His heart flops over in his chest, rather like a dying chicken, when Nero confirms that he killed Malphas, that he saved V. The one means the other given the situation he came from. He feels like a small child of eight again surrounded by demons and desperate, not for power, but to be saved. For someone to step in and stop the demons from killing him. Only the yamato answered his call, and with it, his power. He had to save himself, no matter how much it hurt. His chest aches with longing, that strange dissonance between knowing he'll be saved and not yet having been saved. Could the fox not have come for him moments later?

No, it seems. As difficult a time as V has now, dying and crumbling to bits is not a sustainable state to be in. Despite the burn in his chest, he inclines his head in recognition of what Nero says. Words take longer.

His legs carry him down the river of emotion that threatens to sweep him away. Nero was the key. Even if Dante was strong enough to defeat Urizen that day without Nero's help, V wouldn't have succeeded without Nero. Vergil wouldn't exist without him. They both owe him their lives. He had no idea how right that feeling was to go to Fortuna that night Dante lost to Urizen.

"Thank you," V says seriously. "You did more than I ever hoped."