Vergil finally stops before the door he was looking for.
There's no sign. No flashy identification. Just a smooth surface of dark metal, with subtle inscriptions engraved on the edges—symbols too ancient to be decorative, too modern to be sacred. The door to a VIP room reserved for entities who, in theory, should know how to behave better than this.
He opens it without knocking.
The scene that unfolds before him is… educational.
Yu Tian is on the floor.
Literally.
On his knees, his forehead pressed against the thick carpet of the VIP wing, his arms outstretched in front of his body in such an exaggerated position of submission that it borders on the theatrical. The luxurious floor covering, made for bare feet and expensive drinks, now serves as an improvised altar for public humiliation.
