Freyja advanced first.
Without warning, without long preparation, just momentum. Her wings—half light, half shadow—opened forcefully behind her, lifting the air around her as she emerged in front of Vergil, her sword already descending in a clean, direct, practiced cut.
Vergil didn't move until the last second.
Then he tilted his body.
The blade passed where he was.
It missed.
Freyja immediately twisted her wrist, correcting the angle, drawing her sword back with precision and attacking again, now in sequence. One, two, three blows, each faster than the last, each coming from a different angle, each calculated like someone who truly knew how to fight.
Vergil took a step back.
Then half a step to the side.
Then he simply turned his body.
Nothing exaggerated. Nothing dramatic. He simply… wasn't where the attack was coming from.
