January 2005 – Xavier Institute for Higher Learning
The mansion slept under a heavy sky.
Only the hum of Cerebro and the quiet buzz of televisions filled the silence.
Illyana Rasputina sat on the windowsill of her room, the Soul Sword resting across her knees.
It had been a year since she'd heard Eva's voice whisper through Limbo's storms—a promise and a warning.
Find my son… your childhood friend… and help him mend what is breaking.
She'd tried. Every portal she opened led to dead ends or fragments of corrupted energy.
And every time she prepared to leave, Professor X stopped her.
"You've done enough traveling between worlds, Illyana."
So she stayed. Waiting. Listening.
Downstairs, the television flickered to another late-night news bulletin.
"Authorities are investigating another wave of occult activity in New York City. Witnesses claim a flaming figure on a motorcycle appeared in Hell's Kitchen, attacking members of a satanic cult.
Officials are still struggling to explain the catastrophic explosion now known as 'The Tower Incident,' which occurred on October 23rd, 2004, at approximately 3:47 a.m. when a column of green fire erupted over Lower Manhattan. The blast leveled several city blocks and left hundreds injured. Though no explosives were found, investigators continue to classify the event as an unidentified energy detonation.
City authorities have since restricted access to the site, citing radiation and structural instability. However, independent witnesses claim strange lights and tremors continue beneath the ruins.
Online forums have begun referring to it as the 'Tower of Hell,' linking the October disaster to the recent wave of cult activity and sightings of so-called 'demonic entities.'
Experts warn that incidents of demon-summoning and devil-worship continue to rise across the East Coast. Many of these cults invoke a single name… the Son of Sparda."
Illyana's eyes narrowed. On the screen, shaky phone footage showed a blur of gunfire and swordlight tearing through a pack of demons.
The figure moved like chaos wrapped in precision. She recognized the rhythm instantly.
Illyana leaned forward on the couch, blue eyes flickering with the TV's glow.
She didn't blink. She didn't move.
Only her hand trembled slightly, clutching the crescent pendant at her neck.
Her brother stepped into the doorway, his voice soft.
"You should turn that off, Illyana. Professor says it isn't healthy to dwell on—"
"On what?" she cut him off. "The past?"
Piotr sighed. "You've been restless since the Tower fell. These cult stories… they're not connected to you."
Illyana turned to face him, her voice cold but steady.
"They're connected to Dante Sparda. You know this."
The pendant pulsed faintly in her hand—just like it had eight years ago.
Eight Years Ago – Xavier Institute for Higher Learning (Flashback)
It had only been a few months since she'd arrived.
The mansion was warm and loud, full of laughter that didn't sound like home.
New York was all light and noise—nothing like the quiet plains of Russia, nothing like her father's forge.
Her father had been a blacksmith. Strong hands. A soft smile.
He died the night the Sparda family was attacked.
The sky turned red. Monsters came out of the smoke.
People called it a fire, but Illyana remembered claws, teeth, and screams.
Her brother Piotr had tried to reach her through the flames.
When he saw their father's body, his grief broke him—and his skin turned to steel.
That was the first time he became Colossus.
Afterward, the two of them were taken to the United States.
Professor Xavier promised Piotr a home and Illyana a future.
"Here, you'll be safe," Piotr told her as he showed her around the halls. "No one will ever hurt you again."
She'd wanted to believe him.
Around her neck, she still wore the red scarf that Piotr had salvaged from the fire—charred at the edges, frayed from years of wear.
He'd found it among the ruins when the villagers discovered Eva's body.
Her twin sons and her friends were missing, presumed dead.
The scarf had belonged to Dante, her childhood friend.
She still remembered when all three of them—Dante, Vergil, and herself—played in the snow outside the Sparda home, laughing until their faces burned red from the cold.
The scarf was all that remained of those days.
A fragment of warmth from a world that no longer existed.
That night, the wind howled outside the mansion.
Thunder rolled over Westchester, distant but growing closer.
Illyana couldn't sleep.
She sat by the window, the red scarf wrapped tight around her shoulders, the crescent pendant glinting faintly in the dark.
The air began to hum.
A soft vibration, deep and wrong, rippled through the floorboards.
She turned, confused, watching the shadows stretch unnaturally across the room.
Then she heard it.
"Illyana…"
Her breath caught. "Papa?"
The voice came again, warmer now, almost kind.
"Come to me, little one… you are needed."
Symbols started burning into the floor—lines of crimson light forming a circle beneath her feet.
The walls groaned. The window shattered inward, scattering glass and rain.
The pendant around her neck glowed faintly, a soft, steady light beneath the chaos.
The scarf lifted as the air twisted violently around her.
Illyana screamed. "Piotr!"
Doors burst open across the hall. Piotr charged in, already turning to steel, his eyes wide with horror.
Behind him came Ororo, lightning sparking at her fingertips, and Jean, psychic light already building around her.
"Stay away from it!" Jean shouted. "It's not mutant energy!"
The light turned blood-red. The runes on the floor pulsed like a heartbeat.
Piotr lunged forward, his metal arm reaching through the storm.
"Illyana, take my hand!"
She reached—their fingertips brushed—then the floor exploded in a vortex of fire and darkness.
"She is mine."
The voice echoed through every wall, rattling the mansion's foundations.
A column of flame shot upward, swallowing her whole.
"NO!" Piotr roared, slamming his fist into the burning circle, his metal skin cracking from the heat.
Ororo's lightning struck the portal, Jean's power tried to close it, but the rift only screamed louder.
Through the fire, they saw her—falling, her pendant dim against the red light.
Then she was gone.
The portal collapsed, leaving nothing but scorch marks and silence.
Ash drifted to the ground like snow.
Piotr fell to his knees, the metal fading from his skin. His hands trembled as he clawed at the blackened floor.
"Illyana…"
The red scarf lay half-buried in ash beside him—burned, but still whole.
Jean knelt next to him, tears streaking her face. "She's gone."
Piotr stared at the scarf in his hands, his voice barely a whisper.
"No… she's still calling for me."
Illyana POV – Limbo (Flashback)
The fall seemed endless.
Flames howled past her like screaming faces, and the air burned her lungs.
Illyana tumbled through black smoke, reaching for something—anything—but there was nothing to grab.
When she finally hit the ground, it wasn't earth that caught her.
It was ash. Warm, dry, and alive.
She coughed, the sound echoing across a sky that wasn't a sky at all—crimson clouds swirling above an endless sea of fire.
The air shimmered with heat and whispers.
"She's here."
"The mortal child."
"The one who can open the gates between worlds."
Shapes moved in the smoke—thin, jagged silhouettes with wings of bone and eyes like dying suns.
They circled her, claws scraping sparks from the stone.
Illyana stumbled backward, trembling. "Stay away!"
The demons laughed.
"The child who can open a portal to the human world."
"The master will be pleased."
A new voice cut through the chaos.
Deep. Smooth. Ancient.
"Enough."
The demons froze.
A figure stepped from the fire—tall, draped in crimson robes, his horns long and curved like blades.
His eyes burned gold, and his smile was too kind to be real.
"Welcome, little one," he said. "You heard the call."
Illyana's knees shook. "W-Who are you?"
"Your savior… or your captor. It depends on how you behave."
He reached out a clawed hand, brushing her cheek with unsettling gentleness.
"You may call me Belasco."
Her breath hitched. The world itself seemed to flinch when he spoke his name.
Behind him, the sky pulsed. Black towers of iron rose from molten plains, chains as thick as trees dragging glowing sigils through the air.
The whole realm breathed like a living beast.
Belasco studied her, amused.
"So small, and yet your blood hums with power. A mutant… one who can carve doors through reality itself."
He smiled wider. "Do you know what that means, Illyana Rasputina?"
She shook her head. "I just want to go home!"
"Oh, you will." His grin deepened. "But not the way you think."
He snapped his claws. The ground erupted in fire.
Demons slithered closer, chains in their hands.
Illyana tried to run, but they grabbed her arms, dragging her toward him.
She kicked, screamed, bit—but the strength of Hell was endless.
Belasco turned and walked into the fire.
The demons followed, pulling her with them as the gates of Limbo sealed shut behind them.
Her screams faded into the roar of the storm.
Deep beneath the noise, the crescent pendant hidden beneath her clothes pulsed once—softly, faintly—like a heartbeat waiting to be heard.