Vergil takes another step forward, and then another, not hastily, not with explicit threat, but with the tranquility of someone who has finally found the kind of silence that precedes something serious. The storm around the forest slowly approaches, the sky darkening in leaden tones, the wind gaining weight, carrying the scent of wet earth and electricity. Tall trees creak, leaves fall, and the tournament circle begins to close like an inevitable sentence.
Athena plants her feet firmly on the uneven ground, crushing ancient roots beneath her divine sandals. Her body still emanates energy, but now she contains it, not out of prudence, but out of focus. Her eyes follow Vergil's every micro-movement, every shift in weight, every adjustment of posture. There are no more shields. No more absolute concepts. Just two bodies about to collide.
Vergil raises his hands.
There is no miasma.
There is no demonic aura.
