In the broadcast, Vergil's wings fluttered once more.
And somewhere far from the arena…
Something trembled.
All eyes turned to the screen.
What appeared there was no ordinary continuation of the tournament.
It was a disaster in progress.
The arena floor simply exploded upwards as Shura entered the scene.
There was no introduction. No divine announcement. No name echoing through the heavens. There was only impact—an impact so violent that the lower layers of the arena were shattered like cheap glass, hurling fragments of enchanted rock and solidified mana in all directions.
In the center of the newly created crater, he stood.
Shura.
Son of Shiva.
His body was a living work of war. Musculature too defined to appear human, marked by lines of red and gold energy that pulsed like embers beneath his skin. His long hair floated as if submerged in invisible fire, and his eyes… his eyes reflected nothing but destructive ecstasy.
He took a deep breath.
And smiled.
