The grounds of Sapphire Manor remained shrouded in an almost reverent silence, where the shadows of destruction still whispered stories of recent battles. The air was thick with the metallic, ancient scent of spilled blood—and, ironically, it would also be the perfect stage for what was to come.
Vergil stood barefoot on the cracked earth, arms crossed, observing the debris around him as if in meditation. His open shirt revealed the red circuits that ran through his body like translucent veins — remnants of his long-ago fusion with blood. His golden eyes flashed as he sensed Raphaeline's light, rhythmic approach.
She approached with a lazy stride, her hands in the pockets of simple dark pants, her loose hair fluttering in the warm breeze. Her new body vibrated with a silent energy, refined and precise like a freshly sharpened blade.
"This place... smells like burnt memory," she commented, stopping beside him.
