Chapter Text
The Temen-ni-gru shuddered with every pulse of the portal, the demonic tower groaning like a living thing as it strained to keep the gate to the underworld open. The roar of rushing water echoed endlessly, churning white against the jagged stone beneath their feet. The air itself was thick with power—heavy, suffocating, a mix of blood and brimstone that clung to the skin like sweat.
At the center of it all, two figures clashed with inhuman fury, blades colliding in bursts of steel and sparks that drowned out even the thunder of the falls. Every strike between them was more than just metal; it was years of resentment, guilt, and brotherhood crashing together, neither willing to yield. Dante’s crimson coat was slashed and torn, his chest heaving with exertion but his eyes sharp and burning. Across from him, Vergil’s movements were still precise, but slower now, his breaths deeper, his jaw clenched tight against the fatigue gnawing at him.
Their swords met one last time, a resounding impact that reverberated through the stone like a war drum. For a moment, time itself seemed to hang suspended on the edge of that clash. Then the weight broke. Vergil faltered. His knees hit the ground, his arms trembling as he braced against the stone, Force Edge dragging a harsh scrape across the wet floor.
“Am I… being defeated?” Vergil’s voice was low, ragged, tinged with disbelief, as if the very words curdled on his tongue.
Dante stood over him, rebellion still humming from the force of the blow. The edge of his mouth curled upward, not with triumph, but with a sharp, biting grin. “What’s wrong? Is that all you got?” His voice carried easily over the roar of the falls, smooth and taunting.
He shifted his stance, Rebellion angled casually at his side, as though he hadn’t just fought for his life against his own blood. “Come on, get up, you can do better than that.”
The words struck harder than any sword. Vergil’s eyes flickered, the faintest flame sparking to life in their cold blue depths. He let out a low, guttural snarl and forced his battered body back up, dragging himself upright with sheer will. The muscles in his arm trembled as he tightened his grip on Force Edge, knuckles white, the blade rising once more to guard.
“The portal to the human world is closing, Dante…” Vergil’s voice was hoarse, but unyielding.
He lifted his gaze, eyes narrowing, jaw set. “Because the amulets have been separated.”
Dante’s brow furrowed, following his brother’s glance. The golden edge of the half-amulet shimmered faintly where it dangled loose from his back pocket, exposed just enough to catch the eye.
Vergil’s intent was unmistakable.
Dante exhaled slowly, shoulders squaring, his expression hardening to steel. He raised Rebellion once more, the tip of the blade cutting through the mist between them. “Let’s finish this, Vergil.” His voice was steady now, all the mockery burned away to something colder.
“I have to stop you, even if that means killing you.”
At the provocation, Vergil’s eyes burned brighter, his entire frame snapping taut like a blade drawn from its sheath. Force Edge rose in a single, fluid motion, its tip gleaming in the hellish light that spilled from the portal behind them. His stance was impeccable, elegant even in exhaustion—knees bent, weight balanced, the posture of a swordsman who refused to admit defeat even with his body screaming otherwise. His grip trembled just faintly, but his resolve did not.
For a moment, there was silence save for the pounding torrent of the river beneath them. Then both brothers moved at once.
Their boots splashed through shallow water, the force of their strides sending arcs of spray into the air like sparks from an anvil. The mist curled around them, steam rising from their clashing auras. Their swords gleamed high, poised to strike, and the world narrowed to nothing but the sound of steel and the blood-deep instinct to kill—or be killed.
When they met, the impact was earth-shattering. Rebellion and Force Edge collided with such ferocity that the stones beneath their feet cracked, fissures racing outward like veins. The shockwave sent droplets of water scattering upward, suspended in the air for a heartbeat before raining back down around them.
Vergil’s blade swung first, a downward arc with enough force to split a lesser man in half. But fatigue, like an unseen hand, caught his wrist mid-swing. His arm slowed, his strike faltered, the elegance of his technique faltering under the weight of exhaustion. His breath hissed through clenched teeth as his timing faltered by a fraction of a second—just enough.
Dante seized that opening. His entire body twisted, Rebellion carving through the air in a merciless sweep. The greatsword sang as it found its mark, cleaving across Vergil’s chest in a clean, brutal slash.
The world seemed to hold its breath. Then the wound erupted.
An arc of crimson sprayed outward, stark and vivid against the white mist and black stone. The force of the blow drove Vergil back, his body jerking under the impact. His boots skidded against the slick surface, the sound of steel clattering as Force Edge slipped from his grasp. The sword struck the ground with a hollow clang, sliding across wet stone until it came to rest at the edge of the rushing water.
Something else fell with it—the gleam of silver and gold tumbling from his cloak. His half of the perfect amulet hit the ground with a faint, echoing chime, rolling once before coming to a stop.
Vergil staggered, every breath a ragged rasp tearing through his throat. He swayed on his feet, one hand pressed against the bleeding gash across his chest. His gaze dropped to the fallen amulet. For the briefest instant, a flicker of panic passed across his features—not for himself, but for that single relic of his bloodline.
Driven by something deeper than pain, Vergil bent forward, every movement labored. His fingers trembled as they closed around the amulet, curling it into his palm as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Blood dripped freely from his chest, seeping across the engraved surface, but he held it close against himself, protective and possessive.
His voice came low, strained but unyielding, every word soaked in obsession. “No one can have this, Dante.”
His head snapped up, eyes blazing with fevered pride as he clutched the amulet to his chest like a dying man shielding his last breath. “It’s mine. It belongs to a son of Sparda!”
Vergil’s boots scraped against the slick stone as he staggered backward, each step unsteady but deliberate, his body swaying like a shadow clinging to its last breath. The ground beneath him sloped toward the edge, where the raging cataract of the demon river poured endlessly into the abyss below. The mist rising from it glowed with the blood-red light of the portal, painting his pale skin in shades of crimson and shadow.
Dante’s eyes widened in alarm. He could see the distance closing between his brother and the edge—the yawning mouth of the underworld just a heartbeat away from claiming him. His instincts surged, driving him forward, boots splashing hard against the shallow water as he lunged, hand outstretched.
But steel barred his path.
Vergil’s arm snapped up with sudden, startling precision despite his wounds. Force Edge angled sharply, the blade’s gleaming edge hovering mere inches from Dante’s throat. The faintest twitch would have been enough to spill his blood. Dante froze mid-stride, the roar of the falls filling the silence between them.
Vergil’s chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, but his eyes—those icy blue eyes—burned with conviction. He spoke with a quiet gravity that cut deeper than any sword.
“Leave me and go. If you don’t want to be trapped in the Demon World.”
His words echoed against the cavernous space, blending with the endless roar of the torrent beneath them. He lowered his chin slightly, clutching the bloodstained amulet tighter against himself. His voice dropped further, softer yet unshakable, as if confessing something to the abyss itself. “I’m staying. This place was our father’s home.”
Dante’s heart lurched at the words, the defiance in them, the resignation. For an instant, he saw not his enemy but the brother he’d grown up with, the boy who had once walked beside him in the shadow of their father’s legacy. And then, before he could form a single reply, Vergil’s heel met the edge.
The stone crumbled beneath his weight.
With one last stagger, Vergil let himself tip backward into the roaring mist. The mist parted behind him, revealing only the pulsing crimson glow of the underworld’s gate yawning wide, endless and merciless. His body tilted, balance surrendered to gravity, and the torrent’s roar rose to a deafening crescendo as if the abyss itself had come alive to devour him.
“Vergil!” Dante surged forward, instinct blazing hotter than thought. His left hand shot out through the spray, desperate, fingers clawing at empty air. For a fleeting moment, he thought he might reach him—might drag him back from the edge before the world tore them apart.
But Vergil was never one to be caught so easily. Even in his fall, his instincts were as sharp as Yamato’s edge. With a flash of motion, his right arm whipped outward, the blade singing as it carved through the mist. Yamato’s gleaming arc met Dante’s reaching hand, the strike meant not to kill, but to sever—to drive him back, to force him to let go.
The blade connected.
Steel bit into flesh. A white-hot line of agony tore up Dante’s arm as Yamato carved through his palm. Blood burst forth instantly, hot and vivid, streaming down his wrist in rivulets that spattered across the stone and water. The pain was blinding, searing—but Dante did not let go.
Instead, his fingers closed tighter around the very weapon meant to push him away. His hand clamped down on Yamato’s cold, unforgiving hilt, blood slicking the steel but his grip unrelenting. He snarled through clenched teeth, crimson dripping from his knuckles, refusing to release his brother even as his lifeblood poured out.
Vergil’s eyes widened in disbelief. He had expected resistance—rage, perhaps—but not this. Not Dante clutching the blade itself, tearing his own flesh to keep their bond intact.
With a guttural yell, Dante planted his left foot hard against the stone, pivoting on instinct. His right arm snapped Rebellion free, the massive sword gripped like a counterweight in perfect synchronicity, and Dante spun with all the force of his body.
The world blurred. Steel clashed. Muscles strained. The mist exploded outward as Dante heaved, twisting the momentum between them into a brutal arc. With a roar, he hurled Vergil out of the abyss’s grasp, flinging him bodily back toward the shore. The ground shook as Vergil landed hard, Rebellion crashing beside him in a spray of sparks.
But victory came at a cost.
In his shock, Vergil’s grip faltered. Yamato slipped from his fingers, its polished steel sliding slick with Dante’s blood. And in that instant, the balance shifted again.
Dante’s body pitched backward, momentum carrying him past the ledge. The roar of the falls swallowed him whole as his boots lost purchase, his body tipping into the endless void.
“NO! You fool!” Vergil’s voice broke, shattering the cold composure he had worn like armor. His eyes widened in horror as Dante slipped away, the sight of his brother vanishing into the glow striking deeper than any wound.
He lunged forward, scrambling across the slick stone with desperation unworthy of a son of Sparda. His fingers stretched out, grasping for even the barest touch of red cloth, silver buckle, anything—but he was too late.
Dante’s form plunged past the lip of the abyss, swallowed whole by the crimson light. Yamato followed, glinting once before it too vanished into the underworld’s maw.
And then—silence.
Vergil’s outstretched hand hung frozen in the mist, trembling, empty. The roar of the river and the crash of falling stone filled the void where his brother had been. He remained there, suspended on the edge, as if the weight of what had just happened had broken even time itself.
For the first time in years, Vergil felt uncertainty gnaw at him. His mind teetered on the edge as surely as his body did, caught between instinct and hesitation. Should he leap after Dante, plunge into the abyss, reclaim Yamato, and drag his brother back?
His fingers twitched, the thought racing like fire through his veins. He could almost see it, himself diving headlong into the crimson void, blade-first, carving a path through the underworld until he reached Dante. For a heartbeat, the image burned in his mind with terrifying clarity.
Vergil’s jaw tightened. His blue eyes narrowed, resolve sharpening to a dagger’s point. He straightened, shoulders squaring against the abyss. He bent his knees, ready to leap.
But the abyss betrayed him.
The Temen-ni-gru gave its verdict.
The portal convulsed violently, a blinding crimson flash searing the chamber. With a thunderous crack, the gateway slammed shut in Vergil’s face, the light extinguished as if swallowed whole. The floor beneath him shook, fissures ripping through the stone, and the roar of the river deepened into a death knell.
The tower shuddered violently, a thunderous crack ripping through its foundations. Vergil flinched back as the ground beneath his boots fractured, whole slabs of stone tearing free and tumbling into the abyss where Dante had fallen only moments ago.
Dust and debris choked the air. Chunks of rock rained down from above, the once-mighty structure groaning as its spires splintered under the collapse.
Vergil staggered back, uncharacteristically graceless, boots skidding across slick stone as instinct overrode pride. He caught himself against the wall with a snarl, blinking through haze and falling dust. His usual elegance was stripped away—his movements frantic, survival-driven.
His hand brushed cold steel.
Force Edge.
The blade lay where it had fallen earlier, discarded in the chaos of their duel. Without thinking, Vergil stooped low, fingers curling around the hilt. He slid it across his back with the practiced ease of ritual, its weight settling against him like an anchor.
He turned, ready to escape the collapsing chamber, when a flash of crimson caught his eye.
Rebellion.
It lay in the shallow water a few feet away, its great blade gleaming faintly beneath the dust and mist. For a moment, Vergil froze, his jaw tight. The weapon radiated Dante’s presence—loud, brash, impossible to ignore.
The ground shook again, cracks snaking toward his boots. The ceiling above groaned dangerously.
Vergil hesitated. His fingers twitched.
Then he reached for it.
His hand closed around Rebellion’s hilt, the leather grip still warm as if Dante himself had only just released it. The sword was heavier than Yamato—more crude, more brutal—but undeniably powerful. Vergil exhaled sharply, jaw clenching as he hefted it from the ground. He stared at the blade for the briefest instant, unreadable emotion flickering in his cold eyes before he slung it across his other shoulder.
The world around him crumbled.
Vergil staggered toward the exit, stone and flame crashing down in his wake. Dust clouded the air, the roar of collapsing architecture mixing with the eternal thunder of the waterfall. Every step was a battle against the chaos, every breath choked with grit and the metallic tang of blood still dripping from his chest.
But he did not stop.
Vergil emerged from the dying heart of the Temen-ni-gru battered, bloodied, and carrying both his father’s legacy and his brother’s blade. The tower fell behind him, swallowed into ruin, its demonic heart extinguished.
He did not look back.