St. Patrick's Cathedral, New York City
The smell of incense and gun oil didn't usually mix, but tonight the cathedral reeked of both.
Elsa Bloodstone stood in the middle of the nave, strapping a cannon the size of a coffin to her back like it weighed nothing. A rack of shotguns leaned against a pew. Pistols, knives, grenades — enough hardware to make an arms dealer blush — were laid out across the altar like holy offerings.
Dante tilted his head, crimson coat swaying as he sauntered closer. "So… remind me. Are we hunting demons, or invading a small country?"
Elsa snapped the last strap into place, the massive launcher settling over her shoulder with a mechanical clunk. "Preparedness is the difference between living and being worm food." Her voice was clipped, steady — like she'd given this speech before.
Dante grinned. "Sure. But don't you think the Pentagon's gonna file a missing persons report on their arsenal?"
Without missing a beat, she chambered a round in her shotgun and cocked it one-handed. "The Pentagon wishes they had half my toys."
Father Matteo stepped out from the sacristy carrying a heavy steel case. He set it down on the altar with a weighty thunk. "Speaking of demons," he said, his voice calm but firm, "it's time the boy had a proper weapon with a bit of kick to it."
Dante arched a brow. "What, you finally getting me my holy rocket launcher?"
"Close enough," Matteo muttered, flipping open the clasps.
Inside lay two pistols — one black, one ivory white. Sleek, balanced, longer-barreled than standard handguns. Their grips were etched with faint Latin script, silver filigree catching the candlelight. They weren't just weapons. They were art.
Dante reached for the pistols. The instant his fingers curled around their grips, the air cracked like someone had drawn a match across reality.
Heat surged through the weapons — not the warmth of steel, but the searing pulse of something alive. His blood roared in his veins, racing into the chambers as though the guns were drinking it in. The cylinders glowed red-hot, not with powder, but with fire — hellfire.
He could see it, feel it, bullets forming in the dark like sparks hammered on an anvil, each round loaded by the beat of his own heart. The scent of smoke curled from the barrels, thin wisps rising into the candlelight.
For a moment, it was as if the cathedral itself was holding its breath.
Dante blinked, then grinned sharp as a knife. "Oh yeah… these beauties and I are gonna get along just fine."
He twirled both pistols, flipping them into a flourish before holstering them with a snap. Then he drew them again in a blur, firing both skyward. Twin cracks of thunder split the cathedral, dust showering from the rafters.
Elsa flinched. "Are you insane?!"
Matteo pinched the bridge of his nose. "Try not to bring down God's roof, will you?"
Dante blew imaginary smoke off the barrels, smirking. "Relax. Just a little sound test. Somehow these babies are using my blood to load more bullets into them."
Matteo's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
For a moment, Dante just stared at him, the grin fading into something sharper. "When that tower ripped out of the ground… I heard it. A name. Sparda."
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Matteo's eyes flicked away. "Now's not the time."
Dante took a step closer, voice low but edged. "Funny thing — it keeps coming up, and somehow you're always real quiet about it."
Before Matteo could answer, the ground shuddered violently. Dust rained from the rafters as the cathedral groaned under the quake. The black spire outside pulsed brighter, veins of green fire crawling higher into the clouds.
Elsa swung her rocket launcher into place with a mechanical clunk. "Save the family drama for later. We've got bigger problems."
She strode to the cathedral doors and shoved them open with both hands. Headlights immediately cut through the smoke and stained glass, flooding the nave with red and gold. An armored van growled at the steps, its engine rumbling like a beast.
Dante let out a long whistle. "Sweetheart… that's not a ride. That's a rolling apocalypse."
Elsa smirked faintly, tossing her keys once and catching them. "I call it the Bloodhound. Mobile arsenal. Reinforced chassis. Enough firepower inside to make the Pentagon jealous."
Dante's grin widened, eyes glinting. "Figures. Always full of surprises, Red."
Elsa shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel. "Call me that again and I'll run you over with it."
"Noted," Dante said cheerfully, already climbing inside.
The side door slid open with a metallic rasp, revealing rows of weapon racks, explosives, and a bolted-down workbench. A mobile hunter's cathedral.
Matteo followed with a weary sigh, crossing himself. "Lord, if this city survives the night, it'll be a miracle."
Elsa climbed into the driver's seat, gunning the engine. The Bloodhound roared like a beast unleashed, its headlights cutting through smoke and panic.
She glanced at Dante, her eyes steady. "Buckle up. We're storming the tower."
Dante leaned back in the passenger seat, grinning ear to ear. "Hallelujah."
The van peeled into the night, racing toward the black spire clawing at the sky.
Lower Manhattan
The Bloodhound's engine roared as it tore through the streets. Civilians screamed, sirens wailed, and the skyline was cracked in half by the pulsing black tower. Asphalt buckled, green fire leaked through the sewers, and creatures — not quite human, not quite demon — clawed their way out of the ruptures.
Elsa swerved hard, the van bouncing off a wrecked taxi. "We're close. But the road's jammed with cultists."
Through the cracked windshield, a barricade came into view — cars overturned, burning, symbols smeared in blood. A dozen robed cultists knelt in a circle, chanting toward the Tower. Their heads turned in unison, eyes glowing sickly green.
Dante pushed off the passenger seat, smirking as he stood. "Perfect. A warm-up act."
"Dante—" Matteo started, but it was too late.
The van screeched to a halt. Dante kicked the door open, coat flaring, and stepped into the night.
He drew both pistols in a single blur — black in one hand, ivory white in the other. The barrels glowed faint crimson, thrumming like they were hungry.
The cultists shrieked, blades flashing.
Dante grinned, tilting his head. "Showtime."
He opened fire.
The first volley cracked like thunder, each shot streaking with hellfire instead of powder. Cultists were hurled back in bursts of light and ash. Ebony barked slow and heavy, each round punching through bone and stone. Ivory sang fast and sharp, spitting a storm of glowing bullets that shredded the chanting circle.
A robed zealot lunged at him with a jagged blade. Dante sidestepped, kicked the man into the air, and juggled him effortlessly between pistols — left, right, left, right — each bullet spinning him higher until the body crashed down in pieces.
"Show's over," Dante muttered, twirling both guns in a flourish.
From the barricade, a roar split the night. The pavement cracked as a hulking brute pulled itself free — another Hellspawn, molten-black skin crawling with sigils. Its claws scraped the pavement, eyes glowing like coals.
Elsa swung out of the Bloodhound, rocket launcher on her shoulder. "Big one's mine."
Dante winked, firing both pistols into the monster's chest. Hellfire bullets lit its ribs like molten cracks. "Sweetheart, you can have the kill. But the dance?" He spun the pistols, holsters snapping as he reloaded without touching them. "The dance is all mine."
The brute charged. Dante met it head-on, guns blazing, every bullet a burst of fire that lit the street like a fireworks show.