Silence.
Not the quiet of peace, but the silence that follows death. All life had ceased in that place. The wind halted. Even the air itself dared not stir. The only thing that moved—was blood.
Vergil's blood.
It slithered across the ruined ground like living ink, pulled by some unseen force, converging toward the blood jade in Vergil's trembling hand. From the spikes impaled in corpses, to the puddles on the floor, and even the thin rivulets that dripped from his own body—it absorbed everything. A gluttonous hunger echoed from within the jade as it drank deeply—not just of blood, but of essence.
Then, the jade began to glow. Not bright. Not pure. A dim, pulsing red, like the heartbeat of something ancient and vile.
A faint crack ran across its surface.
Another.
And then, with a sound like bone fracturing beneath flesh, it shattered.
The blood around it twisted violently, drawn into the air, suspended by demonic energy. It spun and churned into a small vortex, shaping something—no, someone.
A child-sized figure began to form, suspended midair.
It floated there—forming itself from Vergil's very blood.
Its body was that of a toddler, yet deeply unnatural. Its skin was a slick, translucent red, formed entirely of congealed blood and demonic mist. Despite the grotesque composition, it bore unmistakable features of Vergil—a sharp jawline. Unlike Vergils messy ane long hair, its hair styled in a crimson red, flame-like fashion.
yet the rest flared in familiar chaotic wisps.
It wore nothing
But it was wrong.
Its face, though small and childlike, wore an expression devoid of emotion—blank, yet saturated with suffocating malice. Its eyes were glowing orbs of deep crimson, unblinking and hollow, staring with neither innocence nor cruelty. Only instinct. Only hunger.
It didn't breathe. It simply existed—and that was enough to terrify.
Its small hands flexed, each finger ending in curved, razor-sharp claws—solidified from blood itself. Every movement left behind trails of red mist. Every twitch carried the echo of a thousand silent deaths.
Then it opened its mouth.
A smile—not joyful, not cruel.
Empty.
A Blood Baby—not a mere creature, but the living embodiment of Vergil's blood, violence, and severed humanity. His reflection—distorted by the abyss, shaped by demonic will.
And now, it had finally awakened.
The new born baby, looked at his surroundings and saw Vergil, most of his organs in his torso missing, dead on the floor, his body lying on his back that was now missing
"Gu—"
The sound tore from his throat like a dying growl — not conscious, not even human. Just a primal reflex.
The blood baby pulsed in his hands, then leapt toward the hollowed cavity in Vergil's chest, the place where his heart used to beat.
The moment it touched the wound, it responded — not out of thought, not out of fear, but instinct.
It knew.
It had been created for one reason.
And its master — Vergil — had called to it without a word.
It pressed a tiny blood-slicked hand to Vergil's ruined chest — where a heart should have been, but wasn't.
And without hesitation, it melted — collapsing into pure liquid blood, surging into the gaping wound.
Instantly, the blood latched onto bone and flesh, finding its place.
It became the heart Vergil had lost.
And it beat.
Once.
A shudder.
Twice.
A ripple through dead veins.
The Blood Baby was gone — consumed.
Not dead, but transformed — a new heart for its creator.
The work had begun.
The blood heart pulsed weakly inside the hollow ruin of Vergil's chest.
Each beat unleashed microscopic tendrils of demonic energy, seeking the ravaged remains of organs long destroyed.
Lungs torn beyond any hope of natural healing.
The liver, blackened and useless, crumbled to dust at the touch of time.
Intestines ruptured beyond recognition.
Bones fractured, shattered in dozens of places.
Yet still, the heart beat.
And with each pulse, fresh life flickered.
The process was painfully slow.
It started with the lungs—barely a whisper of tissue, fragile strands weaving through fractured ribs.
They were not yet lungs. Not even close.
There was no air to fill them. But the shape, the beginnings, were forming.
Each movement was excruciating. The birth of life, especially one drawn from the marrow of death, could never be quick. It was always a painful crawl back from the brink.
By the second day, the blood heart's rhythm began to strengthen. Its beat was louder, more distinct, as though it were gaining resolve with every pulse.
The lungs grew, though still no larger than withered fists, their fibers binding together.
Bronchi began to form, delicate threads of blood, threading themselves into a tangled mess of capillaries.
Beside them, the stomach began its slow return to shape. Soft, pliable flesh knit together like a tattered quilt, but the work was fragile. Too fragile.
The blood heart labored tirelessly, pushing energy through every failed attempt, forcing life where only decay remained.
Every inch it gained was paid for in trembling strength, the heart laboring with every beat.
At times, the rhythm faltered—slowing to a stop as the heart rested, gathering what little energy it could before it pulsed again.
The days dragged on.
By the third day, faint lines began to appear across Vergil's form. Not veins. Not yet. They were just threads of red mist—primitive, weak, connecting the few remaining organs in an attempt at structure. A fragile web that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
The liver was still a hardened lump of blood, no more than a grotesque mass.
The kidneys were vague shadows at best.
The spleen, a puddle of viscous goo.
But the lungs—the lungs were growing.
Alveoli formed—tiny sacs that would one day hold the precious gift of breath. If breath ever returned.
For now, they only served to keep the body alive, one heartbeat at a time.
By the fourth day, the blood heart focused on consolidation.
No more stretching outward, no more fragile beginnings. Now it strengthened what it had created. The lungs thickened. The stomach hardened, taking a more recognizable form. Tiny ducts and channels began to carve their way through the liver.
It was ugly.
Messy.
Far from graceful.
But it was life—barely. It was the music of the dead pulling themselves up from their graves.
By the fifth day
The blood web expanded further.
Tiny streams of new blood trickled through the nascent organs, guided by faint demonic energy. They were no true veins, no arteries—just raw pathways, formless, designed purely by instinct.
The heart was growing weaker. Still, it pulsed, carving these primitive vessels out of nothing, each pulse a strain, a trial.
Vergil's body jerked once—a twitch. His limbs spasm, but he remained unconscious, his body still lost in the grip of death. Yet the heart fought on.
On the sixth day, the digestive tract began its own quiet assembly. The stomach folded itself into a more recognizable shape. The intestines wound through the wreckage of his torso in clumsy loops.
The kidneys—still rudimentary—took their form. But they were barely functional, no more than soft lumps struggling to process the blood in which they bathed.
Vergil's body was half-formed. A hollow shell, a crumbling structure, growing piece by fragile piece.
Still, it was growing.
One beat.
One heartbeat at a time.
Something strange began to happen on the seventh day.
The blood heart, trembling with exhaustion, began to emit faint sparks of energy. At first, they were tiny, almost unnoticeable—crackles of force between the beats.
Not random.
Not chaotic.
It was purposeful. Calculated. Like the heart was testing its own creation. Pushing each organ, one by one, to see if it would respond.
A pulse to the lungs—faint, but they shuddered, like a hesitant gasp.
A spark to the liver—an almost imperceptible rush, the blood moved faster, cleaner.
But it wasn't enough to awaken Vergil. Not yet.
It was only a whisper—a sign that something was beginning to stir beneath the surface.
By the eighth day, the organs were nearly whole.
Not functioning. Not yet. But they had form.
The blood vessels, though raw and formless, were thicker now, carrying blood laced with demonic energy through the body, bringing the once-dead husk a touch of something new. Something twisted.
Vergil's body twitched again. Not from awareness. Not from consciousness. Just the random movements of muscles reconnecting to nerves, veins slowly learning their dance with the heart's rhythm.
The blood heart's pulse reverberated against the stone walls of the chamber, a constant, rhythmic beat.
It sounded like distant drums.
And then—
A sound.
Clearer.
Footsteps.
The faintest sound of movement, echoing against stone.
Clearer this time.
Footsteps on stone.
Not rushed.
Not stealthy.
Someone — or something — was approaching.
The blood heart thudded once in warning, but the body could not react.
Not yet.
The silence thickened.
The air grew heavier.
Something was watching.
Waiting.
But for now, the blood baby kept working, heedless of the shadow at the threshold.
Its task was not yet done.
the ninth day came along
Within Vergil's ruined body, life fought its silent war.
The blood heart labored like a blacksmith in hell — hammering new veins into being, sculpting bone, mending the shattered remnants of his spine.
Nerve endings, still raw and twitching, began to reattach along the spinal column, each connection sending violent spasms through Vergil's lifeless frame.
The lower ribs, once broken into shards, knitted together with fleshy cords of hardened blood, wrapping his vital organs in a fragile cage once more.
It was agonizingly slow — like watching a dying star struggle against collapse.
But it was working.
Half the organs — lungs, stomach, liver, kidneys, intestines — were now fully shaped, though they pulsed erratically, still learning how to live again.
New arteries were creeping like vines along his arms and legs, branching into fine networks.
His limbs twitched occasionally — meaningless spasms, but spasms nonetheless.
The blood baby's sacrifice had rooted itself so deep into Vergil's body that by now, there was no distinction between what had been made and what had been born.
Only one thing mattered:
The body was becoming whole again.
One fractured breath away from rebirth.
And as the heart thudded, slow and dreadful, something unseen in the room began to stir.
From the shadowed archway beyond the broken stone floor, a figure stood watching.
Cloaked in heavy, tattered black, her hood shrouding every trace of her face, she carried a weapon slung across her back — a massive, snow-white spear.
It pulsed faintly in resonance with the blood heart, as if aware of the ritual unfolding.
The woman stood still. Silent.
Watching, but not yet interfering.
The hooded woman tilted her head slightly, her voice low, almost musical as it broke the silence:
"I knew someone entered the space-time array... but what a sight this is."
There was no reply — only the whisper of unseen air curling through the broken chamber.
Then, a second voice answered — female, calm, but edged like sharpened glass:
"Why are you so interested... That's a demon spawn."
The woman's fingers twitched slightly at her side, as though restraining an impulse to step forward.
But she only smiled beneath her hood, and spoke again, softer, a trace of wonder threading her words:
"Does it matter? Look at them... struggling so fiercely to live. And that little creature... I've never seen one like it before."
A long pause.
The second voice spoke again, colder now:
"Do what you want... You've grown too trustful — too free — ever since then."
The hooded woman said nothing more.
She simply continued to watch, her gaze hidden beneath the shadows, as the blood heart pulsed desperately within the boy's fragile body.
Waiting.
The spear across her back gave a faint hum of rejection — a dissonant note against the life struggling before her — and at last, she moved, slow and deliberate, stepping toward the broken form.
The blood baby stirred as faint footsteps echoed down the ruined corridor.
Sensing an approach, its body twitched and shivered, instinctively reverting to its true form — a grotesque yet vital being, tasked with sustaining Vergil's life.
Thick crimson cords unfurled from its flesh with wet sounds, piercing gently into the boy's chest, knitting together the torn vessel with a lifeline of blood and will.
It turned sharply toward the sound, muscles tense, eyes narrowed, prepared to defend.
At the end of the corridor, a figure stood — cloaked in silver-white, bathed in the fractured light filtering down from the broken ceiling.
The blood baby shrank back instinctively, wary.
But the woman moved with slow, easy grace, kneeling down with a fluid motion, her posture radiating calm.
Then, with a single elegant gesture, she reached up — and drew back her hood.
The light revealed her fully.
Her hair, silver-white and radiant, fell in elegant braided crowns across her head, held together by a simple, slender band that wrapped delicately around the braids.
Long, loose curls spilled down her back like liquid starlight, each strand shimmering with a soft, inner glow.
Her face was striking, not with the harsh beauty of warriors, but with the serene grace of something timeless.
High cheekbones, a smooth jawline, and soft, shaped lips — features so perfectly balanced they seemed almost sculpted from moonlight itself.
Her complexion was flawless, pale and luminous, untouched by the decay of the ruined world around her.
And her eyes — a breathtaking blue, deep and vibrant as a sky cleansed by storm — shone with a brilliance that seemed to pierce through to the soul.
They were not cold. They held patience. Reassurance. A silent, unwavering strength.
Smiling gently, she extended a gloved hand and lightly patted the blood baby's head — her touch feather-light, almost weightless.
"It's alright. You're doing well," she said, her voice like a soft chime, steady and warm, carrying neither force nor judgment — only simple, serene truth.
The blood baby, still wary, flared a red halo above its head, scanning her for any hidden trace of killing intent.
The wave of crimson sensing rushed outward — and found nothing.
No hostility.
No hatred.
No hunger for death.
Only a deep, quiet acceptance.
"Do as you wish, I promise no harm to you." she said again, her tone unchanging, comforting, as the crimson light faded.
The blood baby hesitated just a moment longer — then, satisfied, it turned its focus back to its duty, weaving itself once more into Vergil's battered form, becoming his heart.
And the woman simply remained there, kneeling at his side, her silver hair gleaming in the broken light, a still point of grace amid the ruin.
The woman remained for a moment, watching quietly as the blood baby settled back into its place within the boy's wounded chest, its task far from over.
Gently, she shifted forward, her long cloak sweeping against the ruined stone floor.
With movements as fluid as moonlight, she slipped an arm beneath the boy's legs, the other cradling his back with careful precision.
Without strain, without effort, she lifted him —
as if he weighed no more than a feather.
The battered boy lay limp against her, his blood-matted hair falling over her arm, the slow, uneven rise of his chest barely perceptible.
Yet the woman held him with the utmost care, as though he were something precious — a fragile, irreplaceable treasure.
The blood baby pulsed faintly where it had reformed into his heart, its life threads weaving deeper into his being, binding him tenuously to the world.
Cradling him in a princess carry, she rose smoothly to her feet.
Her expression did not harden with the burden, nor did her calm waver.
Instead, her serene smile lingered, the same patient, luminous grace shining in her deep blue eyes.
She shifted her hold slightly, securing him closer against her chest, ensuring his broken body would jostle as little as possible.
"There we go," she murmured, her voice low, warm, and unshakably tender. "You fought so hard. Rest a little now."
The white spear on her back did not resonate.
Without glancing back, without hesitation, the woman turned toward the broken end of the corridor, stepping lightly despite the boy in her arms.
Each step was steady, deliberate — a quiet promise that she would carry him forward, no matter the cost.
Above them, broken beams of light filtered through the shattered ceiling, illuminating her silver hair and pale cloak, wrapping them both in a faint, almost ethereal glow.
In her arms, the boy stirred faintly, unconscious but safe.
And so she carried him — away from the ruin, into the unknown —
where hope, fragile and flickering, yet stubborn, still dared to exist.