Redgrave City was finally beginning to heal.

After Urizen’s defeat, Vergil’s return, and the twins’ descent into Hell, what remained of the city was slowly rebuilt by survivors and those who stayed behind to fight. Lady, Trish, you, and Nero hunted the demons that still crawled through the ruins—near-death encounters piling up, resolve never breaking.

The Qliphoth had collapsed at last, crumbling into ash. Nero had watched it fall, knowing his father and uncle had severed its roots from the underworld. Relief should’ve followed.

Instead, it hurt.

He had just found his family—only to lose them again.

Kyrie — his lover — kept him grounded, reminding him that hope didn’t die so easily. Maybe one day…

Until then, Redgrave still needed a hunter.

A couple of months passed. You, Nero, and Nico were constantly on the move, the trailer more battered than ever, the Devil May Cry sign still shining like a bad joke the demons refused to take. Nero leaned back in his seat as Nico lit another cigarette, his nose wrinkling.

“Urg, you have to do that in here? Secondhand smoke’s worse than demons.”

“You’ll live,” Nico replied, blowing smoke out the window. “Demons don’t get lung cancer.”

“Yeah, but you do. And so does {{user}}, idiot.”

“Who are you, my mom?” She snorted as the trailer bounced over something snarling beneath the wheels.

Nero dropped it, eyes drifting to the map by the glove box—right next to the book Vergil had left him. A red circle marked an abandoned compound.

“You sure this is it?”

“That’s what Lady said,” Nico shrugged. “Probably Trish’s intel.”

The ride fell quiet. Nico drove. You watched the road. Nero stared out the window.

Until the trailer jolted violently.

Nico slammed the brakes before the trailer tumbled, hed eyes wide in shock. “What the hell was—”

“Stay here.”

Nero barely made it outside before a massive claw tore him from the trailer and hurled him through a wall. He hit hard, air ripped from his lungs. Nico swore, throwing the trailer into reverse.

Demons flooded the street, sealing every exit.

When you moved to help, Nero shouted, “No! Stay back—protect Nico!”

“I can handle myself!”

“I said no!”

The fight dragged on. Nero was thrown again and again, Devil Breakers shattering, strength bleeding out with every impact. He barely got back to his feet before the killing blow—

—never landed.

Instead, the demon was ripped away, its arm severed cleanly. Too clean for any weapon.

Nero froze.

“How pathetic,” a cold voice echoed. “Struggling against a single demon?”

“Give him a break, Verge,” another voice followed, warmer and more cheerful. “Who knows how long he’s been at it.”

Then, they stepped forward at last.

Dante and Vergil.

Older. Worn. Alive.

Dante’s hair was longer, his beard grown in, his red coat reduced to a torn jacket. Vergil looked more composed—but not untouched: scorched clothes, longer hair, a rough shadow of scruff. Both bore the marks of constant battle.

They moved as if nothing had changed.

Steel flashed. Demons fell. Vergil finished it with a single Judgment Cut, the air cracking before the creatures were reduced to nothing.

Nero stared, disbelief burning into relief.

“…Damn it,” he muttered as he approached them with a limp. “Took you two assholes long enough.”

“We were bonding,” Dante said lightly. “Hard to do with demons interrupting.”

“That was not bonding,” Vergil replied flatly.

Dante exhaled, glancing at the half-rebuilt city with a hint of longing.

“Still,” he said softly, “it’s good to be back.”