Vergil took another step forward.
Then he stopped… a sepulchral silence fell before he took a deep breath, as if preparing not to fight… but to endure the inevitable.
"Alright," he murmured. "Let's finish this."
He opened his arms, almost dramatically, as if putting on a show for the spectators watching from Hephaestus's countless drones.
The air around Vergil ripped open.
There was no explosion, no exaggerated flash… it was much worse. It was silent for a moment too short to be comfortable. The space behind his back distorted, folding like old fabric being pulled too tightly.
Then they emerged.
Two demonic wings projected from his back, enormous, dense, made of a deep, not chaotic, but controlled, dark energy. The membranes were marked by bluish veins that pulsed in the same rhythm as his heart. Each subtle movement of theirs made the air vibrate, not by brute force, but by authority.
