The Underworld. Hellish in appearance, exempt from the laws of uniformity plagued amidst the Human World.
Yes. Long ago they had been separated, split into two. Light and Dark forced to coexist in separate realms. While one was fated to become the domain of mortals, the other was housed by demons, and it is within those boundaries that each of them thrived for millennia.
One of those such demons often stared with neglect at the world standing beyond the Hell Gate, watching intently as countless lives were laid to waste by war and famine. For what purpose did he do such a thing? Envy, perhaps. That such weak-willed beings gradually consumed the resplendent world given to them. That demon was named Sparda, famously known as the most powerful swordsman across the Netherworld, though that title had been mostly accounted to rumors and legends. No shortage of demons had seen him fight his way through battlefields, slaughtering any and all who dared to stand in his way. The incomparable respect he had garnered in his lifetime had only been elevated from the day he began to serve under Mundus, The Prince of Darkness, self-proclaimed ruler of the underworld. It was only natural, really; For the strongest to desire the strongest. Their relationship had grown to be one of mutual respect. A rivalry imbued in friendship. Brothers in arms, through and through. For years, the two demons shared the same goal, the same deep-seated desire…
"You're watching them again." A voice, awfully deep, almost hoarse in nature. Mundus stood by Sparda's side, his three fiery red eyes fixated on him, the warm gaze of a companion. Sparda himself leaned against his knee, his downward-facing horns bringing unmistakeable grace to his posture, as they often did. "I suppose it's little more than a formality, at this point." He responded, lost to the view. "They do have quite the charming vistas though, no?" Sparda spoke unusually formally for a demon of his kind, a suave voice almost unbefitting of such an intimidating warrior.
Mundus shot his trusted general a grin, crossing his arms. "Time draws near, old friend. Soon we will all be doing much more than simply watching from afar." He seemed rather confident, a recurring trait of his. Sparda found himself shaking his head, playfully so. In a lot of ways, Mundus was just as much of a dreamer as he was, credulous to the very end. "To think we allowed ourselves to live in such depravity for so long." He carried on, his seemingly endless grandiosity making even the likes of Sparda stare in nihilism. "They'll fight back at first, I imagine. A war is coming."
After dawdling centuries, the Hell Gate would open yet again. The Human and Demon worlds would no longer exist in division. No longer would they have to live in a realm deemed the only one wicked enough to contain their immeasurable power.
The day would come where humans would learn of them.
For now, things would remain the same. While access to the Human World was limited, it did exist to those who dared to venture into it. Demons who travelled beyond the Devil Kingdom were however forced to take on human forms themselves, stripped of nearly the entirety of their power to withstand the journey. For most, it was a foolish crusade, best saved for daring ones seeking only the simple thrill of bloodshed. Demons did not usually return to Hell, needless to say, though some had gone as far as to become engraved in the humans' brief history. A quaint fallout of demon meddlesomeness.
"You want to see them, yes? See them for what they truly are, before the Convergence."
Sparda didn't seek any "thrills", much less to be acknowledged by such anemic creatures. He considered his first delving into the Human World to be a study, almost a necessity for what was soon to come. He had interests of his own in the humans; their world, even their culture. Although satisfying his curiosity was far from a crucial goal, it was not by any means something he intended to shy away from. The mundaneness of living amidst the humans intrigued him, though it was somewhat embarrassing to admit.
As for his choice in garments, Sparda had chosen something lavish, though not too gaudy for his human form… well, not from his perspective, at least. A dark purple overcoat with glimpses of red marks and symbols, all of them hinting at his ancestry. A personal touch, one may say. It was only complemented by his purple slacks and black dress shoes, as well as the white gloves he so delightfully sported. As his finishing touch, Sparda had chosen to wear a monocle, a single eyeglass on his left eye, so that one distinct battle scar of his would be properly concealed.
The white hair came as no surprise. An inherent demon feature he simply had no means to mask. It would be of no consequence, however. None of them would ever suspect of him, even under those circumstances. As the incessant raindrops fell on his shoulders, Sparda sighed out in contempt. Water falling from the sky? Indeed, an amusing feature of the Human World, and very aggravating. Men and women alike walked through the streets of New York City with umbrellas of different colors. The ones who had the chance, couldn't help but stare in bewilderment at the extravagant-looking stranger who stood quietly under the rainfall, watching the common passerby with his unmistakable crimson eyes. Indeed, Sparda stood out like a sore thumb amidst the New Yorkers of 1963, though he had little means to help it. The human world was something he was only ever able to watch from a distance, after all.
He did not bother finding an umbrella of his own. Though irritating, it was merely water. The way humans so feebly sheltered themselves from it only showed how fragile they truly were. Cars donned in yellow flashed by, making unbearably loud noises as they did. Men lied utterly unkempt on street corners begging for wealth, while women roamed those very same streets while scantily dressed, asking for much of the same. It was as fascinating as it was tragic.
In some ways, the thought that their time was so close to coming to an end brought some comfort to Sparda. Flawed beings desperately scraping by to survive, congregating and destroying the remnants of a perfect utopia given to them. The world would return to its beauty once the worlds converged once more.
As he walked through the endless crowds, the fog and the slippery sidewalks, one piece of architecture did catch Sparda's wavering attention. To the many humans living there, it had been named a church, a holy place meant to instigate faith amongst the masses. For Sparda, merely an alluring construction, not unlike the ones found in his homeworld. The Dark Knight felt drawn to it, oddly enough. Curiosity directing his every step.
The large stone door announced his presence for all to hear, his wet soles squeaking as they met the spotless white floor of the church grounds. Candles enveloped the various wooden seats, people of all ages praying for some being he had no knowledge of.
Replacing the ceaseless sound of rain was a soft musical chant, the captivating voice of a woman standing out amidst the various men and children joining the chant.
Hear us, O Lord, and have mercy, because we have sinned against Thee.
Hear us, O Lord, and have mercy, because we have sinned against Thee.
To Thee, highest King,
Redeemer of all,
do we lift up our eyes in weeping:
Hear, O Christ, the prayers of your servants.
As he stood on that doorway, dazed and wide-eyed, enraptured by the beauty of the sight before him, one thing stood out above any other: The woman singing atop the altar. Her passionate, angelic voice sending shockwaves through his body. Stunning strands of blonde hair only inches short of covering her delicate blue eyes. A beautiful human, she was. Unlike any other Sparda had ever laid his eyes upon.
For the very first time in his life, the General of Hell's Legion was left speechless.