"Oh... my head hurts so much," Vergil muttered, pressing his temples with trembling fingers.
Every thought seemed to pass through a sieve of thorns.
His body throbbed with the memory of the battle. Not just the fight—the destruction.
He had fought within his own soul. And every blow, every impact against that inner world now reverberated in raw flesh: muscles torn from within, bones cracked where once there had been broken psychic ground, and organs pressed by forces that should never have existed.
It was a miracle that he was still standing. Or maybe... It wasn't just a miracle anymore.
Vergil let out a hoarse breath, trying to regain his focus. The pain was intense. Hot. Throbbing. But familiar. He knew this kind of feeling: the final limit... and the step beyond it.
But then, when he looked up, he froze.
Two presences stared at him, one with fire in their eyes, the other with restrained pain.
