The sky remained the same. A ceiling of eternally gray clouds, saturated with sulfur and electricity that never discharged.
It was as if Hell itself held its breath, waiting for something that had finally awakened. The smell of burnt iron, sulfur, and old flesh still permeated every corner of Pavilion 9, but there was something new in the air.
Something dense. Invisible, but undeniable. The kind of thing that made even the most insane demons shut up, swallow hard, and look over their shoulders before spitting on the floor. The kind of thing that smelled of power.
The silence was new. And frightening.
The prison corridors, which had previously vibrated with animalistic screams, hysterical laughter, blasphemies in dead languages, and bets on who would devour whom until the next round of torture, now felt like the corridors of a cathedral. A blood-stained, unholy cathedral where something very wrong had just happened.
And in the center of it all… walked Vergil.
