Vergil had returned.
The village was in ruins—buildings scorched, the smell of burnt wood and blood lingering in the air. The corpses of the villagers lay scattered, their final moments twisted into shapes of agony and fear. Among the wreckage, Eleanor stumbled through the rubble, searching, coughing from the smoke still clinging to the air.
And then she saw him.
"Vergil! Vergil, wake up!" she shouted, grabbing him by the shoulders. She shook him repeatedly, her voice growing more frantic with each call. "Vergil!"
He blinked once. Then again. Slowly, he came back to himself, pulled from a darkness that clung to his mind like fog. He didn't say a word—his eyes were blank, cold, as if all light had drained from them. His silence was louder than anything Eleanor had heard before.
Then came the voices in his head.
[User has gained the skill burden Carrier (SSS)]
[User has gained the title 'The one that carries burdens]
[Only a partial of the passive skills have been obtained]
[No active skills can be gained]
[User has gained 5 passive skills]
'Shut up' Vergil thought bitterly. 'I'm not in the mood.'
And the system—perhaps sentient enough to know the weight of his grief—fell silent, the messages fading away into nothing.
Vergil still didn't move. His breathing was shallow. His eyes scanned what was left of the woman who once shielded him with her presence alone.
There was no body—no warmth, no flesh, not even the faintest echo of magic left.
Just ash. Ash and bone fragments, barely enough to cup in his palms.
He bent down slowly, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he gathered what remained of her. The white ash clung to his skin, and in that moment, he hated how light it felt. As if someone who meant so much could weigh so little now.
"Not even a body…" he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. His voice cracked, low and hollow. His authority had eaten and swallowed her whole. Not even the skeletons was left behind.
And then, he saw her again.
Not physically—no spirit or illusion—but in the warmth that ghosted his mind, the trace of her smile that lingered deep in his soul.
"Eleanor," he said finally, voice heavy and worn. "Go back to Elvira's house."
Eleanor looked up, startled at the sudden command.
"In one of the drawers, you'll find two letters. Recommendations to the academy."
Eleanor blinked. "Letters…?"
"For us. She wrote them for us." He paused, staring ahead. "I need you to meet me at the village gates in an hour. Do whatever you need to do… say your goodbyes. But meet me there. Also bring the map it should be in the draw as well."
She hesitated, wanting to ask more, to say something—but she saw it in his face. He wasn't ready. So, she gave him a silent nod.
"…Alright."
Without another word, they parted ways.
Vergil walked alone toward the graveyard, ash in hand. The path was uneven, littered with debris, but he didn't stumble once. His steps were slow and deliberate, as if each one carried the weight of what he had to do. The world still raged on uncaring for the suffering of the world.
The graveyard was mostly untouched, set apart from the destruction. A small hill overlooked the remnants of the village. It was peaceful here… fitting, perhaps.
He knelt down before an unmarked plot of soil, drawing a deep breath as he used the
down gently. He didn't cry. Not yet. He simply stared at the small, fragile pile, as if waiting for something—some sign she was still there.
He placed his hand over it.
"You didn't even let me thank you properly…" he whispered.
A part of him wanted to speak more. But he felt too guilty to say anything. Only silence remained.
He stayed there for a long time, letting the stillness sit with him, burying the pain quietly beneath the surface.
And when he finally stood, he pressed a single hand to his chest.
"...Goodbye, grandmother. I dont think i'll be seeing you in the afterlife, but ill make sure to visit while im here."
As he started making his way back to the gate he decided to look at the skills he had gained.
'System show me'
[User has also gained the following passive skills]
Arcane Mind
Rank: A (Max)
Effect: Enhances concentration and casting speed. Greatly improves memory for magical theory.
Mana Efficiency
Rank: S
Effect: Reduces mana cost of spells by up to 60%, scaling with familiarity of the spell.
Calm Spirit
Rank: B
Effect: Grants resistance to mental attacks and fear effects. Improves clarity during life-threatening moments.
Spellcraft Mastery
Rank: A
Effect: Boosts effectiveness and stability of all learned spells.
Sharp-Eyed Instructor
Rank: C
Effect: Increases teaching effectiveness. Students near the user learn 25% faster.
'Her passive skills are amazing, no wonder she was a genius and her other passive skills must have been amazing, they will be useful to me in the future.'
'Now this skill'
Burden Carrier (SSS) – This ability activates under two conditions: passively, if the consumed individual shares a deep bond with the user, or actively, if the target willingly offers to have their memories read. Upon activation, the user gains access to the target's memories, allowing them to relive their life, inherit their arts, and engage in one final conversation. However, experiencing the full weight of the target's emotions may push the user toward insanity. As a cost, the user must relinquish any active skills gained through this ability, retaining only a fragment of the target's passive abilities. The brain of the user must remain for this to activate.
This power… it really was something else.
Vergil stared at the system screen that still lingered at the corner of his vision, slightly transparent, pulsing softly like a heartbeat.
"What an amazing but cursed ability…" he muttered. "They're incredible in their own right."
Even though he had sacrificed all access to the active skills, he didn't feel too much loss. Not really. Elvira's final moments had been burned into his memory—no, engraved. He could still feel the way her mana coursed through her body, remember the formations her fingers traced through the air, the way her voice layered into incantations like wind harmonizing with flame. He got to say goodbye as well.
"I saw all her arts," he said under his breath, gaze dropping to the dirt beneath his feet. "It's just… they're all 5th Circle and above magic."
He let out a deep, weary sigh and rolled his shoulders slowly, feeling the pull of soreness across his back. His brown eyes, once steady, shifted—darting from the cracked stones of the path to the broken sky above, then down again to the object that rested in his hand. The Blood Jade, glistening with a low red hue, faintly warm against his palm like it had been feeding on his guilt.
He lifted it up to eye level, the glow reflecting in his irises as a dark intensity clouded them.
"Now… you," he said coldly.
His lips were set in a tight line, and the muscles in his jaw flexed. The Blood Jade pulsed faintly as if it recognized its master's voice—or perhaps his anger.
It was the last piece of his failure, the artifact tied to his greed and the gate he should never have touched.
He clenched it tighter.
"It'd be stupid not to use you," he murmured bitterly. "Not after everything I've done. You better exceed my expectations…"
He stared at the glowing surface for a long moment, then said with a flat tone:
"How much blood do you need from me?"
A light ping echoed in his mind.
[Quite a lot.]
Vergil exhaled through his nose and muttered, "What does that even mean? Give me numbers."
[I dunno, but just so you know… it has to be done all at once.]
He let out a short, breathy laugh—but there was no humor in it, just tired resignation.
"Tch… then I'll wait a bit." He returned the jade to his inventory with a flick of his wrist. "I'll need a better regeneration ability before I try anything that stupid."
---
The wind blew softly as he made his way back through the ruins of the village.
Ash still floated gently from the sky like a snowstorm made of sorrow. The once vibrant little settlement was reduced to scattered stone, half-burned wooden beams, and dried blood smeared across shattered walls.
Vergil walked through it slowly, his boots crunching on bone and soot. His brown eyes scanned every corner, half-focused, moving like a man walking through a memory rather than the present.
The skeletons of the villagers were all that remained—charred bones still curled in their final positions, some reaching toward the heavens in silent pleas that would never be answered.
He passed a small child's body, untouched by time due to the shelter Elvira had made. The sight made his stride falter for half a second.
He knelt next to the remains and cast [Analysis].
Names. Ages. Skills.
All flashes of lives once lived.
Their skills were... unremarkable. Basic. Common. Not worth consuming.
And yet Vergil didn't raise a hand to use [Authority of Predation].
Not this time.
He exhaled deeply, and his lips pressed together into something between a scowl and a grimace. His eyes narrowed slightly, not in contempt—but in self-loathing.
"I've caused enough of a mess as it is," he muttered. His voice was rough now, like it had aged years in the past few hours.
His fingers twitched at his sides—wanting to lash out, to destroy something, to do something—but all he could do was stand still in the ruin of his own making.
Looking around, he could see traces—footprints, claw marks, the scorch of demonic energy left on the soil.
"Seems like the demons finished their work here and moved on," he muttered, voice low and even. His eyes scanned the horizon, growing distant. "Good thing they're headed in the opposite direction we are."
He adjusted the scarf at his neck, and turned his gaze toward the direction of the graveyard.
He didn't speak. Didn't think. Just walked.
The remains of Elvira—what little he had—were cradled in his arms, wrapped in a clean cloth he had salvaged from her home.
"Not even a body," he whispered to himself, almost like he was afraid that saying it louder would make it real. "This is all I have left of her…"
The wind blew again.
But as he passed by the village's old well, something stopped him.
A shimmer. Faint. Like heat mirage on a summer road.
And then—he saw her.
Just for a second.
Elvira.
Smiling gently.
As if watching him from the veil between life and death.
Vergil didn't blink. Didn't breathe. He just stared.
"You're still watching, aren't you?" he whispered, his hands tightening slightly around her remains.
And then the vision faded. Nothing remained but the wind.
He closed his eyes.
"Rest easy, grandmother."
"I'll carry this burden for the both of us."
Vergil stepped through the broken gates of the forge, his boots crunching against shards of metal and splintered wood. The scent of soot and ash still hung heavy in the air, laced with something more metallic—blood. The rhythmic clanging of metal against metal echoed faintly in his ears, almost like a memory playing tricks on him. It was the sound that always greeted him whenever he came here. The forge was usually alive with the thunderous strikes of the hammer, the hiss of steam, and the low, gravelly chuckles of the man who called it his sanctuary.
"Welcome back, lad! Need a new weapon?" Gilbert's voice had always carried a warmth that belied his scarred, gruff appearance.
"Be careful out there," he'd often say, offering Vergil a rough pat on the shoulder before returning to his work.
But today, it was silent. Deceptively so.
Vergil's jaw tightened as he moved deeper into the wreckage. Ash stained the walls, tools lay scattered across the floor, and the anvil that once stood as the heart of the forge had been split clean in two. His eyes caught something near the furnace—red. Not glowing embers, but blood pooled and darkened against the cracked stone.
His breath caught when he saw what remained.
Half a corpse, slumped awkwardly against the wall. The top half was missing—ripped or torn away, judging by the jagged edge of the spine and torn flesh. Burn marks marred what was left of the body, and yet... Vergil didn't need to see the face to know. The bulky arms, the apron with his signature hammer sigil, now shredded and bloodied—it was Gilbert.
Vergil's fists clenched, his shoulders trembling as he dropped to one knee beside the remains. His voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper.
"Gilbert... I'm sorry. I'll bury you too."
His hand hovered over the body for a moment, unsure whether to touch what was left or not. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, drawing a sharp breath through his nose to steady himself. He had seen death, but this felt personal. This wasn't just another corpse—this was someone who once gave him shelter, who forged the blades he carried, who treated him like a son.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his vision pulled him back. He turned, eyes narrowing, and spotted something—an envelope, sticking out from a half-burned coat tossed near the door.
He moved to it quickly, kneeling once more as he gently pulled the envelope free. The paper was slightly singed at the edges, but the seal remained intact. His eyes scanned the front. It was addressed in rough, blocky handwriting:
"To my brother'
The note had an address and the captial of Vaelmont, Vaelithor was written on it.
Vergil's breath hitched. He turned the envelope over in his hands, expression tightening. He put it into his inventory before standing, the weight of grief and purpose settling on his shoulders.
He took one last look at the ruined forge before stepping out into the gray daylight, whispering under his breath, "I'll deliver it for you."
He took his corpse and buried it next to Elvira.
There was only one more place left to visit.
Vergil's footsteps were heavy as he made his way down the cracked cobblestone path that led to Osric's potion shop. The air hung with a strange, acrid smell—like burnt herbs mixed with rotting wood—and the street was eerily silent, as if even the wind dared not pass through this ruined part of town. The once vibrant district, full of merchants, alchemists, and chatter, was now little more than a graveyard of collapsed storefronts and shattered glass. His heart sank as the familiar sight of the crooked wooden sign came into view—except it was no longer hanging. It lay broken in half, discarded near the entrance, the painted words "Osric's Oddities and Elixirs" barely visible through the grime and ash.
Vergil pushed open the half-hinged door, its frame groaning under the pressure, and stepped inside.
The shop was a wreck.
Shelves had been knocked over or burned to charcoal. Vials and flasks were scattered across the ground like fallen stars, their colored contents soaked into the wooden floorboards or evaporated into the air. The pungent cocktail of spilled ingredients filled the room—sweet, bitter, acidic, and burnt, all mixing into something nauseating. Shards of glass crunched beneath his boots as he walked, careful not to slip on the slick coating of elixirs that had stained the floor in strange, unnatural hues.
The counters, where Osric would once greet his customers with a cheeky grin and a sarcastic comment, were scorched and clawed. Vergil narrowed his eyes as he noticed small drag marks along the floor and bits of torn cloth—signs of a struggle. The ingredients that had once been proudly displayed in neatly labeled jars were all gone, the shelves stripped bare. Some had clearly been smashed, but others were simply missing, likely consumed or stolen. It wasn't hard to guess what had happened. Something—or someone—had torn through this place in desperation, hunger, or rage.
He sighed, a quiet weight behind the sound, and looked around. Osric wasn't here. Not even a body. Whether that meant he had escaped or been completely erased... Vergil couldn't say.
Still, something caught his eye.
Beneath a half-broken shelf in the back corner, glinting faintly in the dim light, were a few unbroken vials. He stepped over the debris, kneeling carefully as he reached under the wood and retrieved them. Three potions, still sealed and intact. The first, a pale green liquid swirling gently in its glass container, was labeled: E-Rank Healing Potion. Basic, but useful in a pinch—enough to close minor wounds and stop bleeding.
The second vial had a glowing orange hue, flecked with tiny embers that danced like fireflies inside the liquid. E-Rank Ember Veins Elixir, the label read. Vergil recognized it immediately—it temporarily increased resistance to fire by ten percent. Not powerful, but against a fire-wielding enemy, it could be the difference between life and death.
The last vial was the most valuable of the three. It was a sleek, silver-colored concoction, almost vapor-like in texture, constantly shifting within the glass. C-Rank Elixir of Swift Wind. It would enhance his movement speed and reaction time significantly, for a short period. Useful for evasive maneuvers, quick strikes, or even retreating from an unwinnable battle.
Vergil pocketed all three with care, sliding them into the reinforced pouch on his belt.
He stood in silence for a moment, taking in the devastation around him. The place that once buzzed with odd smells, bad jokes, and magical experiments gone wrong was now cold, empty, and dead.
"Osric…" he murmured. "Where the hell did you go?"
There was no answer. Only the creaking of broken wood and the distant call of crows outside.
He turned and left, the door swinging closed behind him with a hollow thud, as if marking the end of something that would never return.
Vergil stepped through the broken remnants of the village gates. The once welcoming arch was now half-collapsed, one side scorched black, the wooden beams creaking faintly in the cold wind. He walked with steady footsteps, each one heavier than the last, Elvira's remains no longer with him—buried now in the graveyard under a tree she once liked to sit beneath.
Waiting just beyond the gates was Eleanor.
She stood with her hands clasped in front of her, head slightly lowered, her silver hair tied in a loose ribbon behind her back. Her face was unreadable, but her eyes—those soft violet eyes—searched his as soon as he appeared.
She opened her mouth but hesitated. There was a silence between them, one that felt too thick to break easily.
"Eleanor," Vergil finally said, voice quieter than usual but still firm. "Did you get everything?"
She nodded slowly, then reached into her satchel and handed him two aged scrolls. The seals on them pulsed faintly with old magic—familiar magic.
"I did," she said softly. "They were right where you said they'd be."
Vergil accepted them and gently cracked one open. His brown eyes scanned the parchment. There was no name—only a seal of approval and the crest of the Academy.
His fingers brushed over the seal, and for the first time since Elvira's death, a faint smile pulled at his lips.
'It seems this is their method of proof…' he thought.
Then, his expression grew serious again.
"We're switching identities," he stated.
Eleanor blinked. "Wait… what?"
Vergil didn't answer directly. Instead, he raised his hand slightly and spoke with quiet precision.
"Authority of Transformation."
In an instant, shadows spiraled around his form, and from within those shadows emerged Morvax, the avatar of transformation. The demon's inky arms surged outward and wrapped around Vergil's body like a living cloak.
His form began to shift—his shoulders broadening slightly, his posture straightening, and his skin tone lightened a bit. His face lost its boyish softness, replaced with slightly sharper cheekbones, and his hair turned a fuzzy chestnut brown, messier and longer in the back. His eyes, once a warm brown, were now deep, emotionless black.
He looked different, yet something about him—his aura, the way he stood—still made him unmistakably Vergil.
Eleanor's eyes widened.
"…You look completely different," she whispered, slightly awestruck. "Your voice even sounds deeper."
Vergil turned his hand and looked at his palm, flexing his fingers like he was adjusting to a new glove.
"Now let's see if I can use this on others," he muttered.
He stepped forward, looking at Eleanor.
"Stay still," he instructed.
She hesitated. "What are you going to—"
He placed a hand gently against her cheek.
She flinched slightly at the sudden closeness but didn't pull away.
"Authority of Transformation," he whispered.
Black energy pulsed from his palm and spread across Eleanor's skin like ink over paper. Her silver hair darkened into a rich brown, flowing down her back like fresh earth. Her violet eyes shifted into a deep onyx hue. Even her facial structure subtly changed—her features became more common, less striking. She would no longer stand out at a glance.
The magic settled, and Eleanor stared at her reflection in the broken blade of a nearby weapon. Her mouth parted slightly.
"…Is this really me?" she asked, brushing strands of her new brown hair behind her ear.
Vergil nodded. "This will help us, first of all your a noble and i dont want to draw attention"
Eleanor looked at him again, her brows gently drawing together.
"," she admitted. "That is true, but how long will the disguise last ."
"Until I remove it," Vergil said quietly, black eyes unreadable. "So dont worry about it waring off."
Her gaze dropped to the dirt, hands tightening around her cloak.
Vergil looked down at the scroll again, fingers brushing across the seal.
"You need to change your name, just in case."
He closed it and tucked the letters safely away. Then looked at Eleanor again.
"Your name is Elle, the story is that we are both orphans before Elvira took us in and gave us her surname Vayne.
Eleanor gave a soft nod, her lips pressing together. As if she was about to say something hut refrained from talking.
Vergil turned toward the horizon, the dark woods looming beyond, the faint light of dawn beginning to rise. He took a slow breath and clenched his hand.
"What do we do with Elena?"
"Should we not take her with us for now and let her decide what she wants to do." Eleanor asked.
He didn't turn back, but his words came slow and cold.
"Thats fine."
And with that, he began walking.
Eleanor followed, her transformed form blending with the shadows, and the two disappeared beyond the ruined gates of the village, carrying the weight of the dead, the truth, and a future built on lies.