The main hall was silent, except for the subtle, almost hypnotic sound of the runes floating around the celestial tailor. The lights emanating from them reflected on the walls, creating ephemeral patterns that seemed to dance along with the cold gleam of the being's golden eyes.
Vergil remained motionless, although his expression made it clear how much the situation annoyed him. He had never been a man of superficial vanities—but Sepphirothy had insisted so much that ignoring the matter would be worse than giving in.
The tailor approached, moving as if gliding across the floor. Each step was accompanied by a slight ripple in the air, as if gravity simply dared not touch him.
"Stand straight… that's right, perfect," the tailor murmured, as the living measuring tape began to measure the length of Vergil's shoulders, then his chest, waist, and arm. The runes aligned like constellations, rotating around his body with absurd precision.
