Limgrave – Agheel Lake South – Midday

Vergil found himself emerging from a blue mist and into a former encampment with a nearby Site of Grace. True to his suspicion, it appeared as though no time had passed outside the Roundtable Hold. He let out a deep sigh, grateful that the foul stench and the irksome rot that besmirched all of Caelid were nowhere to be found. He appeared to be at a crossroads. One path would lead further south into the Weeping Peninsula, which to his knowledge, contained no Shardbearers. Another path would lead to Sellen, while a shorter road led to a curious structure in the map he acquired from the Hold. Upon following the path, he could hear the distinct sound of blades clashing and decided to investigate. To his mild surprise, the sounds seemed to be emanating from the stone structure surrounded by Lookout Stones. Embedded into the hill, the cobblestone structure surrounded a small pedestal covered in runes and glowing with magical energy. The clash of swords and fangs continued from within, beckoning the warrior to peer into the magical seal, which in turn transported the blue devil into the pocket dimension it held.

Vergil's vision contorted for a short instant before he finally saw the source of the sounds from earlier. It appeared that Blaidd, the noisy Half-Wolf he'd briefly encountered in the past, was engaged in furious combat with another heavily armoured foe. This foe adopted a bestial fighting stance, with three of its limbs anchoring it to the ground and wielding a curved greatsword with a gently undulating blade. Its head was equipped with what Vergil immediately recognized as a Houndskull Bascinet—a design he first encountered in history books when he was forced to learn about the medieval period after another incident with his younger twin.

Dante had fallen asleep during one of Sparda's admittedly less-engaging lectures, but rather than let his brother take the fall as always, Vergil took it upon himself to wake up the carefree devil, causing him to shriek and drawing more attention as a result. As the older twin, Vergil was used to taking responsibility for his brother's antics, but despite securing his father's favour most of the time, Sparda's punishments were no less severe towards him than they were towards Dante. He'd learned this lesson the hard way when he had to read an entire library's worth of history and recite his detailed findings to his mother. The practice was grueling, to be sure, but Vergil would later find appreciation for it as it would inevitably spark his lifelong thirst for knowledge. It also meant that for at least one afternoon, he wouldn't have to find Dante crying from their father raising his voice. Snapping out of his brief reverie, Vergil decided to stand by and witness the spectacle unraveling before him.

Limgrave– Forlorn Hound's Evergaol – Midday

"Darriwil…"

The wolven warrior threw himself into the fray, letting the weight of his icy sword punctuate his measured swings.

"Rotting in a cell is no true justice."

The armoured foe dashed around with surprising speed and agility, moving about the field erratically unlike his wolven rival who struggled to give chase with his wide, heavy attacks. Fuelled by a cold anger befitting the Royal Greatsword he wielded, Blaidd was determined to put an end to the traitorous filth that he'd finally managed to track down. He snarled as he unleashed a spinning slash that staggered his tenacious foe.

"No, this is where it ends for you."

Before he could follow up with another slash to his opponent's neck, Darriwil had disappeared.

"Damn Bloodhounds…"

The Bloodhound knights were known for their blinding speed and their aggressive fighting styles. Having known Darriwil for some time, Blaidd was no stranger to the Bloodhound Knight's tricks, but that didn't make dealing with him any easier. He had intended on finishing this battle before Darriwil could get properly warmed up, or he would have no way of reliably tracking his movements. The half-wolf barely dodged a heavy strike using the flat of his blade, but the impact still briefly knocked him off balance. Were it not for the sheer weight of his weapon, Blaidd would have found his back on the ground and Darriwil's sword on his neck. As the traitorous Bloodhound zipped around the arena, Blaidd took advantage of the dissonance between the speed of Darriwil's Bloodhound Step and the speed that Darriwil himself would employ when swinging his sword. After blocking Darriwil the third time, Blaidd was starting to figure out some kind of pattern in his rival's movements. When the half-wolf blocked and parried yet another strike from the speedy Bloodhound, he anticipated that the Bloodhound's next move would be to strike him from behind—only for this to be a feint as Darriwil dodged his retaliating slash with a backflip.

Was he thinking this far ahead?!

Blaidd gritted his teeth as Darriwil reappeared from nowhere and let loose a whirlwind of cuts on his body, which was barely protected by the thick armour he always wore. The wounds mounted in number and culminated in a hemorrhaging burst of agony that knocked the half-wolf to his knees. Darriwil need only take one last swipe. Blaidd gripped his sword's handle tight, refusing to go out like this when his mistress still had so much use left for him.

What kind of shadow would I be if I were to fall now…?

Suddenly, a chill mist appeared from Blaidd's enchanted blade, giving him a boost of energy as he fought off the inevitable. He leaped into the air, his body screaming from the unnecessary movements, and slammed his colossal sword into Darriwil's general position. The Bloodhound Knight barely reacted until Blaidd pulled it out of the ground, unleashing a small explosion of frost. If he was going to go out, it would not be without taking the traitorous filth with him. Darriwil's armour was starting to be coated in a growing layer of frost, proving that the sword's enchantment had worked against its intended target. Darriwil attempted to dash away with the Bloodhound's Step but found himself unable to do so—his decisive advantage negated by the frost that hindered his movements. Although Blaidd's vision was starting to fade from the blood loss, he nevertheless pushed forward, determined to win—even if the victory was a Pyrrhic one. It was then, almost as though fate had intervened, that a blue light briefly shone in the evergaol, showing that another being had entered it.

Though the seconds passed like hours in Blaidd's gradually fading consciousness, he could still perceive roughly what was happening. As he recognized the figure that appeared from the evergaol's entrance, he took advantage of Darriwil's mutual surprise by downing a crimson flask. The healing nectar staved off the blood loss and sealed the half-wolf's wounds, saving him from an untimely end. A few seconds passed as Darriwil and the white-haired stranger sized each other up…seconds that were used to good effect as it meant that the frost spell was starting to run its course. Darriwil confirmed this by shaking off the thick layer of frost that had hindered his movements thus far, allowing him to utilize his signature move once more. The stranger looked at Darriwil briefly, almost in recognition, then flicked a sliver of his thin blade from its wooden scabbard. As if to mock him, Darriwil zipped back and forth with his Bloodhound Step, confident that his overwhelming speed would be too much for his enemies despite being outnumbered two to one. Blaidd saw him disappear and then reappear a short distance away in sporadic moments while the stranger stood still. The stranger's expression then changed from fascination and recognition to that of pure boredom as he coolly sighed and shook his head. Darriwil vanished for another split second, and Blaidd scanned around the surroundings, trying to ascertain his precise location.

Clink.

The half-wolf heard the distinct sound of flesh being severed earlier but couldn't place exactly when it had happened. In a short instant, Darriwil had reappeared behind the white-haired warrior who still had not moved a muscle since drawing out a small portion of his blade seconds earlier. The Bloodhound prepared to swing an overhead strike.

"Watch out, he's behind—"

Judging by Darriwil's sudden reemergence and the strength behind the blow he was about to land without resistance, the white-haired stranger stood no chance of survival once hit.

Perhaps I was wrong about him after all…

Before Darriwil could land the blow, the sound of the warrior's blade clicking back into its sheathe rang in the half-wolf's sensitive ears. Had he come here just to die for no reason? The silence that followed felt like an eternity though in reality only a couple of seconds had passed without an event. Blaidd's wounds may have been sealed, but he was in no fighting shape once the white-haired warrior fell. Then came a loud thud of something heavy hitting the ground. To Blaidd's surprise, Darriwil's head had been neatly displaced from his shoulders; a jet of blood started to spray out from the stump that used to be his neck. With another groan, the white-haired warrior cleaned some of the blood from the tattered cloak that concealed the rest of his body. A flash of blue light engulfed the arena and sent both warriors back outside the seal, dispelling it in the process with its captive banished.

"Is that all?"

The ashen-haired warrior finally spoke while Blaidd could only look slack-jawed in awe and utter confusion. The lack of blood must surely have gone straight to his head. Still, he now owed his life to this stranger who up until then he had only met in passing just days before. Still panting in short breaths, the half-wolf finally spoke with a sigh.

"…Right. There you are. Had to work for it, but it's done."

He reached inside his satchel and produced a somber smithing stone, a material used to strengthen weapons of special make. Though he still could not comprehend exactly what transpired between the stranger and Darriwil, any warrior worth their salt would be a fool to pass up materials to further bolster their fighting implements.

"Don't say I'm not a man of my word. Here's your prize."

The man nodded, looking as though he vaguely recognized the material that had just been given to him. The man then turned and summoned his spirit steed. Before he could depart, Blaidd had to say a few words to his saviour.

"So, where are you off to now?"

"The academy of Raya Lucaria."

"Oh? Venturing out into the Carian territory are you? What a pleasant surprise. After our last encounter, I never saw you as the talkative type."

A short beat of silence ensued, confirming the half-wolf's assumptions.

"I only wish to confirm its whereabouts, as my map is thus far incomplete."

"How did you figure out that I knew anything about Caria?"

"The frost magic from your blade."

The answer was unexpectedly sudden, though to the half-wolf, such an assumption would be correct. His Royal Greatsword was practically a beacon of Carian make all on its own.

"Fair enough. Oh yes, I should say – since you are venturing north to Raya Lucaria and come across a venerable blacksmith who's a little on the large side…Tell him I sent you. And he'll be sure to treat you right. I owe you one, I reckon."

With that, the warrior wordlessly set off. With him gone, Blaidd fell to one knee. His strength was thoroughly sapped from the ordeal, and though he still couldn't make sense of how it ended he was glad to still be standing—metaphorically that is. Without anyone to threaten him, he finally succumbed to the weight of his weariness and collapsed onto the ground. He would need a few days to recover from this one, and possibly more to make sense of exactly what happened in the first place.

Limgrave – Waypoint Ruins – Early Afternoon

"Well done, my apprentice."

Dark blue wisps of magic evaporated from where Sellen stood at the end of their last sparring session.

"Keep this up, and I shall have nothing left to teach."

The stone-faced woman nodded in satisfaction at how far her student had progressed since their last meeting. After incorporating some more lessons, the student could now cast Carian Phalanxes with ease. His abilities were clearly evolving as when she first met him, he struggled to even manifest a single glintblade let alone a full wave of them like he could now. With the lesson concluded, Vergil once again set off towards the grand archives.

Limgrave—Murkwater River—Late Afternoon

Partway through his westward journey, Vergil felt an odd presence that reeked of killing intent. Torrent seemed to share the same suspicion as his rider, and disappeared into mist after his rider made a distinct tapping motion on his stirrup. Having only a vague idea of his pursuer's location, Vergil flicked a sliver of his katana out of its sheathe, ready to attack at a moment's notice. The still yet shallow waters of the Murkwater River ensured that no footstep would be masked, and as soon as he heard the subtle displacement of water a few feet away, Vergil turned towards his assailant and casually dodged a blood-tinged projectile to the side. The second and third in the volley were summarily deflected by the swordsman's sheathe as he casually walked towards his would-be attacker. Realizing that his ruse had been compromised, the attacker let go of any pretenses of maintaining stealth and instead focused on laying on a series of attacks. In his hands were a pair of jagged daggers that reeked of the distinct iron tanginess of fresh blood. The crimson apparition brandished his daggers and threw volley after volley of projectiles, which the blue devil either sidestepped or deflected. In retaliation, the swordsman produced his crystalline staff and summoned his own volley of spectral swords, each moving independently toward the assailant. Three blades hit the apparition square in the shoulders while a fourth and fifth blade nicked his wrists. The assailant seemed to revel in his injuries, however, and almost seemed reinvigorated by the warm liquids that had begun to stain his long, flowing robes. Just as he backstepped out of a blue light wave's trajectory, another being burst out from the shadows, sword in hand.

"If it isn't Nerijus, The Bloody Finger."

The aged warrior ran towards the sanguine spectre and loosed a charging thrust of his blade forward. The spectre barely dodged but still found part of his robe slashed through from the blade's imposing reach. The older ronin followed up the stab with a spinning slash that managed to knock one of the spectre's daggers out of his hand by wedging the blade's length along one of its sharpened ridges. The older warrior shook off the thin layer of blood that graced his slender blade as he spat in disgust.

"The end is nigh. For you, and your cessblood."

The spectre found that his injuries were quickly starting to catch up to him, with his movements beginning to slow. The fact was not lost on the ashen-haired swordsman, who fired a pair of spectral swords towards the apparition's feet, pinning him where he stood. He quickly turned his gaze towards the older warrior, who gave a knowing nod and proceeded to sheathe his blade along with his companion. The Bloody Finger weighed his options and put a dagger in front of him, trying to gauge which one would attack first, only for both swordsmen to unsheathe their weapons in unison, the thin blades sparking in contact as both sliced through his body. Nerijus' lower body collapsed limp while his top half was bisected and his remaining dagger sliced through and shattered. The last sight he would ever see would be the two swordsmen flicking the blood from their swords before returning them back to their scabbards. And then there was darkness.

The older ronin bowed towards his companion both in greeting and in thanks.

"Ah, we meet again."

Nerijus' apparition had faded into a red mist, yet a bloody imprint of his tattered robes remained on the shallow water's surface a short distance away from the pair.

"To have fought Nerijus and lived, you must have seen your share of battle. I am Yura, as you might recall, hunter of Bloody Fingers."

The ashen-haired warrior returned the bow, recognizing it as a sign of respect.

"Vergil, son of Sparda. I sensed your presence some time back."

"I'm aware. I could see with how you were practically toying with him before I revealed myself. Did you lure him towards me on purpose?"

A small smirk momentarily graced the younger warrior's lips, confirming the old man's assumption.

"Many thanks. These old bones of mine don't quite work as they used to. I needed him to reveal himself proper before I struck."

"Ages are all equal. But genius is always above the age."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. What was that apparition earlier? Was he one of the Bloody Fingers you spoke of?"

The old man nodded and then continued, his gruff voice barely masking the venom contained in his tone as he spoke.

"Tarnished held in thrall by the cessblood. Zealots who stalk their own. If you stay the path, you are certain to face more of them."

"I will keep your words in mind."

With the threat dealt with, the younger swordsman summoned his spectral steed and mounted it. The old man lowered his head in a bow once more.

"Just remember, no kinship with their ilk remains. Their madness precludes it. Don't let your emotions stay your blade."

"I appreciate the warning, but I assure you that my emotions will not obstruct or cloud my judgment." He then returned the bow.

"Be on your way. Perhaps we will meet again, if fate permits."

Vergil steered Torrent's reins and returned to the westward path past Agheel Lake. He sighed once again, eager to dry off his waterlogged boots.