Chapter One: Echoes of Peace
The neon glow of Red Grave City shimmered in the rain, lights dancing off the soaked pavement like memories struggling to stay alive. A fragile calm had settled over the city—two years since the last great war between demons and mankind. Two years since the legendary battle against Urizen, since the world teetered on the edge of annihilation and came back scarred, but breathing.
In the heart of the city, tucked between old streets and new concrete, the Devil May Cry sign still flickered. The once-lively shop now belonged to three who had earned their place in legend—Lady, Trish, and Nero. Dante had passed the torch without a word of farewell, as if closing one chapter of a book too heavy to carry any longer.
Lady sat behind the desk, boots on the counter, flipping through an old weapons catalog with one hand, sipping scotch with the other. Trish leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes on the door like a sentinel bored of waiting. Nero paced near the window, his mechanical arm humming softly—a reminder of every war, every loss.
They weren't just co-workers. They were what was left of something bigger.
"Still nothing from Dante?" Nero asked without turning his gaze from the street.
Lady exhaled through her nose. "Two years. He's probably somewhere warm and miserable, pretending he hates being retired."
Trish didn't speak. She just watched, silent as a statue carved from thunderclouds.
But far beyond the city, beneath soil older than sin, something stirred.
⸻
In a decaying chapel buried beneath centuries of forgotten wars, a ritual began.
Candles flickered with unnatural flame—blue and cold, not of this world. Dozens of robed figures chanted in broken tongues, surrounding a statue of a man with wings like daggers and a sword driven into the earth. Their leader, a tall figure draped in priest-like robes, stepped forward. His face was kind. Human. But that was the lie.
He was no man.
Beneath the skin, his blood burned with the ancient fire of Hell. The essence of Mundus pulsed through his veins like a curse unending. His name had long been erased from time, but what remained of him was vengeance.
He unsheathed his weapon—a massive blade humming with the power to tear through the very laws of reality. It was not Sparda. It was not Yamato. It was something else.
Yamarda.
Born of hellfire and forged in hatred, the sword could do what others could not—open the gates of the demon world with just a drop of Mundus's blood and the blood of a virgin soul.
Tonight, both would be offered.
The cult had waited long enough. The era of mankind had gone unchallenged. Now, the Sons of Sparda would face a war they could not win.
⸻
Meanwhile, in the deepest recesses of Hell, Dante and Vergil fought side by side.
The rift that opened years ago had pulled them into the underworld during their final battle with Urizen. But they hadn't stopped fighting. Not against each other, not against the endless tides of demons. They fought for each other. For redemption. For peace.
The two sons of Sparda, once torn by blood and pride, had found something resembling brotherhood in this place.
But peace never lasts.
A tremor shook the landscape. Not from the clash of blades or the roar of a beast—but something older. Something that made the stones of Hell itself weep. A rift opened in the sky, not like the others. This one was… wrong. It pulsed with a sinister heartbeat.
Vergil narrowed his eyes.
"Something's not right."
Dante grinned, sweat and blood on his face. "You say that like anything ever is."
They stepped forward, blades in hand—Sparda and Yamato glowing like stars in the dark.
And they leapt through the rift.
⸻
On the other side, the city burned.
Cultists flooded the streets like a virus, their human forms breaking apart to reveal grotesque demonic bodies. Civilians screamed. Buildings collapsed. The invasion had begun.
At Devil May Cry, the alarm had already been triggered. Lady locked and loaded, Trish summoned her lightning, and Nero's eyes glowed with fury.
But the moment they opened the door, they felt it.
He was here.
The Demon.
Mundus's right hand. Cloaked in the guise of a man. Leader of the cult. Wielder of Yamarda.
And he was coming for all of them.