Vergil had been defeated.
Not in a simple way, nor honorable, nor even comprehensible within the cold logic that always guided his battles. It was a defeat that left gaps, that created uncomfortable questions, that echoed within his own conscience as something unresolved.
Perhaps it was arrogance.
That word, so simple, so common… but which carried an overwhelming weight when applied to someone like him. Vergil always walked the line between absolute confidence and silent pride, believing that his control, his technique, and his mind were enough to overcome any situation.
But, at that moment… they weren't.
He still had much.
Much more than he used.
He could have invoked his authority as a Death Knight, letting the very essence of death manifest through his blade and consume everything around him with absolute inevitability. He could have allowed that ancient power to speak for him, crushing the battlefield under an irresistible dominion.
But he didn't.
