The heart labored with unrelenting precision.
The foundation was set: lungs stitched together from fragile new fibers, stomach and intestines woven cautiously from pliant, living tissue.
Yet much remained unfinished.
The spine came next.
Piece by patient piece, the blood heart spun new vertebrae beneath the base of Vergil's intact skull.
Cartilage formed first, pliable and crude, but slowly hardened into proper bone, locking into place along a growing column that anchored the torso.
Delicate strands of nerve tissue threaded through the hollow body, descending along the spine like roots in search of fertile ground.
They pulsed with faint energy — not yet true sensation, but the promise of it.
Around the lungs, the ribs grew back with excruciating care.
Each rib was shaped fully before it fused to the sternum, each curve measured and corrected until the ribcage fit together with the natural symmetry of a master craftsman's work.
No bone was twisted or malformed.
The blood heart allowed no mistakes.
The pelvis formed next, a solid base, forged with layer upon layer of mineralized tissue, each pulse of the heart solidifying the delicate structure.
From this core, the blood heart turned its focus outward.
Muscle fibers grew in slow, disciplined layers across the ribs, spine, and abdomen — each strand properly aligned, weaving strength into the torso.
Ligaments and tendons connected bone to muscle with careful knots of living fiber, flexible yet unyielding.
The lungs blossomed larger within the protective ribs, forming millions of alveoli, delicate and perfect.
The liver swelled, sculpted properly into its lobed structure.
The stomach and intestines branched and folded neatly into their rightful places, each membrane smooth and strong.
The kidneys refined themselves, separating cleanly from surrounding flesh, their tiny filters forming one by one until the thick, nutrient-rich blood could flow cleanly through.
The spleen solidified behind the stomach, a small but vital link in the body's growing internal harmony.
All the while, blood vessels matured from thread-thin capillaries into proper arteries and veins — highways of life, extending outward from the thundering blood heart.
No leak, no flaw, no stray growth was permitted.
Flesh wrapped itself across the body's core — layer after layer of dermal tissue laid carefully over muscle, anchoring to the web of nerves and blood beneath.
At first, it was thin, translucent as newborn silk.
But with time, it thickened.
Pigmentation spread evenly, veins retreated deeper, smoothing the appearance.
The demonic energy infused the healing skin, accelerating its restoration without marring it.
No scars marred the surface.
The blood heart wove the skin with the same patient hand it had used for the organs and bones — stitching each seam so seamlessly that even under close scrutiny, no evidence of the trauma remained.
It was not simply a body repaired.
It was a body remade.
Perfectly. Albeit, the right arm was gone
The torso — once hollow and broken — now stood whole, unmarred, alive beneath the steady hammer of the blood heart's rhythm.
Muscles twitched softly in reflex, tendons flexed under new tension, the lungs fluttered in shallow, unconscious spasms.
The work was done.
The house was ready.
Waiting for Vergil to wake up from his slumber.
-----‐---
"Am I back here again" Vergil thought to himself. His inner voice was hollow
Vergil found himself back where everything had first begun — an endless, pitch-black void.
But this time, it was different.
He wasn't standing.
He wasn't falling.
He was sinking — slowly, weightlessly — as if the darkness itself were an ocean without depth.
Yet it wasn't the usual sensation of drowning: no terror, no desperation.
Only an eerie, crushing peace that wrapped around him the deeper he sank.
For a moment, Vergil simply let himself drift, breathing in the silence.
And then —
he heard something.
Not a voice.
Not the roar of wind.
A hum — faint, trembling at the edge of hearing.
It was not random noise — it had rhythm, melody — delicate and sorrowful.
Music.
The soft, fragile notes of a violin, playing somewhere far above, cutting through the suffocating dark.
The sound was alluring — a lifeline, beautiful and warm in a place so cold and empty.
It stirred something deep inside him, something forgotten.
Hope?
Longing?
But the further he sank, the fainter the violin grew, until it was nearly gone.
'More,' Vergil thought, almost desperately.
Driven by instinct, he reached upward — swimming through the heavy dark — slow, sluggish, but determined.
Higher.
Higher.
The music grew louder as he rose, more vivid, more real.
Until at last, he broke the surface, and a voice greeted him:
"It seems you're waking up," the voice said, calm and amused.
Vergil gasped awake.
The world around him spun for a moment — his body aching all over, like it had been ripped apart and clumsily stitched back together.
Above him stretched a wooden ceiling — plain, weathered, the beams crooked and splintered.
No marble. No banners. Just wood and dust.
He blinked, vision blurred, muscles heavy and numb.
"Hello, Devil-spawn," a voice called lightly nearby.
Vergil turned his head with effort — but there was no one there.
Only a gleaming white spear leaned against the wall, its surface clean and almost humming with a quiet energy.
"This way, fool," the voice urged again, playful.
Vergil frowned, his body sluggish and painful as he shifted to look at it more clearly.
"...What?" he rasped.
His arm twitched — or tried to.
Pain shot through his side as he attempted to sit up, only for him to slip and crash onto the cold wooden floor with a grunt.
He gasped sharply, looking down —
and froze.
His right arm —
gone.
Only the rough, hanging sleeve of the cloth shirt brushed against his side, neatly tied to keep it from dragging.
A hollow, heavy silence filled the room.
Vergil stared at the empty space where his arm once was.
No anger.
No denial.
Just the slow, crushing certainty that this loss was real.
Permanent.
For a long moment, he sat there, the weight of it pressing down on his chest.
Then, slowly, Vergil closed his eyes — exhaled — and accepted it.
There was no escape.
Not this time.
"Relax, kid," the spear hummed casually.
Vergil gritted his teeth and forced himself upright, ignoring the searing pain.
Someone had put on him him a rough linen shirt — long-sleeved, hastily made.
the empty sleeve folding gently across his side like a quiet reminder of what he had lost.
"Are you here to mock me?" Vergil muttered, a crooked, bitter smile tugging at his mouth.
"Maybe I should," the spear said with a smirk in its voice.
"You're lucky to even be breathing. Be grateful."
Vergil let out a dry chuckle.
"Did you save me?"
"That, I did not," the spear answered smoothly.
"You should thank that blood pet of yours. It's the one that kept your heart beating."
Vergil blinked — confused — until the blood baby crawled out from his chest, red and small, its body pulsing softly with life.
The creature floated in the air for a moment before nuzzling against his chest like a loyal animal.
Vergil, surprisingly, didn't flinch.
'Seems my efforts came to fruit in the end'
He managed a small, weary smile.
"Thanks."
The blood baby crossed its tiny arms, looking proud of itself.
"Cocky bastard, your just like me." Vergil muttered fondly before the creature dissolved once more into his chest, becoming his heart.
As the creature disappeared, Vergil noticed it again —
the same music he had heard in the void.
The violin.
Soft, mournful, beautiful.
Playing just beyond the old wooden door.
Vergil turned his head slightly, listening.
"That," the spear said proudly, "is my owner."
Vergil exhaled, shoulders sagging under exhaustion.
"Owner, huh... Did she move us here?"
"Yes," the spear said.
"And you owe her, Devil-spawn.."
Vergil's eyes sharpened.
"What are you, exactly?" he asked, suspicion slipping into his voice.
Now that he could see clearly, the spear wasn't just a weapon — it radiated something... divine.
Faint and faded, but still present.
"I am the Divine Spear," she said, pride and melancholy woven into her words.
Vergil opened his mouth — but what spilled out wasn't anger, but something more broken.
"So... it seems I couldn't escape after all," he muttered.
"It seems my life... was only prolonged."
A heavy silence filled the room.
"Hold it right there," the Divine Spear said sharply.
Vergil turned a tired, hollow glare toward her.
"What now?"
"Before you drown yourself in self-pity, go outside," she commanded.
"Talk to my owner. You'll understand everything then."
Vergil hesitated.
The violin's melody wrapped around him again — gentle, almost pleading.
"After all," the spear added, her voice softer now, "we're trapped here too. Just like you."
The music beckoned.
A thin thread of warmth in a life otherwise ruled by blood and loss.
Vergil sat there for a long moment, breathing in the scent of old wood and damp air, feeling the empty weight of his missing arm.
Then — slowly — he pushed himself to his feet.
The empty sleeve of his shirt swayed gently as he moved, brushing his side like a ghost.
Step by step, he stumbled toward the door, drawn by the violin's haunting called that drew him
The place was no paradise.
No rainbows.
No sun.
It was the hollow belly of a cavern — dim, cold, and damp, with walls of rough stone that wept moisture.
The only light came from a weak campfire nearby, its embers crackling low, barely keeping the darkness at bay.
Vergil stumbled forward, the uneven stone ground biting into his bare feet.
His balance was off — lurching, unstable — and he caught himself just in time with his left hand, grimacing as he righted himself.
There, not far ahead, she sat.
A woman — alone — on a hand-carved wooden chair, smoothing a bow across the strings of a battered old violin.
The notes that floated into the cavern were haunting, sorrowful, delicate — completely at odds with the harsh, broken world around them.
Vergil squinted, his vision sharpening.
She was...
beautiful.
Almost too beautiful.
Silver whitr hair flowed down her back as they fell into elegant braided crowns held together by a simple band as the light down her back, catching what little firelight there was.
Her skin was pale and smooth, untouched by hardship.
Eyes like twin moons — clear, radiant, too bright for such a desolate place.
Her dress was simple — woven from faded blue fabric, frayed at the edges — but it somehow made her seem even more ethereal.
She almost didn't belong to this world.
But Vergil's left eye, the one that now pulsed faintly with an eerie ripple whenever faced with illusion, remained still.
She was real.
Tangible.
And yet...
Vergil didn't care.
Not even a flicker of wonder stirred in his chest.
Because where his right arm had once been — the arm he used to fight, to climb, to conquer —
there was nothing.
The damage was permanent.
Irreversible.
The light he had once seen ahead in his journey — the power to be the strongest, was gone.
He had experienced this before.
The crushing weight of reality.
The cold hand of despair.
All he could do now was accept it.
There was no room left for miracles.
Vergil staggered closer, his breathing ragged, before finally slumping down onto the rocky floor with a grunt.
He leaned back against the cavern wall, his left hand propping himself up awkwardly.
The violin continued to sing.
"Don't you have anything to say to me?"
The woman asked with a soft, amused smile, never pausing in her playing.
Vergil stared up at the rough ceiling of the cavern, his face blank.
"What is there to say," he said quietly, voice devoid of emotion.
The woman continued to play, thinking carefully about her next words.
The melody grew slower — softer — almost like she was weaving her own sorrow into the air.
"You seem upset," she said gently.
Vergil didn't respond.
The fire crackled.
Water dripped somewhere in the distance.
"Be grateful, my son," she whispered.
"You are alive, are you not?"
Vergil's brow twitched at the word.
'Son.'
He kept silent.
"Life is full of despair," she said again, her voice delicate but unyielding.
"All we can do is despair... and accept reality as it is."
Vergil's jaw clenched.
Finally, he turned his hollow gaze toward her.
"...Son?" he repeated, the word alien on his tongue.
"I've decided," Luminare said with a serene smile.
"I'm going to take you in as my son."
Vergil stiffened — cold suspicion flashing across his eyes.
"What?" he breathed, disbelief sharp and bitter.
Before he could say anything more, a furious voice shrieked from back inside the cabin:
"No you cannot, Luminare!"
It was the Divine Spear — furious and rattling where it leaned against the wall.
"He's a demon, for God's sake!" the spear shouted, its voice echoing through the cavern like a crack of thunder.
Vergil turned his head slightly, watching the absurd scene unfold with exhausted detachment.
Even now, after all this — they argued about him like he was some broken tool to be discarded.
He closed his eyes briefly.
'This is going to be a long day.' Vergil thought to himself.