Her roar rent the air, low and metallic, as if thunder had been swallowed and spat back out.
Vergil stood still, Yamato in his hand, his face illuminated by the violet glow emanating from her eyes.
She didn't understand his words.
She didn't need to.
The only language she knew now was that of violence.
The first advance was a blur.
Her hooves—now engulfed in black energy—crushed the ground with such force that fragments of stone rose and floated, suspended in the power field forming around her. The makeshift blade, made from a hardened demonic horn, came in a downward arc that, had it connected, would have split an ogre in half.
Vergil intercepted the blow with Yamato, without even moving his feet.
The impact was a dull thunderclap.
The shockwave pushed dust and bones away, revealing the perfect circle they were in—a clean field, created by the very pressure of the collision.
She didn't stop.
