Liurnia of the Lakes – Church of the Cuckoo – Evening

With the absence and presumed murder of the lookouts, the academy itself was primed to launch a full defense against the invader who dared to breach its walls. Spells flew in every direction from the balconies, towers, and pillars above, all aimed at the invader. Each magic projectile varied in intensity—some were basic glintstone pebbles, while others were much more advanced comet shards that ripped through solid stone whenever they missed their target. Vergil cast Scholar's Shield on his scabbard to reinforce it while avoiding the blasts to the best of his ability. In truth, the magic shards were slow enough that the swordsman didn't miss the absence of his inhuman speed, but the sheer number of the casters made the ordeal more of a nuisance than he expected. Some projectiles were faster than others, much like the variety that Sellen liked to play with, while others arced lazily through the air…only to surge with explosive wrath as soon as they struck the ground. Some even weaved around in a helical pattern, loosely tracking his movements. Vergil wasn't sure whether to be impressed with the lengths an academy of all places would go just to rid themselves of a single intruder, or insulted at the thought that these stone-headed fools were giving him this much trouble. Demonic energy continued to hiss out of his skin in irregular bursts, wanting to break free after experiencing a measly taste of freedom just hours prior. He clutched his weapons tightly, wanting nothing to do with the blight that afflicted him. Still, the urge to simply let go continued to build as time progressed, and with it came the bothersome headache that assailed him more than the magic raining down from the rooftops.

Vergil's scabbard acted as a makeshift shield against several projectiles—a blue blur that attested to the speed behind his movements. As soon as he entered a nearby chapel, a troupe of marionettes dropped from a collection of steel cages mounted on the ceiling. Chains rattled, echoing through the chapel's walls, followed by the shrill squeaks of rusted joints that signaled the dolls' coming to life. These four-armed dolls wielded a small armoury of spears, swords, and daggers that they used to great effect, while allies stationed up above shot volleys of arrows toward the invader. Their unnatural movements reminded Vergil of the eerie puppets that populated much of Mallet Island and he wondered if, like Mundus' marionettes, these too were animated by restless spirits.

The memory caused Vergil to jerk involuntarily, allowing a pair to get behind him.

What is this feeling?

Vergil felt a sharp pain jolt his body while his fingers trembled, and his mouth ran dry. He could almost hear it clearly—the booming voice of the one responsible for ruining his life. Like a puppet on a string, he was denied his purpose, his will overcome, and forced to submit as his consciousness was repeatedly submerged into darkness. His limbs grew heavy, and his vision started to mist over. All he could hear was the demon emperor's mocking laugh and the disgust in his voice whenever he spoke. His chest felt tight, and his breathing grew heavy. Meanwhile, the bluish light that illuminated his veins began to stir and shift into a sinister purple.

Just as a pair of swords were about to strike the blue devil, he reflexively dodged, which caused him to snap out of the white noise that seized his mind. Just as he did, a volley of arrows peppered across his back, piercing through his flesh, and causing him to wince. He tried to move aside, but his body simply refused to listen. Arrows continued to rain down until eventually, a mounting flash of anger and frustration overcame him, and he forced himself back into his senses. Vergil furrowed his brow as he clenched his scabbard and drew his sword. Like a wild conflagration, demonic energy erupted from the pores of his pale skin, engulfing him in a purple aura that seemed to guide his every movement. He screamed—more at himself than toward his enemies, as he carved his way around the chapel. Clangs of steel striking steel screeched and bellowed until the horde of marionettes relented and were sent flying by the swordsman's strikes. Vergil huffed as he swatted them aside like trash, deflecting volleys of arrows moving toward him while he did so. Vergil sliced and spun around the building until his enemies were no more; however, as soon as he stepped out, another barrage of spells rushed towards him.

Volleys of magic bolts whistled through the air—blue missiles occasionally interrupted by the booming sound of narrowly dodged explosions. Behind the chapel was a long stretch of uneven ground littered with a sea of aging gravestones. These miniature barricades allowed the blue devil the space to avoid the onslaught of spells being hurled his way, allowing him to focus more on dashing forward and counterattacking. With a small split second of reprieve in between each stone barrier, Vergil was able to throw daggers, both physical and magic, to whittle down the opposition. Blood-curdling grunts and angered screams began to blend into the chaotic cacophony that signified the conflict until suddenly, a deafening silence made itself known. Wispy blue spectres weaved around the thick mist that blanketed the sombre graveyard and settled into the graves, where the corpses angrily rose as if to mete out their punishment for the precious silence that was so heedlessly stolen. Glowing blue eyes stood out amongst the rotting remains of the corpses that rose, their frames hardly resembling the humans they once were.

Vergil spared no time and cut off the heads of the first ones to rise, while nimbly dodging incoming fire that had resumed as soon as the sorcerers caught wind of his location. He dashed through the rope bridge that lay ahead, only to be met with a charge of undead dogs. The vicious mongrels snarled at their prey as they lunged, their jaws immediately sliced open when the swordsman passed by them. Although the swordsman made quick work of the undead, he soon realized that this was a battle of attrition he was not equipped to overcome. Unable to sever their immortality, Vergil found his tireless foes repossessing a fresh batch of corpses every time he struck one down. Though he made a point to dismember the rotting carcasses beyond repair, there appeared to be no end to the bodies that the spirits would inhabit.

Wary of the unwelcome force loosely guiding his movements, Vergil felt as though he had little time to waste on the encroaching horde. He lazily swatted away a stray bolt while dashing across a narrow passageway, and noted how the sorcerers never had a reason to leave their lofty posts. In the safety of the rooftops, the sorcerers could sling their spells with wild abandon, but after making his way through the academy, Vergil found a way to hinder their ceaseless assault while simultaneously distracting the masses of chasing undead. As his willpower crested and waned through uneven breaths, Vergil kept himself focused on the one thing that allowed him to persevere; the phantom pain that constantly afflicted his left hand began to flare up in response. The blue swordsman took a sip from his cerulean flask while he took refuge in the back of a gravestone and surveyed his surroundings. To his left was a small battalion of undead replenishing their numbers, while about a dozen sorcerers were perched atop a worn mausoleum.

With a strained grunt, Vergil tapped into the energies of the stars as his instructor had taught him while he visualized his surroundings. Though his eyes were closed shut, he could feel the conflicting energies coursing through his veins: an icy current of primeval magic that contrasted against the raging storm fomenting deep within his being. The magics were so different and yet both fed on different parts of his psyche. Where one was constantly fuelled by the anguish and frustration that marred his soul, another drew its strength from the stubborn determination that drove him to keep pushing forward. Amidst the turmoil warring within was a feeble beacon that resonated with a soothing warmth—a light that calmed his nerves and allowed him to focus once again.

This newfound sense of clarity allowed Vergil to briefly regain his senses as he paused in deep concentration. He listened for every rustling leaf, every silent breeze, each laboured breath, and each jagged groan. Soon, time itself seemed to slow as Vergil focused on every detail within his expanding sphere of consciousness.

Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of
the sun;

He furrowed his brow as a volley of projectiles rapidly approached him, inching closer and closer with every half-breath.

Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey
is done;

The wind stopped for a split second, and tiny explosions of azure light coalesced into crystalline dagger-shards, each situated inches away from their targets.

Where the Youth pined away
with desire,

Before anyone could react, dozens of spectral blades were loosed into the air, embedding themselves into their unwitting victims as willed by their caster.

And the pale virgin shrouded
in snow,

Scores of undead fell to their knees, their legs suddenly dismembered, while the sorcerers fell off their posts, their ankles and knees falling prey to the same attacks.

Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!

The smaller dogs were quickly dealt with, as the phantom shards rushed towards their necks, halting their progression all at once. Vergil moved first his neck and then his body to the side and back once…twice…then three times, narrowly dodging the glintstone spikes summoned by their stone-faced conjurers. His left arm reflexively swatted a series of stray projectiles using his scabbard, shattering the remainder of the spells he had little time to dodge. In half a second, the spells stopped firing at him and started flailing about in seemingly random directions. Another beat passed, and a series of thundering thuds could be heard as the sorcerers fell off the rooftops and into the ground. Each screamed partly out of pain, and partly out of pure shock. However, none would prepare them for what was to come.

Despite their injuries, the undead turned on the sorcerers as soon as they fell, giving the blue devil the perfect opportunity to slip away uninterrupted. As he suspected, the sorcerers stayed far from the ground for good reason. Useful as they were, the dead held no allegiance. Blood-curdling screams filled the air as limbs were ripped, broken, and torn, until once again, the dead found peace in the stillness of the unbroken night. By this time, Vergil had long absconded far and away from the field of bones and rotting flesh. Once he'd escaped, the sense of clarity that allowed him to keep moving thus far quickly evaporated. Vergil clutched his head as he tried—almost in vain—to suppress the demonic power that continued to war within him. His eyes briefly glowed a haunting red and the blue veins that adorned his pale flesh shone with an electric purple hue as he clutched his head in an attempt to repress his aura. He reflexively reached for his chest but once again found it empty. Frozen by the realization, Vergil's knees buckled and collapsed under pressure. His eyes grew heavy, and he collapsed.

"How disgraceful, son of Sparda."

In an instant, Vergil was surrounded by an endless void that stretched out for miles and miles ahead. At the centre of the field of nothingness was a trio of glowing orbs that crackled and swirled with malicious intent. The red-eyed figure towered over the fallen devil, his voice manifesting in a booming echo that reflected his stony visage. Despite his unchanging expression, one could tell how his countenance was darkened by overwhelming disappointment and revulsion.

"Sparda. Sparda. That traitor!"

The living statue looked down on the young demon who was crucified and impaled by shadowy roots. Incapable of moving, the youngling loosened his weary grip on his sword's shattered handle, dropping it straight into the bloody pool below him. The demon emperor continued.

"Had he not sullied demon blood with a human womb…perhaps he could've had a son with at least some grit."

Vergil immediately awoke with a defiant scream. He wanted to curse at his weakness and his circumstance, but he knew that neither would bring back all that he'd lost. He lightly shook his head after realizing that the pain from earlier had momentarily subsided.

However, the silence was not to last, for once Vergil set foot near a large rotating lift, a grey being stepped out of a portal. Tall, pale, and sickly, the new opponent imbued his alabaster sword with a purplish energy Vergil came to associate with gravity sorcery. He was somewhat familiar with it, having encountered the flavour of magic from the Ruins Greatsword he briefly wielded in Redmane Castle. This meant that when the pale fiend motioned to slam his sword to the ground, Vergil knew what to expect and bashed his enemy's face using the flat of his scabbard. Once his enemy was off balance, he unsheathed his katana and in one fluid motion, sliced off the gravity sorcerer's arm—sword included.

The purple magic surrounding the blade continued to flash, which caught the blue devil's notice. Before the falling blade could hit the ground, Vergil flicked it sideways by hitting the blade's pommel. The action caused the sword to twirl through the air in a circular motion until it lined up with its intended target. Still reeling in pain, the Alabaster Lord stamped his foot and cast a spell that sent a condensed gravitational force towards the sword that was now hurtling towards him. The purple sphere consumed the blade and drew it to its wielder's remaining hand. With his resolve renewed, the pale challenger made a wide overhead swing that the blue devil jumped over. Having hopped onto the lift, Vergil turned away from his opponent, but not before putting his blade back in his sheath with an audible "clink." His opponent looked confused for a moment until his vision spun and he saw the grisly sight of his head rolling away from his body. His vision faded to black before he could fully process what happened.

Liurnia of the Lakes – Schoolhouse Classroom – Late Evening

Vergil practically crawled from the lift to the academy wing that it led to. Once he neared the lift's top junction, he rolled into the dusty ground, grateful to see that a site of grace was shining nearby. He weakly raised an arm that was momentarily enkindled by bluish-purple flames—immediately extinguished once it came to contact with the warm beacon of light. Though he could feel some of his strength starting to return, the same could not be said about his mental faculties. He heaved and balled his hands into fists, scrounging up ways to keep his mind away from the fire that threatened to burn him alive if he somehow lost control again; he could feel the weakness that ravaged his body and mind, and it disgusted him.

Sensing that something was amiss, the kindling maiden emerged from the mists to join her companion. She immediately noticed that sickness that afflicted him and didn't know what to make of it as she had never witnessed such a sight. She reflexively stretched a hand.

"Don't you dare touch me!"

Vergil barked while his hands trembled. In that very instant, the maiden noticed how his eyes seemed to change entirely from a piercing red to a glowing yellow. With each rapid transformation, his irises began to vanish, as if it was being consumed by the aberrant maelstrom of foreign energies mingling within the devil's body. The veins that had become so prevalent with his corpse-pale skin started to glow themselves, and to the horrified maiden, it looked like her companion was devolving into something else entirely. Geysers of bluish-purple flames flared up around Vergil's protruding veins, giving the impression of porcelain on the verge of shattering. She had never seen such a thing, and Vergil's pained screams gave her no comfort.

"But that curse…surely there's something I can-"

He simply glared her down until all she could do was sit idly by while her companion stubbornly suffered in silence.

"I don't need your help."

Visions of his burning home and the horrors inflicted by Mundus repeated ad nauseam, plaguing Vergil's mind with unpleasant memories. While the imbalance of power tore his body from within, a boundless fury rose to meet its measure. Power continued to rush out of his body, which caused Vergil's appearance to change back and forth from the form that Melina recognized to that of an armoured juggernaut. When Vergil finally spoke, his voice echoed.

"I don't need anyone's help."

The warring energies raged within the pale devil, clashing in a way that his body was ill-equipped to contain. He punched the ground repeatedly, cratering the floor he knelt on, screaming all the while. The maiden couldn't bear to watch him go through this.

Pages of dusty tomes began to swirl around the blue devil until a sudden wave sent them all flying toward the nearest surface, only to be drawn back around the blue devil. A divine wind swirled and roared around Vergil's body, creating a sphere comprised of runes the likes of which were entirely foreign to the kindling maiden. The runes vanished as quickly as they appeared, making them hard to decipher even if she was able to recognize a single symbol that flashed in front of her. Soon the purplish light grew too bright, and she had to cover her open eye with a hand.

"I can do this…alone."

"Yes. I know. But you don't have to."

Against her better judgment, Melina placed her burnt hands over Vergil's own and transposed the runes he had acquired thus far. While the foreign energies continued to gather and release in sporadic intervals, Melina's small action allowed Vergil to notice the small reservoir of power he had been steadily nurturing since this journey began. Though feeble in comparison, this faint source of warmth allowed Vergil to gradually wrest control from the tempest of his own making.

You. Will. Submit!

The bluish-purple light that encased the runic sphere glowed even brighter and then abruptly burst into a golden shade resembling the call of grace. Having broken the stream of memories that bound his consciousness, Vergil released a deep exhale and finally started to relax. In that instant, the storm died down and the tomes and torn pages that swirled around him came to a screeching halt, falling to the ground completely inert shortly afterward.

Following the maelstrom's aftermath, Vergil started to slowly regain the sense of lucidity that allowed him to keep moving forward. He then realized that the maiden had fallen unconscious from his earlier display. Puzzled by her earlier behaviour, Vergil could only rest a finger on his forehead while shaking his head.

"Such a fool…"

He then dragged himself away from his sunken crater and sat staring at the light of grace. His thoughts were still…for now.