The lake of blood bubbled slowly around the small island, as if each bubble were a breath trapped in the air. Demonic roots twisted around the scene, but the center remained still: the tea table, the red-skinned woman with orange hair, and the blue-eyed young man who seemed calmer than he should have been.
Vergil still sat, one leg crossed over the other, his body leaning back slightly, as if watching a tedious show.
Qliphoth, before him, let the steam from his cup dissipate into the heavy air, but his golden eyes were fixed on the man before him. There was something about his calm that deeply disturbed her—as if he were the one in control.
She narrowed her eyes and said,
"I will not allow you to take this territory."
Vergil sighed. Not a weary sigh, but a sigh filled with calculated contempt.
"Fine," he said simply, squaring his shoulders. "I don't care."
The words slammed into her like an invisible slap.
