Consciousness returned slowly, like the tide.
Vergil did not wake up in pain, nor in fear. Just a gentle feeling of floating. His body felt too light, as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted from his shoulders.
His eyes opened slowly, the blue light of the mundane sky stretching over him like a heavenly cloak. The sun hung above, shining tenderly, and soft clouds drifted leisurely. A perfect picture of serenity, so far removed from war, blood, and the weight of everything he had carried for years.
He blinked once, confused.
Water. He was in water.
He felt the long strands of his hair, now white as snow, floating around him like soft seaweed, touching his skin in lazy caresses. There was something almost sacred about that moment—the way the ocean held him, as if nature itself were rocking him into an endless sleep.
But it wasn't a dream. He knew that.
