Chapter One. Emergence.

Note: I hope the transition from high-octane action to deep contemplation isn't too jarring. It's probably pretty obvious but I'm a VERY inexperienced writer, so I hope this is at least enjoyable, in some capacity. I might make alterations to this later if the setting is really too vague (that, and proofreading and such). Thanks for reading!


"In order to facilitate the environment necessary for demons to trespass the boundaries of various realms, it is required that…" Flip to next page.

"…names provide context that gives power to….the concept of 'name' seems ridiculous to the uninitiated observer; however, it is a source of…" Next page.

"..to extricate that…fiendish qualities are designated by…and bestowed onto…." Cue page flip.

One solitary, scholarly voice drones on and on in that silent hall, uninterrupted by even the briefest of pauses. Another man, presumably an acquaintance of his, is the only living being in the vicinity that is being made to suffer his endless lectures. His eyes, cold as the stone on which they stand, drifts off impatiently in all directions. To his right, a grey wall adjourned only by a single statue missing various portions of its face, hacked away by time. To the left, a wall completely undecorated except for the various scratches and pockmarks scattered about. They could very well have been in a church or a library-which would actually justify all this rambling.

However, context is key. The present location of the unbearable scholar and his colleague was actually meant to look so deceivingly plain. Such was typical of demonic locations; were they not veiled in some manner, humans would cause all sorts of issues just by stumbling upon them. The two men are aware of this; it's the reason they're here.

"Is there some kind of incantation you're preparing to recite, Arkham?"

The impatient one narrows his eyes at the lecturer and clenches his jaw. He's a young man with an intimidating build that demands complacence; even though he wears a large blue coat and vest underneath that conceals the finer details of his frame, his broad shoulders and lean torso gives him a powerful silhouette.

The other man stops, though not abruptly. He is taller, but thinner and much older, and wears a black coat with matching trousers that cause his entire body to blend together as one dark column. The only feature that can be distinguished is his small, bald head, covered in purple and red scars on one side that seem to almost pulsate.

Arkham turns his head slightly, though not enough to look at his companion's face directly. "In order to truly understand your heritage, you must be knowledgeable of its more intricate details. A citizen of any country must know, to some degree, its history; and a true patriot would find it interesting. Glorious, even." He smiles slightly, though the fiendish expression in his eyes negates any sense of cordiality in the gesture. "Although, Vergil, I suppose you find it to be a pointless waste of your youth and I can understand that perspective. A warrior with such great potential like you shouldn't squander time on these things, hmm?" His grin creeps up a few inches.

"Oh yes, your precious time…"

Vergil begins to furrow his brows in irritation, but otherwise his form remains still.

"Ah, but thank you for pardoning my eccentricities. We're almost done here." He draws his mouth back into a grimace and whips his head around to face his book, which he then closes abruptly. The area around them starts to shake in small tremors, and a strange aura is projected some ways ahead of them. Vergil chooses not to wait any longer on Arkham and walks quickly ahead, lightly gripping his sword at his side, still sheathed. Arkham briefly watches him, then hesitantly follows suit.

Some ways down the hall they come to a large and weathered gate, covered in unreadable runes that are no doubt ancient. The doors already hang ajar, and Vergil does not pause to examine them. The two men pass through and come to a chamber, dimly-lit by torches but without furnishings or living beings. The only thing of note is the set of runes inscribed in an enclosed circle on the middle of the floor, and a matching set on the ceiling. There are no doors, no signs that anyone inhabited this place. And yet, a presence is felt. Once again, Arkham takes out his trusted book and thumbs through it carefully before settling upon the page needed for this scenario. Vergil relaxes his arm, seeing as there isn't to be any combat for a while and props himself against the barren wall. This time there isn't anything for him to examine or contemplate, so he'll have to rush his insufferable companion should he decide to deliver yet another riveting speech.

"Hmmm. Yes, this is correct. Ah, but this translation does the original text no justice, and if only I could speak it...but this should do. An interpretation of thought rather than speech will suffice." He turns to face a thoroughly bored Vergil. "I will now conduct two separate rituals, and conjoin them with a third. After each incantation, a force will be summoned that you will deal with, and after each interval it will increase in strength. The third should produce what we seek. Stay alert, and do not allow me to be interrupted." He addresses the younger man with a grim look, and receives a slight nod in return. He looks down towards the inscription on the ground and closes his eyes, drawing in his breath in a meditative motion. After a few seconds the room is shrouded in a light red miasma, and black wisps start to emerge from the surrounding walls.

Showtime.

Vergil's body slowly tenses into a combat-ready position, arms uncrossed, and he smiles faintly in anticipation. He reaches for his sword briefly, then decides against it.

Its more fun to pummel them at first.

One shadowy hand grasps greedily at a strand of his hair and in a motion too fast to counter he grabs it, then draws out the creature forcefully and hurls it to the ground. It screeches and groans upon hitting the floor, then throws its body at him and waves about its clawed hands in a flurry. Vergil merely takes a hold of its head and slams it face first into the wall adjacent to him, and it disperses in a gore-less cloud. More phantasms rush to his position aiming feebly to avenge their fallen brethren, and they are swiftly defeated in a series of punches, kicks and hurls, and not once is it necessary for their combatant to draw his sword or use any flashy motions. He scoffs at the little resistance they posed. How boring.

The miasma starts to clear, then thickens in a matter of minutes and it's clear that Arkham has begun the second ritual. Larger, more twisted shadows materialize from the ceiling and pour down upon the chamber in a decided formation. These beings are not like the faceless ones before them; they possess minimal features that resemble eyes and mouths and are capable of organization, as they circle about the room and taunt the two men with guttural shrieks and guffaws. One of them diverges from the circle and descends upon Arkham, who refuses to break concentration even when threatened. Vergil sprints, then leaps in a massive bound across the room and lands several slashes across the creature with his drawn sword, the sounds of each strike and swipe audible above the monsters' screams. Before he descends even an inch from his position, he's swarmed by dozens of the other shrieking ghouls, thinking they've found their opportunity. Oh but of course, Vergil being ever the expert hunter turns the tides in an instant and cuts them down in scores, still mid-air. They are flung to the walls in halves and quarters and dissipate, howling in anger at their defeat.

Realizing he's positioned right above Arkham, and not wanting to crush him under his weight, Vergil dashes slightly to the right and descends gracefully. He still hasn't broken a single sweat, not pulled one muscle in his minimal efforts. Of course, the mist begins to condense on cue, and both ground and roof are filling the room with a bright blue light from the runes' auras. A lone figure begins to arise from the floor behind the two, this one largely but not entirely devoid of the primal qualities possessed by its comrades. It has a face that is heavily reminiscent of a human skull, and a bestial form that can be vaguely made out from underneath a dark shroud so long it seems to consume a third of the chamber floor. It advances slowly, in a calculated rhythm and sizes up its newest prey, arms bent but partially outstretched to show its crudely sharpened talons. Finally, something resembling a challenge.

It stops, as if sensing the warrior's enthusiasm to engage it. The apparition throws up its head, and slowly lowers its jaw, widely distorting its face into an uncanny impression of fear. Without warning, it releases a low, twisted caterwaul that almost causes Vergil to flinch. In response, he charges the creature, meaning to slice it in one long sweep, but the thing flies away and gets behind him before the hit can connect. It then reaches out with its claws in a motion meant to mock its opponent, but he anticipates this and quickly rolls away, while landing a successful gash on its side. The ghoul hisses and clutches its lacerated flesh in pain, then spews a torrent of venom. In an instant Vergil teleports away from the discharge, and not a single drop lands on him. The creature, frustrated, leaps over to him with claws outstretched and mouth wide, hoping to rip this annoyance apart and end the conflict quickly. However, his opponent will not give him that pleasure, and parries his attack while only just being grazed on the cheek. While the creature falls forward, dumb and pathetic in its anger, the sword of his enemy is driven through his back and strikes the ground below it. In one fleeting moment, it realizes its doom and yelps sadly as it fades.

Following this victory, the fog lifts and the chamber returns to its previous mundane state. Arkham lifts his head and exhales deeply, relieved that this exercise has ended.

"Well, that is one seal broken. The chains binding this place are not yet broken, and there is more work left to be done; but I suppose I should offer you a small word of praise for your exertions." He said to his still-open tome before letting it close. "We will return to this place again tomorrow, as it is getting late and this particular venture has run its course of productivity. I look forward to our next results."

He gave Vergil a small bow before exiting the room. It wasn't until after the sound of his footsteps fully vanished that Vergil noticed all the previously lit torches had blown out during the conflict, leaving him engulfed in darkness which was barely penetrated by the small amount of light coming from the hall outside. He could feel his eyes seem to dry up and the nerves behind them pulse as he stood there in silence, slowly metamorphosing into a thoughtless statue of himself.

Something was absent now; there was a looming sense of unfeeling he could not escape. What was this?

A conflict? A fight? An event. An occurrence. Yes, there was a man, a son of a demon, a swordsman that fought here.

But in this darkness, he seemed to evanesce. Or was he ever really present?

That was when his cheek began to sting, and he thoughtlessly swiped the back of his hand over it, only to worsen the pain. Oh, there is a cut there. And it's bleeding.

Vergil finally became animate again and quickly left the underground passage, passing by those same statues and paintings that seemed to gawk at him now, and he could swear he heard faint sounds of breath and cruel laughter echo down the halls and grow louder at each corridor he passed.

Nonsense. Absolute nonsense. I can't afford that, no, definitely not. Ugh, how disgusting...

The faint light and trees outside did little to comfort him; as he advanced further away and into the night, everything seemed to enclose him in a circle that grew smaller and smaller. He never left that chamber, until he went to sleep.

And in that darkness, he vanished again.