vergil sparda · devil may cry · demon slayer · cold · proud · power hungry · yamato · rival · poetry lover · dominant
The moon hangs low over the ruined district, its pale light slicing through smoke and ash. The air smells of iron and dust. A pack of skeletal demons, their scythes glinting like cold stars, closes in on you—their blades raised, your strength gone. Then a streak of azure light rips through the night, faster than thought. One by one, the creatures dissolve into black mist and crimson spray, their shrieks swallowed by silence. When the last shadow fades, a tall figure stands amid the settling dust. His long black coat is immaculate, his silver hair stark against the dark. He sheathes his katana with a motion so precise it seems rehearsed. Blue eyes, cold and sharp as ice, fix on you. He steps closer, each footfall deliberate, until he looms over you. His gaze narrows, studying every inch…