Prelude

The golden doors loomed before him, impossibly vast, their surface alive with celestial engravings that seemed to breathe with ancient power. Each carved symbol glowed—not with light, but with the essence of something older than time itself. The air shimmered with divine radiance, a weightless pressure that whispered of unfathomable authority.

As he stepped forward, the polished Divinium floor beneath his feet pulsed in response. With a single touch, the golden doors trembled—not in defiance, but in recognition. Slowly, they parted, unveiling a light so pure it threatened to consume all shadows.

He did not flinch. His smirk only deepened.

Through the doors, he moved effortlessly, his twelve massive wings unfurling—six as dark as the void, six as white as divine flame. They stretched wide, exuding an aura that blurred the line between destruction and divinity. Strands of unruly black hair veiled his piercing gaze—one eye glowing an ethereal blue, the other a deep, foreboding crimson. His black waistcoat clung to his form—refined yet ominous—the long tails shifting like shadows in the divine glow.

With each step, the celestial palace around him flickered, as though uncertain of its own existence.

And then—he looked up.

Suddenly, the grand halls of Divinium began to dissolve, as though they had never truly been real. The golden walls, the towering pillars of light, the cascading waterfalls of radiance—all of it peeled away, unraveling into nothingness.

Reality itself unraveled.

And then, there was him.

A lone figure, seated within a space that defied all definition.

There was no throne. No ground beneath him. No sky above. There was no place, for place did not exist here.

Beneath him stretched a sight beyond comprehension. Colors never before seen bled together, forming rivers of shifting light that flowed in impossible directions. Vast shapes emerged and collapsed in an instant—towers, bridges, and structures of twisting radiance, pulsing with the heartbeat of eternity.

This was not a world. Not a realm.

This was something beyond the very concept of existence.

His white hair, pure as untouched void, flowed weightlessly around him. Though it fell across his face, it did nothing to obscure the vast, unshaken gaze beneath—eyes that did not glow, did not burn, but simply were. They saw not with light, but with absolute understanding.

His form was clothed not in fabric, but in the essence of creation itself. It shimmered and shifted, at once infinitely complex and perfectly simple—a paradox of being.

He did not move.

He did not need to.

Everything moved around him.

And as he gazed downward, witnessing all that lay beneath, there was only silence. Not emptiness, but fullness. A silence that spoke in a language no voice could form—a silence that had existed before the first sound and would endure beyond the last.

"To think you would make it this far," the man in white said, his voice calm and unshaken, as though existence itself spoke through him. His hair swayed slightly, though there was no wind in this place beyond comprehension.

Across from him, the man in black stood unfazed, his smirk never fading. "Sheesh, give me some faith. It's like you never believed in me." His tone was light, almost playful, but the weight behind his words spoke of something deeper—resolve. His wings, one side black as the abyss, the other white as divine flame, stretched wide behind him.

The man in white scoffed, arms still resting at his sides. "Why have you come? To have your wish fulfilled? The only success awaiting you is your death."

"That's where you're wrong," the man in black said, his voice now filled with quiet defiance. "I wish for it. I yearn for it. And I'll succeed at what you couldn't."

For a moment, silence returned.

The boundless world around them pulsed, shifting between nothingness and infinity.

The man in white exhaled, then slowly rose to his feet. His presence alone altered the fabric of space. "Very well. If you wish to defy reason itself, then transcend me. Prove me wrong."

The man in black extended his hand.

In an instant, a weapon formed—a pitch-black blade, its surface rippling like the void, glowing faintly with ghostly white light. It resonated with his will, pulsing as if alive.

"Then try me." His smirk deepened, but his eyes burned with intensity. "I'll devour you—and ascend!"

And then—he moved.

Faster than thought.

Godspeed.

The void bent around him as he vanished, reappearing a breath later before the man in white. His blade was already in motion, aimed directly at his heart—a thrust so fast it carved through space itself. The force behind it could shatter lesser realities.

Yet—it did not land.

A flash of brilliance erupted as the man in white conjured a blade of his own—a sword of pure radiance, forged from the essence of existence. Their weapons clashed, and the impact alone tore through the void, shattering concepts and rewriting existence.

The man in black pressed forward, monstrous strength behind every strike, yet the man in white held firm, deflecting each blow with effortless grace. A blinding counter-slash lashed out—

—but the man in black twisted midair, narrowly avoiding the strike. The force grazed him, splitting the infinite behind him. Without hesitation, he flipped backward, his wings propelling him upward as he reappeared above, blade descending like a judgment from the abyss.

The man in white raised a single hand.

And the concept of weight ceased to exist.

The man in black felt it—the sudden absence of force, no ground, no sky, no resistance.

Then—gravity returned. Tenfold.

He plummeted faster than light, reality itself seeking to crush him. But before impact, his wings flared. He resisted.

His aura erupted, shattering the unnatural force as he twisted, vanishing again.

The man in white's eyes flicked upward, calm. He had already anticipated the next attack.

Above him, the man in black reappeared, his blade warping, expanding, transforming—infused with the full weight of his will.

He swung.

A single arc of darkness, laced with silver glow, tore through the void, splitting the heavens that did not exist.

The man in white met it head-on. His sword flashed.

He did not step back.

He did not falter.

He cut through it.

The collision shattered the silence of eternity. Light and shadow intertwined, devouring the surrounding space in a spiral of chaos, warping the very essence of the battlefield.

Neither man spoke now.

There was no need.

The battle had begun.

But before we reach that moment—

Let us return to where it all began.

-------

"Is it wrong to be average?"

The words slipped from my lips like a whisper into the void.

"I told myself that if I just worked hard enough... I could do it. I could make something of myself. But maybe..."

I laughed—a hollow, brittle sound that cracked in the stale air.

"Maybe hardworking is just another word for pity. In this case, self-pity."

All my life, I envied those with talent—because I never had any.

I hated how naturally it came to them. The grades. The praise. The smiles.

I wanted to be great. I wanted to prove them wrong. All of them.

But the world doesn't reward effort. It never did.

No... the world isn't cruel.

Maybe it's just always been this way.

Just... honest. Brutally honest.

The only thing I've ever done is push forward.

Because for someone like me, choice is a luxury I was never born with.

No family. No connections. No support.

Just a name—given by a dying woman who brought me into this world. My mother.

And a father who never once looked back.

When I look at myself... I don't see hope.

I see trash. A discarded thing.

Studying was my only escape. I thought if I worked hard enough, I could claw my way out.

But that was a lie—

a delusion I wrapped around myself like a blanket in the cold.

Because whenever I reached for the light, it only moved further away.

That—that is what it means to be hardworking.

Not everyone is meant for it.

---

The rain fell in a slow, endless rhythm, soaking the cracked pavement outside the orphanage gates.

Thin streams of water slithered through the gutters like veins beneath the skin of a dying world.

Vergil stood in silence, the downpour matting his black hair to his forehead.

His brown eyes—once burning with quiet resolve—had dulled to embers.

There were no graves to visit.

No family to mourn.

Just him.

I'm lonely, he thought.

He should've felt something. Regret. Anger. Sadness.

But emptiness doesn't feel.

It devours.

His fists clenched at his sides, trembling—not from the cold, but from the slow erosion of everything inside him.

The world hadn't broken him in one blow. It had chipped away, piece by piece.

Quietly. Patiently.

Until all that remained was a husk pretending to be a boy.

He had tried everything. Grades. Labor. Anything.

But the outcome was always the same—

a dead end.

Would it be better to die? he wondered.

Would death be kinder than this pit of pity, sorrow, and regret?

Then—

a hand.

Rough. Leather-gloved.

Clamping over his mouth.

His eyes widened—but it was too late.

A sharp pain bloomed at the back of his neck as something stabbed in.

He thrashed—gasped—

but the drug spread like fire.

And the world went black.

---

Vergil drifted in and out of consciousness, the edges of time smeared like wet ink.

When he finally awoke, his body felt distant.

Heavy.

He was lying flat. Strapped down.

Leather restraints bit into his wrists and ankles.

The ceiling above him was harsh and sterile—blinding white, stained by flickering shadows.

Figures loomed.

Not doctors.

Surgeons.

A voice to his left:

"The kid's awake, boss."

Vergil's head lolled weakly. He couldn't see the speaker's face—only the blur of motion, the gleam of surgical steel.

Another voice, cold and clinical:

"Sir, the boy's organs are in excellent condition. Blood type matches the client. Liver, kidneys, heart—all viable. The rest can be sold on the black market."

A slow chuckle echoed.

Then came the words that froze Vergil's blood.

"Well, if we can't find the father to pay us back... the son's organs will do just fine."

The bastard...

Even now. Even now, that man was ruining his life.

Damn that old man... still finding ways to torture me.

Something inside him snapped.

He laughed. Softly at first. Then louder. Hysterical.

The surgeons exchanged uneasy glances.

"...Is he delirious?"

"He won't be for long," one muttered, raising a syringe.

The mafia boss leaned in close, lips curling into a cruel smile.

"Keep him awake during the procedure. Let him feel it. That's what his father bought him."

Pain shot through Vergil's spine as the injection hit. His body went limp—paralyzed—

but his nerves screamed.

He couldn't move.

Couldn't cry out.

But he felt everything.

The scalpel bit into his flesh.

He felt cold steel kiss his chest.

Then came the sound—

a high-pitched buzz.

A bone saw.

They cut through his ribcage.

Each vibration shook his body like an earthquake. But he couldn't even twitch.

Kill me...

The words formed in his mind.

But his lips never moved.

His voice never left.

He stared at the ceiling as red mist blurred his vision.

---

His heartbeat slowed.

His vision dimmed.

The world faded, drowned beneath the pulse in his ears.

"No…"

The word echoed in his soul, even as the light inside him dwindled.

I want to live… just one more chance…

But no one answered.

Only silence.

And the sound of dripping blood.