Six months.
Six months in which the world around him transformed into a macabre laboratory.
Vergil didn't see the seasons pass—for him, only the cycle existed: hunt, kill, feed. Well, there were no seasons in that damned forest, but you get the idea.
The forest floor, already horrific, was now a mosaic of ash and dried blood. As each new beast dared approach, he advanced with surgical precision, tearing out specific pieces, selecting with almost loving care. It was always the best cut, the meat most saturated with demonic essence, offered as tribute.
The cow… it could no longer be called that.
At first, there was still something bovine in its form—the horns, the hooves, the rounded gaze. But as the weeks passed, its limbs lengthened, the muscles multiplied in overlapping fibers, and the plates of bone emerged from the skin like natural armor. The horns grew like black spirals, pulsing red energy in their fissures.
