The forest air was never the same after that roar.
With each passing second, the invisible pressure enveloping the clearing grew more suffocating, as if the entire world held its breath at what was happening.
Hours passed… or days. Time had lost its shape.
Vergil no longer knew if it was morning or night—everything was a succession of blows, blood, and flesh.
The demonic cow, once little more than an instinctive beast, was now a living wall of muscle and energy, a beacon of raw power that drew attention from all around.
Vergil, Yamato always in hand, attacked her mercilessly. Each blow wasn't meant to kill her, but to force her body to respond. And it did. Always.
With each open wound, he cut off a piece, infused it with demonic energy, and shoved it into the creature's mouth.
And she ate. Always ate.
The cycle repeated itself like a macabre prayer.
Cut. Flesh. Blood. Energy. Growth.
At first, the ground was scarred only by a few cracks.
