What Do You Mean, Almost All the Lords of Hell Are Dead?

"He..." Vergil was unusually at a loss for words. His grip on Yamato tightened unconsciously. "Is something wrong with Dante's head?" he murmured to Lady beside him, his tone full of absurdity. "Since when... did he become so... brutal and direct?"

Wasn't he, Vergil, supposed to be the one who would pursue Sparda's path for power at any cost, even resorting to unscrupulous means? Why did Dante look more like the ultimate demon-slaying weapon than their old man who had crawled out of the Abyss of the Demon World?

Then an even stranger, even more unacceptable thought popped uncontrollably into Vergil's mind: What if... what if Dante used that exact same routine on him...

Imagine Dante holding a buzzing chainsaw, asking him coldly, "Where do you want to go?" Or responding to his proposal to "temporarily suspend their duel" with a flail...

Vergil's expression instantly became extremely strange, a mixture of confusion, vigilance, and the slightest trace of... perhaps something even he himself was unwilling to admit: being caught completely off guard by such a drastic shift in style.

He subconsciously touched his flawless chin and began seriously considering whether he should prepare... a more durable contingency plan before their next brotherly duel.

Amid another round of beatings comparable to a hydraulic press crushing bones, Arkham's curled-up body suddenly erupted with a mass of dark light—the sign that Force Edge had been forcibly "beaten" out of his body! He let out a shrill howl that mixed despair and relief, then took the chance to tear open space, transforming into a writhing pool of shadow as he desperately burrowed toward the filthiest, deepest nest in the Demon World.

Mo Wang shook the scraps of flesh and demon blood from his flail. His steps remained steady as he followed at an unhurried