Vergil clenched his fingers, cracking his knuckles—not out of necessity, but because his body needed some outlet for the violence it wanted to unleash.
The name Dante still resonated like poison on his tongue.
Sapphire kept her hand firmly on his arm, feeling the electric tension coursing through every fiber of her husband's body. She didn't try to calm him—Sapphire knew Vergil didn't need calm; he needed control. And he was, little by little, regaining it.
Wukong watched him with a worried half-smile, his golden eyes assessing every oscillation of his demonic aura, as if tracing invisible mathematical formulas from the energy's behavior.
Vergil finally took a deep breath.
And the aura, once devastating, receded like a cloak folded over his shoulders.
When he spoke, his voice had returned to the icy, precise tone everyone knew.
"Fortunately," Vergil said, straightening his posture. "Dante is just an imbecile who doesn't pose any real problem."
