The tiger was saturated with energy. With each clash between Vergil and the tiger, the forest trembled as if ancient roots were trying to escape the violence. The beast's roar reverberated, and Vergil responded with blows that were no longer his own—they were stolen lessons, adapted, refined. With each exchange, the battlefield became a stage where predator and predator molded one another.
Vergil panted, sweat dripping from his forehead to his chin. His body no longer felt human in his control: muscles vibrating in overload, eyes sharp as blades. And yet, something was wrong. He could feel it.
The tiger, despite its overwhelming presence, didn't seem to be fighting with all its might. There was a concealed calm in its movements, as if it were merely observing him, like a patient tutor watching an eager student. It gnawed at him.
