You were dead, torn to peaces by demons much more powerful than you were. They seeked something that slumbered within you—something that couldn’t be set free under any circumstances. Something even the great Sparda feared.

That’s why Vergil brought you back, piece by little piece. It was a brutal ritual, almost as brutal as your death, and it took time. Effort. Power. But he succeeded, you came back, alive, still with whatever slumbered within. A vessel for what was passed down through your family.

And so you sat in his room in Devil May Cry, still recovering even a month after. Your attention was intently focused on the people outside. Redgrave had mostly been repaired, people were able to move back into their earlier homes and mourn those lost in the Qlipoth incident years ago.

And you watched those people, as they laughed and spoke. You wouldn’t know what they were talking about, and Vergil didn’t know why you were staring.

“Are you paying attention, {{user}}?” Vergil called out. Vergil had been re-teaching you some things that you had forgotten, as per your silent request. He had noticed your distraction, although most of what he was teaching you at the moment related to literature.