Chapter 3: Artificium Chaos
Sparda, the Dark Knight of legend, walked out of the cold night air through the front door of his home. Quietly, he closed the door behind him, hung his duster on the coat rack, and let go a deep sigh. He set his pistols upon the table, but his hand lingered on them- they had always been there in the past, an instrument of divine justice with his sword and his might, never afraid to strike down evil. Yet, here they were now, like Sparda, useless, without purpose. It was a thought that gave him no respite. He had let them go free.
He hung his head in shame, and quietly made his way to the bedroom. The once-great Sparda, reduced to this. If it had been like old times, he told himself, he would've struck them down without a second thought... but now, now he had responsibilities. He had Eva to care for, and his sons to look after. Little Vergil and Dante, his pride and joy. If anything happened to them, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. Sparda wanted them to have a carefree life, not to concern themselves with his troubles.
As he lay down in his bed, Sparda looked at Eva sleeping there, so unperturbed, so peaceful. It occurred to him that if he let the Four do what they intended to, that look may never adorn her beautiful face again. There may never again be another moment of peace. But what choice did he have? If he let them run free, his family would be spared; he had might enough to protect them, certainly. The world would suffer, though- the world he had worked so hard to save before. Would he, could he be willing to sacrifice the lives of so many for so few?
He turned over in his bed, restlessly. It was a no-win situation. If he tried to undo his mistake, his family would suffer. The world would be saved, but all he held dear would be taken from him. The choice had been so much simpler before, when he didn't have these cares. Sparda looked over at his beloved wife again; she brought him so much joy, but it was because of her, and because of his weakness, that he was unable to stop this tragedy from taking place.
Sparda lay there for what felt like hours, turning the thoughts over in his head, considering and reconsidering. It seemed like an impossible decision.
At long last, he heaved another deep sigh, and arose from the bed. He had reached a decision. He knew what had to be done. He leaned over, gently kissing Eva on the cheek. Before he left, Sparda whispered to her just two words, spoken from the depths of his heart:
"I'm sorry."
And with that, the Dark Knight left. With guns in hand, monocle glinting in the pale moonlight, and coat rustling in the breeze, he charged into the night, bent upon the trail of Bael and the others. He would find them.
He would stop them.
They would know the wrath of the devil himself, no matter what the cost.