(From Dante's Perspective)
Man, this place stinks worse than the bottom of my boots after a week in Hell.
I leaned against the rusted railing on the catwalk above the reservoir, Rebellion slung across my back like it was just another pizza box. The whole underground chamber smelled like wet concrete, old blood, and that special kind of fear-sweat that only happens when mortals realize they're way out of their league. Below me, my nephew Soren was crouched behind some crates with that scared blonde kid Carrie and the bald voodoo guy who looked like he was one bad smell away from fainting.
Kid's got guts, I thought, popping a piece of gum I'd swiped from some demon in the lower circles. Stupid guts, but guts.
Soren's plan was classic Sparda-bloodline overthinking: let the big bad demon prince finish crawling into Angela's belly, wait for the exact second he's weakest, then slice him open with Yamato like he's carving a Thanksgiving turkey. Ten thousand points, five percent bloodline jump, fancy demon soul trophy. The system loved that kind of high-risk, high-reward nonsense.
I chewed my gum louder. Ten million in debt and the boy's still treating this like a video game loot run. Must get it from Vergil. That stiff never knew how to have fun either.
Down below, the homeless guy dragged Angela in and dunked her face in the pool like he was baptizing her in toilet water. She thrashed, went still, then her eyes rolled white and Mammon's nasty greed-stench exploded out of her like someone opened a can of expired tuna mixed with sulfur. The red voodoo chains Papa Midnight painted lit up and wrapped around her like glowing barbed wire. Angela—or Mammon wearing her—screamed so loud the water rippled.
Soren's hand tightened on Yamato. I could practically hear the gears turning in his head: Wait for the perfect moment. Don't screw up the timing.
Relax, kid, I thought, rolling my shoulders. You're gonna give yourself an ulcer. Or worse—turn into Vergil. Nobody wants that.
Constantine came barreling in next, looking like he'd run through a burning building and then decided to smoke about it. He yanked Angela out of the water, slapped her cheeks, and did that classic Constantine move—pulled a knife on his own wrist like he was about to call Satan for a favor.
Soren blurred over and grabbed his arm before the blade could bite. Their little argument floated up to me clear as day.
"You summon the King of Hell now and my whole plan goes to shit."
"She's innocent!"
Innocent. Right. I snorted quietly. In this world? Innocence is just a fancy word for "hasn't been eaten yet."
Soren's voice got quieter, almost like he was talking to himself. "I know. But becoming the monster who lets one person die so I can save the rest… that's the only way I get strong enough to stop the real darkness coming."
I stopped chewing for a second.
There it is. The kid was finally getting it. Power doesn't come with a receipt and a smile. Sometimes you gotta get your hands dirty. Vergil would've approved. Me? I just hoped the boy didn't lose the part of him that still cared enough to hesitate.
The ground started shaking. Angela's stomach ballooned out like she'd swallowed a whole Thanksgiving dinner and it was trying to punch its way free. Mammon's presence filled the room so thick I could taste it—greed, pure and ugly. The system probably had some flashy countdown going for Soren right now.
I cracked my neck. Rebellion hummed against my back, eager. If the kid freezes, I'll jump in. But not before. He needs this.
Then the skylight exploded.
Holy light poured down like someone turned on the sun in a sewer. Gabriel dropped in—six perfect white wings, spear glowing like a bad decision, that holier-than-thou face I'd love to punch on principle. The archangel's voice boomed across the water.
"I know you're here, little rats. But the show must go on."
He raised the Spear of Destiny toward Angela's swollen belly.
Soren drew Yamato halfway, the blade already humming with dimensional power. I felt the Sparda bloodline inside him flare—still only eleven percent, but climbing fast. The hunger was there. The same fire that burned in me and Vergil.
Attaboy, I thought, already reaching for Rebellion's hilt just in case. Show that feathered prick what happens when you mess with family.
The spear started its downward arc.
I grinned, strawberry-sundae craving hitting me out of nowhere. Time to crash the party.
I kicked off the catwalk, coat flaring, Rebellion already in my hand and glowing red.
"Yo, Gabe! You mind if I cut in? I brought dessert!"
The reservoir lit up with lightning and holy fire as I dropped right into the middle of the chaos, laughing the whole way down.
Hang in there, kid. Uncle Dante's got your back.
And if you pull this off… first round of pizza's on me.
(From Vergil's Perspective)
The reservoir beneath Ravenscroft Psychiatric Hospital reeked of stagnant water, rusted metal, and the sour tang of human fear. I stood in the deepest shadow of the maintenance alcove, Yamato resting lightly against my shoulder, its weight a familiar comfort. The air was thick with ozone and something far older—greed given form. Mammon's stench rolled through the cracks in the walls like oil.
Soren crouched twenty meters away behind a stack of crates, that reckless nephew of mine. Even from here I could feel the Sparda bloodline stirring inside him—still only little awaken, yet already arrogant enough to gamble everything on a single cut. Carrie huddled beside him, fragile as a bird with a storm inside her skull. Papa Midnight muttered curses under his breath, his purple suit already ruined.
Foolish boy, I thought, watching Soren's red eyes track every ripple in the pool. You think power is something you can seize in one desperate swing. You still don't understand. True strength is never given. It is taken, again and again, until the world itself bends.
A dragging sound echoed from the hallway. The homeless man shambled in, eyes vacant, dragging Angela Dawson by the collar. I recognized the technique immediately—some crude psychic override, the kind lesser demons used when they couldn't be bothered to craft a proper vessel. The man shoved her face into the water.
Angela thrashed. Bubbles burst. Then her eyes rolled white and Mammon's presence exploded outward like a rotten fruit splitting open. The voodoo array Papa Midnight had painted flared to life, chains of crimson light snapping around her body. The demon prince screamed through her throat—ancient, ravenous, hungry for every soul on this pathetic planet.
Soren's hand tightened on Yamato's hilt. I saw the calculation in his posture: wait for the exact moment of weakness, then Dimensional Slash: Zero. Cut soul from flesh in one perfect stroke.
Always the same, I mused, a cold smile touching my lips. Dante would charge in laughing. You plan like a merchant counting coins. Both of you still treat power as a transaction instead of a birthright.
Constantine burst in seconds later, trench coat flapping, cigarette burning down to the filter. The exorcist dropped to his knees beside Angela and hauled her out of the water. His face twisted with that familiar cocktail of guilt and rage—the same look he wore every time he failed to save someone. He pressed a knife to his own wrist, muttering Satan's old promise.
Soren blurred across the room and caught his arm before the blade could bite. Their whispered argument reached me clearly.
"You summon the King of Hell now and my whole plan goes to shit."
"She's innocent!"
Innocent. The word tasted bitter even in my mind. Innocence was a luxury the weak could afford. The strong understood that every life was currency—spent, hoarded, or sacrificed for greater strength.
Soren's voice dropped lower. "I know. But becoming the monster who lets one person die so I can save the rest… that's the only way I get strong enough to stop the real darkness coming."
At last, I thought, something almost like approval flickering through the ice in my chest. He's beginning to understand. The path of power demands choices the weak call monstrous. Dante never learned that lesson. Perhaps you will.
The ground trembled. Water in the pool began to boil. Angela's stomach surged upward, skin stretching obscenely. Mammon's presence thickened until the air itself tasted of copper and sulfur.
I flexed my fingers around Yamato's hilt. The blade hummed in response, eager. If the boy hesitated, I could end this in one stroke. But that would rob him of the lesson. And the bloodline awakening he so desperately needed.
Then the ceiling exploded with holy light.
Gabriel descended like judgment itself—six wings spread, Spear of Destiny blazing, perfect marble features set in cold disdain. The archangel's voice rolled through the reservoir like thunder.
"I know you're here, little rats. But the show must go on."
He turned toward Angela. The spear rose.
Soren's grip on Yamato tightened. I felt the Sparda bloodline surge inside him—eleven percent, climbing toward the threshold where Demonization would finally awaken. The hunger for power that had driven me for decades now burned in my nephew's veins.
Good, I thought, already preparing to draw my own blade if needed. Let the archangel see what happens when a son of Sparda stops playing merchant and starts becoming a king.
The spear began its descent.
And in the shadows, I smiled.
The boy was learning. Slowly. Painfully. But learning.
Soon he would understand what I had always known:
Power is not earned through bargains.
It is seized.
And I would be there to watch him take it—or to take it from him if he proved unworthy.
The reservoir erupted into chaos.
I stepped forward, Yamato already halfway from its sheath, the air around me fracturing into perfect blue lines of dimensional force.
Show me, nephew. Show me if you are truly Sparda's blood… or just another weakling playing at strength.