Vergil's words echoed like an irreverent whisper inside a ruined temple—profane, intimate, provocative. He smiled at the crimson void that flickered around him, feeling the air vibrate like the strings of an instrument about to snap.
And then, the answer came.
ShhhRRAK!
In an instant, dozens of swords burst forth from the floor, the ceiling, the walls. Each one forged with Raphaeline's enchanted blood, shaped over centuries — lethal relics with a will of their own. They pierced Vergil's body without hesitation or mercy.
His chest, shoulders, arms, and even his thighs were pierced. Some swords still trembled, stuck deep as if searching for his heart.
Vergil gasped once, more out of reflex than actual pain. Blood dripped slowly from his mouth, but his eyes retained the same provocative gleam.
"...Yes. That's just like you," he murmured with a weak smile, spitting out a little blood as he leaned on one knee.
