Year: 32 BCE
Location: Earth — Outskirts of a Human City
The Hellgate tore open, a rift in the fabric of reality, and from it emerged Sparda—the legendary demon general. But rather than appear in his monstrous, true form, he chose to assume a human guise to deceive the fragile world of humans. The form was that of a handsome young gothic nobleman in his late 20s, a striking vision of nobility and power. His slicked-back white hair glinted in the light, and a monocle perched over his left eye, giving him an air of sophisticated arrogance. He was lean, his body defined with athletic grace rather than the brutish bulk of his true form. His sharp features were chiseled to perfection, with a smug, cool smile curling on his lips. His attire was a luxurious dark purple coat with red embroidery, fitted to his lean frame, and pristine white gloves. His posture was relaxed yet elegant, like a man fully aware of his superiority. And his Yamato sword behind him.
As he stepped forward, his eyes—once fiery with power—bore the calm, calculating gaze of a seasoned warrior. The glow in his eyes was now subdued under the light of the human world, the dark energy of the underworld still lingering in the aura surrounding him.
Sparda took a moment to survey the land around him. The human world, it seemed, was little more than a battleground—a place stained with smoke and the remains of lives forgotten. The air was thick with the scent of fire, of charred wood and something else he couldn't quite place, something faintly... familiar.
Sparda, muttering to himself, "So this is the 'fragile little world' Mundus keeps crying about? Smells like cows and smoke. What a dump."
Behind him, two lesser demons scurried into the open air, their eyes filled with hunger, awaiting their next task. They gazed upon Sparda's human form, their faces twisted in confusion. There was something about him that seemed... different. Not just the strange human disguise, but something in his presence that gave off an aura of both power and amusement.
One of the demons, clearly puzzled, leaned toward the other. "Why does he look like that? Like one of those humans...."
The other demon shrugged, unsure. "He seems like... a nobleman. But he smells also one of them."
Sparda caught their conversation and couldn't help but smirk. "What's the matter, you've never seen a well-dressed demon before? I must say, I do have a certain... flair for the dramatic."
He turned to face them fully, his smile wide and teasing, as if enjoying the absurdity of their confusion.
Then after that Sparda, look serious.
"Ahem… Find the others."Sparda said, his tone suddenly cutting through the air. "I'll handle the scouting. Don't make me come after you. You screw up, and trust me, it won't be a fun reunion."
The demons nodded, bowing as they scuttled off to do their bidding. Sparda turned back to face the human world. His lips curled into a slight sneer as he began walking. This wasn't the first time he'd ventured here—Mundus had sent many before him—but something about this place unsettled him. The whispers of the humans and their fragile existence had always been beneath him, but as he moved deeper into the ruins, the eeriness began to gnaw at him. It was unsettling how... unremarkable everything seemed.
As Sparda wandered through the remnants of a village—now little more than a graveyard of buildings and fallen statues. Charred wooden beams lay strewn across the ground, the remnants of a chapel crumbling under the weight of some demon's fury. The air smelled of destruction and scorched earth. It was silent, save for the occasional rustling of wind, moving dust through the cracks of fallen stone.
The human world was an oddity, full of decay but strangely alive in its own, fragile way.
Sparda with a hint of sarcasm "These humans worship weaklings. No wonder they're losing."
He passed the broken walls of what had once been a chapel, the faded remnants of a cross lying in the dirt. With a casual movement, he kicked the broken wooden cross aside, his boot leaving a trail in the ash-covered earth. His eyes narrowed, irritated by the sight.
Sparda, under his breath "Where the hell is everyone? This is supposed to be a place of humans... Where are they?"
His mind wandered, thinking about the scouts who'd vanished here. Mundus had sent them before him, and they hadn't returned. Something was off, but Sparda couldn't place his finger on it.
He continued walking, each step echoing off the ruins. His gaze swept over the empty streets, the lifeless buildings, searching for any sign of the humans he had been sent to investigate. But all he found were remnants of their desperation. No living souls. Just the dead, and the demons that had caused their downfall.
Sparda, muttering to himself "Damn it. I must have ended up in the worst part of the world. Why did the portal send me here?"
His boots crunched over broken stone and glass as he moved, his dark cloak trailing behind him. The sense of emptiness pressed in on him, stifling any lingering thoughts. The demons had already ravaged this place, but he still couldn't shake the feeling that something was off.
Suddenly his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden scream. The cry of a human—high-pitched and filled with terror.
Sparda's head snapped toward the sound. There, in the distance, he saw a small figure struggling desperately against the grasp of a snarling demon. The creature, grotesque and hulking, had its claws wrapped tightly around the child's throat.
Sparda, under his breath, cold "Not my problem."
He turned to walk away, uninterested. It was just one more human, no different from the countless others who had perished. Yet, something in his chest stirred—an uncomfortable feeling. He wasn't sure what it was, but it wasn't worth his attention. Still, he hesitated.
Then, the child's voice echoed again, louder this time, tinged with desperation:
Child, screaming "Help me!! Please!"
Sparda stopped. His body stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the child. The plea hit him harder than he expected. But it wasn't the plea itself that got his attention—it was the urgency in the voice, the raw, unrefined fear that seemed to seep into his very bones.
He could have turned away—he should have turned away. But his feet were rooted to the ground, a curiosity gnawing at him. He wasn't sure why it bothered him. Perhaps it was the way the child had cried out, the intensity of the helplessness in those words.
Sparda's gaze flicked to the demons.
They hadn't noticed him yet, too focused on their prey. One of them—an arrogant, bulky demon—laughed loudly, turning to mock the child.
Demon 1, mocking "Idiot... You're calling him for help?"
A bitter laugh escaped Sparda's lips. The demon had no idea.
Before the words could leave the creature's throat, Sparda moved. Like lightning.
With a single, clean motion, his sword was drawn. It flashed in the sunlight, a blur of steel. The demon's head flew from its shoulders, hitting the ground with a sickening thud. The body slumped, still twitching, as blood pooled around it.
The second demon, startled by the sudden violence, turned to face him. Its eyes widened with shock—but by then, it was already too late.
Sparda, voice calm, as his sword withdrew
"You talk too much."
The second demon didn't even have a chance to scream before Sparda's sword sliced through the air once more. There was a sickening SHUNK, and the demon fell, its body collapsing to the ground in a heap.
Ash drifted in the wind, scattering around the child's form.
The small figure on the ground, trembling with fear, now looked up at Sparda, their eyes wide and filled with awe and confusion. The child had tears streaking down their dirt-smeared face, but in the chaos, there was a flicker of something else—something like disbelief. Their voice, small and shaking, barely escaped their lips.
Child, sniffling "You... you're a demon hunter, right?"
Sparda stared at the child for a moment, unsure of how to respond. His mind raced. "Demon hunter?" That was what the reports had mentioned—someone capable of standing against the demons. Was this what they had meant?
He glanced down at the child. His heart, if it even existed in the way humans understood it, seemed to tighten. A strange, unsettling feeling swirled within him.
Sparda, crossing his arms and smirking with a sharp glint in his eye, shrugs nonchalantly. "Yeah, yeah... guess you could call me a demon hunter. Though, I'd rather be the one hunting them. But hey, that's just me." He glances away, trying to mask the flicker of discomfort beneath his bravado. "Not that it matters."
His voice was indifferent, a lie as easily told as any truth. The words came out with a sharpness he didn't quite feel, but his instincts pushed him to lie. He wasn't a demon hunter. He was Sparda, a demon of unimaginable power, loyal to the Demon Emperor Mundus. Yet, for some reason, something about this child made him hesitate. The gnawing feeling inside him grew louder, though he couldn't make sense of it. He watched the child for a moment longer, but he couldn't stay here.
Turning his back, he started to walk away, leaving the child in the ruins.
Suddenly, the child's voice cut through the silence.
"Wait!"
Sparda's foot stopped mid-step, and he turned his head slightly. The voice was trembling—desperation heavy in its tone. He had no time for this. He wasn't here to babysit.
Sparda, with irritation creeping into his voice
"What?"
The child stammered, clearly unsure of how to continue, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Um... I... uh I don't know where to go."
Sparda just sighed, a little bit irritation in his gut gnawing at him once more. He wasn't interested in whatever mess this child had found herself in.
Sparda, his voice clipped, not even turning around to face her fully.
"Look, lass, I have no time for a nursemaid or some such nonsense. Go find somewhere else and … Stay away from me."
He meant it. His mission here was to scout the area, to complete his task and report back to Mundus. This child, lost in the wreckage, was just another piece of collateral damage in a world teetering on the edge of destruction. She didn't matter to him.
But then, he felt it again. That strange, uncomfortable feeling—like an itch in his chest, an unfamiliar weight in his stomach. The child's gaze—those wide, innocent eyes—was fixated on him. He could feel her staring at his back, her silent plea seeping through the cracks in his resolve.
Sparda, his thoughts cold, almost reprimanding himself
(Should I kill this girl for making me feel these weird things.)
Then, the child did something unexpected. She didn't retreat. She didn't run. She just stood there, looking at him with those eyes. Eyes full of... hope? Maybe not. But something in her gaze twisted his stomach in knots.
Sparda, gritting his teeth, unable to ignore her any longer.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
For some reason, he turned back around. The child hadn't moved an inch. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, but there was a stubbornness in her stance—something in her that refused to yield.
Sparda, with forced indifference, fighting the weird knot of frustration in his chest
"Fine. Whatever. So, you're lost? Everyone's lost. But you're not my problem."
The words felt hollow, like he was lying to himself. He wasn't the one who should care. He shouldn't care. She was nothing. Just another human, weak and fragile. And yet, here he was, standing in front of her, unable to just leave. That strange feeling twisted inside him again.
The child looked up at him, her face still holding that ridiculous expression of hope, as if she believed in him. The irony almost made him laugh—who was he, after all? A demon general, one of the most feared in the Underworld, now being looked at like some kind of savior. The absurdity of it all was maddening.
Sparda thought bitterly
(Again, this weird feeling... Tsk.)
He sighed again, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He wasn't used to this. He wasn't used to feeling—let alone caring.
Then he glanced down at the girl, his scowl deepening as he crossed his arms. After a brief pause, he finally broke the silence.
"What's your name, Lass?"
She blinked at him, eyes wide. "I'm Trish... 10 years old."
Sparda scoffed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Your age isn't necessary, idiot." He sighed heavily this time, almost as if the air itself was too thick to breathe. Then, his gaze hardened, voice laced with indifference. "Okay, Trish. You're not my problem. So go away."
Then Sparda started to walk away once more, the sound of small, hurried footsteps echoed behind him. The child—was following him. His senses heightened instantly, his demonic instincts flaring, warning him of any movement out of place. But this... this was different. It's human smell.
Sparda, still not turning around, his voice low and controlled.
"Didn't I tell you to stay away from me?"
His words were sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. He could feel her approaching, her presence now a constant buzz in his peripheral vision. He didn't want to deal with her. He couldn't deal with her. She wasn't his responsibility.
But despite the irritation rising inside him, he couldn't quite shake the strange pull he felt toward her.
Trish's voice broke the silence, quiet and unsure, but still persistent.
Trish, her voice small yet firm.
"I... I don't have anywhere else to go..."
"I don't care I'm not a Servant"
Sparda's hand tightened on the hilt of his Yamato, his thoughts a swirl of frustration. He wasn't in the mood for this. The mission was more important. He didn't have time to babysit.
But as he turned a corner, he caught a glimpse of her reflection in the broken shards of glass on the ground. Her face, streaked with dirt, held a stubborn determination—something that reminded him, oddly enough, of himself. When he was younger, when he had fought to carve his own path, to rise above the demons who sought to control him. And this girl, have that same fire flickered in her eyes.
Sparda, voice barely a whisper to himself, almost as if trying to convince his own conscience.
"Why are you still following me?"
He was aware of every step she took behind him. He could hear her breathing. It was almost maddening, the way she refused to give up, the way she clung to him despite the coldness in his voice.
Trish, finally mustering the courage to speak louder, her voice growing stronger but stammer.
"Because... I think following you is the best option."
Sparda's chest tightened at the words. He was used to being feared, to being seen as a monster. Yet here she was, so innocent and naive, still hoping he would be her savior. His mind screamed at him to push her away, to ignore the nagging voice in his head, to continue his cold path of detachment. But deep down, there was something in him—a flicker of something long buried, that couldn't stand to see her so vulnerable. He couldn't quite to understand.
He stopped walking, his feet planting firmly into the cracked earth beneath him. His fists clenched. He didn't want to feel this.
Sparda, slowly turning to face her, his expression unreadable.
"I'm not your hero, lass. And I sure as hell don't have time to play one."
Trish looked up at him, her eyes wide with something close to desperation, but there was no fear. Her gaze was steady, almost unyielding.
Trish, softly stammer but with undeniable conviction.
"Maybe not... But I think… f..F..oll..owing you is a.. rig..ht decision."
The words hung in the air like an accusation, a challenge. Sparda felt the weight of them sink into his chest, and for a brief moment, he felt a shiver of something raw and unrelenting.
Sparda's voice, now softer, barely audible, as if he was speaking to himself more than her.
"Don't... don't look at me like that. You don't know who I am."
But it was already too late. Trish had already made up her mind.
"I… I… Id…do…n't care" she said stammering.
Sparda, his thoughts racing, trying to fight the pull but failing, spoke with a quiet, reluctant finality. "Fine. But don't get in my way. You stay out of trouble, and we'll see where this goes."
Trish nodded, a soft but determined smile spreading across her face. She had won. She had gotten through to him.
To be continue