The air tightened in the next instant.
There was no warning, no perceptible change in Vergil's posture. He didn't bend his shoulders, didn't adjust his feet, didn't assume any position that would betray an imminent attack. Yet, something on the field shifted abruptly, as if reality itself had been pulled closer to him for an infinitesimally short moment.
Then the slap came.
It wasn't a fighting strike. There was no elaborate technique, no intent to kill. It was a simple, almost nonchalant movement, a short swing of the arm accompanied by a dry snap in the air—and yet, the instant she perceived the danger, her instinct screamed louder than any conscious thought.
The shield rose.
The geometric symbol shone with full force, ancient lines rearranging themselves into patterns of maximum containment. Layers of authority, faith, and concept overlapped in fractions of a second, forming a defense that had already withstood gods, monsters, and weapons made to erase worlds.
