Devil sword Sparda (DMC) in DC

I endured. I survived.

Every day, I tuned into the news, watching in awe as Superman saved the city, as

Batman dismantled terrorist plots, as The Flash ran circles around crime, and as Green

Lantern turned away the wrath of the cosmos itself. These weren't just men in

costumes. They were legends, icons—proof that even in the darkest times, there was

still light.

And I wanted to be part of that world

.

I knew I wasn't some alien demigod or a billionaire with an army of gadgets. But I had a

brain, and I had ambition. If I couldn't be a hero, I'd get as close as I could. That's when

I set my sights on journalism—on The Daily Planet. If I worked there, I'd get to meet

him. Clark Kent, Superman's disguise, his mask of mediocrity. I wanted to see the man

behind the myth, the god pretending to be human.

The orphanage never found a home for me, so I stayed there until I aged out. It was a

cold, uncaring place, but I endured. I studied harder than anyone, stayed in the best

shape I could, and ignored the beatings and insults thrown my way. Friends were a

luxury I couldn't afford, not when the moment you let someone in, they either betrayed

you or left.

At eighteen, they tossed me out with nothing but a bag of clothes and a pat on the back.

But I wasn't afraid. I had a scholarship for journalism—my ticket to a future.

Money was tight, so tight that I even considered selling out. I knew the secret identities

of some heroes—the ones who weren't as careful as Clark or Bruce. Green Lantern, for

example, wasn't subtle. I figured I could make a fortune off his identity, but when I tried,

people either laughed in my face or called me a lunatic. The world wasn't ready to

believe. And honestly? Neither was I.

So, I let it go.

College was… surprisingly good. For the first time, I felt normal. I made some friends,

got a girlfriend, even went to parties. It felt surreal, like I was living someone else's

life—someone who wasn't a broken orphan, someone who had a future.

But reality doesn't let you escape for long.

Graduation day was supposed to be the most important day of my life. The day I finally

stepped into the real world, into the future I had fought so hard to reach. I didn't waste a

second after the ceremony—I went straight to The Daily Planet, ready to start my new

life.

And that's when the sky burned.

A sound like the roar of a dying god shook the city. The clouds turned black, the sun

was swallowed by shadow, and then—they came.

Parademons.

Darkseid had arrived.

….

The sky was fire. The air, a symphony of chaos.

All the heroes had gathered—gods, titans, and legends standing as humanity's last line

of defense. Superman, the Man of Tomorrow, clashed with Darkside, the tyrant of

Apokolips, in a battle that shook the earth itself.

I should have run. I should have found shelter. But how could I?

I was watching history unfold, witnessing the kind of battle that defined civilizations.

Superman's punches sent shockwaves through the city, and Darkseid's Omega Beams

carved through buildings like they were made of paper. The Justice League fought

below, struggling to keep the parademons at bay, but my eyes never left the real fight.

Clark was more than just a hero to me—he was an idea, a symbol. If anyone could save

us, it was him.

Then it happened.

A single miscalculation. A beam of heat vision, meant for Darkseid, but deflected at the

last second. It shot off-course, striking the building above me.

I barely had time to react before the world collapsed.

A deafening roar. The crunch of steel and concrete. The sensation of weightlessness

before pain—unimaginable, unbearable pain. I gasped, the air ripped from my lungs as I

felt something stab into me. Then another. And another.

I was pinned beneath the wreckage. Three metal rods had impaled me—one through

my leg, another through my abdomen, and because the universe clearly hated me, one

had gone straight through my dick.

Of course. Of course, this is how I die.

Not in some heroic stand. Not in some noble sacrifice. But buried under rubble,

skewered like a fucking kebab, because my dumbass couldn't stop staring at

Superman.

A bitter laugh bubbled up in my throat, turning into a choking, wheezing cough. Blood.

So much blood.

"Why…?" My voice was weak, shaking. "Why give me a second chance just to die like

this?"

I had fought through hell. Suffered. Endured. Survived. And for what? To die twice? To

be tormented in two lives instead of just one?

My vision blurred. The sounds of battle faded into the distance.

I had spent my whole life idolizing Superman, wanting to meet him.

And now I was dying because of him.

Meanwhile…In Another World

A storm raged above Redgrave City, the sky painted black and red, the color of war and

sorrow. Thunder rumbled like the growl of a caged beast, and beneath it, atop a tower

that pierced the heavens, two brothers fought for power, for legacy, for something

neither of them could truly grasp.

Dante and Vergil, the sons of Sparda. Two halves of a shattered whole.

The clash of steel echoed through the night, sparks flying as Rebellion met Yamato.

Each strike carried decades of resentment, unspoken words, and a hunger neither

could suppress. Vergil fought with ruthless precision, his movements sharp,

calculated—always searching, always waiting for the perfect moment to strike. But

Dante was stronger. Faster. His body moved on instinct, his fury pushing him beyond

his limits.

"STOP!" Dante roared between clashes, his breath ragged, his heart pounding. "I don't

want to kill you!"

Vergil didn't answer. He never did. He only studied Dante, his cold blue eyes scanning

for a weakness, a flaw, anything he could exploit. But there was none.

Between them, Sparda's sword stood, embedded in stone, its presence undeniable—a

symbol of the power they both longed for. The power to separate the human world from

the demon realm. The power that had once belonged to their father.

Dante saw his chance and moved. A blur of red, he dashed toward the sword, his

fingers inches from its hilt.

Vergil was too wounded to stop him. Blood dripped from his countless wounds, staining

the stone beneath him, but even in his final moments of strength, his mind remained

sharp. He had one last move.

Yamato glowed with dark energy. With a flick of his wrist, he sliced through the air, and a

portal tore open beneath Sparda's sword.

Dante's eyes widened.

"If I can't have this power…" Vergil's voice was calm, almost serene, even as his vision

blurred and his body gave out. "No one will."

The sword was swallowed by the void.

And so was Vergil.

Dante reached out, but it was too late. His brother disappeared into the abyss, falling

into the demon world below.

For the first time in years, Dante felt something he hadn't let himself feel—helplessness.

He stood there, fists clenched, his body trembling. The rain mixed with the blood on his

skin, but he didn't care.

He had lost.

Not just the sword.

But his brother.