AN: Hurrah! I finally got Sir Blackmoon to write once again. Now, a warning, not that I think anyone will need it. Things get downright grisly in this chapter, so just be ready for some gore.

Chapter 7: Ulcisci Daemoniae

Sparda had run tirelessly across the hills, through the moonlit wood, hunting his foes on their path to the Temen-Ni-Gru. They had grown careless, thinking they had forced Sparda into submission, and had thought themselves safe enough to stop and rest along their path. Each respite they took allowed the Dark Knight to gain ground and close the distance between them, and he relished the thought of soaking his hands in the blood of the wicked once more.

As he cleared the next hill, Sparda saw before him a valley. A town normally sat peacefully there, Sparda remembered- he had been there once before, exterminating a sudden outbreak of possessed mannequins- but now, the hamlet was in flames, casting a hellish glow upon the night sky. In the distance, on the other side of the valley, Sparda could barely make out the illuminated shapes of three figures heading to the Temen-Ni-Gru. "That means," he growled to himself, "one stayed behind..."

-- -- -- -- --

Embers danced through the air as flames licked at Sparda's ebon armor. Striding through the conflagration, wrath in his eyes, he looked like the true picture of a devil, the stuff of nightmares. His own burning aura, his released demonic power in his Devil Trigger form, seemed to mingle with the rising fire in the village, making him look like a demon of flame and darkness. He looked like he had come from Hell itself.

In the town square, though, there stood a devil of true evil. The black robe he wore seemed to have a life of its own as it whipped and twisted in the wind. He cackled maniacally, and was lashing out with his twin blades at any human unlucky enough to run by in their mad rush to escape their fate. Yeter'El's job was to frighten the mortals into submission, and to say the least, he was enthusiastic about his job.

Demon of Fear though he was, his actions were not enough to frighten off a warrior such as Sparda. Over the din of the chaos, the screams of the townspeople, and even the maddened laughter of Yeter'El- or, perhaps, in spite of them- Sparda tread through the streets, the steel of his boots cracking the pavement with his every step. "Monster!" he roared; even the panicked survivors stopped to see the source of the outburst, and upon seeing dire Sparda, they redoubled their efforts to escape. Yeter'El turned to face Sparda, his black hair falling over his sunken eyes. The demon's face broke into a wide grin, and he laughed with a deranged joy. "Sparda! It seems you've broken the pact... I'm afraid I--"

"Silence, wretch. This city will be your grave. I'm going to make sure of that right now."

Yeter'El's grin disappeared for an instant, but returned as swiftly as it had gone. He began to say something when a gunshot rang out through the air.

"That was a warning shot, demon," said Sparda, the pistol Luce gripped tightly in his clenched right hand. "I am doing the talking now. I should tell you, I do not have my sword, but do not think this means you will be spared- no, it merely means I intend to crush your skull against the pavement with my bare hands. Surrender now or prolong your suffering."

The devil's ever-present smirk had faded completely now, in the face of so grim a threat. He was sadistic, yes, even deranged, but even Yeter'El knew when a situation was to be taken seriously. He did not utter a sound as he marched toward Sparda, the swords in his hands gleaming in the light of the fires. "So be it," grunted the Dark Knight; he holstered his pistol and mimicked the silent march toward his foe. He did not have his mighty sword, this was true, but even against an armed opponent, there was no doubt in his mind about the outcome of this fight. Sparda had proven himself time and again to be a formidable warrior, capable of battling on even terms with the Demon World's strongest combatants.

Yeter'El made the first move, crouching down and leaping at Sparda with catlike speed. He swung his swords with expert precision, but Sparda simply braced himself and deflected each blow with nothing but his gauntlets. The show of defensive skill took Yeter'El by surprise, and in the moment he dropped his guard, Sparda seized and restrained the Fearful One's hands with only his left arm.

"No," Sparda barked. "you're not good enough to beat me like that."

His opponent opened his mouth to voice a protest at the insult, but was cut short with a punch to the face. Then another, and another. With his hands, and thus, his only efficient means of attack, shackled by the iron grip of the Dark Knight Sparda, Yeter'El was helpless to prevent the savage hail of blows being rained upon him. The fires of rage burned within Sparda's eyes, his aura seeming to engulf the two enemies in flames, as he continued his beastly assault, bone crunching under his knuckles with every strike.

After a time, Sparda ceased the attack, and grabbed Yeter'El by the throat, blood running down his fingers. He removed the bright blades from Yeter'El's helpless hands and threw them to the ground with a clatter, and then followed suit with their owner. The defeated devil looked up at Sparda piteously, his eyes begging for mercy. "Worry not," said Sparda, "I shall grant you your release. Die, fell creature."

Soon thereafter, if one had looked towards the outskirts of the ruined town, one would have seen a figure in black armor with an aura of flame, walking resolutely from the carnage, a streak of blood trailing from his boot across the ground...