Chapter Text
Dante
The rain fell in thin, icy threads, blending into the dense fog that swallowed the forest whole. The sound of droplets striking dead leaves was almost drowned out by Dante’s steady breathing as he walked behind the boy. The hunter, naked from the waist down and covered only by a torn piece of cloth he had scavenged from the village ruins, looked indifferent to the cold. His ice-blue eyes, however, always alert, betrayed the discomfort.
The fog moved like a living thing, thick and restless, crawling along the ground and climbing the twisted trees. The world there felt suspended, timeless, as if the forest had forgotten what dawn meant. In the distance, shapes formed and vanished between the trunks, shadows that for brief moments looked far too human to be mere illusions.
As he walked, Dante noticed something that made his stomach twist. Dozens of dead crows hung from the gnarled branches, tied with straw twine, swaying gently in the wind. Their wings spread, hollow eyes staring, forming a grotesque mosaic, as if someone had decorated the woods for a profane celebration. Macabre Christmas ornaments. A holiday devoted to madness and blood.
Up ahead, Lott walked with a trembling flashlight, its beam cutting the darkness in short, unsteady arcs. The boy, thin and hollow-eyed, didn’t look frightened. Just resigned. Dante couldn’t help but wonder what horrors a twelve-year-old would have to endure to act so calm in a cold, wet hell like this.
They moved in silence, rain mingling with the restless whisper of the trees. The fog felt like it was watching them, every footstep echoing too deeply, as if the forest had ears. Finally, Dante broke the silence.
— Tell me something, kid,— he said, voice rough but curious. — Do you have any idea why you were kidnapped?
Lott hesitated. — I… don’t know. I only remember flashes. A black car. A scary man with a red beret. And a very beautiful Asian woman, wearing a red dress. She looked like… she was in charge.
— And the rest?— Dante pressed. — Where did you live before that? Who were your parents?
The boy looked away, the flashlight trembling slightly in his hand. — I came from the United States. My father… worked for a company. An important one. It was called Umbrella Corporation.
Dante stopped walking.
The name thundered through his mind. Umbrella. The same cursed corporation that had nearly erased an entire city in his world. He clenched his teeth, gaze sharpening on the boy.
— Umbrella, huh?— he muttered, dry with sarcasm. — Don’t tell me your dad worked in Raccoon City.
Lott shook his head quickly. — No… I don’t think so.
Dante stepped closer, ice-blue eyes glinting. — What about the Sheena Islands?— he asked, his voice now cold and precise.
The boy swallowed hard, staring at the soaked ground. — I don’t know what you’re talking about.— He quickened his pace, changing the subject as if trying to leave the past behind.
Dante watched him in silence, brow furrowed. The rain hit harder, and the fog seemed to close in around them like a patient predator. The brat was hiding things, and that was bad. Worse, it would probably come back to bite him sooner rather than later.
A bridge appeared ahead. Old wood. Creaking planks. It swayed slightly under the weight of the fog. Below, water rushed dark as ink.
— Nice… we found the Bridge to Terabithia,— Dante muttered, testing one of the boards with his foot. — Lott, never watch that movie if you don’t want to end up crying alone in your room in the fetal position.—
Lott ignored him, muttered something about Dante being cringe, and guided him across. On the other side, a structure emerged in the distance. A house. Crooked and isolated, broken windows, moss devouring the roof. The fog wrapped around it like it wanted to swallow it whole.
— There,— Lott said, pointing with the flashlight. — There should be clothes inside. Maybe weapons.
Dante raised an eyebrow, his mocking tone returning.
— Great. Maybe I’ll finally stop parading naked through unknown worlds.— He laughed at himself. — You know, this would be funny if I weren’t freezing and stuck babysitting a kid.
Lott tried to force a smile, but his gaze drifted to the trees as a long, hoarse howl echoed through the forest. Too close. Too wrong.
There was something off about that sound. Too deep. Almost human, like something trying to imitate an animal without fully understanding what it was supposed to be.
The fog stirred in response. Dante lifted his gaze toward the darkness between the canopies, muscles tensing.
He noticed.
— Keep walking, brat,— he said, his voice lower, colder. — Whatever it is, it’s close.
The walk to the house was silent. Each step on the soaked ground echoed like a distant heartbeat. When they reached the entrance, the boy pushed the door open. It groaned loudly, a sound that felt like it woke the place itself.
Inside, dust, broken furniture, and the stench of rot filled the air. Dante scanned the room.
— And here I thought hell décor had gone out of style,— he commented, crossing his arms.
Despite the sarcasm, his senses were on full alert. The place wasn’t just old. It breathed wrong. The air tasted metallic, sweet and nauseating, like blood mixed with rust and a perfume that had no business being there.
While the boy moved toward a corner to search, Dante climbed the creaking stairs, which protested under his weight. The upper floor was small and dark, lit only by faint light leaking through cracks in the boards. He found a simple bedroom. A dust-covered bed. Sheets stiff with age. On top of it, a pair of dark pants and old boots.
He dressed quickly, feeling a little less exposed, even if the boots were tight and the seams of the pants threatened to give with every movement.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, something in the corner caught his attention. There was more than dust and neglect there. The air felt heavy, almost reverent. Dante frowned and stepped closer.
A small wooden table stood there, aged and scarred, arranged like an old prayer altar. On it rested a painting made with delicate strokes. A blonde woman with angelic features, adorned with eight wings spread in glory and a glowing halo above her head. Some kind of divinity.
Looking at it sent a strange sensation up Dante’s spine. Not reverence. Disgust. Instinctive contempt. The figure’s smile looked fake, almost mocking, as if it were laughing at anyone foolish enough to worship it.
Dante scowled and turned away.
— Of course,— he muttered. — The feathered goddess with the radiant smile. I’ve seen this type before. Same look as the people who knock on your door at seven in the morning asking if you’ve accepted the ‘divine light’… on the exact day you’re still trying to remember where you left your liver.
As he turned, something else caught his eye.
An old radio lay discarded on the floor, its casing cracked, yet somehow alive, hissing with a low, unnatural static that crawled under his skin. It made no sense. Radios like that didn’t work here. Yet it was on.
Dante scowled and shut it off, plunging the room into a heavier silence.
— Dante?— Lott’s voice called from below, tight with nerves.
Dante flinched at the sound and crushed the radio in his grip before he could stop himself, metal folding like wet paper.
The sudden silence rang louder than the static ever had. Shame prickled beneath his skin, chased by a crawling sense of dread.
Whatever had been speaking through that thing hadn’t liked being silenced.
And Dante had the uneasy feeling it now knew he was there.
— D-Dante!— the boy shouted, breathing hard. — I think I found… something!
Dante frowned. That tone didn’t belong to someone who’d found safety. He descended the creaking stairs slowly, alert, and soon found Lott kneeling near the floor of the main room. The flashlight shook in his hands, casting warped shadows on the walls.
— What is it now, brat?— Dante asked, arms crossed. — Don’t tell me you found the killer cat.—
Lott swallowed hard and pointed to a corner where dust had been hastily brushed aside. Beneath a torn rug was a dark wooden hatch with a rusted iron ring.
— There’s… there’s a trapdoor here,— the boy murmured, eyes fixed on it.
Dante crouched beside him. The wood reeked of metal, mixed with something sweet and sickening. He inhaled slowly, a chill crawling up his spine.
— Hm. Mold, rust… and fresh blood,— he muttered, narrowing his eyes. — Whatever’s down there isn’t the kind of neighbor who borrows sugar.
He stood and looked at Lott, his tone suddenly serious.
— Stay up here,— he ordered, voice low and firm. — If I’m not back in ten minutes, run.
Lott swallowed hard, his restless gaze flicking between the trapdoor and Dante.
— And while you’re down there… what exactly are you planning to do?— he asked, suspicious. — How are you supposed to save my sister if we’re separated?
Dante rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed.
— First, stop being so dramatic, brat. Second, trust me for five minutes. I’ll be back. I always come back.—
Lott let out a short, bitter laugh.
— What kind of idiot trusts a demon?
His voice trembled when it came again, louder now, forced out like a confession tearing itself free.
— Dante… there’s something I have to tell you.
Dante stilled.
The boy swallowed hard, fingers curling into his sleeves.
— I’m the reason you’re here. I… I summoned you.
The words hit heavier than the fog.
— I stole a page from James’s grimoire,— Lott rushed on, eyes darting as if the forest itself might be listening. — It talked about calling a powerful demon. A superior one. I thought if I brought something strong enough, I could save her. But I didn’t have enough. Not the right price. Not the right offering. So instead of what I wanted… I got you.
Dante’s jaw tightened.
— What did you sacrifice?
For a moment, Lott couldn’t speak. Pain crossed his face, raw and unfiltered, like he’d bitten down on something sharp inside himself.
— I didn’t know I was paying yet,— he whispered. — But the rules still applied. I invoked you. Which means… until the deal is fulfilled… I’m your summoner. Your master.
The forest seemed to lean closer.
Heat surged through Dante’s veins, sudden and violent. His demonic blood roared awake, flooding his senses. He caught his reflection in the boy’s eyes and froze.
Gold.
Burning, unmistakable gold spilling from his pupils.
Lott flinched but didn’t step back.
— The pact is simple,— the boy said, forcing steadiness into his voice. — I’ll give you anything you want. Anything you need. Just protect me. Help me find my sister and get her away from those cult freaks.
The words wrapped around Dante like chains snapping shut.
Power answered power. The contract settled deep, ancient and cruel, threading itself through his bones.
Dante snarled under his breath, fists shaking.
He flexed his fingers, bones cracking softly as the heat coiled tighter in his veins. His jaw set, lips curling just enough to bare his teeth.
— I really need to kill something right now,— he muttered, voice low and venomous. — So it’d better be a monster down there…
He glanced once at the trapdoor, eyes burning, and added under his breath:
— Because if it’s not, this place is about to get a lot messier.
A different kind of chill ran down his spine as he descended the steps. The half-light swallowed him whole, and the metallic stench grew nearly suffocating. On the floor, irregular circles drawn in blood spread like living fractures.
There was no threat waiting for him. No ambush. No monster lunging from the dark.
The emptiness only made the fury in his chest burn hotter, sharp and restless, demanding release.
— Greatttt !!! — Dante muttered irritably. — All this buildup and nothing to break.
He needed something to hit, something to bleed, anything to take the edge off the anger clawing at him.
Helping the kid was his choice. Being bound to him by a damn human contract was not, and that realization only fed the fire.
The only unusual thing in the place was a cold, pulsating silver medallion, as if it had its own heart in the middle of a circle of blood. The face of a wolf was carved into the metal, sharp teeth bared, hungry eyes, a wild expression that seemed almost human.
The moment his fingers touched the amulet, sudden heat surged across his skin. It throbbed in response to him, reacting to his presence, as if it recognized something within him… or the danger closing in.
— Sensitive, huh?— he muttered, lifting the medallion and turning it before his eyes. — Looks like a trouble radar… and lucky me, I love trouble.
Before he could take a closer look at the new accessory now hanging at his neck, the wooden ceiling above him shuddered violently. A dull crash echoed, followed by a rain of dust and splinters that fell over him. Dante instinctively raised an arm to shield his eyes.
The silence that followed was even more suffocating. All he could hear was the dust settling in slow clouds, until a shiver crawled up his spine. Something very large and very heavy had fallen upstairs.
The first thing that crossed his mind was Lott.
— Damn it… the kid!— he growled, dropping the flashlight onto the table and sprinting for the wooden stairs.
He took the steps two at a time, each creak of the boards tightening his anxiety. When he shoved the hatch open and emerged into the main room, he found it completely trashed. The table shattered, chairs scattered, the kitchen cabinet overturned. One of the wooden walls had been torn apart, opened into an irregular hole, as if something gigantic had smashed straight through it.
Dante moved forward slowly, breathing controlled, every muscle primed to react. His ice-blue eyes swept over every shadow, every corner of the room.
— Lott…?— he called, his voice steady but heavy with urgency.
Silence. Only the cold wind pouring in through the broken wall, making loose planks groan. Dante kept moving, alert to every detail, every sound. His instincts screamed that he wasn’t alone.
— Kid, if this is some kind of joke…— he muttered, sliding a hand along the splintered wall.
The silence held, but the tension in the air was thick enough to taste. The house seemed to be holding its breath with him.
Then his eyes caught something, and they flashed. A trail of fresh blood snaked across the ruined floor of the cabin, leading straight to the opening in the wall. He crouched, fingers brushing against the still-wet wood.
— Shit…— he whispered, teeth clenched.
Without hesitation, he stepped through the hole and out into the forest. Only then did he realize he had spent more time in the basement than he thought. The first pale rays of sunlight cut through the treetops, painting the fog that blanketed the woods in shades of gray.
Dante followed the trail. The blood marks were clear, broken by dragging footprints, as if something had carried Lott away by force. Wet branches lashed against his skin, dew soaking into his improvised clothes, but he didn’t care. He moved in silence, focused, every muscle ready.
Then the terrain opened up, and Dante stopped as he lifted his gaze.
Ahead of him, rising like a shadow against the dawn, stood the colossal outline of a feudal castle. Immense towers. Walls twisted by time. Tall windows that seemed to watch the forest below. A sight as anachronistic as it was unsettling.
Dante narrowed his eyes.
— What the hell is that…?— he muttered, the words edged with dry mockery, though the unease beneath them was unmistakable.
Leon
Chris moved down the hallway and pushed open a half-closed door. The creak echoed through the silent apartment.
Their boots struck the narrow, ruined corridor in heavy rhythm, the sound muffled by dust and the thick smell of burned wood. The tension was almost physical ,both men advanced without a word, guided only by the small beams of their tactical flashlights. At the far end, a shadow was waiting for them.
Piers Nivans leaned against a doorframe marked by an old crest ,a golden shield engraved with the name Ludwig, its edges blackened with soot and rust. The young soldier’s face was sharp, his expression alert. Sweat darkened his brown hair, which fell slightly over his forehead. He wasn’t wearing his tactical helmet, something that made Chris’s jaw tighten immediately.
— Nivans,— Chris barked, voice clipped and commanding, — how many times have I told you not to take off your helmet during an op?
Piers raised an eyebrow, almost amused.
— With all due respect, Captain, I needed to breathe. This place feels like a damn tomb.
Chris exhaled heavily ,his reprimand carried more of a father’s frustration than a commander’s anger.
— The last thing I want is to lose one of my team because of carelessness. Understood?—
— Yes, sir,— Piers replied, his tone now serious.
Leon ignored the tension between them, brushing past the two and pausing only to glance at the Ludwig crest before crossing the threshold. His flashlight sliced through the dark, revealing the interior of the room.
It was spacious, old, and covered in a thin veil of dust. The walls, once white, were now stained with mold and cracks. Paintings filled nearly every inch ,portraits of a veiled blonde woman draped in golden fabric, depicted like a saint with open wings and a serene gaze. Below her hung canvases of two figures locked in combat: one wreathed in fire, the other in blue flames ,the eternal clash of opposites.
At the center stood a large, ornate bed blanketed in fresh poppy flowers. Among the petals lay a woman’s body ,pale, beautiful, almost untouched. Fresh blood glistened beneath her, and a long black sword pierced clean through her back. The blade’s dark metal caught the faint flicker of firelight.
Chris and Leon exchanged a heavy look.
Piers spoke quietly, his tone controlled.
— The doors and windows were locked. We had to force our way in. She was already like this when we arrived.
Leon crouched slightly, eyes studying the body.
— You run her ID yet?
— We did,— Piers replied, shaking his head. — Nothing in BSAA records, nothing in local databases. It’s like she doesn’t exist. Only found this.
He handed Chris a crumpled, blood-stained pamphlet. The faded logo read:
“Devil May Cry ,Investigation and Hunting Services.”
Chris frowned.
— Devil May Cry…?— he muttered.
— No record of that agency in our system either,— Piers added, giving a short, uneasy laugh as he rubbed the back of his neck. — But if I had to guess cause of death, I’d say the massive sword in her chest is a solid lead, Captain.
Leon shot him a sidelong look but said nothing, stepping closer to inspect the weapon. The sword was enormous, nearly as tall as a grown man. Its dark metal seemed to drink in the light around it, veins of faint blue pulsing softly along its surface, as if the blade itself breathed. Jagged edges glimmered irregularly, unsettlingly alive, and the hilt—shaped with winged, claw-like motifs—ended in a stylized cross.
A familiar name surfaced in Leon’s mind before he could stop it.
Dante.
The thought struck like a blade between the ribs. The only person he knew who could wield something like this. The only one who made the impossible look casual. Leon’s jaw tightened, a sharp flicker of pain crossing his expression as he forced the thought down. It couldn’t be. Dante was gone, swallowed by the fog, lost somewhere no one came back from. Dead, vanished… anything but here.
Chris’s eyes narrowed as he studied the weapon, instinctively gauging its weight and balance. This wasn’t any ordinary blade. And Leon knew, deep down, that if Dante truly was lost… then whatever had swung this sword was something far worse.
— What kind of monster could even wield something like this…— Chris murmured to himself.
Piers gave a tense smirk.
— Probably the same kind who locks the door from the inside and dies surrounded by flowers, Captain.
Chris shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched, nearly forming a smile. For a fleeting second, the tension eased ,though the mystery before them only deepened.
He gave one last glance at the blade before lifting his flashlight. The beam crawled up the cracked wall to the ceiling ,and froze.
There, sprawling above the bed, was a ritual symbol drawn in precise, overlapping circles ,too deliberate to be random. As the light swept over it, poppy petals began drifting down from above, glowing faintly red as they fell. They settled across the woman’s body like burning embers over snow.
Piers let out a low whistle, still staring at the surreal sight.
— I’ve seen a lot of weird crap with the BSAA, Captain… but this takes the prize.
Chris kept his gaze fixed on the sigil, his voice grave.
— Seal off the area,— he ordered. — And notify Command. Tell them we might be dealing with something outside conventional parameters. I want a perimeter ,nobody in or out without my word.
— Yes, sir.
Piers reached for his radio ,but before he could finish the transmission, a sudden voice crackled through the channel, panicked and out of breath.
Meanwhile, Leon approached the bed, his flashlight gleaming against the black metal. He crouched, analyzing the blade again.
— This weapon…— he muttered. — It’s heavy ,easily dozens of pounds. The balance is off, almost like it was forged for someone with inhuman strength.
He stood and looked at Chris.
— What kind of monster could even use this?
Chris exhaled through a dry, ironic grin.
— In our line of work, Leon, monster is a pretty flexible term. We’ve seen things that’d make a priest question his faith.
Leon nodded slowly, eyes still on the sword.
— Maybe so… but this —— he gestured toward the blade and the motionless body ,— this is beyond anything we’ve faced before, Chris. Way beyond.
Chris didn’t answer immediately. His attention caught movement above ,more poppy petals drifting downward, glowing faintly red as they fell like bloody snow. His flashlight followed their path back up to the ceiling.
The ritual sigil pulsed faintly, its dried blood lines glowing in rhythmic beats. From within its curves, new petals emerged, falling one by one ,as though the symbol itself were bleeding flowers.
Leon stepped back, voice low and tense.
— That’s not natural.
Chris’s face hardened.
— Agreed. This…— he whispered, — this is far beyond our usual monsters.
Before Leon could respond, Chris’s radio erupted again ,Barry’s gravelly voice bursting through in alarm:
— This is Barry Burton! We’ve got a hostile inside the mansion! Repeat ,visual contact with an unidentified threat! It’s huge and heading straight for us!
Chris and Leon locked eyes, the red glow from the ceiling casting eerie reflections across their faces.
Chris chambered his weapon, his tone shifting back to that of a soldier.
— Here we go again.
Umbrella Corporation – Urban Revitalization Department
Internal Memorandum / Communication to Central HR
Date: 25/09/2001
From: Ark Thompson – Field Operations Coordinator / Silent Hill Project
To: William Afton – Human Resources, Umbrella Headquarters
Subject: Concerns Regarding the Behavior of Employee James Sunderland
Dear Mr. Afton,
I am writing to report a situation that requires the immediate attention of the Human Resources department.
As you are aware, architect James Sunderland has been one of the main personnel responsible for the structural planning sector of the Silent Hill Revitalization Project. James has consistently maintained exemplary performance, demonstrating technical competence, efficient communication, and impeccable professional conduct since the beginning of his employment.
However, in recent weeks, his behavior has become a growing concern among supervisors and other staff members. Following the recent death of his wife, Mary Sunderland, James has shown signs of disorientation, lapses in focus, and increasing social withdrawal.
Several members of the team have reported hearing him speaking to himself both in the break room and in administrative hallways. According to these accounts, James frequently mentions something called the “Ritual of the Holy Assumption,” a term unfamiliar to our team and unrelated to any project directive or official documentation.
Although I typically recommend immediate termination in cases of psychological instability that could compromise operational safety, I do not believe that is the best course of action here. Despite his current condition, James has always been a dedicated and reliable professional. For this reason, I suggest a less severe alternative:
I recommend transferring James Sunderland to another project, preferably one with lower psychological strain, such as the restructuring program on Ashford Island, where the operational workload is significantly lighter and the work environment more controlled.
I must emphasize that this matter has become even more urgent following the recent disappearance of Murphy Pendleton’s son, an incident that has deeply unsettled the entire Silent Hill team. The emotional atmosphere is tense and unstable, and I fear that James’s current condition,if left unaddressed,may exacerbate the overall state of the workforce.
I await HR’s instructions, but I strongly advise that James be transferred as soon as possible to avoid complications for both him and the progress of the project.
Sincerely,
Ark Thompson
Field Operations Coordinator – Silent Hill Project
Umbrella Corporation