Chapter 15- New Plan

The village came into view just as the last light of the sun bled out behind the mountains. Warm lanterns lit the narrow streets, casting flickers of orange and gold against the cobblestone. Compared to the forest, it felt like another world—peaceful, too peaceful. The kind of peace that didn't know what lurked beyond the trees.

They made their way to the inn in silence. Every step was slower than the last for Vergil, but he never asked for help. He didn't need to. Eleanor stayed beside him the entire time, arms crossed, sharp eyes watching everything.

Once inside, the innkeeper gave them a concerned glance but didn't say anything—just handed over the room key and nodded them upstairs.

The door clicked open, and the scent of clean sheets and worn wood greeted them. Simple room. Two beds. Small table. A basin in the corner.

Vergil didn't even make it to the bed on his own.

Eleanor caught him by the arm and helped him lower down onto the mattress slowly.

"Lie still," she said, already pulling the blanket aside.

"I'm fine," he muttered through clenched teeth.

"You're not."

He didn't argue.

The moment his back hit the mattress, the weight of everything settled into his bones. The ache, the exhaustion, the silent fury still burning behind his eyes. His jaw clenched. He hated feeling this weak.

Eleanor straightened, brushing her hair behind her ear. "We need food. And bandages. Maybe a potion if there's a decent one left in the shop."

Vergil reached into his inventory, pulling out a pouch of coin and handing it to her.

"Use this. Get something hot—meat, bread, stew if they've got it. And check if they've got binding cloth or even a cheap elixir."

She raised a brow. "You're actually letting me shop for once?"

"I'm not dying over a bruised ego."

Eleanor gave a faint smile—barely there—but took the pouch. "Alright. Don't move. Don't do anything stupid. I'll be back in ten."

"Make it five."

"You're in no position to argue."

He didn't respond.

The door shut behind her, and the room fell quiet.

Vergil stared at the ceiling for a moment, pain still needling his spine, but his mind was far from rest.

That monster hadn't just attacked.

It had sent a message.

And Vergil? He planned to return one.

---

The wooden door of the inn groaned as she pushed it open. Warmth greeted her—dim lanternlight, muffled laughter from the far corner, the faint clinking of mugs—but none of it touched her.

Her eyes swept the room once, calculating, before she turned and ascended the creaking stairs. The innkeeper gave her a glance as she passed, but didn't say anything. She preferred it that way.

Their room was small. Cracked wooden walls, a single bed with thin sheets, and the faint scent of mold that clung to old timber. She shut the door behind her with a soft click.

Vergil was still lying where she'd left him, half on his side, propped up by a pillow he refused to admit he needed. His shirt was blood-stained, dried to his back in ugly patches. His face was pale, but his eyes were still sharp—watching her as she entered.

"Food," she said flatly, setting the bowl and bread down on the rickety table. "Bandages, too."

"Thanks," he muttered, voice low.

She didn't respond. Instead, she walked to him, dropping the bundle of cloth onto the bed before kneeling beside him. Her fingers were cold against his skin as she tugged the ruined shirt upward. He winced, but didn't complain.

"You shouldn't have tanked that hit," she said.

"I didn't exactly have a choice."

"There's always a choice."

Her tone was sharper than she meant it to be, but she didn't apologize.

She began wrapping the bandages with clinical precision. No wasted motion. No softness.

Eleanor wasn't a healer yet. She didn't pretend to be. But she knew how to stop a man from dying. That was enough.

As she worked, her mind drifted. Not to pity or concern—but to calculation.

He was reckless. Ambitious. He fought with a fire that didn't match his current strength.

And yet… he lived.

She tied the final knot, pressing the wrap down with a firm hand. "That'll hold."

Vergil exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

She didn't move away immediately. Instead, she stayed beside the bed, staring down at him.

"You're going back there, aren't you?" she asked quietly.

He didn't deny it.

Eleanor's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then you better not die next time. I'm not dragging your corpse back."

It wasn't kindness. It was practicality.

But a part of her—small, buried deep—felt the faintest flicker of something else.

Not sympathy.

Not worry.

Just... interest.

She stood, turned toward the table, and broke the bread in half, tossing one piece toward him.

"Eat. Heal. If you're going to be reckless, at least do it standing."

She sat in the chair, her back to the door, eyes scanning the wall like it might offer answers she didn't have yet.

Something in the forest had shaken even her. And that alone made it dangerous.

She would stay for now. Not for him—but for the unknown. For the monster that watched from the trees.

Because deep down, Eleanor hated not knowing.

And if they were walking into hell again, she'd rather be the one who dragged them out.

Certainly. Here's the revised continuation with that added moment:

---

The bread was dry, and the soup barely lukewarm, but Eleanor ate in silence, tearing small pieces off with methodical motions. Her mind wasn't on the food—it was on the forest. On the thing that didn't attack. On the King's fear.

And on Vergil.

She glanced over at him once. He was chewing slowly, clearly exhausted. His body was still stiff, and even though she'd wrapped the wound tight, she knew the pain hadn't lessened. The bastard wouldn't admit it, but it was written in every breath he took.

---

She finished eating in a few quiet minutes, setting the empty bowl on the table with a soft clink. Without a word, she stood and glanced at the bed.

There was only one.

Her eyes landed on Vergil, who was lying stiffly on his side, doing his best not to aggravate the injury carved across his back.

He raised an eyebrow. "You planning to stand there all night?"

"I'm not an idiot," she muttered. She slipped off her boots, pulled her legs up, and laid down right beside him—close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. She faced away, her breathing calm and even.

A few seconds passed.

Then Vergil spoke, his voice dry. "Why are you so close?"

"You're wounded," she said without turning. "If you stop breathing in the night, I'll notice."

"Tch… touching."

"And," she added after a beat, "it's cold."

Vergil let out a quiet breath—half amusement, half resignation. "…Fair enough."

The silence stretched between them again. Until her voice came, quieter this time. Firmer.

"You're not going back until you're fully recovered. At the very least."

Vergil stared up at the low ceiling, candlelight flickering across the wood. There was no judgment in her words. No concern, even. Just certainty. That was what made them hit harder.

"…Alright," he murmured. "I won't."

She didn't answer. But she didn't need to.

The quiet felt different now. Not cold. Not hostile.

Just… real.

Vergil closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "Thanks."

"I didn't do it for you," she muttered—but her voice lacked its usual frost. Just a little.

And she didn't move away.

They stayed like that—close, but not touching—as sleep settled in like a blanket.

---

[User's relationship with Eleanor has increased to ★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆ ]

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Of course—here's a version starting from the beginning of the scene, incorporating Eleanor's family backstory, her thoughts about Vergil, and her developing perspective on their relationship:

---

Morning crept slowly into the room, soft light filtering through the cracked shutters of the inn. Outside, the village began to stir—vendors setting up stalls, the distant cry of birds, the murmur of life slowly returning.

Inside, all was still.

Eleanor was already awake.

Sleep had never truly come. Her eyes had closed, her body still beside his, but her thoughts never stopped. The warmth next to her was steady, his breathing calm—but her mind wandered elsewhere.

Her violet eyes stared at the ceiling, then slowly drifted to the man lying beside her.

Vergil.

She didn't move. Just watched him in silence.

But her thoughts weren't on him at first. They were on the name that had haunted her since the night of the betrayal.

Kaelen.

Her uncle. Her parents' killer.

He wore kindness like a mask, smiling too easily, speaking too gently. But beneath it all, he was a serpent. He'd led the coup under cover of darkness, cutting down her mother and father—Duke and Duchess of House Valtier—before dawn broke. The loyalists who had served their house for generations were slaughtered like animals.

She had barely escaped.

A few loyal retainers smuggled her out in the chaos. Since that night, she had lived in the shadows. The last surviving daughter of Valtier. A duchess without a domain. A noble without power.

She clenched the sheet in her hand.

He still sits on their throne. Wearing their title as if it were his to claim.

Her gaze returned to Vergil.

He didn't understand revenge the way she did. His pursuit of power wasn't fueled by grief or hatred, but by something else. A hunger to rise above what he was, to become something greater. But even with that ambition, he had lines he wouldn't cross. Especially with the people beside him.

She had noticed that.

He never asked her to bleed for him. Never expected her to follow without question. They used each other, yes—but he didn't lie to her. He never forced her hand.

That counted for something.

His back was turned to her, the bandages across his wound slightly loose. The injury had swollen overnight, but not dangerously so. Pale skin met the morning light, tracing faint lines of lean muscle—not the kind earned in war, but shaped by endurance.

His body wasn't built for combat. His frame was slight, his hands smooth, his face unremarkable. Black hair always slightly messy. Brown eyes warm, but ordinary. He blended into a crowd, unnoticed. A man not made for battle or command.

And yet… he endured.

He moved like someone who carried something heavy inside.

Just like her.

Her own hands flexed on her lap. Smooth. Barely calloused. No swordswoman, no soldier. She had never been trained for war—why would she? A noble daughter like her was meant to be betrothed off, to smile, to curtsy, to host.

But there was one exception.

The rapier.

A weapon of elegance and grace. It had been gifted to her as a formality—an accessory to her noble upbringing. She had taken to it in secret, training when no one watched, dancing with steel in empty courtyards under the moon.

It was the only weapon she truly knew how to wield.

Now it was all she had.

She rose quietly, brushing a loose strand of white-blonde hair behind her ear, and stepped toward the washbasin. Cold water met her face, drawing a breath sharp enough to cut through the haze of memory.

Today was another step.

Toward vengeance.

Toward reclaiming what was hers.

And maybe… just maybe… not every step would be taken alone.

A low groan broke the silence behind her.

Eleanor turned slightly, wiping her face with the rough cloth by the basin as she glanced over her shoulder.

Vergil stirred beneath the covers, brow furrowing as his eyes slowly fluttered open. He blinked against the morning light that filtered in through the cracked shutters, his expression dazed with that familiar grogginess of pain-heavy sleep.

"…Ugh. What time is it…?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse and dry.

"Early," Eleanor replied, her tone flat as always. She crossed the room with quiet steps, her violet eyes scanning the bandages wrapped across his torso. "You didn't tear the wound open in your sleep. That's something."

Vergil tried to sit up, but a sharp breath hissed through his teeth. He slumped back against the pillow with a pained grunt. "Hurts like shit still…"

"You're lucky it wasn't worse." She knelt beside the bed and adjusted the bandage gently. "If the blade had gone any deeper, I wouldn't have been able to close it."

His gaze drifted to her face—calm, composed, but still unreadable.

"…You stayed," he said quietly.

She paused, then looked up at him. "I said you weren't going back until you've recovered."

"I remember," he murmured, a faint smirk pulling at his lips. "Didn't think you meant literally sleeping next to me."

Eleanor didn't smile, but her voice lost some of its edge. "If you stopped breathing in the night, someone had to be close enough to notice."

Vergil gave a low chuckle, though it quickly turned into a wince as pain flared through his ribs. "That's morbidly considerate."

She stood up, brushing off her tunic. "You can joke when you're walking again. Until then, don't be stupid."

He looked at her as she moved across the room again. His eyes lingered, thoughtful.

"…You're different, you know."

She paused near the window. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You act cold. Detached. Like your just here because its convenient. But you haven't asked to leave, you dont ask questions when I do something. You joined me because not because you had to but because you wanted something from me."

"You're the same," she replied. "Ambitious. Always thinking ten steps ahead. But you never asked me to bleed for you and you treat me equally but it is true that i want something"

A quiet passed between them.

"I know we're using each other," she said, violet eyes locked on his. "I'm fine with that. But if you die before I'm ready to let you go…"

She trailed off, then looked away.

Vergil watched her for a long moment, something softer flickering in his expression.

"…I'll try not to die then," he said gently.

The corner of her lip twitched—but she didn't respond.

They understood each other in silence.

And that was enough for now.

Eleanor turned toward the door, the five silver pieces resting in her palm, but stopped as Vergil's eyes suddenly narrowed.

His breathing paused.

A sharp pulse rang in the back of his skull—not pain, but instinct.

[Primal Awareness Activated]

—You are being watched.

The message echoed silently across his mind, and immediately, his senses sharpened. His gaze flicked to the window, narrowing at the world beyond the cracked shutters. The morning light spilled lazily into the room, but something in the air had shifted.

Too quiet.

Too still.

"Wait," he said suddenly.

Eleanor glanced back. "What is it?"

Vergil moved slowly, ignoring the dull ache in his back as he sat up straighter. "Something's watching us."

Her brows furrowed. "From where?"

He didn't answer at first, just stared out toward the distant trees beyond the edge of the village. For a second, nothing moved—then a flicker, barely noticeable, slipped back into the forest brush.

It was gone in less than a heartbeat.

But he'd seen it.

Not a villager. Not a scout. Not an animal.

Something... else.

Vergil clenched his jaw.

"That damn monster," he muttered under his breath.

Eleanor's expression hardened. "You think it followed us?"

"I think it's been watching since the fight," he said. "It has more than just regeneration. When we fought, I felt like it knew what I was going to do next… now I'm sure."

He stood carefully, turning from the window. "It has a puppet-type skill. Something it can send to spy—maybe a projection, a clone. Doesn't matter. The point is, it's not just hiding."

"It's learning," Eleanor finished, eyes cold. "From us."

"Exactly." He sighed. "Lets head back in a week,

She nodded once.

"Go to Elvira," Vergil continued. "Tell her I sent you.Focus on what fits your affinities—healing, support magic, and some offensive lightning spells. It'll cover our weaknesses."

"And the rapier?"

He held out the five silver. "That'll cover it for now."

Eleanor took the coins without hesitation, slipping them into her pouch. "And you?"

"I'll handle supply runs. Take on some simple missions, build up some coin and grab a few potions if I can."

She watched him for a beat longer, then turned to leave. "Stay alive."

"You too," he said.

She opened the door, but paused.

"We're not strong yet," she said without looking back. "But we're not the same as yesterday."

Vergil gave a tired smile. "No… we're not."

And with that, she stepped out into the morning light—while he turned once more to the window, where the shadows lingered just at the edge of sight.

[Primal Awareness has been deactivated]

—Target is no longer within range.

But Vergil knew.

It would be back.

And next time, it wouldn't be watching.

It would be hunting.

---

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've passed for a traveler—dark-haired, cloaked, just another soul pausing by 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. The skin was too pale, too taut, as if stretched over a frame it didn't belong to. One eye hung slightly lower than the other, while the jaw was crooked, twisted into a half-smile that looked like it had been stitched on in a hurry.

Its chest rose and fell in a mimicry of breath, though no air moved. The arms dangled awkwardly at its sides, fingers twitching every few seconds, spasming like they were searching for something to hold. It wore a tattered cloak like Vergil's, though soaked with something darker at the edges—old blood, perhaps, or something far worse.

And still, it watched.

The inn sat quietly at the edge of the village. Smoke rose from the chimney, and warm morning light pushed through the shutters. Inside, it knew, 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.

The kind that simmers, quiet and patient—waiting. Ambition. Not loud or reckless, but focused.

The puppet tilted its head, limbs creaking faintly as it shifted, face still locked 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 had lost everything and hadn't let go of the anger.

The puppet's lip twitched.

They were growing stronger.

It needed to know how strong.

It leaned forward just slightly… then froze.

Vergil had stepped outside. His gaze turned toward the trees, sharp and searching. His eyes narrowed. 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 of Vergil, melted into the dirt, leaving behind nothing but a stain and the faint scent of rot.

The woods fell quiet again.

But the thing hadn't gone far.

It had seen his face.

And next time, it might wear it a little better.