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In the games, Sparda is already mythic: A demon who turned against his own kind, sealed off the demon realm, and disappeared into legend. The show amplifies that mythic distance to an extreme: this Dante never sees his father in person. Everything he knows about Sparda arrives secondhand, filtered through the interests, wounds, and self-conceptions of whoever is doing the telling. The show essentially stages a Rashomon around Sparda's legacy.

In Kurosawa's 1950 film Rashomon, a single event is recounted by multiple contradictory witnesses. The truth of the event becomes impossible to pin down, but the truth is never the point anyway. The point is that each version is shaped by the teller's relationship to what happened, simultaneously self-serving and partially credible, and that the truth about the event becomes irrecoverable as a result. What survives is not a verdict but a set of portraits — of the witnesses themselves, revealed by what they need the story to be. Netflix’s Devil May Cry does something similar.

Enzo and Eva give the heroic reading: Sparda is "the good demon," a brave warrior who rebelled for love and freedom, something worth being proud of. The White Rabbit and the Makaian demons give the antagonistic reading: a traitor, someone whose selfish action brought catastrophic consequences to the demon realm.

Season 2 compounds the contradiction. Arius offers the evolutionary rebel reading — Sparda turned against Mundus because he recognized Mundus as devolution, and would have wanted Dante to continue that work. Vergil offers the bitter, abandoned son's perspective, shot through with resentment: he's not here to tell us himself.

And Mundus offers perhaps the most destabilizing account of all — that Sparda's actions were never betrayal but loyalty of a different kind, that his interest in humans was never love but something closer to a naturalist's curiosity, that demons of Sparda's calibre simply do not have the capacity for what Eva represented.

None of these versions can be fully reconciled. The show doesn't try. It simply keeps adding perspectives, creating deliberate irresolution.

This matters because Dante’s sense of self depends on who Sparda was. If his father was genuinely good, then Dante's demonic heritage can be a source of pride rather than shame. If Sparda was flawed or ambiguous, then Dante himself is implicated. Every contradictory story about his father becomes an attack on Dante's identity.

The question of Sparda is, at its core, a question of attachment: Dante desperately needs his father's legacy to mean something because he has so little else to hold onto.

We can see what the contradictions do to him in practice. In S1E7, he hesitates against the White Rabbit after confronting the destruction Mundus brought to Makai in the wake of his father's sealing — the guilt of inherited consequence briefly paralyzes him. The Mundus reading in Season 2 strikes even deeper, undermining the idea that his parents' love was real. These aren't just plot twists. They are load-bearing parts of Dante's self-narrative being removed one by one.

This is where I think the common critique of Dante's agency in the show misreads what's actually happening. The complaint — that he lacks agency as a protagonist — takes his indecision and overwhelm at face value and reads them as characterization failures. But his hesitation and overwhelm aren't bad writing — they are the natural response to living in epistemic quicksand. Sparda's ambiguity destabilizes his lineage. Lady's betrayal destabilizes his attachment. Vergil's choices destabilize his understanding of what it means to be a twin, a brother, a shared survivor. Any one of those would be substantial, and the show stacks them in rapid succession. When the ground keeps shifting, decisive action becomes almost impossible. The show isn't portraying a passive protagonist. It's showing someone trying to find solid footing while everything he believes about himself is being questioned.

What the show does give us, consistently, is evidence that Dante can locate a value even mid-overwhelm and act from it.

In S1E7, his resolve returns not because the guilt resolves but because he remembers what is actually at stake — human lives, which he can act to protect regardless of what his father's legacy ultimately means. In S2E6, when Arius attempts to recruit him by holding up Dante's own destructive potential as justification — framing his "unbridled primal fury" as exceptionalism, as kinship with chaos, as something that licenses burning the world down — Dante does something more interesting than simply refusing. He acknowledges it. He doesn't deny what he's been. He just rejects the conclusion Arius draws from it: that capacity justifies use, that power is its own permission.

These small assertions of choice are the beginning of real agency. Not clean and heroic, but forged through uncertainty.

In the end, the show seems to be leading Dante toward a different relationship with his father’s legacy. Not the resolution of a factual puzzle (that may never come), but a structural parallel he can work with. If Dante can acknowledge what he is and still choose to act against destruction rather than toward it, then Sparda can be read the same way: not "my father was a good demon" as a claim requiring evidence, but "my father may have been deeply flawed and still made a choice that mattered."

That relationship to legacy doesn't require resolving the contradictory testimony. It requires finding the one thing that holds across all the accounts — Sparda acted — and building identity around the act rather than the man. Legacy, in this reading, is not something Dante simply inherits. It's something he must actively author.

Which makes the eventual stabilization, whenever the show arrives at it, something that will have been genuinely earned. Agency built through that much destabilization means something different than agency that was always just there. The games give us the finished product. The show is making us watch the cost of producing it, and the cost, it turns out, is this: having to decide who you are without the ground ever quite holding still long enough to be certain.