Chapter Text
POV Dante:
In an underworld unlike anything mortal eyes have ever seen—where even the ground defies logic. The terrain is harsh and stony, threaded with strange crimson roots that cling to the rock like living veins. Sometimes they split open, bleeding in short, volcanic bursts. Among them roam demonic creatures of endless variety—some mindless, driven by nothing but the scent of human flesh. The moment they catch that scent, they frenzy, seeking the taste of blood that sustains and strengthens them.
One cannot speak of this hellish realm without mentioning its stifling scent—sharp, metallic, omnipresent. It isn’t exactly foul, but it isn’t pleasant either. Still, it’s not difficult to breathe here; the air, surprisingly, feels light… almost soothing.
A land that would be a waking nightmare to any normal being—a place no one should ever find themselves in. No one… except the twin sons of Sparda, who have made this infernal pit their sparring ground, testing their endurance again and again.
They move at such blinding speed that no eye could follow, only streaks of blue and red—sometimes merging into violet—cutting through the haze.
The red twin leaps high, striking down with a fierce blow that sends the blue twin stumbling back. Yet he regains his balance instantly, straightening with cold precision.
“Time to die, Dante.”
“Heh. You’re an open book, brother… I can read every move you make.”
Their blades collide again and again, sparks igniting between them. Dante has long since lost track of time—seconds, hours, days? It doesn’t matter. Not when he’s with the brother he lost more than twenty years ago.
Twenty years—an easy number to say, but behind it lies a lifetime. In twenty years, a man could father a child and watch him grow into adulthood. So many hours, minutes, days—until one day you look around and realize you haven’t moved at all.
That was Dante’s life. Since nineteen, he’s barely lived. Days crawled or vanished in blurs, but always ended the same way—with him at his desk, nursing cheap liquor and memories that refused to fade.
That’s why he handed Devil May Cry to Nero without hesitation. He believed this duel with his twin would be his final battle. He didn’t expect to walk away alive—and honestly, he didn’t mind the idea. Dying by Vergil’s hand didn’t seem like such a bad ending.
Was he too hasty? Not really. Even now, there seems to be no hope of escape. And if they do find a way out, Dante doubts he’ll return to hunting demons. He’s tired—tired of the chaos, the blood, the endless cycle. Maybe he’d rather just live out his days beside his brother.
What a dream that is… as if the power-obsessed bastard in front of him would ever agree to such a life. Of course not. But Dante wouldn’t force him either—if Vergil wants to walk away, let him.
Though if he dares to stir up trouble again… Dante will be there to stop him.
A savage strike from Yamato snapped him out of his thoughts, hurling him backward. “You’re unfocused, Dante. It’s insulting. Get up—we’re not done yet.”
Dante laughed dryly, stretching his stiff shoulders. “Relax… relax… I was just thinking how considerate you’ve become. Since when did we start caring? Days? Weeks? You haven’t done anything interesting in all that time—come on, show me what you’ve got.”
Vergil narrowed his eyes: “Trying to provoke me, are you? …Well then. You’ve succeeded.”
No more words. Vergil advanced, Dante blocked, and once more they fell into rhythm—an endless dance of blades, blind to everything but each other.
Just the two of them. The world belonged to no one else.
Dante wasn’t fighting so much as watching—memorizing every detail of Vergil’s movements, every shift of weight, every silent step. He had forgotten his brother’s voice, his colors, the measured grace of his style.
If Dante was a volcano—untamed, fiery—Vergil was pure frost, so cold it made the bones tremble. And before one could notice, the ice would creep into the veins, numbing the body, shattering it piece by piece.
To Dante, Vergil wasn’t a man—he was a force of nature, bound by laws of his own making. Every motion—each tilt of his shoulders, every breath—was deliberate, like a slow melody that could kill. Vergil didn’t need to speak; his silence alone filled the space, commanding respect, pressing against the air.
Even the stillness surrounding him felt heavy, magnetic—stronger than any roar or scream. The pale blue aura around him, that faint, freezing glow—it made him seem less like a person, more like a phenomenon to be studied, respected… or destroyed.
Dante’s gaze softened. Watching Vergil stirred something in him—wonder, exhilaration, and a quiet fear he’d never admit to. Each time their eyes met, that fear rippled through him, deep and undeniable.
Blue… a color that meant nothing in Vergil’s absence. It was as if the hue itself had been created for him, his mark upon the world, the tone that separated him from his brother.
Just a color—ordinary, hollow. But when Vergil stood before him, it became life itself: calm amidst chaos, a sharp serenity that cut through Dante’s storming soul.
The blue wrapped around him like glassy ice—cold, pristine, unwavering. Without it, the color lost meaning, turned into emptiness—a reminder of silence, of something unfinished, waiting for Vergil to return and make it whole again.
Back to the present—out of nowhere, the quiet twin decided to speak first, for once.
“Already exhausted, Dante? We’ve barely begun.”
“Hah! Who said I was serious anyway?”
Their swords clashed, grinding against each other as they struggled for dominance. Faces inches apart, Dante asked through clenched teeth:
“How long… have we been here, Vergil?”
“Why does it matter?”
“Because losing track of time… feels like—”
Before he could finish, he was interrupted by the sudden emergence of a swarm of frenzied, mindless demons bursting out from beneath the ground — mostly Empusa, Hell Caina, and Hell Antenora, with the most annoying of them all being the Pyrobat.
Even Dante was caught off guard. Vergil shoved him aside with the hilt of his sword to clear the way, then drew Yamato with calm precision. Dante regained his footing, tightening his grip on his Demon Sword
"Heh. Looks like the fun’s just starting… whoever kills the most wins, Verge.”
Without waiting for an answer, he lunged into the fray. Blood splattered across his face and coat, but he didn’t care—he was laughing, wild and unrestrained, spinning through bodies like a storm of steel.
Every strike sent a rush of fire through his chest, every scream was music—a rhythm only he could hear. From somewhere behind, he caught the familiar hum of Yamato slicing the air, and for the first time in years, that sound filled him with something close to peace.
For both of them—brothers bound by blood, fury, and fate—this was perfection. And Dante intended to savor every second of it.
............
POV Vergil:
“Verge?…”
Did he just call him Verge?
Well… clearly, it had been an unintentional slip—Dante’s voice hadn’t sounded serious, nor mocking as usual—but that didn’t stop its effect on Vergil. It was as if an old echo had clawed its way up from the depths without permission.
Despite his usual composure, Vergil’s heart gave a faint tremor. He hadn’t heard that nickname since they were children—back when innocence and brief squabbles were all that existed between them.
He had believed those days buried beneath blood and bitter memories… and yet, here was that voice again, reopening a wound that had long lain silent.
His face betrayed nothing, but inside, a strange heaviness pressed against his chest—a mixture of longing he would never admit and anger at himself for being moved by a single word.
The blue twin cut through the horde of Empusa before him with his spectral blades. In mere seconds, half—if not more—were gone. Yet the swarm refused to end. Vergil glanced sideways toward his younger brother.
As always, Dante moved with reckless grace, like a dancer on a stage drenched in blood—wild, tactless, cutting and tearing through anything before him, laughing with that arrogant grin that taunted ally and enemy alike.
But what caught Vergil’s attention more than the chaos was the fluid precision in every move—the hidden strength behind each strike, the impossible speed of his reflexes. Dante wasn’t just a volcano of violence; he was a living masterpiece of motion, perfectly aware of how to strike every weak point, how to create chaos and relish it in the same breath.
For all his mockery and lightheartedness, Vergil always sensed that uncanny truth—Dante read him as easily as he read any opponent. Yet he still left space for the thrill, the laughter, the challenge—blood and amusement intertwined upon the same stage.
At first glance, his fighting style seemed unchanged since their last encounter. But a bit of focus revealed the difference: Dante had become more seasoned, more deliberate.
No matter how Vergil tried to deny it, his twin was no longer the reckless young man he once was. Time had shaped him. Experience had tempered his blade—and his soul.
He no longer swung his weapon at random, but wielded it like a musician guiding a symphony—knowing exactly when to raise the tempo and when to let it fade.
A faint smile crossed Vergil’s lips. He wasn’t sure whether it was suppressed admiration… or silent acknowledgment that his brother had continued to grow—unlike him.
He had always believed that strength alone was the path to perfection. That belief hadn’t changed. He remained the same—unyielding, obsessed—as though time itself had frozen around him while Dante had kept moving forward. For a fleeting second, he realized that all his so-called victories were little more than circles, spinning endlessly… while his brother, despite his recklessness, had learned how to turn chaos into power.
Vergil’s eyes narrowed slightly, concealing the turmoil behind a mask of calm. Yet he couldn’t deny the truth: Dante was no longer that boy… and perhaps, he himself hadn’t changed enough.
He lowered his gaze for the briefest moment—a blink no one would notice, but enough to betray the storm within. His hand tightened around his sword—not in preparation for battle, but as if to reassure himself that something solid still remained to hold onto.
He said nothing. Only turned his head slightly toward Dante—a brief glance heavier than a thousand words.
A look that carried both pride and rejection; respect he refused to admit, and anger that he felt it at all.
Then he focused once more on the fight, as though nothing had happened. But inside, he knew that moment had left its mark—just as that single word, “Verg,” had before it.
And despite the conflict burning in his chest, he couldn’t deny the faint sense of happiness he’d buried for so long. Amid the clash of blades and the cries of dying demons, Vergil felt something strange—something he hadn’t felt in ages.
It wasn’t the strength that came from fighting beside Dante… but the rare, irreplaceable feeling of having someone at his side—shoulder to shoulder.
His brother, who knew his rhythm like his own heartbeat, whose movements flowed seamlessly with his own without the need for a word.
Despite all their differences, all the battles and years that had divided them, Vergil found himself missing this familiar harmony—the rhythm of facing the storm with Dante, not against him. As if a part of himself had been asleep all these years, and only now awoke—revived by his brother’s presence beside him in the heart of battle.
He glanced toward Dante for a brief moment.
He said nothing—but within, a truth whispered that he dared not voice: Maybe… this is where I was meant to be all along.
For the first time, he remembered that fiery, untamed spirit—always jumping, running, pleading to play outside like a bird that refused to be caged—without hatred, without blame.
As children, Dante had been all laughter and motion, forever chasing the next adventure, while Vergil sat quietly, reading and devouring any book he could get his hands on.
And now, amidst blades and blood, Vergil could still see that spark—that same restless light that never died, even as the man grew and changed. That child still lived, buried deep behind iron walls.
Or perhaps Vergil just wanted to believe that.
He suddenly realized how much he missed it—not only in Dante, but in himself as well.
It was as though his brother’s presence had brought back a shadow of childhood he had tried to banish… but his heart refused to forget.
A faint, nearly invisible smile crossed his face before he quickly buried it under his usual sternness. Still, deep down, he knew—he had missed that chaos. Missed being part of it, even for a fleeting moment.
Sadly, this wasn’t the time for nostalgia. He resumed slaughtering the remaining demons, determined not to lose. In an unexpected motion, his back brushed against Dante’s, feeling his brother’s warmth—followed by that inevitable trace of mockery as Dante raised his ridiculous pistols.
The instant their gazes met from the corners of their eyes, Vergil knew what he was about to do.
He growled through clenched teeth, “Don’t you dare.”
Dante shot him a sidelong look with that infuriating grin. “hah… Come on, Vergil—Jackpot!”
Gunfire burst in perfect sync with Vergil’s blade.
The twins, moving as one machine, tore through the last of the demons until nothing remained but dust. With the echo of bullets and steel fading into silence, the battlefield finally stilled—peaceful, free of those vile, hungry creatures.
Vergil sheathed his sword and turned toward his brother, only to be met with a look of irritation.
“What?”
“Why’d you leave me hanging? We always say it together.”
Ah… so he was angry because Vergil hadn’t echoed their old catchphrase.
“I have no recollection.”
Dante crossed his arms over his chest, far too serious for something so trivial. Vergil almost laughed—but stopped himself just in time.
“Really?” Dante sneered, hurling a demon corpse at him. “Let me jog your memory. A little Vergil… crying in the corner ‘cause Mommy got mad!”
Vergil drew his blade in a flash, slicing through whatever Dante had thrown.
“I seem to recall you crying every time Father raised his voice.”
A laugh escaped Dante’s throat—strange, unfamiliar, or maybe simply forgotten after so many years. “How do you think they’d feel if they saw us now?”
Vergil pondered the question carefully.
If their father saw them, he might see proof of the strength of his demonic blood—perhaps proud of the younger, furious at the elder.
If their mother saw them, she would probably weep for what her sons had become.
But in truth, none of it mattered.
Their parents’ time was long gone—leaving only the two of them, tangled in memories and rivalry, standing together in this tainted present.
And deep down, Vergil knew Dante, in his foolish humor, had struck the heart of it.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t reply. But inside, he understood—it no longer mattered what judgment their parents might pass.
As long as he and Dante stood side by side, fighting together as they should have from the beginning, that was enough.
Vergil turned his head slightly toward him. “It doesn’t matter… We’re still here, aren’t we?”
“Yeah… you’re damn right.”
He couldn’t stand seeing his brother’s smile any longer. Turning away, he fixed his gaze on the dull terrain—an attempt to distract himself from that face that haunted his thoughts since awakening, stirring emotions he neither wished nor dared to confront… not now. Not ever.
Fortunately, the world itself offered distraction.
The underworld never stayed still—especially after the severing of the Qliphoth roots, which had thrown its structure and climate into violent disarray, unsettling the demons that dwelled within.
Vergil looked skyward.
The clouds had thickened into a suffocating mass—dark, bruised shades of black and violet, as if tainted by poison. They crawled slowly, but seethed with a fury beneath the surface, ready to erupt at any moment.
Occasionally, a pale yellow lightning bolt tore through them—not like natural lightning, but like a spark of molten metal.
The air had grown heavy, laced with a sharp sting that burned the throat with every breath. Even breathing felt like labor now. The wind brought no coolness—only a sticky, foul sensation, as though it had risen from a toxic swamp.
One glance at the sky was enough to know—rain was coming. But this rain wouldn’t be water.
It would burn. It would poison. And even for the strongest hybrids alive, it would be unbearable.
He felt the shift in Dante’s energy—less stable than usual, erratic in a way that betrayed concern. Dante knew what was coming.
“Ugh… Great. Not the best time for this stupid rain,” Dante muttered.
“You know about it?”
"Of course. Not my first time stuck in this hellhole.”
Vergil turned his head slightly, studying his brother’s face as he spoke :“So you knew, and still came without a plan…”
Dante chuckled lightly, holstering his guns: “My plans usually write themselves at the last second—and you know what? They always work.”
Vergil raised an eyebrow, half amused, half exasperated, before turning back to the darkening sky.
“We’ll see if your pathetic habit saves you this time… Come on, let’s find shelter before it starts.”
Without another word, the blue twin started walking, confident that Dante would follow—as always.
“… Damn it, Vergil. Appointed yourself leader of our little camping trip, huh?”
Vergil didn’t look back. His voice was steady, carrying that familiar air of superiority.
“Of course I’m the leader. I’m the eldest.”
He quickened his pace, then tossed a final remark over his shoulder:
"If you don’t hurry, I’ll leave you to rot under the rain.”
Dante laughed, trailing lazily behind. “Alright, alright… Lead the way, Your Majesty.”
Then, with a grin stretching across his face: “But remember—without jesters, kings get really boring.”
Vergil glanced at him as he caught up, walking shoulder to shoulder. “Good to know you understand your place, clown.”
Dante only answered with a small smile—the same one Vergil had tried so long to escape, yet it still followed him, shadow-like.
Maybe there was no need to run from it.
At least… not this time.