Devil May Cry Apr 2026

"You’re late for the party, Vergil," Dante said without opening his eyes. "And you’re tracking demon blood on my rug."

Vergil’s hand tightened on the hilt of his katana. The room seemed to hold its breath as blue sparks of electricity began to dance around him. "Your jokes are as dull as your blade, Dante. Let us see if your reflexes have aged as poorly as your sense of humor." Devil May Cry

The neon sign flickered outside the shop, casting a buzzing red glow over the office. Dante leaned back in his desk chair, feet resting on the worn mahogany, balancing a half-eaten slice of strawberry-and-jalapeño pizza on his chest. "You’re late for the party, Vergil," Dante said

"Style never ages, brother," Dante laughed, twirling his sword. "Let’s rock!" "Your jokes are as dull as your blade, Dante

Vergil stepped through, Yamato sheathed at his side. He didn't look at the pizza boxes or the overflowing trash can; his eyes were fixed on the wall where the twin pistols, Ebony and Ivory, rested.

Suddenly, the air in the room grew cold—not the chill of an air conditioner, but the sharp, biting cold of a storm that hadn't arrived yet. The space behind his desk shimmered, and a rift in reality tore open.

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