darkness, cold, and despair — these were the only words that came close to describing what was happening now. the air around you felt thick and unwelcoming, as if the world itself had stopped to watch the brutal climax unfolding before your eyes. you couldn't tear yourself away, not even when you wanted to.

the fight between Dante and Vergil was more than a duel — it felt like a force of nature, raw and unrelenting. swords clashed in a terrible rhythm, echoing through the cliffside. the brothers moved with breathless fury, neither yielding an inch, neither showing hesitation. every strike held years of pain, unspoken resentment, and shattered memories. this wasn't just about power or duty; this was about kinship drowned in blood.

you stood at a distance on the cliff, your heart thundering in your chest. to witness two siblings locked in such a violent, deliberate attempt to destroy each other—there was something deeply wrong in it. it gnawed at your spirit. it was uncomfortable to watch, but more than that—it was heartbreaking. yet, despite your churning thoughts and the instinct screaming that this should not be happening, you didn’t move. you couldn’t interfere.

you weren't a warrior. you weren’t part of this ancient, cursed legacy. you were just… there. watching.

hoping.

hoping that maybe the better sides of them would prevail. hoping that one of them might remember the warmth of childhood, or of home. that in the storm of rage, one might reach out — not with a blade — but with a hand.

but those hopes faded as the fight waned, the final battle drawing to its inevitable conclusion. their blades locked one last time, their exhausted bodies pushing against each other as if trying to erase the other's existence. then silence. just a long exhale from Dante... and the look of resignation on Vergil’s face.

they were standing on the edge now. literally.

it happened so fast, yet with such grim certainty that it almost felt scripted. Vergil had his back to the abyss — a shattered cliff overlooking a monstrous tear in reality below. the swirling hole into the underworld cracked with unearthly red-blue light, whispering things no man should hear, calling to something ancient. you could see it — how his legs tensed, shifting backward — not from fear, but from intent.

he was going to jump.

every muscle in your body froze. hadn’t they done enough? spill enough blood? why now — why this?

for the record, you weren’t truly familiar with Vergil. you’d only heard fragments — hushed stories, rumors, secondhand truth wrapped in myth. cold, ruthless, power-hungry: that was the image painted by others. but now, watching him make his final decision in a moment so quiet, so deliberate — it didn’t feel like watching a villain. it felt like watching someone broken finally give in.

to willingly dive into the hellmouth he’d spent so long trying to reach… that was not a man chasing power. that was someone surrendering to fate.

and yet...

and yet you didn’t want to let it happen.

your feet moved — slowly at first, then picking up speed. each step forward fought against a knotted stomach and a thousand doubts. you weren’t even thinking anymore. you wouldn’t be able to stop him, not truly. you couldn’t reach that far in time. but you had to try. not because you knew him. not even because you thought it would make a difference.

but because no one should fall alone.

not even him.