The clearing didn't look like a natural part of the forest.
It was as if the very ground had been ripped up, burned, and rebuilt under wicked hands. The surrounding trees twisted, trunks black as coal, sharp branches pointing downward like claws trying to rip the earth. No leaves grew—only thick vines dripping with a dark sap, like congealed blood.
In the center, the ground split open in red cracks, pulsing like exposed veins. The air was heavy, redolent of sulfur, and each breath felt like it burned his throat.
Vergil was the first to emerge from the darkness of the trail and step into the clearing. His eyes scanned every detail with that predatory calm that was unique to him. His silver hair reflected the glow of the magma cracks, and a barely perceptible smile appeared as he lifted his face and felt the pressure emanating from the place.
"Now…" he murmured, as if savoring the weight of the atmosphere. "This is truly demonic territory."
