Fine dust still hung in the air, clouding the crimson horizon that stretched beyond the Abyss's crater. Heat emanated from the ground like a living breath, distorting the shadows, transforming them into specters dancing among the rubble.
In the center of that desert of stone and fire, Vergil stood motionless, the Yamato resting beside him, embedded in the ground. The blue energy of his aura shimmered, calm and steady—like the surface of a lake before a storm that never reaches it.
Before him, Ingrid Asmoday was breathing heavily. Her back was arched, her black wings torn, her body covered in shadowy cracks that moved as if trying to escape her skin. She still struggled, but her pride weighed more heavily than her body.
"You're getting slow," Vergil commented, his calm, almost polite tone making the provocation even worse.
Ingrid growled. The sound sounded like a wounded animal. "I haven't even started yet…"
