Chapter 23 ~ Shedding Skin

She knew her journey had come to an end when the warehouse stood before her. She should've expected it to end here.

The houses gave way to the barren roads a full twenty minutes ago and the verge became more of a junkyard than the junkyard itself.
These old machines lined themselves up against the road, covered in dirt and scavenged into skeletons of whatever they used to be, perhaps construction drones.
She forced herself to focus, now wasn't the time to be stuck on old ghosts. The warehouse was where she stood, and so the warehouse was where she'd go.

It had the arched roof of an aircraft hanger and the walls were corrugated tin. The broken tarmac around it was empty, save a forklift; it must be in use again somehow.
Just like it was all those years ago, when those machines still operated. She needed to be here, it wasn't self-servingly brave as it sounded though.

Anyone who willingly chose to dwell here after the wolves attacked was insane.

Lady cocked her drawn pistol and walked into the abandoned warehouse. Well, almost abandoned. The remaining life there? They were the reason for that pistol.

Dust in the air, the smell of blood; victims. They'd been here not long ago. That or Lady was bleeding out all this time.
. . . Just a short time earlier, she was warning civilians to leave, get away to shelter in their homes, where it was safe.

Supposedly safe.

Mostly safe.

Who knows if she truly saved those people. Probably would've been fine either way.

The warehouse was dead quiet, nothing but her own breath stood by her. The corrugated iron roof was domed some thirty-five feet above her, like a shanty-town cathedral.
The rotten grain was piled high at the far end and for the farm rats, it was a free-for-all. At the other end were the packed sacks of seed ready for distribution back in their day.
Wonder filled her head, what had happened to make people abandon this place? Kids used to love to stomp, clap and shout to hear the echo in this old warehouse.
When it rained, it sounded like a million maracas, like all the percussionists in the cosmic world had arrived to play on the roof.

This little place used to have a farm around it, though no one would ever believe that now.

Her chest showed no signs of slowing, though she'd come to accept that now. She knew what was near, they didn't have to hide.

"All right, get out here." She shouted, her voice echoing across the taped boxes, through the dusty air, "There's no point in playing this game, I know you're in here."

Laughter so deafening punctuated her call like an exclamation point, some twisted response. There it was.
A familiar, demonic, smug face came up from behind a box in the western-most corner. Those eyes glowed purple menace.

Though the sound was fundamentally evil, Lady smirked to herself as she prepared her weapons and locked eyes with the target.

"Step out from behind the box," She said, "Let me kill you quickly."

"You couldn't stop us if you tried," The thing spoke out to her, "The wolves will be here soon, and you will be dinner."

Lady didn't wait, armed already with her pistol, she drew her submachine gun, but the creature ducked back behind it's cover by the time Lady started to fire.
Bullets ricocheted off metal beams and put holes in wood scraps left behind. She heard a few animalistic grunts and growls, things of a horrible nature. The beast had been wounded.
She Moved after it, keeping her distance as she tried for a better vantage point among the rubble. She reached the box's other side, but it wasn't there.

Echoing to her, she heard it mock,

"I can smell Sparda inside you," The demon's voice grew thicker, like a bear's, "You would make a fine trophy by the end of this."

Lady spotted hooves like limps breakthrough from the inside and charge for her.
Thinking quickly, she dodged backward, leaping as far as she could to put distance between them.

The demon showed itself, eight feet tall and dark magenta. It was like a brutish purple-salamander, covered in scales and hunched over.
So hulking, and yet there was a leanness to the build, like a thin muscleman or an underweight basketball player, it looked odd.

Those spiked eyelids inspired confidence, the razor teeth perforated a machine-gun smile, and that bullet hole in it's thick hand was likely the reason for those bloodshot eyes.
A legend in it's mind, this was an outrage. She'd leave the poor creature as it left all those people, torn apart and physically crippled. Her boot would be the decider to this duel.
Temper's flared, and so their wills would clash, bullets or not, someone was going to die.

The slits on it's face flared like the nostrils on a man as it bellowed.

Her weapons sounded small following a roar like that.

It screamed again, unholy and high. Lady thought for a second she felt pain, her ears were left ringing.
She was sure it was just an illusion that her nerves stabbed herself in the gut. After a brief moment, she got the ringing to stop, refocusing her sights.
Disconnecting the worms and maggots from below, Lady's steely resolve cut through it's pathetic tactics. There wasn't any point.

"Cheap trick," Lady said, pretending she lost sight of him, "I can play like that."

The monster advanced on her, it's physique now barely discernible in the shadows. The shape made it's way towards her, bounding like a silverback for her throat.
With each movement that belied the speed it was capable of, slime dripped, seeping chunky gobs of phlegm left deposited on the pot-holed tarmac for hunters like her to find.

It was sticky mucus, rancid and toxic to touch.

On contact, one was paralyzed for lord knows how long.

Beneath the gelatinous gloop, its skin was gnarled, but crumpled and folded like it had recently lost weight.
Over it's belly lay crusty flaps of concave skin folds. The beast reeked of raw sewage and fetid flesh. Yummy.

It was frustrated that its food was backing away, so it thrashed its tail. The beast's one massive eye swiveled wildly, searching, its nocturnal vision only adept for discerning rapid motion.
As a final resort, it began to emit clicking noises, using sound waves to detect this difficult prey and its large dish-shaped ears rotated for the reflected vibrations. The boxes were wooden.
She could shoot through them. Lady smiled again—this time at the demon's own stupidity.

Pop, pop, pop.

So many rounds sent splinters flying. The warehouse grew polluted with dust, the building a new sanctuary for decay.

All the gunsmoke merged with the grime in the air and so, her lungs irritated, she had to let out a hoarse cough.

The lack of a similar few from behind the boxes indicated at least the rounds had found their home accurately, just like always.
Butchery of the wicked, a favorite pastime. The smog began to clear slowly as it's dirt returned to the surfaces below.

One step forward, then another; nothing but silence.

She'd done it, a little too easily it seemed. Applying care, Lady watched the motionless body sitting in the darkness.
It was imperative she not make any mistakes here, she despised mistakes. It only looked bereft of life, she'd make sure.

Growing closer, she moved in slowly, eventually making it just a few feet away.

It's eyes blinked open and it came lunging forward alive. An explosion of gunpowder created a flash in the dark.
She blew off it's the top of it's head without mercy. The thing fell back, hitting the wall, it's jaw still wired open.
Lady was ready to cash that contract.

It was what she had to do next that was getting on her nerves. Going back to Dante's office; Vergil's office.

There wasn't much point in denying it anymore, no one else was running from this. It's just something to accept.
Everyone had moved passed this it seemed, and yet she hadn't. The awkwardness of this gnawed at the tip of her skull.

She owed him that much at least. Sleeping with him and then walking away like that just felt cheap.
Cheap to her, cheap to him undoubtedly. This was pathetic, a bond between them was just wrong, yet it still existed.
She guessed there was enough understanding, enough common ground to warrant some kind of attachment.

Lady holstered her weapons and retrieved a knife. She hacked away at the beast's neck and viciously beheaded the slain creature, carrying the bloody appendage like a trophy.
She started walking away. There was a ringing in her ears all of a sudden. From nowhere at all, a kind of swelling, aggravating timbre reached her, growing to head-splitting proportions.
The decapitated head began to speak, a black tongue, something ancient, forgotten. She didn't know why, but there it was, yapping away . . .

Lady had seen darkness before, the kind that makes all that surrounds her feel like an old-fashioned photograph, everything a shade of faded grey or sepia. Not right.

This wasn't like that. This was darkness that robbed her of her best sense and replaced it with a paralysis.

Worry and fear.

"What's going on?" Asking the head as if it were still alive.

There wasn't any answer.

'A war going on no man is safe from . . .' She remembered Brad's words.

In this murky shade she stood, muscles cramped, unable to move. She only knew her eyes were still wide open because she could feel herself blink every once in a while.
Instincts are hard to kill. There was nothing to hear, no sound to reach her anymore. Had lunacy finally found her? There was a pounding obsession inside her chest; ah yes, her heartbeat.
It crushed all deceivers, never betrayed her at all, this loyal drummer continuing to play her beat on and on over the years. Lady felt assured she was still awake, none of it had been a dream.

So why had the light of the moon vanished? It'd left her like her mother had, snapped away in an instant. She was lost somewhere.

The woman guessed her strength of defiance would carry her through but that didn't erase the feeling her heart was just a rabbit in a snare.

She is the Huntress, she alone possesses the front-facing eyes, a brain enough to hunt, and yet she felt like prey now inside this desolate place.

A sense of swirling wind accompanied her senseless moment. She couldn't trust whether it was natural.
There was a wayward direction to it, moving steadily, pulsing almost. Where had her feeling of normalcy gone?

Why had it gone?

Lady took a moment to breathe as she pushed herself to move forward. She could do this.

She'd dealt with worse than this. The dawn was so many hours away, yet now it was pitch black. If only she could eliminate this thick grimy darkness.
Through the darkness she wandered, a severed head attached to her hip, tied with rope then clipped on by a metal contraption attached to her short's belt.
The air was a chore to wade through, almost like corrosive sludge. Come on, just a little bit further.

Minutes on end went by with no change, the same black engulfing her as she went. Then, it cleared.

Before her was an almost entirely separate location. Gone was the warehouse and its empty pathways.

The street was covered in a dusty powder, the same that now dotted her hair and clothes. Fractured homes lined the street like crumbling teeth, some falling down randomly as supports gave out.

'How' was the first question that came to mind. It was the same city as always but it looked like someone had run through it with an M4 Sherman tank.
It looked like a ghost town. Just the other day, it looked as though the city was in perfect health, barring a small massacre. People were afraid, cops were pretending not to be.
The most dramatic thing to happen here in so many years was the rising of the dark tower, Temen-Ni-Gru. Demons roamed the city and destroyed houses because of it.

Graffiti still showed red and blue through the dust, tags from people who fled north of the city with the dying rains, all childish rebellions long forgotten.

How this trauma aged them, aged her . . . she could be ninety inside these youthful twenty-something bones.

Minding how she went, the bounty hunter made sure to avoid any buildings, walking practically in the street, these abandoned, lonely streets.

After a quiet, ghost-like wander, she saw the neon sign of the shop. Her chest sank inside itself.

She stopped mid-walk in front of the steps, still finding it hard to move inside.
What was wrong with her? Clearly the problem had to be with her, since everyone else came to grips so soon.
Yes, she just had to be the weird one, never mind a friend of ten years just plopped out of existence one day.

Her train of consequences was cut short by Charlotte's necklace, the pendant beginning to glow once more. Steadily its light grew, encompassing her.

"What!?" She said aloud and allowed the necklace to lead her again . . . inside.

Lady slowly opened the front door, and to her surprise, no one was in sight. No sound of the young girl or Vergil. Everything was still.
She wondered why, was there some job that demanded his time? No, then Patty would still be here. Vergil wasn't someone she thought of as being 'social.'

Where are they? she whispered to herself, there had to be some reason. There's always a reason. Still, she walked forward and tried to locate the source of this light.
Lady saw the desk and felt the jewel vibrate. She looked toward her left, spotting the redhead woman she met some time age. Not sure now how long it's been.
It was so distant now, a fleeting moment back there in her mind. Daylight had followed her to bed, this sleeping woman was the night's symphony. She felt something burn in her chest.

The sight of this woman inside Dante- Vergil's office . . . it lit a fire inside her. No, it couldn't be.

Jealousy?

Thinking it to be this made her even more upset.

She knelt down to look at the woman.

"Hey," She prodded the woman's shoulder, trying to shake her awake, "Are ya alright?" She called out to her but didn't get an answer.

From the moment she touched her forehead a sense of warmth spread through her and surged toward the woman. The keepsake round her neck vibrated like crazy, calling out to the redhead.
Lucia's eyes wrenched open for just a moment but it didn't seem like she was awake. Her eyes were grey, like someone else was there, yet the knowing of who she was crept doubt to this theory.
A purely bizarre sight to behold, Lady didn't truly understand what she was staring at.

"Listen!" Lucia hurriedly spoke, "Find the man, tell him-"

Abruptly, the woman stopped speaking, her head falling again.

"Find who?" Lady shouted, shaking the woman "God damn it, wake up!"

She kept trying to understand the broken English, and her incomplete, puzzling last words as the frail being refused to wake again.
Just like that, the light vanished from the pendant, and it was as if the ginger woman had never stirred to begin with. Peculiar.

"God- Fuck!" Lady whispered to herself. She looked around, hoping to find something else but she just felt more or less even more useless.

The man . . . That probably meant Vergil, she supposed. Damn it.
So, she weighed her options. The woman was frantic, that's probably not a good thing.
If she was so inclined, she would just leave. She could leave. Leave.

God damn it.

She set the head down on the desk and walked out the front door.

"What kind of trouble have you got into this time?" She wondered.

. . . Through the midnight air, it was written that the man in red would creep death upon those who crossed him, but this one was different . . .

The wind soared through the trees, spreading dead leaves all around them. It was almost like autumn. Brilliant red and yellow leaves fell all around.
The hues were so vibrant, almost like they'd been freshly painted. It was odd, it hadn't been this way a short time ago. Still, the leaves scattered around.

Vergil stood tall against this uncertain omen, looking around stoic.

His fellow demons felt the same, the sudden change of temperature grinding their collective gears, all breaths made visible.

Charging footsteps rung out in the dark.

Whoever was coming up the dirt-path had to either be very, very large and heavily armed, or a wretched idiot that considered themself untouchable.
As they slunk in the shadows, footsteps soft . . . barely audible in fact, this stranger was allowing their movements to echo without care, like some kind of merry announcement.
Arrivals aren't meant to be heard across a several-hundred-meter radius. The trio sensed a grim greeting trudging towards and none were pleased. Talking was a fools errand.
Pride governed their very action, all the minute details of the ways they chose to speak. They walked the darkness carefully, waiting for the being to show itself.

Who walks so fearlessly of them?

Within seconds, a plume of ink rose twenty meters high, far larger than any of them. It was fluid, swirling grimy evil around until it formed a giant humanoid.
It was a demon with shoulder-length hair and a large spear in its hand, looking like a creature straight from old norse. A jotnar, a giant man of old . . .

Humongous arms hung low, the figure hunched down. Its flesh materialized as sallow stone, a great beard not unlike a viking's adorned the face.

"That's-"Modeus whispered.

"Balar." Manah grumbled, very much aware of the goliath, "Well that's just perfect."

"I've heard of him," Vergil said, thinking about the name, "but only in passing."

"Oh, well that's so helpful, you've heard of him." Manah laid out a thick sarcastic tone, "I guess it's up to the adults to figure this out then."

Vergil's nostrils flared out as his breathing became hoarse. His fists tightened, but he restrained his killer instincts.
The cloven beast likewise straightened up, the trio standing in a line, the taller Manah on Vergil's right. Modeus stood left.

"No, this is- We can't fight him." Modeus said, his hands wavering.

"Don't be negative," Vergil said, his teeth clenched.

"Boy, there's no fighting this. This isn't some monster you can cut down, this is a beast who could tear your soul apart." Manah said to him.

"Shut it, billygoat." Vergil replied, "I've fought the likes of Mundus and survived."

"Yes, but you lost . . . badly." Manah reminded him, "You ended up his servant. You won't get that kindness from Balar."

Vergil's dreadful eyes glared at his horned ally, "Servitude was far worse than death, a torture you know nothing of."

The demon stood plainly, his look is emotionless. He had nothing to say in response, Vergil was entirely correct.
He knew nothing of slavery, he had always been strong, his own master. The simple fact was the eldest son of the infamous Sparda knew a life of pain, true pain.

The grounds shook with the giant's first step.

Vergil looked at Modeus and saw pure fear, a look of madness from the revelation, "Wh-why . . . ? Why is he here?" The man whispered to himself.

Stories were told about this, a fight with a being like Balar was like committing suicide.
Balar's eye could freeze anything it looked upon, like a Gorgon's petrifying stare, though it turned victims to ice instead of stone.
It was a perfect killing machine, bred for destruction, though when it had been created was long since forgotten.

It was serious now, the city might truly crumble under the weight of its gaze in a hot minute.

Modeus grabbed Vergil's shoulder but the younger man gruffly pulled away, leaving the elder of the three to back away slowly. If they could just avoid it . . . A necessary evil.
Hope disintegrated when the Jotunn turned its gaze right at them . . . A wave of frost came over them, a feeling of paralysis setting in so harshly, like the very nerves had been frozen.
Vergil returned the gaze with one of rage, a fire burning brightly in defiance of the northern winds set upon them.

Manah seemed to accept their fate while Modeus tensed still trying desperately to walk backwards.

Amazingly, the three weren't frozen solid. Somehow, the dark slayers flames of rage themselves willed into existence a counter-effect.
A frost giant's power was strong, yet Vergil's own ability was so very great on it's own, keeping them from freezing.

Now it was the time Manah chose to accept the confrontation. The devil broke from formation, leaping out of the beast's gaze through the trees. In mere minutes, he had reached the giant.

A clawed fist powered through the Jotunn's cheek, marking a gash as its frost-born sight was torn off-target.

Landing atop another tree branch, Manah looked back at his large foe.

"Hello again, old friend." Manah leapt out from the tree in order to close the distance, "So what brings you to this part of the world!?"

"I-. . . Do not speak with you." Balar responded, almost childlike.

Manah mocked the beast's poor intelligence, "Oh come now."

"You hurt Balar last time!" It screamed vengeance as it rocketed forth a right-handed swipe. Giant knuckles knocked Manah almost into the stratosphere.
The creature then pointed his giant finger at Vergil and knelt to one knee, bowing to him. Vergil's eyes widened, was this a joke?
He stood silent wondering what this creature wanted. The giant man of stone looked almost historic, as if writ unto tapestry as a painting.

"I answered the call." The demon's heavy voice dragged the syllables, vibrating through the very trees themselves, "I shall lend you my strength."

The slayer felt trance-like, as if struck by lightning. The pledge troubled him, though only for a moment before it vanished.
As soon as it had appeared, the giant left, disappearing. It left behind a frigid feeling, the cold remnants of its terrible breath still lingered.

The horned demon crawled to his feet lifting the snapped tree trunk off himself as he'd crashed through it from the giant's fist.

"What the hell just happened!" Manah yelled, spitting out bits of bark, "What's going on, how do you know him? That lug nugget wouldn't help a flea, much less the last son of Sparda."

Vergil looked at the devil, further confused, "I haven't a clue, but how do you know him?"

The demon paused slightly, "I- uh . . . It doesn't matter."

Modeus stepped in, "That's a discussion for later, perhaps he knew Sparda. It's possible, I don't know everything he did to put an end to the war, so he might-"

"Do you know anything?" Vergil taunted the man in black.

Then again, perhaps it was true, not much is still known about Sparda, historically speaking . . . he was just a legend as far as most living people were concerned.
Still, to keep so much hidden . . . even from his students. Something wasn't right about it, how would Sparda have made friends with something like Balar?

Manah rolled his eyes, stretching out his back with an audible crunch, "Listen to me there boy, I'm not going further. This is your path alone from here."

"Excuse you?" Vergil said, summoning Yamato from a void.

"That little girl is not my problem," Manah smirked.

Fire engulfed the mad hunter's eyes, he plunged the unsheathed blade through the beast's heart.
It was in no danger of killing Manah but it hurt like nothing else could.
The beast wrapped its clawed hands around Vergil's fists and forcibly pushed out but the blade lodged itself.

"Gergh! Okay, maybe I overreacted." The beast replied through bloodied teeth, noting the slayer's strength.

"What are you doing!? Vergil, stop!" Modeus screamed.

The man in red darted his head towards Modeus, looking not at all himself. Then, the clarity in his eyes returned, and Vergil realized what he was doing.
Shifting the heel of his left foot, he shoved Manah forward off his blade, the beast collapsing onto his back. He swallowed his blood and turned back to his partner.

"Aheh, perhaps it's best I take my leave after all. We'll talk once you've cooled down." He said, carrying on as if the impalement had never taken place.

He hopped to his feet, grew back the wings of his other form, and fled off into the night sky.

There wasn't any time to waste, Vergil left. He pushed forward, leaving Modeus in the dust.
It took some time to catch up but the man's hesitant aid managed to keep pace.
The path returned back to the street, on the opposite side of the park that faced the cathedral Vergil had desecrated.

. . . Just a short walk now but they'd be there.

Vergil felt his own heart beat faster, far too quick for his comfort. His mind roiled back and forth with ugly scenarios of what could've happened to the child.
After a moment of silence, he could see the sight of the necropolis. All the damned souls that resided here, screaming . . . he could almost hear them.

He remembered the words he'd screamed at Trish as he took another glance back, seeing the beat up remains of the church.

"I wonder what happened in there . . ." Modeus pondered aloud. He saw Vergil's face and knew, "Oh."

Vergil stopped for a moment, the memory was one he couldn't quite handle yet.

He felt Modeus's hand grasp his arm, "Your father used to say: 'memories aren't what's hurting me, it's the sense of loneliness that comes from holding on to them.'
I hope you can see that there's no shame in embracing in your past. Perhaps when the time comes, you can share with me what happened."

"No." Vergil grumbled.

"Fair enough." Modeus replied, maintaining the same key.

"It's a weakness to dwell on memories, I try never to think on them." Vergil lectured.

"-No, no it is not." Modeus cut him off, "You know what's a weakness? Never reflecting on your past mistakes, hiding your insecurities with arrogance that can easily be challenged."

The slayer felt outraged, "What?"

". . . I believe you heard me." The man spoke, his face solemn.

Vergil's right eyebrow twitched upward, and he avoided looking at the man. Arguing on this was a great way to stoke his anger.
He need not know how his own principles and beliefs stand against someone else's, they were his and his alone.
Not that they were special in any way, they meant a great deal to Vergil because of his life, growing up separate from his family.
Those principals held for him the lessons of survival.

"I've no time for this," Vergil muttered and charged to the cemetery gates.

It was a grand looking place, a fine collection of mausoleums and expertly engraved headstones.

The gargoyles clung to the shadows. Crouched high on the gate columns, scattered across the mossy flat plains. Crumbling and festooned with lichen, they were crafted to be grotesque.
Eyes bulging, over-sized ears unnaturally pointed, and the grins evoking notions of sadistic pleasure, they looked like immortalized devils all their own.
Hunched, disfigured and leering downward toward the parishioners, they were as cold as the otherworldly beings they represented, built into these walls.
The courtyard itself belied the cathedrals beautiful walls, multicolored stain-glass windows depicting the birth of Christ and his crucifixion. Life, death; all leading here.

Vergil looked to the skies, looked to the half-light of the moon. He couldn't help the chill that crept down his spine.

Grey clouds filled the air, a light drizzle began.

"So, this is it." He said, breaking the silence, "I can sense him, he's here."

Vergil was the first to move. In a blur, he raced around the cathedral, "Where are you!?" He shouted.

No, he didn't want it to be a surprise, he wanted this to a duel to the death.

Baul would pay with blood.

Rows of tombstones remained erect in silence to the left and right, in front and behind, like a sea of the dead.
Some crumbled with the weathering of centuries, some were smooth marble, with new black writing, and laid recently with floral tributes.
The crypts were overgrown and unkempt, for now. Even their mourners had joined them under the clay soil.

Upon the hill, a new grave had been dug to await it's new occupant.

His eyes narrowed on it, resting by an oak tree.

"Do you hear me?" Vergil called out again, controlled, "Do you hear me, false prophet!?"

A vast blanket of mist settled, hanging heavy over the silence. It suffocated every building and every tree at their base, swallowing every distant object and vanishing around every corner.
It crept around the Lincoln Cathedral, its silent footsteps tiptoeing around each gravestone in the churchyard, passing by a number of headstones.
Ultimately, the fog came to rest at the foot of the fresh grave, a wound to the earth's crisp soil. As above, so below . . . the witch's creed. Vergil knew not why he thought of it now.

"Dante." He heard a familiar voice whisper.

Right near the left path of the cathedral, he saw through the dense haze a small figure that had been chained up.

The cuffs colored red, her flesh was bound tightly, showing ever so slowly.

"Kathy!" He yelled.

"Oh god . . . It's Patty! P-a-t-t-y, Patty!" She cried, so intensely frustrated, moaning, "Just help me, Dante! Please help me!"

Tears streamed down her cheeks, her whole face red. Her shouts were at the very top of her lungs. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"I'm here!" He said bolting toward her.

He knew it was a trap, he wasn't born yesterday. Something pushed him back before he could touch her. A rush of blue flames engulfed him as he raised his arms.
The arcane cleared and revealed the man in red still stood almost entirely untouched. He lowered his arms slowly, holding his defense as he surveyed what greeted him.

Baul stood, smirking. He'd put one his swords to her throat and her scream turned into a gurgle.

"No!" Vergil roared.

The blood gushed in a constant flow, spurting out in time with the beating of her heart. At first, it came thick and strong, flowing through her fingers as they clasped the cut flesh.
He could feel the blood move out of her, the fluid washing over her sweet little hands. It was no warmer than her own skin. Her mind drifted elsewhere, her thoughts fading out.
After a few moments more, the blood still trickled out her rapidly paling skin, but the pulses were slower, weaker.

The little girl had fallen to the ground, sitting there, lying still in a pool of blood filling slowly beneath her.

Vergil's knees threatened to buckle under him, he raced forward, the white demon stepping away as the child became his primary concern.
He tried to get there before she hit the ground. He didn't. She lay there, near lifeless as he held onto Patty by her shoulders, gently caressing her face.

Those eyes . . . cold and empty. He felt a tear roll down his cheek.

Somehow, the universe had destined him to cry once more. He could feel it unraveling within him, the threads of every happy memory he could ever recall.
Only disarray lay scattered at his feet. His sharp knees dug into the earth as he remained there. He opened his mouth, but not a sound left, his head violently quivering.
It was as if there was a drill at the back of his skull. His eyes saw nothing; they'd lost all sight of what is and what should have been.

His mouth hung open, an eternally silenced scream escaping, salty tears dripping out from behind blues eyes to the soil, stained with the memory of this little girl he cared so much for.

How many hours had he spent so lonely? How many times had he expressed love as vengeance? He knew it was a trap, and yet Baul did the one thing he hadn't expected.

He killed his own bargaining chip. Why? It was a senseless thing.

Baul stood in the unmoving silence of the churchyard, his only comfort that of the white coat that hugged his shoulders and grabbed at his trouser legs.

"I vowed to stand by and help . . . I gave my word to Sparda. Yet that wasn't good enough." Baul said, sounding almost tired, "I wonder what he thought of you . . . he was probably just as disappointed."

There was a sonic rush through the air as Modeus arrived, witnessing the elder twin crouched on the ground to cradle a small body . . . Patty's body.

Oh god.

No!

"You- You have to destroy everything! You kill all that you touch. You can't stand to see anyone happy!" Modeus shouted, clenching his teeth as he screamed, "You little bastard!"

Baul appeared not to care, he stood there with his blood-soaked blade looking pleased with his work.

"On the contrary, I don't object at all to happiness, but I do object to watching my brother make a ridiculous display of himself. You know as well as I do what must be done, yet still you ignore it."

Modeus took a step back, his eyes appearing to well up as he realized Baul truly was capable of killing children.

"You had no right to take her away. You had no right!" He screamed.

"Well!" Baul shouted, clenching his fists around both his blades, "If you won't do anything about it, I will!"

Vergil stood on the brink of something he couldn't describe. The weight of everything seemed to press down on his shoulders and he struggled to take even a single step forward.
It was too much. All of it. The life of that poor little girl. He tried to wake up, think to himself that all of this wasn't real, it was some kind of illusion. But his body wouldn't let him.
One moment rung in his mind, the moment she said to him that 'those people did not have to die!'

Why was he thinking of that one sentence right now?

And somehow, he kept moving. And yet, every step cost him.

Vergil looked down at his hand, and there was nothing . . . Patty's body was nowhere to be seen. It took him a moment to recover slightly some of his sanity.

"How . . . weak." Baul shook his head.

Modeus stared back and realized the body was gone somehow. To his horror, the man realized it was just Baul's magic, a mind game meant to torture.
Baul hadn't killed her at all, not here at least. He saw now that Baul had no idea what he had done either, what a horrid fool to spurn the wrath of Sparda's legacy.

Out from the darkness and out from the parting mist came the mad hunter, his eyes burning crimson rays more toxic than the sun.

His footsteps were so heavy, the ground almost shook with each one.

"My skin is cold . . . " Vergil stalked forward, growling like a loose wolf, "No more head-trips. You and me . . . alone."

Blackening power poured out from his core. His knuckles cracked themselves, snapping so loud they killed the silence. The look in his eyes . . . it was just like that night he fought Trish.
Modeus took care not to stay in his way, having summoned his maroon broadsword. The man knew he couldn't sway the slayer, blackened was the end. He'd terminated Baul's worth.
The man in black looked at his brother, the white devil.

"I tried." Modeus said to his brother, "I really tried."

He stepped away fully, leaving the two to their devices.

"Respect my choice," Baul replied, "I have an obligation to this."

With that, he turned his attention to the slayer.

They stood opposite each other, Vergil unarmed, Baul wielding dual brands. Water droplets pecked the tops of their heads.

The ground had slowly soaked beneath the light rain, growing more and more damp with time.

Both sides remained unmoving. If hatred was visible the air would have been pure scarlet. Then suddenly, both fighters shifted through space, blasting toward one another.
Baul's blades clashed against an unexpected sight, the Force Edge. So much force in every blow, they traded rapid fire slashes, their demonic weaponry clanging violently into one another.
Unbridled fury met controlled resentment. Baul brought the left blade at Vergil's side, though the Cambion countered with Ifrit, summoning the gauntlet to act as a shield.
The impact repelled Baul's arm as Vergil seized the opportunity, slicing force edge down across the inside of Baul's forearm. The demon's eyes blared, bloodshot.

He rained blows on the slayer as if he meant to smash him into the very dirt, managing to get a cut on Vergil's cheek.

Sliding forward on his right foot, Vergil punched forward with his left hand, bringing forward the summoned gauntlet from earlier.
He smashed his knuckles against the flat of blade and compressed the force in on Baul's grip, hoping to break it. The man in white held strong.

Each didn't just want the other dead, they wanted the other smashed, obliterated; nothing left to bury.

"They'll never find your body," Vergil coldly informed him, devoid of emotion.

Baul smirked as he pushed back, "Aren't you the attached one."

The demon shoved his other sword, locked against force edge, back towards the slayer, forcing the man back off his feet. Vergil quickly rebounded, bring his sword forward.

Bringing his right hand over in an arc, Baul continued the circular wave, parrying the stab off to the side and leaving the hybrid open on his mid.
He brought his blade forward without mercy, piercing Vergil's flesh. Baul drove the blade so far despite it being just a single stab.

Vergil cocked his head to side, looking down at the wound then back up at Baul.

"You're supposed to be a demon? How pathetic." Vergil said.

"She kept crying, you know, calling your name while the light left her innocent eyes ever so slowly." Baul began taunting him.

He grunted as the force edge cut into his tricep. Looking up at his opponent, the white devil saw a flaming cestus reach his face.
Vergil swung without mercy, hitting his enemy so hard it knock out some of his jagged teeth, forcibly breaking this macabre struggle.

Baul spat out blood as his fangs quickly replaced themselves, like shark's teeth, "Child's play."

He leapt forward, zooming across the battlefield with a frenzied series of one-two slashes, following one blade with the other. Vergil reversed his grip and tucked his father's blade behind him.
Power quickly rose to the surface of the metal, crackling electricity along the edges as he bided his time. He bent his knees and held his left-gauntlet fist in front of him for defense.

Yelling, the white devil had almost reached him when the slayer released the force edge forward, bringing the reversed brand up as the energy released forward.

It struck Baul diagonally across his chest, forcing him back off his feet some fifty feet across graveyard. The drive worked, it's crimson slash careening out into the mist.
The demon his the side an old tomb, the corner of it crumbling as he ricocheted off it. He slid across the wet ground, muddying his white clothes . . . Unacceptable.

Hiding back as the mists closed, he disappeared.

Vergil stood calmly, patiently awaiting his foes next move. He heard the sound of sticks crunching under careless feet.

So, he was southwest of him.

Opening his eyes, he turned with a strike, slashing the blade crosswise towards his eager foe. Baul's blades crashed against the force edge.
Vergil ground in his heels as the metals quickly heated. Baul sneered in his face, their powers matched evenly. Vergil felt pain burst through his leg.

The white devil kicked his heel into the inside of Vergil's thigh.

Shifting his blades, Baul forced Vergil's sword to the side with the left, quickly slashing upward into the slayer's chest with his right-handed weapon.
Blood trailed the steel as he flew backwards, toppling above the hill and landing into the open grave perfectly. Thick spears punctured his body, booby-trapped inside.
Grasping the spike sticking out of his spleen, the hybrid spat up blood, the copper liquid trailing back down his cheeks.

"You keep me waiting for this? What a pathetic show." Baul shouted above him, "Get up you weakling."

Raging, chaotic flames funneled blasted upwards, burning Baul's face. He'd forgotten about Ifrit. His back hit a headstone, crumpling against the rigged shape.

The grave crumpled against him after a moment, his body collapsing uselessly there as Vergil emerged from the pit.

He felt like his heart had been cleaved from the body. The arteries, now drained of their lifeblood, stuck out like rubber hoses.
Quickly, the feeling subsided, replaced by a scorching emotion. His vendetta wasn't done yet, the devil had to suffer more.

"Color me impressed." Baul said, wiping soot from his eyelids as he kicked up to his feet, circling the right blade, "What a pity that fiery temper'll be extinguished."

The veins in Vergil's face grew thick and purple as his eyes turned blood red.

"You shall die." The slayer hissed at him, his muscles expanding, his skin contorting further until finally, he had become the Majin once more.

To Be Continued

Thank you for reading everybody, I hope this was worth it. What do you guys think so far?

I wonder where are you Meech Mako, and the others. I miss you guys.

To guest: I know dear, the number of views I get is enough to tell me there are many readers, but it still was surprising.

Out of nowhere, five people dropped the story, It kinda made me question did I do something wrong? did the quality drop?

But I'm fine. Oh well, it happens.

Thank you so much :) I hooked you in, that's nice to know.

See you in the next update.

...

Sorry for the long wait, so many things happened and are still happening. Glad it's all come together this way though.
This chapter was influenced by '10s' by Pantera. I channeled rage and writers block at this, it seemed to kind of work, I hope everyone likes it.
Been reading a lot of Plato recently, but whether that actually has anything to do with the quality of writing, I don't know.