02-20-2016, 10:47 PM
Pain.
Days earlier, Dante witnessed the sanguine monochrome of his perishing, the fading of all color, feeling, comprehension. Perhaps the circumstances behind it could've been more ideal, but for all intents and purposes, Dante had likened that experience to his death- or, rather, what he thought would be his death at the time.
Comparatively, the Son of Sparda's true annihilation here had been dramatically swifter in its effect- and bore an exponential amount of suffering as a result. His only solace in that, however, might be that the consciousness left him far sooner, that his physical pain would not persist.
Shock.
The end, it seemed, was not the shadow of an endless sleep. Dante's vision turned from a virulent flash of pure light into the somber haze of a temple - the same one he first fell into to greet Teucer. A vague blue aura surrounded the silhouette of the unsent spirit, shaking its head in disappointment. The nephilim was not the one to finally free the hero, nor were the dozen others that met the reaper before him. Those champions, their bodies torn from the grave by the warlock...
Anger.
He shouldn't have hesitated. The swirling mass of Omnilium, Teucer's offering for his champion's best effort, seeped into Dante's core. In that moment, feeling returned to him, and his mind become more clear, if not his deathly sight.
Why had the Son of Sparda hesitated? Lack of power be damned, he should've spent every last drop of sweat and blood he had against that necrotic wizard. Never mind the fact that Dante surely would've died trying to kill that mastermind- as long as Omni remained interested, the devil hunter would be reborn. He had nothing to lose but his own life, and he would've gotten it back anyways? Why not give everything left at that point?!
Regret.
Obviously, there had to be more Dante could've done. What of those guardians that all the others had fought? The aura that had sucked him in, begged to be found- and he had ultimately relented out of fear. Fear that he might hurt someone he shouldn't, that he would grant more power to the Hollow. The devil hunter swore never to bring death to the mortals that didn't deserve it- and while he had not, Dante too found himself unable to even kill the beings that did.
So the Son of Sparda, as he drifted down into the void yet again, found himself ruminating on the oaths he had taken only to break now, here, in this moment of despair and ruin.
Hatred.
That essence of pure human instinct, corrupted by the black-hearted will of Zangetsu. The presence within Dante that once comprised all that made him pure, now was turned against him and his better will, determined to undermine every single thing he promised himself. It forced the mercenary between a state of raw destruction and the twisted mentality of his foolish times.
And then, there lay the one man who finally put him down, where before he could not quite finish the job. The first of the dark sorcerers Dante came to despise within the sprawl of the Omniverse - the one who called himself 'Magus'. While the half-blood suspected that his former Colosseum opponent probably hated his guts (with good reason, considering he was first to bear witness to the Hollow's full influence), the Fiendlord had somehow found something admirable about the man he knew as Tony Redgrave. Whether that had been his demonic power or his sheer tenacity, it had been reason enough for Magus to offer Dante a chance under his ruling.
"I could not imagine a better soldier."
There was a strike of harm, a pathetic sting incomparable to the attack that had finally ended Dante's first life in the Omniverse. Blood trickled from the tiny wound, a diminutive stream of droplets that drifted out only to swirl right into the claws of the violet shade above him. The same Warlock he had faced, the one that had brought rise to the gravely shells of those other fallen warriors.
Anger overtook him again. In a final gesture of defiance, Dante took his pricked finger and gave the cackling necromancer the bird as they parted; the purple figure fled back into reality as the glow of white overtook the descending form of the devil hunter.
Days earlier, Dante witnessed the sanguine monochrome of his perishing, the fading of all color, feeling, comprehension. Perhaps the circumstances behind it could've been more ideal, but for all intents and purposes, Dante had likened that experience to his death- or, rather, what he thought would be his death at the time.
Comparatively, the Son of Sparda's true annihilation here had been dramatically swifter in its effect- and bore an exponential amount of suffering as a result. His only solace in that, however, might be that the consciousness left him far sooner, that his physical pain would not persist.
Shock.
The end, it seemed, was not the shadow of an endless sleep. Dante's vision turned from a virulent flash of pure light into the somber haze of a temple - the same one he first fell into to greet Teucer. A vague blue aura surrounded the silhouette of the unsent spirit, shaking its head in disappointment. The nephilim was not the one to finally free the hero, nor were the dozen others that met the reaper before him. Those champions, their bodies torn from the grave by the warlock...
Anger.
He shouldn't have hesitated. The swirling mass of Omnilium, Teucer's offering for his champion's best effort, seeped into Dante's core. In that moment, feeling returned to him, and his mind become more clear, if not his deathly sight.
Why had the Son of Sparda hesitated? Lack of power be damned, he should've spent every last drop of sweat and blood he had against that necrotic wizard. Never mind the fact that Dante surely would've died trying to kill that mastermind- as long as Omni remained interested, the devil hunter would be reborn. He had nothing to lose but his own life, and he would've gotten it back anyways? Why not give everything left at that point?!
Regret.
Obviously, there had to be more Dante could've done. What of those guardians that all the others had fought? The aura that had sucked him in, begged to be found- and he had ultimately relented out of fear. Fear that he might hurt someone he shouldn't, that he would grant more power to the Hollow. The devil hunter swore never to bring death to the mortals that didn't deserve it- and while he had not, Dante too found himself unable to even kill the beings that did.
So the Son of Sparda, as he drifted down into the void yet again, found himself ruminating on the oaths he had taken only to break now, here, in this moment of despair and ruin.
Hatred.
That essence of pure human instinct, corrupted by the black-hearted will of Zangetsu. The presence within Dante that once comprised all that made him pure, now was turned against him and his better will, determined to undermine every single thing he promised himself. It forced the mercenary between a state of raw destruction and the twisted mentality of his foolish times.
And then, there lay the one man who finally put him down, where before he could not quite finish the job. The first of the dark sorcerers Dante came to despise within the sprawl of the Omniverse - the one who called himself 'Magus'. While the half-blood suspected that his former Colosseum opponent probably hated his guts (with good reason, considering he was first to bear witness to the Hollow's full influence), the Fiendlord had somehow found something admirable about the man he knew as Tony Redgrave. Whether that had been his demonic power or his sheer tenacity, it had been reason enough for Magus to offer Dante a chance under his ruling.
"I could not imagine a better soldier."
There was a strike of harm, a pathetic sting incomparable to the attack that had finally ended Dante's first life in the Omniverse. Blood trickled from the tiny wound, a diminutive stream of droplets that drifted out only to swirl right into the claws of the violet shade above him. The same Warlock he had faced, the one that had brought rise to the gravely shells of those other fallen warriors.
Anger overtook him again. In a final gesture of defiance, Dante took his pricked finger and gave the cackling necromancer the bird as they parted; the purple figure fled back into reality as the glow of white overtook the descending form of the devil hunter.