended the stairs.

Down below, the others caught up with him.

"Nero, what’s going on?"

"Fortuna is about to become a real hell. You’d better hurry and get out of here," he shook his head, focused on the hovering shards.

"Credo, go."

"But, General—"

"Credo, that’s an order."

Credo grimaced but didn’t argue.

"Go with him."

"Of couse," nodded Sanctus, though he didn’t move.

Nero scowled, but he didn’t have time for elderly stubbornness. If Sanctus wanted to die, so be it. Instead, Nero closed his eyes and mentally reached out to Yamato.

"I’m here. How much time do we have?"

Yamato didn’t respond.

"Alright, fine. At least five minutes?"

"You know what I need," Yamato whispered faintly. And yes, unfortunately, Nero did know.

Grimacing, Nero opened his eyes and thought deeply. The Blood Widow wouldn’t kill him. It wouldn’t even wound him. The cursed sword refused to harm him, flowing around him even in its most rigid form. Incredible submission.

Shooting himself with the Seed would be fatal. He could’ve used a regular bullet, but unfortunately, Nero had only left demonic ones. He had to look around.

"What do you need?" interrupted Sanctus.

"Something lethal, something that could..." His gaze fell on the still-loaded ballista standing in the corner.

Nero sighed.

"I never thought I’d say this, but, Sanctus, could you kill me?"

Sanctus blinked, squinted, but didn’t argue. He approached the ballista, turned it toward Nero.

"Are you sure?" he hesitated.

"No, but there’s no time to look for other options."

"I don’t have any potions left from vault."

Nero nodded.

"All the better. No temptation." He believed that the reason he hadn’t awakened after the spine hit last time was because of the potion. This time… well, he hoped he’d grown enough for his demonic quarter to deign to open its eyes and share the goddamn legacy.

"If it comes to that, I don’t wish you dead."

Nero smirked.

"That’s worth a lot." He took a deep breath, estimating how much time had passed. Alberto should’ve already reached the castle and explained everything. All that was left was to hope for quick action and good fortune. What a shame that the Yamato was so weak. If only it could’ve given a warning a few hours earlier.

Opening his eyes, Nero looked at Sanctus and nodded. "Shoot."

Sanctus checked the aim one more time, then pulled the lever.

Chapter Text

Pain. Fear. Cold. Darkness. Emptiness.

Nero hated dying, but it had happened so often in his life that he didn’t panic anymore.

"Power. I just want to protect everyone, so damn it, give me more power!"

Thousands of shards, from the tiniest fragments to ones the size of a finger, surged toward him from all corners of both worlds. Hundreds of portals across the globe opened with fractions of a second between them. All for the sake of converging in one place, at one time, to merge into what was once a single blade in the hands of a descendant.

This ritual was never meant for Yamato; it just so happened that he was always there. Demons didn’t need intermediaries for their first awakening or subsequent use of power. They knew why they needed it and what to do with it. Hybrids, however, required help—be it a little boy with tear-filled eyes staring at a burning house, a teenager glaring at his brother with hurt and confusion, a young man facing the empty visor of an angel bringing death on the tip of its spear, or that same youth, now older yet somehow younger, confidently staring into the eyes of his fear.

Some of them knew why they needed power, others how to control it, but none initially understood both at the same time. But that was fine. He was here to help. Who cared if he took some of that power for his own restoration? After all, he deserved something out of all this fuss, right?

For the first time in a long decade, regaining his sharp mind, Yamato felt whole again, held by the strong hands of a warrior from the master's lineage. Blissful, to serve such a worthy wielder.

"So, where to?"

Yamato would have grimaced if he had a face. He'd forgotten how rough around the edges this particular specimen was. Oh well.

"Don’t trouble yourself with such trivial concerns. You already know what needs to be done. The rest is in my hands now."

"Well, you know, last time you weren’t exactly cooperative, so I’m just double-checking."

Yamato would’ve rolled his eyes if he had them but said nothing. Arguing with a child was madness, and he wasn’t about to lose his sanity over it.

"I’ll go," the descendant addressed the human. "I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I’ll return as soon as I can. Please take care of everything else."

"Brat. I’ve been looking after Fortuna five times longer than you’ve been alive. Go on, we’ll handle it ourselves."

Yamato smirked. He liked this human, even though he was just that—a human.

The descendant nodded, turned, and finally allowed Yamato to do his job.

A swing—thin threads of space tore apart; another—solid rings of time unlocked. Teleportation wasn’t devlish archmagic when it came down to just two runes. Things got trickier when traveling between worlds. But he was getting sidetracked.

With a running leap, the descendant jumped into the portal and began falling, falling, and falling some more until he finally landed with a loud screech on the castle wall.

"What the hell?!" he cursed as soon as he got to his feet. "Where did you throw me?"

"Mallet Island Castle."

"Wait, what the shit?! What am I supposed to do here?"

"And pray tell, which halls did you imagine entering?"

"I don’t know, how about Dante’s agency? Devil may cry, I mean."

Yamato chose to ignore the biting sarcasm in the descendant's voice. "That notion lacks any semblance of reason and contradicts our plan entirely."

"Really? We could, I don't know, prepare Dante, give him time and a few tips, ideas on how to save his brother, and not jump into the pool with his head."

"Otherwise, the lord of the underworld undoubtedly have reconsidered his insidious plans. However, we now have the precious gift of unexpectedness."

"Unexpectedness my ass! I don't know the area at all!"

"Also, do not fail to announce to everyone that you are the descendant of the Great dark knight Sparda and have come to rescue your father. Let your voice thunder!" Was he arguing with a child? No-no-no. This was guidance. He hadn’t lost his mind... yet.

The descendant heeded his words and calmed down.

"Alright, oh mastermind of the operation, what do you suggest we do next?"

"You have certainly exceeded all expectations in devising tactics. It remains only to see which of your plans we can execute at this moment."

"Holy shit, did someone feed you the soul of a pompous aristocrat?"

"Pray, noble scion, from whence stems your refined passion for eloquent discourse?"

"Touche." Yamato immediately felt the humble discontent of the descendant. Well, he hadn’t lost his touch. "But if my father spent his entire youth traveling with you, I can see why he turned out such a sourpuss with a terrible attitude."

That comment stung more than Yamato was willing to admit.

"My sincerest apologies for neglecting the refinement of your father’s upbringing. I was focused on preserving his life, not nurturing a sensitive soul."

"I…," the descendant sighed guiltily. "Sorry. I just…"

"The child misses his parent. I understand that feeling. And believe me, I spent many years enduring youthful venom to build immunity to it."

"Will you tell me about it?" the descendant perked up with interest.

"No."

The descendant deflated instantly.

"Alright... then," the descendant looked around, sniffed the air, and honed his instincts, which Yamato immediately picked up and guided, offering subtle hints. "Let’s head there. We'll try to find Vergil and pull him out of his shell."

Yamato didn’t argue.

Yamato wasn’t great with dates or timing. Human affairs didn’t interest him much, despite spending most of his existence among them. He thought he’d chosen the perfect moment, just in time for the arrival of a strong offspring of his master. But it turned out he’d sent the descendant a bit too early. Still, it wasn’t bad—they had time to scout the area, which Yamato only knew moderately well.

Luck was on their side; the descendant had just awakened, so he barely smelled human. Plus, he carried the scent of another island inhabitant, so the blind idiots mistook him for the armored statue of Nelo Angelo.

The descendant also showed some cleverness.

When one of the lieutenants decided to play it cautious, an intriguing exchange ensued:

"We were expecting another guest. Who are you?"

"Hold on, you seem familiar."

"Answer my question!"

"Chickie, is that you?"

"What did you call me?"

"Ah yes! It’s you! Look at you, all grown up. I remember you as just a tiny thing."

"Impossible! I was that small hundreds of years ago!"

"Well, you can guess how old I must be."

"Don’t lie! Even if you reek of demonic power, you smell like a human!"

"Hey! You’d smell human too if you went around eating people!"

"I! But… what?"

"Let me resolve all your inner conflicts with one answer. See this sword?"

"The Yamato? But it was…"

"Broken. Yep. And do you think the Lord would let some random immortal demon who looks and smells like a little human kid run around his castle, especially wielding the restored Yamato?"

"Mmm… no?"

"Then logical conclusion..."

The Griffin froze, overwhelmed by the complexity of the reasoning. Meanwhile, the descendant flawlessly stuck to his story, delivering it with the same confidence in his voice as in his demonic presence.

"I’m the backup plan."

The Griffin let out a thoughtful hum but eventually pieced together a logical chain fitting for their plans.

"Like that doll?"

"Trish," Yamato whispered cautiously, offering a hint. "She was a creation of Mundus's hands and currently serves him."

"Yeah, exactly like Trish. Only, an advanced version. As you can see, he entrusted me with Sparda’s weapon."

"The Lord is truly cunning and wise. Even in his hands, the blade prefers to shatter into fragments."

"Yamato..."

"Do you genuinely wish to hear my explanation right now?"

"It’s just... I can’t figure out why there’s no trace of his scent on you…"

"Our guest must not sense any deception."

"And he… can he?"

"What do you mean, 'can he?' Wait, didn’t the Lord tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"Well… apparently, it’s none of your concern… By the way, are Shadow and Nightmare here too?"

These verbal acrobatics completely baffled the dim-witted bird. A demon unfamiliar with human cunning didn’t stand a chance.

"Do you know them?"

The descendant didn’t answer, but the sarcasm vibrating through his energy amused Yamato.

"Ahem, my apologies. Yes, they’re here as well, along with Phantom. He’s guarding the main entrance. Shadow watches the passage to Nelo Angelo’s chambers. Nightmare… well, it’s in usual spot."

"Right. I’ll go check on them and then report back to the Lord. Hopefully, you’ve got this under control, and I won’t have to clean up your mess."

"We will not fail the Lord."

"You know what awaits you if you do."

The descendant hurried to get away from there and find a relatively safe spot.

"This place is fucking insane!" he mentally exploded. "Yamato…"

"Yes."

"What do you mean 'yes', damn it?"

"I truly can crumble to dust under Mundus’s grip."

"Then why did your blade rip through my guts while that bastard Mundus’s hand held you?"

"Because the hand that rose was the flesh of your parent."

Silence. In that silence of regret and sorrow, Yamato had dwelled for over ten years. Nothing for a Devil’s Arm, but still.

"Descendant?"

"What happened?" Barely audible, extremely restrained, and yet burning with anger.

"I vow to tell you everything, but not here, not now. For now, know this: since the moment your parent recognized you, harming you was never considered. The rest will wait."

The descendant screamed inwardly, trying to express the accumulated tension. It's okey. Very soon, he would have a chance to show his displeasure in battle.

"If you're done being indignant, we should hurry up."

"Yes," the descendant exhaled noisily, "let's go."

But the descendant, lost in his thoughts, paid absolutely no attention to his surroundings.

How else could you explain that he hadn’t prepared for the enemy’s leap? Phantom, previously announced as one of Mundus’s lieutenants, knocked him off his feet but didn’t seem intent on attacking. He probably didn’t even notice…

"Get out of my way, vermin, or I’ll crush you!" were his last words.

The descendant, knocked down, stunned, bruised, and furious, channeled all his unspoken rage into one seething ball. He flicked the guard and drew Yamato a fifth of the way out of its sheath, aiming to strike the fool’s soft belly. Then technique took over. Yamato returned to its sheath faster than the descendant could register. A flawlessly executed judgement cut slash the negligent creature into dozens of tiny pieces. The demonic ichor, which this fool decided to turn into magma, spilled directly onto the sheath and the descendant’s skin. Naturally, without power, the magma couldn’t harm their hardened bodies. But the sageo and, likely, the descendant’s clothes weren’t so lucky.

"Fuck! Shit! It’s hot!" the descendant yelped, jumping up and shaking himself off.

Ah, children!

And at that moment, a familiar sensation struck Yamato. Apparently, Yamato was good at everything after all and had perfectly timed the arrival of the master’s strong offspring.

Nero hastily tore off his burnt shirt, leaving him in just shorts and boots. Damn, it sucked. He wouldn’t freeze, but he was pissed about the shirt. His mom had given it to him, and the silky fabric had felt great against his skin.

Nero sighed and brushed his unruly hair back. He really needed a haircut.

And at that moment, he heard a voice he hadn’t heard in ten fucking years.

"Hey, kid, you alright over there?"

Nero couldn’t contain his inner elation, turned around, and flashed the most obnoxiously shit-eating grin he could muster.

"Dante! You really came!"

Dante’s face—considerably younger than Nero remembered—quickly shifted from idle curiosity to something akin to reverent horror.

"I see you haven’t changed your style one bit. Still rocking that shitty red dramatic flair."

Dante’s lips muttered something quietly.

"What? It’s windy here, I can’t hear you."

"Stay there, Vergil! I’m coming up to you!"

It was Nero's turn to catch a mini-heart attack.

"No, don’t!" he shouted, raising a finger. "Stay there! I mean, go ahead, kick their asses! I’ll pick you up later."

But Dante had already crouched for a jump and begun gathering demonic energy. Nero panicked and bolted.

A sharp surge of energy signaled that Dante had activated his Devil Trigger. The sound of wings flapping echoed. Ahead, only walls and no escape routes. Great. He was screwed. Fuck!

"Yamato, save me!" Nero drew Yamato and swung twice, barely managing to slip into a portal at the last second.

Tumbling out into someone’s bedroom, Nero spotted a mirror and immediately rushed to it.

"What the fuck?! Why didn’t you tell me I look exactly like a young Vergil?!" Nero waved the sword dramatically.

"Descendant, look me in the eye."

Nero raised the sword, turned it in different directions, and frowned.

"And where the hell are your eyes?"

"Exactly, descendant."

"How do you even live without eyes?" Nero exclaimed in horror.

"I possess incomparably more refined means of perceiving reality than primitive human eyes."

"Horrible! Even Rebellion has eyes! I’ll have to fix that flaw with the Blood Widow someday."

Yamato chose not to respond. Boring.

"Alright," Nero exhaled, trying to calm down. But how could he possibly calm down? Frustrated, Nero ruffled his hair. "Why did he even think I was Vergil?"

"If I may say so, the difference is so minuscule that it’s almost negligible—even I admit that."

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!"

But at that moment, a movement in the mirror caught Nero's attention. The reflection—little Vergil—suddenly transformed into a towering knight clad in eerily familiar armor.

Too perfectly timed to be a coincidence… but they had only mentioned name—Nelo Angelo—only. They hadn’t said anything about Urizen creating an entire army of suits of armor based on this phase of his life!

"Now that’s what I call properly healed trauma," Nero muttered, watching the hulking figure slowly approach him.

"Urizen has been stripped of those memories. Along with all other lessons of humanity, they were severed when his humanity was cut out."

"Severed? But Vergil remembered. I mean, after…"

"In his honor, they sacrificed their lives, but he, in a surge of rediscovered compassion, rejected those sacrifices."

"Familiars!"

"Precisely."

"Griffon, Shadow, Nightmare… Why these three?"

"Who else did you imagine?"

"Why not other demons? Like Phantom, whom Griffon mentioned?"

"The very same Phantom you effortlessly struck down in your rage?"

Nero blinked.

"So that oversized spider was Phantom? I thought lieutenants were supposed to be stronger."

"It’s not about his strength."

"Yeah, Dante roughed him up before me."

"And not about his either."

But Nero missed that comment because, at that moment, Nelo Angelo closed in tight. Nero didn’t sense any threat from him; he simply waited. What he didn’t expect was for the giant to collapse to its knees and awkwardly extend a hand to touch him.

"Hey, Vergil," Nero smiled at him. "Here we are, finally meeting."

And with those words, Nelo Angelo yanked his hand back, summoned his sword, raised it high, and…

At the last second, Nero deflected the suicidal strike aimed at Nelo’s own neck with the sheath.

"What the hell, you idiot?!" Nero shrieked.

"Nightmares," Yamato answered for him. "Mundus twisted his mind. He endlessly showed him visions so horrifying that, eventually, Vergil believed the nightmare would end only if Dante died."

"But I’m not Dante!" Nero frowned, knocking the sword out of Nelo’s grip.

"Right now, you’re the living likeness of your young parent. Allow me to conclude that, in this nightmare, he chose death for himself rather than letting that fragile, defenseless part of his nature perish."

In the end, Vergil was just another child who wanted someone to protect him. Even if that someone was himself.

Nero stroked the grotesque mask, then lunged forward, throwing his arms around the monstrous figure as tightly as his body would allow.

"Please, Vergil, don’t die. I need you. I promise I’ll get you out of here; just hold on a little longer, okay?"

Apparently, something Nero said struck a chord deep within. Nelo Angelo began to panic, pushing Nero away, clutching his head, and attempting to stand.

"Quickly! Sever his chains before Mundus takes him back!"

Nero reacted faster than the command finished. It was as if Yamato leapt out of its sheath on its own and delivered the judgement cut. But not a scratch marred the knight’s body. Only the mask shattered and fell, revealing a gray face and burning red eyes.

Nero gasped sharply, but then his hands went limp. His head spun, and the light before his eyes dimmed. Collapsing weakly to the ground, he didn’t see that the same thing happened to Nelo Angelo before he blacked out.

When Nero opened his eyes, the first thing he did was grope around for Yamato. When he didn’t find it nearby, he jerked his head up and looked around. His body ached from exhaustion, and his hands trembled under their own weight as if he’d spent the entire previous day hauling a wagon loaded with Nico and all her tools.

Yamato was easy to locate. It was in Nelo Angelo’s hands. He sat in the corner, right on the floor, legs crossed, gently stroking the scabbard resting on his knees while staring blankly at the wall.

"Vergil?" Nero called softly.

The figure blinked, slowly turned his head, and focused his still-red eyes on Nero. After glancing briefly at the sword, he nodded and gestured for Nero to come closer.

Nero stood, shaky legs carrying him over to Vergil. By the time he arrived, Vergil had already removed the amulet from his chest. Or rather, half of the Perfect Amulet—an ancient artifact gifted to humanity as a token of respect and greatest love. Legends claimed it held the key to Sparda’s true power. Nero hadn’t even considered that Vergil possessed this half.

"Wait, are you sure you want to give me something so precious?"

Vergil didn’t answer. Instead, he reluctantly—but resolutely—handed Yamato to Nero. The conflict between reluctance and determination was etched onto his face. Nero didn’t dare argue with such resolve.

"Don’t mistake this for a gift," Yamato interjected immediately. "I convinced him to assist, but you must fulfill one condition. And for that, you’ll need both me and the amulet."

Nero nodded.

"I’ll do everything and bring them back to you."

Vergil didn’t respond. His unnatural red eyes stared but didn’t see.

"He’s unable to comprehend your words. He’s far too weak right now, and we must rectify that."

"Tell me what to do."

Instead of answering, Yamato let out what felt like a heavy sigh. Nero rolled his eyes and smirked. Arrogant piece of devilish iron.

"Jumping in headfirst again? Or will you actually tell me the plan this time?"

Griffon—or what was left of him—bolted into the sky, tucking his charred tail between his legs. Dante exhaled and leaned on his sword like it was a crutch. His whole body trembled with adrenaline and anger.

"Getting old, damn," he muttered through gritted teeth, staring at his trembling fingers that could barely grip the hilt. Those bastards!

The castle pressed down on him. Too many dark corners, not enough whiskey. Someone was clearly enjoying pushing his buttons. And whoever it was, damn them, knew exactly where to find them.

"Griffon nearly roasted me alive. Phantom bailed, though mini-Vergil took him out with a yawn," he thought grimly.

Marionettes? Ha. Mutant lizards? Been there, done that. The problem wasn’t the monsters—it was the fear creeping in quietly. The kind that nests under your skin and whispers: You’re dead, Dante. He’d long considered himself above all that. But as the island had shown him, he’d let his guard down way too soon.

A surge of energy behind him yanked him out of his thoughts. The kid. Again. Standing on the tower like a ghost from the past, drilling holes into Dante with eyes sharper than Yamato.

"You came back," slipped out almost with relief. Dante even managed a smile. Sure, of course, it was a trap. Everything here was a trap. First Mom, now this... kid—even an idiot could figure out what was going on, and Dante was far from an idiot, though he put on a good show. But still, his heart skipped a beat. Damn.

"Listen, I won’t chase you around or scare you with my tricks anymore," he raised his hands, feigning peace.

His gaze snagged on the amulet.

Shit...

"Don’t spook him, dumbass," his inner voice hissed, surprisingly sober for once.

"Maybe come down? Let’s talk, reminisce about the good ol’ days…" Dante forced a crooked grin, feeling like a total moron. What the hell was he even saying?

The kid stayed silent but then suddenly leapt down. Dante flinched—ready to catch him, shield him—but the boy landed like a cat.

No creak, no crunch. Not a single broken bone. Gotta admit—it was impressive.

A whisper. Barely audible, but painfully familiar. "The Yamato?" Dante thought, surprised.

"…what … should I tell him?"

"The truth."

Dante had always been good at communicating with Devil’s Arms. Sometimes too good. They spoke to him, sometimes more than he wanted. Occasionally, he heard things he wasn’t supposed to—echoes of others’ thoughts, memories of past owners… future visions. With Yamato, it was even simpler because, for some stupid reason, his brother’s sword had always liked Dante. Even when its owner tried to kill him with it.

"It's not … between humans."

"He’s not a human."

The boy winced.

Dante hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but that seemed to be the end of their argument. The kid sighed heavily, then walked up to Dante with a serious expression and hugged him around the waist. Just like that. No drama.

Dante froze. His hands instinctively rested on the boy’s shoulders, carefully.

"I’m not who you think I am," came the muffled voice from the folds of his jacket.

Dante knew. Of course, he knew. It couldn’t be Vergil. His brother was dead. But still, his heart clenched like he’d been stabbed.

"But I don’t mean you harm," the boy added.

Those words hit him like a punch to the gut. On this island, everyone either wanted to kill him or at least harm him. But this...

Still, Dante kept smoothing the boy’s light hair, feeling something inside crack and melt. Even if it was just an empty illusion with nothing behind it—let it last a little longer. For Dante, this moment meant everything.

"And I know how to bring Vergil back to you."

Bam!

"Bring... him back? Kid, did you hit your head or something? His dead."

"Do you really think some hellish pit can stop his thirst for revenge? I thought you knew your brother better."

Those words struck a chord deep in his chest. Yes. Yes! Vergil was as stubborn as a herd of mules! He wouldn’t just gone like that.

And then the boy took off the amulet.

"Don’t you dare!" that shout undeniably came from Yamato—making Dante wince.

"It’s not a gift. You need it more right now. But promise me you’ll return it when the time comes. Vergil’s life depends on it."

"Why don’t you just give it to him now?" Dante grumbled.

"It ended up with you… I mean, Sparda’s sword was with you. If I remember the legends correctly, three parts are needed for his revival."

"Don’t start lecturing me. Legends give me flashbacks."

"Fine, smartass. In short, without this, you’ll die. And then we’re both screwed."

"Hey! I’m not that pathetic yet."

"That oversized parrot nearly fried you."

"Everything was under control!"

"Sure, if you say so," the boy smirked, taking the amulet back in a way that felt eerily familiar.

That’s when Dante took a risk. He reached out and grabbed the amulet. The one around his neck pulsed, responding to the call of its twin. Dante removed his own amulet and joined the halves together. From the ether, the Force Edge crystallized into existence.

Light. Power. Father. Pain. All at once.

"Wow, impressive," the kid whistled.

"Just wait till I actually use it."

"Show me?"

Dante smirked. Alright, the kid asked for it.

*And cue the cringy over-the-top action scene where Dante spins the blade like he’s auditioning for a 'weapon of your dreams' commercial—with slow-motion inserts, dramatic backlighting, and all.*

The sword was perfect. Painfully so. Balance—like a Swiss watch, magic—like it was made for him, emotional vibe—surprisingly stable. Smelled like a brand-new bike. It synced with Dante as if it knew exactly where to fit and how to move. Hell, he could even feel that weird Trigger kicking in—the one that usually only showed up at death’s door.

Dad sure knew how to craft useful toys.

"Cool," the kid said dryly.

"You don’t sound impressed," Dante snorted, twirling the sword in his hand.

"Seen something similar before," the boy shrugged.

What? Dante squinted.

"The Yamato?"

"Nah," the kid snorted.

"Then what?"

The kid bit his lip and looked away.

"I’ve got a little time. Wanna take a walk?"

Dante, ever the charmer, gave a gallant bow and gestured toward the open gates. The kid only snorted but went ahead anyway.

They walked in silence. Strange—yet this silence brought peace. The kid seemed out of place at first glance—but somehow, he felt like he belonged. Like a talisman. Like an anchor.

Dante could feel his muscles warming—not from anxiety, but from readiness for battle. He would tear down this entire gothic circus alone for this kid. Such inspiration he hadn’t felt… well, since Temen-ni-Gru.

"What’s your name?"

The kid stumbled for a moment but answered:

"Nero."

"Good name."

The boy flushed and wiped his nose.

"Yours isn’t bad either."

God sake! A few simple words—and Dante nearly choked on embarrassment. It was like being praised for a kindergarten drawing. Not that he ever visited one.

But the moment was ruined. As always.

Marionettes. They crunched out of the corridor, their lightbulb eyes glowing.

"Hold on," Dante raised his hand. But the boy had already stepped forward.

"Let me handle it." And he smirked with an adult-like confidence.

Marionettes moved, surrounding them—but there was something about this kid. Like he knew something. Like he could do more than any kid should.

Nero reached for the Yamato. But the blade froze, refusing to leave its sheath. Dante felt a chill run down his spine and prepared to step in for the kid.

"Hmm," Nero snorted as if it were just a minor hiccup. He waved it off, and Yamato vanished into the ether. And then... this appeared.

The thing only resembled a sword in shape. Everything else…

Nero swung, and the "blade" turned into liquid that sprayed in all directions, splattering the marionettes. Nero did something—three rings on the guard rotated, flashed red, and the droplets quivered on the demons’ bodies before transforming into sharp spikes that pierced them clean through.

Dante watched as the weapon's guard shifted again, and the blade, slicing through the air and the remaining marionettes, reformed into one piece. The whole thing took less than a couple of seconds.

The kid barely moved from his spot.

"So? How was that?" He turned around, beaming as if he'd just pulled off the trick of the century.

Dante was speechless. Damn it, he was utterly speechless!

This…

This was fucking incredible!

"You alright?" Nero peered at him. "Or did you not like it?"

A rustle came from behind. Dante reacted faster than instinct. Ebony fired twice; one marionette hit the floor.

"Missed one," Dante smirked.

The kid grimaced. The joy vanished like dust. No. Not like this! He needed to bring back that expression.

"Can I take a look?"

Without hesitation, Nero handed over his precious Devil’s Arm. And Dante didn’t doubt for a second—it wasn’t just an artifact. It was alive. Breathing. Real. Demon runes were inscribed on the guard. Humans couldn’t create or wield something like this.

"Where’d you get this?"

"Get it?" Nero smirked. "I made it myself."

...Dante nearly dropped the weapon and stared at Nero, who was trying—and failing—to hide the smugness oozing out of him. Proud. So damn proud that Dante had no choice but to believe.

But it was impossible! For fuck’s sake, Dante was Sparda’s son! He’d made his first Devil’s Arm at nineteen, from Cerberus. But that creation had a weak mind, unable to express thoughts beyond a few phrases: master or the Blood Widow. But damn, it radiated demonic power. Like a properly nurtured Devil’s Arm. Like fucking Sparda on his back!

This was the work of a hellish genius. And the kid couldn’t be more than eight or nine years old.

"Who are you?" he breathed.

Nero frowned, trying to look serious but failing because he was too young.

"You won’t believe me."

"Try me," Dante said, handing the weapon back and shaking Nero's hair out.

A pause. Then:

"I’m your nephew."

Dante froze, his hand still tangled in his hair. He blinked.

"Told you."

Dante didn’t believe it. Of course not. But… he ran the numbers. Dates. Facts.

"You’re nine?"

"Ten. Just turned a couple months ago."

And it all added up.

"Thought Vergil only cared about power..."

"Apparently, mom was powerful enough," Nero shrugged.

Dante burst out laughing.

They kept moving. The stone underfoot began to resemble bones more than rock, and the corridors and passageways were cloaked in dim light and an eerie hum. Staircases led down, then up, then down again, as if mocking them. Traps didn’t slow them for a second, mechanisms opened the moment they touched them. Nero tore through Marionettes without pause, leaving behind fine dust in his wake—and with each victory, he grew quieter, darker.

Dante understood. This place weighed on him too, like a chain around his neck. And the kid was only ten.

"Hey, by the way…" Dante decided to break the thick silence. "How did you even find out about me?"

Nero froze, looking down.

"Well, Vergil—makes sense. Mom could’ve told you about dad. But I am…" Dante shrugged. "I doubt he mentioned me out loud."

"Why not?" Nero asked, slowly resuming his pace.

"Because at the time, he thought I was dead."

The boy scowled. In that moment, he looked almost exactly like Vergil—young, naive, before the thorns had grown over him.

"Though," Dante continued, "you have Yamato. Maybe it let something slip?"

"Slip?" Nero blinked in surprise. "You’ve talked to it?"

"More than I’d like," Dante grimaced. "I think you’ve noticed—Yamato has… a unique communication style."

Nero grimaced too, and Dante chuckled.

"Dad had an unrequited love affair with eloquence. Somehow, it rubbed off on his weapons. Lucky for me, I got Rebellion."

"It doesn’t talk?" Nero asked, surprised.

"Oh, it talks, sure. But rarely. And most of what it says is nonsense." Dante omitted the part where that nonsense was mostly about a hunger for violence and an insatiable thirst. It had only grown stronger after Dante’s awakening and nearly drove him mad in the first year. Still better than the obsessive thoughts about Vergil, though.

"So, you’ve fought with Yamato before?"

"Happened a few times," Dante shrugged. "But you don’t need to swing it around to hear it. Isn’t it the same for you?"

"We have some kind of long-distance connection, but from what I understand, it’s hard for him to manage that."

Dante nodded. Then Nero added:

"Though, ever since I picked it up, it’s been really chatty." Nero smirked. "It’s strange, but honestly, I don’t mind. It’s comforting."

Dante studied him closely. That tone. The same lonely note in his voice. He knew how that felt. Yeah, he had people around him, but no one who could truly support his other half.

Dante sighed. That was it. This was the end. He was a fuck up. He’d known the kid for an hour—and already he wanted to drag him to safety, hug him, feed him, and wrap him in a blanket. Because this was family. Real family. Fate had given him a second chance. And this time—he’d do everything right. No matter what.

The next wave of enemies ended quickly, and they stepped into another inner courtyard. Empty. Almost.

In the shadows, two glowing eyes shimmered faintly.

"Hey! Shadow!" Nero broke into a grin.

"You know it?" Or was this all still a trap? Everything. This boy. All of it.

"Seen it before," Nero tossed out casually and bolted forward.

A second later, a sharp spike shot out of Shadow’s body, heading straight for Nero. Dante’s insides clenched, but Nero was ready. He leapt, ran along the spike, and with surgical precision, plunged his sword between the eyes. Mortally wounded, Shadow dissolved into nothingness.

"Sorry," Nero muttered unnecessarily, sinking to the ground. "I hope this time you find peace."

Dante approached from behind, legs shaky.

"You okay?" he wispered. Everything inside him screamed.

Nero nodded and forced a smile. A fake one. Dante recognized it instantly—he’d worn that same smile for years when he didn’t know how else to show he was still alive.

So he just hugged the boy. Quietly. Calmly. Without unnecessary words.

And when his vest soaked through with someone else’s tears, Dante’s heart stung. But this time, for a different reason. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt something so bright. So real. And damn it, this was the worst possible timing!

Because the gates swung open.

And Blades were already on their way.

"Thanks," Nero whispered, pulling away and wiping his face.

Then Nero dashed ahead like an excitable puppy while Dante stood frozen, unable to move. He just watched him go. And Dante knew—he’d tear this castle down to its foundations. Blow everything to hell. Kill the Mundus, find a way to make Nero a real boy. Because this child was his now. His family.

"Dante, watch this!" Nero shouted and fired his unexpectedly revolver. The bullets hit the Blades’ limbs—not their heads, judging by Nero’s anger—and instead of ordinary wounds, pure magic happened. Limbs shriveled to pinpoints before exploding into a spectacular mess of demonic meat. Dante stared blankly. It took him five seconds to process what had just occurred.

"Now I see who inherited dad’s genius," he muttered, watching as an enraged Nero emptied the entire revolver drum while reducing the Blades to wet stains.

"I didn’t know Vergil made Devil’s Arms." Damn, the kid had excellent hearing too!

"Sparda," Dante snorted, drawing Ebony and Ivory—the boy froze and turned to Dante, momentarily forgetting the fight wasn’t over yet.

After finishing off the new ones—Sargasso, Dante stepped closer.

"You alright?"

"Sorry," Nero said softly. "I’m causing you trouble."

What? What trouble? What was he talking about? Nephew—his nephew—had single-handedly taken down every demon they’d encountered, and those bastards—if Phantom was anything to go by—would’ve left nothing behind but a bruised ego even if they’d bitten him.

If anything, it was Dante causing trouble to him, making the kid do all the work.

Dante must’ve taken too long to answer because Nero turned his attention to the next set of doors.

"You can’t go further." Yamato’s voice hissed venomously.

Nero sighed. Deeply.

"It’s time for me to go."

"Already?" slipped out of Dante before he could stop himself.

Nero pursed his lips and nodded.

"But we’ll see each other again, right?" Please-please-please! Otherwise, he’d drop everything, tuck this kid under his arm, and just run away.

Nero rolled his eyes.

"I still need Sparda to save Vergil."

Stubborn. Strong. Bright. Nero was still sticking to his guns, still trying to encourage Dante, even if he himself had become the only source of motivation Dante needed.

Even if it was all just a lie to throw him off…

"You sure you don’t want to take it with you?"

"It’s needed to you, Dante. Sort things out here first. The rest—later."

"Okay... I'll take you at word!"

They exchanged crooked, sad smiles. Nero summoned Yamato.

Dante could’ve stayed silent. He could’ve accepted the illusion, let it end sweetly. He could’ve grabbed the boy and run, screw the island and Mundus. But…

He stayed true to himself and silently addressed the blade: "How did he get you?"

Yamato can not answer. Real Yamato couldn’t fall into Mundus’ hands. It would rather stay with the body of its last master. And a fake one would immediately provoke the puppet-boy into attacking.

Dante never expected Yamato to respond with the same damn, painful, almost tender concern:

"Dare give your life to anyone but me, and I’ll hunt down your sinful soul and slice it piece by piece for eternity."

The portal opened wide.

Nero glanced back one last time.

And vanished.

Dante remained standing. His fingers trembled. But now, it wasn’t from fear.

Chapter Text

"How dare you choose him over your parent!"

"He has a name," Nero muttered, wincing at the smell.

"Names don't make sense."

"It might not for you Yamato... but you're talking to me, so be kind," Nero growled.

"I trusted you with the fate of my ward, and in return you squandered his last chance at salvation!"

"You said yourself that you don't know what happened after Dante defeated Vergil.

"It's not important, because..."

"It is important because Dante came to Fortune with Sparda! Which means that he also fought with Sparda against Mundus. And I held this sword in my hands, there is nothing to replace such power!

Yamato wisely remained silent.

"If I had sent him to Mundus unarmed, I would certainly have saved a father. But he would hate me for not protecting his brother for the rest of his life. And don't you dare tell him about it!" Nero hissed threateningly and almost slipped in the mud.

"Otherwise?"

"Otherwise, it will be your own fault that he will not be able to trust anyone."

Yamato didn't answer. Nero spat into the muddy muck and went further into the catacombs, trying to tread where it was drier. Yamato decided that it would be safest to wait here, away from Mundus' eyes. If Dante wins, the castle will start shaking, so they will immediately realize that it's time to leave. In the meantime, they can just wait here and not interfere.

"Like cowardly rats," Nero thought unhappily.

Nero wasn't an idiot. He tested his powers on Marionette and Blades. He realized that the local inferiors were no match for the demons of Mitis. These grew up and developed in a real hell. And even his awakened power hardly helps him keep up. Dante even had to help him out.

After all, Dante is fucking strong. Even now. If he hadn't exhausted that scorpion-spider-thing, Nero would probably have been crushed.

Therefore, he could not go further with Dante and help him. He would only get in the way and distract. Like a dead weight. But Dante's admiration was so pleasant! He really wanted to hear his praise just once more.

Nero sighed dreamily and turned into the right alcove.

Nelo Angelo was sitting cross-legged in the corner. As soon as Nero entered, he opened his red eyes and looked at him. Nero came closer and handed him the sword.

"The plans have changed a bit. We'll have to wait a bit."

"I have proclaimed aforetime that thine discourse transcends his feeble comprehension, descendant."

Nero rolled his eyes and ignored the comment.

Nelo Angelo tucked his legs under him, stretched out his arms and took the sword in a ritual manner. Placing it on his lap, he closed his eyes again and froze. Nero took a deep breath and began to look around. There was absolutely nothing to consider.

The usual alcove of the usual castle catacombs, except that it was much wetter here. The familiar musty atmosphere, plus mold and stink. He had seen exactly the same ones in Fortuna, although neater, despite the dust. And there, at the end, above the wall of the alcove, five runes were carved, which allowed the chosen ones to enter the secret vault of Sparda.

Nero randomly turned to the far wall and looked above the wall of the alcove.

Six fucking runes stared back at him.

Nero blinked.

The sound of stone on stone distracted him from his thoughts. Nero turned around at the sound. It was Nelo Angelo who was getting his attention. Nero nodded questioningly, but he just patted the dry spot next to him. Nero was surprised, but came over and plopped down next to him. Nelo held out the tip of the scabbard, clearly offering him to take it.

Nero chuckled, but stroked the golden tip of the scabbard and also closed his eyes.

"Your petition has been duly fulfilled."

"Thank you."

"Can it be that... no venom taints your regard for him?"

"To whom?"

Yamato visibly grimaced.

"To parent. To Vergil."

"Why should I hate him?"

"For the severed arm?"

"That's in the past."

"For the profane gift of your beloved's blood?"

"You said it wasn't him."

"And you believed me?"

Nero sighed. Demons and their suspicions.

"You saved my life three times, and my sanity once. I don't think there's anyone I trust more than you."

"The image of the Phantom," Yamato continued incongruously, "was also the essence of the nightmare. The one that V couldn't subdue. He banished him."

Nero nodded.

"Therefore, Vergil proved unable to reconcile himself with this particular facet of his journey."

Nero nodded again.

"This nightmare portrayed circumstances that wasn't meant to happen in this life."

"Wait," Nero grinned, "we still need to get out of here."

"Should our designs come to naught, your father... Vergil, he stand no longer unprotected. Thus, were he to arrive in Fortuna, none would dare confine him within their laboratories. Neither shall they presume to wield his armor, his might, nor his very essence for their profane experiments—to animate hollow shells nor defile mortal blood with demon ichor."

With each word, Nero grew colder and colder.

So it turns out that every Agnus creation Nero fought carried a piece of his father?

"In that selfsame hour when Vergil became aware your beloved carried your progeny, he entreated... Dante to aid him in Mundus' demise. They smote the demon lord, rived his essence asunder, and pillaged his dark puissance. However, Mundus surpassed them in guile. He used this nightmare to subjugate Vergil's mind, turn him against Fortune... against you."

Nero stopped breathing.

"But I wasn't lying. That blow was not inflicted by your father's will. Vergil, though tortured to the core, did not bow his head to temptation. Then Mundus, taking advantage of a moment of weakness, took over his physical shell. Vergil couldn't resist such an ancient demon."

There was an eerie silence. Only a drop of water dared to fall somewhere in the corridor.

"You've been with me all this time," Nero whispered, his voice hoarse with horror. "Why didn't you tell me Vergil was there?"

"I... didn't trust you."

Nero swallowed.

"I beseech you, with utmost contrition, to accept my sincerest apologies, Nero."

Nero sucked in a breath and hit the back of his head against the wall. Tears rolled to his eyes. All this could have been avoided. If only…

"I'm the one who has to apologize, Yamato. That I couldn't earn your trust." He closed his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

All this time, his father was suffering, and Nero, who could easily lend a helping hand, simply did not know.

An armored hand with incredible grace squeezed between the wall and the back of Nero's head. Gently but firmly, it pulled Nero towards. Nero did not resist. He just laid his head on Nelo Angelo's armored knees. And while the knight was monotonously fingering his hair, Nero allowed himself to shed meaningless tears.

The walls shuddered as if alive. Nero broke out of his slumber and collapsed into the murky water, which burned him with cold.

"Is it time to get out of here?" he threw into the void, but instead of answering, the ceiling creaked, cracked, and pieces of stone collapsed into the muck. And then, without a single grain of grace, Dante fell out of the hole.

"Are you kidding me?" Nero barely managed to dodge the flying debris when the six runes on that very vault glowed white. A portal opened in the wall—the damn gates of underworld!

"Oh, Nero, you're here too! And who's your frien..." Dante began, but froze as if thunderstruck. His gaze glared at the knight next to Nero, the one who was holding Yamato in his arms.

And then it happened. Something fell out of the portal. Not a form. Not a creature. A jumble of ichor, light, and stone that spread through the air as if space itself couldn't hold it.

"The gates are open, Dante. Now you have nowhere to go..." the voice pierced Nero's head like a blade, reverberating in his own vocal cords. It wasn't just a sound. It was a will. Someone else's will, oppressive, subjugating.

Mundus.

The true king of underworld.

Even thinking about him made Nero want to fall to knees.

But Yamato didn't let him break down. His scabbard suddenly lay across Nero's chest like a shield, keeping him from falling.

"That's false," the sword whispered in his head. "He's weaker than the other one you fought."

"Perfect fucking timing!" Nero barked, grabbing the scabbard that Nelo Angelo was holding standing right behind him. He could feel the rage rising inside him. "Do we have a plan?"

"We can win. Forever."

"How?"

"You are youth and frailty. I can borrow your full strength for now, yet this debt will demand settlement..."

"Come on!"

"You don't anderstand what you're choosing..."

"I trust you! Go!"

Yamato did not argue. It melted into a state of blue light and flowed into Nero's body.

"It feels like this form eats more than gives," he complained to Dante.
"Well, sort of," he snorted. "The Basic Trigger is just pure energy. Try hard, and can spend a whole week in it without exhaustion. Can't do the same trick when you in this mood."
"Wait, isn't this form is my Basic Trigger?"
"Nope. I call this form 'the bad guy goes out for a walk'."
"Don't you think it's too long?"
"Can you think of something more interesting, smartass?"
"Lots of options! Core Trigger, True Trigger, Full Trigger."
Dante's eyes narrowed. "Just shut up, wise guy. Anywey you're going to need a hell of a lot of training to do really cool things with your bad guy mood. But trust me, it's worth it."

He didn't feel any difference from having a Basic Trigger. He knew that there should be a difference, but here on the island, he seemed to have even become weaker. However, now…

Pain shot through every cell like red-hot needles. Nero grimaced and noticed his hands. The familiar armor, the familiar pattern, but something was wrong, fundamentally wrong. He wasn't glowing, he was smoldering from the inside, burning with his life. Fear... did not have time to penetrate the heart.

None of this is important. The important thing was that now Mundus' pressure couldn't reach him. The power of the sword... no, his own, native and familiar power returned and surrounded him with impenetrable hellish armor.

Nero spread his wings, and they burst into flames like two infernal torches. With a snap of his astral fists, he stepped forward.

"Shall we dance?" He grinned at Mundus.

In. Out.

Yamato disappeared to become a part of another, more worthy one. That's right. The pain of loss is not something that can be ignored, but now it is part of the path.

In. Out.

The former master swung his fist. Not at him. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't the target. It's a strange feeling.

In. Out.

Who is he hitting? Sworn enemy brother? He froze. Looks at him intently. What did he see? Oh, yeah.

In. Out.

The sworn brother must not die. Not now. He is needed to stop the former master. The young one is good, but still too inexperienced.

The fist is close. Need a solution!

Jackpot.

No way!

But there is no other solution.

He raises his hand, folds his fingers into a pistol. He shoots his brother.

In. Out.

That annoying grin again. The desire to erase it flares up almost automatically. The fist crashes in. Enrages. He's the one who should have hit! Only he has the right to beat his brother!

Brother... escapes unharmed. That's the main thing.

The sword flies at him. Misses by a hair's breadth. No. A brother never misses. This is intentional.

Trust.

How strange it feels to feel it again. It cuts through memories — with a burn, a blade — and at the same time warms. Yamato is now in the hands of a young one. The young one trusted his brother. And brother trusted him.

He takes the sword.

Breath in. Exhale.

The pain is like a flash, like a discharge. It's not real. It's body remembers what it means to be alive. The armor cracks, breaks, and lets go.

The scream escapes by itself. The demon inside explodes with power and rage. Finally!

He's Vergil. And now he's going to take revenge.

Jerk. Hit. Mundus's head is pierced. It's just buying time for a plan.

"You," he says to the young one, "you have the Yamato. Close the portal."

He nods. Good.

"You," he grins at his brother, "stand there and watch."

Will it work?

A grin in response: "Why don't you go fuck yourself, brother?"

The demon inside his brother accepted the challenge. Pleasantly feeling deep inside. Very good.

They're distracting Mundus. The young one is busy with the portal. When the portal closes, finish off the bastard.

And now it's payback time. This scum will be responsible for everything.

Сan use his skills to the maximum. To show off. Let brother watch. Let him see. Because... He was missed. Yes, his missed him. Who would have thought?

And it's like this scene was created for the two of them.

Once upon a time, two brothers in everything but common blood fought in the same way against the Demonic God, whose name is Pluto. No one remembers it alive.

Mundus and Sparda squabbled with the elder, eager to take over the power of Pluto. But it wasn't about the throne of the underworld. It was about an endless source of demonic power. Pluto created a spear and split the single world in two. The spear is a source of unfathomable power, but only for him.

Mundus was stupid. He thought he'll kill and the source will belong to him. But somehow not so. The spear, and with it the source, did not obey. As a result, the source became useless.

But Mundus is stubborn. The ingenious plan is to destroy the spear and build a new one in its place — his own. However, to do this, it is necessary to unite the two worlds for an indefinite period of time.

Oh, how treacherous Pluto was! For at the moment when Mundus was ready to take the last step, the legacy of Pluto awoke in Sparda. More precisely, his curse is that Sparda became infatuated with an irresistible love for people. And all Mundus needed was to talk. If he had promised to give Sparda the whole human world—he could have done anything for Sparda—everything could have been different.

But Mundus got angry. A subordinate dared to resist, and even for the sake of pitiful people?!

A war broke out, and Mundus lost, suffering irreparable losses—his pride and his brother. And then the son fell into his hands. And hatred towards people flared up with renewed vigor.

Now it's a new round. He's in Mundus' place. But he is not a Mundus. He got the gist of it.

Yamato knew. Told him when he hadn't fully returned yet. The vicious circle can be broken. The main thing is to be able to speak.

Vergil was prepared by Fate itself. It tested him, taught him, broke him, created something that would certainly be able to speak.

And how ironic—in the end, it wasn't him who decided anyway. Dante. Brother. The sworn cursed enemy. Made a choice. He handed over the sword.

Vergil almost hates him for it.

Sometimes he regrets that he was born first. If it had been the other way around, it could have been different.

But the young one is slow.

He seizes the moment during the battle. Flies towards him and freezes.

The portal is open. The runes are powered by the Mundus. The young one is exhausted, trying to break them.

It's not good, but... he's strangely happy. After all, there is still a job for him.

He rushes into the portal.

"Stop!" a shout from a young one.

Turning around, he sees a hand outstretched to him.

Familiar and yet completely different. He no longer wants to refuse, but he has to. For the sake of variety, not out of foolishness.

A sentimental fool in front of him... went down to hell for him.

Vergil exhales.

"You know it's necessary."

"Then I'll go!"

Heart rebelled. But mind immediately calmed down. The young one is just worried. But why?

"Hey, Vergil. Here we are, finally meeting."
"Please, Vergil, don’t die. I need you. I promise I’ll get you out of here; just hold on a little longer, okay?"

There are no hints in the fragments. He doesn't know this young one. But young one obviously knows him. Agrh! There is no time! Need to act now!

"I promise I won't die."

In response, teeth. Than not it.

"I'll be back."

Weeping. Is he crying? Because of him? It's absurd. No one is crying for him!

But the words: "I'll be waiting, father."

White noise. A flash of awareness. Son…

Blast it!

He rushes into the portal.

Finds the source of the connection. He drives in Sparda. Spills out everything: rage, shame, pain. Why does he have a son? Why was Maria silent? He could sense that her scent had changed.… Why didn't he ask?

And the young one... assembled Yamato, came for him, convinced Dante. He'd only seen him for a few hours, and he was already so proud!

He is unworthy of such an heir.

But he has to become.

The source is cracked. The runes are cut off. Mundus was dragged into the human world. The portal has closed.

Vergil is standing in the hall. The minions of Mundus are all around. A mob of murderers.

Breath...

Exhale…

And everything is in this exhale. The fire of pain, the bitterness of guilt, the salty taste of hope and goddamn trust. He doesn't know if he can get out. He doesn't know if he'll survive at all.

But he knows exactly why.

Dante and Yamato will handle it, protect his son. If not, he'll come back and kill them both.

In the meantime, the demon inside is seething quite a bit, wrapping itself around the consciousness in familiar rings.

Son is waiting.

And he'll be back.

Let it be so.

Rewrite six runes? With his new power, and with Yamato's help? Easy peasy!.. he wanted to say.

In fact, as soon as Mundus was completely on this side, and the sequence worked, Nero was sucked dry. He thought he was going to die right there. It's not such a bad ending if Dante manages to kill the bastard. If not? Well, at least Fortune has a better chance of survival than last time.

Ah, fuck, he forgot that Fortune was also battered. Well, okey. By the time Mundus gets there, they will have recovered. So that's it, can die with a clear conscience.

"By all the laws of hell, I shall forestall this tragedy..."

"Yamato, leave me alone. I'm tired."

"...otherwise, your parent will grind me to powder."

"Why would he? You're his favorite sword."

"And you're his heir."

"Big deal, he'll make another one."

"There is no other you."

Nero was tired of arguing. He exhaled the last shreds of consciousness. And at that moment, Yamato finished performing his subtle devilish magic.

Therefore, he was very surprised when he opened his eyes the next time and found himself on someone's lap, while he was mercilessly shaking and rocking.

He moaned in displeasure.

"Quietly, boy. Everything is fine. You are safe," a familiar female voice whispered to him.

So he relaxed again and fell asleep.

The next time he opened his eyes, he was lying on a red leather sofa, covered by a red leather coat with one of the most pleasant smells he had ever smelled. I didn't want to get up, especially to leave such a safe cocoon, but I wanted to eat more.

But as soon as he raised himself on his elbow, he was immediately called.

"Oh, kid, you're awake! How are you feeling?"

He drew attention to the tall, impetuous man and blurted out indignantly: "Who the hell are you?"

Chapter Text

"I’m short on time, so let’s cut to the chase," Saxoniya blurted out in one breath. J.D. wasn’t fond of working with her—she took an unrealistically high percentage even by his standards and always set the bar sky-high for her work. In Red Grave City, only Lady could hold her own against Saxoniya, but Lady had her own preferred sources, so the two women rarely graced each other with their presence.

"And a lovely hello to you too, darling. You’re looking fantastic," he raised his glass, "did you change your hairstyle?"

Saxoniya arched an eyebrow. J.D. kept staring right back. And honestly, there was plenty to look at. Despite her age—whatever it was—Saxoniya looked stunning. He was about fifteen years younger—though he didn’t know her exact age and could only guess—but if her personality were even slightly easier, he might’ve made a move on her.

"Hell with you," she pulled out a chair and sat down. "Spit it out quickly. I need to organize my husband’s funeral and a search-and-rescue operation for my grandson, and both require time and money, so don’t drag this out."

J.D. blinked. "My condolences?" he offered uncertainly. This was news to him. He had no idea she’d been married. Then again, why not?

"Don’t bother—we’ve been divorced for ages. That old fart clearly overstayed his welcome on this earth; now he can finally rest."

J.D. frowned.

"Don’t give me that look. There was a seventeen-year age gap between us."

J.D.’s eyes widened as he stared at her.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I was young and stupid. Stop gawking and get to the point."

"I’ve got this guy. He’s having money troubles, but he begged me to dig up some info for him."

"Your Tony, right?"

"The one and only," J.D. sighed.

"He’s a pain to work with. And I don’t just hand out information for free."

"I know, which is why I’m asking you to find something worthwhile."

Saxoniya sighed. "Fine, I’ve got a couple of gates that could use a visit. What kind of info are we talking about here?"

"Two minutes," J.D. pleaded, "he’s about to show up. He’ll explain everything himself."

"You did this on purpose, didn’t you?" Saxoniya groaned dramatically.

"No, honestly, I’m making your job easier. It’s nearly impossible to get ahold of him or pry the necessary info out of him."

"That’s why I don’t deal with problematic clients."

"And that’s a mistake—they’ve got things to offer too."

"Like what?"

At that moment, Dante burst into the bar. Out of breath, he plopped onto the stool next to them without taking off his coat and chugged the rest of J.D.’s beer in one go. No big deal—he’d just deduct it from his next payment.

"This your contact?" Dante asked, nodding toward Saxoniya.

"Yeah. Saxoniya, meet Tony. Tony, Saxoniya."

"Eah, cool, whatever. I’ve got a little punk at my place who’s lost his memory, and I urgently need two things: food and clothes for him."

J.D. frowned. "I thought you needed information."

"Screw it; I’ll figure it out somehow. The most important thing right now is to take care of the kid."

"Guess that means I’m not needed here."

"Wait, what about the job?" Dante protested.

"I know your methods, Tony. They don’t suit me. That’s it, I’m out. I’ve got my own little punk waiting for me." She stood up from the table. "Don’t bother seeing me off."

"Not even gonna ask for help?" Dante offered. "I’ll charge ya cheap!"

"And are you any good at finding kids?" Saxoniya shot back.

"Well, I recently found a nephew."

"You have a nephew?" J.D. said, surprised.

"Trust me, I’m as shocked as you are!"

Saxoniya pulled an expensive cell phone out of her bag—a fancy gadget capable of sending texts and voice messages wirelessly. She read something on the small screen, frowned, and suddenly looked up at Dante. "I’ll offer you a job at a discounted rate if you show me your punk."

Dante frowned and glanced at J.D.. J.D. nodded. Saxoniya might be difficult, but she never dealt with bad people. There was no need to worry about the kid.

"Alright, let’s go," Dante sighed.

"Nero, I’m home!" Dante announced, pushing aside the door he’d propped up by the entrance. What could he do? The hinges had been torn clean off, and the doorframe was charred—thanks to Trish’s dramatic arrival.

"What happened here?" Saxoniya asked, surprised.

"Demons," Dante shrugged.

"Dante, you’re back!" Nero came running out of the bedroom toward him. Barefoot because his shoes were long gone, wearing one of Dante’s stretched-out T-shirts and miraculously intact shorts after all the chaos. He wanted to run into Dante’s arms but froze when he saw Saxoniya.

"Hi, Nero," Saxoniya waved cheerfully. "That is your name, right?"

"Dante, who’s this crone?"

Dante winced. "Kid, it’s not polite to call people names," he said as he walked further into the charred office, letting Nero hide behind him.

"So how am I supposed to address her if she’s an crone?" Nero muttered, eyeing their guest warily from behind the edge of Dante’s coat.

"Lady or ma’am, for instance."

"But she doesn’t look like a lady or a ma’am."

"To me, she looks perfectly fine."

"You’ve got weird taste," Nero muttered.

"You’ll understand when you’re older," Dante chuckled, ruffling the boy’s pale head. Then he turned to Saxoniya. "Satisfied? Shall we talk business?"

But Saxoniya wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the little boy who was hiding behind Dante. And Dante didn’t like the look in her eyes one bit. "Nero, you’re from Fortuna, right?"

Nero flinched. What? He hadn’t told Dante that.

"Nero," Saxoniya crouched down to meet him at eye level, "you do know you still have family back there? Your mother misses you."

Nero clutched Dante’s coat tighter. What the hell was going on? How did this woman know about him?

"I’m sorry, but—"

"Shut your trap, Dante," she drawled, "before I decide to take it out on you for someone asshole brother knocking up some poor girl and bailing without even popping the question."

Alright, so this was his very pissed-off almost-mother-in-law. Thanks a lot, bro, really came through!

"To be fair, I had no idea."

"And if you had known, what would’ve changed?"

Was she serious? Of course, it would’ve changed things! It would’ve changed a hell of a lot!

Dante exhaled his frustration and turned back to Nero. This crone might’ve had a point, though. "Hey, kid. You wanna go back to your mom?"

Nero only gripped Dante’s coat tighter. His forehead pressed into Dante’s side. "Please, don’t kick me out," he whispered, barely audible.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa, no one’s kicking you out," Dante soothed in the gentlest voice he could muster. "If you don’t want to, it’s fine. You can stay here."

"He can’t."

Dante shot the woman a glare, signaling her to shut up. He was talking to a child, for crying out loud. "You can stay here as long as you want. No one will dare take you away," he said in a double tone meant to intimidate Saxoniya, but to his surprise, it seemed to calm the boy instead. "But I think your mom deserves to know what happened. She’s worried sick."

Nero sighed. "I told them not to worry. I’ll come back when I can."

Dante raised an eyebrow in surprise. His hand, buried in Nero’s hair, prompted the boy to look up.

"Really?"

"Sanctus and Alberto know," Nero nodded.

Dante turned back to Saxoniya and raised an eyebrow pointedly.

"There were casualties. They might not have survived the attack to tell anyone."

Nero clenched his fists tighter, the leather of the coat groaning under the strain.

"And you’re planning to send a kid there?" Dante clarified.

"The danger has passed. All the demons are done."

Dante snorted and ran his hand through Nero’s hair again, trying to soothe the boy even a little.

"Clearly, the kid doesn’t want to go."

Saxoniya sighed. The power wasn’t on her side. "Nero, can I at least know why?"

Nero took a deep breath and then started mumbling into Dante’s coat. "Right now, I’m… sick. I’m not who they think I am. And…" He sucked in a sharp breath, "I’m the strongest one there."

Dante’s heart broke with every word.

Damn, what kind of life had this kid lived? Dante knew what it was like to be the strongest, but when you’re ten—just turned a couple months ago—and an entire city depends on you? He got it. When you're the strongest, you're the last line between death and everyone else.

"But I don’t wanna be a burden," he looked up at Dante with pleading eyes. "If you tell me to go, I’ll leave."

"You're not a burden, Nero." Dante forced a smile, lightly flicking the boy’s nose. "I already said you can stay as long as you want. I’d be happy to have you."

"Really?"

"Really-really," Dante grinned even wider. Honestly, the smile felt strained. He didn’t know how to be a "responsible adult." He could kill a demon, sure—but this? This was something far more complicated.

And then he glanced back at Saxoniya. To his surprise, the woman looked genuinely upset.

"I won’t take you away, Nero," she straightened to her full height, "but I won’t let you live in this pigsty either."

"Hey!" Dante protested while Nero tried to melt into his coat. "You think I’m letting you take him?"

Saxoniya gave him a serious look. Dante have backed down... if it was before Mallet. He wouldn’t usually pick a fight with someone serious—why bother with that kind of trouble? But this—damn it, this was his kid. He needed his protection, his care. Dante tore Mundus apart for him. This woman was just a light snack.

"Fine. I see you’re not backing down."

Dante only now realized he’d been growling.

"Alright. Tomorrow, my people will come here to clean up. They’ll also bring clothes for the boy and enough food to last a week. I’ll handle the paperwork and get him enrolled in school."

"No school!" Nero suddenly protested.

"Nero," Dante insisted, "trust me, this is a good offer. School is important."

"I didn’t go to school in Fortuna!"

Dante frowned and looked at Saxoniya. But she was frowning right back at Nero.

"I passed the elementary school exam externally!"

"But you’re ten now," Saxoniya reminded him. "It’s time for middle school."

"It’s not!" Nero shot back. "The vicar said he handled everything with the school."

"You were taken on as a squire?" Saxoniya asked, surprised.

"No," Nero grimaced. "That would’ve been stupid since I’m stronger than any knight, but still too young for official enrollment."

Dante’s head spun. What the hell was this about squires and knights? Were they stuck in medieval times over there in Fortuna?

"I already know the entire middle school curriculum. It’d be boring."

"Oh yeah?" Saxoniya raised an eyebrow slyly. "What’s the logarithm of four with base two?"

"Two," Nero grumbled.

"Lucky guess," Saxoniya snorted.

"The same answer applies to the logarithm of sixteen with base four, and forty-nine with base seven. I can keep going indefinitely—by the way, that’s high school math."

Saxoniya chuckled in surprise. "Alright, what about literature?"

"Do you want me to summarize all seven volumes of the Sparda legends, or should I list my favorite mainland writers?"

"Favorite and least favorite poetry?"

"Hmm, Whitman and García Lorca."

"García Lorca?"

"What? I read him when I was learning Spanish."

Saxoniya frowned and took a step back, only to lunge again with another question. "Fine. Biology?"

Nero pulled a couple of demonic bullets from his ethereal space.
"Hell mushrooms mostly reproduce via spores or budding. Although the mycelium can infect reproductive organs, it still spreads primarily through tissue damage. Stingteeth leeches are hermaphrodites. The entire process, from finding a partner to hatching the first eggs, takes about a month. This process can be accelerated using runes."

"Human biology."

"The human skeleton consists of 206 bones. Mine has 208 because I have a couple of extra segments in my tailbone."

It was Dante’s turn to look surprised.

"And how did you figure that out?"

Nero simply shrugged.

"Should I continue?" he asked Saxoniya.

"Physics?"

"These bullets reduce volume within a certain radius, which increases pressure and temperature. As a result, internal organs boil and explode—if they hit a demon, of course." Nero hastily shoved the bullets back into the ethereal space. "Pure thermodynamics."

"What about practical sciences?"

"Such as?"

"Financial literacy?"

Dante grimaced. That was clearly a jab at him.

"Well, I don’t earn money myself, but if uncle Dante trusted me with his finances, we’d always have enough for bills and monthly expenses like food and toilet paper. If anything’s left over, I’d save part of it. I don’t know what to invest in around Red Grave City, but at least I’d open a bank account and put the money into savings. The rest would go toward planned purchases and pocket money."

Dante and Saxoniya exchanged astonished glances.

"I think the kid and I will manage just fine."

"Yeah, I think so too," sighed the woman. "Alright, no school. Back to the main point. My guys will handle the repairs, food—"

"Documents," Dante reminded her, since he was trying—at least a little—to be a responsible adult.

"Documents," Saxoniya nodded. "And your ass is mine for the next six months of work."

Dante’s eyes widened, but Nero beat him to protesting.

"Three months, but you get both of us."

"Not a chance I’m letting you work, kid," Saxoniya shot back.

"On this, I agree with her, kid."

"Even if you killed Mundus, I’d still be safer with you. Doesn’t matter if it’s on the job or at home," Nero shrugged. "And even if you try to leave me behind, I’ll just keep trying to follow you anyway."

"At least you’re honest," Dante sighed and turned to Saxoniya, who for some reason was openly staring at him. "What?"

"You killed Mundus?!"

Dante shot an annoyed look at Nero. "That was supposed to be a secret, you little blabbermouth."

Nero just shrugged silently.

"What about your whole ‘not wanting to be strong’ thing?"

"I do want to be strong," Nero grimaced. "I just don’t want to be the strongest. And if you leave me here, I’ll end up being the strongest up here." He turned a pleading look toward Saxoniya. "I won’t get in the way, I swear! I can kill demons too—I’m small but tough. I didn’t wreck a single building back in Fortuna!"

Dante winced at yet another dig.

Saxoniya sighed and rubbed her temples. "My clients will kill me if I bring a kid to the gates."

"Gates?" Dante frowned.

"Yeah, a week ago, hellgates started popping up all over the world. Nothing major, but still annoying. There aren’t many sealers out there, so we need containment teams and rapid response squads."

"I can seal gates!" Nero raised his hand eagerly.

Both Dante and Saxoniya whipped their heads toward the now-shrinking Nero.

"Well, it makes sense—you’ve got Yamato. You sure you can handle it?"

"I don’t have to handle anything," Nero grimaced. "It handles itself just fine. I just need to show up."

"Alright," Saxoniya sighed. "My crew will handle the repairs. Food. Documents. And tomorrow, a car will pick you two up to see what you’re capable of. If everything checks out, you’ll both be under my command for the next three months."

"Works for me. Kid?"

"I’d like to see the contract first," he added awkwardly. "But overall, I’m not against it."

Saxoniya narrowed her eyes. "I like your spunk, Nero. I’ll drop by with the contract in a week. Now, if you’ll excuse me," she turned and squeezed past the propped-up door.

Dante was left alone with Nero clinging to him.

"Are you hungry?"

Nero nodded and clutched Dante’s coat tighter.

Maria picked up the phone on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, sweetheart."

"Mom! Any news?"

"Of course there’s news," Saxoniya smiled. "I am the best informant in this part of the continent, after all! I found your boy. He’s safe."

"Praise Sparda. Finally, some good news! Are you bringing him to the funeral?"

"No."

"Shame. Nero loved dad. He’ll be sad he couldn’t say goodbye. Then afterward?"

"No, Maria, I’m not planning to bring him back anytime soon."

"What?"

"Sweetheart, tell me honestly—if I bring him back now, what’s waiting for him?"

Maria didn’t answer right away.

"Mom, he’s just a little boy in a big unfamiliar city with, forgive me, a scary stranger woman. Do you really think…"

"Honey, that’s not what I asked," Saxoniya cut off her rant.

"Do you think I don’t have the strength to protect him?"

"Does he need protecting?"

The silence spoke louder than a thousand words.

"Maria, once I let you return to that demon-worshipping sect. I hated myself for that decision for a very long time, but I still believe it was the right call. Because at that moment, it wasn’t about my wants or needs. You’re a mother, which is why I’m still so conflicted, and I can understand your desire to keep your child close. But you’re a mother, Maria."

Maria sighed. "I… I understand."

"Good," Saxoniya nodded. "And don’t worry. He’s not living with me; he’s staying with his uncle. Did you know that man had a brother?"

"Oh, yes, I… Nero told me about him. His brother, Dante. A twin, actually, so you could say you’ve seen roughly what my… Vergil looked like."

"Wow! Well, anyway, Nero’s staying with him. The kid’s young and inexperienced, but with your son around, he’ll be fine."

"Uh… did you mean with his uncle?"

"No, sweetheart, it’s exactly as I said. I’ll handle the details. By the way, did Arde really let Nero skip school?"

"Are you kidding?" Maria snorted. "Nero helped Agnus develop weapons. And that man, mind you, has two advanced degrees."

"Alright, then that issue’s settled. Now, Fortuna. Do you need help dealing with that bastard?"

"As much as I’d love to say 'yes,' no. I… I need to handle this on my own."

"You don’t have to, dear."

"I do, mom. Dad did everything to make things easier for me. I just… I miss him so much."

"I know, sweetheart. I’ll hug you for all the missed holidays."

Maria smirked.

"Dad would be proud that he managed to get you to visit Fortuna."

"Don’t flatter to him. I’m doing this for you."

"If you say so," Maria chuckled.

"By the way, Nero mentioned someone named Alberto."

"Yes, he’s one of the knights. He’s… injured, might have to leave service, but his life isn’t in danger right now. Actually, thanks to him and Nero's friend, I found out that Nero’s alive."

"So Sanctus didn’t mention any of this?"

"How did you…"

"Nero told me. And judging by your reaction, he did."

"You know, when he tells me not to worry about my son, it makes me worry even more."

"I can understand that," Saxoniya snorted with a smirk. "Still..."

"Yeah, he told me. Which is exactly why I don’t need help dealing with him."

"Has he already been chosen?"

"No. The vote’s been postponed until after the funeral. Fortuna’s in mourning right now. But I have no doubt they’ll choose him. There’s no one else."

"And how is it that he survived while Arde didn’t?"

Maria sighed but didn’t answer.

"Do you know something about this?"

"I… I want to figure it out myself."

"If anything happens..."

"Yeah, yeah, you’ll send a squad of thugs to Fortuna, and they’ll take care of that bastard. I know, mom, thanks for your concern. But tell me, when are you coming?"

"In a couple of days. I’ll arrive as early as I can. By the way, do you think I can come dressed casually, or will I have to squeeze into my old dress?.."

Chapter Text

He tapped his brand-new boots together. He’d never ridden in a car before, so the experience itself felt strange. But once he got bored of staring at the monotonous scenery outside the window, he stretched his legs and tried to occupy himself with something—anything.

The clothes felt nice against his skin, soft, just like the ones his mom had given him. They didn’t smell like him or Dante yet, though. No matter—if today’s outing didn’t fix things, he’d ask to crawl back into Dante’s bed. That would solve the problem.

Of course, that meant accepting the presence of another demon in the house—someone had to take the couch.

Mundus’s puppet, calling herself Trish, kept hanging around Dante’s agency, leaving her scent everywhere. He didn’t like it, but to avoid drawing suspicion, he simply endured her.

Yes, he had a little secret.

There was one thing only Devil's Arms forged from scratch and the demonic halves of hybrids knew about. The former by right of their creation, and the latter after their first death.

Humans were runes. Well, more accurately, sequences of runes. Long, complex ones, but most importantly—charged with pure power. That’s why a demon who devoured a human grew stronger: it absorbed the energy that had previously sustained a sequence far beyond that demon’s capabilities. That’s also why humans couldn’t create runes on their own—their entire strength was dedicated to maintaining their own intricate structure. Hybrids, after their deaths, released the power sealed within their human halves. And only the demon inside a hybrid could resurrect its human side by sealing part of its own power with a runic—true—name.

Yamato had helped Nero unlock that power, direct it, and, evidently, burn through it. That should’ve been the end of it. But Nero was more human than demon, and humans had a way of growing and evolving. Their potential wasn’t limited by anything except their own efforts. Their true names grew with age too. So all he needed to do was wait for the power to recover enough for him to write Nero’s true name. Though, there was a catch.

Nero had been stronger than a regular human infant since birth. It might take a bit longer than it would in other cases. But that was fine. He’d wait. In the meantime, he’d take control of their life into his own hands. He’d play the role of the beloved uncle’s child, indulge himself while he could, and do his best not to ruin Nero’s life. After all, they were two parts of a whole, and he didn’t wish harm upon himself.

But he wasn’t Nero. And there were a few things he wanted to do for himself.

First—his name. He wasn’t entitled to a true name by birthright. But he’d picked a formal one. Simple, but clear. He decided to call himself Oren.

"We’re here," the driver announced, pulling the car to a stop.

Dante, who had been silent the entire ride, pretended to wake up with a loud stretch and lazily climbed out of the car.

That woman, who had suddenly taken it upon herself to secure their livelihood, said this was the location of the smallest gate in Red Grave City. The distrust of Oren’s abilities was infuriating, but he could understand. He was just a little boy, and this woman wasn’t from Fortuna—she didn’t know his true strength. Besides, Oren wasn’t an idiot. Though he didn’t quite grasp interpersonal relationships, he had access to all of Nero’s memories from the past ten years—except for what happened on Mallet Island. He’d figure it out somehow. And if push came to shove, he could always blame it on his youth or Dante. After all, Dante was the senior demon, and Oren was his ward. Dante had defended him countless times, which only reinforced the idea that you can’t fight instincts.

They entered an old, abandoned building that had once been a multi-story apartment complex but now barely qualified as a shelter for vagrants. Still, the apartment they were led to had a certain charm that stood out from the overall atmosphere of decay. Old furniture, a painting in the corner, faded heavy curtains, a couple of books on a coffee table with carved legs. There was nothing here except the smell of mold, but his guardian grew uneasy.

Not the way humans get uneasy, of course. He looked bored, but every fiber of his being was inspecting, feeling, and sniffing out the room. Understandably so—there was a tiny portal to the demon world embedded in the apartment wall. It was minuscule, barely big enough for some parasite, but it had been there for a week. Who knew what kind of patient creature might have slipped through by now? And though Oren hadn’t lied about his current limitations, he couldn’t even use the Blood Widow right now. His limit was a couple of runes. Yes, a young human boy had killed the first guardian when he only knew a few runes, but vigilance was key—you could never let your guard down.

A man in glasses greeted them. He was jotting down some calculations in a notebook and didn’t even look up to acknowledge their presence.

"I’m Weiss. This is the portal. Do you know the safety protocols?"

"Yes," Oren lied and immediately stepped closer to the portal.

"Hey, are you out of your mind?" Weiss grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him away from the portal. "The tiniest thing from the other side could kill you." He turned to Dante. "And you—keep an eye on your kid!"

"How am I supposed to close it if you won’t let me near it?" Oren asked bluntly, glaring at the hand on his shoulder.

"Not funny, kid. Hey, you!" Weiss called out to Dante again.

"Don’t look at me," Dante shrugged. "He’s the portal expert here." He nodded toward Oren.

Weiss turned back to Oren and frowned at him.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

Oren was getting irritated by the hand still gripping his shoulder. But since people didn’t like having their fingers broken or being bitten, he briefly allowed his true face to surface. Weiss, startled, plopped onto his rear and scrambled backward. When Dante shot Oren a questioning look, he had already shifted back to looking like Nero.

"Legs giving out from exhaustion? Go lie down over there. I’ll handle things for now."

Muttering curses under his breath, Weiss got up, sat on an antique sofa in the corner, and went back to scribbling notes.

"They let all sorts of rich kids in here, and I’m the one stuck cleaning up after them."

"Rich kids?" Oren asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, spoiled brats. Like it’s some big deal—a portal to hell. And then they kick the bucket."

"How does that happen?"

"One guy leans in to peek through it like a peephole, and bam—he gets skewered from the other side. Brain splatter everywhere. Another guy sniffs the fumes, catches some unknown virus, and drops dead a week later. Then there’s the third idiot who got bitten by a parasite and has been shitting his guts out ever since."

"Damn, that’s intense," Oren said, genuinely impressed. "So how do you close it if you can’t even get near it?"

"Well, specialists manage to close them somehow."

"How?"

Weiss sighed, tearing himself away from his notes.

"Different ways. Some use magical rituals, others rely on artifacts. One guy, for instance, uses them to charge his batteries. Says it’s pure physics, but I think he’s bullshitting and using runes."

"Runes, huh," Oren gritted his teeth. Damn right—some bastard had been stealing his power to charge some stupid batteries. Find him and rip his hands off, send a message that thievery doesn’t pay!

"Yeah, Runes," Weiss clarified. "Know anything about them?"

Oren snorted.

"Do I know?" he smirked, stepping closer to the portal while avoiding the dangers Weiss had pointed out. Not that something as primitive as hellish lung mold or another Mephisto’s sting could affect Oren. Still, he was weak now—better safe than sorry. "I grew up in a sect founded on belief in a demon god. They taught me runes almost before the alphabet. And if I messed up, they’d beat me or take someone from my family. First, they took my dad. Since then, I’ve memorized every rune and know the exact translations for pairs and triplets."

Judging by everything, this was indeed an incredibly weak gate—just three, maybe four runes. But no matter how you looked at it, Oren’s current strength wasn’t enough to close it. He needed something stronger, like…

"Uncle, how many runes can you write?" Oren turned to Dante, catching Weiss’s stunned expression out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, if you give me the runic alphabet, I can list all of them," Dante chuckled mockingly, his voice faintly doubling, a subtle sign of the demon within. Oren liked that. His protector was watching over him. But Oren frowned. Dante should have understood what he was getting at—he couldn’t not understand—but still.

Then Oren glanced back at Weiss, who was nervously shifting his gaze between them. Oh, stupid Oren! Dante didn’t want to reveal himself to some outsider. This Weiss probably didn’t even know half-breeds existed—he’d only stir up unnecessary noise. Fine, next time Oren would be more careful, dropping hints or speaking privately.

"And how many do you remember?"

"Hmm, let me think." He started counting on his fingers. "Five, six... hmm, seven. No, eight! I can't remember more, even if you threaten me with death."

Oren stared at Dante in astonishment. He could handle writing eight runes in a row! No wonder his uncle had managed to kill Mundus. Sparda himself sealed the passage between the human world and the demon realm with seven runes. Eight was an even stronger sequence. Dante truly was something else! He could easily lend Oren the power of three runes to seal the gate. But… they needed to get rid of Weiss first.

"How is it that you’re related, but one of you knows all the runes, and the other barely remembers eight?" Weiss asked anxiously.

"Well, you see, while one of us was being forced to read books, the other was busy smashing demons," Dante rumbled. "Guess which one had more fun?"

Weiss grimaced.

"By the way, Wis…"

"Weiss."

"Yeah, whatever. I just remembered I left some portal-closing equipment downstairs. Could you go grab it?"

"Do I look like a pack mule to you?"

"Quickly," Dante said in two voices, his eyes flashing red for just a moment.

Weiss bolted like the wind.

Dante lazily approached Oren and wrapped his arms around him from behind.

"Is that true? What you said about Fortuna?" he growled.

"Yeah," Oren shrugged. "Though the only one forcing me was my fear of Mundus."

Dante exhaled, the pleasant vibration of demonic energy fading, leaving behind nothing more than a human embrace.

"You’re safe now."

"Mhm," Oren smiled, touched by such care. Then he grabbed one of Dante’s hands and sank his teeth into it.

"Shit!" Dante yanked his hand back. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Borrowing a bit of power," Oren wiped the blood from his lips and drew a three-rune sequence directly above the portal. After a moment’s thought, he added one more rune. No sense wasting borrowed strength unnecessarily.

Yamato was too lazy to materialize, so it lent its power to Oren’s astral claws instead. A single swipe, and in the next moment, the portal dissolved, its supporting runes flowing into Nero's body and slotting into place like the missing piece of a puzzle.

"Hmm, interesting," Dante commented.

"Do you really know what you're doing, or are you just pretending to be smart?" Dante leaned on the back of the chair behind Nero, who was reading through the contract, flipping page after page.

"It’s honestly no harder than interpreting Runrs. Try it," Nero handed him the papers, "you might actually enjoy it."

"No thanks. I’m allergic to paperwork."

"I noticed," Nero snorted, returning to his reading.

Saxoniya lounged on the couch, occasionally sipping coffee from a shiny new set. Yeah, Dante now had a tea set—or two—and coffee. He was fine without them, but damn, Jack with coffee was a game-changer.

His agency had really stepped up its game. Dante had always been content with how things were, but this crone’s crew knew their stuff. They kept that signature chaotic charm while making the clutter fit seamlessly into the decor, all while creating an air of professionalism. Hell, this place wasn’t just suitable for some punk kid—his old man would feel right at home here. And Vergil had been a snob since he was eight.

Trish loved it too. She’d already claimed one of the newly furnished rooms. Dante didn’t mind. It was tough for a young demon in the human world, so at least he could keep an eye on her. Though because of that, there wasn’t a room left for Nero. But the kid preferred sleeping curled up with Dante anyway. Weird as hell if you asked him, but everyone seemed cool with it, and Dante was used to oddities in his life.

"Seriously?" Nero glanced up at the crone. "No, ownership stays with Dante," he said, crossing out a clause with a pen.

"I had to check," Saxoniya grinned unapologetically.

"The same goes for permission to alter the interior." Nero crossed out another clause.

"What?" Dante frowned.

"It’s more profitable than it seems," Saxoniya raised her cup. "Any fight inside, and you won’t have to pay for repairs."

"But then there’s a ton of unauthorized listening or spying devices, plus we can’t use runes for protection."

Saxoniya grimaced.

"You don’t have a pet demon in the basement willing to lend you their blood."

"Guess mom didn’t tell you whose grandson I am," Nero nodded. "Alright, I won’t say either."

Dante winced. The kid talked way too much for his own good.

"And you think your connection to Arde will help you get their precious artifacts?"

Dante sighed and headed to pour himself some Jack with coffee.

"That’s none of your business, ma'am."

"Saxoniya," she waved him off. "And don’t you dare call me grandma, brat. I’m way too young for that."

"Wasn’t even considering it. Alright, everything else looks good. I’m ready to sign."

"Sign what?" The front door opened.

"Oh, Morrison! How’s life treating you?"

Morrison took off his hat and scrutinized the interior.

"I see you and Saxoniya have found common ground."

"I had nothing to do with it. All the kid’s doing. Want some coffee?"

Morrison’s eyes widened, and he let out an intrigued hum.

"Yes, I'd like one."

"Come here," Saxoniya beckoned Nero over. "Let’s sign documents, and I’ll be on my way."

"What kind of documents are you talking about?" Morrison clarified, hanging up his hat.

"A three-month-and-two-week slave collar," Nero double-checked the papers. "Pretty decent deal, considering how often people come to Dante with job offers."

"I’m not to blame that there’s so little interesting work in the world," Dante shrugged.

"Hmm… Dante… does this slave collar forbid you from working for other brokers?"

Nero flipped through the papers again.

"Not officially, as long as it doesn’t interfere with our main employer."

"And are there any clarifications on that?" Morrison approached the bar counter and picked up a coffee mug. Dante gave him a questioning glance toward the Jack. Morrison paused thoughtfully for a second before shaking his head.

"Clarifications?" Nero frowned, flipping through the papers again.

"Come here," Morrison waved him over. Taking the papers in hand, he skimmed through them, hummed, pulled a pen from his breast pocket, and added a couple of lines. Nero grabbed the papers, scanned them, and grinned predatorily.

"This is genius! Thank you…"

"Morrison. You can call me J.D.."

"Hey, and you don’t let me call you J.D.."

"With you, it’s strictly business, Dante."

"And what about my nephew?" Dante protested, but Morrison ignored him.

"So, you’re the boy everyone’s talking about?" Morrison continued as if nothing had happened.

"Nero," he extended his hand. "Nice to meet you in person."

"Likewise. And feel free to reach out. With this… uh… lady, it’s easy to get into trouble."

"How else will he learn, J.D.?" Saxoniya waved dismissively.

"By learning from others’ experiences, for instance."

"Boring."

Nero scurried back to Saxoniya.

"And, before you sign the papers, I’d like to offer you a little job."

"What kind of job?" Dante asked lazily.

"I agree," Nero responded.

"There you go, Dante, take a page out of your nephew’s book. Then you’ll always have money."

Dante glared at Morrison. What bug had bitten him?

While Saxoniya was reading the document, Morrison went on about a new job escorting some eight-year-old girl to some mansion for some inheritance.

Dante was just about to turn it down when Saxoniya chimed in.

"Is this the Patty Lowell case?"

"You know her?" Dante asked.

"I know the client. Overall, it’s an easy gig, pays well, fits your profile, so I’d take it if I were you."

"You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys dealing with kids."

"And I don’t. That’s why I’m working with your nephew and not you."

"Hey!"

"Look, listen to your mom, Dante. Take the job. And on the way back, you’ll stop by another portal." She pulled a pen from her pocket, signed the contract, and handed it to Nero. Instead of taking it, he bit his finger and left a few bloody smudges. "And don’t be sore at him, J.D.. Every family has its black sheep."

"Hey, damn it!"

Morrison stared at him with wide eyes.

"Really?"

"I'm in shock myself." Dante shrugged. "And you’re not my mom."

"Close enough," Saxoniya waved the contract. "I’m done here. They’re all yours now, J.D.."

"Pleasure seeing you, Saxoniya."

"Yeah, sure," she tucked the papers into her bag, "portal in San-Gregory. I’ll let them know you’re coming; you can sort it out when you get there," and left without saying goodbye.

"Man, what a woman."

Dante just snorted.

Oren didn’t like Patty.

The girl was calm, obedient, and neat, but she started showing disrespect toward Dante almost immediately while showing far too much interest in Oren himself. He even regretted not being able to use Yamato to teleport them all and get rid of her faster. So they had to travel the old-fashioned way.

Turns out, Dante had his own car. It smelled like dead demon and Dante himself, and it was protected by a couple of runes. But Patty didn’t like the smell or the look of it. She complained that Dante wasn’t treating the future heir to a massive fortune like a true lady.

"How would a girl from an orphanage know how true ladies are treated?" Oren finally snapped. He had volunteered to sit in the backseat—it made him feel safer. Meanwhile, Patty wanted to ride shotgun, probably to pester Dante the whole way.

"I’ve read a lot of books."

"If you’re talking about those trashy romance novels, they’ve got little to do with reality."

"Actually, I’m talking about the classics."

"For example?"

At this, Patty became flustered.

"I thought so."

"But you sure know a lot of classics!"

"Pride and Prejudice. Jane Eyre. Clarissa. Vanity Fair. Should I go on?"

"Did you really read all of that?" Patty asked, surprised.

"Not the most interesting stuff I’ve read, but yeah."

"I haven’t seen many books at your agency."

"Those books stayed with my mom."

"Oh, well, that makes sense."

"What makes sense?"

"A rich boy has lots of books to read. There aren’t many opportunities to get books in an orphanage."

"Actually, I lived in an orphanage until I was eight. And it didn’t stop me from finding ways to read more."

"You lived in an orphanage?" Patty exclaimed, standing up on her seat and turning toward him.

Oren just shrugged.

"But… why? You have a mom, and now this uncle too."

"Dante didn’t know about my existence until last week. And my mom… let’s just say, it was dangerous for her to have a child."

"How so?"

"My family had a special status, and I was small and weak. Someone could’ve kidnapped me and blackmailed her with my life. Plus, my dad wasn’t officially married to her, which could’ve destroyed her reputation."

"A real mom would’ve found a way to overcome those challenges instead of dumping you in an orphanage!" Patty shot back angrily.

"A real mom made sure I was safe, fed, and clothed."

"But that’s not the most important thing!"

"I’d like to see you try sleeping under a bridge in winter with one blanket for two, after your last meal was yesterday evening—not warm porridge, but a stale piece of bread."

Patty went pale.

"And even now, here you are—alive, healthy, well-fed, dressed, riding in a car protected by the strongest mercenary in the world—and you’re still unhappy with how your mom took care of you. If you were under that bridge, you’d probably be punching her for choosing you over your comfort—if you had the strength left to do it, that is. Ungrateful people stay ungrateful to the bitter end." Oren sneered.

"I didn’t…" It seemed his words finally hit home. Patty looked upset. She started to move back to her seat, but up ahead, a truck appeared, and both Oren and Dante caught the scent of a demon.

"Hey," Oren called out, distracting her, "if you ask me, everything’s fine."

"Huh?" Patty glanced at him uncertainly.

"We’re just kids. We’re allowed to be ungrateful. But thanks to the right decisions—notice I didn’t say good ones—made by our parents, we can grow up and understand. And then, when the time comes, we can thank them."

"Hold on, it's going to shake now." Dante warned. Oren grabbed Patty by the shoulders to keep her from turning around. Dante fired a couple of precise shots. The demon toppled off the truck. The vehicle rolled over the corpse, jolting the seats violently.

"Hey, careful!" Patty protested, spinning around to glare at Dante. "Are you sure your car won’t fall apart before we get there?"

Dante didn’t respond.

Oren let go of Patty, but she didn’t rush back to her seat.

"I’ll never be able to thank my mom."

Oren looked up at her with his piercing gaze.

"She got sick and died when I was very little." Her hand tightened around the amulet hidden under her clothes. Something about the energy it radiated deeply unsettled Oren.

"I’m sorry."

Patty forced a smile.

Along the way, they were constantly ambushed. Small fry, nothing serious, but it was still unsettling to suddenly feel such intense demonic attention on them.

Was it because of Dante? Had news of him killing Mundus spread so fast? Would every demon now try to snatch his title as King of Hell?

These thoughts troubled Oren. He felt pride, but also a deep sense of inadequacy. If things kept going like this, Dante might decide Oren was more of a burden than an asset. He’d send him back to Fortuna, where Oren would immediately be exposed…

For the night, they stopped at a run-down motel with an extremely shady manager. While Dante checked in, Patty stood transfixed, staring at a concert poster advertising a show happening that evening at the local venue.

"Something interesting?"

Patty clutched the amulet again.

"It’s... it’s my mom."

Oren studied the poster closely.

"Are you sure?"

The girl nodded.

"Kids, let’s go!" Dante called out to them.

Patty hurried after him. Oren lingered by the poster for a moment. When the motel manager turned away, astral claws slashed through the paper, instantly transforming it into a hellish moth. It crumbled into ashes on the floor.

"My mom didn’t actually die," Patty confided later as they prepared to sleep. "I overheard the director talking. They said a demon was hunting her. So, to keep me safe, she gave me up to the orphanage. If… if they really were hunting her, does that mean they killed her? And what if now they’re coming after me? What if they kill me too?"

"But isn’t that a good thing, in a way?" Oren suggested.

"What?"

"If demons kill you, you'll just end up reunited with your mom."

"I..." Patty froze, then screamed. "How can you say that?! Your mom is alive and well! You can visit her whenever you want!"

"But I’ve never met my dad."

"What?"

"My dad left before I was even born. I have no idea what happened to him, but I think demons probably killed him too."

"He’s in hell," Dante suddenly chimed in.

Oren and Patty both whipped their heads toward him.

"In hell?" Patty asked, surprised.

"Is he... alive?" Oren perked up. In Nero's memories, which were now part of Oren, Nero always spoke of Vergil as if he were dead. Could it be...?

"Yeah," Dante shrugged. "Even given the circumstances, I doubt he'd go down that easily."

"Do you know where he is?" Oren sat straight up on the bed.

"I suspect so."

"And we can save him?"

Dante glanced at Oren out of the corner of his eye, then started getting up from the couch.

"Where are you going?" Oren asked, bewildered.

"To rescue your old man."

Oren blinked. He looked at Patty, then at Dante, who was already reaching for the doorknob. Swallowing hard, he smirked at the irony.

"Let’s help Patty first, shall we?"

Dante paused, snorted, and plopped back onto the couch.

Meanwhile, Oren tossed and turned for half the night, unable to sleep due to excitement. Later, thinking he was asleep, Patty got up. Oren simply grabbed the edge of her clothes.

"Let go, I’m going to the bathroom."

"Hold on a minute," he mumbled, "I’m coming with you."

"You don’t need to, I..."

"Either that, or I wake Dante."

Of course, Patty wasn’t heading to any bathroom. Oren didn’t try to stop her from attending the concert because he wanted a distraction—and also to figure out whether demons were really after Dante or if it was all because of Patty.

Saxoniya had said this was Dante’s specialty. Was she referring to Patty’s mom and her demon problems?

The hall turned out to be empty. Only on the stage, bathed in spotlights, stood a woman in an overly revealing dress. Blonde. Beautiful. And she reeked so badly that Oren wanted to plug his nose.

"Mom! Mommy!" Patty bolted toward her, but Oren grabbed her by the shoulder.

"Stop, you idiot! That’s not your mom."

"How can you not see? It’s definitely her!"

"It’s a demon," Oren shook her. "Don’t believe me? I’ll prove it." He summoned the Seed, took aim…

"Don’t you dare!" Patty shrieked, snatched the weapon from him, and flung it aside.

"No!" Oren let go of Patty and lunged after the Seed. It was a precious gift from Kyrie! And while he was fishing the revolver out from between the seats, Patty had already run straight into the demon’s clutches.

Damn it! He couldn’t shoot while she was so close!

Oren sprang into action just in time. The demon’s jaws snapped down—not on Patty’s thin neck, but on Oren’s right arm instead.

Patty was thrown aside along with his severed arm. Oren managed to stay on his feet, now the only barrier between the girl and the demon. But judging by the speed of blood loss, he wouldn’t last long.

Shoving two fingers into the wound, Oren hastily scribbled a couple of cauterizing runes to buy himself some time. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

"You little bastard!" the demon screeched. "I’ll gut you and eat your insides, then I’ll deal with the girl!" The creature lunged at Oren, but by then, he’d already retrieved the Seed and fired a shot into its neck. Its head and half its chest were sucked into a single point. A second later, Oren was drenched in foul-smelling goo.

From above and the sides, smaller creatures began crawling toward him. Oren fired back—one shot, one kill—until the gun clicked empty.

Out of bullets. He tried summoning Yamato next. The blade didn’t respond.

Damn it! Fine, later.

Oren summoned the Blood Widow. Even if he couldn’t change its configuration, it was still a sword! One demon, two demons, three demons—screams filled the air.

Oren spun around. Patty was being held hostage by the motel manager. Oren wanted to throw the sword at him, but the blade was stuck in a corpse. He prepared to leap, but a gunshot rang out, grazing the manager’s cheek. He yelped, recoiled from Patty, and turned around.

Standing at the entrance of the hall was Dante, the barrel of his gun aimed in their direction.

But something was off… this wasn’t Dante.

Not human. Just demon. Demon at all. And under different circumstances, Oren might’ve been thrilled, but now he was seriously injured, his blood staining Patty’s clothes.

Oren realized that if he didn’t do something, everything would go straight to hell. He lunged forward, crashing into Dante, wrapping his arms around the massive, raging body desperate for flesh—not prey, not an enemy, just meat to be chewed up and spat out.

"Easy, Dante, easy…" Oren whispered, holding him with all his strength. "It’s okay. I was protecting her. She’s not to blame."

"Your arm," the demon rumbled, exhaling a cloud of searing breath directly onto Oren’s hair. The foreign bloodlust nearly knocked him off his feet, but the demon allowed Oren to restrain him.

"It’s fine, don’t worry. We’ll sew it back on, good as new!"

Dante froze and turned his gaze to Oren. Oren smiled as sincerely as he could under the circumstances. Then Dante exhaled and calmed down.

"Get lost," he growled at the manager, who bolted, squealing and flashing his heels as he fled. "Where’s the arm?"

Oren turned, searching for the limb, but it was nowhere to be seen. Probably devoured by the demons.

"It doesn’t matter."

Dante growled again, low and menacing.

"Everything’s fine, Dante!" Oren switched his attention back to him. "I’m ambidextrous, it’s not a problem. And once I build up some strength, it’ll grow back."

Dante gave him a skeptical glare.

"Promise, that’s how it works!"

With that, Dante scooped him up and brought him close to his neck.

"Drink."

Oren felt an overwhelming warmth and comfort—but…

"Sorry, Dante, but this won’t work." Oren hugged him back. "I need my own power."

Dante sighed but didn’t let go of Oren. Instead, he turned around and started walking back. Oren rested his chin on Dante’s shoulder and noticed Patty. She stood frozen, splattered with his blood.

He gave her a reassuring smile and waved her over with his good hand.

She swallowed hard and hesitantly shuffled after them.

Chapter Text

Trish exhaled and leaned back against the couch. Finally, that creepy kid was gone.

He was definitely his son.

Back when she still served Mundus, she’d encountered Nelo Angelo a few times. Even with his will suppressed and body restrained, the essence of what he was couldn’t be hidden—a massive, oppressive icy serpent. He would’ve swallowed her whole if he could.

Though, which of the twins was the bigger monster was still up for debate. Considering what Dante had done to Mundus… No, as the victor, he was within his rights—no demon would dare judge him—but even Trish, who had seen plenty, found such cruelty excessive.

And how had Mundus managed to subjugate the elder one? But that secret had vanished into oblivion along with Mundus’s life and Trish’s servitude.

Now she was free. And it turned out to be far scarier than the combined essence of both twins. Now she had to think for herself, make her own decisions, and answer questions like what she wanted or liked.

Dante—despite everything—was a soft-hearted fool, and though he himself was an amateur, at least he had a place to live as a starting point and some semblance of social connections. He’d allowed her to stay, observe his work, the people around him, and maybe find something for herself.

In the end, that creepy kid turned out to be the sharpest of them all. Trish had lost track of him on the island—she’d been preoccupied with Dante himself—so she hadn’t seen him at full strength. Dante said he’d become weaker and lost his memory. Weaker? Yeah, right. Plus, Trish had overheard that crash course that terrifying woman had given him. If she’d lost her memory like that, she wouldn’t have had any problems at all.

Thank hell the kid tolerated her; otherwise, Dante wouldn’t have hesitated to throw her out.

Still, it was worth planning a backup. Her body, though artificial, was demonic. She didn’t need food or sleep, only power—or rather… no, the only power she cared about now was patience, to untangle the human chaos surrounding her. And they called underworlda cursed place? At least there, the hierarchy made sense. Damn lunatics and their interpersonal relationships!

Just then, the door to the agency opened. That terrifying woman walked in.

Trish tried to adopt the most relaxed posture she could muster.

"Oh, look who it is—the pet demon from the basement," Saxoniya smirked, immediately throwing Trish off balance.

"Dante’s not here right now. Come back later."

"I know, I sent him on a job myself. I’m here for you."

Trish froze and looked at the woman.

"So, what do you want from a modest, fragile girl like me?"

"Don’t make me laugh, sweetheart, I know who you are." Saxoniya walked into the agency as if it were her own home and started making coffee. "Did some digging, you could say. Since you're living accanto a mio nipote."

What was that? Some kind of work connection? Trish wasn’t great with these things.

"Yeah, and who exactly am I?" she asked, genuinely curious about what this woman had found since, technically, Trish was a ghost. She didn’t exist on paper.

Saxoniya grabbed two cups, placing one on the coffee table in front of Trish before sitting on the opposite couch.

"A little over twenty years ago, a young mother with an adorable baby boy bought a small mansion on the outskirts of Red Grave City. The house was paid for in cash, which surprised the realtor, but the woman looked neat, even noble. Probably the heiress of a wealthy family. The neighbors adored her, enjoyed her garden and her friendliness, though behind her back they whispered that she might be a witch because strange things often happened in her house: wild howls, explosions, or sheets barely washed clean of blood drying in the yard. Sound familiar?"

Trish bit her lip to keep from bursting out laughing. Seriously?

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," she forced out, taking a sip of the drink. Strange taste, though better than blood.

"No? Well then," Saxoniya continued, sipping her coffee. "None of the neighbors suspected that all the rumors about her were true. The woman, named Eva, was the heiress of the ancient witch lineage Veramaldi, whose members are still significant figures in the world of magic. Their family is obscenely wealthy and incredibly tight-knit. Though Eva seemed to distance herself from both business and the family while raising her child."

"I’ve heard people say raising kids takes a lot of time," Trish said, returning her empty cup to the table. "Especially when it comes to boys."

"Yes, probably so," Saxoniya chuckled.

"What happened next?"

"Twenty years ago, the mansion burned down. No one survived…"

"How disgraceful," Trish snorted. "What about her witchy skills?"

"That’s exactly what I thought. How could the heir of such a powerful lineage die in an ordinary fire? Her child—maybe, but her? I doubt it."

Trish tried to keep a straight face. She really did. Saxoniya had no idea how wrong she was. It was Eva who hadn’t survived that day, while one of her children lived right here in this agency.

On the other hand… her question was valid. How had the witch who Bewitched Sparda’s heart so easily perished in a fire?

Trish snorted again. Mundus. His doing. Or maybe the Veramaldi turned their backs on her because of her connection to a demon and stripped her of her powers. There was no way to know for sure anymore.

"Such a sad story."

"Oh, but that’s not the end," Saxoniya set her coffee aside.

"No?" Trish asked, surprised.

"Of course not. Do you know what the power of the Veramaldi family is based on?"

"Not a clue."

"Curses. Of all kinds: from diarrhea hexes to deadly marks."

Trish smirked.

"Everyone knows that if you need a curse, you go to the Veramaldi. Their curses are the strongest, the most precise, and the most enduring. They can’t be lifted without the intervention of a family member."

"Such powerful magic must come at a steep price."

"Precisely how they earned their name and fortune."

Trish bared her teeth in a predatory grin.

"They don’t reveal their secrets to just anyone, but the world feels a little simpler when you’re an informant and everyone owes you favors. So I found out that the strength of their curses depends on the sacrifice offered."

"Any practitioner could’ve told you that," Trish scoffed. "So you wasted your favor for nothing."

"No practitioner other than the Veramaldi would tell me the worth of a sacrifice made by a family heir."

Trish froze mid-breath and glanced uncertainly at Saxoniya.

"As it turns out, such a sacrifice can achieve the impossible."

"For example?" Trish whispered.

"For example, bringing a dead person back to life long enough to kill the cursed with their own hands."

Trish stared at Saxoniya in shock.

"Even if only for a second."

No. That’s impossible. Eva has been dead for ages. Mundus created Trish in her image to confuse Dante—not because of some expired curse!

But she did help Dante. She played a part in killing the bastard who dared harm her children.

What damn children?! Trish is barren! She’s a puppet! Not even a full-fledged demon!

"Right about then, I started to understand how that poor boy managed to kill the King of Hell himself. He just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Because the one who truly killed Mundus was Eva, who sacrificed her life in the most agonizing way twenty years ago."

But Trish wasn’t listening anymore. She clutched her head, trying to regain her composure.

"What an… impressive story," she muttered, abandoning any pretense of normalcy.

"You’re telling me! Such devotion deserves respect. It’s a shame about her child, though. But I suppose this act of vengeance will finally allow them both to rest in peace."

"I suppose so…" Trish exhaled.

"And now that you’ve played your part in this whole drama, I suppose you got nothing else to do?"

Trish didn’t immediately grasp what Saxoniya was asking.

"What?"

"To be honest, I don’t fully understand your nature—after all, the Veramaldi’s curses work in strange ways—but if you let me investigate further, I might find a suitable role for you."

Trish may not have understood interpersonal relationships, but she’d heard more than enough of this honeyed talk about alliances and betrayals in underworld. If she underestimated now, she’d end up trapped in servitude again. This time to a human.

"You’re itching to make me your slave?"

"Gross, I don’t deal in slaves. I prefer employees, partners, or at worst, apprentices."

"I have one condition, though."

"What’s that?"

"If I don’t like something, I’m out, and I owe you nothing."

"Hah, no beating around the bush with you!" Saxoniya smirked. "I like your style, but don’t you think that’s a little unfair for me?"

"It’s in your best interest to keep me interested enough that I don’t even think about leaving."

Saxoniya narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.

"Besides, you’ve got the upper hand. I really have no idea what to do in the human world."

Saxoniya flashed a predatory grin.

"Deal."

Now Dante understood what the crone had meant. The client turned out to be an adult woman using a namesake to throw people off her trail. Dante would admit to himself that if it weren’t for Nero, he would’ve slit the bitch’s throat. Because of this stupid piece of trash, his nephew lost an arm. Because of this fucking cunt, Patty had been targeted twice more, and his one-armed nephew had been forced to protect her while Dante dealt with the rest.

In the end, the dumb bitch decided to adopt the girl. Some semblance of justice prevailed, though Dante sure as hell wasn’t feeling celebratory.

They made it to San-Gregory together. Grabbed the car and reached the small port town within half a day.

True to the crone's word, they were picked up at a local dive and escorted to the portal site. Another pain in the ass. At first, Dante thought it was a coincidence, but now he was certain—the portals weren’t random spots in space. Near each one, he could sense traces of Vergil.

That room where Nero bit him—it was entirely Vergil’s style. There was a faint, barely detectable whiff of his unmistakable demonic presence. And that cave… fuck, his brother had been forced to live in a cave. There was no way to tell how long. Just that same goddamn feeling of Vergil.

Dante closed his eyes.

He had promised Nero he’d find Vergil. Unfortunately, this portal was too small—barely big enough to fit Nero’s head through. Not that Dante would let a one-armed kid wander around hell. He wouldn’t leave him alone either. So saving Vergil would have to wait.

Three people were on-site this time, with some equipment. Directly across from the portal, an automatic turret had been set up, presumably for safety.

Once it was deactivated, they were allowed closer, and this time Dante stayed glued to his nephew’s side. Fuck that—no one else was getting near the kid.

"So, how is it?" Dante whispered as Nero examined the portal.

"Same as before," Nero shrugged.

Without a word, Dante offered his wrist for the bite. Nero silently sank his teeth into the skin and took a sip. Hidden behind Dante’s large frame, Nero could’ve danced, and no one would’ve seen him.

But instead, Nero drew runes on the floor directly beneath the hovering portal, then extended the arm… that wasn’t there anymore. Shit. Nero quickly switched arms, waving it. Nothing happened. Nero frowned.

"Something wrong? Need more?" Dante offered.

"Yamato… isn’t responding."

Dante scowled.

"Hey, toothpick, you there?"

"Kill... you... when... return..." the sword responded, sounding like it was coming through heavy static. It was fucking weird. Like... part of it was here, and part of it was somewhere else.

Dante gritted his teeth and let out a heavy sigh. Nero’s arm hadn’t been eaten. It had been stolen. And Dante even had a pretty good guess who’d taken it.

"Can you close the portal?"

"Obviously... no..."

Dante sighed again.

"Be careful... his life... in danger... can’t keep... supporting..."

Dante’s heart sank into his stomach. What the fuck kind of news was this?

"Don’t risk... find me..."

Dante grimaced, scooped Nero up in his arms, wiped out the sequence with his foot, and—ignoring Nero’s protests—headed back to the car.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" Nero snapped.

"Something’s wrong with Yamato. And it’s affecting… your health."

Nero froze, his gaze clouding over for a second before his cheeks suddenly turned ghostly pale. He stared at Dante in horror.

"Dante… I… I’m dying…"

What?

"What?"

"The power—it should replenish, but it’s fading for some reason. I don’t know why."

Dante nodded.

"Yamato."

"Probably… I don’t know…"

"It’s fine, Nero. Don’t worry about it," he started the car. "I’ll figure this out. And as for the power, I’ve got enough juice for both of us."

"I told you, it has to be my own!"

"Until we sort out the issue with Yamato, you don’t have a choice, kid."

Nero inhaled sharply and then froze. With a defeated exhale, he slumped back against the seat.

"I don’t want to be a burden to you," he mumbled pathetically.

"And what if I want you to be my burden?"

Nero jolted in surprise but stayed quiet. The ride home was filled with a cozy silence.

Oren had never lost a limb before, but the inability to use his right arm didn’t feel like much of a burden. Honestly, he hadn’t even thought about it until the crone—Saxoniya—offered him the best physical therapist in town.

Oren shuddered at the memory. He’d never seen someone so furious. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was a demon—and not a minor one, either. The stare-down between her and Dante nearly blew the room apart from the sheer tension. Saxoniya radiated rage, while Dante carried a weight of desperate regret.

As if Dante was somehow responsible for Oren’s failure.

Oren grimaced and went back to balancing the ledger. He’d started it right after Patty Lowell—the older one, not the younger—had brought them the second half of the payment. Someone had to salvage Dante’s financial disaster.

The younger Patty, after refusing adoption, received a decent settlement and now made a habit of visiting the agency daily. At first, she complained about the mess—claiming they’d drown in trash without her, so Oren started cleaning up. Then she griped about their unhealthy eating habits, pointing out that despite the fridge being packed with vegetables, they still ordered pizza. So Oren began cooking homemade meals. After that, she started complaining that Dante was exploiting Oren while doing nothing himself.

There wasn’t much to argue with there. But her orphanage upbringing had turned her into a genuinely good helper. Otherwise, Oren wouldn’t have put up with her.

And so it went: Oren handled the expenses, Patty cooked, Dante made a mess, ate like a horse, and occasionally went to work. Alone.

When he left, Dante locked all doors and windows with four runes and asked one of his acquaintances to stay with Oren. Trish was increasingly absent, so it was usually Morrison who came by.

It was hard being strong. The higher you climbed, the fewer people could keep up with you.

Oren got distracted for a moment and thought of Kyrie.

Yes, she was Nero’s friend, not Oren’s. She didn’t even know Oren existed, but that didn’t stop him from daydreaming about her. Such a mate, loyal friend. Willing to fight for Nero’s trust. Oren wished he could meet her. Maybe she’d agree to be his friend too.

Shaking off the fantasy, Oren returned to the papers. Pulling another stack of bills from the bottomless desk drawer, he glanced at the first one and frowned.

“Madame Zolski’s Atelier?” he read aloud. “Is this the leatherworkers who made your clothes?”

“No idea what atelier you’re talking about,” Dante replied from the couch.

Oren scowled and picked up the next bill.

“Lasts and leather?”

“Nope.”

“Bang-Bang?”

“No.”

“What about the names Tiki and Nesty?”

“That’s mine.”

“Then how the hell did these bills end up in your name?”

Dante shrugged.

Oren sighed, picked up the phone, and dialed the number.

“Saxoniya speaking.”

“Hello, it’s Nero.”

“Hey, kid. I’m a bit busy. Is this urgent?”

“I wanted to ask if you had a secretary who needed some light, repetitive work as punishment.”

“What happened?”

"Some asshole’s been racking up bills under the name Devil May Cry. I could go around to all the shops in town and sort it out myself, but then Dante would be busy too."

"Hmm, I think I’ve got someone who can handle that for you. But in return, you’ll do a job for me—for free."

"What kind of job?"

"An old demonic manuscript. My rune specialist is currently in Italy dealing with family matters, and Maria mentioned you’ve got a knack for this stuff."

"When do you need the translation by?"

"Not urgent, but the sooner, the better."

"Alright, deal."

"Expect a courier," she said before hanging up. Oren liked her no-nonsense way of doing business. And even if she didn’t have a drop of demonic blood, her true name probably had a couple of symbols that could pass аs "demon."

Oren hung up the phone and returned to the ledger. Overall, if Dante took on one more extra job, they might just break even… in the next three months. The downside? There wouldn’t be a penny left for pocket money. But whatever—Dante doesn’t buy anything anyway, and Oren could manage.

"I think Dante could use some new clothes," Patty chimed in.

"Why?" Oren muttered automatically, not really listening to her.

"Well, you know, just in case. I get that his horrible style can’t be fixed, but what if something tears?"

"It won’t tear," Oren mumbled again. When he’d tidied up earlier, he’d come across Dante’s coat. The entire lining was made from fabric imbued with runic patterns. If Dante got hurt while wearing it, the cloth soaked in his blood would heal just like his own skin.

"But even you have two spare outfits," Patty pouted, finally pulling Oren’s attention away from the book. It was true, but his clothes weren’t infused with runic magic. More importantly, he’d die if he wore something like that in his current state.

"Uncle, do you need a new set of clothes?"

"No."

"Then it’s settled."

Patty stuck out her lower lip but didn’t argue further.

At that moment, the door to the agency swung open.

"Welcome to Devil May Cry !" Oren greeted with a friendly smile. "How can we help you?"

"So broke you’ve resorted to running a daycare, huh?" the woman who walked in quipped with a smirk. Oren took a closer look. Battle scars covered her body, she strolled into a demon’s lair like it was her own living room, and yet she was armed to the teeth—literally walking artillery. "Still saving up to pay back what you owe me?"

Dante just grimaced in response.

"And who are you?"

"I…" The woman turned to Oren and froze mid-sentence. "I figured no one could handle your stubborn ass, but looks like you’ve already gone and raised a kid?"

"He’s my nephew," Dante grumbled, rising from the couch. "What do you want? I’m broke right now."

"When aren’t you broke?" she shot back.

"What do you owe her for?" Oren interjected.

"Oh, you know, random stuff. Like renting weapons, blowing up bridges, or losing at cards."

"And how much do you owe her?" Oren asked, turning to the woman.

"In total," she tapped her chin thoughtfully, "a hundred grand."

Oren’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.

"And that’s not counting a dozen small favors he lost to me in bets or promised to repay."

Dante grimaced again and hurried over to the bar, unsuccessfully trying to drown himself in alcohol.

"How the hell did it get so high?" Oren asked, still in shock.

"Ask her," Dante muttered, grabbing a glass. "Every little thing, and I’m already in debt."

Oren looked at the woman. Judging by her arsenal, those hundred grand were pocket change for her. She’d burn through that in the next brawl and make just as much back from it. So why...?

And then it clicked in his mind.

"...no one can handle your stubborn ass..." "...already raised a kid?"

Oren frowned. She’s keeping tabs on who’s around Dante. And this is similar to the behavior of a female maintaining a claim.

"How long have you two known each other?" Oren asked cautiously.

"Ten years," Dante answered, opening a bottle. "We chased your old man up to Temen-ni-Gru together. She landed in my arms, shot me in the face—that’s how we met."

He didn’t kill her for that.

"Actually, a bit earlier, I almost ran you over with my bike."

She didn’t kill him either.

"Almost doesn't counts. That’s why I didn’t remember it."

"You blew up that bike later. And, by the way, you still haven’t paid me back for it. So add another ten grand on top."

"It wasn’t cost more than eight!" Dante protested.

"Inflation," Oren sighed dramatically.

"See? Your nephew gets it."

"Alright, I’ll log this into the ledger under a new expense category. What’s your name?"

"Lady," Dante answered for her. "Just write it off under miscellaneous expenses."

"No, Dante. Courtship requires its own category. Especially since it’s hard to plan for."

Both Dante and Lady stared at him in stunned silence.

"Courtship?" Patty chimed in, surprised.

"Well, look at it this way. They’ve been together for ten years, still haven’t killed each other, Lady keeps lending Dante money, and Dante hasn’t told her to fuck off yet. I’ll admit, it looks like a strange relationship, even by my standards, but her concern about Dante’s private life speaks volumes."

"That’s true," Patty chimed in, confirming his hunch. "Are you two dating?"

Lady turned beet red:

"With that imbecile?" she shrieked. "Never in a million years!" And with that, she bolted out of the building like a shot.

"Dante, stop wasting good alcohol," Oren grumbled, watching as the overflowing glass spilled amber-colored liquid all over the counter.

Dante cursed, leaping back from the spreading spill on the bar.

"I just cleaned that spot!" Patty groaned in frustration, hopping off the couch.

Dante threw up his hands and headed to the restroom.

Oren jumped up and scurried after him.

"Did I do something wrong?"

"Some things, even obvious ones, aren’t meant to be announced to everyone, kid." Turning on the faucet, Dante rinsed his hands and his slightly flushed face.

"But she does like you."

"That doesn’t mean anything."

Oren sighed, disheartened.

"If only…" he ventured hesitantly, "if only mom had been just a little more open with dad, none of this would’ve happened."

Dante froze, his hands covering his face.

"She’s strong enough for you. She’s staking a claim on you. You like her. Another chance might not come around. Even I can see that."

Oren left.

He didn’t notice how Dante plunged his head under the icy stream of water.

Chapter Text

Nero flipped through the pages of an old book, jotting down notes in a notebook. Dante had asked about — runes. Stuff he’d never really given a damn about.

And if he had, would things have turned out differently?

Dante let out a heavy sigh. With this kid showing up, his already bizarre life had done a complete 180 and stayed upside down. Plus, his spectacles were broken now, so all he could do was stare at the shattered pieces and try to figure out what the hell was going on.

First off, his brother was alive.

Mundus had captured him and used him for his own twisted purposes for nearly a decade.

Secondly, Dante took that bastard down. Not alone, of course—it was a team effort with Trish, his nephew, and his brother—but still. Technically speaking, Dante was now the new Demon King. Dad would’ve laughed his ass off. Mom? She’d probably be proud.

Third, his brother ended up staying in the underworld. He became the overseer, dealing with demon hordes while Dante got to live the cushy life. And Dante only found out about it thanks to, of all people, his almost-mother-in-law and her access to portals.

Fourth, Dante had living family now. The nephew. And along with him, an entire family on the other side. Sometimes Dante’s skin itched with how badly he wanted to go to Fortuna, meet his sister-in-law, her dad, maybe even more relatives. Holy shit, he had a family! He was close enough to cry.

But Nero was sick and didn’t want them to see him. All because of Dante’s neglect. And now this incredible kid survived—on top of doing all the housework, managing finances, and occasionally cooking them delicious meals—solely relying on Dante's blood to keep going.

So yeah, if Dante had been better at runes, things might’ve been different.

The familiar whisper of Rebellion saved him from spiraling into self-loathing.

"Eat him. Devour the little weak demon. He’s defenseless. Make him part of your power. In your stomach, he’ll be completely safe. He’ll never need anything again. Eat him."

Yeah, thanks. Pizza tastes way better than human flesh.

Speaking of food...

"Got anything to eat around here?"

"If you’re hungry, there’s still some ice cream and strawberries left in the freezer."

"Anything more substantial?"

Nero sighed, tore himself away from his notes, and called the pizzeria. Dante grimaced when he heard about the pineapple topping. But half a pizza with pineapple beat half a pizza with olives.

Another thirty minutes of boredom passed before the delivery arrived. Nero preferred to pay upfront, then immediately logged the expense in the ledger. Turns out, tracking expenses can teach you a lot about yourself.

For instance, Dante would’ve never guessed he blew so much cash on magazines and cheap beer. What could he say? Booze didn’t hit him hard, but boredom needed killing. But Nero found a solution: an annual subscription, according to him, would pay for itself in a couple of months. And one bottle of some fancy witch liqueur—which cost as much as three regular bottles—easily replaced six. Even Dante saw the value in that.

Speaking of liqueur…

Dante walked over to the bar and had just grabbed the bottle when Nero suddenly sprang into action. He summoned his sword and, for some reason, started prying off a switch that morphed into sticky, dirty-red goo.

"Don’t sweat it, I’ll return it better than before!" Nero stomped both feet on the sword and pulled. The goo resisted. "I… need… you… here!" he barked. "That’s an order!" The goo burst. Nero landed on his back. Immediately, the goo began crawling into his mouth, nose, and eyes. Nero panicked. Dante did too.

He shot up, forgetting about the liqueur, and rushed to Nero, who was writhing on the floor, struggling to breathe. Terror flashed across the boy’s face, instantly mirrored on Dante’s.

The sword was a demon. And right now, Nero was too weak to control it. The demon decided to kill him.

Dante tried to move, but an invisible barrier stopped him. Rarely—like, damn rarely—his instincts took over. He’d done everything he could to scare that thing and lock it away deep in his mind. But sometimes it surfaced. More often since Nero came into his life.

And now this instinct inside him wouldn’t let him help his dying nephew.

If Dante had stopped to think, he would’ve understood.

Nero was weakened, and the weapon was testing whether he was worthy. It was instinctual behavior—all demons did it. If not now, then later, when Dante wasn’t around to protect him.

But this test wasn’t just for Nero.

If Dante intervened, the weapon would belong to him, not Nero. And Nero would never forgive him.

Suddenly, Nero stopped thrashing, relaxed, and lay still. His terrified expression shifted to one of triumph. He realized something.

Nero was weak now, but the King of hell himself was protecting him. Why?

If the weapon couldn’t grasp that, it wasn’t worthy of being Nero’s ally. And Dante would devour the bastard without hesitation for daring to attack his kid.

The goo seeped into Nero’s mouth and nose, making him wince, then tore through the healing skin of his stump, bursting out as thick bloody mass that hardened instantly into the shape of an arm.

Dante… or rather, the Thing inside Dante… knelt before the boy and began drawing on his arm.

Dante never understood these symbols, but sometimes inspiration struck. Occasionally, he managed to focus long enough to remember—and even reproduce—something useful. Now, his hand moved over Nero’s artificial arm, etching a sequence of five runes by hellfire.

Strength, protection, concealment, vessel, and ownership—or something like that. Dante didn’t bother digging deeper.

When he finished, Nero’s arm looked perfectly human. Nero tested it by flexing his fingers.

Dante grabbed the recreated arm with his own.

"Drink," he commanded.

Tiny needles pierced Dante, extracting a drop from the ocean of his strength.

"More! He needs power."

The demon did not dare to resist. Filled to capacity. At the current rate, Nero would have had enough for a couple of years. For five minutes, if he has to fight to the limit.

The Thing patted Nero on the head and retreated back to its tiny dark corner of mind.

Fuck…

Well, at least the damn thing didn’t want to eat his nephew. Small victories.

"Okey?"

Nero, staring at Dante in awe, nodded.

"So let’s go eat."

Nero grinned and lunged at Dante, wrapping his arms around his neck. Dante grimaced but stood up, pulling his nephew along with him.

They ate and then settled onto the couch. Nero sprawled out directly on top of Dante, curling into a cozy ball. Strange. Vergil had never been the touchy-feely type. Apparently, Nero took after his mom—or maybe Dante himself.

The thought made Dante chuckle, causing the boy to bounce slightly on his chest muscles.

"What’s so funny?"

"I was just thinking you’re more like me than Vergil."

"Why so?"

"You go for hugs instead of burying your nose in books."

Nero puffed up indignantly. "I love books; I’m just resting!"

"Sure, whatever you say."

"Do you really hate reading that much?"

"Are we no longer counting magazine subscriptions?"

"I mean something else."

"Elegant literature?"

"Ah-hah."

"No, unlike my father and Vergil, I was never able to love poetry. Perhaps my father's attempts to recite his poems to us before going to bed are to blame for this."

"Did he read you poetry at night? Cool!" Nero was genuinely delighted, which made Dante laugh again. "What else did he do?"

"All sorts of things, but I don’t remember much. He bailed early. Mom raised me and Vergil."

"Why?"

"How should I know? It’s not like he gave me updates."

"And what was your mom like?"

Dante sighed. He pulled a picture frame from the ether. He’d hidden it before heading to the island to keep it safe from burning or getting lost. All it needed now was a replacement for the cracked glass before going back on the table.

"Looks a lot like…" Nero mumbled.

"Trish, yeah. There are still a couple of differences. Although, of course, Mundus did his best."

"I wasn’t talking about her, but you’re right—Trish looks even more similar." Dante wanted to ask who else resembled his mother, but Nero interrupted with another question. "What differences?"

"Um... yeah, Trish is too... perfect."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She has mother's face, of course, but not her habits and certainly not her character. Mom was a terribly clumsy modest woman."

"Seriously?"

Dante paused to think. Come to think of it, she was practically useless at running a household. She constantly cut her fingers while teaching Vergil and Dante how to cook. While their wounds healed faster than she could say "bandage," she walked around with her hands covered in band-aids.

She was clueless about laundry and cleaning. Once, when Dante stained the couch in the living room, she suggested buying a new one—even though he knew back then that they could’ve just flipped the cushion over. Forget skills like sewing or repairs; those were completely out of the question.

She learned a lot alongside Dante and Vergil.

"I think before she got pregnant, she must’ve been some kind of aristocrat who never lifted a finger. But she always knew how to smile and talk. She taught me and Vergil all about etiquette—from tying a tie properly to knowing which piece of silverware to use next."

"So you were raised like an aristocrat?"

Dante shrugged. Not that any of this knowledge ever came in handy.

"Though I did enjoy dancing. But I was too young to lead with Mom, so I ended up spinning around with Vergil."

"And who led between you two?"

"Usually whoever won the last fight."

"Fair enough," Nero nodded seriously.

"Did anyone teach you how to dance?"

Nero shook his head. "I only fought."

"If you want, I could teach you. I bet Patty would be happy to be your partner."

Nero scowled.

"Not interested? Think about it—you could impress girls."

"Patty’s annoying. Too clingy."

"You saved her life; she feels indebted."

"Her safety was paid."

"What if she likes you?"

Nero snorted. "I already have... a girlfriend."

"Oh, really? And who is she?" Dante smirked.

"Kyrie. She's from Fortuna."

"Is she beautiful?"

"The most beautiful girl in the world!"

Dante chuckled. "Want me to teach you a love spell?"

"What? Why?"

"So she won’t look at other boys besides you."

Nero raised his head and gave Dante a skeptical look.

"Not that I need it, but..."

"Interested?" Dante wiggled his eyebrows playfully.

"Is this like real magic or just superstition?"

Dante shrugged.

"Mom never explained exactly how it works, but... see that ficus over there?"

Nero looked up at the only plant in the entire agency—an enormous dark green monster that had taken over an entire corner.

"Yeah."

"I got it as a sapling from some nice old lady. It’s been living here for ten years now, and have take all sorts of crap: shot at, burned , broken, even eaten. But as you can see, it’s still standing. And I don’t remember the last time I watered it. Definitely not this year."

Nero stared at Dante in horror.

"Tell me more!"

"Better yet, let me show you."

Nero shifted and climbed off Dante, allowing him to stand. They approached the ficus. Dante leaned over it, placed one of its large leaves on his palm, and closed his eyes.

".̴͕̋̓̏̕͠.̴̧̤̦̐̑̎͑̓.̵̢̱͔͈͛͋͝ͅ-̴͔͑̈́ ̶̮̻̬̬͌.̷̢͈̪̖̝̆.̶͈̞̂̈́̐́̃ ̷̬̘̬̣͐͆̎.̷̬̥̈́́̍̐̀-̶̲̬̮̋̾̿̏͝-̸̡͖̋̏̎̅͠ ̵̥̩̝̳̰͊͋̔̆́.̸̧̡͙̜̝͒̓́̕-̴̪̪̗̄̐͒̚"

A symbol tried to form before his eyes, but reality couldn’t handle the strain and shattered, colors inverting, veins on his arm bulging and turning black. Then all wrong colors got sucked back into cracks that sealed shut, and the black blood retreated under his skin.

The Thing in the corner of his mind stirred again. Yes, instinctively, he hated these tricks as much as he was drawn to them. Magic was strange like shit.

"Something like that," he turned to the kid and saw the embodiment of the reaction his own instincts were currently experiencing—only dialed up to a hundred.

Kid had pressed himself against the opposite wall, trembling, breathing heavily. But at the same time, drool dripped from his mouth, and his eyes burned with thirst and admiration.

Ah, right—he was part demon too. Stronger than Dante had been at his age. Interesting. Maybe his mom was a demon? Knowing that weird town, anything was possible. Just like with Vergil.

"Was that," Nero swallowed, "the only thing she showed you?"

"Well," Dante scratched his chin, "once she put something like an invisibility curse on me."

"Why?"

"So demons couldn’t see me and eat me."

"Why you couldn’t handle them yourself?"

"Unfortunately, kiddo, I was too weak," Dante shrugged. "So mom had to help me out a bit. Though she went a little overboard. Instead of a couple hours, I stayed invisible for a couple years."

Not the best experience when you’re an eight-year-old kid without a home or friends and just want to eat as fuck. Although Vergil might’ve argue.

"Eventually, the curse wore off, and people started noticing me more often. I can still use it sometimes, but only on weak-willed folks. It’s needa lot of prep."

Nero peeled himself off the wall and stepped closer. He was still breathing unevenly, pupils dilated, practically devouring the plant with his gaze.

"So, want me to teach you?"

Nero didn’t immediately meet Dante’s eyes.

"I... I’m not sure I’ll survive it, but..."

Dante smirked.

Baul entered the main hall.

On the throne, surrounded by carrion-eating demons, lounged the as-yet-unacknowledged King of this castle and all of underworld.

Baul didn’t give a damn about titles; he cared only about power.

"Son of Sparda," he pointed his sword at him, "I challenge you to a duel!"

The King rose from the throne, releasing his overwhelming might in all directions. The carrion-eaters quieted and scurried into the corners, clearing space for them.

"On what grounds?" the King growled, barely human.

"Your father was my master. Two thousand years ago, he promised we’d fight again. He died, so I’ve come to collect his debt from you."

The King sighed, plunging the legendary sword of his master's soul into the base of the throne before descending.

"So you’ve decided to lay down your sword too?" Baul spat with disgust.

"Too?" the King snorted. "Don’t drag me into your drama. I don’t need my father’s strength to beat some sense into you."

The fight didn’t last more than a couple of moment.

Baul wasn’t just defeated—he was crushed. Annihilated! Completely obliterated in every way except for his life.

"Are you sure you’re my father’s apprentice?" the King smirked. He wasn’t even out of breath.

"The fight… isn’t over yet," Baul tried to rise, but the King simply stepped on his chest. "Kill me. That’s the only way I’ll stop."

But the King merely chuckled.

"I see that two thousand years away from my father taught you nothing." He bent down, grabbed Baul by the horn, and yanked him closer. "You’re weak. My father spared someone as pathetic as you, hoping you’d grow stronger. But instead of training, you just stopped and waited. You’re even worse than your brother. At least Modeus had the decency to admit he no longer wanted to wield a sword."

"How dare you!"

"How dare you disgrace my father’s legacy? It disgusts me to soil my hands with your pitiful existence. For starters, get stronger! Maybe in another couple thousand cycles, you’ll be able to match my son."

Bauls' eyes flared. The King had a son? And even he—someone who’d never met his master—was already stronger than Baul? But how? How was that even possible?

The King removed his foot and returned to his throne.

"Your stupidity amused me, so I’ll let you stick around and train under me. Maybe you’ll learn something useful." He sat down and rested his hand on legendary sword. "For now, clean up this trash. Then, if you behave, I might show you a move or two."

Later, the same hall.

Baul was currently on the seventh floor. It was convenient having such a straightforward subordinate, especially one who’d lost all other purpose in life. No need to do all the dirty work himself. To be honest, he was sick of constantly cleaning up this scum, so he let the carrion feed right there.

But behind every foolish brother, there’s always a smart one. He knew that from personal experience.

So Modeus didn’t keep him waiting.

"I’m grateful for sparing his life."

"I don’t need your gratitude."

"Then what?"

"Your service."

"I have no intention of raising my sword again. Not even for his son."

"What about for your brother?" he smirked.

As expected, Modeus grew angry. "You wouldn’t dare," he hissed.

"My father left me to deal with the consequences of his mistakes. Not only will I dare, but as his heir, it’s my duty. Or…" he drummed his fingers on the hilt of Sparda’s sword.

Modeus clenched his teeth, unsheathed his claws, but ultimately gave in, as expected.

"Whose death do you require?" Modeus asked humbly.

"I thought you were the smart one out of the two brothers. Didn’t my father pass the true power and will to you for a reason?"

"I… don’t understand," Modeus frowned.

"We’ll work on that too," he sighed heavily. "Yes, by my will, you could kill some random demon who wouldn’t even realize what hit them. But imagine what happens when all of underworld hears the news: Modeus, the very name that strikes fear into the greatest warriors of underworld, has once again raised his sword. What happened? Who forced his hand? What kind of power could achieve such a thing?"

A little drama went a long way. Modeus vividly imagined the near future.

"But why?"

"The question I expected at the start of our conversation," he added, milking the drama just a bit more. "It’s much easier to protect the family when you yourself are the greatest threat in both worlds."

Yes. There it was. The answer to the question Dante had asked him back on top of Temen-ni-Gru.

"What are you gonna do with all that power, ha?"

Obviously, little brother. Protect you. Right after I kick your arrogant ass.

The blond boy who introduced himself as Alessandro led her from the imposing entrance gates to the equally impressive front doors of the estate—a property that rivaled the size of the castle on Mallet Island.

Okay, maybe Trish exaggerated, but she’d never seen such sprawling grounds in the human world before.

The boy, who looked about seventeen, fidgeted nervously, constantly glancing back at Trish, which was starting to piss her off.

"Just spit it out already," she snapped, making him shrink into his shoulders.

"Sorry, I just…"

"What? I don’t bite… usually."

Alessandro turned around, surprised, then gave her a warm smile.

"The Matriarch warned us you’d be coming. But she didn’t mention you’d look exactly like…"

"Eva?"

"Well, yeah," the boy slumped his shoulders sadly. "Did you know her?"

"Never met."

"I see."

"And what about you?"

"She was… We were friends. I loved spending time with her. I just thought you might remember something."

Trish grimaced.

"Sorry, kid, nothing." Then it hit her. Trish frowned. "Wait a second. You look no older than eighteen, and Eva died over twenty years ago. You weren’t even born yet!"

"We’re here," the boy said with a smile and opened the door for Trish. "Please, the Matriarch is already waiting."

Trish shot the boy a suspicious glance but obediently walked into the grand living room. She was used to luxury, as well as the arrogance of those who lived in it.

The frail old woman—Trish couldn’t think of her any other way—dressed in an extravagant white gown with gold embroidery, sat in a deep velvet armchair. She still held her back straight, her eyes sharp, but her age was undeniable—from her short braid of gray hair to her irreversibly withered skin.

And yet, she commanded respect.

Waving off another blonde girl who was serving her tea, the old woman turned to Trish.

"Come closer," she rasped in her authoritative voice.

Trish boldly approached.

"Closer," the old woman ordered.

Trish raised an eyebrow but stepped almost nose-to-cheast with the woman. The old woman swiftly grabbed her chin and forced her to lean down. Surprisingly strong hands, despite her age, moved with remarkable agility.

Trish endured as piercing blue-green eyes scrutinized her face.

"You foolish girl!" the old woman snorted, shoving Trish’s face away with surprising force. "I told you to focus on studying instead of chasing men! And look where that got you!"

"And where exactly did it get me?" Trish raised an eyebrow.

"A completely wasted memory, that’s where!" the old woman snapped. "And if there had been some benefit to it! But no! All you managed to do was save your irresponsible brat of a son. A disgrace!"

Trish sighed wearily.

"Look, I only came here because Saxoniya asked me. I’m not about to listen to insults from a senile crazy old woman who’s mistaken me for someone else."

"Senile crazy old woman? Angeleeca, did you hear that?"

"Yes, Matriarch," the girl, who had been silent this whole time, replied obediently.

The old woman grimaced and rolled her eyes.

"This subservience… it’s killing me. And you—" she turned back to Trish, "even after death, after being reborn in a new body and losing all memory, you’re still the same thorn in my decrepit ass! After all that, you dare try to convince me you’re not my dear daughter?" she spat sarcastically.

Trish scowled.

"I’m not Eva. I’m not even human. And this isn’t a reborn body." She snapped her fingers, summoning a bolt of lightning. "I was created by the King of underworld. I’m a demon."

"Big deal," the old woman waved dismissively. "Angeleeca, show her."

Trish took a combat stance and prepared herself. Angeleeca flicked the teacup.

".̴͕̋̓̏̕͠.̴̧̤̦̐̑̎͑̓.̵̢̱͔͈͛͋͝ͅ-̴͔͑̈́ ̶̮̻̬̬͌.̷̢͈̪̖̝̆.̶͈̞̂̈́̐́̃ ̷̬̘̬̣͐͆̎.̷̬̥̈́́̍̐̀-̶̲̬̮̋̾̿̏͝-̸̡͖̋̏̎̅͠ ̵̥̩̝̳̰͊͋̔̆́.̸̧̡͙̜̝͒̓́̕-̴̪̪̗̄̐͒̚"

Something happened. Trish didn’t quite understand what. It felt like she was disintegrated, compressed into a point, and reassembled faster than she could process.

She didn’t notice the droplets of tea hanging in the air, swirling around Angeleeca like tiny satellites orbiting a planet. Her mind was preoccupied with else.

What the hell was that? Human magic? How did humans even come up with something like that?

Trish stared at the Matriarch in astonishment.

"How?" Was she out of breath? Was she sweating?

The old woman smirked.

"Interested? The greatest secret of the Veramaldi family. Something that can even rival demonic runes. Requires a ton of prep work and conditions. Or an ocean of raw human potential. You pulled it off because you’re my daughter and genuinely very powerful. But as dumb as a brick!"

Trish scowled and wiped the sweat from her forehead.

"Aren’t you worried about telling me all this?" Trish straightened up. She hated looking weak in front of this old woman.

"At least some sense remains," the old woman snorted. "Ofcourse, we have safeguards against loose lips. You won’t be able to tell anyone else, no matter how hard you try."

Trish took note of that. Her gaze dropped to her feet.

"Still doubting?" the old woman groaned.

Trish pressed her lips together.

"I… don’t remember anything. I have no skills or knowledge. I’m… useless." She looked up at the Matriarch. "I’m just an empty doll. What use am I to you?"

"Again," the old woman sighed, "look at her, Angeleeca, she’s trying to run away from me again."

"But I—" Trish began.

"What?"

"I’ve lost everything that Eva was. Why do you need me?"

"Just because you've lost your memories doesn't mean you've lost everything. At least you have your pretty face with you. And I'm sure your potential is there too. And the memories can be returned." the old woman smirked.

Trish stared at the Matriarch in horror.

"The same expression you made when I told you it was time to study," the Matriarch sneered.

"And what if I don’t want to remember?"

"Well then, you’re free to go," the old woman waved her hand dismissively. "Go wherever you please. Or you can stay and learn our craft like any other novice."

Trish raised an eyebrow.

"I’m just offering to skip all those rebellious years and endless hours in the library. You’re curious, aren’t you? Besides, you used to know all this once. Just reclaim your memory, and then you can leave again—I won’t stop you."

"And you expect me to believe in your generosity?"

"Dear child, last time I tried to force you to study, you ran off with a demon, had his child, and burned in the hellfire of his mess. Trust me, I’ve learned from my mistakes. If you don’t want to take up the craft—fine. Wander around for another fifty years; your blood will eventually catch up with you anyway. I have time."

Trish grew even more flustered. The old woman really wasn’t holding her back? This… it felt like some sort of trap, but Trish couldn’t figure out its purpose.

"Why do you care?"

"Why would I care about my daughter’s happiness?" the old woman snorted. "Forgive me for being selfish, but I just love when you argue with me. Everyone in this house tiptoes around me—it gets boring. A little variety would be nice."

Trish tried to calculate all the possibilities, but she understood so little.

"Don’t overthink it so much, sunshine. It’s just memories—what harm could they possibly do?"

Trish grimaced. Right, what harm indeed?

"Besides, there’s the added bonus of mastering the Veramaldi craft. Name, money, and no jerks around to bother you. But of course, if you’d rather struggle through this snake pit on your own, I won’t stop you. The exit’s that way," the old woman turned away. Angeleeca handed her another cup full of tea.

Trish sighed patiently. She should just listen to the Matriarch and leave. Walk out now, never look back. But…

But.

She could just ask.

"What if I were to… agree?"

"Well then, you’ll have to put in some effort. Find the keys, gather them from across the world. You’ll have plenty of chances to change your mind along the way."

Trish bit her lip. The old woman was right. Besides, it was only her memories. And she didn’t have anything better to do anyway—this way, she’d at least get to see the world while searching for the keys.

"What kind of keys?"

The old woman smirked and set down her teacup.

"Nothing too complicated. Just three keys: The thoughts of an angel, defiled by a demon. The tears of a demon’s mother. And an innocent kiss, given to a demon."

Trish’s eyes widened.

"Oh, don’t make that face, dear. They’re just names. Nothing too difficult. Find Alessandro—he’ll tell you what to do next. Now scram, I need my afternoon nap!"

"Hey, Bert, you still with me?" His ears were ringing horribly, but this persistent man somehow managed to irritate him even more.

"Arde, what the hell?"

"Oh, you’re alive! Wonderful!" he replied with an annoyingly cheerful tone. "Hold on—I’ll get you out of there. Keep talking to me."

"What are you even doing here?"

"Your young man came running to the monastery and said you were still in your house. I grabbed a couple of guys and came to rescue you."

"I told you—" he clenched his teeth, wincing from the pain.

"Don’t worry, Bert—your real name’s safe. On the way, we ran into a few stragglers. I sent the knights back to the monastery to escort them."

"And they let you come alone?"

"I told them we’d handle it together."

"And what if I’d died?"

"I’d never forgive myself."

"Don’t be so dramatic."

"But it’s true! I’m your knight, Bert! I swore to protect you!"

"Shut up, Arde!" he grimaced. "You haven’t been a knight for a long time, and I don’t need your protection."

"Maybe not…"

The remains of the cabinet fell to the side. Sanctus saw light breaking through the gap.

"…but I consider you a dear friend." Solemnes groaned as he pushed harder. "And I’d give everything… for what I value… more than life itself!" Solemnes roared. The debris crashed to the side, revealing Solemnes’ dirt-streaked face.

"Found you. Holding up?"

Sanctus winced, tried to move his right arm, and let out a stifled groan.

"Easy," Solemnes extended his hands and helped pull him out of the rubble where some demon had thrown him. Thank Sparda, it hadn’t been fatal.

Solemnes pulled a potion from his pouch.

"It’s not a lethal wound—I’ll manage."

"Sorry, buddy, but I need your right arm. Otherwise, we won’t make it out of here."

Sanctus sighed wearily but didn’t argue.

He drank the potion and immediately felt better. The mess that was his right arm crunched as it healed. All the minor wounds closed up.

"Better?"

Sanctus nodded and instantly shifted into combat mode.

"How’s the situation?"

"Manageable. Civilians are safe. There are casualties, but relatively few for a disaster of this scale."

"Plans?"

"Clear the streets, help the scribes seal the portals."

Sanctus nodded again.

"Where to next?"

"The castle. Need to grab more potions and summon a couple of guardians while I’m at it."

Sanctus got to his feet and rummaged through the piles of debris for a surviving sword.

They walked through the deserted streets of the city. The destruction was minimal, but every bit of it felt like a personal insult to Sanctus.

"So… do you know what happened?"

"Of course I do," Sanctus smirked smugly. "Your boy came running to me and asked me to kill him."

Solemnes turned around, surprised.

"And how did that go?"

Sanctus shrugged.

"I shot a ballistic bolt at him, and he just stood there like nothing happened, then summoned shards of Yamato and disappeared into a man-made portal. He said not to worry about him—he’ll return when he can."

Solemnes nodded in satisfaction.

"One less thing to stress about. Thanks, Bert!"

Sanctus grimaced.

"What about Maria?"

"She’s already at the monastery, managing the infirmary."

Sanctus nodded. Maria was responsible and experienced. Few knew just how much she actually did for the city and the Order. Daily errands from Solemnes, helping out in the city council, the monastery, import-export agreements. And that’s not even counting her mad love for reading everything—and by everything, Sanctus meant everything from contracts and accounting books to invoices and letters of complaint. If she hadn’t been born a woman, no one would’ve questioned who’d be the next vicar.

Along the way, they ran into small packs of demons, killed them, and moved on. It was nice to feel the reassurance of having someone watch your back. Solemnes was one of the few who could keep up with Sanctus, even after all these years.

"Which is good because my house seems to have been destroyed by one of the portals."

Sanctus looked at Solemnes in surprise.

"Bad day," Solemnes shrugged.

"The staff? Christina?" Sanctus asked automatically.

"I hope the staff is okay. As for Christina, no need to worry about her."

"I want to know why?" Sanctus raised an eyebrow.

"If we get out of here alive, remind me to show you her childhood photos."

Sanctus rolled his eyes.

"That’s the last thing I need." Still, the idle chatter entertained him more than he cared to admit.

In many ways, Sanctus was afraid to admit things to himself. For instance, he’d always enjoyed working with someone who didn’t need protection. it's... slacking his caution.

And that was exactly why admitting was a terrible mistake.

They still hadn’t worked out the process for the initial tests. So they were still just human.

Sanctus only had time to see the fear on Solemnes’ face, feel the push of his hand against his chest. Then the vicar’s head fell into his arms.

With a sharp intake of breath, Sanctus woke up.

His pounding heart throbbed in his ears, cold sweat chilling his body uncomfortably.

Another nightmare. He hadn’t thought he was still capable of seeing them, let alone reacting to them.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he rubbed his aching foot, got up and threw his uniform over his pajamas. No way he was going back to sleep now, so he might as well take a walk.

Sanctus had narrowly escaped death that day. He’d killed the spawn, but at a heavy cost.

He was bleeding out, limping on a broken leg, too weak to hide Arde’s body, so he took the amulet, left everything as it was, and ran to the castle vault with whatever speed he could muster.

The vault didn’t let him in.

Then he passed out. What a disgrace.

Sanctus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Another mistake he’d blame himself for until the end of his days.

Brushing it off, Sanctus took a crutch and left his quarters for a walk. He wasn’t going back to sleep anyway, so he might as well think about work.

But smart thoughts wouldn’t come. His mind was fixated on the vault. If only he could solve this puzzle, if only…

Naturally, after such a failure, he started looking for the problem. He cleared the room, lit it up, and stumbled upon five runes that no sane person could read… except for one little girl.

Credo's sister, who had stood guard at the monastery alongside Nero's pet Assault, became something of a saint—or even an angel—after the attack. Sweet, modest, kind, she proved herself a skilled warrior bravely fighting demons.

She used runes to create traps, protect doors, and assist the scribes in closing portals. Credo fumed whenever his younger sister went to the front lines without him, but it worked in Sanctus’ favor. A fiery heart and a cool head would make his no less formidable a warrior. And if he were to infuse his blood with demonic power… these hellish siblings would become a true blessing for Fortuna. Though… considering recent events, he was starting to doubt the necessity of continuing the experiments.

And regarding Kyrie, Sanctus had asked her to translate the runes. But even the girl’s skills weren’t enough to decipher the meaning of the sequence.

"There’s something off here. Something that protects this sequence from being read by just any demon," she traced her fingers over the runes, whispering incomprehensible words in a trance-like state. "I don’t think I can explain their meaning to you," she answered honestly, her eyes clear and sincere.

All he could do now was hope Nero was still alive. Otherwise, all the treasures inside would be lost forever.

Sanctus sighed again. The dark corridors of the castle, so familiar after all these years, now felt suffocating and oppressive.

After Solemnes’ death, after burying what remained of his body—what the demons had left behind—and after the mourning period ended, a public vote took place. Even that fearsome woman didn’t doubt for a second that he’d become the new vicar.

"I understand you’re the big fish in this pond now, but if you dare hurt my daughter—"

"Are you seriously threatening me?" he smirked, looking into her eyes. Sparda save him, but once upon a time, he’d thought she was beautiful. He and Arde had nearly come to blows over her attention. What had he even seen in her?

"No, Herbert, I’m warning you. Maria asked me not to interfere in your affairs, but if it comes to it, hell will feel like paradise compared to what I’ll do."

"And what exactly will you do? Kill me?"

"My imagination isn’t that shallow," she sneered.

"You’re a smart woman, Saxoniya. You should realize I’m going to be the vicar. I no longer care about that orphan girl. In fact, she should thank me for freeing her from such a heavy burden."

"In any case," she waved dismissively, "consider yourself warned. Maria’s a smart girl; she’ll get it the first time," Saxoniya hinted openly.

That made him raise an eyebrow. She really trusted Maria? To him? Of all people?

"Don’t look at me like that. After all, you were his friend. Though I have no idea why."

"The old fool slipped into senility," Sanctus grimaced. "He still thought of himself as my knight."

Saxoniya snorted.

"Drop the arrogance already. It’ll kill you sooner or later."

"And yet, between the two of us, I’m the one still standing."

Saxoniya narrowed her eyes.

"You know, I’ll cut straight to the chase. Was his death an accident, or did you finally get what you wanted?"

Yes, he’d already told Maria that he killed Solemnes. Intentionally.

"And you’ll believe me?" Sanctus smirked.

"Know what? Yes." Sanctus opened his mouth to respond, but Saxoniya cut him off. "Considering the fact that my grandson entrusted you with information about his well-being, I’ll trust you too. But only this once."

Nero? Alive? There’d been no word from him for whole week. And if Saxoniya knew, that meant he was safe with her! Apparently, relief washed over his face because Saxoniya smiled far too smugly.

"You don’t need to answer. I can see it all over your face."

Sanctus grimaced.

"Anyway, brace yourself. Running this sect is a nightmare."

Saxoniya might’ve acted as the mediator, but it was Maria who came to negotiate, bringing one of Solemnes’ prized bottles with her.

Though calling it a negotiation would be stretching it. They barely spoke. They just drank in silence, each mourning their own loss. Still, the fact that she’d come and shared a drink from the same bottle said more about their truce than a thousand words ever could. Especially after Sanctus admitted to her that Solemnes’ death was his fault.

By the end of the evening, Maria confessed that she couldn’t stand the vile stuff, so she left the entire bottle with Sanctus and walked out. That bottle was now sitting in his office…

Sanctus knew he wasn’t supposed to drink. Tonight—one single night—he was supposed to stay sober and spend it in the room located on the upper floor of Fortuna Castle. It was believed that Sparda himself once rested there while ruling the city. And on the day of consecration, the new vicar was required to spend the night there to inherit Sparda’s noble soul.

A tradition adopted by the Order after Sparda disappeared. Stupid, like everything else in Fortuna.

Frustrated, Sanctus entered what was now his office and immediately spotted the half-empty bottle. He glanced at the glasses and smirked. Solemnes wouldn’t approve. Arde would’ve dragged him up to the roof… well, twenty years ago when his knees still allowed it.

And how had they ended up here? Sanctus had decided long ago: no attachments, no pain. Yet here he was, in the middle of the office, holding a bottle, practically on the verge of tears over someone he’d tried to erase from existence to take this very position.

Be careful what you wish for.

Sanctus took a sip, grimaced, and sank into the chair. But he couldn’t sit still. Shadows in the corners scratched at his senses, and his thoughts made his legs run, although he was unlikely to ever be able to... They said in the infirmary that with such a fracture he would never fully recover. And the sword in his hands will now replace the cane.

He needed to do something. Anything. He was so weak. So helpless despite all his power.

He stood up and just hobbled on.

Come to think of it, he was lucky. Dozens of deaths, hundreds of injuries, cripples, orphans, widows—all because he’d let his guard down. Because he’d grown complacent.

"It’s all because of Nero," whispered a tiny, traitorous voice in his head.

Perhaps…

No, definitely! It was all because of him! And Sanctus might’ve let hatred fester on that thought if not for one small detail Saxoniya casually dropped before leaving.

"Nero told me they killed Mundus."

From that perspective, the sacrifice had been incredibly, insignificantly, almost imperceptibly small.

But not for him.

And that was where he could blame Nero—for giving him back his friend, his faith in humanity, and those damn emotions.

Sanctus didn’t notice his legs leading him to the cursed storeroom.

How many times had he secretly inspected this place? How many times had he searched for information, trying to find a way to open Sparda’s vault, to use its artifacts to grow stronger?

Runes.

Hidden behind clever magic, visible only to those with demonic blood.

And the funniest part? No demon could read them because something about them was… wrong. Saxoniya’s personal runologist confirmed it—with his blood.

According to her, the poor bastard was torn apart when he tried to decipher them. Good riddance, though; a demon deserved no less.

Sanctus sat right on the floor, his back against the accursed alcove. He took a swig and slumped forward.

"Old fool," he muttered. "It’s my first day in your shoes, and just look at what I’m doing!" He raised the bottle and took another swig. His skull thudded against the wall. After a few gulps, he lowered the bottle.

"Why did you do it? Anyone in Fortuna would’ve preferred to see you in my place." Sanctus sucked in a shaky breath. "Why, Arde? I’m… I’m so pathetic," he grimaced. "I can’t do what you did… give everything for what I'm value more than my life."

At that moment, the back of his head lost its support. Sanctus toppled backward, the bottle tipping with him. Liquid gurgled.

And his gaze drifted upward, into the endless, misty sky of the ethereal pocket.

The vault.

And if his soul screamed in loss louder than ever before, no one in the human world heard it.

Chapter Text

"No, Enzo, I’m not taking that job… Because I’ve got no one to watch the kid… No, I’m not dropping him off at ‘Love Planet’. He’s only ten!... Fine, I’ll think about it… I said I’ll think about it!" Dante slammed the phone down with a loud clack and let out a heavy sigh. "Sheesh…"

Oren wasn’t paying much attention to the conversation. He was focused on cleaning the Seed. Plus, he was still recovering from yet another—failed—attempt to tap into… uh… magic? Spells? Witchcraft? Oren had no idea what to call it. Hell, he didn’t even know what it was. It completely shattered everything: thoughts, feelings, himself, and reality around him. It was like his own bullet compressed all the space around him into a single point, boiling and mixing everything inside. He both existed and didn’t exist at the same time, and then everything snapped back to normal, leaving him with no memory of what happened. Terrifying as hell but also strangely liberating.

Hell that.

Dante had mentioned that he’d nailed it on his first try—and hadn’t the foggiest clue how to actually teach someone else. Those symbols Dante tried to draw once during their sessions didn’t help a damn thing.

"Why does Dante’s gun have the word ‘works’ engraved with a typo?" Oh right, how could he forget? Patty was here too. She was trying to get involved in whatever Oren was doing. Last time, she’d tried learning runes, and before that, she’d told him she started reading Pride and Prejudice, attempting to strike up superficial (and shallow) discussions about it.

In short, Patty was doing everything she could to impress him, which only annoyed him more.

Kids…

Dante pushed off the desk and wheeled back over to the coffee table where Oren sat to continue cleaning his guns.

"Nell did the engraving in a hurry. I didn’t bother asking her to fix it."

"Why don’t you ask her now?" Patty chimed in.

"Because she burned," Dante replied flatly.

"You mean burned out?" Patty clarified unnecessarily.

The phone rang again. Dante whipped around to grab it, growling as he answered.

"I already told you!... Oh, it’s you… Yeah, one informant’s been pestering me to take a job… Something about an excavation, I didn’t catch the details… Another smartass, huh? Why don’t you babysit Nero then?... Just as I thought…" Then Dante suddenly frowned. "What’s this about a lead?..." He glanced at Oren. "Kid, Saxoniya says you’ve been looking for some guy with demon batteries?"

"Oh, did she find him?"

Dante nodded. "What do you need him for?"

"He closes portals and steals my energy."

Dante’s expression shifted ever so slightly.

"So, who is this guy?" Dante asked into the phone. "Got it. Any chance you’ve got an address?... Relax, I’ll leave his hands intact…" Dante jotted the address down, thanked the caller, and hung up. "Well, Nero, feel like taking a ride?"

"Now?"

"Why not?" Dante shrugged. "Besides, he’s a gunsmith. I’ll ask him to fix the engraving while we’re there." He gestured toward his pistols.

"Sure," Oren replied. He’d finished the main part of his work anyway, and polishing could go on forever.

"Can I come along?" Patty asked hopefully.

"Why not?" Dante shrugged again, winking at Oren, who grimaced. Was he messing with him?

They made it to the location in record time. Patty still hated the smell but didn’t complain.

The address turned out to be a legit gun shop. The sign outside read Rock's Guns and Ammo.

They stepped into a lavish gun store. A bell jingled.

Oren genuinely appreciated the setup: every firearm or pair, spare parts, displayed calibers—all were showcased in individual displays, frames, or on their own stands and pedestals. The place had the vibe of an art gallery. Right in the center was a plaque that read, “Where true art is born”—clearly the shop’s slogan.

Dante’s mood darkened.

A young man with an eyepatch over his right eye emerged from the back.

"Welcome to Rock's Guns and Ammo. I’m Rock. How can I help you?" His enthusiasm faded as he squinted at Dante’s face. "Sorry for being forward, but aren’t you Tony? Tony Redgrave?"

Dante clenched his teeth but quickly masked it with a smirk.

"Depends on who’s asking."

"Holy shit, it really is you!" Rock’s grin didn’t falter despite Dante’s fierce grin. "I never thought I’d actually meet you!"

"Do I know you?"

"Not personally," Rock waved dismissively. "I’m Nell’s son. Nell Goldstein."

Dante’s grin faltered, and his eyes disappeared behind his bangs again.

"I didn’t know she had a kid."

"My dad took me when I was little. Messed around with guns, lost sight in one eye. Dad gave Mom an ultimatum: family or work. She told him where to shove it."

"Sorry."

"Don’t be!" Rock countered. "I was glad she stuck with what she loved. As for me—" he spread his arms, gesturing to the shop—"this incident didn’t teach me a damn thing either."

Dante smirked crookedly.

"So how do you know me?"

"Oh, it’s simple! Nell and I have been in touch." Rock chuckled at the fond memory. "She used to tell me about this stray cat who kept showing up at her shop, stealing food and wrecking her work. I thought it was funny until she sent me your photo."

Dante winced. "Yeah…" He scratched the back of his neck. "I wasn’t exactly looking my best back then."

"Are you kidding? You were so badass! I dreamed to be just like you!"

Dante snorted and turned away to examine a display against the wall.

"Even though Mom was always swearing about you," Rock added. "But… well, you know how she was."

"Yeah," Dante muttered, running his hand over a semi-automatic pistol from a brand Oren didn’t recognize. What a disgrace! He needed to update his knowledge ASAP!

"One day she mentioned that she liked the idea of adopting you. But you’d never have gone for that, so she just kept scolding you for breaking her guns and making new ones for you instead."

Dante visibly flinched, making Oren tense up.

"By the way, can I ask something?"

"Mm?" Dante replied, almost inaudibly. Oren instinctively shrank back, trying to make himself as small as possible. Dante was rarely this quiet—only when things were really going south.

"Did she manage to finish Ebony and Ivory before… well, before the accident happened?"

Instead of answering, Dante drew two pistols from their holsters. Oren swallowed hard, glanced at Rock, and waited for a signal. But Dante didn’t rush. He just stood there, holding the guns in his hands.

"So it’s true?" Patty gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.

"She burned at work?" Rock smirked humorlessly. "Yeah. It’s kind of a little family pun-joke."

"Not funny at all," Dante whispered under his breath, tightening his grip on the gun handles.

"She wouldn’t agree with you," Rock shrugged casually, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the air. "Yeah, I wasn’t there, but I’ll bet you anything that during the fire, she just kept working on one of her masterpieces, muttering something like, ‘It’s no big deal, and you’re all just a bunch of scaredy kittens.’"

Dante suddenly whipped around to face Rock. Oren braced for a fight.

And then Dante burst out laughing like a maniac.

"Swear to God, that’s exactly what happened," he said, walking over to Rock and slamming Ebony and Ivory onto the counter.

"That’s what I’m talking about!" Rock nodded, grinning back.

Oren had completely lost track of what was happening.

"So, I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while now. We’re practically stepbrothers, after all."

Dante froze. A faint crack of a demonic grin crossed his face, and the store filled with a low, self-satisfied hum.

What the hell? Did his uncle actually like this idea?

Oren turned to look at Rock again, reevaluating him entirely.

"Alright, what do we have here?" Rock, oblivious to everything, leaned over the guns and inspected them closely.

"There’s a typo in the engraving. In the word 'works'," Patty chimed in, stepping closer.

Meanwhile, Oren sidled up to Dante and placed the man’s hand on top of his head.

The hand ruffled Oren’s hair and then rested on his shoulder, giving it an approving squeeze. Oren relaxed. Everything was fine. The fight was off.

"God, I’m so embarrassed!" Rock blushed uncontrollably. "This is my fault!"

"How so?" Patty asked, puzzled. "Weren’t you already living with your dad by then?"

"Yeah, but…" he scratched his chin, "before Dad took me away, I drew a medal for Mom. I wanted her not to feel sad about my mistake and to keep doing what she loved. But I wrote '.45 ART WORKS' as '.45 ART WARKS.'"

"How could you make such a stupid mistake?" Patty frowned.

"Hey, I was seven, alright! And I’d just lost an eye!" Rock shot back, glaring at her.

"Sorry," Patty mumbled, lowering her gaze guiltily.

Rock sighed.

"Don't be. Alright, I think I can fix this. And while I’m at it, I’ll give them a tune-up," he said, picking up Ebony. He ejected the magazine, cleared the chamber, raised the gun skyward, and pulled the trigger a couple of times. Though nothing happened, Oren looked up at the ceiling in horror. There were a few bullet holes visible—evidence of previous, less successful tests. "And since it’s my mistake, I’ll do it all for free." He aimed the gun away from the customers.

"No need," Dante said, extending his free hand to rest it on the barrel. "bro," he added hesitantly. "Let it stay our little family pun-joke."

Rock froze for a moment, then broke into such a radiant smile that the space around him seemed to light up.

"Of course, Tony! I’d be happy to!"

"It’s Dante," he muttered quietly.

"Huh?"

"Tony… that was my alias. Dante is my real name."

"Oh, got it," Rock nodded enthusiastically. "Dangerous job, bad memories. Either way, nice to meet you, Dante!" he extended his free hand.

"Likewise," Dante smiled, shaking it. "But I’m still not opposed to free tune-up."

Rock laughed heartily. "Don't doubt it. Alright, then," he reached for the second gun. "Come pick them up in a couple of days," he said, tucking both guns under the counter.

"Deal."

"Now that we’ve sorted out all this family drama, how about introducing me to my nieces and nephews?"

"I’m not his daughter!" Patty protested. "Dante and I are business partners!"

"Since when?!" Oren shot back.

"I take care of your meals! Do you know how much work that is?!"

"No one asked you to do that! You volunteered!"

"Exactly!"

"Fight!" a third child’s voice rang out in the shop.

Both Oren and Patty turned to see a short, skinny girl in a tight black jumpsuit. Glasses perched on her nose, unruly mop of hair barely held back by a single hair tie, olive skin. She vaguely reminded Oren of someone…

"Don’t egg them on, Rocket," Rock smirked.

"Well, either that, or let them kiss already!" the girl threw up her hands dramatically.

Oren grimaced and turned away from Patty.

"You’re so loud, I can hear you all the way in the workshop!" she complained.

"My apologies," Oren corrected himself. "We were just resolving some business matters with my uncle."

Patty pouted.

"Oh, so if you’re his nephew, does that mean I’ve got another unnamed stepsibling?" Rock grinned, turning to Dante. "Who is it? A brother or sister? Older or younger than you?"

"My dad—Vergil—is the older twin," Oren replied.

"Wait a second," the girl interrupted, "another stepsibling?"

"Yeah, Nico," Rock ruffled her hair, "this is Tony, the guy I told you about. Though, his real name is Dante, but that doesn’t change anything. He’s your step-uncle."

"The Tony?! Oh my god!" Nico squealed. "Mister To—uh, I mean, Mister Dan… um… I mean, Step-Uncle Dante! I’m such a huge fan of yours! My grandma made so many awesome guns for you! Some of her designs were years ahead of their time! When I grow up, I’m gonna be just as cool a gunsmith as her! Will you let me make you new weapons then?"

The flood of words finally stopped. Stunned by the sheer speed of her speech, Oren blinked, then glanced at an equally stunned Dante.

"Well, if you work as fast as you talk—maybe we’ll get along just fine."

"Yay!!!" Nico squealed. "Daddy, did you hear that?! He said I can make him weapons!"

"Yeah, Rocket," Rock grimaced, literally grounding the bouncing girl by placing a hand on her head, "I heard everything perfectly." He turned back to the visitors. "So that means you’re…" he pointed at Oren.

"Nero," Oren nodded.

"Got it. And you’re…"

"Patty Lowell," she said, lifting her chin proudly.

"Oh, the Cinderella?" Rock raised an eyebrow. "Never thought I’d meet you in person."

Patty gave Rock an exaggerated curtsy then stuck her tongue out at Oren. Oren rolled his eyes. Stupid rumors had made Patty famous and only fueled her ego.

"And, not that I’m complaining, but why exactly are you guys here in my shop?"

"We’re here on business," Oren spoke up, "and this one just tagged along."

"Hey! Maybe I want to pick out a pistol for myself!"

"And what do you need a pistol for?" Oren raised an eyebrow.

"For self-defense!"

"Kids like you aren’t allowed to have weapons."

"Hey, but you’ve got a revolver!"

"I know how to use it."

"I’ll learn too! I’m sure it’s not as hard as it looks!"

"I completely agree with you!" Nico chimed in. "Dad, can we go to the shooting range?"

"No, Rocket. We talked about this. No shooting range without my supervision…"

"Until I’m fourteen. Yeah, I remember," Nico grimaced. "Boring. Alright, then can I at least show her some other cool self-defense stuff?"

"Well, if Miss Lowell doesn’t mind."

"I don’t," she nodded.

Nico vaulted over the counter, grabbed Patty by the hand, and practically shoved her through the slightly open door her dad had pushed open.

"Come on, come on! I’ll show you some real shit!"

"Rocket!" Rock called after her.

"I meant stuff!" Nico shouted back, and she and Patty disappeared into the back room.

Oren let out a long sigh.

"Yeah," Rock chuckled, "she can be a handful sometimes. But I still love her. And not just because of her real father’s brilliant mind! I think Nell would be proud to have someone like her in the family tree."

"She’s not your biological daughter?" Oren asked, surprised.

"My late sister’s kid. Her dad ditched them when Nico was two and ran off to some small port town to work for some local cult. Right after, Alissa—my half-sister—got sick and passed away when Nico was six. That’s when I adopted her."

Oren stared ahead thoughtfully. Why did Nico feel so familiar? What was he missing?

"Well, today’s been one hell of a day for revelations," Rock interrupted his thoughts. "I don’t think anyone will mind if we close the shop a bit early. We’ve got so much to talk about! How do you guys feel about pizza?"

Oren exchanged a glance with Dante and grinned widely. Rock smirked back.

"Thought so."

"So, what are you really here for?" Rock asked casually. They were settled in the kitchen, located on the second floor above the shop. Rock and Nico lived where they worked. Dante understood the convenience—same deal for him.

"A mutual acquaintance mentioned you used some kind of batteries to seal portals."

"Oh, that portal invasion thing? Yeah, as soon as Nico heard about it, she begged me to take her to see one. Then she stayed up all night trying to figure out how to close them. The first prototype blew up. The second too. But the third one still works. She’s been using the energy from those batteries for her experiments."

"Rock, much as I hate to upset your kid, that energy needs to be returned. It belongs to Nero."

Rock froze with a slice of pizza halfway to his open mouth, stunned, looking at Nero, then back at Dante. He swallowed.

"Problem?"

"W-what? No, of course not!" He put the slice back down and shouted through the house. "Nico, get in here!"

The sound of pounding feet followed, and a disheveled girl burst into the kitchen, an oil stain on her cheek.

"You were touching the engine again, weren’t you?" Rock frowned.

"Nooo," she drawled, avoiding his gaze and looking anywhere but at him.

Rock pointed a finger at his cheek. Nico immediately mimicked the gesture, glanced at her finger, and grimaced.

"It’s not what you think it is," she began pitifully.

"We’ll talk about it later," Rock sighed, waving her off. "Right now, I need your batteries."

"You want to show them off?" Nico brightened.

"I want to give their contents back to their rightful owner."

"What?" Nico frowned. "But my reaction is in full swing! If I stop it now, the little critters will die!"

"I understand, Nico," Rock repeated patiently, "but that energy belongs to Nero."

Nico stared at Nero with wide, shocked eyes.

"You wouldn’t want someone using your blood without asking, right?" Rock continued gently. But Nico wasn’t listening anymore.

She jabbed a greasy finger toward Nero and squeaked, "You’re a demon?!"

Dante, sitting behind Nero, placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Half-demon," he grumbled. "Got a problem with that?"

"Are you kidding?! That’s so freaking cool!" she gushed enthusiastically. "Think of all the stuff we can do! Can you read runes? Charge them?"

"Yes and no," Nero mumbled through a mouthful of pizza.

"So cool!" she squealed and yanked Nero after her.

"W-wait, where?" he stammered, scrambling after Nico while trying not to drop his slice of pizza.

Dante watched them leave with a frown.

"Don’t worry, Dante," Rock grinned. "Nico definitely takes after her dad—completely and utterly obsessed with demons—but in a more… uh… positive way."

Dante met his gaze.

"Just to be clear, Rock. That’s my kid. And if anything happens to him—anything at all—I’ll bury anyone involved."

But the threat seemed to have the opposite effect.

"Not a single doubt in my mind, Dante," Rock said with a wide grin.

Apparently, insanity ran in the family.

Well, fine. Dante could live with that.

While Nico was gone, Patty ate the pizza Dante brought and quietly examined her room—which didn’t differ much from a cluttered workshop. In her opinion, a lady shouldn’t live in such a pigsty, but Nico was hardly a lady. She came across more like a mad genius creating organized chaos around herself. If it had been some boy, Patty would’ve been annoyed, but with Nico, she didn’t feel that way. On the contrary, she wanted to figure out what all these things were for.

"There! I need you to read these runes," Nico dragged a reluctant Nero into the room and practically shoved his face into some glowing, foul-smelling box.

"I can read runes too," Patty boasted. She’d started learning them recently, after Nero told her about them. Getting a runic primer hadn’t been easy—it had cost her almost all the remaining compensation money—but now she knew almost the entire alphabet, a few double sequences, and even a couple of triples.

"Pfft, so can I!" Nico threw up her hands. "But the human brain has some damn limitation! I can read one rune, sometimes even two. There are reference books for triples, but fours and above? That’s something beyond human reach. That’s why people keep demons around—to translate those sequences for them."

Patty looked between Nico and Nero, surprised.

"People are too linear; they’re used to arranging everything into logical lines. To read runes, you need a mind free of any stereotypes." Nero spoke in that infuriatingly pretentious tone of his.

"You talk like you’re not human yourself," Patty shot back.

"Well, he’s a hybrid," Nico chimed in casually.

"A hybrid?" Patty frowned.

"A mix of human and demon," Nico explained, "like a liger or a wolfdog. By the way, which of your parents was human and which was a demon?"

Patty had suspected something wasn’t quite normal. A little boy who’d just had his arm bitten off couldn’t possibly act so confident standing face-to-face with a demon. Stupid Patty. She should’ve figured it out sooner.

"That’s none of your business," Nero huffed.

"Fine, I’ll ask Uncle Dante later," Nico waved it off. "So, can you read this?"

Nero rolled his eyes but obediently turned his attention to the box. It was covered in runes—an impossibly complex sequence that no one could possibly decipher. Patty clutched her amulet.

Did her mom know how to read runes?

"Where did you get this?" Nero frowned.

"My dad and I frequent the Devil’s Market. We buy all sorts of shit on the cheap."

"Rocket!" came a voice from the next room.

"I meant stuff!" Nico shouted back. "So, can you read it?"

Nero leaned over the box, examining it from every angle.

"I get it," he muttered.

"Huh? What is it?" Nico leaned in closer.

"It's actually the same sequence of five runes repeated in a loop. I can’t tell exactly where it starts or ends, though. I think it’s like one of those Chinese puzzle boxes."

"Oh, so you have to guess the right sequence, charge it, and the box will open?"

"Something like that," Nero confirmed.

"And what happens if you charge the wrong sequence?" Patty chimed in.

"I think the box just takes your energy and gives nothing in return," Nero shrugged.

Patty thought for a moment.

"Could this be some kind of trickster demon stealing energy from other demons?"

Nero froze, looked at Patty, and let out a hideous grin. How had she not noticed his mannerisms before? It was so obvious!

Pressing a finger to his lips, Nero said, "No way, it’s definitely not a trickster demon! Demons are too dumb to come up with something like this."

Nico smirked, grabbed a notebook, and scribbled something down, showing it to Nero. He nodded.

"I think Dante could test a couple of sequences. Maybe he’ll get lucky."

Nico grinned mischievously, but her attempt paled in comparison to Nero’s chilling smirk.

"Is that everything, or do you have more runes for me?"

"Mmm, actually, I’d like you to help me write a specific sequence."

Nero sighed.

Nico dashed to her cabinet, flung the doors open, and unleashed an awful buzzing noise into the room.

"What the hell do you have in there?" Nero groaned, covering his ears as he approached.

"My little critters," she boasted, "not literally, of course. I caught a few flies, fireflies, and butterflies, then exposed them to demonic energy."

Patty also stepped closer to the cabinet. There were no hangers or shelves inside—just two makeshift batteries and a plastic container buzzing aggressively with glowing insects.

"And what exactly were you hoping to achieve with this?"

"I don’t know," Nico shrugged. "I’ve got a few ideas, but I need your help." She darted off to another part of the room, skillfully leaping over the clutter, and returned with a notebook, shoving it into Nero’s face. "What can you make out of this?"

Nero snatched the notebook from her hands and scanned the lines.

"Idiocy, stupidity, big-time stupidity, slightly less stupidity," he muttered as he read. "Oh, this one might actually work."

"Let me see, let me see!"

"Enchant the swarm’s queen. Pretty practical overall. Swarm’ll protect the bearer, sting enemies, light the way, or distract foes."

Nico grimaced.

"To be honest, that’s the most boring of my idea."

Nero snorted.

"Well, alternatively, you could turn them into bullets."

"Really?" Nico perked up instantly.

Instead of answering, Nero summon a bullet out of air and handed it to Nico.

"A demonic bullet," he explained. "Made from a tingteeth leeches. On impact, it shatters and releases its stored power. In this case, it compresses a specific volume of matter into a point and then releases it explosively."

"This is freaking awesome!" Nico squealed, inspecting the bullet and, for some reason, poking it into… was that it's eye? "Where did you get these?!"

"I made them myself," Nero shrugged. "Though Kyrie and Agnus helped me with the process."

Nico flinched. Fiddling nervously with the bullet, she asked hesitantly, "Nero, have you ever been to Fortuna?"

"I’m from there. Why?"

"So… you know that Agnus," she said, pressing her lips together.

"He’s the head researcher of the Order. I don’t know any other Agnuses, but it’s not exactly a common name around town."

Nico pulled a pocketbook from her pocket and took out a photograph.

"Is this him?"

Nero and Patty leaned in closer. The photo showed a happy family holding a baby.

"Yeah," Nero nodded. "Do you know him too?"

"He’s my biological father. I haven’t seen him since I was two. He… Is he okay?"

"I don’t know," Nero shrugged, making Nico flinch again. "While I was gone, there was some kind of attack. I don’t know if he got hurt or not."

Nico pursed her lips.

"Got it. Well," she waved it off, "doesn’t matter! So, will you help me make bullets?"

"I’d love to, but I can’t activate sequences anymore."

"Huh? Why? Or is it just that hybrids can’t do that?"

"I could. Before. Until—" he unconsciously rubbed his right arm.

Patty sighed, feeling guilty again.

"On one mission, I got injured. And until I find my arm, I won’t be able to awaken runes."

Nico grimaced and looked at Nero with disgust.

"What?"

"I’m trying to figure out where your third arm grew from."

"Damn it, no! My right arm!" he threw up his hands in exasperation.

Nico raised an eyebrow. Nero growled.

"It’s not a real arm. It’s a demon that took the shape of my arm."

"Seriously?! Holy crap!" Nico immediately grabbed his arm and started inspecting and feeling it from all sides. "It looks and feels real."

"But it’s still a demon."

"So where’s the real arm? And are you sure demons didn’t eat it?"

"I’m sure," Nero nodded. "There’s a fragment of a Devil Arm in it that keeps it from… uh… dying? Melting? I think that’s why my energy keeps leaking out of me."

"Like water from a busted pipe?"

"Something like that," Nero nodded. "I’m only alive thanks to Dante’s power. But I can’t rely on him forever. Still, I have no idea how to find my arm."

"Hmm, I think I’ve got an idea," Nico darted to the other side of the room again, rummaging through the table. "Where is it? I swear I saw it here. Ah, found it!" She held up a shard of cloudy purple crystal. "This should help."

"What is that?" Patty asked.

"A shard of a Seer Demon core. A nasty little thing that can predict the future and dodge fatal blows at the last second. Hunters absolutely hate it."

"Because it’s impossible to kill?" Patty asked, surprised.

"I think because it’s such a pain in the ass," Nero grimaced.

"Bullseye, Snowflake! You can kill it, but you need to wear it down first. People usually go after it in groups. That’s why whole parts of it go for a fortune on the Devil’s Market. A full Seer core can predict the future. Though, really, all it does is quantum-entangle the neurons of your present self and your past self. And if, for some reason, you end up dead—" she slashed her throat for emphasis, "—your past self will remember what happened and avoid the same mistakes."

"How far back can you go?" Patty clarified.

"As far as your energy holds out," Nico shrugged. "Only the owners of these cores know the exact correlation. A shard, sadly, can’t do that, so it’s worth peanuts."

"So what’s the point of it?" Patty asked again.

"You can make a compass with it!"

Nero frowned.

"What are you going to charge it with?"

"With what else? You of course!"

Nero’s mouth open, then he snorted.

"Batteries."

"Exactly!"

"Alright, but what if my arm is shielded?"

"Then I’ll tweak the compass to punch through all shields!"

Nero thoughtfully scratched his chin.

"And then I just need to get as far away as possible," he muttered under his breath.

"You catch on quick, Snowflake!"

Patty didn’t want to seem stupid, but she’d lost the thread a bit.

"Why do you need to get away?"

"So the compass stops reacting to him and starts reacting to the arm," Nico dismissed her question with a wave.

"You think this will work?" Nero asked uncertainly.

"If we don’t try, we’ll never know!" she grinned widely before running out of the room.

"Damn it, where are you going?" Nero chased after her.

Patty quietly followed them.

Nico spilled the entire conversation to Dante and Rock at the speed of a Tommy gun.

It took Dante a few seconds to process the info. Then he left the room and came back holding a box that had sprouted a convenient handle for carrying.

"You were almost right, kids. It’s not a demon; it’s a Devil Arm."

Rock and Nico stared at Dante wide-eyed.

"Well, an artificial one," he sat back down at the table, placing the box by his feet. "Still, a human wouldn’t stand a chance. So I’m offering to buy it. Will pay a hundred grand."

"Dante, what the hell are you talking about?!" Rock lost his cool.

"Not enough? Fine, I’ll give you two hundred, but not all at once. You can take an IOU."

"What the fucking money are you tallking about?!" Rock practically screamed. "I picked this thing up for thirty bucks! If I’d known it was dangerous, I would’ve paid someone to take it off my hands!"

"Then," Dante pulled a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket and placed it on the table, "here. The rest is for the pizza."

Rock groaned dramatically and covered his face with his hands.

"Take it," he waved dismissively.

"Now, about the compass," Dante turned to Nico. "What do you need to make it?"

"Hmm… let me think. I’ve got almost all the parts to start working, so… when I finish the prototypes, I’ll need access to a Faraday cage, an Arcane screen, a Veramaldi cocoon, Machiavelli chains, the Seal of Silence, and it wouldn’t hurt to get access to a Nokt sphere."

"The last one’s unnecessary," Rock grimaced.

"But we want to make a perfect compass to find Nero’s arm for sure!"

"There are only three spheres in the world. One’s in hell, and the owners of the other two are known. If your compass points to Nero from the opposite side of the globe, it means the arm’s with one of the owners."

"Or in hell," Oren muttered quietly.

"I didn’t think of that," Nico scratched her head. "But everything else is a must!"

"We can build the Faraday cage ourselves," Rock nodded. "Saxoniya had connections with the Veramaldi family; maybe we can get a discount."

"We’ll handle the Seal of Silence ourselves." said Dante.

"That’s six runes," Rock frowned. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

"Dante can awaken eight runes!" Oren chimed in. They’re family—they should know how strong Dante is!

But for some reason, Dante gave Oren a strange look. Did he say something wrong again?

"I keep forgetting how sharp your instincts are," Dante sighed, ruffling his hair. "As for the chains, we’ve got this," he rested his foot on the box.

"But you said it was a Devil Arm," Nico said, surprised.

"Well, it said it’s got chains in arsenal that’ll work for us."

"YoU cAn tAlk to DeVil ArMs?!" she asked in awe.

Dante gave Rock a pleading look. Rock smirked and pulled Nico closer.

"Nico, stop pestering your uncle."

"But come on! He’s… this is an actual Devil Arm! And it can talk! Think! It’s alive!" Nico babbled in pure ecstasy.

"Anyway," Rock interrupted her, "that just leaves the Arcane screen. Though, we’ve still got time for that. Maybe the Veramaldis can help with it too."

Dante nodded."Do you need any parts, money, anything?"

"Not sure yet," Nico shrugged. "We’ll figure it out as we go."

"Alright then, Nero," Dante turned to him, "did you reclaim your energy?"

Oren shook his head.

"No point. It’d just leak out anyway. Plus…" he glanced at Nico, "if I’m coming back for the tests, the energy might come in handy. Also, I promised to teach Nico how to make bullets. I’m running low."

"I noticed but didn’t ask," Rock interjected. "So you really have a revolver?"

Oren summoned the Seed and placed it on the table.

"These bullets have eyes." Nico shared with Rock.

Rock swung the cylinder out and looked at the bullets. They must’ve looked back—though from Oren’s angle, it wasn’t visible.

"You take really good care of it. If you want, I can give it a free tune-up too."

Oren shook his head.

"For now, without my sword, the Seed is my only protection."

"When did you manage to lose your sword?" Dante asked, surprised.

"Right in front of you, remember?" Oren frowned.

"Well, your devil arm can hold a sword just fine."

Oren blinked. He hadn’t thought of that. The sequence Dante had given him allowed the Blood Widow to function more broadly than a regular arm. Not to mention, Nero could even use the switch mechanism. Still, he shouldn’t overdo it—Dante’s energy wasn’t infinite—but the fact remained.

"I guess I didn’t think about that."

"If you don’t want to be unarmed for long, I could service it while you’re here. I doubt this is your last visit, considering we’re building a compass." Rock grinned, pulling Nico onto his lap.

"You’re stuck with us," Dante confirmed, pulling Oren onto his own lap.

A sidelong glance caught Patty standing quietly in the corner of the room.

Oren didn’t want to share Dante with anyone, but… he knew the loneliness and abandonment of Nero’s childhood. He understood the pain of being unable to hug a loved one. And if Patty’s mother was dead, maybe her father was still out there somewhere? Was there any chance of finding him?

Chapter Text

Dante tossed the bag of Devil Arms into the ethereal space and surveyed the now-empty shelves with a touch of melancholy. He'd kept just a couple of his favorites—the rest would pave the way to his bright future.

Stepping out of the basement, Dante’s gaze snagged on a familiar pale nape, and he paused briefly by the door.

Nero was still translating manuscripts, now as a side gig for pocket money. A part of Dante could’ve been indignant—he worked hard enough to give his kid anything he wanted—but deep down, Dante understood that Nero needed something to occupy himself. Especially since Dante had forbidden him from working outside the house.

"Maybe I should spar with him?" Dante mused, recalling how he used to pester Vergil with requests to play when they were kids. Sparring sounded like a decent outlet.

Nodding to himself, Dante mentally moved on to one of his lingering issues.

"Toothpick?"

An uneasy silence pressed in, frustrating him.

"Yamato?"

The blade responded less and less these days—and never with more than a few words. Finding it this way was impossible.

Dante sighed.

"Nero, you ready?"

"Just a minute!"

They arrived at Rock's shop, and Dante left his nephew in the care of his—still hard to believe—step-brother. Well, sort of. They weren’t official, but if anyone gave him trouble about it, he’d just shoot the nitpicker.

"I'll pick him up later, but I might be a bit late."

"Don’t sweat it, bro," Rock slapped him on the shoulder. "There’s a spare bed. And those two will find something to keep themselves busy."

Nero was already itching to run off and conduct his devilish experiments with that twilight genius. Imagine—a girl not even ten years old had replicated some sketchy cultist’s experiment and managed to give Nero a way to replenish his ammo with a new type of homing bullets. Now his arsenal boasted two new effects: a venom that burned from the inside and a phantom that tricked the nervous system. Both effects were unstable—one target might dissolve into a stinky, caustic sludge, while another would just itch, distracted from the fight; some were paralyzed by nightmares, others dropped dead from a demonic equivalent of a heart attack.

Speaking of which—

"Nero, toss your favorite uncle a few bullets? I've got a tough job ahead."

Nero froze, turned around, and grinned menacingly. He generously poured out a whole heap of buzzing, slurping, flying, biting bullets. Disgusting.

"Just don’t let her get the better of you!"

Dante grimaced. Nero and his instincts.

"Don’t worry, it’s not in my best interest," Dante shoved the wriggling pile into a pocket and ruffled Nero’s hair. The kid hurriedly hugged him then disappeared into the shop.

Ah, youth.

The next stop on Dante’s list was Saxoniya’s office.

"Do you have an appointment?" the venomous secretary shot him a glare.

"With my mother-in-law?" Dante smirked, watching all the venom drain from the pencil pusher’s face. "Always."

He was ushered in without ceremony.

Saxoniya was on the phone. Dante didn’t rush. He plopped onto a comfy couch, draped his arms over the backrest, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. He even dozed off for a bit.

"What the hell are you doing here, you brute?" the crone kicked his feet off her coffee table.

"Hey, our contract ends in a week. You sure you don’t wanna keep things warm and cozy with your future employee?"

"Go fuck yourself, Redgrave! I’ll never work with you again! All you bring is losses and no profits!"

Dante summoned the first Devil Arm from the ethereal space and placed it on the table.

Saxoniya fell silent and frowned, inspecting the weapon.

"This is a gift. For all the inconvenience."

Saxoniya sighed and slumped forward. The business shark had transformed into a weary woman worn down by life.

"I don’t know who your guy is, Dante," she admitted, causing Dante to unconsciously purse his lips. "I looked. Believe me, I really did, but... he simply doesn’t exist. That motel you mentioned has been under renovation for five years. And among demons, no one’s heard of it. There are treasure hunters, sure, plenty of them, but no one who’s seen this specific guy."

"Got it," Dante waved it off. "Alright, there are other options, so for now, forget it," and he summoned the bag from the ethereal space. "And for this, I want a hundred and ten grand in cash. Right now." He set it on the table next to the Devil Arm.

Saxoniya stared pensively into the distance. Then a faint smile lit up her face, and her usual air of superiority returned.

"So, first your older brother went after my daughter, and now you’re trying to poach my best mercenary?"

Dante blinked. How? He hadn’t even mentioned what the money was for.

"I could watch that dumb, surprised look on your face forever," Saxoniya smirked. "Don’t bother guessing. The amount gave you away."

"How do you know how much I owe her?" Dante frowned.

"She told me," Saxoniya chuckled, settling onto the opposite couch and cautiously inspecting the contents of the slightly open bag.

"About that?"

"Told you, she’s my best mercenary. And I protect my favorites—I keep tabs on their physical and mental well-being."

Dante pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Had fun ripping me apart?"

"In all this time?" Saxoniya smirked. "Trust me, we did."

"And how long exactly is ‘all this time’?"

"Clearly longer than the two of you."

"Well," Dante snorted, "I doubt that. I met her at the start of our journey, on Temen-ni-Gru."

"And who do you think funded all her gear?"

Dante froze, giving Saxoniya a skeptical look.

"Don’t look at me like that. Her father was my personal demonologist—until he completely lost his marbles, that is. So I’ve known her since she was knee-high to a grasshopper."

"You gave her money to kill her own father?"

"Got a problem with that?" Saxoniya raised an eyebrow.

Dante let out a breath.

"Did you at least try to stop her?"

"More times than you’d think. But… you know how she is."

"Shit," Dante exhaled. "Yeah." He knows. "And no." He has no problem with. Better than some random people with unverified connections or guns.

"Getting back to business: unlike Vergil, at least you’re trying. So I’ll lend a bit of help. But if anything goes south…"

"Let’s skip the threats and get to it," Dante waved her off.

Saxoniya snorted.

"Fine, listen up."

The next stop was an old warehouse in an abandoned industrial district—a favorite spot for shady dealings. Lady, as always, had arrived early.

"Dante, what the hell are you doing here?"

"What, can’t an honest mercenary stretch his legs? Word on the street is there’s a demon nest around here, so I thought I’d check it out. Free of charge, mind you."

"Buzz off into the fog—I’ve got a client meeting in five minutes. After that, you can torch every nest you find; I won’t complain."

Dante laughed.

"Trying to make a profit off me?"

"Profit?" Lady arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "Sweetheart, you owe me a small fortune. Are you sure there isn’t a poverty curse on you?"

"Who knows?" Dante smirked. "Though, ever since Nero came along, the cash flow has definitely improved." He summoned a sleek aluminum case, opened it. "One ten. Just like we agreed."

Lady eyed the money suspiciously, then snorted.

"My apologies, darling. Did the math recently. With inflation, you now owe me one fifty."

"Figures," Dante grinned. "That’s why I brought another forty. Take it." He took a step forward.

"Wrong!" Lady recoiled. "Two hundred!"

"All two hundred," Dante nodded step forward. "And an extra fifty—for the job."

She narrowed her eyes.

"You’re the client?"

"Bingo."

"Sorry, but my rates—"

"I already talked to Saxoniya."

"For you—different prices!" she snapped.

"Perfect. Part of this will go toward paying her back."

Lady froze. Dante had cornered her, and they both knew it.

"Fine," she lifted her chin defiantly. "What do you want?"

Dante closed the case and placed it between them.

"The job’s simple," he said, spreading his arms. "You need to kill me."

"Are you out of your damn mind?"

"Honestly? Not sure," Dante chuckled. "But the job’s real. I’ll even give you a head start." He pulled demonic bullets from his pocket and handed them to Lady before the wriggling things could escape.

"What the hell is this disgusting mess?" she grimaced.

Dante explained. Her disgust slowly turned into curiosity.

"If anything’s left after the job, you can keep it."

Lady frowned.

"You realize I’m not actually going to kill you, right?"

This was the hard part. If Mom were here, she’d have helped him find the words. But Mom had been gone for years, so he’d have to handle it himself.

"A lot has changed lately," he began.

"Is the kid driving you so crazy you’ve decided to off yourself?"

He barked a laugh.

"On the contrary. I wanted to before."

Lady’s expression shifted.

"But now I have a family. A real one! My brother’s alive, and he’s given me a nephew. Recently found another step-brother, and there’s a whole bunch of relatives back in Fortuna. And I’m fucking thrilled!"

Lady listened silently.

"I killed the King of underworld. And there’s nothing left to fear except..."

He stumbled. This was the hardest part.

"I’m happy for you, Dante, but what does this have to do with me and your death?"

He looked at her. She wasn’t joking. She wasn’t pretending. She genuinely didn’t understand.

Alright. If that’s how she wants it—fine.

Dante triggred. He always tried not to do it in front of her. Lady hated demons. Well, now was as good a time as any to show just how much.

He charged into battle.

Beautiful. So damn beautiful!

Dante had always admired Lady—except for the moments when she pissed him off—and this was one of those rare moments when he was perfectly aligned with his instincts.

In ten years, she’d changed. Back on Temen-ni-Gru, she’d been a scared girl with a rifle.

Now—still a girl, petite as ever—but calling her scared? That wouldn’t be right.

She expertly controlled the battlefield, aggressively led her opponent, and was cunning enough—and just crazy enough—to let Dante get close enough to bite before blasting him with a bazooka that seemed to appear out of nowhere, straight into his open maw.

The click of the trigger.

The next second, he slammed into the wall, leaving a dent behind him.

The explosion only singed his scales slightly.

Her claws are weak. Soft. She needs more power.

Another bullseye. If everything went well, Dante would introduce her to Nico. Let them create weapons capable of stopping even him.

Alright, he’d tested everything he wanted. Now for the main event.

This trick Dante used extremely rarely. Because only one thing could pull him back from the brink. And Nero shouldn’t have to bear that burden alone.

He let the senseless, merciless hunger of Rebellion take over. His eyes clouded red. She would be with him, one way or another. Standing beside him—or being digested in his stomach.

Then—fragments.

Fear in her eyes. Replaced by anger.

A storm of bullets.

A severed arm with a sword.

A chunk of the wall—pinning him to the floor.

Her face. Tears, rage, realization.

Finally—a shot.

Darkness.

He came to with a raspy breath.

Lady was sitting nearby, cleaning her weapon. Her face—stone-cold.

"How long was I out?"

"You should’ve stayed dead," she grumbled, clearly irritated. "Piece of shit."

"Come on," Dante smirked, wincing as a sharp pain shot through the back of his head. Seems one of his vertebrae hadn’t fully regrown yet.

"Cum on yourself, asshole."

"Don’t be mad—I woke up, didn’t I?"

"Don’t be mad?!" she snapped, turning to him. "Dante, I just blew your fucking head off with your own goddamn hellfire bullet. Your head literally exploded! There was NOTHING left where it used to be! You made me sit here next to your cooling corpse—which I KILLED myself—and now you’re telling me not to be mad?! ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"

"Alright," he grinned. "Be mad."

"Oh, go fuck yourself!" she threw up her hands and turned back to her weapon.

But Lady always cooled down quickly.

"I thought you were dead."

"That was the idea."

"Why?"

Dante sighed. How was he supposed to explain this to her?

Hell, he wasn’t even sure he understood it himself…

"Instincts…" Dante forced out.

Lady froze. She turned to him, looked him in the eyes. Pushed his bangs aside and looked again.

"Dante, we both know that if you were really serious, there wouldn’t be a trace of me left, right?"

Dante blinked. What could he even say to that?

"So, you were testing something else." Not a question—just a statement of fact. And then realization dawned on her face, flushing it red in an instant.

She gets it. She getsit!

Well, at least one of them gets... eh something… He could ask her to explain, but what was the point? Everything already felt so clear.

"I’m not about to become anyone’s toy," she muttered under her breath.

Dante frowned. Whose toy? Maybe she’d agree to make him her toy?

Whatever she saw on his face seemed to satisfy her for now. Lady nervously giggled and turned away. Dante stared at her without blinking. Inside, he felt warm—and not because of the hellish regeneration. It was because she hadn’t run. She chose to stay, to stop him.

Instead of Nero.

"Lady," he called softly.

She glanced at him sideways. For the first time, Dante saw her gaze clearly. There was no trace of sarcasm or disdain.

"What?"

"Thank you."

She smirked, adjusting her hair.

"For what, idiot?"

"For shooting me in the head," he tapped the center of his forehead.

"Don’t start."

"I’m serious! Clears mind instantly!"

Like the time she fell into his arms. Love at first shot.

He sat up, slowly turning toward her—damn stubborn vertebrae. She watched him. Her pupils dilated just slightly.

"You do realize," she murmured, "that I’m still pissed? And you’re still an imbecile."

"Of course," Dante rasped—seems like his larynx decided to take a break too. "That’s exactly why I like you."

He swayed as blood rushed from his head. She caught him by the shoulder. Then suddenly yanked him closer.

The kiss was rough, short—like a slap. In it was everything: rage, relief, awkwardness, care, and something neither of them dared to name out loud.

Though, wasn’t this what Dante had come here for? Right, just wait for the blood to rush back to his brain—he couldn’t think straight at all right now.

She pulled back, smirking as she looked him over, her eyes sparking with an entirely different kind of fire.

"Dante, is that one of your guns, or are you just happy to see me?"

Seriously? Now?

Dante let his spinning head drop. Now he understood where all the blood had gone.

"To be fair, I’m always happy to see you." He tried to smile, but gravity got the better of him, and he collapsed back onto the concrete rubble of the warehouse. Yeah, this was a little better. "Hold that thought. Let me finish regenerating, then we’ll continue."

"Oh, I can handle myself just fine," Lady teased, setting aside her weapon and straddling his hips. "How do you feel about dominant women?"

Great! Fantastic!

"Just don’t give me electric shock and we’ll get along fine," Dante smirked, resting his hands on her thighs.

Trish sighed heavily.

"Something wrong?" Alessandro asked sympathetically. The sweet-looking boy with a secret turned out to be incredibly persistent. He found any excuse to strike up a conversation, even after Trish had sharply told him to shut up just a minute ago.

She stayed silent. Arguing would only make things worse.

She was done with all of it. That old hag had been right: over the past year, Trish had cursed both her curiosity and the Veramaldi family tree down to the fifth generation.

Veramaldi magic, like any human magic Trish had encountered, was based on demonic runes. But this particular lineage had figured out how to take symbols any demon knows, kill them, dissect them, and turn them inside out. And then use these mutilated corpses to warp space for their own needs.

And don’t ask what it means to “kill” a rune. Trish wouldn’t answer because she couldn’t understand. She is a fucking demon. This magic wasn’t accessible to her by birthright—or its comprehension.

And it wasn’t like she’d just accepted it and stopped trying to understand.

Trish wasn’t half bad at demon history—there wasn’t much else to do in Mundus’s castle, and demons loved recounting their exploits almost as much as they loved carrying them out. After sifting through mountains of self-aggrandizement, she discovered that runes hadn’t always been part of the world. Runic magic, burned into the veins of all demons and inaccessible to humans, emerged during Pluto’s time—before Mundus and Sparda.

Some demonic thinkers believed it wasn’t the spear itself, but the runes etched on it that separated light from darkness, humans from demons. From chaos came the need for structure—runes became its description. When charged, they gave form to energy, transforming pure chaos into something meaningful. And this worked especially powerfully in the human world.

The demon realm was nothing like the human one. On their first crossing, demons experienced shock, as if being thrown from a fast-flowing river into a murky, stinking swamp. But this form of existence had its advantages too. Because if runes were a necessity in hell, in the human world, they were a miracle. Yet in both cases, they were the foundation upon which existence itself rested.

These mutilated symbols didn’t create form like regular runes—they destroyed it, unraveling everything back into primordial chaos. Then they just waited for a new structure to emerge on its own.

And this revelation became the greatest epiphany of her life: humans are runes.

That’s why during spellcasting, Trish would fall apart just by being nearby, though it seemed no one ever noticed. Her body was demonic; it didn’t have runes, wasn’t inscribed in the world's structure—it was held together only by her will and power. And when those symbols tore apart the fabric of reality, Trish simply got caught in the crossfire.

As for the search for “just three keys,” that phase of her life was one Trish would rather forget. Seriously, if you haven't realized how stuffy it is by now, Mundus' torture would have been preferable to her. Before this, Trish had considered herself inquisitive.

But if break it all down into a step-by-step recipe, it’s—again—all about runes. Regular, demonic runes written in sequence. Three keys, each with five or six runes (who knew angel or innocence were so hard to describe?), followed by endless searches—for where on Earth could there be a person who contained one of these sequences? (Because, for some strange reason, aside from Pluto’s spear, there are no objects in the world besides humans—and occasionally animals—that hold more than four runes; five at most). These searches were conducted through rituals and artifacts. Trish didn’t participate in the process—because she couldn’t—but she saw that animals were used.

When she asked what would happen to the people she brought in, the Matriarch simply rolled her eyes and demonstrated one of the family’s spells. Then another. Then yet another—all without any sacrifices. Trish—caught in a contradictory ecstasy after three consecutive deaths—asked her to stop. Later, alone with her thoughts, Trish understood. The sacrifice wasn’t power, as it was with regular runes. The sacrifice was the runes themselves. And just as a demon effortlessly restores their strength with food and time, so too would a human regenerate their runes without even realizing it.

The problem arose when someone ran out of runes and sacrificed their last one, as happened to Eva before her death.

The rituals were done. But that was only the first part.

For the past six months—after that very year of torment—Trish had traveled the world, relying on vague hints and a search artifact on her wrist—made of disgusting pure black worms, shaped like a bracelet. It only freezing when the key-person looked directly at it. Do you think this annoying fidgeting has stopped at least once during all this time?

Okay, maybe she was being a bit dramatic. In truth, there were a couple of people who turned out to be keys. A baby and a terminally ill old woman. Trish didn’t even think twice, just turned around and went looking for the next ones.

All because these rune-corpses—like demons—were terribly chaotically in time. Some on the list hadn’t even been born yet, while others were already dead.

Six months and not a single key! Trish was at her breaking point: if nothing turned up here, she’d quit. She already had a pretty good idea of what else she could do in the human world.

Now they’d reached a port city where, according to the rituals, there could be up to five suitable keys. No surprise—Fortuna, Sparda’s bastion. The chances were high: hybrids with almost diluted-to-nothing demon blood should still exist, and both they and their children would still technically be considered demons. Trish had high hopes. And equally high exhaustion.

The ferry dropped them off, and Alessandro headed in the opposite direction. They’d agreed on a time and place to meet later. This way, they’d have a better chance of finding the keys.

Trish rubbed the bracelet on her wrist—the worms wriggled harder—and then adjusted her hood. For this mission, she’d created the guise of a pilgrim, so with uncharacteristic modesty, Trish set off into the city to hunt.

And fairly quickly, she stumbled upon the first suitable key in her endless search.

A service was being held in the temple today. Trish decided to check it out and found herself in the middle of a powerful acoustic assault.

She’d heard human singing before—even operatic, church-style singing—but this was something else entirely.

The young, beautiful girl on stage held everyone’s attention completely. Her voice, judging by the prickling sensation at her fingertips, was charged with runic magic. But despite the initial impression, there was no malicious intent in her magic. On the contrary, her singing somehow energized Trish, filling her with strength and vitality. Hope that everything would work out.

Then the bracelet froze.

Heart pounding, Trish raised her hand higher, rolled up her sleeve, and waited for the girl’s gaze to pass over her.

Bingo! It was her. This was her key. Which one exactly, she’d figure out later—with Alessandro’s help.

Now all that remained was to hope the girl wasn’t terminally ill and would agree to leave her city with Trish. She didn’t want to resort to force—Dante would kill her for that, and rightfully so.

When the singing ended, the crowd seemed to snap out of a trance. Energized, they applauded the little angel standing on stage. The girl—who turned out to be Kyrie—smiled, bowed, and, after being addressed by a man in robes—likely a vicar—left the stage to mingle with the congregation.

What followed was mostly boring observation.

After the service, Kyrie was detained by parishioners. Everyone felt it their duty to approach her, personally thank her, give her trinkets, treats, or flowers. When the flow of people subsided, a tall, stern-looking man approached her. He wore the white uniform of the Order of the Sword’s knights, as Trish recognized, and carried a sword at his hip.

They exchanged a few words, and after a brief conversation, Kyrie handed over her gifts, kissed him on the cheek, and left the temple.

Kyrie then headed to the orphanage. Boring games with the children, boring kitchen and cleaning duties. Trish observed—everyone near Kyrie was utterly smitten with her. Truly an angel.

And definitely full of surprises…

After spending several hours helping the sisters with planting and gardening—spring was in full swing—Kyrie disappeared into the catacombs. Trish had to make some effort to follow her unnoticed.

As it turned out, a tame Assault lived in the catacombs beneath the monastery. A fucking tame Assault. That ate vegetables. Right out of Kyrie’s hand.

Trish had seen a lot in her life, but this? Who was this girl? There was a faint, familiar scent about her, but it was so vague that Trish didn’t give it a second thought. Kyrie was human. Absolutely, unmistakably human. She breathed, moved, and blinked like a natural-born human. Even doppelganger or puppets like Trish—couldn’t mimic humanity so flawlessly. Even if there was a hint of predatory grace in her movements, characteristic of a true hellish warrior.

After finishing with the Assault, Kyrie ventured deeper into the catacombs. Passing an abandoned lab—judging by the abundance of cobwebs—she paused for a moment, bowed to the room, and quietly said, “Thank you.”

The catacombs led them outside the city, to the edge of the forest, where Kyrie shed all caution, finally revealing her true nature. Her hood fell back, and her jet-black hair, as if distorting light itself, cascaded down to cover her body entirely like a cover. Kyrie transformed. She was still human but undeniably extraordinary. Now her entire presence reminded Trish of the Hell Weaver or Sin Scissors—or perhaps some local variant.

Bolting into the forest with unseen speed, Kyrie clearly tried to shake Trish off her tail.

“Noticed me, huh?” Trish muttered under her breath and gave chase, keeping a cautious distance and avoiding rather obvious traps.

So Kyrie was a hunter. She protected her city and her people from demons. Bad luck for her—Trish was far smarter than the demons this girl had faced before. And unlike other hunters, Trish didn’t need anyone else. She needed Kyrie specifically, and damn Mundus’s twisted imagination, she was literally made to hunt demon hunters.

They hadn’t been running long when Trish suddenly smelled other demons.

Had she misjudged? Had Kyrie not noticed her? Was Kyrie actually hunting this whole time? All the better.

But Kyrie surprised her again.

Stepping into a clearing, Kyrie knelt—right in the wet mud—and spread her arms as if calling someone. But the demons didn’t rush to greet her.

“Don’t be afraid of her,” Kyrie said softly. “She’s my guest and won’t harm you.”

Trish was utterly lost.

Then, from behind a large rock at the edge of the clearing, several demonic frogs crawled out. Disgusting, slimy, foul-smelling creatures lunged into Kyrie’s arms and… started nuzzling her? Purring? Could frogs even purr?

Trish just let it happen, refusing to judge. Otherwise, this girl’s antics might drive her insane.

The frogs smeared Kyrie with their gross slime, licked her from head to knees, but the moment she said, “Alright, that’s enough,” they obediently detached and lined up neatly—five of them.

Kyrie sliced her left wrist with her nail and allowed each frog to lap up a few drops of her blood. When the strange ritual ended, Kyrie stood up.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay longer. But I gave Credo a lead on a growing Empusa nest. I think the knights will handle it in a couple of days. Stay safe, don’t come out until they’re gone. Then you can feast to your heart’s content.”

One of the frogs let out a loud, guttural croak, which made Kyrie smile.

"Don’t worry, Snubnose. As soon as you all learn to use your vocal cords properly, I’ll introduce you around. Then the city will be safe for you. Unfortunately, without the Forest Lord’s support, this is all I can do for now."

Did the frogs actually understand her?

"Alright, off you go. I’ve got other things to take care of. And take care of yourselves," she nodded one last time before turning—back turned—to the brood of demonic frogs. Even Trish wouldn’t have dared such reckless stupidity. Hatchlings or not, they were still demons. And they’d just tasted her blood. If they didn’t leap onto her back right then, Trish would lose the last shreds of her sanity.

"They see me as a lieutenant of their master," Kyrie explained. "Even if I smell human, they know better than to doubt otherwise." She directed this toward Trish.

Trish emerged from her hiding spot and studied the girl carefully. Not a speck of dirt remained on her legs or the black cover of her hair. The frogs behind her croaked in unison, turned around, and bolted into the woods.

"Nicely trained," Trish snorted.

"A drop of love, even from the lowest parasite, elevates one to the highest existence—if there’s a will."

"That sounds like some cult slogan."

"Fortuna was built on a cult," Kyrie smirked. "Or didn’t you know?"

"Sparda," Trish huffed.

"So you did know," Kyrie smiled—a perfectly human gesture of friendliness. Still, on some instinctual level, Trish understood: this wasn’t the kindness of a weak person. It was an assertion of Trish right to exist here, on this territory—her territory.

"So, why did you seek me out?" Straight to the point.

"Kyrie, right?" Since she seemed familiar with demonic customs, it would only be polite for Trish to show some basic human courtesy. After all, she fancied herself smarter than those frogs.

Kyrie nodded.

"My name is Trish. And I need your help."

Without a flicker of change in her friendly demeanor, Kyrie replied, "Of course. How can I assist you, Beatrice?"

Trish grimaced. She hated the full version of her given name.

"Just Trish, please. And as for the help… I need you to participate in a ritual. I’ve lost my memory, and someone promised to help me recover it. But for that, I need you to come with me."

"Where to?"

Trish explained in detail.

Kyrie nodded.

"What exactly do you need from me?"

"Just to be there until the ritual is over."

"My flesh, blood, or death?"

Trish was taken aback by how calmly Kyrie said it. It was as though she’d already decided, and the questions were merely formalities.

"Nothing like that. It’s just… there’s something in you, like a template necessary for the ritual to work."

"Like a runic sequence?"

Trish nodded.

Kyrie glanced at the nails on her right hand.

"Will I be the only one there?"

"No." Trish prayed that was true. "And I guarantee your life and safety. Otherwise, the ritual simply won’t start."

Kyrie looked up at Trish.

"Alright. I agree."

Trish, who had been holding her breath, exhaled in relief.

"Thank you. I’ll cover all expenses for transport, food, and lodging."

"I’ll just need to inform my parents."

"Yes, of course."

Wait, what? Parents?

"May I ask why?"

"Well, I only recently turned thirteen."

Trish froze.

"Don’t worry," the child—damn it—immediately began soothing her. "Officially, I’m a knight of the Order of the Sword, so I’m allowed to travel outside the city without supervision. Besides, I can alter my appearance a bit, so you won’t have any trouble."

Trish breathed.

"I may not know much about people, but letting a child—even a capable one like you—wander off alone with a stranger woman…"

"I appreciate your concern, Trish, but trust me, becoming a knight of the Order of the Sword isn’t easy. Impossible before fourteen, in fact. The vicar made an exception for me because of my… unique qualities and close ties to the Lord of the Forest."

"Who exactly is this Lord of the Forest?"

"A powerful demon, rumored to have defeated the King of underworld himself."

Trish blinked. Then it hit her. They were all obsessed with Sparda here. Maybe this child was a distant descendant of Sparda. Dante would get a kick out of knowing he had a cousin in Fortuna—even if it was a twice removed of a twice removed.

Then another relative of Dante’s surfaced in her memory. A son of his father, through and through—a demon to the bone. And that terrifying woman had mentioned he was from Fortuna.

Not to mention, he killed Mundus…

"And you wouldn’t happen to know Nero, would you?"

Kyrie’s expression immediately changed, lighting up with such radiant joy that Trish nearly winced from the brightness of it.

“Have you seen him? How is he?”

“Well, the last time I saw him, his arm had been bitten off, so… not great.”

Kyrie’s smile dimmed slightly.

“Yes, I remember that incident. That time, all the runic talismans he had placed around the city melted away, and the rose I gave him stopped glowing. We thought he had died, but later we learned it was a severe injury. Has he recovered?”

Trish blinked.

Runic talismans spread across the entire city? The puzzle in Trish’s mind started to come together. Considering his power, the boy could very well be the Lord of the Forest Kyrie talked about.

So, that would make him not a cousin, but a uncle-in-law? Did they even have a term for that? Trish still wasn't very good at it, even though she had almost a year of experience living in a close-knit family.

“The last time I spoke with Dante, he mentioned they found a temporary replacement for his arm. Some demon that used to serve as his weapon.”

Kyrie lit up again.

“The Blood Widow is even closer to him now! And he found Dante too! This is absolutely wonderful news!”

“Actually,” Trish added, “they took down Mundus together. I was there, so I can confirm it for sure.”

“Wait!” Kyrie grabbed Trish by the arm. “I know someone who will be just as thrilled to hear this story!” And with that, she pulled Trish toward the city.

Chapter Text

They weren’t just knocking on the door—they were practically breaking it down.

Maria hurried down from the second floor, where she had been cleaning.

During the attack, one of the portals had opened right in her room. And not just regular tiny portal—the big one. A horde of demons hungry for human blood poured out into the streets straight from the windows of her room. Naturally, the entire wing of the house was destroyed. Thankfully, Maria hadn’t been home during the attack. The nanny and the cook weren’t as lucky. They managed to escape, but they could no longer perform their duties. Maria made sure they would live out their days comfortably.

Because of this, she had put off repairs for a long time, convincing eweryone that such a large house wasn’t necessary and they with Christina can wait. But Fortuna eventually recovered—thanks to the efforts of its residents, with Maria helping only with supplies. Sanctus had made a fateful decision: to share the Order’s developments with other demon hunters. And he entrusted Maria's mother to handle external affairs—to ensure such dangerous weapons didn’t fall into the wrong hands.

Agnus, whose enthusiasm had waned after losing Nero, perked up when he received a letter from his daughter. He had come up with a lot over those one and a half years. Just the holy grenades alone covered half the cost of construction materials. So her house had been rebuilt too. Though most of the rooms were still empty. No matter—if Nero returned with his uncle… Ah, foolish dreams…

“Coming!” she called out, nearly tripping over herself.

That oddity with the portal opening in her own room hadn’t struck her as strange until Maria saw the map of all the portals that had appeared across the city. She had never blushed so hard. And of course, Christina had to point it out! Now even Sanctus—and it seemed a couple of scribes, along with young Credo and Kyrie—knew about her private life more than Maria had ever planned to share.

“...those are the places where you two had your dates!” Christina teased with a wicked grin.

Sparda, why was she being subjected to this? Christina would torment her for the rest of her days!

Yes, most of the portals had opened in places where Maria spent a lot of time with Vergil. Or in alleys where he could watch her while she went about her business. And, of course, in her private room. How embarrassing!

Maria swung the door open. Standing there was Kyrie, towing two people behind her— one human and one demon.

Judging by their attire, they were trying to pass themselves off as pilgrims worshiping Sparda.

“Good evening, Maria! I’ve brought you guests from the mainland, and they’re acquaintances of Nero’s!” Kyrie burst out cheerfully. “They have some stories that might interest you… if you don’t mind,” she added, suddenly bashful.

“Of course not!” Maria quickly replied. “Come in! Are you hungry?”

“I’d be grateful for the chance to share a meal with you,” the short young man said with a gallant nod.

“This is Trish,” Kyrie introduced the woman, “and this, um…”

“Alessandro,” the young man finished. “And you must be Maria?” He took her hand and kissed it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Maria blushed. No one had ever treated her like that before.

“I’ll call Credo for now. He’ll definitely want to tell this story to His Holiness!” Kyrie dashed off toward the phone. Amazing how news about Nero could bring her so much energy.

“Alright, I’ll take care of the guests,” Maria mumbled after her. “Please, come in.” She led them to the dining room. “You don’t need to wear your hoods in my house. I understand it can be hard for people from the mainland to adapt to these customs.”

Alessandro tried to protest, but Trish, clearly tired of the charade, threw back her hood, letting her incredible golden hair cascade down.

Maria realized she was rudely staring at the demonic beauty and quickly shut her mouth. Trish smirked, pleased with herself.

While the guests got settled, Maria hurried upstairs to her cousin.

“Chris,” she knocked on the door, “we have visitors from the mainland. They’re friends of Nero’s. Would you like to join us?”

From the other side of the door came a shriek, a thud, and then the sound of hurried footsteps before a tousled mass of chestnut hair peeked out. Maria didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. Her cousin had always been clumsy but made up for it by got a big mouth.

“Do I have to help?” Christina asked, clearly annoyed.

“Everything’s ready; just help set the table.”

Christina sighed. It was a compromise. “Give me a few minutes to freshen up.”

“You don’t need to overdo it.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of them is too gallant to criticize you, and the other’s a demon.” Maria suddenly narrowed her eyes, grabbed Christina by the chin, and turned her face from side to side. Christina’s hair always lightened in the spring, turning almost translucently red or even golden at times. But her face—Maria couldn’t help but envy how their mother’s babyface had landed on her cousin. With that face, Christina would look youthful well into old age, while Maria already had the first faint wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes.

“Is something on my face?” Christina grumbled.

“You’ll see,” Maria smirked, waving her off. “Come down when you’re ready!” She headed back downstairs, tuning out the indistinct muttering behind her.

Fifteen minutes later, Christina descended, wearing a simple dress with her hair braided. As Maria had expected, when Trish and Christina saw each other, they froze, scrutinizing each other’s face features with disbelief.

“Christina?” Alessandro interjected, drawing her attention to him.

“Uh, yes,” Christina replied, immediately adopting a more serious tone.

He took her hand and kissed it as well. But unlike Maria, Christina didn’t flinch, accepting the gesture with cool indifference. "A real сoquette," Maria thought with an inward scoff, then smirked to herself. It was Maria who had chosen not to pursue anyone after Vergil—no reason to accuse Christina of being loose when she was living her best life. And she did it remarkably well, especially in such a conservative place like Fortuna.

The guests were invited to the table. Every now and then, Trish glanced at Christina, though Christina seemed to find it amusing.

Yes, the resemblance was striking, but there were plenty of differences too: hair color, eye color, posture, mannerisms. And as for personality—there was no comparison. Christina was human, while Trish carried all the subtle behaviors of a demon—the protective wards hadn’t triggered for nothing.

Besides, it seemed the others didn’t notice anything unusual at all. Maria should stop obsessing over it—it was just rude.

The table was set. While the guests were eating, Christina entertained them with lighthearted chatter about trivial matters. Midway through dinner, Credo arrived. Now he was someone worth a second glance. Over the years, Credo had grown into an extraordinary young man. At just seventeen, he was already taller than Maria—though still slightly shorter than Christina. Why hadn’t Maria inherited those genes? It would’ve saved her from constantly craning her neck to kiss Vergil.

Maria sighed dreamily. Christina promptly elbowed her, snapping her back to reality. Blinking, Maria panicked, trying to recall if anyone had asked her a question. But everyone was simply eating.

Maria shot Christina a glare. Christina merely smirked and took another bite.

“Stop it.”

“And you stop daydreaming,” Christina teased.

Maria blushed. She knew Christina would torment her about this. And true to form, Christina leaned close to whisper in Maria’s ear:

“How can you think about him when that gorgeous blonde hasn’t taken his eyes off you?” Christina snickered.

Maria flushed with embarrassment, quickly glanced toward Alessandro, met his gaze, and immediately looked away. Her ears and cheeks were probably bright enough to light up the entire room.

“Shut up!” Maria hissed, prompting a wicked laugh from Christina.

“Something amusing you?” Alessandro interjected into the conversation.

“Oh, just girl talk,” Chris waved it off casually. “Credo, just look at you—how much you’ve grown in the past year. How old are you now?”

“Seventeen.”

“If I’m not mistaken, that’s considered adulthood on the mainland, right?” Chris turned to Alessandro.

“You’re almost correct.”

“Ah, eighteen?” she clarified, and upon receiving a nod, continued, “My mistake.” Then back to Credo. “And how is His Holiness treating you? Not too harsh, I hope?”

“Well, I’ve learned to sleep standing up.”

Chris blinked, then burst into barely restrained laughter.

“What’s there to learn?” Kyrie muttered quietly, causing Maria to smile. Clearly, the girl was just teasing her brother, but it was endearing. It reminded Maria of her own childhood antics with Chris.

“And how about you, Alessandro? How old are you?” Chris shifted her attention.

“Exactly eighteen,” he grinned, raising his glass.

“And how long have you been eighteen?”

The young man froze with his glass mid-air.

“Ten months.”

“All grown up,” Chris nodded at him. What was with these strange questions?

“Chris, stop terrorizing our guest.”

“So it’s okay for you to flirt with eighteen-year-old boys, but not me? Not fair! You know how problematic age differences can be in Fortuna.”

“Chris.” At this rate, Maria was going to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

“You’re such a grouch,” Chris pouted.

“Don’t mind her,” Maria waved it off. “Tell us instead—how did you meet Nero?”

Trish took a sip of wine and leaned back in her chair.

“Well, it’s kind of a long story. I…” she hesitated.

“Allow me to lighten your load,” Chris jumped in. “Everyone here already knows you’re a demon.”

Trish flinched. Maria winced. Sometimes Christina’s sharp tongue was her own worst enemy.

“I guess it was foolish to expect anything else in a city that worships Sparda,” Trish chuckled awkwardly, in that moment uncannily resembling Maria's cousin. But the resemblance vanished as quickly as it came, leaving no trace behind.

“Yes, some of us know how to please Sparda better than others,” Christina said with deliberate nonchalance.

Maria gripped the knife in her hand, barely resisting the urge to slap it on Сristina’s forehead. "It’s just provocation, just provocation, don’t pay attention!" If it had been a spoon, she probably wouldn’t have been able to hold back.

“Christina’s right,” Maria interjected. “But you don’t need to worry. As long as you’re not harming people, you’re safe here.”

Trish smirked—a familiar smile that never boded well.

“What if I told you I was a servant of Mundus?” She swirled the glass in her hand.

“Wasn’t Mundus killed?” Maria frowned.

Trish nodded.

“Demons aren’t exactly known for their vengeful spirit,” Kyrie spoke up. “If you wanted his power, you’d try to kill the one who killed Mundus.”

“Sharp observation,” Trish acknowledged with a nod toward Kyrie. “You understand demons well… for a human.”

“But she could be a cunning demon!” Christina piped up. “She might take us hostage—the family of the person who killed Mundus!”

“If she did that, she’d be a foolish demon,” Credo cut in. “Fortuna survived the invasion. We’re stronger than ever. And we won’t let anyone blackmail those we care about with our lives.”

“Do you have the strength to back that up?” Trish pressed.

“My brother single-handedly subdued a demon with the power of three runes,” Kyrie boasted. “No knight has ever done that before him.”

“Except you,” Credo shot back.

“I wasn’t a knight back then.”

Credo just rolled his eyes in response.

“Alright, enough posturing—I get the idea,” Trish waved dismissively, still smiling. “In truth, I don’t know Nero all that well. I… was created by Mundus to lure a demon hunter he found interesting into a trap.”

“Mundus was interested in a human?” Credo raised an eyebrow. “He must be incredibly powerful.”

Trish nodded.

“Dante—he’s… not entirely human. This might shock you, but he’s Sparda’s son. Truly, flesh and blood.”

Maria smirked, while the others smiled in their own ways.

Trish was surprised by the lack of reaction.

“I guess Kyrie didn’t mention how Nero is related to us,” Maria clarified.

“The Lord of the Forest.”

Maria raised an eyebrow at Kyrie, who shyly averted her gaze.

"Not just the forests. My son is the strongest demon in the area, even if he’s only a quarter. So without any guilt, I could call him the Lord of these lands. Sparda’s heir. Grandson, if you prefer."

"You’re Nero’s mother?" Trish asked, surprised.

"In the flesh," Maria nodded casually.

Trish opened her mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again.

"What’s shocking you so much?" Christina nudged her.

"I… I don’t know how appropriate this question is, but… how?"

Maria froze, her cheeks—which had just cooled—starting to redden again.

Christina burst out laughing, barely covering her mouth with her hands.

"Don’t get me wrong, I understand biology, though I’m still not sure about hybrid anatomy, but still… such power! How did you manage to tame him? Even Mundus needed about five years to break his will."

Maria lost the thread of the conversation a little.

"Sorry, I’m not quite sure what you’re asking."

"Oh, shit," Christina suddenly stopped laughing. "You’re not saying he’s alive, are you?"

Maria turned to her cousin.

"Christina, behave yourself," she scolded. What had gotten into her? Sure, she was a chatterbox, but she never let herself show disrespect or curse at the table. "Of course Nero’s alive. Right?"

"He is," Trish nodded. "After defeating Mundus"—the words made her shudder—"we all went to a safe place. Nero was injured, though I’m not entirely sure how. His memory’s intact, and he’s strong enough for a hybrid… though that mishap with his arm suggests he’s been distracted. Maybe some mental issues. I don’t know much about that."

"Mishap with his arm?" Christina asked, surprised.

"Remember when Kyrie came running to us?" Maria clarified.

"You were trying to call aunt Sax then, right?"

"Yeah. She said Nero came home without his arm."

"They found a way to replace it with a subordinate demon," Trish added. "So… your son still grows up with both hands."

Maria grimaced. Her mom had somehow forgotten to mention that…

"That’s the Blood Widow," Kyrie whispered to Credo.

"Smart," he whispered back.

"But since then, I haven’t seen them. I just call occasionally to check in. Dante’s a total slob, and sometimes I wonder how he managed to survive all this time without Nero. I think all the common sense went to his brother," Trish scoffed.

Maria closed her eyes and smiled warmly.

Nope. No chance. She knew Vergil. He was even more reckless than she was.

One dawn, he just burst through her window, snatched her along with the blanket right out of bed, and flew her to the top of the Hell Gates—to prove a point, but who cares, really. They watched the sunrise sitting on the edge of the gates, wrapped in her blanket. It was their third kiss.

If Nero inherited any sense of reason, she could only think of two sources: one of his grandmothers. Then again, one married a demon, and the other still cuts them up to this day… maybe it was one of those random mutations she’d read about? They say boys are more likely to have them.

“Thinking about him again?” Сristina sneered.

“Сris,” Maria frowned, “stop it.”

“May I ask who we’re talking about?” Alessandro tried again.

“Vergil,” Сristina answered. “Dante’s twin brother. Tragically deceased before the birth of his heir.”

“Christina,” Maria scolded.

“Who told you that nonsense?” Trish suddenly interjected.

Everyone turned to her.

“What did you say?”

“Who told you Vergil died before Nero was born?”

“Nero himself,” Maria nodded. “Inherited memory. Isn’t that some kind of demonic thing? You should know better.”

Trish blinked.

“There’s no such thing as inherited memory,” Kyrie muttered suddenly. All eyes turned to her. She blushed but pressed on. “I thought maybe it was something unique to hybrids, but since neither humans nor demons have it, why would hybrids?”

“How did it manifest?” Trish asked.

“Nero would often say strange things. He knew things he couldn’t possibly know, lied a lot, but somehow ended up being right. He mentioned names there was no way he could’ve known. I… I never figured out how he knew all that.”

Trish glanced at Alessandro and raised an eyebrow. He just shrugged.

“Do you understand something? If you do, please share!” Kyrie pleaded. “Nero’s so secretive—he won’t tell anyone and keeps carrying this burden alone. I want to help lighten it, even if just a little!”

Trish looked at her, took pity, opened her mouth… but no words came out. She frowned and turned back to Alessandro. “Why can’t I speak?”

“You were warned. These truths have protections against those who aren’t family members.”

“But Nero is her grandson. And Maria is Nero’s mother. They’re family.”

“I assume Vergil never proposed to you?” Alessandro asked, hitting a sore spot. Maria shook her head. Alessandro simply shrugged. Trish pursed her lips.

“Alright,” Christina set her glass aside and cracked her knuckles, “looks like this is my job. Kyrie, if anything, I’m counting on your support.”

Oh, Sparda help them, not this! Whenever Christina really got going, they always uncovered things better left unsaid.

On the other hand, this was about Nero. Maybe this time Maria would let Christina make her seemingly wild but eerily accurate deductions.

“So, Nero knows things he shouldn’t, right?” Christina looked at Kyrie. She nodded. “For example?”

“Names of people he’s never met: like Dante or Nico.”

“He also knew Sparda and Vergil were his relatives. And that I’m his mother.”

"It's different," Trish waved off the suggestion. "Maybe not Sparda, but family members have a stronger scent than others. He might have guessed just from the smell."

"He never met Vergil," Christina shot back at her, "but I’ll accept the argument about Maria. What’s next?"

"He handles a revolver flawlessly," Credo chimed in.

Kyrie glared at him: "So you did take it after all!"

"I couldn’t just hand over a revolver to an eight-year-old boy just like that."

Kyrie pouted but didn’t argue further.

"The same goes for his swordsmanship," Credo continued. "He was already quite skilled at just five years old."

"How old were you then?" Trish snorted.

"Eleven. And he somehow managed to teach me, even though he was still breathing at my belly button."

"Alright, what else?"

"Also…" Kyrie hesitated for a moment but decided to press on, "he has memories of a deeply traumatic event. Maybe he’s the only one who survived that situation. The sisters at the monastery call it soul trauma."

"Post-traumatic stress disorder," Maria nodded. "Come to think of it—" she frowned, then brightened. "Sister Tamara mentioned this! She said something like… I am the mother of his body, but not of his soul."

"Perfect!" Christina encouraged. "And considering the gossip that spread through the monastery during his early years, I’ve got a theory." She scanned the table, drawing everyone’s attention. "It’s a little wild."

Maria rolled her eyes. "Stop stalling, spill it!"

"Nero has lived this life before. That’s where he learned how to wield a sword and shoot a gun. That’s how he knows the names of people he’s never met. But at some point, something terrible happened. All of them—" She paused and looked around the table. "No… all of us were killed. That’s why he talked about his father as if he were dead. His real father—the one who raised him and loved him—died. And then…"

"Nero died too," Kyrie finished. Everyone turned to look at her. "He said it was the best part of his nightmares because at least it all ends."

"Oh, shit," Maria blurted out.

"Wait, it’s just a crazy theory!" Christina protested.

"I’ve heard of artifacts capable of pulling something like that off," Trish said thoughtfully, turning to Alessandro.

"Yes, the Demon Seer’s Core. It takes an imprint of your memory and sends it into the past. But even sending it back by a few hours requires an enormous amount of energy."

"How enormous?" Maria pressed.

"The power of three or even four runes," Trish explained. "If you’ve dealt with demons of that level—" she glanced at Credo, "you know how immense that power is."

"Sparda sealed Temen-ni-Gru with seven runes," Maria reminded everyone present.

"And the blood of a human priestess," Trish muttered quietly, as if that changed anything.

"He grew significantly weaker while he was in the human world," Christina smirked. "Don’t forget, he was once Mundus’s general. Together, they overthrew the Demonic God Pluto, splitting the human world and the demon world with a sequence of ten runes."

"Actually, that’s not entirely accurate," Alessandro suddenly interjected.

The entire table turned to him.

"Yeah-yeah," Christina dismissed with a wave. "There was also a spear involved. Minor details."

"The devil is in the details," Alessandro stared intently at Christina. "And I thought you, of all people, would understand that better than anyone."

Christina narrowed her eyes, grabbed her glass, and downed it in one gulp.

"Alright, Alessandro. Tell me your version of the story."

“There’s not much to tell,” he shrugged. “Originally, there was no spear at all. It was just a metaphor for pure power. And Pluto used it left and right.”

“Didn’t a single swing separate light from darkness?” Maria asked, surprised.

“Why would it? He’s a God, after all—he could do whatever he wanted with his power. But then someone stole that ‘spear’ from him. And Pluto was so amused by the thief’s audacity that he let them keep it—forever. In his own demonic way, of course. He pinned the brazen thief to the world. But the runes… the runes were written a bit… later.”

“How so?” Credo frowned.

“To contain such a gift—literally pure godly power—the thief had to seal the spear somehow.”

“It’s like how people use artifacts to preserve the power of demons,” Kyrie added. “But does that mean the thief turned themselves into an artifact?”

“Exactly!” Alessandro smirked. “The thief was the first to come up with and use this method. They scribbled strange symbols one after another until they wrote what was later recognized by demons as…”

“Truth,” Christina finished for him, staring off into space.

“Precisely,” Alessandro nodded, taking a sip from his glass.

The table fell silent for a moment.

“Alessandro, it’s not that I doubt you, but…” Maria hesitated.

“How do I know all this?” he smiled in response. “Let’s just say my family’s history is similar to Fortuna’s. Sparda took in our first Matriarch and taught her and her children magic and history. And later, we helped Sparda with his… um… initiatives. Moreover, several centuries ago, my many-times-great-grandparents lived here. Just as they did on Vie de Marli and in a couple of other fortified towns left behind by Sparda.”

“So we’re related?” Maria asked, surprised.

“Doubtful,” Alessandro grinned at her. “Our family keeps to itself. We… try to keep our heirs within sight.”

Trish snorted loudly.

“I said try,” Alessandro grimaced.

“But if there were only ten symbols, where did the other twenty runes come from?” Kyrie suddenly asked.

“No idea,” Alessandro shrugged. “And I also don’t know why the power of one rune can be weaker than two runes like for years. I think Trish might understand this better than me,” he smiled toward her.

Trish glared gloomily at her empty plate.

“It’s about the number of meanings structuring reality,” she muttered, then seemed to snap out of her deep thoughts and looked around. “Don’t overthink it; humans can’t grasp the full complexity of chaos. You don’t need to. As for the other twenty runes… well, I suppose Pluto, besides his raw power, had something else that made him a God. If that thief managed to encode those qualities too… Still, even ten runes…” She stared thoughtfully ahead again. “I can’t imagine what kind of power that must have been.”

“Could Nero have been that strong?” Kyrie asked quietly.

“And if he was, who could’ve killed him?” Credo stated darkly.

The conversation died down, and an oppressive silence settled over the dining room. The food suddenly lost all flavor.

“You know, amidst all this back-and-forth, we missed one small but very important detail,” Christina suddenly said.

Maria looked uncertainly at her ever-cheerful cousin.

“Trish said his death was nonsense,” Christina grinned widely at Maria.

What?

Then Maria realized what she meant. Her heart skipped a beat. Maria immediately turned to Trish and opened her mouth: “Is Vergil alive?”

Trish took a sip of wine and smirked. “Considering his strength? I’d guess he’s taken Mundus’s place in underworld and is now enjoys himself.”

Her heart skipped another beat, then beat faster soared with hope.

Vergil… he… she had long stopped hoping, buried him along with her dreams.

“Actually, it’s quite dramatic that the two brothers divided the two worlds between them,” Trish continued. “Sparda sure had a flair for the theatrical.”

Maria reined in her runaway imagination.

What if he no longer remembered her? What if he didn’t want anything to do with her? She was weak—unworthy of being the wife of the ruler of underworld. And what if he didn’t want Nero either? No, he’d definitely start to adore Nero! He was the most wonderful son in the world!

But then she froze.

Nero had always been reserved around her. He studied her, figured out what she liked, just to make himself easier to be around. He didn’t know that she was ready to forgive him everything and accept him no matter what. And if this whole story about past lives was true, then she hadn’t been his mother back then either. She either hadn’t had the chance or hadn’t been able to.

Christina’s warm hand rested on hers. Maria smiled at the gesture of support. After dabbing at her slightly moistened eyes, she turned to their guests:

“By the way, where are you staying?”

Everyone fell asleep. Or at least pretended to.

Christina, however, stepped out onto the porch. Saxoniya—bless that holy woman—had sent her a pack of cigarettes as always. Secretly from Maria, because Maria didn’t need the extra worry. Death from cancer wasn’t a threat to Christina, though explaining that to Maria after so many losses would be difficult.

Christina took a drag and exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke into the air.

This whole meeting stirred up memories she would rather forget.

She opened her eyes. Above her, treetops swayed; the air was thick with smoke, just as bluish as from her cigarette. Only it didn’t smell like fresh forest greenery or barbecue—it smelled like hell though she didn’t know what that meant.

Every breath hurt. Her entire body burned, paralyzed. A young man entered her field of vision. Light curly hair, radiant youth, and surprise in his eyes.

“How is she?” someone out of view asked.
“Dead,” the young man Alessandro replied.

But she was breathing, blinking. Which meant he was lying. Why? For her?

“What should we do with the body?” the young man Alessandro asked, looking straight into her eyes.
“Leave it there. If get lucky, the demons will eat it.”
“And if not?” The young man turned away.
“Her corpse’ll get a personal introduction to the King of hell,” the second voice sneered.

She didn’t get lucky. She met him.
He hated her, and she couldn’t even remember why.
The only thing she knew for sure was how beautiful he was. Once while he dissected her immortal body, she almost kissed him.

Christina took another drag and closed her eyes. How she wished this smoke could erase all her memories.

She stood in the same spot, smoking the same crappy brand of cigarettes, thinking about him. About how lucky Maria was. About how Christina wanted to make an equally incredible man fall for her. Jealousy and envy toward her own cousin gnawed at her.

And then she saw him.

Like any devoted servant of Sparda, Christina always wore a hood. Even at home, since Ardante’s house often hosted visitors on official business. But, like tonight, that time she decided to push the hood back. And he saw her.

That night, he probably went to Maria. Christina knew they secretly met right under Ardante’s nose. It took Christina a while to understand why Maria hadn’t told her father about her romantic interest—Ardante surely would have understood.

Christina realized it after that night.

Standing beneath the window to Maria’s room, Vergil briefly turned his gaze to her. He had noticed her before, so they were already accomplices of sorts. It wasn’t about trust-trust, but Vergil knew Christina wouldn’t turn him in, though jealousy sometimes made her want to. With a sad smile, she nodded at him and took another drag. But Vergil didn’t look away as he usually did. He froze. His already pale face turned ashen with fear, as if he’d seen a ghost. Whether it was a sister, a friend, or another woman from his past, Christina didn’t know. And Vergil didn’t tell her. He just got angry God, those beautifully inhuman eyes he fixed on her and summoned Yamato.

Christina froze in fear. She knew that at that very moment, she would die. She had been counting on it—after all, how much more could she take?! Vergil took a step forward with the clear intention of carving out her heart. And then…

The ash from her cigarette fell onto her arm, burning it and momentarily distracting her.

When she looked back at Vergil, he seemed different. Still extremely angry, but somehow subtly hurt. He turned around and walked away, never to return again.

Maria had known this day would come—so she hadn’t said anything to Ardante. But Christina hated herself for being the trigger. For the rest of her life, she would carry the guilt of driving away her cousin’s beloved man.

The weight of this guilt was slightly dulled by one feeling alone.

Christina shouldn’t have existed there at all. She should’ve died long ago. Yet here she was, and because of that, everything felt wrong. Just wrong.

Everywhere she went, Christina felt like an outsider, as if she didn’t belong in this story. She wasn’t supposed to be here.

A rustle broke the silence. Christina flinched.

A little further away, near the windows of Nero’s newly built room, stood a girl. She was digging at the ground with her boot right beneath the window.

“Hey,” Christina called softly, trying to steady her breathing. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nightmares are coming tonight, so I decided to tire myself out.”

Christina stared at the girl in surprise. Ignoring her, Kyrie kept digging and stomping on the soil.

“What are you doing there?”

“Wrapping things up.”

“And how’s it going?”

Kyrie sighed sadly. “The same as always. Total failure.”

Chris smirked and took another drag. “And what exactly were you trying to do?”

“After Nero disappeared, I had more time, so I decided to fulfill an old promise.”

“Hm?”

“I want to grow a bush of blue roses under his window.”

Christina let out a snort. “You do realize blue roses don’t exist, right?”

Kyrie grimaced. “There aren’t supposed to be people who can read more than three runes either, so should I just lie down and die?”

“Is that sarcasm I hear?” Christina grinned widely.

Kyrie didn’t respond. Christina could practically see the girl rolling her eyes and smirked. She absolutely adored this little firecracker. In town, Kyrie had a certain image: saintly, blessed, practically an angel in human form. But Christina knew that at night, she and Nero would sneak off into the woods and spend hours until dawn competing over who could catch more demons. If not for her duties as some sort of demonic lord—or whatever it was—Kyrie would’ve been a wild, mischievous kid. Extremely curious and competitive. She just needed someone on her level. And in Nero’s absence, her older brother filled that role quite well.

“And what attempt is this, exactly?”

“The nineteenth,” Kyrie sighed heavily.

“Wow, you’re persistent. All this effort, and for whom? For the guy who’s off relaxing on the mainland with his uncle while you’re here cleaning up the mess he made?” Christina loved teasing her. Especially about Nero. It reminded her of Maria.

How happy her sister had been when Vergil was around…

“Well, if we’re being honest, it was Nero who cleaning up the mess that his grandfather started. I think, in his case, the break is well-deserved.”

“The devil’s advocate!” Christina smirked. “Such devotion. You must really love him a lot?”

Kyrie hesitated, but it wasn’t out of embarrassment.

“I… I’m not sure I fully understand what romantic love is. But I think I love Nero.”

“You think?” Christina took a drag of her cigarette.

“It depends on how you define it,” Kyrie shrugged.

“Well, judging by your flower mania, it seems more like obsession than love.”

Kyrie shrugged again.

“Then so be it.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“The words don’t define my feelings. And as for my feelings… well, I like experiencing them.”

Christina chuckled and exhaled a thin stream of smoke. The wisdom of this girl was astonishing. She wished she’d been half as wise at that age. “If Nero were to die tomorrow, how would you feel?”

“I don’t know…”

Christina open mouth.

“Though… when his protective runes collapsed all over the city, I was terrified. I begged Maria to let me into his room. The blue rose I gave him—it stopped glowing. At that moment, I felt… like my whole world had fallen apart.”

Yes, Christina knew that feeling all too well.

“I cried the entire time I waited for the call from the mainland. It was an awful, gut-wrenching sensation.”

“Could you live like that? I mean, for the rest of your life?”

“No.”

Christina stubbed out her cigarette. “Maybe then, you should let him go?” Christina didn’t want this girl to end up like her cousin.

She didn’t want such a beautiful flower to wither away after losing her one true love so early. Because Kyrie would lose him. Nero was a demon, a descendant of Sparda. Just being near him was a trial. And Kyrie had her whole life ahead of her. She could still fall in love, find someone else.

“But then,” Kyrie suddenly continued, “while I was crying, I thought about how I’d live my life afterward. And you know what? That’s when I decided I wanted to grow those devlish roses. And I realized I want to leave Fortuna someday to see the world. I also want to try so many other things.”

Christina blinked in surprise. “To numb the pain?”

“To stoke that feeling. He was. He lived. He made me who I am, saved me countless times, and I… I’ll always owe him, and a part of him will always be with me.” She touched the homemade pendant with a drop of blood hanging around her neck. “So maybe, even if he were to die, he could still enjoy life through me somehow. I don’t know.”

Christina exhaled.

She shouldn’t be here. Because of her, everything had gone wrong. But… looking at Kyrie now, feeling just how deeply she truly loved Nero, Christina understood—this was the right kind of wrong.

And if they all really tried, that terrible tragedy Nero once endured would never come to pass.

“Wait, let me help you,” Christina said, stepping down from the porch and walking over to Kyrie. She crouched down and looked at the ground. “Did you bury them here?”

Kyrie squatted next to her and pointed with her finger.

“The first ones were here, but that was last year, so I planted the latest batch in the same spot.”

Christina nodded, then turned serious as she looked at Kyrie.

“I’m about to do something. Please, don’t tell anyone I can do this, okay?”

Kyrie nodded earnestly.

Christina took a deep breath and braced herself. She didn’t know how to make this happen on command. It only ever occurred when it was supposed to happen.

The last time it happened was when Maria had just gotten pregnant. Christina had helped mitigate the worst of the consequences.

And this time, Christina felt the same urge rising within her.

Warm sparks of light swirled in her lungs, and she felt them travel through her throat, bursting out along with her words.

.̴͕̋̓̏̕͠.̴̧̤̦̐̑̎͑̓.̵̢̱͔͈͛͋͝ͅ-̴͔͑̈́ ̶̮̻̬̬͌.̷̢͈̪̖̝̆.̶͈̞̂̈́̐́̃ ̷̬̘̬̣͐͆̎.̷̬̥̈́́̍̐̀-̶̲̬̮̋̾̿̏͝-̸̡͖̋̏̎̅͠ ̵̥̩̝̳̰͊͋̔̆́.̸̧̡͙̜̝͒̓́̕-̴̪̪̗̄̐͒̚

They couldn’t see it, but…

The seeds buried in the soil unraveled into pure chaos, reassembling themselves into a viable sequence. Their roots immediately reached for the tiny portal to hell hidden beneath the earth.

Vergil had been deeply shaken when he saw the ghost of his mother that night. He thought it was a trap set by Mundus, and his doubts about living peacefully with Maria grew a hundredfold. He turned and left, but years later, a shard found its way into the human world through this very place, through that intense emotion.

The roots of the hellish blue roses penetrated the demon realm and instantly soaked up pure chaos. Their thorny vines shot up from the ground.

Kyrie reacted instantly, shoving Christina out of their path. But the vines quickly wrapped around Kyrie’s legs and arms.

Before she could even squeak, the vines cocooned her completely, pulling her underground, straight into the portal to hell, which couldn’t withstand the strain and collapsed immediately after them.

A second later, it was over: the ground, swollen with vines, was barely disturbed again, and where Kyrie had been, only a small bush of blue roses remained.

Christina stared in horror at what her hands had wrought. She frantically looked around to call for help, but it was silent all around. No one had noticed what had just happened.

Everything was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong!

Chapter Text

Credo had already rushed off to work before sunrise. And when the house was free of any witnesses, Alessandro shared an important piece of news with Trish.

"Maria is another key. The mother."

Trish nodded. Luring her into a meeting with Nero wouldn’t be too difficult. The main thing was not to push too hard. However, something else was making Trish uneasy. There was no sign of Kyrie anywhere. The girl had literally vanished into thin air.

In the dining room, they were greeted by Maria.

"Good morning!" she said, setting out a light breakfast.

"It’s a pleasure to behold your beauty at such an early hour," Alessandro started up his flattery routine.

Trish rolled her eyes.

But Maria was embarrassed.

Seriously? How could such second-rate flattery embarrass a mate — human titles be damned — the King of underworld himself?

"Will you have breakfast?"

Without overthinking it, Trish simply plopped down at the table. Eating wasn’t necessary for her, but… the food was delicious. Humans really knew how to enjoy good cuisine.

"My humble thanks," Alessandro bowed slightly and took a seat as well.

"You haven’t seen Kyrie?" Trish asked after finishing first plate.

"No. She’s probably in town as well as Christina. One went to work, the other to gossip," Maria replied, placing tea and dessert in front of them before sitting down herself.

"Christina’s a gossip, huh?" Alessandro feigned surprise.

"That’s the working title for her job," Maria smirked. "Actually, her work is quite demanding."

"Gathering gossip is a job?" Trish asked, surprised.

"Well, my mom’s an informant. Pretty well-known on the mainland. She makes decent money just off gossip."

Trish blinked in astonishment.

"And you’d be amazed at what can be done with a city if you know the general mood and spice up the townsfolk’s lives with timely rumors about upcoming reforms."

"Manipulating public opinion?" Trish suggested.

"More like social polling and reaction. My father didn’t like to impose his views. Sanctus… for now, he's following his lead."

Trish grimaced. She understood how tempting that crooked path could be.

"But do you have any idea where we might find Kyrie?" Trish pressed again.

Maria thoughtfully tapped her chin.

"I think there are a couple of places she might be, but why do you need her?"

"She promised to help me with something," Trish admitted.

"Really? Well, you’ll just have to wait for her. She’ll come back on her own once she’s free."

"So young and already so busy," Alessandro chuckled.

"Don’t even get me started. I can’t imagine how much this little girl gets done."

"I’m sure it’s no more than you," Alessandro smiled sweetly.

"Oh, stop. My work isn’t anything special."

"In that case, the city won’t suffer too much if, say, you decide to take a vacation?" Alessandro suggested.

"Not that there’s much to do on vacation in Fortuna," Maria smirked.

"Have you ever been to the mainland?"

"I’ve been. It’s a crazy place, let me tell you."

"Сompletely agree," Trish nodded, which made Alessandro laugh.

"How about visiting Nero?" he suggested.

Maria froze. She blinked and turned to Alessandro.

"He… didn’t want to see me."

Trish grimaced.

"He didn’t want to return to Fortuna," she snorted. "And considering who you think he is, I can understand why. Such responsibility while he’s weakened. But," Trish suggested, "if you go to him to offer some support, I think even Dante would be all for it."

Maria let out a shaky breath and fidgeted with her skirt. Grimacing, she smoothed out the wrinkles and straightened up.

"I need to think about it."

"And we need to wait for Kyrie," Alessandro nodded.

Modeus was in a hurry.

His brother had reported that a strange demon had appeared on their territory—too powerful for him to handle alone—and he might need assistance. To avoid troubling the King unnecessarily, Modeus decided to investigate himself.

It had been a long time since any formidable demons had shown up in their domain. Only useless carrion had crossed their path recently. His brother’s enthusiasm was a saving grace for all of them; after all, even the wisest could lose their minds from the chaos brought by persistent fools.

When Modeus arrived at the scene, all he saw was a large, round bush of blue roses. Nothing remarkable—except for one thing.

Where in hell did ordinary human roses come from? A flower like this couldn’t survive in these lands, yet this one not only lived but thrived. Moreover, there seemed to be life inside the cocoon. Faint traces of a human scent and the beating of a heart reached him.

Well, either a heart or maybe a stomach.

“What’s the problem?” Modeus asked his brother.

“This,” Baul growled, swinging to cut the bush at its roots, but the nimble vines spread out in every direction, blocking his strike, sacrificing themselves in the process. “It doesn’t attack,” Baul explained, “but it won’t let me destroy it either. And I really tried.”

Modeus smirked. If Baul said he’d tried, then this bush must have endured quite a lot.

“Did you try talking to it?”

Baul grimaced. “And why do you think I called you here?”

Modeus chuckled and approached the bush. “Easy now,” he raised his hands as the vines twitched nervously. “I’m not here to harm you. I want to talk.”

To his surprise, the bush responded.

“Please,” came a desperate feminine voice, trembling with emotion, “no more. Just… just kill me.”

A chill ran down Modeus’ spine. He stepped closer, but the vines tightened protectively around the cocoon.

“Hey, can you hear me?”

“It’s unbearable. I don’t understand. Too much… everything… I can’t take it anymore. If you understand, please, kill me.” The plea came from someone inside.

A human. A real, living human.

Modeus knew it for certain. He’d seen unprepared humans go mad within minutes of entering underworld.

Underworld was pure inconsistency—a stark contrast to the structured human world, where everything was organized down to the molecules. Here, even time wasn’t constant, let alone space. Modeus could only imagine the torment of being trapped inside that cocoon. Even without seeing the outside light, the person inside would feel it all: how the world rushed past, froze, then hurtled off in another direction; how foreign thoughts mingled with own; how the sensations of body echoed from the farthest edges of existence while the world itself turned into a kaleidoscope of events, each ending faster than they could comprehend.

This was Modeus’ home, but it was hell for a human.

“Hey, I can help. I can put you to sleep, but you need to let me inside!” he called out. The vines obeyed, parting to reveal their precious core—a beautiful young girl with long black hair that clung to her body like a protective cover.

Modeus slipped his hand through the opening and touched her forehead with the tip of his finger. A simple manipulation, but it sent her consciousness into a blissful, dreamless slumber.

“And what is this?”

The decision was obvious. The girl was found on his territory, so she belonged to him. Despite the greedy, envious stares of his growing entourage.

Humans were a delicacy in the demon world, and this one smelled of power.

“A human girl. Baul found her about a cycle ago, but who knows how long she’d been there before that.”

“Still alive?” the King smirked, eyeing the cocoon of vines and hair cover in Modeus’ arms.

“She asked for help.” Some of the vines dissolved as Modeus lifted her, but others remained, clinging protectively.

“Then kill her,” the King shrugged indifferently.

Cruel, just like Mundus. But only to fools who didn’t realize how merciful their King truly was—or how wise to show his mercy only to those ready to accept it.

A few of the dumber creatures couldn’t hide their greed and hunger. Good. Such filth had no place in their King’s new kingdom. Modeus would deal with them later. The King didn’t need to dirty his hands on such trash.

“I thank you for this gift, my King, but before anything, I’d ask you to take a closer look at her.”

“Will it make a difference?”

“Perhaps you’ll want to keep her for yourself.”

The King beckoned him closer to his throne.

In recent cycles, King's appearance had undergone numerous changes. He hadn’t grown larger, preferring compact and agile proportions, but his body had elongated, his limbs adapted for animalistic movement. Sapphire scales had transformed into crystalline growths in some places. His horns and spines had naturally become his royal armor.

And wings—now two pairs. A single flap could send a weak fool flying and splatter them against the wall.

And then there was the tail. The King hated his tail. Everyone in hell knew it was a hallmark of Mundus’ experiments. Ever since the days of the first Blades and Assaults to the last Riots and Furies, he’d used the tail as an umbilical cord to feed his trials. The King hadn’t escaped this fate either. However, the smarter courtiers understood that someone who truly despised their tail wouldn’t give it a special place in their throne design.

The King disliked pomp but adored ambiguity. A small throne atop a massive platform. And good luck climbing up to him, especially with a cocoon in hand.

Modeus approached and knelt at the King’s feet, presenting the girl with outstretched arms.

The King leaned down to inspect her, paused and froze.

Yes, that very scent. Modeus had noticed it, though he hadn’t planned to reveal it to the rest of the court.

The faint smell of the King lingered on the girl—diluted but unmistakable.

Without restraint, the King snatched the girl from Modeus’ arms, leapt from his throne, and enveloped both her and himself in his wings.

“I’m retreating to my chambers. Do not disturb me.” And with that, he vanished faster than Modeus could process, leaving behind only faint air fluctuations hinting at the direction of his departure.

Impossible. It’s just impossible to live like this. Kyrie knew it was hell, and she understood why people called it that. Scary, unimaginable, with no way to stop, freeze, or pause for even a second!

When the entire world is crumbling in your hands—along with hands—when every shape flickers, changes, flows, and in the next moment is already something else—and will never be the same again—it was driving her insane. She couldn’t survive here. She couldn’t be here. She was falling apart. Her body was living its last moments before merging with the endlessly shifting world. And then she would wander forever as a bodiless spirit in a place where no one had thought to invent constancy.

The only reason she hadn’t lost her mind completely was that, tucked away in a corner of her consciousness, was Mephisto. Watching the chaos through his eyes gave Kyrie fleeting seconds of relief before another thought yanked her back into the endless vortex of chaos.

Chaos layered upon chaos until, at one moment, two glowing blue eyes appeared before her.

Kyrie latched onto them—the only sources of order in the grotesque mess surrounding her.

“Yes, that’s right, look straight at me.”

Had she imagined it, or did she actually hear words? Real, human words—not the hiss, creak, and deafening roar mixed with an incessant, grating ringing.

“Listen to my voice. You’re almost through this. It’ll all be over soon.”

This reassurance made her cry. Was it true? Finally! This stranger with the bright blue eyes would end her torment. She could finally stop existing.

But the darkness didn’t come. Instead, the grotesque human voice grew sharper, stronger, and smoother with each word. And the glowing eyes stretched to a grin, then morphed into a full-fledged demonic head.

The last thing Kyrie realized was that this creature had just pulled its claw out of her eye. Her left eye, if she correctly understood her position in space.

“The final touch,” the beast rumbled. He extended one of the vines that had dragged her here and drew symbols on it—symbols Kyrie couldn’t make out. But as soon as they began to glow—like Nero’s rose once had—the vines immediately wrapped around her body, their thorns piercing her flesh, and new buds began blooming everywhere.

Kyrie had never been so grateful for pain. Because the pain gathered her together, allowed her to feel her boundaries.

“And now, sleep.”

Kyrie didn’t resist.

When she woke up, the world around her had changed. No longer a kaleidoscope of indistinct shapes. Now the blurred outlines lingered, forming a picture of recognizable things. There was a door, there a cabinet, there a chair where an unbelievably beautiful demon sat flipping through the pages of some book.

Yes, a little unusual, but familiar enough for her overheated brain to finally exhale and relax. Tears welled up, making the scene blurry but still distinguishable.

“I see you’re feeling better.”

Kyrie turned her attention to the demon. He raised his divine face to her. Scary? Hell no. It was the most beautiful face she’d seen in hell. The first one, if she was being completely honest.

“Yes, thank you. You saved my life.”

“Just sped up the transformation,” the demon dismissed with a very human-like gesture, setting the book aside. “Your soul is capable of existing in underworld. Just a hundred or two cycles more and you would’ve reached the same point… though likely more battered.”

“Cycles?”

“The human concept of time doesn’t apply here. Demons have developed their own system of coordination.”

“And how long is one cycle?”

The demon smirked.

“I see you don’t understand yet. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it.”

Kyrie lowered her eyes and saw her hands resting on a soft, silky pelt. Vines pulsed over her skin, directly above her veins. A small bud was about to bloom on her wrist.

“This parasite protected you. I nudged it toward symbiosis. It will feed on your blood, and in return, it will give you a sense of your own body and protection.”

Speaking of protection…

“Why didn’t you eat me?”

The demon didn’t answer right away.

“Why should I have?”

True. Perhaps this demon wasn’t hungry, so why would he bother eating her? But then…

“And why did you save me?”

“Your words make me think you crave death, Little Rose.”

Little Rose? Was it because of the buds?

“I’m sorry, but you’re only the third intelligent demon I’ve spoken to,” Kyrie said, blushing, then corrected herself. “The fourth.”

“Surprisingly many for a human girl. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

The demon took a deep breath, then exhaled thoughtfully.

“There will be… complications… but the parasite will handle it.”

Kyrie frowned in confusion.

“I don’t want to cause you trouble.”

“Your presence here isn’t the problem. The problem is your presence here. And for now, I don’t have a solution to that problem.”

“I’m sorry,” Kyrie murmured, looking down.

“Don’t apologize. Act.”

Kyrie looked up at the demon. Very human-like, especially considering his appearance—a massive anthropomorphic dragon covered in blue crystals instead of horns and spikes—and his residence: literally hell. Then again, maybe they were all like this? Well, the intelligent ones…

“What can I do?”

“Serve me.”

Kyrie froze.

“My territories are vast,” the demon tempted her. “You’ll be protected across all of them. You’ll have shelter, food, clothing—everything you could ever want.”

“I’m sorry, but I must decline.”

“Reason?”

“I cannot serve two Lords.” Kyrie smirked. “What kind of servant would I be then?”

The demon narrowed his eyes and exhaled a cloud that immediately shimmered with silvery frost-like sparks.

“Your… Lord… Is that whose blood you carry?”

Kyrie instinctively grabbed the pendant. Still there. The fear instantly receded.

“Yes,” she said with a smile.

“And where are his territories?”

Kyrie looked at the demon in surprise.

“The Mitis Forest, the city and castle of Fortuna, and all the surrounding lands as far as the eye can see.”

“The human world?”

Kyrie blinked. Then nodded. Had she just brought trouble upon her people?

“That means our territories do not overlap.”

What?

“Reaching the human world is no easy feat. The fact that you ended up here—it was someone’s ill intent, nothing less.”

Kyrie thought of Christina’s frightened face. No, it couldn’t have been intentional.

“Therefore, my offer does not tarnish your honor. Serve me here until I return you to your world.”

After a moment’s thought, Kyrie frowned.

What use could she possibly be?

Yes, in Fortuna, she was one of the strongest—if not the strongest—after Nero. But here… Demons born and raised in pure chaos would kill her faster than she could blink.

“And how exactly am I supposed to serve you?” she asked, immediately regretting it. A blush crept over her cheeks, and her eyes darted around, trying to hide her embarrassment. A young human girl in a dragon’s lair. Could there be a more obvious implication?

But the demon merely snorted.

“What are you good at?”

“Well, um, I can read runes, set traps, kill demons.”

“Dismissed. I have plenty of servants for those tasks. What can you offer me, Little Rose?”

Kyrie looked up in surprise.

“Well… I can… sing?”

The demon nodded.

“I’d like to hear some human singing. What other human skills can you offer me?”

Kyrie blinked.

“I can cook food, sew clothes, clean…”

The demon rumbled approvingly.

“Good. And can you grow food? In hell, we have a problem with… human produce.”

Kyrie nodded. Almighty Sparda, it seemed her mother was right when she said that one day her homemaker skills might save Kyrie’s life.

The demon stood up and walked to the window—Kyrie could’ve sworn with absolute certainty that there was no window there just a second ago!

“Take a look.”

Kyrie approached and stared at… the ground? Covered entirely in something white—moss or mold, perhaps—and red grass.

“All the land you see, I’ll place under your command. You may take as many servants as you need to assist you. Grow a human garden here, and with the first harvest, prepare me some human food. If I like it, you’ll continue cooking for me. Later, I’ll ask you to sing, and if I enjoy that, you’ll do that too. Does such service suit you?”

Honestly, yes. It wasn’t much different from her life in Fortuna. Just with… um… a more demonic twist?

Kyrie turned back to the demon. Tall, imposing, incredibly handsome. Of noble blood, no doubt. She didn’t understand why he was being so kind to her. But then again… hadn’t Nero been just as kind to Mephisto and his mate? Were they all like this—whom born to rule?

“How should I address you?”

The demon chuckled.

“Well, since you already have a Lord,” he traced his claws along his fanged grin, “call me King.”

“Very well, my King,” Kyrie bowed.

“And now, Little Rose, return to bed and rest.” He commanded. “Your body needs to adjust to its new surroundings.”

Kyrie obeyed.

Oren opened the door from his room, walked to the stairs, and froze mid-step. At the table, leaning over the surface, stood Dante. Behind him, pressing her groin against his hips, was Lady.

Oren rolled his eyes.

"Again?" he muttered.

"It’s not what you think!" Lady squeaked, jumping back.

"It’s not?" Dante turned to her skeptically. "What a shame."

Instead of answering, Lady delivered a solid smack to his conveniently protruding ass.

Dante flinched, slid off to the floor out of Oren’s sight, and returned with some document in hand.

"Found it."

"Guys, I’m glad you’re happy, but could you at least not use the table for your games?" Oren pleaded, leaping over the railing straight to the table. "I don’t care about anything else in the house. Seriously, I’d even sacrifice bed, but I work at this table!" He spread his arms wide to protect the large wooden surface.

"Sorry, kid," Dante smirked, getting up from the floor. "I think I might be going through a second puberty. I’ll try to do better."

Oren grimaced. Right, like he’d actually try.

It was painfully obvious that Dante’s instincts wouldn’t settle down until Lady got pregnant by him, and considering how much rubber they were burning through, they’d be at it until the end of days. Damn rabbits.

"We’re not using your bed!" Lady snapped, blushing furiously. Seriously? Oren could understand her embarrassment in the first six months. But they’d been at it for a year and a half now and so often—likely making up for the previous ten years of their own stupidity—that Oren genuinely worried about the girl. The whole house reeked of their pheromones. Hell, even he did.

"He’s talking about my bed," Dante grumbled.

Lady looked at him, surprised.

"Why should he care what you do in your own bed?"

"Because he sleeps with me?" Dante shrugged.

Lady frowned harder.

"You’re joking, right?"

Dante raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"Dante, it’s one thing to let a toddler with nightmares sleep in your bed. But a nearly twelve-year-old boy? That’s not normal."

Oren flinched.

When he’d provoked Dante into confessing to Lady a year and a half ago, he hadn’t thought about how Lady would react like any normal mother—kicking grown-up and dangerous offspring out of her mate’s nest to protect her own offspring. Even though Oren would never, ever harm them. He’d guard them with his life and care for them more than anyone else.

But Oren understood. He was a good nephew and cared about Dante’s happiness.

And he was old enough to take care of himself.

"You’re right, Lady," he said, hiding his hands in his pockets. His smile was crooked and sarcastic, the kind human teenagers his age often gave. "I’m tired of listening to his snoring anyway. And his bed too small for both of us. By the way—" he bared his teeth in a wicked grin, "maybe I should start saving up for a proper bed for you two. Something that takes up half the room. Though honestly, I’d rather spend the money on soundproofing."

"Just shut up," Lady teased playfully. "Rein in your nephew while I go warm up the engine." She pulled Dante to her by the lapels, left a loving bite on his lips, snatched the document from his hand, and walked out. A stunned Dante just watched her leave the agency, leaving him with a dopey grin.

Dante’s gaze fell back on Oren.

The grin instantly turned into regret.

Fuck. Okay, so he had less time than he thought. Not a big deal—they had a few final tests left with Nico, and…

"Hey, Nero?"

"What?" Oren snapped to attention immediately.

Dante opened his mouth, but no words came out. With a crooked smirk, he stepped forward and simply pulled Oren into a tight hug. Oren hugged him back, inhaling the familiar scent as deeply as he could. Like his life depended on it. Like it was the last time.

"You’ve really overgrown," Dante chuckled. While one hand firmly held Oren’s shoulders, the other ruffled his hair. "Sure don’t wanna haircut?"

"I’m sure," Oren mumbled into his chest. He liked his long hair.

"Not worried people mistake you for a girl?"

"The majority tends to be kinder to pretty girls and feminine boys."

"Not afraid of being teased?"

"The minority doesn’t matter to me. Besides, I don’t go to school. So unless you’re teasing me, no one else is." He lifted his head and rested his chin on Dante’s chest to look him in the eye. "Should I cut it?"

"Your call," Dante smirked. "You’re the one who has to carry all that hair around."

Yeah. This was it. His instincts were no longer tied to Nero.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Are you kidding?" Oren smiled. "I get a whole week alone with cursed manuscripts. And after that, you’ll come back with so much money I won’t have to think about bills for at least six months."

"You won’t be alone."

"Lady will find something to keep herself busy."

But Dante seemed not to hear him. "If you want, I can stay."

"Lady won’t forgive you for that."

Dante grimaced. Of course not—it had been her gig in the first place. She’d shared it because she acknowledged Dante’s strength and skill. It was her gift—and you don’t turn down a gift like that.

"If get bored, ask her to find you a side gig."

Oren’s eyes snapped open in horror. Sure, he’d been cooped up at home so long that he’d practically begged Dante to take him along on the simplest job—just once. But that was nearly a year ago, and he’d accepted Dante’s refusal without complaint, never bringing it up again.

“What?” Dante grinned smugly.

And now, just like that, Dante had given him permission. But not under his own supervision—no, as support for Lady. Oren wasn’t great with social dynamics, but even he understood that this approval elevated him and Lady to equal standing in Dante’s life.

Now it made sense why Dante had enthusiastically agreed to train Oren. Their sparring sessions were educational, exhausting, and incredibly fun! But this also meant Dante had been planning to send Oren off on his own for a while now. A shame—Oren genuinely enjoyed spending time with him.

Oren lowered his head, pressing his entire body into Dante, trying to meld into him one last time, burrowing beneath his skin.

“Hmm, nothing.”

“You seem… off. It's 'kay? Anything hurt?”

Yes, everything hurt. His whole body ached. It had been about six months since the first hormonal surge triggered by the overwhelming pheromones saturating the air around him. Oren could feel his bones stretching, his ligaments pulling, his muscles filling out. And how he died day after day because his own body could not regenerate itself.

Maybe Dante was just tired of carrying him. Oren would understand. Who’d want to nurse a weak, sickly offspring—especially someone else’s? Why bother when you could create new, stronger, more capable progeny with an equally strong partner?

But Dante was too human to kick Oren out cold. He still cared about him and his well-being.

“I think I’m just going through my first puberty,” Oren muttered, soaking in Dante’s kindness. He felt so lucky. “Hormones are driving me crazy and making me act weird.”

“Read that in one of your smart books, huh?” Dante smirked.

“Probably,” Oren mumbled, “it’s worse for hybrids. As messed up as it sounds, you and dad were lucky to live your most energetic years fighting for survival.”

“Dubious luck,” Dante snorted.

“At least you weren’t bored out of your mind.”

“You wanna go to school?”

“To die of boredom there? Thanks, no…”

Dante sighed, then tilted Oren’s face up to look him in the eye.

“You know, if Nico doesn’t finish the compass before your birthday, I think we’ll go after your dad.”

Oren blinked. Then it hit him.

“For real?!”

Dante nodded with a smile.

“A week of hellish vacation should shake up your boredom and calm your puberty.”

Oren hugged Dante as tightly as he could.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Dante, you’re the best uncle in the world! I love you so much!”

Dante squeezed him back.

“Don’t forget to tell your dad that when you meet him.”

Dante packed the Blood Widow’s reserves to the brim, refreshed all the wards in the house, and asked Oren not to get into trouble. Then he hopped into Lady’s car and left for the week—a job on the other side of the continent. Lady was just giving him a ride (and maybe forcing a proper goodbye in one of those gross roadside motels). Oren was genuinely happy for them.

Maybe someday, when they finally decided to ditch the condoms and their kids hatched and grew up, Lady would be kind enough to let Oren babysit. He’d be super-duper careful!

But for now, he had things to do. Oren hadn’t lied about the cursed manuscript; Saxoniya paid decent money for rune translations, and he’d need cash soon. Because it was unclear how much longer he could stay here, in Dante’s house. He needed a backup plan—for protection, daily life, working with Nico, funding her projects… maybe it was time to think about Fortuna again.

Oren sighed.

There was just so much to do!

But then the phone rang.

“Devil May Cry.”

“Little Nero, is that you? Hey there, how’s it going? How’s life treating you?”

“Luca?” Oren said, surprised. “Do you have something for me?”

“Always straight to business, huh?” Luca chuckled. “Well, I’ve got two pieces of news for you—one bad, one good. Which do you want first?”

The age-old dilemma. Oren chose the bad one first.

“Well, finding her father is probably a no-go. Like, completely impossible.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely, kid. Hell, even the mother doesn’t remember all the guys she went through back then.”

Oren frowned.

“What do you mean, ‘the mother’?”

“Oh, that’s the good news! I found her mom. Nina Lowell. She travels a lot for work, but you’re in luck. She checked into a local hotel a week ago.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that?! Where can I find her?”

“Well, I already booked you an appointment. For today at 4:30 PM. You’ve got two and a half hours for everything.”

“Wait, what do you mean, booked me? I can’t go right now!”

“No? Why not?”

Oren frowned. He didn’t spill all his secrets. Even trustworthy people could be used against him. Oren needed to start thinking ahead about these things.

"I’ve got urgent matters to attend to. I can’t get away."

"Ah, sorry, kid. I didn’t think you’d be busy. You’re lucky she’s even in town. I don’t think she’ll stick around long, so I was just seizing the moment."

Oren sighed. On the other hand, if Luca was right, when would he get another chance to talk to her? Now was the perfect opportunity—not just for the meeting but also to test how independent Oren really was.

"You said 4:30 PM?"

"Yeah."

"And where?"

"Write down the address."

Oren snatched a pen and paper, hurriedly jotting down the details.

"We’ll see what I can do. Either way, this is great news. Thanks, Luca."

"Don’t mention it, kid! Hope Patty doesn’t end up disappointed."

"And why would she?"

"Take care of yourself," Luca ignored the question, "and call if you need anything! Later!"

Then came the dial tone. Strange. But then again, that journalist was always a weird one, though at least he did his job well. Oren was lucky Saxoniya had connections like him.

Then came the agonizing wait, during which Oren meticulously planned every step he’d take.

Today, Nina decided to take on more work. Staying in Red Grave City wasn’t cheap—it was above average, actually. And what devil had dragged her to this gloomy not-so-little town?

She knew exactly which one. Lately, people had been telling her how generous the clients were in Red Grave. They’d promised her luck, claiming that despite her age and stretch marks from pregnancy, she was still very attractive. Plus, she knew her craft.

And there was also a certain little girl here—someone very dear to her—and Nina just wanted to check if she was alright.

The clock read 4:29 PM. The hour and a half she’d spent calling for room service and pulling herself together had flown by unnoticed. So far, no luck with the supposedly generous clients. Same greedy perverts as everywhere else. Probably scammed her. As usual.

There was a knock at the door. Remarkable punctuality. Normally, they showed up early, eager to strip down and get started right away.

"Come in."

The door opened, and in walked a boy around fourteen years old. Though, for all she knew, he could’ve been ten or eighteen. At that age, they were all awkward, gangly ducklings destined to grow into swans. This one, clearly, had the makings of a beautiful man.

He entered, closed the door behind him, and gave a polite nod.

"Hello, ma’am. Are you Nina Lowell?"

Nina mentally grimaced.

"I prefer to be called Charlie," she said seductively, biting her lip. The boy seemed to completely ignore the gesture.

"Alright, Charlie," he nodded. "My name’s Nero. I’m here to…"

"Shh," she placed a finger to her lips, then beckoned him closer with the same finger. "First, tell me, how old are you, sweetie?"

"Why does it matter?" Nero frowned.

"Well, I may be a lost cause, but even I have principles."

Nero continued to glare at her. How amusing they were when caught in a lie.

"I don’t sleep with minors, darling. And unless you’ve got ID proving you’re legal, I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time."

Still frowning, Nero opened his mouth.

"Are all you people completely nuts? Just because I smell like sex doesn’t mean I’m here for it! Sparda have mercy, everyone’s obsessed!"

Nina stared at the kid, shocked.

"If you’re not here for sex, then why are you here?"

"To talk!"

"Don’t you have a mom? Or a girlfriend? What sane person comes to a hooker just to chat?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You booked my working hours and cut me a check just to talk?"

"I should clarify—I was got booked."

Nina rolled her eyes.

"Got it." A concerned daddy figure must’ve thought losing his virginity would fix whatever was wrong with the boy instead of sending him to a shrink. Unfortunately for both the dad and the kid, not everything could be cured with sex. "Alright, since the time’s already paid for—" she pulled out a cigarette and lit it "—sit down and spill it."

The boy didn’t take the invitation. He simply stepped closer to a comfortable distance and stayed standing. Nina felt uneasy and tightened her robe around herself.

"That’s a beautiful amulet you’ve got there."

Nina didn’t react. "Just a trinket."

"What kind of stone is that?"

"Glass."

"How much is it worth?"

"Nothing."

"Will you give it to me?"

"Sorry, kid. It’s precious to me as a keepsake." She flicked ash into the ashtray on the side table.

"Can I at least take a closer look?"

Nina took it off and tossed it to the kid.

He instinctively caught it with his right hand. The hand immediately swelled and exploded, drenching both of them in disgusting demonic ichor.

So, they’d learned to use children now. What a shame—he had been such a handsome boy. Nina hoped the child hadn’t suffered before they killed and gutted him to wear as a suit.

"Shit, you could've warned me!" the brat squealed, clutching the mess that used to be his right hand. "Hey, sweetheart," he said, addressing the hand, "you okay? Can you regenerate?"

The demonic ichor slid off Nina's face and hair with a disgusting wet sensation and flowed back to the kid, reforming into his hand. How fascinating.

"Why are you still alive?" Nina asked, fishing out a new cigarette from the pack.

The boy—Nero—took the amulet with his other hand, wincing but holding it steadily, and somehow remained alive. He held the amulet out to her.

"Because I'm not a demon. Just my hand." He flexed his newly restored human right hand. "But I'm glad I was right about you. Sorry for getting you all messy."

Nina smirked. She'd never seen a demon like this before. She reached out and took her amulet back.

"Don't worry about it," she waved him off. "And what exactly were you right about?"

"That you're not just another Lowell. You're the heir of Alan Lowell, whose tears, according to legend, sealed Abigail's power inside this very amulet."

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Abigail wasn’t sealed in the amulet—he was trapped in an ethereal pocket, the only entrance to which was locked using Alan’s tears. But details, details.

"So grown-up, and you still believe in fairy tales?" Nina smirked, placing the amulet on her lap.

"I was unlucky enough to be born in a world where fairy tales are terrifying truths," Nero replied with a grin.

"Sorry to hear that," Nina took another drag.

"Don’t be. I got lucky with my family," Nero smiled.

"And who’s your family?"

"Have you ever heard the legend of Sparda?"

Nina let out a low whistle. That could only mean one thing.

She’d heard rumors of hybrids existing, though she’d never met one. After two thousand years, there was probably not a drop of demonic blood left in Nero. Which explained why he could so easily hold the amulet in his bare hand. As for the devil arm? Probably compensating for the lack of innate demonic power.

"Good connections…"

Nero gave an awkward smile.

"Or were.... about a thousand or two years ago," Nina continued.

"You’d be surprised," Nero chuckled.

Nina was surprised. But Nero kept going.

"Not even a year and a half ago, my own uncle killed Mundus."

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head.

"And my father took over underworld’s affairs."

Her jaw dropped. Ash fell onto her knee, snapping her out of her shock.

"Why are you telling me all this?" she grimaced, noticing the burn mark on her robe.

"Because Patty keeps looking at my uncle with those puppy-dog eyes," Nero sighed. "I won’t let him adopt her, but… well, you know, she’s a pretty girl. Just nine years old and—"

"Shut your mouth!" Nina shrieked. So some old demon-slaying bastard—part demon himself—was thinking about putting his filthy hands on her sweet little girl? Like hell he would!

"See!" Nero threw up his hands. "You don’t want it, I don’t want it. Let’s help each other out!"

Nina, realizing she was standing with her robe wide open and her cigarette extinguished, decided not to stop now. Screw it, the kid had pissed her off.

"And how exactly do you propose we do that?"

Nero blinked.

"Well… um, you go to the orphanage and ask them to process all the paperwork." He grew more confident as he spoke. "If you have issues with documents, I know people who’d be happy to help. Patty’s our friend—we’d do almost anything for her."

Now it was Nina’s turn to freeze in indecision. No way, the kid was definitely messing with her.

"Kid, does it not bother you that I’m a prostitute?"

"And how’s that a problem?"

"How’s it not? Have you thought about what it’ll do to a little girl to find out her mom sleeps with men for money? That’s not exactly every kid’s dream."

And once again, this damn kid managed to surprise her.

"I grew up in an orphanage too," Nero shrugged. "And the whole town knew I was the son of a prostitute. Didn’t stop me from loving my mom."

"Her father was just a client!"

"My mom spent one night with dad and never saw him again. I’m not even sure my dad knows I exist. And like Patty, I was born out of wedlock. Still, I love my mom more than anything."

Alright, Nina was out of arguments.

"You’re not lying?" A stupid question.

"About myself or about her?"

"About her…"

"Would you be disappointed in her if you found out she sold drugs to make ends meet?"

Nina was horrified—but…

"No," she said. Besides, it was insanely dangerous, and she’d be worried sick about Patty—no, she wouldn’t be disappointed. Nina would understand.

"Still, I’d advise you to find a more respectable job. Here—" he pulled a wad of cash out of thin air and handed it to Nina, "this should be enough to get you started. Rent a place, buy everything Patty needs. You’ll have time to look into other professions. I know someone who might need people familiar with demons. She pays good money for information."

Nina blinked in surprise.

"I see you’ve really thought this through…" she mumbled uncertainly.

"I’ve been looking for you for over a year. Trust me, not much will stop me from dealing with Patty’s irritating persistence."

Nina chuckled. Her shoulders slumped, but a goofy smile remained on her face. All her resistance melted away.

"Keep your pocket money," she tightened her robe.

After all, she hadn’t just been wasting her life. She’d saved up a decent amount of money, stashed away for the day she could leave it all to Patty. It should be enough for a small house and a couple of years of modest living.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I have savings."

"Then—" the boy sighed with anticipation.

If his uncle had killed Mundus… they might not only protect the world from Abigail’s return—they could destroy him. Permanently. Nina, Patty, and their descendants wouldn’t have to carry this burden anymore. They wouldn’t have to burn through their lives for others. Could she… could she finally live a little for herself?

Wait.

Her habitual caution kicked back in.

Why did she even believe him? What if it was some kind of trick? A demon so weak that the amulet didn’t even affect him? What if he wanted to awaken Abigail? What if this whole thing was a trap to get the amulet and unleash the greatest evil in physical form?

And how did she even know Abigail wouldn’t turn out stronger than the legendary Mundus?

"What about you?"

"What?"

"Tell me about yourself. Why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn’t," Nero said, growing serious. "But let’s be honest. If I wanted that amulet, I’d have taken it already."

"We both saw what it did to your hand," Nina snorted.

Instead of answering, Nero looked around, walked over to the bed, and lifted it above his head with his left—non-demonic—hand as if it were a feather. Then he set it back down. The blankets and pillows barely moved. There was an indentation on the footboard where his fingers had pressed.

"That’s not the heaviest thing I can lift. Honestly, even if I were a demon, all I’d need to do is toss you out the window. The amulet won’t protect you from gravity. And your corpse protect me from the amulet."

Nina swallowed hard.

"But I want you to notice that I’m asking you to leave this life behind and start a new one—voluntarily."

"Why do you care?"

"Besides the fact that Patty drives me nuts?" Nero smirked.

Nina nodded. The boy’s words weren’t amusing her.

"Honestly, I don’t," Nero shrugged. "I’m offering because I can. And it costs me nothing. So why not?"

Nina had never encountered kindness born of abundance rather than gain before. Or maybe… in some distant childhood? Otherwise, how would she recognize what Nero was offering?

Maybe, screw it all? Maybe she finally deserved a little happiness for herself?

"I agree," Nina muttered.

"I understand if it’s hard for you to trust some random kid off the street with a demon for a hand. So I—" he paused, "what?"

Instead of answering, Nina bent down and picked up the fallen amulet. She glanced at the hated stone, then handed it to Nero with a deep sense of satisfaction.

"Take it. If the apocalypse, at least I’ll meet it with my family."

Nero stared at her wide-eyed.

"You’re really okay with this?"

Nina shook the amulet in her hand. Nero immediately held out his left hand and winced when the amulet landed on his palm.

"Charlie, I promise you won’t regret this!"

"Nina."

"Huh?"

"If I’m no longer working, then just call me Nina."

Nero smiled.

"Alright, Nina. I promise, you’ll never regret this!"

"I’ll hold you to that, kid."

Oren was returning to the agency elated. Of course, he’d not only managed to find the mother of that pesky girl but also take the amulet from her! The woman could now live her own life, and Patty would finally leave Oren alone. Let’s be honest—if Oren left Dante, Patty’s clinginess would make her prefer Oren anyway.

Of course, he knew Nina wouldn’t just let it go. She’d keep checking in about the amulet, her thoughts returning to it over and over until her anxiety settled and she fully believed in her new life. Oren would endure. He’d even made it easier for Nina by giving her all the addresses and phone numbers connected to him, so she could always reach him and ask whatever she wanted.

Of course, Oren didn’t plan to exploit Dante. Maybe at first, but once Dante finally kicked him out, Oren would return to Fortuna and simply stash the amulet in vault, where no one would ever think of it again.

Or maybe not? The stupid thing refused to set off with Oren’s ethereal space. Fine, no problem. He’d create an incredibly complex protective perimeter. Devil May Cry was already a small fortress, especially with Dante inside. So no one would have any issues!

Oren kept a close eye on his surroundings. He’d taken public transport to get to Nina's place, but now he had the amulet in his hands. A dangerous object that might attract hunters. On one hand, if he took public transport again, he’d have a better chance to escape—he was small, nimble, and could quickly vanish into a crowd. On the other hand, Oren was now a grown, independent demon, heir to Sparda’s soul. He was born to protect humans, not use them. Which meant he should walk home on foot, taking the least crowded paths, so no one would get hurt.

Oren smiled to himself again. He felt damn proud of his thoughts and actions. Clearly, he’d grown up enough, and Dante and Lady were just nudging him toward the next stage of life. That thought softened the upcoming move out of Dante’s agency. Though he still felt a bit sad. He’d miss Dante. But Dante had promised to help find his father! An entire adventure awaited them in underworld!

Oren was so excited he didn’t notice the danger. His instincts kicked in too late—when a strange, pomegranate-like grenade lit up right in front of his face.

The Blood Widow barely shielded him in time, stretching out like a shield and covering his body with hers. The shockwave threw Oren into the wall. Then, darkness.

Chapter Text

Nico was walking home from school, oblivious to everything around her. All her thoughts were consumed by the compass.

The toughest puzzle she’d ever tackled. Everything seemed to work fine, except for one thing—it just wouldn’t find what it was supposed to. And honestly, it wasn’t so much about the missing arm as it was about Nero himself. The compass reacted to him inconsistently, as if it depended on the weather: one day it was Nero, the next—it wasn't.

Nico couldn’t crack this puzzle until Patty recently dropped a strange idea into the mix.

Patty had a knack—no, a talent—for throwing out interesting ideas. Nico considered herself open-minded, but Patty was on another level when it came to magical stuff: runes, alchemy, artifacts, demons—you name it. She didn’t just memorize; she understood. It made sense, given her family history. According to Nero’s stories, there was someone in her lineage who managed to trap a demon nearly as powerful as Mundus.

As for the idea itself, it had to do with time.

Patty suggested that the compass always pointed in the right direction but not necessarily at the right time. And indeed, demons had this problem—they were notoriously chaotic when it came to time. Nico pondered how to work around this. Was the issue with the compass or with Nero himself? The only thing she could think of was stabilizing Nero’s own time. Maybe…

Maybe there were sequences that stabilized time! And Nero might know them!

“Princess, you’re a genius!” Nico exclaimed mid-thought.

“Hmm? Not that I doubted it, but why this time?” Patty chimed in.

Nico jumped.

“What are you doing here?”

Patty blinked. “Seriously?”

Oh, right, they went to the same school…

And sometimes walked home together. The orphanage was a bit out of the way compared to Rock’s shop, but Nico loved walking. More interesting thoughts came to her while on her feet.

“I’ve got an idea,” Nico shared.

“Tell me!” Patty encouraged.

Sometimes, when Dante was out of town and Patty wasn’t stuck with dinner duty or other orphanage chores, she stayed over at their place for dinner. It was fun. While Patty struggled with physics, she had a great grasp of tools. She always knew where everything was, even better than Nico herself. A perfect assistant!

“Dad, we’re home!” Nico called out as they burst into the apartment. At the same moment, the phone rang.

“Oh, girls, welcome back! Are you eating?”

Patty nodded while Nico picked up the receiver.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Helllooo?”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Again? Seriously?” Rock muttered. “That’s the fourth time they’ve called without saying anything. Probably some pranksters. I’ll unplug the phone now, and we’ll reconnect it tomorrow.”

But Nico wasn’t listening. She held up a finger, signaling for silence.

“Widow, is that you? One knock for yes, two for no.”

Knock.

“Are you with Dante?”

Knock. Knock.

“Is Nero with you?”

Knock. Knock.

“Is he okay?”

Knock. Knock.

With each response, the knocking grew fainter, and Nico’s heart sank deeper and deeper.

“Do you know where he is?”

Knock. Knock.

“Are you okay?”

Knock. Knock.

“Do you know where you are?”

Knock. Knock.

Nico was on the verge of tears. “Anything at all?” she whimpered.

Knock. Knock.

Patty snatched the phone from her hands and started talking rapidly.

“Widow. We’ll find Nero, but we need your help. Do you know the sequence that can stabilize Nero’s time?”

Nico pressed close to the speaker.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.

Six runes. There was no way they’d pull that off anytime soon.

"To find the Nero who's closest in time?"

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Three runes. Patty looked at Nico. She nodded.

"The leftover energy from the batteries should be just enough!"

"Great!" Patty lit up. "Go on, Widow, like how we did it."

Exactly. It was their little game that Nero had indulged. While he and Nico worked on the compass, Widow and Patty communicated through sequences. Their own little runic Morse code.

With her last ounce of strength, the Blood Widow knocked out the third symbol.

She hadn’t been able to protect her master. And even if she weren't dying from a lack of power, she wouldn't have survived anyway—the King would’ve killed her himself. But it was okay. Honestly, she should’ve died a very, very long time ago. Some foolish demon had spared her instead of eating her.

She would die, but it was alright. Because her nonexistent soul would go straight to the dead Demon God. To where her mate and their children had long awaited her. The Widow had lived a long and good life. She’d done everything she could. She didn’t owe anything to anyone anymore.

And with her final knock, her body dissolved into chaos.

The telephone receiver hung slack on its cord.

"Widow? Widow, can you hear me? Widow!"

Then came the dial tone.

Lady stopped at a red light and took a sip of her to-go coffee. It was early morning, and Red Grave was still asleep. She would’ve been too, considering the wild night she’d had, but the bed in the train station motel had been awful. So after Dante left and she’d rested for at least four hours, Lady headed back to babysit Dante’s nephew. Which was ironic because, between the two of them, Dante was the one who needed a babysitter. But hey, what won’t you do for—Lady clenched her thighs at the thought—your man.

Dante belonged to her. It had taken her an embarrassingly long time to realize it, but… everyone has flaws, right? After all, she wasn’t a goddess… though—she shifted in her seat and smiled bashfully—Dante did everything in his power to convince her otherwise.

Still, it was such a relief that Nero had come into Dante’s life. That strange nephew who fell out of the sky had transformed Dante. Pulled him out of his bender, stabilized his finances, and chased away those suicidal thoughts. And he’d even hinted that Lady wouldn’t mind. Amazing how perceptive he was, given his youth and inexperience.

Though, Nero was a pretty odd kid—wild, maybe a little too smart—but still a sweet child. As soon as she learned he wasn’t Dante’s son but his nephew, any flicker of jealousy in her heart immediately faded. Watching Dante glow and come alive around him, Lady realized she would settle for babysitting the kid not only.

If he didn’t have family in Fortuna, she might’ve taken him under her wing. Not as a mom, of course—she was way too young for that kind of shit—but as a cool older sister. She could’ve taught him some tricks, shown him how to use those badass bullets he sometimes gave her.

The three of them could’ve been a family. A real family, something Lady hadn’t had in a very long time.

Lady sighed contentedly and turned into the alley toward the agency. The cars parked nearby and the wide-open door to the agency made her uneasy.

"What’s going on here?" she called out. Inside, there was a full-blown ops center set up. Rock with blueprints, Morrison on the phone, gadgets, batteries, tools—and… kids?

"Lady!" Patty shouted, running up to her. "You’re alive!" She slammed into Lady, hugging her with all her might.

What?

"Of course I’m alive," Lady frowned. "Why wouldn’t I be?"

Patty immediately backed off, eyeing her suspiciously.

"Hey, Lady," Rock waved. "Saxoniya said you stayed behind to keep an eye on Nero. He’s been kidnapped. We thought something happened to you too."

WHAT?

"Kidnapped? By who?"

If Dante found out about this, he’d kill her. And not figuratively. The last thing Lady wanted was for Dante to be that upset.

"So you don’t know?" Patty asked, looking utterly crushed.

Lady, on the other hand, snapped into focus.

"What do you know?" she asked, already sweeping the perimeter. The inner rim of the ficus pot. Intact.

"Yesterday around five in the evening, when I was coming home," Nico replied, "the Widow called our house."

Lady nodded, peeking under the coffee table in the corner. Intact.

"From what we gathered, Nero was separated from her. He was injured. It’s unclear who took him or where."

"Alright. And where’s the Widow now?" Lady checked under the bar counter and lifted the false panel. Also intact.

"Most likely dead."

Lady froze, turning her gaze to the room.

"We couldn’t locate her. She was injured too."

Lady allowed herself a moment of silence. Damn demon had done a better job protecting that boy than she had. She’d never live down this shame. They needed to find Nero—fast.

"Alright," she said, checking the last hiding spot in Dante’s oak desk. Intact. "Nero wasn’t taken from here."

The room stirred, everyone turning to look at her. Lady stood to her full height and brushed off her hands.

"All the protective runes are intact. No outsiders broke in. Most likely, Nero left the building on his own."

"Why would he do something so stupid?" Patty frowned.

Lady blinked. "You’re serious?"

Patty nodded confidently.

"What about food?" Lady suggested. Just in case, she peeked into the fridge. It was stuffed with groceries. Grimacing, she added, "Or taking out the trash."

"He would never do that." Patty shook her head. "Not without Dante's permission."

"Oh, come on," Lady said with a skeptical smile. "Nero’s a grown boy. He can just go outside and play some ball." Isn’t that what boys his age do?

"Lady," Nico drawled, "you’re not serious, right?"

Lady turned to her completely baffled.

"You’re the closest to them. You couldn’t have missed how close those two are," Nico continued.

Lady rolled her eyes.

"Maybe too close. I found out they sleep in the same bed."

"Exactly!" Patty threw up her hands.

"But that’s not normal!"

Patty froze, exchanging a scared glance with Nico.

"Girls, spill it. Now’s not the time for a staring contest," Morrison interrupted, hanging up the phone. Rock nodded questioningly at him, but Morrison just shook his head. "No one closer than a couple of days. Only Lady."

Rock nodded again.

"Please tell me you didn’t say anything about this to Nero," Patty begged, almost crying from frustration.

Lady’s heart skipped a beat. Both girls noticed her prolonged silence. Patty groaned and covered her face with her hands while Nico gave her the most disappointed look a ten-year-old could muster.

"What did I even do wrong?! Nero’s almost twelve! He can’t sleep in the same bed as a grown man! That’s not normal!" She glanced at Rock for support.

"For humans," Patty moaned, pulling Rock's attention back.

Lady froze and then frowned.

"Just because they have demon blood doesn’t make them non-human," she growled threateningly.

"It does!" Nico snapped, throwing her hands in the air.

Lady shot her a venomous glare but got an equally hostile look in return.

"Nico," Rock scolded gently. "How’s it going?"

"Fucking nowhere!" She slammed her tools on the table, crossed her arms over her chest, and leaned back against the couch. Only then did Lady notice that Nico had been working on some device.

"Nico," Rock soothed tenderly.

"What, Nico? I can’t do anything! The shards are too small. And we can’t make more because all the remaining energy went into the sequence." She gestured to the batteries scattered around her.

"What happened?" Lady frowned. "Is that the compass?"

"Yeah, only now it’s useless."

"Why?"

"Because the crystal exploded."

"Why?"

"How should I know? Maybe it was overloaded! Or maybe it happened because Nero’s gone! And it’s all your fault!"

"Nico!" Rock hissed.

"No, let her talk," Lady insisted. "Go ahead, since you’re so smart, tell me what I did wrong?"

"Did it ever occur to you that Nero didn’t act like a human boy? Like, ever!"

"Well, he had quirks, but he’s still human."

"Yeah, sure. He looks human, talks like a human, but his behavior isn’t like that of a human boy! Go to a school and see how boys act. They don’t have an ounce of sense! They can’t sit still for a minute, bump doorframes walking through, and race the wind to see who can blow harder! They don’t know quantum physics at a university level, they can’t kill demons, and they don’t manage the finances or personal lives of their adult uncles!"

"So who is Nero, then?" Lady raised an eyebrow.

"He’s a demon," Patty whispered. "He has human traits, but they’re all learned habits. Nero himself lives by instincts. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to return to his family in Fortuna—because he lost his humanity."

"But wait," Rock chuckled, "he linked you with Agnus. Isn’t that something a human friend would do?"

"That’s what a demonic lord does," Nico grimaced. "He gathers skilled subordinates by tying them to himself. In this case, through family connections."

"And how do you know how a demonic lord behaves?" Lady raised an eyebrow.

"He gave me a book about demon behavior," Patty replied. "Said if I wanted to be friends with demons, I needed to understand their habits."

Lady shuddered.

"That’s when we realized," Nico chimed in, "that he’s a demon. Like, completely."

"But… like a fledgling." Patty pursed her lips. "That’s why he’s so dependent on Dante."

"And if you," Nico continued, "Dante’s mate, told Nero to get out of Dante’s nest, then for him, that’s like being told to leave Dante’s life altogether."

"Now it makes sense why he left the agency," Patty added, clutching her head. "He thought he was grown-up and independent now."

What? But she didn’t mean that! She…

Lady looked pleadingly at Rock. But he just shrugged.

"I didn’t realize things were this bad."

"You’re forgiven," Nico waved it off. "But Lady! I thought that if you were getting into a relationship with Dante, you’d understand everything!"

"Or at least be prepared for it," Patty chimed in. "Damn, you’ve been flirting to him for ten years! How could you not…?"

Lady took a step back.

"Girls, this isn’t the time," Morrison scolded gently. "Besides, we have guests."

"Oh, don’t mind me," an unfamiliar voice said.

The whole room turned toward the woman who had just walked in—vaguely familiar.

"You must be…" Morrison began.

"Nina Lowell," the woman nodded. "A journalist called me earlier, begging me to stop by Devil May Cry. I refused, but then I remembered that one boy gave me that name."

"Oh, he found you!" Nico exclaimed happily.

And then it hit Lady. "You’re Patty’s mom?"

Lady turned to Patty, but she was frozen in place, clutching the pendant she never parted with.

Nico hopped up from her seat, walked over to Patty, and took her hand. Patty snapped out of it and looked at Nico, who smiled and nodded reassuringly before whispering: "If she were a demon, the protections here would’ve kept her out."

Patty pulled herself together, nodded, and turned back to the newcomer.

"Hello, mother," she said cautiously, much too on Lady’s taste.

"Hello, sweetheart," Nina replied with a tired but genuine smile. Then she turned to Lady. "So, can someone tell me what happened to Nero?"

"When did you last see him?"

"Yesterday evening. He stopped by around 4:30 PM. We chatted for half an hour, and then he left."

"Did he take the amulet?" Patty suddenly asked.

Lady turned to her.

"How do you know about the amulet?" Nina asked, surprised.

"Yes or no?" Patty growled.

"Young lady—" Morrison interjected.

"If yes, then Nero was taken because of the amulet! Along with it!" Patty explained. "And I have this!" She held up her pendant. "It has a piece of Alan’s tears in it—the same as his. And if we put it into the compass, we can find Nero!"

Lady turned to Nina, glaring at her. "Yes or no?"

Nina nodded. Behind Lady, the girls scrambled noisily toward the compass. Meanwhile, Lady watched as a faint smile spread across Nina’s face—a smile she didn’t like one bit.

"Anything else you want to share?" Lady stepped closer.

"The amulet isn’t just some trinket. It protects the world from a great evil."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Nico dismissed, prying the stone out of Patty’s pendant. "Abigail, the six-rune lock, the keys—we already know all that."

"But how?" Nina frowned.

"As a demonic lord, Nero protects what’s his," Patty explained. "He studied everything he could get his hands on and told me so I’d know what life awaited me and what I was capable of."

"And if that’s true," Nico continued, "then the apocalypse is off. Because Dante wields the power of eight runes. He won't leave a wet spot behind Abigail!"

Nina’s expression shifted.

"I thought the Sparda bloodline would’ve died out by now."

"Nero weakened because of me," Patty admitted quietly.

"Don’t worry, princess," Nico nudged her. "He definitely doesn’t blame you for anything."

"But if I’d been more careful and listened to him, he wouldn’t have lost his arm!"

"Hey," Nico dropped what she was doing and grabbed Patty by the cheeks. "It's okay. You're smarter and more careful now. And you'll see, we'll save Nero, and you'll still be able to pester him."

"I'm not pestering him! I'm just worried about him. And anyway, work on the compass!" Patty waved her off.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Nico grinned, returning to the compass, "of course, princess, we all know you're in love with him."

"I don’t—!" Patty protested, but Nico cut her off.

"It’s ready!"

The compass lit up. The little glass shard inside shifted slightly.

It was time.

"To the cars."

Foolishness, Oren! Foolishness.

He has been so stupid.

And because of that, Oren would die today.

He gasped for air. Breathing felt like a chore. He’d taken a serious beating. It had been who-knows-how-long since he’d last had the support of the Blood Widow. His regeneration was draining him at an alarming rate, and his strength was nearly gone.

He could feel his skin cracking, his essence sinking into the void within him.

The Yamato.

The blade that had once sought to help him survive was now killing him.

Demons and humans were one and the same—power. The only difference was that some structured their power into runes, while others embraced chaos without direction.