The collision with Spectre was more than a blow—it was a negation of the very concept of resistance. The impact was so absolute that the world turned inside out. The sky was dragged to the ground like a veil torn away. The ground became a sea of living blood, seething with the echoes of the dead.
The stars did not fall. They were driven away.
And finally... silence fell. Thick. Sacred.
Vergil floated, surrounded by his chains—now motionless, like serpents asleep after a feast. He was a living shadow. An entity outside of order. A pure concept of mastery.
Below him, Spectre lay. Distorted. His countless eyes blinked in silent panic, trying to piece together what was left. But there was no more form. No more control.
The once majestic eclipse above now cracked like a cracked mirror, and shards of black light rained down slowly, bathing the scene in the tragic beauty of an inevitable end.
Vergil stepped down.
One step.
Two.
