Vergil ventured into himself—not as a poetic metaphor, but in an absolute and conscious dive, allowing his perception to spill into the most intimate layers of his soul. It was a path that very few dared to tread. Not even ancient demons, masters of centuries of carnage, willingly faced the abyss of their own essence.
But Vergil did not retreat. He knew every shadow that had shaped him, every luminous fissure that resisted existing, every scar that had become ingrained in his being long before he possessed a name.
When his consciousness finally stabilized, the mental world emerged around him with the delicacy of a restrained sigh.
And the most unsettling thing: it was a serene sigh.
