The silence didn't last.
As if torn in half by an invisible blade, the air exploded into a thousand shards of psychic energy as Spectre descended. Not as a warrior. Not as a god.
But as a sentence.
A liquid shadow in freefall, swirling in incomprehensible spirals, as if the very concept of form was being shredded and rebuilt with every millisecond. Spectre didn't have a body—he had an intention. A stain on the fabric of reality. A mistake that should never have existed.
Vergil didn't wait.
He didn't need to.
The world around him was unraveling, but within that chaos, he was the axis. The center. The catalyst for insanity.
With a snap of his fingers, Ouroboros's chains expanded like living whips, twisting in the air and thrusting forward with an animal roar. They didn't cut through space—they devoured it. Every movement left a trail of distortion behind it, as if time itself were trying to escape the path of its fury.
Spectre responded.
