New York City
The city was used to noise. Honking horns, shouting cabbies, subway rumbles. Even chaos had rhythm here — until the ground itself broke it.
It started with a low groan, like metal twisting under the streets. Then came the crack. Asphalt split, sidewalks buckled, and cars screeched to a halt as the rumble grew into a roar.
A family spilled out of a corner deli, the father clutching a paper bag of groceries. His daughter tugged his coat, wide eyes reflecting the green fire erupting in the distance.
"Daddy… the sky's breaking."
On the horizon, past the glow of Times Square, a spire of black stone tore its way upward. Windows shattered for blocks, glass raining like jagged snow. The tower climbed higher and higher, swallowing clouds as if the city itself was being impaled.
People screamed. Some ran. Others just stood and stared.
In a diner, the old waitress who had just served Dante froze mid-pour, coffee spilling onto the counter. Her younger coworker pressed against the glass.
"What is that?" she whispered.
The older woman crossed herself. "Something this city's not ready for."
On a rooftop nearby, teens chasing rumors of Spider-Man caught the spire's rise on grainy camcorder tape. Their laughter died as one muttered, "Dude… that's not Spider-Man."
A street preacher clutched his Bible tighter, shouting over the chaos: "Repent! The gates of Hell are opening!"
The tower loomed higher, veins of green fire pulsing through its stone. The air grew heavy, colder, as though the city had been shoved under the shadow of something ancient.
And then came the chant — distant, thunderous, carried on the wind:
"The blood of Sparda will open the gate to Hell."
New York had seen freaks, vigilantes, even monsters. But this was something older. Something worse. And for the first time in a long time, the city was afraid.
Queens
The night had been typical Spider-Man fare: one carjacker with too much Red Bull, two muggers, and a cat on a fire escape that clawed him for trying to help.
"Note to self," Peter muttered as he swung past Roosevelt Avenue. "Cats don't say thank you."
His next arc carried him over an elevated train when the ground shook. The vibration rattled his webline. Peter turned — and froze.
Across the Manhattan skyline, a tower of jagged black stone climbed into the clouds. Green fire bled through the seams. Whole blocks vanished under its shadow.
"Holy…" Peter's voice caught in his throat. "…that's not good."
The crowd below screamed. A child tugged at his mother's sleeve.
"Mommy… is this the end of the world?"
Peter crouched low on the truck he'd just saved, watching the spire stab at the clouds.
"…Yeah," he muttered under his mask. "This is definitely above my pay grade."
S.H.I.E.L.D.
The Helicarrier hadn't been commissioned yet. S.H.I.E.L.D. was still buried in black sites, satellites, and a hundred classified watchlists no civilian would ever see. But when a tower of jagged stone erupted out of Manhattan, even their most jaded agents went pale.
Inside a dim command room, walls lined with screens and paper files decades out of date, the main feed showed the spire clawing into the sky. Green fire bled through its veins. The skyline was nothing but alarms and smoke.
"Sir," Agent Hill reported, eyes locked on the data feed, "that thing's grown over six hundred feet in under five minutes. No known energy signature. Radiation spikes are off the charts but it's… not nuclear."
Nick Fury stood at the center, coat heavy on his shoulders, one eye fixed on the burning screens. His face gave nothing away.
"Run it against everything," he ordered, his voice low, sharp. "Mutant incidents. Hydra archives. Hell, check those dusty scrolls our team pulled outta Siberia. That tower didn't just sprout like a weed. Somebody planted it."
Hill hesitated, then slid a transcript across the desk. "We've also intercepted chatter from the cultists in the area. They're chanting. We ran a linguistic analysis. The name they keep repeating is… Sparda."
That name made the room colder. Analysts shifted uncomfortably.
Fury didn't move for a long moment, then finally spoke, his tone like gravel.
"Sparda. That name's been haunting files longer than half the agents in this room have been alive. Vatican archives tried to bury it. Cambridge locked it in their Black Library. Hydra had references to it — redacted, and Hydra doesn't redact anything."
Hill frowned. "What does it mean?"
"Depends who you ask," Fury said, pacing a slow circle. "Some call him a traitor knight — a demon that turned against his own. Others say he's nothing but a bedtime story cooked up to scare kids. But the oldest records? They talk about Sparda like he was real. A warlord who put Hell itself in chains and walked away."
He stabbed a finger toward the map, where the tower pulsed like a wound in the city.
"And now I've got that name being screamed in the middle of Manhattan."
The analysts exchanged nervous looks. One finally spoke. "Sir, if this escalates, local law enforcement won't hold. Manhattan could go into full-scale collapse within hours."
"Then keep it quiet," Fury snapped. "Contain the panic. Lock the island down if you have to. But get me eyes inside that tower. I don't care if it's one agent or one damn street rat — I want eyes."
Hill's voice lowered. "And if the chants are true? If the name Sparda really means what those records say?"
Fury leaned over the table, his single eye locked on the jagged spire on-screen. His voice dropped, heavy, certain.
"Then Hell didn't just send us a warning. It sent us an invitation."
Kamar-Taj, Nepal
The scrying mirror rippled, reflecting the burning tower across the world.
The Ancient One stood before it, calm, her saffron robes unmoving despite the shifting air. She had seen this moment a thousand times.
"So… the time has come," she murmured. "The son of Sparda takes his first steps."
The mirror shifted, showing a young man with white hair, a crimson coat, and a blade across his back. He walked through chaos with a smirk, oblivious to the weight of destiny behind him.
"Carefree. Reckless. Just like his father." Her gaze sharpened. "But destiny is never gentle. And Dante cannot outrun what he is."
The mirror stilled. The chamber was quiet once more.
The Tower — Ulysses Bloodstone
The chamber reeked of ash and parchment. Ulysses Bloodstone sat at its heart, green fire from the tower's veins bleeding across his face.
In his hands lay an ancient tome. His finger traced the name scrawled across brittle pages: Sparda.
"One man… against all of Hell. And he triumphed," Ulysses whispered, voice raw with envy. "Why should his bloodline alone hold that power?"
The shard in his chest — the corrupted fragment of the Bloodgem — pulsed hotly, searing through his veins. The tower groaned in answer.
"No. That power will be mine. I'll tear open the gate. His legend will end — and mine will begin."
The shadows leaned closer, whispering his name.
Dante POV – New York City
The city was chaos — sirens, screams, traffic gridlock. And through it all, Dante walked.
Pizza slice in one hand, Rebellion on his back, he weaved through the crowd like it was just another night. The crimson coat flared behind him, catching sparks from dead streetlights.
"Tower of Hell in Manhattan and everyone's running scared. Guess no one told 'em panic doesn't stop the rent."
Finally, he reached St. Patrick's Cathedral, untouched amid the chaos. Its stained glass glowed faintly, daring the darkness.
Dante stopped at the massive doors, finishing his slice. He wiped his hands on his coat and tilted his head up.
"Never thought I'd be running back to church. Guess miracles do happen."
He shoved the doors open, boots echoing across the marble floor.
"Alright, Matteo," he called, voice bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. "You rang, I came. But next time, give me a heads-up if the invite includes a giant demon tower."