A few days ago, before Vergil had left the Prison.
Footsteps echoed in the void of the Underworld, reverberating through the bones of a world that seemed to have stopped breathing.
Dante walked slowly, his shoulders heavy. Each step a reminder of the recent loss—and of the coming chaos. When he finally stopped, a presence emerged from the shadows.
"You did well to retreat, Dante," the man said, his voice cool and controlled. "You lost your beloved toy, yes. And getting it back will be… difficult. But that is far from our greatest problem right now."
He stepped closer to Dante, following his gaze to the empty space before them—a distorted magical screen, or perhaps just the weight of what was to come.
"The project failed, huh? The behelith is at least safe," he muttered, and for a moment, his expression twisted in frustration. Soon, however, the mask of calculated indifference returned. "Ever since we met that man… fate has been a constant plague."
