The golden doors loomed before him, impossibly vast, their surface shifting with celestial engravings that seemed to breathe with ancient power. Each carved symbol glowed softly, not with light, but with the essence of something older than time itself. The air was thick with divine radiance, a weightless pressure that whispered of unfathomable authority.
As he stepped forward, the polished Divinium floor beneath his feet pulsed, reacting to his presence. With a mere touch, the golden doors trembled—not in defiance, but in recognition. Slowly, they parted, unveiling a light so pure it threatened to consume all shadows. Yet he did not flinch. Instead, his smirk deepened.
Through the doors, he moved effortlessly, his twelve massive wings unfurling—six as dark as the void, six as white radiated a divine brilliance beyond mortal comprehension. They stretched wide, exuding an aura that blurred the line between destruction and divinity. Strands of unruly black hair nearly veiled his piercing gaze—one eye glowing an ethereal blue, the other a deep, foreboding crimson. His black waistcoat clung to his form, refined yet ominous, the long tails of his coat shifting like shadows against the divine glow.
With each step, the celestial palace around him seemed to flicker, uncertain. And then—he looked up.
Suddenly, the grand halls of Divinium began to fade, as though they had never truly been real. The golden walls, the towering pillars of light, the cascading waterfalls of radiance—all of it peeled away, dissolving into nothingness. Reality itself unraveled.
And then, there was him.
A lone figure, sitting within a space that could not be defined.
There was no throne. No ground beneath him. No sky above. There was no place, because place did not exist here.
Beneath him stretched a sight beyond imagination. Colors that had never been seen bled together, forming rivers of shifting light that moved in directions that should not exist. Vast shapes emerged and collapsed in an instant—towers, bridges, impossible structures of twisting radiance, pulsing with the heartbeat of eternity. This was not a world, not a realm, but something beyond even the concept of existence.
His white hair, as pure as the untouched void, flowed around him, strands drifting as if weightless. Though it fell over his face, it did nothing to hide the vast, unshaken gaze beneath it. Eyes that did not glow, did not burn, but simply were—seeing not with light, but with absolute understanding. His form was clothed in something that could not be called fabric, woven not from matter, but from the very foundation of creation itself. It shimmered and shifted, at once infinitely complex and perfectly simple, a paradox of being.
He did not move. He did not need to.
Everything moved around him.
And as he gazed downward, witnessing all that lay beneath him, there was only silence. A silence that was not empty, but full. A silence that spoke in a language no voice could ever form.
A silence that had existed long before the first sound—and would remain long after the last.
"To think you would make it this far." The man in white said, his voice calm, unshaken, as if the vastness of existence itself spoke through him. His white hair swayed slightly, though there was no wind in this place beyond understanding.
Across from him, the man in black stood unfazed, his smirk never faltering. "Sheesh, give me some faith, it's like you never believed in me." His tone was light, almost playful, but the weight behind his words carried something far greater—resolve. His wings, one side black as an endless abyss, the other white as divine radiance, stretched wide behind him.
The man in white scoffed, his arms still resting at his sides. "Why have you come? Have you come to have your wish fulfilled. The only sucess you have will be your death." His gaze was sharp now, a hint of cold amusement flashing in his otherwise unreadable expression.
"That's where you're wrong," the man in black said, his voice no longer playful but filled with something undeniable. "I wish for it, I yearn for it, and I will succeed at what you couldn't." The determination in his eyes was unshaken, burning like a fire that refused to die.
For a moment, there was silence. The boundless world around them pulsed, shifting between nothingness and infinity.
The man in white exhaled, then slowly rose to his feet, his presence alone altering the very fabric of the space around them. "Very well. If you wish to defy reason itself, then trancend me! Prove me wrong."
The man in black extended his hand. In an instant, a weapon formed—a pitch-black blade, its surface rippling like the void, yet glowing faintly with a ghostly white light. The weapon thrummed, resonating with his very will, pulsing as if alive.
"Then try me." His smirk deepened, but his eyes burned with intensity. "I'll devour you and ascend!"
And then—he moved.
Faster than thought.
'Godspeed.'
The void itself bent around him as he vanished, reappearing in a mere instant before the man in white. His blade was already in motion, aimed directly at his heart, a thrust so fast that it seemed to carve through space itself. The force behind it was enough to shatter lesser realities.
Yet—it did not land.
A flash of brilliance erupted between them as the man in white conjured a blade of his own—a sword of pure radiance, forged from the very essence of existence. Their weapons clashed. The impact alone sent a shockwave that tore through the endless void, shattering concepts, rewriting existence around them.
The man in black pressed forward, his strength monstrous, yet the man in white stood firm, blocking him with effortless grace. He tilted his blade, deflecting the thrust at the last moment before countering with a blindingly fast slash.
The man in black twisted his body midair, barely avoiding the strike, the sheer force grazing past him and splitting the infinite behind him. Without hesitation, he flipped backward, his wings propelling him as he reappeared above, his blade already descending like a judgment from the abyss.
The man in white raised a single hand.
The very concept of weight ceased to exist.
For a moment, the man in black felt it—the strange sensation of being completely unbound, no force to push against, no ground, no air, nothing.
And then—gravity returned tenfold.
He was slammed down, his body plummeting faster than light as if the very fabric of reality sought to crush him. Yet before impact, his wings flared open—he resisted.
His aura erupted outward, shattering the unnatural force, and he twisted, vanishing once more.
The man in white's eyes flickered upward, unbothered, already anticipating the attack.
Above him, the man in black emerged, his blade already shifting—growing, changing, warping as he infused it with the full weight of his will.
He swung.
A single arc of darkness, laced with a silver glow, tore through everything in its path, splitting the heavens that did not exist.
The man in white met it head-on, his sword flashing. He did not step back. He did not falter.
He cut through it.
The collision of their attacks broke the silence of eternity itself. Light and shadow intertwined, devouring the surrounding space in a chaotic spiral, warping the very essence of the battlefield.
Neither man spoke now.
There was no need for words anymore.
The battle had begun.
But before we reach that moment, let's return to where it all began—the very beginning.
---------
"Is it wrong to be average?"
The words slipped from my lips like a whisper into the void.
"I told myself that if I just worked hard enough… I could do it. I could make something of myself. But maybe…"
I laughed. A hollow, brittle sound that cracked in the stale air.
"Maybe hardworking is just another word for pity. In this context, it would be self-pity."
My whole life, I envied those with talent—because I never had any. I hated how naturally it came to them. The grades. The praise. The smiles.
I wanted to be great. I wanted to prove them wrong. All of them.
But the world doesn't reward effort. It never did.
No… the world isn't cruel.
Maybe it was always this way.
Just... honest. Brutally honest.
The only thing I've ever done is push forward.
Because for someone like me, choice is a luxury—one I was never born with.
No family. No connections. No support. Just a name, given to me by a dying woman who brought me into this world. My mother.
And a father who never even looked back.
When I look at myself… I don't see hope.
I see trash. A discarded thing.
Studying was my only escape. I thought if I worked hard enough, I could claw my way out.
But that was a lie.
A delusion I wrapped around myself like a blanket in the cold.
Because whenever I reached for the light, it moved further away.
That—that is what it means to be hardworking.
Not everyone was meant for it.
---
The rain fell in a slow, endless rhythm, soaking into the cracked pavement outside the orphanage gates.
Thin streams of water slithered through the gutters like veins beneath the skin of a dying world.
Vergil stood in silence, the downpour matting his black hair to his forehead. His brown eyes, once burning with quiet resolve, had dimmed to dull embers.
There were no graves to visit.
No family to mourn.
Just him. Just himself.
'I'm lonely,' he thought.
He should've felt something. Regret. Anger. Sadness.
But emptiness doesn't feel.
It devours.
His fists clenched at his sides, trembling—not from the cold, but from the slow erosion of everything inside him.
The world hadn't broken him in one blow. It had chipped away, piece by piece.
Quietly. Patiently.
Until all that remained was a husk trying to pass for a boy.
He tried everything. Grades. Labor. Anything.
And yet, the outcome was always the same.
A dead end.
'Would it be better to die?' he wondered.
Would death be a kinder fate than living in this endless pit of pity, sorrow, and regret?
Then—
a hand.
Rough. Leather-gloved.
Clamping over his mouth.
His eyes widened, but it was too late.
A sharp pain bloomed in the back of his neck as something jabbed in.
He thrashed—gasped—but the drug spread like fire.
And the world went black.
---
Vergil drifted in and out of consciousness, the edges of time smeared like wet ink.
When he finally awoke, his body felt distant.
Heavy.
He was lying flat. Strapped down.
Leather restraints cut into his wrists and ankles. The ceiling above him was harsh and sterile—blinding white, stained with flickering shadows.
Figures loomed.
Not doctors.
Surgeons.
A voice to his left.
"The kid's awake, boss."
Vergil's head lolled weakly. He couldn't see the speaker's face—only the blur of motion, the glint of surgical tools being prepared.
Another voice, clinical and detached:
"Sir, the boy's organs are in excellent condition. Blood type matches the client. Liver, kidneys, heart—all viable. The rest can be sold on the black market."
A slow chuckle echoed.
Then came the words that made Vergil's chest seize with cold rage.
"Well, if we can't find the father to pay us back… the son's organs will do just fine."
Vergil's blood froze.
'The bastard…' he thought.
Even now. Even now that man was ruining his life.
'Damn that old man… still finding ways to torture me.'
Something inside him snapped.
He began to laugh—softly at first. Then louder. Hysterical.
The surgeons glanced at each other, uneasy.
"...Is he delirious?"
"He won't be for long," one muttered, raising a syringe.
The mafia boss leaned over him, a wicked smile twisting his lips.
"Keep him awake during the procedure. Let him feel it. That's what his father bought him."
Pain lanced through Vergil's spine as the injection hit. His body went limp—paralyzed—but his nerves screamed.
He couldn't scream.
He couldn't move.
But he felt everything.
The scalpel bit into his flesh.
He felt the cold steel kiss his chest.
Then came the sound—a whining, high-pitched buzz—
a bone saw.
They cut through his ribcage.
Each vibration shook his body like an earthquake, but he couldn't even twitch.
"Kill me..."
The words formed in his mind. On his tongue.
But his lips didn't move.
His voice never left.
He stared at the ceiling as red mist blurred his vision.
---
His heart was slowing.
His vision darkening.
The sounds became distant—faded beneath the pulse in his ears.
"No…"
The word echoed in his soul, even as the light inside dimmed.
"I want to live… I want one more chance…"
But no one answered.
Only silence.
And the sound of dripping blood.