Vergil gazed at the sky of his soul, his eyes heavy with exhaustion and disbelief. The colossal figures of Crymsaria and Nivara clashed above the spider lilies like enraged deities, elemental sparks crossing the crimson firmament. Scarlet flames and biting blizzards dueled in eternal cycles, without rest, without respite.
A sigh escaped his lips—heavy, filled with something between resignation and disbelief.
That sound was enough.
With a sudden rustle, Fenrhaem, the black-coated wolf with steel eyes, appeared beside him, like a living shadow emerging from the ground itself. The creature did not growl, did not greet him. It just stood there, silent for a second before speaking in its deep, calm voice:
"They've been like this since the moment you fell. Since your collapse, they haven't stopped."
Vergil turned his face slowly, staring at the wolf with a blank expression. "And no one tried... to stop them?"
