The name is Vergil; there is no last name, as far as you yourselves are concerned. I doubt you know of me. Frolicking amongst the lesser beings of the world doesn't happen to be one of my favorite past times. I am the eldest son of Sparda, a being that rose against his own kind in Hell for mankind, for all of the good it did him. His power, while impressive, served him little in the end where he was as weak as a child against those who sought their retribution at last.
Or so I've been told.
Firstly, let me make it crystal clear that I am not your friend. I will not be your shoulder to cry on, and I could honestly care less about each of your pitiful mortal woes and whinings. I have far better things to do with my time. Each of you is an insect, scuttling along on a meaningless path that bears little on my own. Impressive as you may seem on the surface, you all die the same.
To further this point, I will state here and now that I am a nephilim; that is, a half-demon born to the 'hero' of mankind and a mortal woman. As far as I know, both parents are dead. I could care less one way or the other, unlike the wibbling little snotrag I am forced to call brother. Yes, that's right. Even monsters like myself have kith and kin: He'd be a demon hunter, and a shoddy one at that. A more pitiful, futile profession I could not imagine if I tried. A more pathetic, emotional bag of failings you would be hardpressed to find.
Instead...You could say I am interested in knowledge. Power. Those who prove to be of some use are rewarded accordingly. I might be heartless, but I am not without my honor. Those who do not...Well. I don't believe I need to point out the obvious.
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