The generals had fallen.
One by one, they crumbled beneath his blade — the warlords of hell, shattered by a traitor's and the humans hand.
Now, in the heart of the demon world, only two remained.
Sparda, the legendary Dark Knight, stood bloodied but unbroken. His armor was scorched, his breathing heavy — yet his eyes burned with unshakable purpose.
And before him stood Mundus — the King of the Demon World. Towering, cold, untouched by the carnage around them.
The sky above swirled with fire and shadow. The ground trembled beneath their power. This was no army. No war.
Only a reckoning.
Mundus stared at Sparda with something between hatred and fascination. He could not understand this rebellion, this betrayal. A devil choosing humanity?
"You destroyed them all," Mundus said, his voice like thunder. "My generals. My champions. My empire."
Sparda said nothing.
"You spoke of human feelings… of love… of freedom... pathetic things."
He took a step closer. The air grew heavier.
"Then tell me, Sparda…"
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"Can a devil cry?"
Sparda slowly raised his head. A faint, defiant smirk traced his lips.
"Devil may cry."