The wind had died.
Even the trees seemed to lean away from the clearing.
Vergil's boots crunched on brittle leaves, his shield heavy in his grip. He drew his sword slowly—the scrape of steel against the sheath sounded too loud in the dead silence.
Eleanor stood behind him, composed but taut. Her breath had slowed to near silence, her eyes sharp and unblinking. But Vergil knew her well enough to sense the fear she wasn't showing.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
"Analysis," Vergil whispered.
Blue light shimmered across his vision like a shiver. The silence seemed to deepen as the data pulsed back.
---
Name: Morvax
Level: 21
Tier: 1
Race: Demon
Title: The Flesh Echo
Authority – Transformation: Grants the ability to freely reshape its body, replicating the physical form and surface details of any being it has observed—or imagined.
Strength: 45
Constitution: 45
Dexterity: 42
Intelligence: 40
Wisdom: 32
Demonic Energy: 50
Passive Skills:
• Mimic Flesh (D) – Can flawlessly replicate the appearance of any living being, down to scars, blemishes, and voice.
• Instinctive Adaptation (D) – Rapidly learns and mimics fighting styles through observation. The longer it watches, the more precise the copy.
• Monstrous Vitality (D+) – Regenerates wounds over time. Immune to minor pain.
Active Skills:
• Morph Form (D) – Transforms limbs into organic weapons—claws, blades, spikes.
• Echo Movement (D) – Temporarily mirrors a target's movements at 75% speed.
• Flesh Puppet (C) – Conjures a grotesque puppet of a copied form, stitched from corrupted flesh. Sentient. Aggressive.
I'm so screwed. Physical stats around 45 to 50? That's madness, Vergil thought, heart sinking.
The underbrush shifted.
And then it stepped out.
Vergil stopped breathing.
It was him.
Not just his face—his armor, hair, sword, stance—every detail was perfect.
Except the eyes.
His own stared back at him, but wrong. Too wide. Too bright. Gleaming with hunger.
And the smile.
A slow, spreading grin that tore too far across the cheeks, revealing dark gums and jagged, uneven teeth beneath the illusion of his face.
"This body is quite nice," the thing said—in his voice.
Behind him, Eleanor adjusted her grip on her dagger. She said nothing, but Vergil could feel the heat rising behind her calm mask.
Morvax tilted its head—his head—and stepped forward.
Its footsteps mimicked his perfectly. But they were off. Lacking weight. Like something pretending to walk… almost human, but not quite.
"Do you know what it's like, wearing someone else's skin?" it murmured. "At first, it's loose. Doesn't feel right. But then—"
It cracked its neck. The sound was wet.
"—then you start to fit. The body remembers. The style. The voice. The fear."
Vergil said nothing.
Morvax's sword hand flickered—warping into a tangle of tendrils before snapping back into a perfect copy of his own.
"I've worn better men than you," it whispered. "But your fear… smells honest."
Vergil stepped forward, blade raised—but cold dread coiled in his gut.
This wasn't a demon.
It was a reflection.
A demon that had learned to become him.
This is excellent high-intensity writing—visceral, character-driven, and full of escalating tension. You've struck a solid balance between action, emotion, and horror. That said, here's a full review and polish that smooths flow, fixes minor grammar/clarity issues, and tightens the prose for maximum punch.
---
✅ Strengths
1. Tension & Pacing: The escalation from mirrored combat to desperate flight is paced beautifully. The beats are cinematic.
2. Character Moments: Vergil's refusal to drop Eleanor and her soft response are emotionally grounded and satisfying without being cheesy.
3. Horror Imagery: Morvax's true form is wonderfully grotesque—memorable and nightmarish, without going overboard.
4. Use of System Text: The [Skill Activated] moments add a nice RPG feel that doesn't interrupt the story's flow.
---
🛠️ Suggested Improvements (all integrated below):
A few grammar and punctuation issues (e.g., Verhil instead of Vergil, run-ons).
Slightly reword some lines for natural rhythm and clarity.
Sharpen a few action sequences for punch.
Trim a few redundancies.
---
✨ Polished Version:
---
Morvax lunged.
Vergil parried just in time, but the creature's body twisted mid-motion—legs warping unnaturally to dodge his counter. It had already adapted to his footwork.
He swung with Power Strike, but the stat gap was too great. Morvax deflected it with ease.
Steel rang against flesh—his own technique mirrored back at him.
Vergil fell back, shield high, breath ragged.
Morvax laughed.
Not loud—just a soft, breathy sound… from his own throat.
Then it whispered:
> "I think I'll kill her with your voice."
Vergil's eyes widened.
He turned and grabbed Eleanor without thinking. His mind surged—
+3 Dexterity. Total: 28.
> [Stat Allocation Confirmed. Mana Manipulation Activated.]
---
"Hold on," he growled—and ran.
He didn't think.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't speak.
Just ran.
Branches tore at his face. Brambles slashed at his boots. His shield slammed against his ribs with every step. Eleanor's weight in his arms felt too light—limp, unresisting.
But her hand clutched the back of his tunic. Weak, but steady.
A silent message: You're not alone.
Still, all Vergil could hear was one word, deafening and relentless:
Run.
Run.
Run.
Behind him, something laughed.
Not in his voice anymore.
It had changed.
Vergil didn't look back.
He didn't need to.
Morvax had returned to its true form.
---
A tall, unnatural silhouette emerged from the trees, dragging itself forward with deliberate steps—as if it had all the time in the world.
Morvax's true form was grotesque—and eerily regal.
A towering humanoid wrapped in ribbons of gray flesh that writhed like worms. Its skin, like stretched wax, revealed twitching muscles and pulsing black veins beneath.
Its face was a void-like mask—blank, save for a gaping mouth filled with crooked, childlike teeth. A doll's grin, rotten with time.
Six arms unfolded from its sides.
A skeletal hand. A bladed claw. A warped human imitation. A dripping stump. A hooked bone-sickle.
And one… that matched Vergil's perfectly.
It moved without sound, but the forest grew colder with each step.
Eleanor's voice reached his ear, a faint whisper:
> "…We're not fast enough."
Vergil clenched his jaw. "Shut up," he hissed. "We'll make it."
But even he heard the tremor in his voice.
Then Morvax spoke—not mimicking now, but in its own guttural, layered tone.
> "Make it?
Make it where?"
The trees groaned. Roots twisted under its weight.
Vergil ran harder.
Through tangling roots and splintered branches. His lungs burned. Blood coated his tongue. Eleanor clung to him—silent, but alive.
Behind them, Morvax followed.
The transformation demon had shed all pretense. Its body now massive and hunched. Its flesh ash-gray and slick. Eyes blinked where no eyes should be—two, then four, then six—watching from all angles.
Vergil's boots pounded the dirt. His reinforced hunting leathers were soaked in blood from a deep gash across his back.
Still, Eleanor didn't scream.
He felt her heartbeat against his chest—fast, tight. Composed, but afraid.
Then—
SHHK!
A bladed limb tore through the air.
Agony.
It slashed across his back—ripping leather, slicing deep. Blood surged. His leg buckled.
But he didn't stop.
Didn't let go.
[You have been critically injured. Passive Skill: Adrenaline Surge has activated.]
A surge of raw energy flooded his body. Pain dulled. Senses sharpened. Muscles locked into focus.
[Skill Activated: Shadow Dash]
Shadows coiled around his legs—then he blinked forward.
Twenty feet.
Then forty.
Trees blurred. The world smeared.
Behind him, Morvax shrieked—a sound of pure hunger and fury.
Vergil didn't slow.
He ran through torn lungs.
Through screaming muscle.
But he held her.
---
A broken temple rose through the forest like the bones of a forgotten god.
Vergil crashed through its archway and collapsed behind a shattered altar. His knees struck earth. His back screamed. Blood poured.
But his arms never let go.
He held her.
Always.
Eleanor stirred, breath shallow. Her eyes drifted to the torn leather clinging to his back.
"…You should've dropped me."
Vergil's jaw tightened. Sweat dripped down his brow. His voice, raw:
"I don't drop what's mine."
Eleanor stared at him for a long moment. Her eyes didn't soften.
But something changed.
"…Possessive," she muttered. "Stupid."
Then, quieter:
"But… thank you."
Her hand hovered near his side—not touching. Just close. Close enough.
"We should be alright for now…" Vergil muttered, breath ragged. Every inhale was a blade. He slumped back against the cold stone, the weight of exhaustion dragging at his blood-soaked gear.
Eleanor knelt beside him in silence. A faint glow shimmered around her hands—Minor Restoration, weak and flickering. The magic pulsed softly against the gash along his back. It slowed the bleeding, dulled the pain—but barely.
Vergil grunted as the warmth faded. "It's fine," he said, forcing a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I don't die that easily."
Eleanor didn't smile. Her gaze stayed fixed on him—steady, intense. Behind her calm exterior, something simmered. Worry, held tight behind will.
He let his head fall back, resting against cracked stone. "That demon… he's a real problem."
His voice lowered. "He can transform into anything. Not just appearances—he mimics movement, behavior. It's not shapeshifting. It's worse."
Eleanor's tone was quiet, steady. "How dangerous?"
Vergil exhaled slowly. "He could walk into a village, wear someone's face, their voice, their habits. No one would know. Not until it was already too late."
His fists clenched. "And I'm sure he wasn't even trying. That fight? He was playing with us. Testing us."
Eleanor's eyes flicked toward the dark woods beyond the temple ruins. Her expression tightened.
"That's exactly what bothers me," she said.
Vergil glanced at her, alert.
"He was winning," she continued. "You were hurt. Bleeding. He had your scent. He should've finished it—but he didn't."
Her voice lowered. "He let us go."
Vergil's eyes darkened. The pieces clicked into place.
"That's not the behavior of a hunter," she said. "Not unless…"
"…he had a reason he couldn't leave," Vergil finished.
They exchanged a look—grim, certain.
"Exactly," Eleanor said. "Which means one of two things. Either we're too weak to be worth chasing…"
"Or," she added, voice dropping to a whisper, "he's guarding something. Or bound to something."
Vergil dragged a hand through his hair, jaw tight. "If it's the second one… whatever that thing is might be even worse than him."
A cold silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken horrors.
Outside, the wind picked up—low and hollow, weaving through broken stone and dead grass like whispers from the grave.
Eleanor broke the stillness. "We have two options. Head back now… or see what he's guarding. Then decide."
Vergil nodded slowly. "One's the smart call."
"The other's suicide," he muttered, glancing at the crimson stain along his side. "And I'm injured. No medicine. No bandages. And worst of all—no healing potions."
He let out a breath, then pushed off the wall with a quiet groan.
"We head back. Regroup. Resupply. Then we return—on our terms."
Eleanor rose beside him. Her gaze was steady.
"Agreed."
Together, they stepped into the cold wind, leaving the ruined temple behind.
And in the darkness beyond the stone, the monster's secret still waited—unseen, untouched… and perhaps watching.
---
Beneath the dying trees, where no light dared to reach, Morvax walked.
Each step left no footprint. The world itself recoiled from him.
He emerged into a clearing soaked in death—a shrine carved from bone and stone, crouched beneath twisted branches. Around it, corpses lay piled like offerings: goblins with snapped spines, scavenger beasts with torn throats, ogres cleaved open and hollowed. Blood stained the ground in black-red streaks, drying slowly beneath the pale flicker of unseen flames.
At the shrine's heart, an altar pulsed.
Veined with obsidian and etched with symbols older than language, it throbbed like a buried heart. Black roots crawled up its sides like fingers trying to hold it shut.
Morvax stepped forward, holding a small red jade between two clawed fingers. It glowed faintly—hungrier now.
He lowered it toward the altar, and the blood in the dirt responded—rising in threads like smoke in reverse, spiraling into the jade. It pulsed once. Then again. Faster.
A thin smile cut across his face.
"So close," he breathed, voice low and inhuman. "It stirs now... the gate breathes beneath the stone."
The air grew colder.
He knelt before the altar, talons scraping ancient carvings.
"I've given it beasts. The wild. The broken."
The jade flickered red, then deeper—almost black.
"But it needs more."
His head tilted, almost reverently.
"So much more."
Without another word, he rose and vanished into the dark. The altar pulsed again.
And below it—something exhaled.
Something waiting.
Something listening.
---
The trees thinned as the two figures made their slow return, the crimson-streaked sky casting long shadows behind them. Vergil's steps were uneven, each movement dragging just slightly. A faint stain of dried blood clung to the back of his tunic, right where pain flared with every breath.
Eleanor walked silently beside him, glancing at him every few minutes, but saying nothing.
That silence didn't last.
[Looks like someone got their ass whopped.]
"Shut up."
[What? I'm just saying. That thing ragdolled you like a drunk in a tavern brawl.]
"It caught me off guard. Once."
[Once is all it takes when the enemy's three times your size and twice as ugly.]
Vergil winced—not from the voice, but from the jolt in his back when his boot caught a root. He barely steadied himself before Eleanor's hand shot out.
"You okay?" she asked quietly.
"I'm fine."
His tone was firm, but his left eye twitched with pain.
Eleanor didn't press further. She matched his pace.
[You know... most people would've died from that hit.]
"Yeah, and yet here I am. Bleeding. Walking. Alive."
[Barely. I think your spine tried to leave your body for a second there.]
"You're hilarious."
[I know.]
A gust of cold air whispered through the trees. The adrenaline faded, replaced by ache—the slow, biting realization of what happened. The King fleeing. That thing in the woods. Whatever it was, it hadn't fought them.
It didn't need to.
It had made a point by not attacking.
Vergil's brow furrowed.
'Why didn't it finish us off?'
[Maybe it's saving you for later. Like leftovers.]
"You're not helping."
[I'm not trying to.]
They kept walking. The setting sun bled fire through the branches as the path twisted over gnarled roots and loose stones. Every now and then Vergil's breath hitched from a sharp step. He hid it.
"You sure you're fine?" Eleanor asked again, softer. "You're limping."
"I've walked worse."
"Back injury?"
He said nothing.
Eleanor sighed, muttering something under her breath. A soft green glow traced her fingers, but she didn't cast it on him. Not yet.
[You should let her heal you. Pride's great and all, but so is not being paralyzed.]
"I'm not paralyzed."
[Yet.]
Vergil exhaled slowly. The pain was real, but the weight of that presence behind them was heavier. He could still feel it. Watching. Hunting. Waiting.
The village was maybe thirty minutes away. Close… but not close enough.
"Once we get back," Eleanor said quietly, "we report that thing. Whatever it was."
"We're not saying anything yet," Vergil replied.
She looked at him. "You serious?"
"I want to know what it is first. Why it let us go."
Her lips pressed thin. "You're not going back there."
He didn't answer.
[Oh, he's definitely going back.]
Vergil's mind circled the creature in the woods—that monstrous shadow radiating pressure like a black hole.
'If he's protecting something… I'll make sure to fuck him over.'
His fists clenched, knuckles whitening as pain flared again, nearly staggering him.
Eleanor caught the movement, eyes narrowing.
"You sure you're alright?" she asked, voice low but edged with concern.
"I've walked through worse," he muttered.
"Back's messed up?"
No answer.
She muttered again, green light dancing over her fingertips, but withheld the spell.
[She's trying to help, you know. Unlike you, she's not allergic to common sense.]
"I don't need help. I just need time."
[What you need is to stop pretending your spine isn't halfway to retirement.]
Vergil ignored it. His focus was elsewhere—in that clearing, on those eyes.
The village was close—but not close enough.
Eleanor finally spoke. "We need to tell someone. Report whatever that thing was."
Vergil shook his head. "No. Not yet."
"What? Are you serious?"
"I want to know what it is. Why it let us go. And what it's protecting."
She stared. "You're not going back there."
"I am."
"Vergil—"
"He's protecting something," Vergil muttered, voice low and cold. "And when I find out what it is… I'll make sure to fuck him over."
Behind them, the forest was deathly quiet, the air thick with echoes of what they'd escaped. But the tension lingered—an invisible weight pressing at their backs.
As they walked, slower now, Vergil's thoughts twisted in grim silence.
'That thing… it had an Authority. Just like me.'
He gritted his teeth against the throb in his back.
'It was a good one—perfect for infiltration. It could mimic my movements, but not my skills. That's the key. It can't copy my abilities, so it's possible to counter. I just need time.'
He glanced at Eleanor, silent but alert beside him.
'If I can push my stats into the 40s... and if Eleanor gets more control over her magic... we might stand a chance. One week. That's all I need.'
His fingers curled.
'I'll also need a passive skill for recovery. Something to fight through injuries like this. I can't afford to be slowed down again—or I'll bite off more than I can chew.'
He winced as another jolt ran through his spine.
[And maybe a new spine while you're at it, champ.]
Vergil ignored the voice this time.
The sun dipped past the horizon. The village was near.
But for Vergil, the real fight hadn't even begun.
---
In the thicket just beyond the village, something watched.
It stood unnaturally still—a silhouette half-hidden among the trees. At first glance, it might have passed for a traveler—dark-haired, cloaked, just another soul pausing at the woods.
But it wasn't human.
Not really.
The puppet wore a face—a crude, rotting mimicry of Vergil's. The features were almost right, but not quite. Skin too pale, too tight over a frame it didn't belong to. One eye hung lower than the other, jaw crooked in a half-smile stitched on in haste.
Its chest rose and fell in mimicry of breath, though no air moved. Arms dangled awkwardly, fingers twitching like they searched for something to grasp. It wore a tattered cloak like Vergil's, edges soaked in something darker—old blood or worse.
And still, it watched.
The inn sat quietly at the village edge. Smoke rose from the chimney, warm morning light pushing through shutters. Inside, the real one was waking. The real Vergil. The source.
It didn't know what he was yet—not exactly. But it had felt something in him during that brief encounter. Not raw power. Not dominance.
Hunger.
Quiet, patient hunger—ambition, focused, simmering.
He had limits. Rules. Lines he didn't cross.
But that could change.
The puppet tilted its head, limbs creaking as it shifted, face frozen in that unnatural smile.
The girl was with him now. Not a threat—not yet. But there was something in her eyes too—that cold determination of someone who lost everything and hadn't let go of anger.
The puppet's lip twitched.
They were growing stronger.
It needed to know how strong.
It leaned forward slightly... then froze.
Vergil stepped outside, gaze sharp and searching toward the trees.
He felt it. Somehow, he knew.
A low hiss, breathless and guttural, slipped from the puppet's throat.
It didn't move.
Then, all at once, it collapsed—flesh sloughing from bone, limbs folding inward like a dying insect. The face, that grotesque mockery, melted into dirt, leaving behind only a stain and the faint scent of rot.
The woods fell silent again.
But the thing hadn't gone far.
It had seen his face.
And next time, it might wear it better.