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Vergil stared at the boy.
The boy stood before him, clutching his arm, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension. His hair, as white as Vergil's, caught the dim light.
The resemblance between them was undeniable.
Vergil crouched down slowly, his cloak swishing with the movement, the Yamato sheathed against his side glowing faintly as if acknowledging the moment of its descendant, something that he was still trying to process when he was walking towards the orphanage. He studied the boy's features, trying to make sense of the life that had unfolded without his presence.
He came back to Fortuna to tie up loose ends, to confront the lingering shadows of his past—but this was not what he expected.
He hadn't thought much of the rumours when he'd heard them—a child at the orphanage with hair like silver and a knack for the blade. He thought it was just idle talk, stories the people of Fortuna whispered to amuse themselves.
But now, staring at the child, he realised the truth.
If he was staying in an orphanage, then that meant the woman he was with those nights had to have been…
Vergil swallowed harshly as the grip of Yamato tightened.
It was no wonder he couldn't find her.
However, the dwelling on that would come… at a later time.
He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to refocus. The boy, no more than six or seven years old, shifted nervously under Vergil's intense gaze. His small hands fidgeted against the fabric of his worn shirt, his grip on his arm loosening but not entirely relaxing. Those eyes—icy blue, sharp yet innocent—stared back at him, mirroring Vergil's own. A knot twisted in his stomach.
And the Yamato kept glowing—perhaps even stronger.
This was his son.
"W-Who are you?" The boy finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Despite the timid tone, there was a weight to his question, as though some part of him already knew the answer.
Vergil remained silent for a moment longer. He hadn't prepared for this. How could he? He had spent years carving through demons, through fate itself, searching for power and answers—but nothing had prepared him for the quiet intensity of this encounter.
"I..." He faltered, something he hadn't done in years. He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. "My name is… Vergil."
The boy tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing. "Ver..gil...?" He repeated, testing the name on his tongue. "Why are you here?"
Vergil glanced at the orphanage behind them. The modest stone building loomed like a spectre of innocence and pain. He could feel the watchful eyes of the matron peering through one of the windows, her silhouette barely concealed by the curtain. He had no intention of making this a public spectacle.
"To answer that," Vergil began, looking back at him, his voice quieter now, softer but still firm, "I need to know your name first."
The boy hesitated. He bit his lip, his uncertainty evident, but then straightened slightly, as though steeling himself. "Nero," he said finally. "My name is Nero."
The name was ironic, considering how pale he was.
But Vergil wasn't one to talk.
Nero.
Vergil let the name settle in the air between them before nodding. "Nero," he repeated, tasting the word. It felt... strange, yet somehow right.
"Do you know my mother?" Nero asked suddenly, his question laced with a childlike curiosity but also an edge of hope. His hands clenched tighter at his sides, betraying the emotions he struggled to keep in check.
Vergil's heart—something he had long thought hardened beyond repair—felt a twinge of pain. He didn't know how to answer. He didn't even know if he could answer. He had failed her, failed to be there when it mattered most. And now, standing before her son, his son, he was confronted with the weight of that failure in its purest form.
His jaw tightened. He could feel the Yamato humming faintly at his side, as though urging him to bridge the unspoken gap. For a moment, his thoughts drifted to his own father—Sparda—whose absence had left a void in his life, one that Vergil had spent years trying to fill with power and purpose. He would not perpetuate the same cycle, no matter how unprepared he felt for this responsibility.
The words he really wanted to say were getting in his blasted throat again. He looked away, his eyes falling on the Yamato at his side. Its faint glow seemed to mock him, a reminder of the path he had chosen and the sacrifices it had demanded. "I did," he admitted finally, his voice low. "Once."
Nero's face fell slightly, but he didn't look away. Instead, he stepped closer, his small frame now just inches from Vergil's towering presence. "What happened to her?" He asked, trembling. "Why... Why did she leave me?"
For the first time in years, he let himself feel regret, the bitter taste of failure. He didn't have all the answers, but one thing was certain—this boy, his son, deserved more than the cryptic silence he had offered the world for so long.
"She didn't leave you," Vergil said, tone firm, despite the turmoil within. "I... I wasn't there when I should have been. And for that, I am sorry." The words felt foreign like they belonged to someone else. Vergil, the man who had once sought only power, was apologising—to a child, no less.
His child.
Nero blinked at the apology as if trying to comprehend it. He looked uncertain, his lips pressing together tightly. His small hands relaxed, falling to his sides. There was no response from him—not in words—but the expression on his face shifted ever so slightly. The anger and sadness gave way to something else, something gentle.
Vergil wasn't sure if it was forgiveness.
The Yamato, however, glowed brighter than ever, its faint blue light spilling from the hilt like a heartbeat. It caught Nero's attention, drawing his eyes downward. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered near the weapon. His right arm began to shimmer faintly, a blue aura coursing along his skin like electricity.
Vergil narrowed his eyes as he took in the sight. The power radiating from Nero's arm wasn't ordinary. It was a power Vergil recognised all too well, one that echoed the demonic essence of the Sparda bloodline. It pulsed in perfect harmony with the Yamato, as though recognising its kin.
Nero's fingertips finally brushed against it. The moment he made contact, the Yamato's glow swelled, engulfing both of them in its light. Nero gasped, jerking his hand back instinctively, but the connection didn't sever. The sword's glow wrapped around him, encircling his arm like a protective veil.
"You feel it, don't you?" Vergil asked quietly, watching the boy's expression shift from confusion to awe.
Nero nodded slowly. "It's... warm," he whispered.
Vergil reached down, his long fingers brushing against the Yamato's hilt. The moment he made contact, the glow subsided slightly, but the connection between the sword and Nero didn't break.
"You don't fear it," Vergil remarked. "Why?"
He knew why. He just wanted to hear his response.
Nero tilted his head, his small fingers still tracing the glowing edge of light around the Yamato's scabbard. His lips curved into a soft, almost childlike smile like he was finding comfort in the sword. "I don't know," he admitted, glancing up at Vergil. "It feels... like it's supposed to be here. Like it's... home."
The answer startled Vergil more than he cared to admit. He released the hilt, allowing the sword to settle back against his side. As he did, the glow faded completely, leaving only the faint reflection of light in the boy's eyes.
When Vergil looked back at Nero, the boy's expression had changed.
Then, after a beat of silence, Nero asked, "A-Are you my dad?"
His eyes met Nero's once more, those piercing blue eyes that reminded him so much of his own, yet filled with a vulnerability that Vergil had long buried within himself. The boy, so small in comparison, was asking something that felt impossible to answer.
Vergil opened his mouth, but no words came. For a brief second, the silence was thick enough to feel tangible, almost suffocating.
Nero's hands fidgeted again, unsure, and the weight of his gaze never left Vergil's face. It was clear he needed something more, something Vergil wasn't sure he could offer. But, somewhere deep inside, he knew the answer wasn't as elusive as the man had convinced himself. It wasn't just about the regrets and missed moments—it was about what came next. What could come next.
He didn't have all the answers, and maybe he never would. But the boy before him, the son he had never known, needed more than his silence and his doubts.
Vergil swallowed and, with a slow, deliberate motion, extended his arms towards Nero.
Nero blinked, his eyes wide in surprise, but didn't move away. He stood still, watching as Vergil bent slightly down, his cloak folding around him in a faint whisper. And then, almost hesitantly, Nero stepped into the embrace, his small arms wrapping awkwardly around Vergil's waist.
The moment felt foreign to both of them—Vergil, who had lived a life dictated by ambition and distance, and Nero, who had been denied the simple comfort of a parent's presence. But the act, awkward as it was, was undeniably genuine.
Vergil's arms circled the boy, his hand resting lightly on the back of Nero's head, fingers brushing the soft white hair. It wasn't perfect, it wasn't easy, but it was a beginning. Something that neither of them had been able to understand before, but something they could understand now.
Nero's breath hitched slightly against Vergil's chest, and for a second, Vergil thought he might hear the boy's sobs. But there was only the steady rhythm of their breathing.
"I'm sorry," Vergil murmured, his voice softer now, almost lost within the embrace. He wasn't just apologising for the past, for the distance he had kept from Nero, but for the uncertainty that he had always carried in his heart. The boy wasn't just a fragment of his past anymore—he was here, in this moment, and Vergil had to face the responsibility of that.
Nero pulled back just enough to look up at Vergil, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide with emotion. He didn't speak, but there was something in his gaze, something that made Vergil's chest tighten with an unfamiliar ache. It was hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, this could be enough.
Vergil studied him before standing to his full height. The boy's gaze followed him, his expression filled with quiet admiration. For the first time, Vergil felt the weight of his lineage shift—not as a burden, but as a responsibility. He had sought power for himself, for his own selfish desires. But now, standing before Nero, he saw a new purpose.
"Come," Vergil said, turning toward the path leading away from the orphanage. "There is much to discuss."
Nero hesitated, glancing back at the orphanage. The matron's silhouette was still visible in the window, her watchful gaze lingering. But then he looked back at Vergil, his decision clear. Without a word, he stepped forward and took Vergil's hand, his small fingers wrapping around his much larger one.
Vergil glanced down at the gesture but didn't pull away.
The faint glow of the Yamato dimmed completely, as though it, too, acknowledged the moment of peace.