Devil May Cry : New World

POV: Michael

The blast rocked the ridge like a thunderclap.

Michael dropped to a knee, one arm shielding his face as dirt and debris rained down. The shockwave cracked trees and kicked dust into the sky. He gritted his teeth as the roar that followed washed over the forest like a scream through bone.

That wasn't just noise.

It was presence.

The mimic had arrived.

Down below, the forest writhed. Shadows shifted, split, reformed. Dozens of humanoid figures stepped forward—identical silhouettes, all moving in flawless unison. Same height. Same armor. Same soulless gaze.

Only one was real.

The rest? Illusions. Perfect copies. And any one of them could kill.

"Shit," Steve muttered under his breath, watching from behind a boulder. "We're pulling back. If that thing is like Baines said—"

"I'll stay," Michael said, already stepping forward.

Steve grabbed his arm. "That's suicide."

Michael turned to face him, calm. "I'll distract it. Get the others out."

Steve hesitated a second too long. Then he nodded, jaw clenched. "Don't be a hero."

Michael gave no reply.

He was already moving.

POV: Phage

They scattered.

How quaint.

Phage remained still, his real body hidden deep in the shadows while his copies flooded the field. Each one a mirror. Each one him.

His thoughts flowed through all of them—his will, his eyes, his blades.

And among them, one soul moved differently.

The quiet one. The one that smelled like fire smothered in human skin.

He's not like the others.

Phage grinned through a dozen faces.

'This would be fun.'

POV: Mary

They were halfway up the slope when the forest screamed.

Mary turned just in time to see a wave ripple outward through the trees. A wall of figures—dozens of them, all the same—surged into the fray. Her heart dropped.

"Michael…" she breathed.

Evie stumbled behind her, blood running down one leg, eyes glassy. Only two others remained from their original team. Everyone else had fallen.

Mary didn't hesitate.

"Find cover," she told Evie, shoving her gently toward the ridge. "Stay low. Stay alive."

Evie blinked at her. "You're going after him?"

"I don't leave friends behind."

And with that, Mary ran.

POV: Michael

He was already inside the storm.

Blades sliced through the air. Illusions twisted around him in tight circles. One lunged—he ducked under it, firing a burst. The figure vanished in a ripple of static.

Eight left.

He moved faster than most would expect, ducking low, spinning to the side, sliding under another swing. His combat knife tore through one throat—fake. Another disappeared.

Seven.

A slash caught his leg—real pain, sharp and hot. He rolled, gritted his teeth, and slashed upward.

Nothing.

Not the real one.

He needed a pattern. A weakness. Some tell. Something to separate the fake from the truth.

They kept shifting.

Kept pressing.

POV: Mary

She burst into the clearing just in time to see Michael drop another clone.

He was surrounded—nine of them now. Moving in a circle, circling like wolves around fire.

He was bleeding. Staggering.

Still moving.

Still fighting.

Mary raised her rifle. "Michael!"

But her voice didn't come out.

One of the mimics turned.

It saw her.

It moved.

Too fast.

She fired—twice. Both shots missed as it darted in, slammed her backward into a tree with bone-breaking force.

Pain exploded in her ribs. She felt something give.

The creature raised its claw—

She spit in its face and hit him. Blood and spit.

The thing hissed, recoiling.

Her blood mixed with something darker on its face. Black.

It bled.

Her eyes went wide.

Only one bleeds.

POV: Michael

He saw it too.

Out of the corner of his eye, the copy that flinched.

The blood on its cheek. Hers and its.

The real one.

His heartbeat slowed.

Everything else—noise, pain, motion—faded.

He moved.

"Mary!" he shouted, tearing forward.

She didn't respond.

No time.

He ripped the grenades from his belt—four total—and charged.

The mimic saw him.

Tried to vanish.

But Michael was already there.

He slammed into it with everything he had, locked arms around its torso, held it in place.

"See you in hell."

He pulled the pins.

The Explosion

It wasn't just noise.

It was obliteration.

The blast lit the trees like a second sun, shredding the undergrowth, flattening the clearing. Heat blasted outward, a wave of fire and wind that swallowed everything.

POV: Mary

Silence.

Then, the ringing.

She blinked, but everything stayed dark. The blast had blinded her—white light scorched into her eyes.

"Michael…?"

No answer.

She tried to move, but pain bloomed across her ribs and back. Her legs refused.

Everything felt distant. Fading.

Then—nothing.

POV: Michael

The fire didn't kill him.

Not fully.

The shrapnel had torn deep—ribs cracked, skin peeled, vision gone red.

And then the mask dropped.

In that moment, as the world around him burned, he let go.

The shape beneath emerged.

Wings. Claws. Black bone. Smoke poured from his pores, fangs tore through his gums. Skin peeled to show red beneath.

Not human.

Not anymore.

When it was done, he stood in the center of the ruin, breathing heavy, clothes burned to ash.

His body steamed. His wounds knit slowly. Muscles ached, but the core of him burned clean.

And then he saw it.

At his feet—something glowed faintly in the debris.

A red crystal.

Smooth. Pulsing softly like a second heartbeat.

He crouched and picked it up with one bloody hand.

Held it for a long moment.

And looked toward the quiet trees—toward whatever came next.