The abyss, which seconds before had throbbed with screams, roars, and the sound of ripping flesh, was now plunged into silence.
Vergil stood in the center of the devastated clearing, breathing deeply but not panting. The bloodied body was a grotesque painting: the skin scarred, the face streaked red and black, the sword dripping as if it had just been pulled from a river of blood.
All around, there was nothing alive. Only corpses. Hundreds.
Crushed heads, ripped open torsos, limbs scattered like broken toys. The acrid smell of iron and sulfur permeated the air, forming a heavy mist. The sodden earth boiled under the weight of the blood that flowed in rivers.
Vergil wiped the blade on the clothing of a fallen creature, unhurriedly, like someone cleaning a kitchen utensil after dinner.
"Hmph…" His smile returned, serene, almost satisfied. "Too weak."
