POV: Michael
The train station behind him had already faded into silence. Only the fading chime of Fortuna's bells echoed through the air—deep, solemn tolls that rolled through the sky like slow thunder.
Michael stepped into the plaza, adjusting the strap of his worn duffel. A phone rested at his ear, but his eyes were constantly moving—across the gilded rooftops, down white-stone alleyways, scanning the city like he was reading a puzzle already halfway solved.
Fortuna.
Exactly like the files had described it: a polished illusion.
White marble trimmed in gold, streets arranged like a cathedral floor. Incense drifted faintly in the warm air. Choir music echoed distantly from some unseen tower. Locals moved like they were part of a stage play—slow, careful, devout. Even the shadows here seemed rehearsed.
Then he saw it.
At the heart of the plaza: a massive statue of Sparda.
Pale stone. Cloaked in grandeur. Sword driven into the ground, head bowed like a divine sentinel. His eyes, chiseled with ridiculous precision, gazed eternally down at the masses below.
Michael stopped.
One corner of his mouth twitched.
"Yeah," he said into the phone. "I'm here. Fortuna."
Morrison's voice crackled back through the line. "You should find him there. If anyone knows about those crystals, it's Machiaveli."
Michael's gaze drifted to the alleys beyond the square. "You sure this guy's not a myth?"
"I never said that."
Michael gave a quiet snort. "Figures."
"Just be careful," Morrison said. "Fortuna's clean on the outside, but it's a city built on demon bones."
"I'll call you when I have something."
"Stay breathing."
The call ended.
Michael slid the phone into his coat and looked up once more at the stone figure of Sparda.
Years had passed. Whole wars had come and gone. And still, they bowed to the demon who turned on his own kind.
He wasn't angry about it anymore.
Not really.
But the bitterness was still there—duller, but present.
'They turned him into a god,' he thought. 'Sealed the gates, gave up everything… and they built a religion out of it.'
He turned away from the statue and headed for the cathedral steps.
'Let's see how much of that is real.'
Flashback – Several Months Ago | Underground Bar, Southern Wastes
The bar was quiet before it wasn't.
Cracked neon flickered in the corner. Dust hung in the air like smoke that didn't want to leave. Michael had barely touched his drink before the wall exploded.
Three demons poured through—gray, skeletal things with too many joints and skin like cracked leather. Their claws clicked as they moved. They reeked of old fire and rot.
Michael stood.
Didn't draw.
The first lunged.
He grabbed a stool and slammed it into the demon's chest, pinning it against the counter. Then he crushed its skull into splinters.
The second slashed across his shoulder. He grunted, pulled a blade from his coat, and buried it into its ribcage.
The third turned to run.
Michael grabbed it by the spine and snapped its neck against the bar.
It all took under thirty seconds.
Then silence.
Blood and crystal shimmered in black pools beneath the neon.
The front door creaked open. Morrison stepped in, raising an eyebrow. "This your idea of a quiet meeting?"
"They weren't on the guest list," Michael replied, wiping blood from his jaw.
He reached into his coat and placed two crystals on the bar—one red, one blue, both faintly pulsing like small, angry hearts.
Morrison leaned in but didn't touch. "Inside them?"
Michael nodded. "If you find anything, let me know."
"You'll be the first."
Present – Fortuna Outer District
Michael passed beneath an arched walkway as he entered the cathedral quarter.
Statues lined the road—soldiers, saints, angels. Sparda repeated in every pose imaginable: triumphant, grieving, roaring in battle. Gold filigree curled around every pedestal. Choir music floated through the air like mist.
He paused as a line of worshippers lit candles at a stone altar.
'They love him like he saved them all,' he thought. 'But what did they lose to get it?'
He didn't hate Sparda anymore.
But admiration? That wasn't coming anytime soon.
POV: Unknown Demon – Rooftop
It had followed him since the station.
At first, nothing unusual. Just a traveler.
Then came the scent—faint, but unmistakable. Wrong. Twisted. Something ancient slept under that human skin.
The demon crawled across tiled rooftops, bone claws digging grooves into the stone. Its second pair of eyes blinked open beneath its mask. It tracked Michael's path, following through the alleys near the cathedral's edge.
Soon.
Soon it would strike.
Its master would be pleased.
POV: Michael
The streets thinned. The crowds faded.
Now he walked through the older parts of Fortuna—places where stone cracked and the silence spoke louder than any prayer.
Instinct slowed his steps.
The pressure shifted.
The shadows held their breath.
'Something's here.'
He stopped behind a crumbling chapel, where the ivy clung to old stone and the air tasted colder.
He waited.
Then said, low and even: "Alright. I know you're there."
Silence.
Then the thing dropped.
It landed behind him in complete silence—a tall demon with blade arms and glowing eyes, mouth twitching in anticipation.
Michael turned slowly.
His hand dropped to his side.
"You here to talk?"
The demon snarled and lunged.
Michael stepped aside and drove a punch across its face. Bone cracked. It hit the wall, rebounded, and slashed.
He ducked low, twisted, kneed it in the stomach, then hurled it into the wall. Stone splintered.
The thing flickered—teleporting mid-air.
Michael was already moving.
His short sword came out in a flash of silver. He spun, blade catching the demon mid-warp.
Black blood splashed across the cobbles.
It collapsed, twitching.
Michael crouched over the body, blade still dripping.
"Wrong tail to follow," he muttered.
He wiped the blade clean on the creature's cloak and stood.
No time to waste.
Fortuna had just opened its doors—and he wasn't done knocking.