Vergil remained there, observing Qliphoth as one might gaze at a curious painting, but already weary of the frame. With each word, each metaphor, the interest that had previously ignited him gave way to something simpler: boredom.
He sighed, long and heavy, and leaned back in his chair as if he were in a cheap tavern, not before an entity capable of shaping planets.
"So that's all?" His voice sounded grave, laden with weary irony. "An unresolved story, a safe, an idiot god, an unfortunate birth. If it's over, you can send me back."
Qliphoth lifted his face slowly, the smile still on his red lips, but his golden eyes flashed for a moment with something Vergil recognized: frustration.
He rose from the chair unhurriedly, adjusting his cloak on his shoulders.
"I'm not in the mood for endless philosophies. If you won't yield the territory, there's no reason for me to force you." He ran a hand through his hair and took a step back. "After all, I'm not going to gain any of this."
